One must learn to compromise with a host of vassals. But with a host of sellswords, compromise may be cast aside like a rusted hauberk, spent and crumbling under the weight of years. — From the writings on the War of the Five Kings by Emperor Robb Stark, First of His Name.
. . . . .
The rough baying of hounds in the yard shattered Cesare's slumber. He grimaced, burrowing deeper into the furs, but it was no use; the chill had already stripped away the last vestiges of sleep. The light beyond the window was grey and flat—morning had broken, and with it, the necessity to rise. There was too much to be done.
Winterfell—the seat of House Stark—sat atop hot springs that piped steam through the walls, a mercy that spared the castle form the worst of the biting frost. Yet this brought Cesare scant comfort. He was cold, constantly and wretchedly cold, no matter how many layers of wool and pelt he heaped upon himself. On his first night, when he had imperiously demanded the hearth be stoked and a brazier placed by his bedside, the servant had given him a queer look. Cesare had bitten back a curse and sworn to endure it in silence; he could not afford to invite suspicion. In his past life, Cesare had never ventured further north than Paris, and his body's rejection of this brutal climate was but one of many thorns in his side. Fortunately, the boy's flesh he now inhabited—bestowed upon him by unknown gods—was tempered enough to withstand the freeze without succumbing to a fever.
Another trial was his brothers. Cesare had never held love for children, nor did he know how to conduct himself around them. The most he had ever managed was to bounce little Giovanni—his "nephew"—upon his knee whilst Lucrezia was otherwise occupied, and that only because the babe asked for nothing but to drool in silence. But Bran and Rickon were of an age to mark the change in their elder brother. They were the danger. Cesare, however, had found a shield against their prying eyes: My father's life hangs in the balance, and I must not fail him. A grim countenance was expected of a son in such times.
A serving wench entered with a basin of water and a cloth, while another followed with his garments: warm, well-made woolens that Cardinal Borgia would not have permitted even his scullions to wear. The hot water chased away the lingering chill, and as Cesare washed, he stretched his shoulders, catching the girl casting a lingering, hungry glance his way.
He had to admit, Robb Stark was a fair youth. On his first day in this new skin, Cesare had called for a bronze mirror and spent a long while studying the stranger in the reflection. Hair the deep, rich hue of burnished copper, shorn short and curling artfully at the ends. Eyes of piercing blue, framed by lashes dark as soot, capable of driving any court lady to madness. The nose was straight and noble—clearly, the previous owner had never had it broken in a brawl. As for the lips, Lucrezia would have found some poetic conceit for them, likening them to an angel's lyre or Cupid's bow. There was not even a shadow of stubble, though Cesare had been shaving since he was five-and-ten. But it was the skin that pleased him most: white, unblemished as a babe's soul. After the pox he had suffered at three-and-twenty, such purity was a distant memory. He had no scars here. Not yet.
Dressed and having broken his fast on cold ham and dark bread, Cesare descended into the yard and made for the Library Tower. The castle was a hive of activity. Archers were drilling at the butts, watched intently by Bran, who was strapped to the back of the lackwit stableboy, Hodor.
Cesare paused, his gaze lingering on the pair. Here was a fate to be pitied truly—to be a prisoner within one's own flesh, broken and helpless. To such a cripple, armies and crowns meant nothing; his only dream was to stand and walk, alone, without aid.
Bran caught his eye and offered a solemn nod. It seemed he, too, had no heart for conversation. Cesare left the giant and his little rider behind, climbing the steps of the tower. It was the only place in this dreary fortress where he could glean knowledge of this new world without raising eyebrows. And he had to make haste. The Winter Town outside the walls was bursting at the seams; brawls were turning into stabbings, and the coin required to feed this gathered host could have built a second Winterfell. The Karstarks—the last of his "father's" bannermen—were due any day. Once they arrived, Cesare would lead this army south.
This war was convenient, a pretext he could not have crafted better himself: treacherous enemies had seized the Lord Father and his sisters, and still had the gall to demand fealty. Yet, the path was not as smooth as he might have wished. Robb Stark was but five-and-ten, and most of his bannermen saw him as green as summer grass, while others said as much to his face. They tested him, some with honeyed words, others with naked threats.
Take the Greatjon, Lord Umber. To threaten his liege lord with bare steel in his own hall? Had it not been for Robb's direwolf, Cesare's second life might have ended before it truly began. But at least Umber spoke his mind, like an overgrown child. He was the polar opposite of the Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton. A man of middling years with a nondescript face and pale eyes that could unsettle even hardened killers. Tales of him flaying his enemies alive brought to mind King Ferrante of Naples and his Museum of Mummies. Bolton was a man to be watched.
Winning the respect of men as different as the days of the year would be no small feat, but one thing was certain: they would be swayed by deeds, not words. A few resounding victories would burnish his reputation. From there, he knew how to play the game.
The Library Tower had suffered during the recent fire, but by grace, some volumes had survived. Cesare found the tome he had begun the day prior, A History of the Great and Minor Houses, and opened it to the chapter concerning the Lannisters. These were the lions he would soon face in the field.
News from the south was a muddle of contradictions—these honest, honorable Northmen seemed to disdain the use of spies. From the rumors, Cesare divined the essential truth: Lannister raiding parties—kin to the very King who held Robb's family hostage—were ravaging the Riverlands, the domain of Robb's grandfather. The King did nothing to stop it. The memories of this body conjured the image of Joffrey: a preening, golden-haired boy with a sneer forever plastered on a pretty face. But looming behind that disappointment of a prince was a figure of true authority—Lord Tywin Lannister. In essence, one powerful clan had seized the reins of a vast kingdom, leaving all others to rot.
Memories of good old Rome brought a nostalgic smile to Cesare's lips. In the Holy City, when a Pope died, his family faded into the shadows to make way for the next; here, in this clumsy, sprawling realm of Seven Kingdoms, this clan threatened to take root and forge a dynasty. Unless, of course, another clan took their place.
Cesare's solitude was broken by the entrance of an old man in gray robes, a heavy chain of many metals draped about his neck.
"Lord Karstark has arrived with his levies," the Maester announced, regarding Cesare with palpable concern.
"Is there word from King's Landing?"
Maester Luwin shook his head, his brow furrowing. "My lord," he said, his voice dropping to a warm, fatherly cadence. "If you have need of a man to listen, or to offer counsel, I am ever at your service."
Was the old scholar inviting him to unburden his soul? That was the last thing he needed.
"I shall keep it in mind, Maester Luwin."
The old man departed, looking somewhat heartened, leaving Cesare to stare at his own clasped hands. The time for preparation was at an end. Tonight he would feast in the Great Hall with his captains; tomorrow he would don his mail and march south. Would this campaign bring him the glory he craved, or would it lead him to a grave, final and absolute this time?
Who could say? Perhaps only the unknown gods of this strange, cold land.