"How laughable it is to me now to hear reproaches that I am no knight—that I do not ride at the tip of the spear at the head of a victorious army. Yes, my weapon is not the spear and sword, but the quill and word. I strike not on the field of battle, nor in the lists, but in the council hall, at negotiations. I am perfectly aware that the stroke of my pen and the impression of my seal can destroy more men than the most skilled swordsman. I am aware, and at times terrified, of my own omnipotence." — From the musings of Robert Wormhart, Viceroy of Braavos.
. . . . .
During the Northern campaign, his hand had thoroughly forgotten the weight of a sword. Cesare's only excuse was that no sooner had he healed one wound than he had managed to acquire another. Now, having ventured into the godswood with Olyvar, he felt like a wooden doll, slow and clumsy. His former squire diligently spared his feelings, and so Cesare found himself in the dirt only once, rather than a dozen times. It was a mercy that no one else witnessed his disgrace.
It had grown colder overnight, and his sweat-soaked shirt clung unpleasantly to his skin.
Cesare noted that fewer bright leaves remained on the trees, and more crunched beneath the soles of his boots. Winter was approaching, steady and inexorable. The closer the cold came, the less desire his vassals had to continue the war. Cesare did not doubt: the time would come when one of them would propose making peace with the Lannisters, at least until spring. However, a peace concluded at the wrong time is often worse than defeat.
In the yard, they met Walda. Lady Jeyne loomed behind her. His wife smiled playfully at Cesare, but immediately wrinkled her nose, catching the scent of sweat.
"I would invite you to break your fast with me, my lord, but only after you change your shirt," she said with feigned severity.
Cesare suppressed a smile and declared he would make haste and not keep the lady waiting long.
Olyvar, who had decided to slip away quietly, was spotted, taken by the elbow, and escorted to Cesare's chambers.
"What is wrong? No sooner did my wife appear than you became as one dead?" Pulling off his shirt as he walked, Cesare moved to the chest and began to pick critically through its contents. "Is there something I do not know?"
Olyvar let out a heavy sigh.
"It is not a matter of your wife," the youth grinned bitterly, "but of mine."
It is worth noting that Jeyne Frey had quickly become friends with Walda. During the months of the Northern campaign, they had become almost inseparable. Cesare had learned of this almost immediately upon arrival but had not given the fact due attention.
Something was clearly happening with Olyvar. Often he would disappear for several hours, then appear as if nothing had happened, maintaining a stubborn silence. Was it worth prying into his family troubles?
"I want you to know—you can always come to me and share any misfortune."
Olyvar nodded.
"I appreciate it, truly I do," he averted his eyes, "but this time allow me to solve my problems myself. This will in no way touch either you or the course of the war."
"As you wish," Cesare did not insist.
He adjusted a doublet of his house colors and smoothed his hair.
"I intended to take you with me to breakfast, but since you are avoiding Lady Jeyne, you may sit hungry." Waving him farewell, Cesare headed for his wife's chambers.
He knew where they were, but he had never been inside—there had been neither time nor reason to look in.
In size, the room was no different from his own, but it looked far more lived-in. Over the months of residence here, Walda had filled it with herself and adapted it to her needs. It was unlikely that such trifles as a painted Yi Ti screen and a bed canopy airy and transparent as a tear had been left by the previous owners. It was such details, like an open book on the dressing table or gloves forgotten on a stand, that created a sense of comfort. These bright chambers had been a home for many months, not a room for a single night's lodging.
The table was set for four, but only Walda met Cesare.
"I thought Lady Jeyne would join us," Cesare noted with bewilderment.
"She asked to be excused for some business of her own," Walda smiled with just the corners of her lips. "As I see, she is not the only one."
They settled opposite each other on twisted chairs and set to the food, carrying on a leisurely conversation. Walda did most of the talking. Cesare's gaze involuntarily slid over the scarlet curve of her lips, the neat chin with its charming dimple, the neck, not long but white.
Do I love you? he asked himself the difficult question.
In his past life, Cesare had known many women. He had known princesses with the habits of camp followers and tavern wenches with the minds of philosophers. To the majority, he remained indifferent; few aroused interest; he had loved only three.
He remembered well how love is born. Poets say a spark flares in the heart. Ridiculous babblers! Love is born not in the heart, but in the head. Simply, one day you look at a woman you have known all your life, and you see. As if all the sunlight converges on her alone. You look and cannot look enough. Her familiar and far from perfect features acquire some special, secret meaning. In your soul, you laugh at yourself and call yourself a fool, but you sink deeper and deeper. And only then does the warmth come to the chest...
With Walda, it was not so. However, the former annoyance of an unequal marriage was gone too.
Reflecting on his actions, Cesare more than once recalled the possibilities of concluding a far more advantageous dynastic alliance. Having secured a foothold in the Westerlands, he could have sent envoys to Sunspear without delay. Played on the old scores between the Lannisters and Martells, pulled the Dornish to his side, and asked for the hand of Lady Arianne. This union would have been especially profitable from the point of view of succession, since after the Baratheons, the Martells were closest to the Targaryens.
Renly's death had opened the possibility of becoming kin to the Tyrells. It would have sufficed to honestly reveal Stannis's role in his brother's death, come to an agreement with his vassals, smash the pitiful forces of the middle Baratheon, and lay his head at Lady Margaery's feet.
Cesare ceased to regret lost opportunities. His wife was attractive, intelligent, and would soon give him an heir—what more could one desire? And love... There is a whole life ahead. It will certainly come.
The door opened, and a servant slipped timidly into the room. Hesitating, he handed Cesare a sealed message. One glance at the familiar sharp handwriting was enough to realize—the matter brooked no delay. Apologizing to Walda, Cesare left the chambers.
He strictly monitored his gait—Lord Stark running headlong somewhere would inevitably attract undue attention.
This should have happened in two or three days, not sooner! In that time, Cesare would have managed to think everything through to the smallest detail. Sometimes the excessive zeal of subordinates only complicates matters.
Passing through the covered gallery, he approached the Steel Tower—the only one built of limestone rather than red sandstone. Its purpose was singular—the holding of prisoners. Above were quite comfortable chambers, differing from guest rooms only by the absence of windows and any sharp objects. It was there that the captive lords had lived until most were exchanged. The deeper into the earth the rooms went, the less pleasant it was to be in them. In one of these cells, Jaime Lannister was living out his days (his relocation from the tower had occurred after an escape attempt three months ago).
However, Cesare's path lay even lower, to the old interrogation rooms from the time of Harwyn Hardhand. From the dampness and the drafting wind, the torch in his hand smoked.
Two soldiers stood at the door, thoroughly vetted and reliable. Before Cesare could say a word, the door opened slightly, and through a tiny crack slipped Theon.
"How did it go? No problems at the gates?" Cesare pounced on him immediately.
"No, everything went according to plan—we said we caught a Lannister spy," Theon shrugged. "I still cannot grasp why all this is necessary, Robb?"
Why? Because Cesare had not yet decided whether to acknowledge Stannis as king. The performance that took place in the tent meant nothing, as it happened privately in the presence of only a priestess of a dubious religion. As for the letters sent in due time to Karstark and Blackwood, one could always say that the temporary alliance with Stannis was conditioned only by the respect the late Lord Eddard bore him.
By acknowledging Stannis, he would immediately tie his hands. His actions would be determined by that grey man with the face of one suffering from constant constipation. Cesare would be forced to share his glory and victories with him.
However, it was unlikely that King Stannis's reign would be long and cloudless. Five or six years would pass. He would be struck down by some rare and unpleasant ailment, and there would be no man in the kingdom who would not secretly rejoice at such an outcome. Of heirs, Stannis had only a daughter, rumored to be quite sickly. And here the young Warden of the North, who had shown himself excellently in the struggle against the Lannisters, would come to the fore...
In such contradictory feelings, Cesare entered the room.
The man awaiting him rose from a sturdy-looking chair (surely Theon had seen to it). At first glance, one could recognize a commoner in him. And it was not so much in the broad face with weathered skin and greyish beard—Umber could not be called handsome either—but in how this man held himself. His simplicity was too deliberate. Although... would it have struck the eye had Cesare not known who stood before him?
"Lord Davos," Cesare met him with a charming smile. "I beg forgiveness for the inconvenience, but this is the most secure place in the castle."
The air smelled of dampness—the proximity of the river telling—and mouse droppings. In the corner, covered with decaying rags, stood a torture rack. Rusty rings for shackles still remained on the walls.
"No inconvenience, Lord Stark. This place reminds me of my wild youth," Lord Seaworth chuckled good-naturedly. "However, I still cannot understand why you need all these difficulties to maintain secrecy? His Grace will arrive at Riverrun with an army very soon to join you and begin the offensive on the Crownlands."
Mentally, Cesare invoked the Seven Hells.
"How soon?" He tried to make his tone as businesslike as possible, hiding his annoyance behind it.
"Very soon," Seaworth hastened to change the subject. "King Stannis is interested in one question: 'Why did you distribute your forces so unevenly?'"
The Onion Knight decided to defend by attacking. Apparently, things were quite bad for Stannis. Was he wounded? That would explain why the Hand was sent to the meeting, and not Lady Melisandre, with whom Cesare had dealt previously.
"The Ironborn invaded my domains," Cesare shrugged. "I could not leave that unattended."
Davos chewed his thin lips.
"I understand you, but understand me as well, I am but the King's messenger and the herald of his will," he jerked his neck and crossed his arms over his chest. "King Stannis is displeased with you, Lord Stark. You spent four months in the North, though you could have managed much faster. Because of this, the original plan failed."
"Of what does His Grace accuse me? Did I invite the Ironborn to visit? Perhaps I helped the Lannisters gather an army?" Cesare could not contain his bile, though far harsher expressions swirled in his head.
Davos only shook his head.
"You agreed upon the plan with the King yourself and failed your part. To make everything work, my King took a huge risk. Risked everything while you sat in the North for four months."
This man did not shout, did not wave his arms, and did not spew curses, yet Cesare felt his barely suppressed anger with every inch of his skin. Though Davos hid behind the King's will, he fully shared the monarch's feelings.
"You were supposed to hold the fortresses along the River Road to join with the King's forces. Having taken Lannisport and Casterly Rock, you were to march along the Goldroad to the Crownlands, simultaneously with the armies from the Riverlands and Stormlands..."
He fell silent, clutching the pouch hanging around his neck in his fist.
"I have long wanted to clarify," Cesare rubbed his chin. "How was the King able to carry out such a massive landing? How many ships were there? Seventy? Ninety?"
"One hundred and five," Seaworth reported dryly. "With all respect, you clearly did not know what you were talking about when you proposed the march on Lannisport."
Cesare was stung—the former smuggler had hit the mark. At that moment, it was important to interest the potential ally with something and distract him from marching on King's Landing. The idea arose in those minutes when he was riding from one camp to another. Then it seemed simply wonderful, for how tempting—first to cut off the monster's paws, and then the head.
Only later, in Riverrun, did Cesare realize how risky and irrational the plan he proposed was. Besides the danger of drowning on the way, there was the possibility of being cut off from one's lands by thousands of leagues of enemy-controlled territory.
"The King sent a man to negotiate with the Redwynes," Davos continued, "and for a moderate fee, they agreed to supply the fleet with provisions and help with repairs."
Mentally, Cesare applauded the man who proposed this scheme to Stannis.
At that moment, negotiations between the Lannisters and Tyrells were gaining momentum. From his past life, Cesare knew how such alliances are created. It is an inevitable clash of interests, sometimes no less destructive than open conflict. Both sides want to remain winners at the expense of each other's interests.
It was easy to assume what the Lannisters were using to lure allies—a dynastic marriage, a seat on the Small Council, and some substantial piece of land that still needed to be conquered. But that is all in the future, and the army of the Reach is needed here and now. In the Tyrells' place, Cesare would have demanded far more. And while the future allies would be demurring and slamming doors with a proud look, one could turn away and not notice the enemy war fleet sailing past your shores. Moreover, through vassals, help said fleet reach its goal. And if questions arise, refer to the vassals and strenuously deny it, making honest eyes...
Played so elegantly. Clearly not Stannis's doing.
"What else did His Grace wish to convey to me?"
"He said," Ser Davos hesitated. "'Time is precious. This time, there will be no night of repentance.'"
With great difficulty, Cesare managed to save face. Cold sweat broke out on his palms.
It was not hard to guess what was being referred to. He was being told plainly that he might repeat Renly's fate. If he tried to change sides again, a black shadow would come for him one night too.
Cesare smiled with satisfaction and enthusiasm.
"Well, I am glad to hear it. I am grateful to you, Lord Seaworth, for conveying the King's will to me. Guest chambers are already being prepared for you."
"I thought you wished to keep my presence here a secret?"
"Oh come now, that referred only to the road to Riverrun and our conversation today. Did you think I would lock you in the dungeons?" Cesare laughed merrily. "What kind of host would I be?"
Leaving the cell and bidding farewell to Davos Seaworth, Cesare caught Theon's attention and shifted the preparation of the chambers onto him.
Cesare himself needed to think over the knowledge gained.
Stepping out into the yard, he was blinded for a moment by the rays of the midday sun.
Cesare headed for the godswood. Passing the Water Gate, he heard screams.
Two guards were trying to hold back something small and quick, struggling forward.
"Let go! Let me go! I am Arya, Arya Stark!"