"In that distant time, when great and terrible deeds were wrought in Westeros, a young man resolved to rise above all others, to bring order and tranquility to the world..." — Author unknown, The Tale of the Copper King.
. . . . .
Instead of riding back to Riverrun to plot further strikes against the Lannisters, Cesare was forced to accompany Renly as he prepared for battle against his own brother. Though his army was far away—and Cesare would not have committed his personal guard to this fray for all the gold in Casterly Rock—Baratheon desired Lord Stark's presence, and kings, as it is known, are not easily refused.
"I wish for you to bear my banner during the parley. It is unlikely we shall resolve this peaceably, but the attempt must be made."
Renly tried to appear wise and assured. He flaunted his knowledge like a costly cloak, citing—whether aptly or not—the wars of antiquity that thundered in Essos, or tactical ploys from the days of Aegon's Conquest. Evidently, the king wished to demonstrate that he possessed the mind of a commander, despite never having fought in a battle nor commanded even a score of men. Well, Cesare had negotiated with peacocks far more preening than this.
Storm's End resembled a man-made fist of stone, thrusting towards the heavens. If the books were to be believed, this was one of the most impregnable fortresses in Westeros. The walls were too thick for siege engines and too high for ladders. To take such a castle, thousands must die beneath its ramparts. However, if one believed Philip of Macedon, any fortress could be taken by a donkey laden with gold.
When two figures detached themselves from the small encampment opposite, Cesare made to ride out to meet them, but Renly stopped him with a wave of his hand.
"Let us wait. We must not be the first to arrive."
"Do you know the knight in scarlet who attends him?" Cesare asked, simply to pass the time.
Renly squinted, peering at the approaching riders.
"I do not. I recall no R'hllorists among his men. There was one at Robert's court," the king chuckled. "Ate for three, drank for ten, and loved to wave a burning sword about at tourneys."
"And?"
"It frightened the horses."
Renly put spurs to his mount. Cesare, gripping the banner, followed.
Cesare had never seen two brothers less alike than the younger Baratheons. Stannis was dressed simply, even crudely, more like a sellsword than a king. His grey, wind-bitten face possessed not a hundredth share of the vivacity Renly constantly displayed. It was plain why the Storm Lords preferred the younger brother—the elder lacked even the scent of charisma, though he clearly possessed some experience in command. He had fought during his brother's rebellion, if Cesare recalled correctly.
The brothers greeted one another dryly. Stannis swept an indifferent gaze over Cesare before fixing his attention entirely on Renly—evidently, he had never met Robb Stark. Moreover, Cesare wore nothing now that might link him to House Stark. If he did not draw attention to himself, Stannis would take him for the son of some minor Reach lord.
While the loving kin exchanged barbs, Cesare turned his attention to the other standard-bearer. It was a woman. She seemed composed of flashes of fire. Her cloak was flame, her eyes, her hair. A great ruby at her throat pulsed with inner light. She was beautiful, certainly, but it was the beauty of Damascus steel. The dread of her sharp edges outweighed the admiration.
The woman offered him a faint smile, and Cesare's palms grew damp. A witch. A true witch.
The conversation between the brothers, meanwhile, had risen to a shout.
"The swords of the Reach, the spears of the Stormlands, and the shields of the North will make me king!" the younger Baratheon heatedly declared.
"The North?" Stannis asked.
"Yes, the North," Renly lifted his chin. "Robb Stark supports me. You may verify it personally." He nodded toward the frozen Cesare.
Now it was clear. He had been brought here as a trophy, to be brandished before a rival.
Stannis's lips pressed into a thin line, and his teeth ground together like a poorly oiled door hinge.
"Your father was a man of honor. It is a pity you are not like him."
Cesare's hand flew to his sword hilt faster than thought. Stannis's words cut deep, though they were aimed at Robb Stark. Cesare bore no resemblance to Rodrigo Borgia, unlike Juan. For a long time, this had tormented him, and rumors of his mother's affair with Della Rovere had only fueled his suspicions.
With difficulty, Cesare bridled his wrath.
"You should not cast such words about, Lord Stannis," he hissed through his teeth.
The woman unwittingly saved the situation.
"You should repent, Lord Renly. R'hllor is merciful."
Renly rolled his eyes theatrically.
"It is all of you who should repent—it would cost my host nothing to overrun that pitiful gathering you call an army."
"We shall see when dawn comes," Stannis replied, and turning his horse, rode away.
"Well, my brother has not changed a whit," Renly remarked irritably, staring after him.
. . . . .
Renly's sumptuous pavilion glowed like a fanciful lantern of green glass. Two Rainbow Guardsmen stood sentinel at the entrance.
While Brienne, acting as squire, armed the king, he conferred with his lords. Tarly wished to attack before dawn, and were Cesare in Renly's place, he would have supported him, but Baratheon desired a "fair" victory. Foolishness, truly, especially given the overwhelming advantage of one side.
When the lords had departed to their tents, Renly turned to Cesare.
"What did you make of my brother's claim?" he asked with a smirk. "Who could have thought that all these years the Queen was cuckolding my brother with her own brother? Even if it is a lie from first to last, imagine how history will speak of it. What will they turn us all into, these descendants?"
"What brings this philosophical mood upon Your Grace?" Cesare had not expected such musings from Renly, of all people.
"I do not know," the King drawled. "Perhaps I should call for Loras. We shall drink a cup of Arbor gold to the coming victory."
Cesare merely shrugged. Personally, he never drank before a battle, but if the King insisted...
Suddenly, a chill breath swept through the tent. The candle flames danced, casting wild reflections upon the silk walls. Renly's shadow began to change, fluid as water poured from one cup to another. The hair cascading over the shoulders vanished; the silhouette seemed to shrivel, becoming gaunt and gnarled. Cesare recognized this shadow, though he had seen its owner but once, and the realization sent frost skittering down his spine.
The shadow raised a sword and struck. Renly staggered and would surely have fallen had Brienne not caught him. Blood gushed from a wound in his throat.
Brienne howled like a wounded beast, clutching the dead body of her king. The guards were the first to run in at the noise. A brawl erupted. Despite her loss, the woman did not lose her wits; she drew her sword, resisting with all her might.
Gripping a hilt that felt wooden in his numb fingers, Cesare drew his blade and joined the fray. Distracted, Brienne reacted with lightning speed, shoving him aside, which left her open to others. Ser Emmon's sword described an arc and bit into the woman's neck, shattering the spine. Her head was left dangling by a few veins.
Cesare sank to the floor as if cut down, clutching his own hair.
"The King and I were speaking of the battle, when for no reason she drew steel and..." The tremor in his voice required no acting—Cesare had not yet shaken off the sensation brought by the shadow's manifestation.
Olyvar, having run in, fussed over him like a caring nursemaid. He brought a warm cloak and procured hot spiced wine from somewhere. When Lord Tarly burst into the tent demanding explanations from Cesare as the sole witness, the eighteenth son of Lord Walder glared at him so fiercely that one might have prepared the sept for a funeral.
The King's body was covered with one of his cloaks and laid upon a table. Beside it, Ser Loras loomed like a grey shadow, having aged a lifetime in a single night.
While Rowan and Tarly decided what to do next, Cesare laid a hand on the Tyrell's shoulder and signaled toward the exit. Walking through the camp, which was churning with the news of the King's death, they approached Loras's canary-yellow pavilion. There were no servants within, so no candles burned, but even without them, shapes could be discerned. Cesare did not ask for light—darkness was no hindrance to the coming conversation.
"Forgive me for not leaving you to mourn your loss, but this talk is necessary."
"You were there!" Judging by his voice, Loras was barely containing his rage. "You were there when he was killed!"
"Yes," the word sounded weary and doomed. "And it will gnaw at me until the end of my days." With a heavy sigh, Cesare continued. "Tell me, Ser Loras, who benefits most from this death?"
"Stannis," the Tyrell blurted without thinking. "He could not win fairly, so he decided to send an assassin!"
"No," Cesare drawled thoughtfully. "He is too direct for that. Moreover, during the parley, he looked doomed, as if he did not believe in his own success, yet he intended to give battle regardless."
Cesare paced the tent, closing the distance, stopping directly in front of the frozen Tyrell.
"He has old scores to settle with my father," the lad grasped the thought he was being led to.
"And therefore, an alliance between him and the Reach is impossible."
Cesare perched on the arm of the chair where Loras sat. He tried not to loom, suppressing the other man, but nor did he distance himself too much, maintaining contact.
"If King Renly had not declared his rights to the Iron Throne, whom would the Reach have supported?" Cesare asked softly.
"The Lannisters," the knight declared after a long silence.
"Tywin is currently at Harrenhal licking his wounds. He would not have arrived in time to protect King's Landing."
And so he sent an assassin, paying for his services with his accursed gold, Borgia finished the thought in the boy's mind.
"I do not offer an alliance or a dynastic marriage—the Tyrells have no cause to love the Starks, nor to hate them. Consider whether the Reach needs to enter a war on the side of a crowned bastard."
"You want neutrality from the Reach?"
"At the very least."
"I will convey your proposal to my father," Tyrell's voice sounded thoughtful and exhausted.
Cesare rose and murmured a farewell. It seemed Loras did not notice his departure.
. . . . .
Finding Olyvar was not difficult. Noticing his patron's approach, the youth looked at him reproachfully but remained silent.
"Dawn is less than an hour away, and I have a venture in mind," soldiers at the nearest fire were arguing loudly about something, so there was no fear of eavesdroppers.
"What is required of me?" the young Frey got straight to the point.
"If anyone seeks me, invent whatever tale you must, only ensure my absence is not noted. And find me a horse."
One had to praise Olyvar for his diligence. He did not need begging, nor did he demand immediate explanations.
"Guard your head, my lord, or father will find a way to revive you just to ensure you cannot wriggle out of your oath." His sense of humor was black as the killing shadow—just what was needed in a true confidant.
Cesare did not attempt to slip past the sentries; he merely pulled his hood lower and displayed a scroll tube sealed with wax.
"A message for His Grace!"
He was immediately escorted to the command tent, where, after a minute's delay, he was admitted. Fortunately, Stannis was alone. He stood over a map in full armor and frowned when he saw the "messenger."
"I told you not to cast words about," Cesare threw back his hood and smirked.
Stannis betrayed no surprise.
"Why have you come?" The muscles in his jaw bunched tight.
"Your brother died this night. Though, you know this as well as I."
Ignoring the king's irritation, Cesare sank into a chair and even filched a couple of dark grapes from a bowl on the table.
"Whatever you may think of me, I did not swear an oath to Renly."
"He clearly thought otherwise," Stannis shot back.
To this, one could only shrug.
"He does not lie." The woman entered soundlessly, like death itself.
Cesare sprang up immediately and offered her a ceremonious bow. He had never learned her station, but he felt this was correct.
"Melisandre of Asshai," she said, extending a hand to be kissed. The touch of her slender, pale fingers scorched Cesare's lips with cold.
No sooner had he released her hand than she flitted away to stand at Stannis's shoulder.
"He does not lie," Melisandre repeated. "He truly did not bend the knee to Renly Baratheon."
Cesare felt as though his feet were stepping onto thin ice. Now, under the aim of those red eyes, he had to be utterly honest, or he might share Renly's fate.
"I came here to forge an alliance." His throat was dry from nerves, but he did not even look at the pitcher standing nearby. "The Lannisters are our common enemies. Through deceit and blood, they came to power: the deceit of the whole realm, and the blood of my father and your brother."
"Get to the point, Lord Stark. The dawn comes," Stannis barked, as brusque as ever.
suppressing his irritation with difficulty, Cesare continued:
"I am ready to bend the knee and swear fealty, but let it remain a secret for the time being."
"I am the lawful king," Stannis ground his teeth. "What troubles you, Lord Stark?"
"Varys's spies are everywhere, Your Grace, which is why I infiltrated the camp in the guise of a messenger. As long as the Lannisters think we are divided, we hold a massive advantage." Cesare jumped up, animated by his own speech, and approached the map. "Our armies can focus on smaller targets for the time being, only to unite later for the decisive battle."
"Why waste strength in petty skirmishes when we can end the war with a strike to the very heart?" The King's finger stabbed at the tower marking King's Landing.
"As long as Tywin Lannister is undefeated and can strike from the rear at any moment, the capital cannot be attacked."
Cesare did not want to start a long, exhausting argument. The sleepless, eventful night was taking its toll on his state. Besides, it was time for him to return.
"We must invade the Westerlands, strip the Lions of their provisions, seize their bannermen's castles, take Casterly Rock. Only then should we take King's Landing, to make the victory final."
Stannis fell into thought, deep furrows cutting across his forehead. Melisandre leaned gracefully over him and whispered something in his ear.
Dawn was breaking, making Cesare increasingly nervous. Finally, the woman pulled away and approached Cesare.
"His Grace has decided to accept your proposal, Lord Stark." Her faint smile reminded Cesare of the wound that had slashed Renly Baratheon's throat. "You will agree on the details later. Through my mediation."
Ambivalent feelings seized him. On one hand, this woman was more dangerous and deadly than any swordsman, and she evoked dread. But on the other, was this not what he had sought when sneaking into the camp of a potential enemy? What were the Tyrells with their armies and fleets worth, if one day your own shadow could turn against you? The power this woman possessed was more desirable to Cesare than any army. And he had taken the first step toward attaining it.
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