All is for the best in this best of all possible worlds.
. . . . .
He rode into the city on a tall bay mare draped in a caparison featuring a running crowned direwolf. The saddle, bridle, and blinkers were all embroidered with gold. His doublet and cloak were speckled with silver embroidery, but his head was crowned only by copper hair shining in the sun. Behind him followed his numerous retinue, no less majestic, but Robb Stark, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, did not look back.
He looked ahead, at the city not yet healed from its recent madness; at the townspeople pouring into the streets and, lacking direwolf sigils, tying blue-grey ribbons on their sleeves. They glance warily, press against the walls, taught by the Lannisters to see nothing good in change. Let it be so for now, but they will yet praise the wise King Robb and pray for his health.
Ahead loomed the Great Sept of Baelor, looking at the procession with broken windows. Even it was not spared by the Night of Retribution, whose foul breath reeking of burning had not yet been swept away by the northern winds. A meaningless temple of gods invented by men—neither overwhelming power nor trembling of the soul.
At the steps, the Tyrells waited for him with their numerous vassals—those who took part in the defeat of the Lannisters in King's Landing. Beside them, space was left for the numerous lords of the North, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, and the Vale who accompanied Cesare. Five kingdoms out of seven—not a bad layout. Six, counting the heir to Dorne swaying on a speckled mare two steps behind Cesare. A very good layout.
A little further away, separated by a chain of men-at-arms with a golden rose on their cloaks, crowded the townspeople. The most belligerent and insolent had already been called to order by Tyrell's men, decorating the few trees in the city with hanged men, so this subdued herd was not to be feared, although it had tasted blood in recent days.
Cesare dismounted and headed toward the High Septon frozen on the steps. The old man involuntarily backed away, and no wonder—Grey Wind ran beside Cesare, not lagging a step behind, smiling at the gathered with all his maw.
Cesare ascended the steps and froze in anticipation.
"B-b-before the face of the Seven and in their n-n-name," the High Septon began, stuttering from excitement and fear.
This was all a fiction, from beginning to end. For his people, he became king in Duskendale without any ceremonies. Enemies will not recognize him as the lawful king in a thousand years. However, those who stood aside required a formal ritual to make the accomplished fact law. That is why this place was chosen, to call all of King's Landing as witnesses.
The High Septon finally finished his speech and placed a crown with seven points on Cesare's head. All gathered immediately bent their knees.
"Three years ago, on this very spot, Eddard Stark, my father, was executed," Cesare pierced the crowd of townspeople with a gloomy gaze. "And you, citizens of King's Landing, laughed and hooted when the executioner cut off his head, for it is not every day a former Hand of the King is executed."
Sensing his mood, Grey Wind growled dully. The crowd surged back, even people who had known him for years tensed. Cesare smirked.
"I slaughtered Tywin Lannister like a pig. Queen Cersei threw herself from her bedroom window. The crowned bastard Joffrey was handed over to me by his own bodyguard, and he will hang on the gates of the Red Keep for a long time yet. I came to take revenge, and my revenge is accomplished," Cesare reveled in the general expectation and anxiety. "However, I do not intend to give my capital over to plunder. Winter has already come, and it will be hard. No more deaths are needed. The war is over."
A moment of silence, and the square drowned in shouts and applause. Before the start of this action, Cesare allocated a considerable sum to Olyvar to bribe the loudest, so that at the right time they would start praising King Robb the Just and Merciful. Apparently, in vain. The townspeople, experiencing relief, were quite sincere.
Cesare was young, handsome, shrouded in the aura of victories. They already loved him.
The long journey he began back in the Romagna decades ago ended as it should have. He is Caesar. He is Caesar. He is—Caesar!
. . . . .
The world was on fire...
The earth resembled cracked skin powdered with a thin layer of ash. Ash was in the air too: scurrying, circling like snowflakes caught by the wind. It dried, clogged the mouth with its disgusting taste. Better blood, truly.
In the distance, the ruins of a castle were visible, fused by hellish heat into a single monolith. No remnants of banners, no weapons, not even charred bones. Nothing.
He walked, though the earth scratched him, and his legs seemed to have turned to wood (wood cannot stand against fire). Where? Why? Is there anything in this world worth the effort? Or does the movement itself hold some meaning?
Beyond the hill, in a hollow, he finally saw Her. Ash settled in scarlet hair turned her into an old woman, and her elegant revealing dress—into a shroud. She smiled and silently stretched her hands to the dying sky. She felt triumph: her Lord's, her Hero's, her own. Only what will her flame feed on? God has already taken everything he could. Will the voracious deity die of hunger?
Eyes resembling two pits pierced him with a triumphant gaze.
"Now everything is clear to me," she spoke without parting her lips. She didn't have them. "It was worth dying to uncover your secret, Cesare Borgia."
Her voice sounding in his very head caused Cesare to tremble. He turned to run, but she already stood behind his shoulder, smiling with empty eye sockets.
"Go away, go away from me! Begone!"
"Oh, how impolite, my lord, or should I call you Your Grace now?"
Her bony fingers dug into his leg, and he howled in unbearable pain.
"You bound yourself to me, and this bond saved your life. What ingratitude!" she slapped him.
It's a dream, Cesare suddenly realized clearly. He is lying in his chambers after the feast right now.
"Think you'll live peacefully now? You shouldn't have been in this world. Azor Ahai would have come and burned the world to the ground. But from blood and ash, a new, perfect world would have been reborn, where there would be no way for the servants of the Great Other! By whose will do you think you ended up in our world?"
This was all untrue, just a dream. Cesare refused to believe any of it.
"Your little wife, sweet Walda. It wasn't Estrel who killed her, not Tywin, not Varys, not even Littlefinger," she poked him with a bone finger, "but you."
"You will become great, Robb Stark, and together we will be..." her voice trembled in his head.
And again the terrifying picture before his eyes—his wife convulsing and choking on her own blood.
"No!" Cesare backed away, clenching his fists. "You lie!"
A moment, and again the foul breath over his shoulder.
"Since you don't believe me, look," her finger pressed between his brows.
Everything clouded in his head, everything spun as with sunstroke, and another's unhappened life flashed before his eyes with the speed of a swallow.
Until nineteen, she lived in a noble family rich only in younger sons and marriageable maidens. She was beautiful, and her heart yearned for freedom, away from the grip of castle routine, envious whispers of cousins, and greasy looks of male cousins.
At nineteen, she met Myron, a hedge knight without a penny in his pocket, but with burning eyes and a glib tongue, promising to throw the whole world at her feet. Met and ran away with him that same night.
She was naive and, like many fools who listened too much to ballads, could have been abandoned by her lover in the nearest forest, or even sold into a brothel, but she was lucky. They rode along the road on one horse, slept at night under one cloak, shared the last crust of bread for two.
At twenty, she sailed on a ship carrying her, her husband, and their unborn child to Braavos.
At twenty-eight, she lived in a beautiful spacious house with a dozen servants, watched from the window as her eldest son rode a pony, and sang lullabies to her daughter. Once she had to cook for her husband, clean his boots, wash and mend clothes. Her hands reddened and cracked from constant work, but despite everything, she did not regret her decision. Now Ser Myron was the First Sword of Braavos and his family was surrounded by prosperity and honor, but it was not enough for him. Under the cover of night, when even servants and spies forgot themselves in troubled sleep, he talked about how people were dissatisfied with the Sealord, that ancient families needed a new man, from the outside.
At thirty, she was the wife of the Sealord of Braavos. She had already survived three assassination attempts—many were dissatisfied with a stranger on the Sea Throne; someone, on the contrary, wanted a dynastic marriage with the young and energetic Sealord. In the cold months, she was tormented by an incessant cough. Her left leg healed incorrectly, so she constantly limped on it when walking. Her hair was half grey from constant worry for her husband and children, however, contrary to everything, she felt happy. Her husband still loved her and was not going to give her up.
At forty-one, she became a widow. She watched the boat with her husband's remains burn out, but there were no tears. A hand fell on her shoulder. She turned around. Her eldest son looked at her with his late father's eyes and silently promised to punish his murderers.
At sixty-six, she lay in bed surrounded by family and friends. Her eldest son ruled Braavos—the first Sealord in history to inherit power from a predecessor; the youngest first conquered the throne of Tyrosh, and then conquered Lys and Myr. The only daughter married the King of the Seven Kingdoms and sat with him on the Iron Throne. Now she understood the old witch's words: she rose as no one from her house could even imagine; her descendants would rule in the West and the East. Having listened to her heart once, a small fragile girl met her destiny and grew a truly mighty tree with roots entwining the world...
All sixty-six years of another's life fit for Cesare into one short moment. He fell as if cut down, no longer feeling pain or fear, only emptiness.
"Poor thing," her bony fingers slid over his cheek in feigned sympathy. "Do you understand now? You are superfluous in this world and brought with you only pain and death, devoid of any meaning. Do the world a favor—go into the next room and cover your daughter with a pillow, and when she stops breathing, take out your sword and open your belly..."
. . . . .
Her voice still rang in his head when Cesare jumped out of bed with a wild scream. His leg burned as if he were being tortured with a red-hot iron. He tasted blood in his mouth.
He rushed to the window. The time was early (he had retired to his room while it was still light). No more than an hour had passed.
The last rays of the dying setting sun played on the roofs of King's Landing and painted them the color of blood.