"A skilled orator can turn regicide into tyrannicide, and justify conspiracy with loyalty." — Emperor Robb Stark, First of His Name. Instructions to My Heirs.
. . . . .
Toward morning, the rain died down, but the impenetrable sky and grey daytime gloom hinted that the past night was merely a prelude to the true fury of the elements.
Cesare's mood matched the weather. He had a premonition that he would set out on campaign any day now; that his horse would sink into the loose earth with every step; that the cold shirt under his armor would cling unpleasantly to his skin. The army would stretch for miles like a sleepy snake and become easy prey for more nimble predators.
One look at Stannis's face was enough to understand—persuading him to wait was useless. Though an obscure illness had withered his body, he was still eager for battle, sparing neither himself nor others.
Since morning, the Great Hall had been boiling like a huge cauldron with thin walls. Many new people had arrived with Stannis, and each of these lords, knights, and persons of unclear status considered it their duty to share their precious opinion with those around them. Cesare had not seen so much emptiness and vanity since Renly Baratheon's feast. Although, some faces seemed familiar. He recalled that red-haired knight, who was now scolding the Northern and River lords for idleness and delay, had even been in the younger Baratheon's guard. Yes, precisely, he had also tried to sing something incoherent! And this lord in the orange cloak, currently wrinkling his handsome nose, had juggled daggers to amuse Renly, and afterwards became a commander of the left flank in the battle with Stannis that never took place. However, it was not for Cesare to judge them for changing sides and hypocrisy. He himself was quite the slippery eel, only his utility was incomparably greater.
In the second hour of discussion, Cesare sharply felt weakness and dizziness. Since morning he had not felt well, but now he was on the verge of losing consciousness. As luck would have it, Stannis took the floor, and he was the one who needed to be listened to carefully.
Words reached him in fragments, as if carried by an echo:
"River Road... transfer of forces... may be justified..."
On the other hand, nausea rolled in waves from the sharpness of smells. A mixture of sweat, wine fumes, incense, smoke, meat, fat, wax, and something else completely unimaginable clogged his nose. A human cannot possess such sensitivity. Unless, of course, he is a direwolf.
Suddenly he felt movement behind his back. A moment later, a servant appeared before Stannis with a dish of thinly sliced ham. The King waved him off carelessly, continuing to say something. However, the servant did not hurry to other council participants, but froze, bent in a half-bow.
Cesare acted on intuition, under the power of an unknown premonition-inspiration. Vaulting over the table, Cesare fell upon the servant from behind, twisting his arms. Later he vividly imagined what a fool he would have made of himself before his vassals had the servant's hesitation been due merely to inexperience or timidity before the King. However, he turned out to be right.
While one hand held the dish of meat, the other—the unlucky assassin—clutched a knife. Shoving Cesare away, he lunged at the King to finish what he started, but was knocked to the floor and immobilized by Lord Seaworth and Umber who had rushed to help.
"It seems Lord Stark has just saved my life," Stannis said with astonishing indifference. It seemed nothing in the world could erase the stony expression from his face.
Here the other council participants showed themselves. Someone volunteered to escort the criminal to prison, while the rest with one voice inquired about the King's well-being. Edmure bleated something incoherent, seemingly apologizing and making excuses for such an unpleasant incident occurring under his roof. In the ensuing commotion, it was not difficult to slip away quietly.
His body no longer failed him or played strange tricks. Cesare calmly reached his mother's chambers, almost without breaking stride and stopping only a few times to rest against the wall.
Lady Catelyn rose to meet him immediately, likely noticing the confusion on his face—the news of the assassination attempt had not yet flown around the castle. Beside her—what luck—sat Walda, bent over embroidery.
"The King was just nearly stabbed in the Great Hall," agitation did not reflect in his voice, for which Cesare was extremely glad. "I fear Riverrun is no longer safe."
The anxiety in his mother's eyes grew into almost panic fear. She rushed to Cesare and began to feel him nervously, as if checking for wounds.
"How can this be? Riverrun is the most reliable fortress in the Riverlands," Walda's even voice trembled and broke on the last word.
The door creaked behind him. Cesare jerked, reaching for his sword, but it turned out to be only Estrel, who miraculously did not drop the pitcher from fright.
"Calm," Cesare said, mentally letting out a sigh of relief. "You are the one I need. Find Ser Olyvar Frey. Let him gather about twenty men he trusts implicitly."
"What do you plan?" Lady Catelyn asked when the door closed behind the servant.
"Send you, Walda, and Arya to the Twins away from sin. Where is she, by the way?"
Lady Catelyn pursed her lips disapprovingly.
"Do not rush with such decisions, Robb. It will be much easier to harm us on the road than behind castle walls."
There was reason in her words. It is not yet clear how this man got into Riverrun, whether he has accomplices. Rash actions might only expose the family to even greater danger.
He didn't have to dig deep into himself to understand the reason for the panic overwhelming him—had this fool not rushed at the King with a knife, but seasoned the meat with hemlock tincture, no one at that table would have survived.
Cesare sank heavily into an armchair and, not caring for manners, greedily drank from the pitcher Estrel had brought.
When a breathless Olyvar appeared on the threshold, Cesare knew firmly what to do.
"Strengthen the guard. Place men at all gates—let them search everyone who wants to leave the castle, regardless of titles and ranks."
"Ser Brynden Tully has already given orders," his friend calmed him. "There is news from the interrogation room. This man spoke immediately, torture didn't even have to be applied. Called himself Bartolomeo and declared that as a true worshiper of the Seven he could not allow an apostate king to live."
It will be funny if this turns out to be true and his plans almost flew to the Seven Hells not thanks to the intrigues of the Lannisters, Lord Varys, or the Tyrells, but because of an ordinary fanatic.
The door flew open again, admitting Maester Vyman, nervously twisting his chain.
"This man did not sneak into the castle," he began, not wasting time on greetings. "He came to Riverrun with his father almost ten years ago and got a job at the stables."
"Excellent," Cesare cheered up. "Where is his father?"
"Died last year," the maester destroyed his hopes.
Cesare clicked his tongue in displeasure.
"A pity. Do you know if he showed his piety before?"
The old man only shrugged. Indeed, why should he be interested in the moral quests of some stable boy.
"Fine," Cesare leaned back in his chair and looked around at everyone present. "Let's hope torture loosens his tongue, but for now everyone gathered here had better be careful. Mother, attend to finding food tasters. At the same time, check the servants for loyalty. Pay special attention to the kitchen staff."
Lady Catelyn nodded weightily.
"Maester Vyman, prepare antidotes for the most known poisons."
For now, Cesare was unable to do this himself. The few lessons the maester had managed to give him forced Cesare to admit that his previous knowledge in this area was almost useless. Different flora and fauna—different mixtures and compositions. Recreating Cantarella in these conditions was practically impossible.
"Monitor your condition. Feel the slightest malaise, immediately turn to Maester Vyman," Cesare spoke, not taking his eyes off Walda. "Notice unfamiliar things in your chambers, do not touch them under any circumstances."
"Well, Robb, I think you somewhat exaggerate the danger," Lady Catelyn said softly. "We were not the assassin's target. Everything turned out fine."
She pulled him to her, gently stroking his hair, and he felt the ringing tension release him.
Indeed. The target was Stannis, not the Stark family. After today's failure, enemies hiding in the castle (if there are any) are unlikely to risk acting. Need to wait for the results of the interrogation and adjust further actions to them.
This Bartolomeo turned out to be a tough nut. For three days of interrogation, he did not deviate a step from his version, only consistently supplementing it. As soon as he learned from other servants about the King's arrival, he immediately conceived the crime. Acted alone. Stunned one of the servants who was supposed to serve at the table, took his clothes, hoping that in the turmoil no one would notice the substitution. Had never heard of the Lannisters, never seen the Tyrells.
On the fourth day during a short respite, the failed kingslayer bit off his tongue, bled out, and died, taking all his secrets to the grave. Lord Alester Florent, who led the inquiry, repented for this before Stannis for a long time. However, he was quickly forgiven—the identity of the one who ordered the assassination worried the King far less than the upcoming offensive on King's Landing.
During these days, the anxiety tormenting Cesare did not weaken in the slightest. Paranoia was fueled by the check conducted by Lady Catelyn. Almost half the servants were found to have caches and stashes with coins and valuables. Whole schemes invented by these dodgy rats to rob their master were revealed. Indeed. Why not try luck. Riverrun has had no mistress for fifteen years now. One master is sick, the other cares nothing for managing the castle. Any of these Judases could receive wages from the enemy. Any.
It was possible, of course, to kick them all out and recruit new servants from the surrounding villages, but where is the guarantee that an enemy spy will not hide among them?
Everyone managed to forget about Deana Frey's upcoming visit, and so Walda's mother descended unexpectedly. Only noticing her in the yard, talking animatedly with her daughter, did Cesare remember. Walda mentioned that her mother missed her and worried about her. It seems after returning from the North Cesare even gave the go-ahead for her arrival...
Lady Deana was a lean thirty-nine-year-old woman who had not yet lost her freshness and beauty. It was from her that Walda inherited her famous hair. At the wedding, Cesare managed to exchange only a couple of words with her—her annoying spouse was constantly spinning nearby.
"Your arrival has lit up this day, Lady Deana," Cesare spoke, descending from the wall and kissing the extended hand.
"Oh, Robb, are you free already?" his wife looked especially lively today. "Mother and I wanted to walk in the godswood. Will you not keep us company?"
"Willingly," Cesare took her by the elbow, distractedly noticing his wedding gift on her.
"Walda was just telling me about your small trouble," began Lady Frey with a warm familial smile. "Truth be told, it is quite easily solvable: why don't Lady Catelyn, little Arya, and Walda go with me to the Twins? Lord Walder will be glad to see his favorite great-granddaughter."
"How is he, by the way?" Cesare decided to show concern.
"Livelier than all the living," Lady Deana chuckled. "Since your wedding with Walda, he managed to organize two weddings and three betrothals."
This solution was expected and had occurred to Cesare more than once—he could not allow his pregnant wife to shake in an army wagon train or his mother to live in Riverrun with a constant sense of threat. Transporting them to the North—long and no less dangerous. Unless...
That evening he invited his mother, Walda, and Uncle Brynden to his chambers. The latter did not hide his bewilderment, counting on a private conversation.
"You can speak openly in front of them, Uncle. They are going with you."
"Out of the question!" the Blackfish shot him a disgruntled look. "Your wife is with child! Think of her health!"
"What does he mean?" Lady Catelyn looked at him demandingly.
And Cesare began to thoroughly set out his plan.
"As you know perfectly well, Mother, strong cultural and dynastic ties have long existed between the North and the Vale. These two kingdoms are natural allies. Therefore, the neutrality to which your sister clings with all her might is actually support for the Lannisters."
"What? How can you say that?" Lady Catelyn exclaimed indignantly. "Lysa is a weak unhappy woman, wishing only to protect her son!"
However, her gaze stopped at one point, clouded over, turned to memories.
"Many lords of the Vale are dissatisfied with Lady Arryn's indecision," Cesare continued. "I entered into correspondence with Harrold Hardyng, taking advantage of the fact that after marrying Walda we became kin in a way. This worthy youth lamented greatly that only tournaments fell to his lot and he did not have the happiness to show his skill in a real fight. In response, I inquired how Lady Waynwood's sons, with whom he is fostered, look at this. To this he noted that they too were sick of sweet songs and harp strumming."
"You want to call the banners of the Vale bypassing the Grand Lord?" Mother paled so much she looked ready to faint. "None of the Arryn vassals will go for this! This is direct treason!"
"Maybe," Cesare drawled thoughtfully. "Then let's call it a meeting of relatives. The Royces are our relatives, aren't they?"
"Royces?" Lady Catelyn asked again.
"It so happened that my cousin Harry is not only Lady Waynwood's ward but also on friendly terms with Lord Royce. According to him, as soon as he hinted at this, Bronze Yohn himself offered to organize a meeting at Runestone. I decided to check and asked Uncle Brynden to write to Lord Royce, with whom he is also well acquainted. Then Harrold's words were confirmed."
Mother was silent for a long time, completely withdrawn into herself. Finally, when Cesare was ready to abandon his intention, she raised eyes full of determination to him.
"What is required of me?"
"The mere presence of you and Walda will already help the cause," Cesare assured her. "You doubt, I understand, but we need the Vale to avenge the Lannisters and return Sansa. Therefore, when the lords begin to voice their doubts to you, you must be confident and firm. The future of our family depends on this."
He had managed to study her well, so he knew what to say. Now, whatever she thought about it, he would not find a more useful and devoted executor for the cause.