Sometimes the mistakes of others are worth more than the valor of an entire army. — Olyvar Frey, Master of Whisperers.
. . . . .
The first thing Cesare did upon reaching Riverrun was order a bath. Some of the more spirited lords proposed holding a feast in the Great Hall then and there, without even doffing their armor, but Cesare firmly postponed the celebrations until evening. The men needed rest, and the burdens of command did not end with victory. Prisoners had to be quartered lest they die of cold and hunger within the week; whatever could be salvaged from the camps had to be gathered; the dead required tending to prevent a pestilence. Cesare had to consider every detail and delegate these tasks to capable men...
But all that would come later. First, the bath. The chambers allotted to him were worthy, and compared to Winterfell, positively regal. The furniture was not new, but it was handsome and comfortable, unlike the clumsy handiwork of northern carpenters. Cesare could not resist running his hand over the sand-colored satin coverlet, burying his face in the pillow to inhale the faint scent of flowers.
Huge lancet windows faced northwest. The morning sun would not strike his face and drive him from his cozy bed. Yes, he would definitely like it here.
Servants brought in a tub, quickly filled it with water, and left several jars and phials on a small table. One girl remained to help him disrobe. Sinking into the hot water was so pleasurable that Cesare groaned involuntarily.
The soft female hands that settled on his shoulders were no less pleasant.
"Does m'lord object to some assistance?" she asked in a tone of feigned innocence.
My lord did not object.
A generously soaped cloth fluttered across his back, scrubbing away the dirt and sweat ingrained in his skin. Now and then, her loose hair tickled his neck as she worked with diligence.
The girl stepped away to fetch a pitcher of hot water, and Cesare's gaze involuntarily slid over her shapely figure. Had he met her in his former world, he would have taken her for a Catalan with a fair share of Berber blood. Everything about her, from her raven-black curly hair to the small mole above her upper lip, reminded him of those wonderful years when he was Bishop of Valencia. And so it was especially unexpected to encounter such vivid southern beauty among the fair-skinned folk of the Riverlands.
"What is your name, beauty?" Cesare could not help but ask.
"Estrel, m'lord." The little devil managed to blush, though there was not a drop of embarrassment in her eyes.
When she leaned over him again, Cesare pulled her toward him so that the girl landed in the tub. Estrel gasped more from surprise than indignation. Her blouse was soaked through, revealing taut nipples beneath. Her heavy skirt floated up and billowed like a sail, a sight altogether comical.
Estrel kissed with knowing skill, leading to the conclusion that she was no maid. Indeed, it would have been surprising if the young Lord Tully had not summoned such a beauty to warm his bed.
To hell with sleep, thought Cesare, stripping the clothes from the girl and carrying her toward the bed. Have I not earned my reward for victory?
. . . .
Toward evening, a man with the Manderly merman on his doublet came to wake Cesare. He tried so diligently not to look at Estrel's charms, displayed right atop the coverlet, that it provoked an involuntary smirk.
In the corridor, they met Theon—bruised blue, head bandaged, but alive. His embrace nearly cracked Cesare's ribs.
"So we won, Robb, and you doubted."
The Maester of Riverrun—a frail, grey-haired old man with sharp dark-grey eyes—was already hurrying toward them, his chains chiming.
"Master Greyjoy, you must not be up! You refused the milk of the poppy, but your stitches could tear at the slightest movement!"
"What movement? I wasn't wounded in the chest or leg!" Theon crossed his arms over his chest in displeasure. "Am I to miss the feast because of a scratch?"
The Maester was struck dumb with indignation.
"Your Grace," he turned his gaze to Cesare, "at least you tell him! He has already lost an ear, and if he does not wish to die, he should spare himself!"
"Just a scratch?" Cesare asked, watching the retreating Maester. "And how are you not screaming in pain if you refused the poppy milk?"
"Ale, my friend, works wonders."
Only after this declaration did Cesare notice the strange glint in Theon's eyes and distinguish the characteristic smell.
As Cesare dragged him to his chambers to put the restless Ironborn to bed, Theon grew loose-tongued, declaring that he hated maesters and that they were all charlatans. He cited his uncle Urrigon, who died of bad treatment, as an example.
Cesare mentally sympathized with the poor healer. He had long noticed that the inhabitants of the Seven Kingdoms were far hardier than the people of his native world. The Greatjon had a couple of fingers bitten off, and he merely laughed. The Ironborn, dancing with their axes, often relieved one another of digits. A man who lost an ear should be lying flat, occasionally moaning, not walking on his own two feet to a feast to pour as much Dornish wine into himself as possible.
Having dealt with Theon, Cesare descended to the Great Hall, where most of the lords who had participated in lifting the siege of Riverrun already awaited him. A long presentation began of those who had been captives of the Lannisters or besieged within the fortress. Cesare paid particular attention to Edmure Tully. Lady Catelyn was right: he and Robb truly resembled each other like brothers. Moreover, the dark auburn hair and beard, the patrician nose, and olive skin made Edmure Tully look like the former Cesare. A jest of fate, nothing more.
When the greetings were done, those present took their seats. In passing, Cesare noted that all the youths who had protected him on the battlefield ended up at the ends of the tables, pushed aside by the older, highborn lords. This caused annoyance: only from those youths could selfless commanders emerge, devoted to him without reserve. To their fathers and grandfathers, Cesare was just another Stark, no more, no less. For them, the interests of their House would always stand above any liege lord, and their own mossy castle was far dearer than even the most beautiful capital. The time would come when they would go into the earth, as their ancestors had gone. It was important that their heirs changed in the way Cesare needed.
The doors opened, admitting a whole procession of servants bearing trays of various victuals. The musicians finished tuning their instruments and struck up something cheerful and martial. The cupbearer asked Cesare if he preferred Arbor, Dornish, or Lysene, and then filled his goblet with the best wine Cesare had ever tasted. Yes, Riverrun was definitely better than Winterfell.
A suckling pig roasted with prunes quickly turned into a pile of bones under the onslaught of the famished lords. Its place was immediately taken by a handsome pheasant in its own bright plumage. However, it too did not linger long. Servants scurried like ants, snatching up empty platters and replacing them with full ones. For a sinful moment, Cesare feared that at this rate they might quickly empty the castle's larders, but he reassured himself that supply trains from the Twins could now reach them unhindered.
All the toasts proposed by the lords were in his honor. He had already been christened the Young Wolf, and Cesare accepted this as his due: he was the victor who had smashed the Kingslayer. Greater adulation could only be won by defeating the Old Lion.
When his vision began to swim slightly, but the urge to relieve himself in the yard had not yet come, Cesare decided it was worth speaking with his table companions. Tytos Blackwood received his overture favorably, though this did not make him a better conversationalist. The aging warrior answered Cesare's questions crisply and briefly, making the conversation crumpled and devoid of any flow. Besides, the Greatjon and Jason Mallister, both already thoroughly drunk, kept trying to wedge themselves in.
Cesare listened lazily to Umber's musings on the continuation of the war until the following words were spoken:
"Well, now that the Kingslayer is in our hands, we can ransom Lord Eddard from captivity. Then everything will go as smooth as butter."
This statement hit him like a bucket of cold water. Thoughts raced feverishly, and Cesare felt panic rising. Standing up on weakening legs, he left the hall and pressed himself against the stone wall. A feverish, unhealthy thought flashed through his mind—to go and kill Jaime, to wreck the negotiations that way. His fingers convulsively gripped the handle of the knife at his belt.
Grey Wind ran out of the hall after him. The direwolf came close and stared questioningly at his master. Stroking his shaggy, broad-browed head, Cesare managed to calm down and collect himself. Were he in his native world, he would have ensured that Lord Eddard did not reach his own people alive, but in Westeros, there was no loyal Micheletto. in time, Cesare hoped to cultivate one in Olyvar—a younger son of a not-so-influential house, looking at his patron with adoring eyes, was quite suitable for the role of his lord's punishing blade. Upbringing at the Twins had already stripped him of fantasies regarding chivalry. A little time would pass, and this youth would be ready for the role assigned to him... For now, Cesare had no man with the necessary skills for such a task, and hiring an outsider was too dangerous and ruinous in the event of exposure.
Returning to the feast made no sense—the lords cared little whether their leader drank with them or not. Cesare decided to visit Brynden Tully. His chambers were not hard to find—they were all in the same tower. Climbing the stairs, he had to hold onto the railing and the Grey Wind running alongside—he had drunk quite a bit, after all. He managed to enter quietly, disturbing neither Brynden, who was asleep on poppy milk, nor the nurse dozing over her knitting.
The surroundings were meager, uninhabited. Ah yes, Uncle Brynden had spent many years in the Vale, avoiding visits to his ancestral castle and communication with his brother. He had served all his life, protected his kin all his life, and now he lay here, forgotten by all, while the nephew he saved got drunk in the great hall and bellowed songs.
Human glory is fleeting, as is human memory. Did he not know this? He could spend his youth in struggle and even drink the nectar of victories, but die in flight, like a rat. Enemies and enviers would always exist, no matter how much poison he spent on them. Seizing the Iron Throne would not put an end to it. His life would be a constant struggle. It was gladdening that he did not have to struggle alone.
He needed to gather people who would later take seats in the Small Council. During the time the war lasted, they would gain knowledge and experience, and after the victory over the Lannisters, they could immediately begin their duties.
"Yes, Grey Wind, we will succeed. Aut Caesar, aut nihil?" Cesare said quietly but confidently, looking into the amber eyes of the direwolf.
The beast nodded its head and licked his face.
Strange footsteps and the creak of the opening door made Cesare turn around.
"There you are, my lord, and I have been searching the whole castle for you." The Maester was breathing heavily, clutching a thin strip of paper in his hands. "A raven has arrived from King's Landing. Your father has been executed."
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