When anger and bitterness from past mistakes cloud the vision, a ruler begins to walk blindly. It is fortunate if a worthy guide is found. But if not?.. — Emperor Robb Stark, First of His Name. Instructions to My Heirs.
. . . . .
The scent of blood hung in the air for miles around. It reigned supreme, overpowering the aromas of pine and redwood, earth and snow, moss and lichen. A pity that picking up the trail was nearly impossible—there were simply too many directions. The pack had scattered, dispersed through the forests. How was he to find the right group?
A plump hare lurked nearby. Cesare involuntarily twitched his nose, but shook his long muzzle, forcing himself to focus on the main task. It had been a day since he was thrust into Grey Wind's skin, yet he still could not pick up the trail of his own body—now the thought of separating Robb Stark and Cesare Borgia did not even occur to him.
How serious was his wound? Was it the arrow, or the bad fall? He could only pray to the gods that nothing was broken—he could not, like Bran, drag out the existence of a cripple. Sooner or later, resolve would outweigh fear, and he would end it all. His second life would end even worse than his first.
Emerging by the river, he sniffed the air. The east wind brought the smell of horses, fires, and dogs. A detachment. A large detachment. They are not running. They are pursuing. Not game. Hunters. Danger!
He broke into a run, leaping over bushes and ravines. Through the tension of his muscles shot an alien, sharp pain. Or not alien?
Opening his eyes was a true feat for him—his eyelids felt as heavy as the vault of heaven. For several moments he was blinded by flashes of color and saw only blurred spots.
The cart jolted over a bump, and Cesare groaned through his teeth. His whole body felt like one continuous open wound, making him go cold inside with fear. The driver turned around, and Cesare felt immense relief.
"Water," he croaked in a weak voice.
Olyvar stopped the cart and brought a half-empty flask to his lips. The not-too-fresh water seemed like true ambrosia to Cesare.
A pair of riders stopped beside them, relief easily readable on their faces.
"Perwyn rode ahead to meet Ser Cassel," Olyvar spoke soothingly. "We are close. Just a little longer to endure."
Who was he convincing: Cesare or himself? The stamp of old fear lay on his face, turning yesterday's boy into a man, a warrior.
"Who?" Cesare squeezed out.
Olyvar needed no clarification.
"Smalljon," Olyvar exhaled. "Perhaps Lord Glover too—when I last saw him, an arrow was sticking out of his belly."
"They were good warriors," Cesare murmured, after which he lost consciousness once more.
And then he was running on four legs again, kicking up swirls of fallen leaves.
"Summer is over," flashed anxiously through his mind. "Winter is coming."
They are not chasing him, not pursuing, yet the hackles on his neck rise from someone's intense gaze. They are here—he feels it. Not attacking yet, watching. Well then, he will show them. There are many of them, but any one of them is smaller and weaker than he.
He is their king.
The next awakening happened already in Winterfell. He opened his eyes in his old chambers, which were heated to stifling. Maester Luwin immediately bustled over him with energy surprising for his age, helping him drink, adjusting pillows, and wiping sweat.
"The wound is trifling, but it managed to fester, which is bad," he pursed his thin lips. "Also, in the fall you broke several ribs. For the next month, you had best avoid riding."
In another situation, Cesare would not have failed to express his indignation. A scathing question was even spinning on his tongue: "Do you order me to fight from a litter?" However, lethargy bound both body and senses. Such apathy washed over him for the first time.
The healer himself gave the explanation:
"It is well your squire thought to wash your wound with wine, having first given you a fair amount to drink, otherwise it could have ended quite sadly. In turn, I gave you milk of the poppy to dull the pain."
"How long have I slept?"
"It is the third day since you have been in Winterfell."
The old man wanted to add something, but did not have time. Olyvar ran into the chambers, dark eyes shining joyfully.
"You are alive, my lord! The Warrior wrestled you from the Stranger!"
Under the Maester's stern gaze, he moderated his ardor, but still continued to glow with overflowing feelings. His delight and enthusiasm were balm to the soul.
"Our battle is not lost yet, my friend," Cesare squeezed his fingers encouragingly. It came out rather weak.
From his disjointed story, Cesare pieced together the following picture. As soon as he flew from the saddle, the Ironborn tried to break through to him. Then Olyvar with a few brave souls broke out of the encirclement with his lifeless body. A little later, Perwyn caught up with them with a small detachment and took temporary command. He told his brother that the Ironborn had scattered through the forest looking for Lord Stark, and their paramount duty was to protect him and deliver him to safety. Fortunately, among the people who joined them were several local hunters. They were in no danger of getting lost.
Others were far less lucky. Some did not manage to organize, some got an incompetent commander. Some soldiers, deciding that Lord Stark was dead anyway, wandered off to nearby villages. But for the most part, the remnants of the once-imposing retinue slowly trickled into Winterfell.
For all the seeming bleakness of his position, Cesare did not think of giving up. He still had strength left to punish the Ironborn.
At the thought of one specific Ironborn, something desperately scratched in his chest.
"And what of Theon?"
By the way Olyvar's face changed, it was not hard to guess—nothing good.
"Left with his own. He is neither among the dead nor among the living."
Why, oh why did he take that boy with him?! He could have left him at Moat Cailin, under the vigilant eye of the Greatjon! Now he had made his choice—he betrayed.
"Did you think I could not die for you?" rang insistently in his head.
However, there is no sense in weeping over a spilled goblet. What is done cannot be undone. Let him! Let him go! Let him sail on a pitiful tub with a bunch of pirates and strip jewelry from corpses! Let him live by plunder if he lacks the daring and imagination for more!
The appearance of a new person in the chambers distracted Cesare from his reflections. Judging by the mud on his boots and cloak, Ser Rodrik had dismounted a minute ago and immediately hurried to him.
"I am from Cerwyn, my lord. The army is ready to march."
Cesare ignored this statement. With a sign, he asked Olyvar for water, and the squire helped him drink.
"Tell me, Ser Cassel, how did the Ironborn manage to pass the Wolfswood unnoticed?"
The knight frowned, causing his terrible whiskers to bristle like a disgruntled cat's.
"Why did the clans not warn of the danger?! Why were the scouts silent?!"
Due to a too-sharp movement, pain shot through his shoulder. Cesare grimaced, but did not think of calming down.
"Two months ago Asha Greyjoy besieged Deepwood Motte. A month ago she took it. Why do I learn of this only now?"
"We hoped to manage with our own forces and not distract Your Grace from the campaign," ice cut through the old man's voice.
Cesare knew this steady, confident gaze well. For little Robb, it meant the master-at-arms was seriously angry and capable of giving the little brat a good thrashing. For the Young Wolf, it meant nothing.
"'We'—that is you and Maester Luwin—surely not counting my brother, who cannot even get out of bed without help! Yes, you two decided that some things are better left unsaid! Thanks to this, I could intervene only when my army was cut off from the North! Moreover, relying on information from a letter, I showed carelessness for which my men paid!"
The old knight's face reddened, his fists clenched, but in his frozen figure there was not anger, but surprise and incomprehension. How can he speak so? I remember him as a mere boy. I myself put the first practice sword into his weak hands. I taught him.
In contrast to the castellan, Maester Luwin turned grey, and at the mention of Bran flinched as if from a slap.
"I am certainly glad I have an army, but until the scouts find the detachment that attacked me, it will not move. You may go. Both of you."
Watching their hunched backs with a dissatisfied gaze, Cesare wearily leaned back and closed his eyes. He was still too weak, monstrously weak. Even a child could kill him now.
Olyvar sank into the chair Luwin had previously occupied.
"Sleep, my lord," he said confidently and... understandingly, "and I will guard your sleep."
Heavy eyelids closed of their own accord—the milk of the poppy must have finally overcome his will—and he fell asleep, deeply and without dreams.
Recovery went slowly, creakily. The accursed weakness had no thought of leaving. Fever, alternating now and then with chills, reminded him of those terrible days of his past life when he was dying of malaria.
Very often, waking up, Cesare found his brothers by his bedside. Rickon especially pestered him, climbing into bed and staring intently with his unchildlike serious blue eyes.
"You won't die like Papa, will you?" he asked once, watching his brother's futile attempts to rise.
And what to answer? "We will all die, little one. The question is only how quick and meaningless that death will be."
Scouts were in no hurry to bring good news. The vassal clans swore as one that no Ironborn had wandered into their lands. What to believe: his own eyes or the assurances of those around him, backed by common sense?
When he grew strong enough to manage short walks with Olyvar's help, interesting news arrived. Lord Bolton's bastard had gathered several hundred horse—all that Roose had not taken with him—and marched to Cerwyn, burning with zeal and eager for battle. What was his name? Rick? Rickard? Or perhaps like his father—Roose? In any case, if the lad wants to earn favor, he will have such an opportunity. Everything was ready, and there was no sense in chasing a mirage any longer. The army marched on Deepwood Motte.
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