"More than one brilliant plan has been ruined by close friends and most loyal vassals, rushing to be of use and do good." — Emperor Robb Stark, First of His Name. Instructions to My Heirs.
. . . . .
No sooner had the smoke from the pyres dissolved in the mist rolling off the lake than a whisper ran through the ranks of knights and lords: King Stannis was calling a war council. Cesare had sunk too deep into his own thoughts, so Olyvar had to call him by name several times and clap him on the shoulder to draw his attention to the rapidly receding figures.
Cesare entered the royal pavilion among the last and noted with rising irritation that his place at the table, in immediate proximity to the King's chair, was occupied. Were it anyone else, Cesare would not have hesitated to oust the insolent fellow and engage in a senseless squabble, but the seat had been encroached upon by Alester Florent—the "victor" of the day and, to top it all off, the King's kinsman.
Stannis towered over the table, sweeping his vassals with a sharp, heavy gaze. Evidently, his mysterious infirmity had melted away like smoke when it was no longer needed. If this was indeed so, and the execution of the captives was not an antic of the vassals but Stannis's own design, then things were far worse than Cesare had assumed. Umber's fears were gradually taking on flesh.
"This war has taken too much of our time. Every day lost, every hour lost," the King met his eyes for a moment, "will cost us many lives in the future. Therefore, we must act decisively, not squander ourselves on trifles, and strike at the very heart." A long, knobby finger traced across the map and came to rest on the dot marking King's Landing.
The lords were silent, awaiting a continuation, but bewilderment was clearly readable in the gazes directed at the King. Knowledge of military science told them of the necessity of a threefold numerical superiority of attackers over defenders. Seventeen thousand warriors marching under the banner of the fiery heart to the walls of the capital roughly corresponded to its garrison, reinforced by the remnants of the troops withdrawn from Harrenhal. And that was without taking into account fresh reinforcements from the Reach. This layout was obvious to everyone sitting in the royal tent.
"A few hours ago, news arrived from the Reach," a barely perceptible nod toward the Red Priestess's chair. "The self-styled King of the Iron Islands has attacked the Shield Islands."
Once again, Cesare felt a surge of envy. For him to learn of an important event, he had to wait for a raven while sitting in one place, or for an equally sluggish messenger. However the magic of this extraordinary woman worked, whatever she did for her sorcery, he was ready to make concessions just to acquire her for himself.
"When we approach the walls of King's Landing, the Tyrell cavalry will not rush to meet us, nor will the Redwyne fleet block the harbor. The thousand swords the Tyrells managed to ferry to the Crownlands have been stationed here," the royal fingernail scratched at some village near Rosby. "And until the threat to Highgarden vanishes, that is all the Lannisters can count on."
Stannis's ordinary scouts did not eat their bread in vain either. One could only guess how they managed to slip so close and escape with their skins. Although, who knows, perhaps Melisandre had glimpsed the number and placement of troops in the flames as well.
"The remaining forces of the Stormlands will approach the southern bank of the Blackwater simultaneously with the fleet. When the few tubs the Lannisters have are sunk, they will land at the River Gate and, taking it, move toward Aegon's High Hill. We shall aim for the Gods Gate. It is one of the strongest, but having lost it, the Lannisters will not hold the rest of the city. The streets beyond it are straight and wide. Defending them is difficult. Without slackening the pace, we will break through to the Red Keep."
Cesare listened to his confident voice, watched the finger tracing over the spread-out schematic. Everything sounded coherent and reasonable—it was immediately evident that they had pored over the plan for more than an hour. Yet some underlying feeling gave him no peace. Perhaps it was the matter of the legendary Tywin Lannister, with whom Cesare would finally clash face to face? Then, after the taking of the River Gate, the poorer quarters adjoining it could merrily blaze up, and on the wall near the Gods Gate, they might be met by a couple of primitive cannons, procured for mad money somewhere in Essos.
Cesare looked around at those present. No one burned with enthusiasm, but neither did they clearly object to the royal plan—the auto-da-fé that had taken place not so long ago extinguished any initiative and disposed them to obedience.
Unexpectedly, a hand shot up, and a knight vaguely familiar to Cesare rose from the table.
"Your Grace, what of the traitor Tyrells? Surely we cannot forget them and leave them unpunished for colluding with the Lannisters!"
"And what of them?" the King frowned. "Everything concerning the Tyrells I have already discussed and do not intend to repeat."
"But what of that detachment standing now near Rosby? Will it not strike us in the rear when we storm the Gods Gate?" he spoke with incomprehensible confidence.
Many lords noticeably perked up. The fears voiced were shared by many. Lord Florent looked especially pleased, his face literally brightening—don't feed this one bread, just let him spoil things for the Tyrells.
Stannis's teeth ground unpleasantly, and a look of displeasure burned Ser Morrigen (Cesare finally remembered him).
"The Tyrells will not ask for trouble," he cut him off. "If we take every surrounding village, we won't reach the capital in a year."
"But allow me, Your Grace," Morrigen, as if not noticing the King's reaction, persisted. "Allow me to take a few hundred horsemen, and I will solve this problem before you approach the walls of King's Landing."
The lords burst into an approving hum. In passing, Cesare noted that the greatest enthusiasm was expressed by the minority Storm lords. The Northmen and Edmure Tully's vassals kept silent.
"I do not intend to lose men on such a venture," Stannis moved away from the table and began looking for something among the few maps. With his whole appearance, he made it clear that the conversation was over.
Heading to his quarters and cursing this endless day, Cesare unwittingly became a witness to a most interesting scene. They stood in the shadow of a tent, yet the light of the nearest fire still picked out individual details. Two figures: one sturdy and broad-boned, the other slender and graceful. Thin hard lips whispering something, proving, swearing; and others: full, painted with carmine, encouraging with a smile. A green doublet with a raven on the chest now and then touched the scarlet bodice of a dress, and white female hands stroked the tense male shoulders in a silent gesture of support...
Cesare imperceptibly quickened his pace, promising himself to think about this later.
. . . . .
With amazement, Cesare noticed a strange thing about himself—from the moment of departure from Riverrun, he had completely lost the initiative. The stream of events carried him, submissive and listless, and all his energy dissipated in the heavy damp air. Like a worm settled in him, gnawing and gnawing from within...
He was woken before dawn. Torrhen Karstark, who stood guard today, was pale and agitated, which happened rarely.
"Morrigen is gone," he said, clenching his fists.
"What do you mean, gone?" Cesare asked again, rubbing eyes sticky with sleep. "Deserted?"
"He raised his men, bound the sentries, and left."
Cesare sat up abruptly, rubbing his temples. It was not hard to guess where the newly minted hero had gone—to perform a feat and overthrow numerically superior enemies. The Stranger must have pulled Stannis to trust this man with the vanguard. He should have been removed immediately upon noticing bouts of unhealthy enthusiasm.
Cesare licked his lips nervously and reached for the goblet standing nearby.
"Did the King order me woken?" Cesare reached for his rather worn boots.
Karstark shook his head.
"Theon ran in a couple of minutes ago. Said he would go gather the others to discuss further actions."
Again Greyjoy learns of everything first, Cesare thought, rubbing his eyes. Maybe, since he likes the role of bearer of bad news so much, I should appoint him Master of Whisperers in the future?
He had a faint idea of what he would say to his men. Surprisingly, they still believed in him, even though his decision to swear allegiance to Stannis now seemed one big mistake.
His reflections were interrupted by vassals and River lords flooding the tent, who had become almost friends over the year of war.
Uncle Edmure, though looking crumpled and extremely displeased, came among the first.
"I do not understand the reason for the commotion," he declared, yawning into his palm. "It is enough for King Stannis to send a messenger after the fugitives with an order to return immediately."
"I think he has done so, but I doubt it will bear fruit," Cesare buried his fingers in his disheveled hair, trying to smooth it somehow. "I suspect Morrigen acts in the firm belief that he is executing the King's will."
Involuntarily, he remembered how he himself destroyed Ramsay Bolton, playing on his expectations. However, his motive was simple—to get rid of an uncontrollable monster in his camp. Morrigen was just a vain fool entrusted with a composite detachment of hedge knights and sellswords.
"What does he count on anyway, throwing himself with his three hundred against a thousand Tyrells?" Olyvar crossed his arms over his chest.
"On the same thing we counted on when we marched into the Westerlands," the Greatjon was without a doublet, in only a crookedly laced shirt, as if it were summer outside. "On his surprise and the enemy's carelessness. But will his sortie be sudden, and the Tyrells careless? What do you think? I am ready to bet my horse against an old chamber pot that yesterday was the last time we saw that loud-mouthed fool."
Most of those gathered agreed with Umber, but Cesare continued to think about the background of what happened. Did Melisandre act executing Stannis's order, or does she have secret motives of her own?
One of the guards standing watch appeared from behind the flap. He looked confused and somewhat guilty.
"My lord," he bowed awkwardly to Cesare. "Lord Seaworth wishes to see you."
This was unexpected. Since the negotiations at Riverrun, Stannis's Hand had not warmed to him and continued to keep his distance. Sad—dealing with him was much more pleasant than with Florent.
Cesare expected to see the Hand's messenger before him, but not the man himself, shifting from foot to foot.
"I need your help, Lord Stark," he spoke, lowering his voice. "The matter brooks no delay."
"I am entirely at your service," Cesare assured him and followed.
"A messenger has just arrived. The Lannister army defeated our forces in the Kingswood. The remnants hastily retreated south to Felwood."
"They withdrew the garrison, leaving the capital defenseless?" Cesare was dumbfounded by such recklessness.
"The messenger claimed they were attacked from the west."
Then everything became clear. The West had managed to gather and arm another army. Strange only that Melisandre had kept silent about this, putting her precious patron in a difficult position.
Now Stannis had no numerical superiority, only an army exhausted by the march. There remained the fleet, but even with its help, organizing the transfer of the remaining Stormlands forces would be difficult and require time. Lest they doubt after the defeat and defect to the Lannisters' side.
"Has he decided to retreat to the Riverlands or does he want to break through to Storm's End?" Cesare involuntarily slowed his step. "Wait. You asked me for help. Surely he has not yet abandoned the thought of storming King's Landing?"
The Hand's lost look was more eloquent than any words.
Cesare stopped, exposing his face to the cold wind. Irritation seeped drop by drop through the dam of stoic calm.
"Either he has gone mad, or we do not know everything," he spoke quietly, but Davos heard anyway. "Will it not be like the day before yesterday, when we went to plead for the Lannister captives?"
"It is worth trying," grim determination rang in the Hand's voice. "If we ruin someone's plan, it is certainly not his."
Cesare needed no clarification. He approached the royal pavilion with a speech already prepared about temporary retreats and necessary respites. Davos, walking ahead, lifted the flap and froze in place.
Admittedly, he had reason to be confused and embarrassed.
"Do not even dare think of it!" Stannis's voice rang with rage, and his fingers tightened on the Red Priestess's throat.
It seemed they were sorting out their relationship, for Melisandre lay on the table with her skirt hiked up and legs spread.
"Your Grace, I beg forgiveness for the intrusion, but the matter brooks no delay," Cesare studiously ignored the piquancy of the situation. "Lord Seaworth and I would like to discuss the future of our campaign with you."
Stannis quickly pulled himself together and ordered his mistress to leave with a look. Passing Cesare, Melisandre gave him a strange look.
"I assume you realize that marching on the capital in the current state of affairs is sheer suicide. It was reasonable to hurry after the Ironborn attack on the Reach, but now engaging in a decisive battle is disadvantageous both for us and for the Lannisters."
"And what would you have me do? Wait for the onset of winter, when my men start dying of hunger?" Stannis gritted his teeth irritably, making the muscles play on his hollow cheeks.
He is at an impasse himself, Cesare realized.
Now it was important to choose the right words so that Stannis would not reject the plan purely out of suspicion and personal dislike.
"You must be aware that my aunt—Lady Arryn—has studiously maintained neutrality until the time being. After the attack on you, fearing for the lives of my wife, sister, and mother, I sent them to relatives in the Vale," Cesare looked intently at the King. "Allow me to go to the Vale, and I will do everything so that she takes our side."
"Waiting again," the King covered his eyes with his hand, rubbing his temples with pressure. Likely, he suffered headaches from tension and lack of sleep, and the events of this morning would cause a breakdown in anyone. "And you, of course, can guarantee nothing. And what would you order me to do with an army ready for battle?"
Cesare smirked contentedly.
"Send it into battle."
Swiftly approaching the table with the map still spread out, he began to describe the plan of the future brilliant maneuver with inspiration.
"Just a few days' march from King's Landing there is a city with an excellent port," Cesare traced the proposed path the army would have to take on the map.
"Duskendale," Stannis drawled.
The doubt in his gaze gave way to thoughtfulness. Mentally, he was clearly asking himself why he hadn't thought of this himself.
"This port is close enough to both Dragonstone and the Stormlands, and is also connected by the Rosby road to King's Landing. An ideal point for an offensive on the capital."
Did it seem so, or did unrestrained youthful joy flash in the King's eyes? As if the sword hanging over his head had melted into mist and left behind a faint echo of fear and unspeakable relief.
"Why delay, Lord Stark?" Stannis rose lightly, came closer, and almost clapped Cesare on the shoulder. "Gather your things, take the men you need, and set out. Your persistence and devotion to the cause will be rewarded."
Cesare turned swiftly on his heels and left, feeling satisfaction spreading like honey in his chest. He was back in the saddle and firmly held the slipping threads of the game in his hands.