"Miserable ones!.. Having drunk of the evening shadow of the Great Game, they are forever poisoned by their own pride!" — From the tragedy The King of Earth and Sky by Walton Champy.
. . . . .
They halted in one of the hamlets of the Bole clan. The elder graciously offered his home to Lord Stark for the night, but Cesare declined—it was handier for him to hold councils in his pavilion.
This time, remembering his own bitter experience, he did not neglect reconnaissance. The Ironborn were entrenched in the fortress, occasionally raiding the settlements of the mountain clans. They made no attempt to advance eastward, which made one wonder about the purpose of this military enterprise. There were about a thousand of them—fewer than Cesare had feared, and more than he had hoped. The numerical advantage was currently on the Northmen's side, but considering the position held, the Ironborn were winning—Cesare would not undertake to besiege the fortress with less than a threefold superiority.
The solution seemed so simple, so obvious. It had been voiced by the Greatjon at that memorable council many days ago—strike the ships, cutting off avenues of retreat, and finish them with a powerful blow from the rear. It sounded excellent, one trouble—it was unfeasible. Even without scouts, it was clear that the pirates would guard their ships like the apple of their eye. One could not approach them unnoticed, and if one did, one would surely find a good half of the crew aboard. The absence of any fresh ideas was killing him.
The pain in his wound still troubled him, and he had made it a habit to drink before sleep. Often Ramsay kept him company. He always sat closer to the brazier, as if, like Cesare, he was constantly cold, and began to talk animatedly about what was happening in the camp, about new scout raids, or news from the Riverlands (of which, due to the absence of a large castle with a maester and rookery in the immediate vicinity, little arrived).
Cesare answered something lazily, noting changes in his companion. The bastard had become more restrained, more confident, as if a stone had fallen from his soul in an instant. The rapid rise seemed to have resolved some important dilemma for Ramsay. He often spoke of this or that bannerman, casually, as if in passing, while greedily watching his interlocutor, noting his reactions. Cesare pretended not to notice.
More and more often Ramsay sat beside him at councils, and heavier became Olyvar's gaze directed at him. Cesare was already about to take measures to prevent these two from clashing, but fate once again threw him a surprise.
"It wasn't the Ironborn who attacked us!" Olyvar hissed, glancing sideways at Ramsay standing not far away. He was arguing animatedly with a lad from his retinue—a tall blonde, pretty enough to have success in some Oldtown brothel. "I saw that fellow when I broke out of the ambush!"
A deafening click sounded in his head, and everything fell into place, became clear, logical, and correct. He believed Olyvar immediately, because he himself had caught himself thinking similar thoughts. Inspiration descended upon Cesare.
"Play along with me," he whispered to the squire, after which he jumped up and dealt him a good slap. "Ah, you incompetent! How many times have I asked you to clean my armor! And in what state is it?! Forgot your duties, squire?! Then I remind you—tend the horse, clean the armor, be nearby if needed for something! Do not forget them, or you will return to your kin, in disgrace and without spurs! Now, get out of my sight, and have everything done by evening!"
This scene attracted the attention of everyone nearby, including Ramsay and his companion. The bastard watched another's humiliation with undisguised pleasure—he frankly disliked Olyvar.
When the squire rushed to the tent with a flaming face, Cesare only shook his head demonstratively and headed toward Ramsay.
"You, my lord, should think about choosing a new squire, more... prompt," the concern in his voice was too deliberate to be sincere.
"What can be done—he is my wife's kinsman," Cesare grimaced in annoyance, as if saying 'oh, what problems I have brought upon my head'. "I would like to entrust you with a mission, Ser Ramsay, quite serious and dangerous. I can trust you, can I not?"
With his whole appearance, Ramsay made it clear that he could certainly be relied upon. Glancing sideways at the blonde frozen nearby, he barked:
"Damon, leave us."
This slight delay gave Cesare time to give his thoughts a more elegant form.
"I want to send you on reconnaissance," the confidential tone came out surprisingly successful. "Any day now we will move on. I would not want trouble on the way."
"I thought the scouts answered to Ser Cassel," Ramsay noted.
Cesare tensed internally—he read a certain doubt on the bastard's face.
"Truth be told, since a certain time my trust in Rodrik has ceased to be absolute," he shrugged demonstratively, as if stretching muscles. "Better to check twice and identify the threat in advance than to be lazy and open up to the enemy."
"Golden words," Ramsay agreed.
He pressed a hand to his chest and bowed.
"I consider it an honor to be your eyes and ears."
When his stocky figure disappeared behind the trees, Cesare mentally let out a sigh of relief. He turned on his heels and hurried to his tent, feeling an enthusiasm rare in recent weeks.
Throwing back the flap, Cesare was dumbfounded. Before him stood Olyvar, fiercely rubbing a cloth over an already shining breastplate. The squire's cheeks were pale, teeth clenched, and eyes gleamed treacherously. He was like a drawn bowstring; a careless touch was enough to lose a finger.
"Enough," at the soft tone and light pat on the shoulder, the youth shuddered with his whole body.
"Do you think so, my lord?" he asked coldly. His voice trembled barely noticeably.
"Forgive me," snatching the armor from his hands, Cesare hugged his friend tightly. "I would never send you to the Twins! Who better than you to watch my back?!"
Pulling away, Olyvar looked intently at his liege lord. His appearance was no longer so dejected, but still far from complete calm.
"That man's name is Damon and he is one of Ramsay Snow's most trusted men," he threw out abruptly. "The rest of the Bastard's Boys are more drinking companions and jesters, but he really trusts this one."
"Why did you decide so?" Cesare asked with interest.
"Watched how the dogs behave when they think they are alone," Olyvar grinned viciously. "They never try to touch the Piebald, though they constantly bare teeth at each other. Besides, he carries cages with ravens. Ramsay would hardly trust that to some fool."
"I did not know Ramsay sent letters to anyone. Does he have many birds?"
The squire only shrugged.
"An interesting layout. And why do the Boltons need my death?"
"Lannisters," Olyvar stated as something self-evident. "There is surely a reward on your head."
"If they were hedge knights, then yes," a stupid giggle escaped him against his will. "Once upon a time they called themselves kings."
"Well, then they were promised lands," Frey did not give up. "The title of Warden of the North is a worthy reason for betrayal. The Lannisters would not refuse."
"Yes, they are now in the position of a drowning man—ready to grasp at any outstretched hand. Only would you, in the Boltons' place, bet on the losers?"
"The Lannisters have not lost yet," with incomprehensible stubbornness Olyvar continued to bend his line. "Think, my lord. Before, when we marched on the Westerlands, time was on our side, but now..." he cut himself off.
"Now, while we hunt uninvited guests here, the Lannisters are negotiating with neutral kingdoms, gathering new armies, and bringing mercenaries from Essos," Cesare finished for him. "With my death, the only threat to the Iron Throne would remain Stannis, unless of course one counts the freedom-loving inhabitants of the Iron Islands. In case of the Boltons' failure, the Lannisters would lose nothing. Is that your version?"
Olyvar nodded decisively.
"All this would make sense if not for one but—just during the stay at Winterfell, Ramsay had countless opportunities to kill me and leave the castle unharmed."
Olyvar did not immediately find an answer.
The Lannisters' involvement could not be dismissed immediately, but had the Boltons colluded with them, everything would have been arranged differently. His death alone would solve nothing—some northern lord would immediately raise the fallen banner and proclaim his younger brother King in the North (and himself, incidentally, regent). No, Lord Roose would have found a way to decapitate the entire army... The ridiculous ambush by a band of "Ironborn" clearly served some other purpose.
"What if the goal was to impress me?" the thought expressed was absurd and laughable, but very much resembled the truth. "Lord Stark in despair, caught by surprise and almost defeated, and suddenly the valiant warrior Ramsay comes to the rescue and saves his liege lord's life."
"Order his own men to attack a detachment with the Stark banner?" Olyvar was clearly skeptical. "Hardly many volunteers were found. Even dressing them as krakens, Ramsay still risked his neck. Madness of some sort!"
"He promised me a tent of human skin in our very first heart-to-heart conversation—what madness are you talking about?!"
The lethargy of thoughts vanished, dissolved in the tent air crackling with tension. His head spun as if from wine, and a faint smile wandered on his lips—a rare guest of late.
Olyvar's gaze radiated excitement and a question.
"He doubts my sanity," Cesare decided and laughed like a child.
"Oh, dear Olyvar, you have no idea what it is like—to feel Fate in your hands again!"
"My lord, what shall we undertake?" Olyvar jumped up immediately, ready to run after the bastard at a single word.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?!" Olyvar choked with indignation. "But he..."
Amusing boy! Already demonstrates a wolf's grip, but sometimes trusting as a child!
"You will pretend this conversation never happened, and with all your might portray offended innocence."
And it was as if the whole camp, spread out beyond the canvas walls, fell silent. As if the flames dancing in the hearth froze. There were two accomplices sharing one secret and one excitement from something new, unprecedented.
Arbor gold foamed in the goblets, becoming a symbol of a new turn of the Game.
---------------
Read advance chapters on my Patreon
Patreon(.)com/WinterScribe