There is a season for every accomplishment. — Emperor Robb Stark, First of His Name. Instructions to My Heirs.
. . . . .
The dark curls smelled of lavender and verbena. Cesare inhaled the scent involuntarily and smiled—it reminded him of an obstinate beauty who had graced his bed but never agreed to become his wife. Estrel noticed his pensiveness and stroked his face. Her hands were the only thing that betrayed her as a servant.
"Where do you come from?" Cesare drawled thoughtfully, peering into her dark eyes.
Lying there now, relaxed and satisfied in the arms of this lovely nymph, he felt an unexpected need for conversation.
"From here," the girl said, confused. "I was born in the castle."
"And your parents?"
"My mother serves as a cook here," Estrel stretched like a cat and stole a quick kiss from his lips. "And my father was a sellsword, one of the Salty Dornishmen, so handsome that even the Maiden herself could not have resisted the temptation."
Cesare did not deny himself another kiss. Estrel's lack of inhibition and her skill were simply a gift from the heavens. She could kindle desire, draw it out drop by drop, acting instinctively, by intuition. This distinguished her from expensive courtesans into whom the science of love was hammered just as grammar or rhetoric is into any student.
Desiring to keep her close, Cesare had intended to speak with Edmure, but the man had forestalled him. Playing the benevolent uncle, he had granted his permission for his nephew's further trysts with the serving girl. After that conversation, Cesare had ground his teeth for a long time, so infuriating was the future Lord Tully's familiarity. Yes, they were kin, but that gave Edmure no right to clap him patronizingly on the shoulder and offer advice on handling women. It was fortunate he had not yet offered counsel on leading armies—his defeat at Riverrun and subsequent capture proved he was a wretched commander.
There was a loud knock at the door, and Olyvar's voice announced:
"My lord, Lady Catelyn to see you."
Cursing through his teeth, Cesare sprang up and began pulling on his breeches. Estrel bustled nearby, gathering clothes scattered about the room. Only thanks to her efforts did Cesare preserve a semblance of decency before his mother, though Lady Stark could not refrain from a telling glance at the rumpled bed, the disheveled Estrel, and the bruise reddening on her son's neck.
No sooner had the door closed behind Estrel than Catelyn turned on Cesare with reproaches:
"What are you doing?! You gave the Freys your word!"
"And I do not intend to break it."
Cesare offered her wine to buy himself a moment of respite. This woman's adherence to principle baffled him. Yes, he had promised to marry the Frey girl, not to observe celibacy. Or did she naively believe her young offspring had gone no further than kisses in the godswood? In that case, selective blindness and ignorance of her own child were evident. The boy was fifteen, a future lord, handsome, and friends with Theon Greyjoy! Naturally, he had lost his maidenhead long before Cesare was swept into his body.
"You set your future wife's kinsman to guard the door while you dally with a commoner," her voice held more weariness than rebuke. "And his brother has just arrived at the castle with three hundred swords."
"What are you driving at, Mother? Do you think the offended Olyvar will burst into my chambers to avenge his sister's honor? Or that Ser Jared's men will march back to the Twins upon learning of the groom's 'infidelity'?" Sarcasm tore from him, somewhat at odds with the image of the respectful, loving son raised in the North.
Speaking of which, three days prior, a detachment from the Twins had arrived unexpectedly, led by one of the Freys. Small stature and chicken-like shoulders did not make him look much of a warrior. Jared Frey, it seemed, was the eldest son by the second wife, though Cesare could not swear to it. And what did his name matter, in essence, if he brought reinforcements and a letter from his father?
Lord Walder congratulated him on the victory at Riverrun and reported Lord Glover's defeat on the Green Fork, quite expected and logical. The old man did not go into details but noted that while losses were heavy, they were not fatal. In passing, he added that he had lost a grandson and a son-in-law in that battle, as if expecting Cesare to compensate him for these costs. Regarding the reinforcements, he noted that this was part of his daughter's dowry and his future son-in-law should use it wisely.
...Lady Catelyn looked at him as if he were mad.
"No, I think no such thing, just be more circumspect with your, hmm... affections."
The subject was closed, but a blind man could have seen Lady Stark's offense.
"Forgive my sharpness, Mother," Cesare lowered his gaze, as if he truly felt guilt. "After I learned about Father..."
Cesare had always considered himself a mediocre actor, especially compared to the mummers sitting in the Consistory, but here everything was exceedingly simple: a stone face, clenched fists, eyes flashing lightning. The audience, in the form of the lords, believed and appreciated it. With his mother, things were somewhat more complicated.
She rose in a single fluid motion and began to peer into his face with even greater concern.
"I do not know you, Robb. You have changed, and it frightens me." The piercing gaze of those blue eyes was constraining, breeding uncertainty and nervousness.
Because of this woman, he had to act with caution. Even though the threat of exposure no longer hung over him like the sword of Damocles, Lady Stark could complicate his life considerably.
Just as he was about to answer her, Olyvar entered the chambers and announced that the lords were gathering in the Great Hall.
Admittedly, the upcoming council had completely slipped his mind. However, this was even better—he would not have to continue twisting like a snake before Lady Catelyn.
The hall was already filled with people. Greetings and signs of favor took some time. When Cesare sank into his chair, his shoulders burned from constant clapping, and his hand was numb from handshakes.
"You all know that Lord Tywin is now marching toward Harrenhal," he began, scanning the hall. "Also, many of you have heard that Renly Baratheon has declared himself king, and Joffrey the Queen's bastard."
The lords began to murmur. Cesare could only sip wine from a goblet darkened by time and observe. He had already learned that this world lived by the laws of collegiality. Perhaps across the Narrow Sea there were tyrants who ruled alone, but not in Westeros. Even if the plan of action had long been calculated, vassals needed time to speak their minds. And speak they did: they talked, shouted, banged their fists on tables, left slamming doors, and returned.
Marq Piper—a blonde dandy in a soft pink doublet—proposed attacking Casterly Rock. He sat next to Edmure and was his good friend, which added no weight to him in Cesare's eyes. The urge to mock his idea grew stronger until from those capricious thick lips fell:
"We must swear fealty to King Renly and march south to strike the Lannisters with an iron fist!"
This aligned perfectly with his plans.
"Renly is no king!" declared Lord Blackwood with conviction. "Even if both of Cersei Lannister's sons are bastards, there is still Stannis Baratheon."
"But Renly has the Reach and the Stormlands!" Lord Bracken countered him. "That makes four kingdoms already, if we agree with Lady Arryn—five. A couple of months, and the Lions will wash themselves in blood and run with their tails between their legs!"
"True," Cesare decided to put an end to the dispute. "We will support Renly Baratheon's claim to the Iron Throne."
"But how can that be?!" roared Lord Umber. "By right of seniority, Stannis succeeds Robert! It is the same as declaring your brother Rickon Lord of Winterfell in your stead, my lord."
The comparison did not sit well with Cesare. Sensing his mood, Grey Wind ran to the chair, amber eyes glinting malevolently.
"They killed my father," he had to raise his voice to cut through the rising din. "Cut off his head with his own sword! They captured my sisters, and who knows what awaits two small, defenseless girls in their den!"
Silence thickened in the hall.
"The last time my House received such a blow was fifteen years ago." Cesare's gaze slid over the lords' faces: angry, cold, thoughtful.
"Rhaegar Targaryen dishonored Lyanna Stark, and his mad father Aerys Targaryen burned Rickard Stark and strangled his son Brandon Stark. Some of you sitting in this hall were in my father's host, marching to take vengeance."
Cesare had learned of Robert Baratheon's rebellion almost as soon as he arrived in this world. This tale of cruelty, lust, and madness both frightened and delighted him. How long this country had endured a madman on the throne! How long proud lords had clenched their fists, watching the fires and inhaling the smell of burning fat! And afterwards, when patience ran out, a king sat on the throne who took it by right of might. This meant Cesare had the opportunity to repeat this achievement.
"Aye, we remember it!" The Greatjon stood and drew himself up to his full, immense height. "And you know what?! To the Seven Hells with the Lannisters! To the Seven Hells with the Baratheons! What do they know of the North, these southern kinglets of grass and flowers?!"
He drew his greatsword and pointed the tip at Cesare.
"There is the king I am ready to serve! The King in the North!"
As if on command, the other lords rose and began chanting his name and the newfound title.
Cesare wanted to scream. Not now! Too soon! He needed the Tyrell army, the Tyrell ships, the Tyrell gold, and with a self-proclaimed king, negotiations would be short.
Raising a hand, Cesare called for silence.
"I am immensely glad that you have placed such trust in me, but it is not for a royal crown that I marched south. I desire only vengeance, and Renly Baratheon is the one who will help me achieve it. I recognize him as my king, and I shall depart soon to treat with him."
These were not the words they expected from him. Watching as the surprise on many faces gradually turned to disappointment, Cesare stood and quickly left the hall. A mistrustful gaze of blue eyes burned into the back of his head.
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