To refuse an alliance out of personal dislike is to reveal oneself a boy on the throne. A true sovereign looks upon every enemy as a potential ally. — Emperor Robb Stark, First of His Name. Instructions to My Heirs.
. . . . .
His name was Ramsay.
He arrived the same day the vanguard marched from Cerwyn, with a large retinue, like a very important person. Cesare expected to see a youth with a faded, inexpressive face like Lord Roose's. Reality presented him with a surprise. Ramsay's features were coarse, devoid of all beauty and harmony, and the pink velvet doublet only emphasized the flabbiness of his body. Frankly speaking, he looked like a peasant who had clubbed a noble lord with a hoe handle and stripped the rich clothes from his corpse.
To greet him, Cesare even descended to the Great Hall, wrapped in furs. However, meeting the gaze of the wide-set, whitish eyes, he realized he had made a mistake.
"This is Bolton's bastard!" he reminded himself. "They have butchered your ancestors for generations and are proud of it! And you sit here, teeth chattering, wrapped in furs like a southern lordling visiting the North for the first time. Let the bastard think he is not respected, rather than see weakness."
"Your help is most timely, ser," maintaining the stony sullenness that Northmen revered as businesslike composure was easy—his ribs still ached without milk of the poppy, which did not contribute to a good mood.
"On the contrary, my lord Stark, I am late," the bastard's booming voice differed as strikingly from Lord Roose's whisper as their appearances. These two were clearly molded from the same clay, but by completely different hands. It was unclear only whether this was good or bad for Cesare.
Waiting for a questioning look from his interlocutor, Lord Bolton's son explained:
"The war has been going on for a year, and I sit at the Dreadfort like some cripple or a lady with child. Only hunting saves me."
"Your skills as a hunter will yet be useful," Cesare assured him, "only this time the game will move on two legs."
A strange expression flickered across the bastard's fleshy face. Something smug, hinting at hidden superiority. It could be anticipation of the coming campaign. Yes, most likely he was mentally performing feats and receiving honors from Lord Stark's hands.
The wolf's approach was felt in advance, even before the long, elongated muzzle appeared in the doorway. This calmed Cesare and filled him with inner confidence.
When Grey Wind ran into the Great Hall, most of the Bolton retinue recoiled toward the walls. Someone even reached for a sword. The beast growled at them but did not even stop, continuing his run to his master's chair. Cesare stroked his withers, lazily and deliberately casually, as if an ordinary hound were begging for affection, not a monster already outgrowing a pony in size.
The bastard made no effort to hide his nervous admiration.
Loves strength and its outward manifestations, Cesare noted mechanically.
"You know, Ramsay—I may call you that, may I not?—why don't we take a walk? The day has turned out fine."
The proposal was quite expectedly taken as an order. Ramsay obediently trailed after him, maintaining a polite expression on his face.
At first, they wandered along the battlements. Cesare asked questions, seemingly simple and artless, but capable of revealing character quite well. More than the answers, he was interested in the reaction: a masked smirk, indifference, or dissatisfaction. Grey Wind followed them at some distance, a reliable guardian.
Ramsay loved to be the center of attention. He spoke loudly, now and then starting to gesticulate wildly. As soon as he got carried away, the mask of the restrained future lord slipped off him like a snap, exposing the peasant nature. The bastard quickly noticed this and cut himself short, annoyed with himself. It was amusing to watch, but Cesare studiously pretended not to notice the other's blunders.
A gust of wind struck hard, making his skin crawl with goosebumps. Neither furs, nor boots, nor thick gloves saved him from the shiver that ran through his body. Walking on the wall had to stop if Cesare did not want to come down with a cold. His nose was already tickling nastily, which was a bad sign. They could head to the godswood, but that place was a refuge for too many of the castle's inhabitants. He would not want to stumble upon Bran riding Hodor—that would lead the conversation into a completely unnecessary direction.
They were near the First Keep. Its gargoyles glared fiercely at the uninvited guests, stretching clawed paws toward them. The direwolf eyed them warily, but did not think of attacking. He kept closer to his master, to protect him if need be and sink his teeth into his enemy.
"Have you ever heard of the crypts of Winterfell, Ramsay?" Cesare drawled thoughtfully. "Would you like to see them?"
"I would consider it an honor," the bastard said obligingly. "When else will there be an opportunity to see the tombs of the Kings of Winter."
There were many deserted corners in Winterfell. The crypt in this regard pleased Cesare most of all. Having become Robb Stark, he had descended into it only once, but that was enough to be imbued with the special spirit of this place.
A narrow, steep staircase led into the unknown. The lanterns in their hands gave weak light, helping only not to stumble and break one's neck. This feeling of helplessness makes the insides tremble and shrink into a tight knot. When a solid stone floor is finally underfoot, cold granite figures surround you from all sides. The features of some can still be recognized. Time has worked mercilessly on the rest. They sit, proud, strong, and majestic, and look at you as if demanding an answer. They want to know to whom they left their kin. And this row is endless...
Once Cesare was proud to be a Borgia. Now he had become part of something ancient and powerful, as if all the unknown Stark lords stood behind him and supported him, not letting him fall.
Leading Ramsay into the crypt, Cesare took a risk. It was like deliberately opening up in a duel, wishing to execute an elegant combination. Ramsay did not live up to his expectations. An expression of polite interest never left his ugly face.
Passing several statues, the bastard suddenly turned around and took a step back. One of the statues had managed to capture his attention after all.
"Is that Theon Stark? Yes, surely him—hardly anyone else would be depicted with an earring," his hand involuntarily twitched toward his own ear, in which a lonely ruby drop sparkled.
"The one called the Hungry Wolf," Cesare stated half-questioningly, digging up Maester Luwin's lessons in his memory. "The one who conquered the Red Kings. What stories do they tell of him at the Dreadfort?"
"Most interesting ones," Ramsay found his tongue quickly. "His name is inextricably linked with another—Balthasar Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort. Together they smashed the Andals who came to their lands, and went to them with a return courtesy visit. Together they visited the Sisters and got so carried away that the fish-eaters no longer thought of their own king. Lord Balthasar sewed a wonderful tent for his king."
He smiled slyly, baring strong yellow teeth.
"Butcher," flashed through Cesare's mind. "Skinner."
"And for my sake, Ser Ramsay, could you sew a tent?" Cesare shot him a conspiratorial look.
"If there were material," the bastard drawled thoughtfully.
"That will not be an issue. Only it is unlikely to be as good as your ancestor's," Cesare sighed ruefully. "Surely it will be all scarred and faded by the sun."
"There is no such thing as bad material," Ramsay stated confidently. "The main thing is knowing how to cure it properly."
Shock and a fair share of surprise on his face mixed with all-consuming excitement.
"I am sure I can rely on your skill."
Overcoming internal disgust, Cesare stepped forward and embraced the monster standing before him. A moment later, fleshy callous fingers closed on his shoulders.
. . . . .
The coming days showed that Cesare was not mistaken in his assessment of this man. He was a mad dog, trained for fighting, respecting the master's strength, but who would gladly tear out his throat given the chance. Duke Valentino had seen enough of such types during his numerous campaigns. For the most part, they deified and worshipped strength. While the Romagna was in the iron fist of the Borgias, they were ready to kiss the hem of Cesare's cloak and call him a second Alexander the Great. But as soon as control was lost... Interestingly, they did not wish to gain favor through flattery (though there were unmeasured numbers of simple flatterers around Cesare). Their praise was sincere. But as soon as the idol tottered on the pedestal, they were the first ready to throw him into the mud and destroy any memory of him.
Ramsay was of the same breed, though sophisticated cruelty distinguished him from the general row. It was only outlined, not yet revealed in all its glory, but that was enough for Cesare to feel disgust and hidden horror.
Lord Bolton kept his son on a short leash and had managed to teach him a couple of useful tricks. Ramsay managed men well and was quite useful in organizing the movement of troops. The other knights and lords led by Cassel looked at him with hidden contempt and apprehension. Noticing this, Cesare became even more affectionate with the bastard. Let them look, let them grind their teeth. If a man is useful and gifted, his origin fades into the background—Cesare knows, he is a bastard himself.
What was somewhat distressing was Olyvar's coldness. His squire became distant and withdrew into his thoughts. He too disapproves of Ramsay's elevation—clear as day—only he will have to accept the appearance of new people in Cesare's circle. So it will always be.
Finally having grown strong enough not to fall off a horse, Cesare gathered his men and announced his will—they were marching on Deepwood Motte.
---------------
Read advance chapters on my Patreon
Patreon(.)com/WinterScribe