"...But above all other qualities of this undoubtedly great man, one must note the versatility of his genius." — Venda Risley. From the maester's dissertation for a copper link: The Role of Personality in the Civil War of the Great Interregnum.
. . . . .
A company moved along the Kingsroad amidst clouds of yellowish dust. It was not small enough to be attacked by the rabble that had multiplied during the war and lived by plunder, yet not large enough to attract undue attention. It was making its way south, to the headquarters of the new king.
Cesare, riding at the head of the column, glanced back and slowed his pace so his faithful squire could catch up. A gloomy Olyvar averted his gaze and nervously brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
"So, are you also going to teach me about life and act out the consequences of my mistake?" Cesare's carefree tone betrayed nothing of how important the answer truly was to him.
"No, my lord, I will not," the young Frey bit his lip childishly. "I believe in you. If you wanted to share your plan with me, you would have."
And yet he sulked, however much he tried to portray the loyal vassal. Of late, they had become close enough for Olyvar to consider himself a friend. He was a capable lad, which allowed Cesare to build great plans around him. Oh, let him not disappoint.
"I could not share my plans with you because I did not anticipate Umber pulling such a stunt. I had to tailor my intentions on the fly, which is why half my lords are now ready to eat me alive, and the other half would watch with pleasure," his grin came out bitter. "All the authority I won by capturing Jaime Lannister has turned to dust, but you know, Olyvar, this is better than if I had agreed."
The squire's eyes widened.
"But how can that be?! You would have become a ruler independent of the Iron Throne! Complete freedom of action."
His delight at the thought was balm to Cesare's soul. The boy was sharp, active, and belonged to him entirely. How little it took to captivate him: friendliness, concern, one victorious battle. He did not yet realize it, but he already perceived Cesare's victories as his own.
"The lords would have placed an ugly crown of copper and iron on my head, like all the Kings in the North, and decided that I was in their debt," Cesare snorted. "They would have expected rewards and honors from me, and not receiving them, would be insulted by my ingratitude."
Looking around, Cesare noted that they had distanced themselves enough from the escort so as not to be overheard.
"No, Olyvar, my crown will not be copper. It will be gold, studded with precious stones, and I will win it for myself: I will tear it from the Lannister head with my own hands and place it upon my own. And let anyone try to stretch their greedy hands towards it!"
Olyvar's dark eyes burned with enthusiasm, his olive cheeks flushed.
"I will cut off those hands!" he blurted out, and in a burst of loyal sentiment nearly flew out of his saddle. "I will be your shield, your shadow! Never will there be a captain of the Kingsguard more loyal and brave than I!"
His outburst amused Cesare somewhat, but he showed no sign of it.
"So it shall be, Olyvar. So it shall be."ç
. . . .
The camp at Bitterbridge was impressive. It resembled a huge anthill and reminded Cesare of Charles of France's campaign against Naples. The same abundance of men, horses, and siege engines, the same chaos and disorder. A multitude of lords, knights, and hedge knights had come under the banner of the younger Baratheon. How did he intend to manage them? Judging by the couple of drunken men-at-arms they encountered on the way, iron discipline and strict hierarchy were nowhere to be found here.
At the sight of the knightly tourney, which had clearly been going on for more than a day, Hal Mollen, holding the Stark banner, cursed through his teeth. Cesare, on the other hand, scrutinized the cloaks and armor of the knights and lords, feeling like an uncouth yokel who had stumbled into someone else's celebration of life.
Cesare had always noted in himself a passion for luxury and beautiful effects, and so he felt unbearably ashamed of his small retinue and modest attire. Looking at the man sitting on a gilded throne beside his beautiful wife, Cesare felt a burning envy. Renly Baratheon need not exert much effort to take the Iron Throne. It was enough to get rid of his older brother and take King's Landing, which, with such numerical superiority, could be done simply by burying the defenders under corpses. The desire to bend the knee to him abruptly vanished. However, he was not obliged to do so here, right on the lists.
Remember Louis of France, Cesare told himself. You took his army, accepted the ducal title from him, but nothing prevented you from pursuing your own interests. You are not obliged to carry this overdressed dandy into King's Landing on your arms. You only need to set him against the Lannisters, distract Lord Tywin's attention to him, and watch this fight, only to finish off the winner later. A strategy as old as the world. Under other circumstances, he would not have counted on it—it was too obvious—but at this moment it suited best. The fact was that Robb Stark possessed a resource that Cesare Borgia was completely devoid of—a good name. As long as he did not break oaths and fought honestly, everyone would believe him, for he was a Stark. This opened a wide scope for intrigue.
Cesare was pulled from his thoughts by the awarding of the tournament winner, or rather the victress—Brienne of Tarth astounded with her build and brute strength. Her mother must have sinned with a bear, otherwise how could one explain the birth of such a giantess. She was taller than the Greatjon! What a pity she had already sworn allegiance to Baratheon—such an acquisition would have been very useful.
"When do you intend to march to Harrenhal?" Renly inquired with feigned casualness.
Outwardly, Cesare showed no surprise. Did this pompous fool truly think a stupid northern boy would share military plans in front of a whole crowd of his bannermen, naively believing there were no Lannister spies among them?
Cesare limited himself to the most general phrases.
He was graciously offered the royal pavilion, which Their Majesties were not using anyway. The furnishings impressed Cesare. A bed strewn with furs stood next to huge chests of skillful workmanship, stuffed with royal clothing. On small tables lay weapons, maps, vases with fruit and flowers, and bottles of dark glass with wine. In a leather armchair rested a composite bow and a quiver of arrows with luxurious fletching. There was too much of everything, as if Renly carried all the belongings he had gathered in his life with him. Despite this, he could not avoid a feeling of nostalgia.
Having changed clothes and tidied himself up, Cesare sank into one of the armchairs and pulled toward him a book that had miraculously turned up here. The Life of Grand Maester Aethelmure. Strange. Not about war, not even about hunting. The author's style was utterly tedious, and the scribe's handwriting surprisingly bad, but observant eyes still caught an interesting phrase: "All men cherish murder in their hearts, and even then the poisoner is not worthy even of disdain. However, poisons must be known. One should not shun such knowledge. An antidote is essentially a poison, but in reverse. Without knowing the poison, you cannot match it with an antidote. And that is why we maesters forge a platinum link, which must go in pair with a silver one."
What does this mean? Every maester is a potential poisoner?
He thought about this when Ser Wendel Manderly came for him, when they rode to the castle, when they feasted with King Renly's men. The table was sumptuous, but biting into a quail roasted in honey, Cesare could not help but wonder how many maesters had entered the kitchen during its preparation.
A jester chasing a dwarf somewhat distracted his attention from gloomy thoughts. Cesare looked around and realized with amazement that most of those present were not so much older than himself. One, with a pimply face, strummed a harp, singing clumsy verses; another whispered something hotly to a serving girl settled on his lap. Rarely did any of them look twenty-five. Most were clearly not even twenty. They had never fought. Heard, perhaps, about war from fathers and grandfathers, but themselves only broke lances at tournaments.
Each of them dreams of exploits and glory, of victories and honors that will exalt themselves and their houses. Such men are easy to captivate, but very difficult to control. Such men, in the hope of standing out, willingly take risks and neglect orders.
"Would you care for a walk, Lord Stark?" the king set down his empty goblet and rose.
Brienne tried to go with them, but Renly waved her off, which visibly upset her.
"Your arrival has brought me untold joy. How wonderful that, like your father and my brother, we shall support each other in our struggle against the Lannisters."
"I am extremely glad of our acquaintance," Cesare nodded, portraying a purely symbolic bow. "You can count on me, both in times of war and in times of peace, when you occupy the Iron Throne."
"And in what role would you wish to serve me in times of peace?" Renly narrowed his eyes slyly.
"I would prefer the post of Master of Laws," Cesare smiled benevolently. "It seems this place was formerly occupied by you."
Renly laughed.
"Agreed."
Cesare shook his firm hand. It would have been strange if he had asked for nothing.
"It is a pity we cannot be united by marriage," he seemed truly saddened by this circumstance. "Although... I saw your sister Sansa in King's Landing. A true beauty! My wife has an older brother, Willas. He is heir to Highgarden."
Cesare understood perfectly well the fragility of dynastic alliances. It was enough to recall Lucrezia's first marriage to that fool Sforza. Political gain is a fleeting thing, and to get an annulment, one must go through nine circles of hell. Easier to eliminate an unwanted spouse or, heh, accuse of impotence...
However, when he becomes king, he will still need the Tyrells.
"A wonderful idea, Your Grace," Cesare smiled almost sincerely. "It remains only to discuss this with the Tyrells."
And just when everything was coming together so perfectly, a rider on a lathered horse burst into the castle.
"Your Grace!" he rasped. "I rode to you from Storm's End itself! We are surrounded! Lord Stannis stands at your gates! 'King Stannis'—that is what he calls himself!"
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