To know a man is not to share a bottle of Dornish with him in the evenings, nor even to ride side by side at the tip of the charge. To know a man is to know of his most questionable, darkest deeds and not reproach him for them. — Olyvar Frey, Master of Whisperers.
. . . . .
Life demonstrates that any plan, however meticulously crafted, eventually goes to the Seven Hells due to unforeseen causes. To account for every detail is impossible—however brilliant a strategist may be, he is neither God nor a seer. One can only greedily gather knowledge so that no dark, misty spots remain.
The mystical side of existence had always been a blind spot for Cesare. In his youth, alchemy and astrology seemed alien, useless sciences to him. He was equally indifferent to scholasticism. The cloth he wore demanded knowledge of the Gospels and the works of the Church Fathers. Well, he had pored over Thomas Aquinas and Gregory the Great, while secretly reading The Anabasis of Alexander and Commentaries on the Gallic War. He was more at ease in a world one could see and touch, full of the clash of arms and cries of victory.
The Red Witch forced him to admit his own limitations. Ignoring a problem does not make it disappear. He needed to understand, to know the world differently, or Renly's fate awaited him.
Melisandre was to be his guide, his mentor. That narrow-minded soldier Stannis did not even understand what weapon had fallen into his hands.
One meeting had been enough to realize this. For a week afterward, he dreamed of crimson flashes and bodies thrashing in agony.
The column was rapidly approaching Riverrun, which filled Cesare with confidence and calm. Soon he would return to a familiar track, smashing armies and taking castles. Tywin Lannister was a dangerous enemy, but at least he did not wield magic.
When less than a day's ride remained to Riverrun, they encountered a troop of riders. The direwolf on the banners calmed the warriors who had reached for their swords. Theon rode out to meet them. He sat his saddle with surprising confidence. His long hair was combed to hide the missing ear.
They dismounted together and embraced.
"You were gone a long time," Greyjoy noted, scanning Cesare too intently. "Too long. We suspected an ambush. Or a trap."
"Something unforeseen happened. I will tell you later."
The joined columns moved on. Theon kept half a horse-length behind, evidently expecting explanations.
"Did anything happen while I was away?" It was hard not to notice the oppressive mood of the knights accompanying Greyjoy, and Theon himself was not scattering witticisms.
"While you were away, Edmure decided to show initiative," Theon grimaced as if he had swallowed vinegar. "He allowed some lords to try and retake their ancestral seats on their own."
At such news, a heavy sigh escaped involuntarily.
"And? Did his tactics help?"
Theon only pursed his lips and shook his head.
"We learned two days ago. Gregor Clegane stormed Darry with a hundred horse and butchered the entire garrison. They spared no one, not even little Lord Lyman."
Cesare could not help but curse through his teeth. Just what he needed. Cunning tactics—if you can't defeat them on the battlefield, wear them down. One flying column with a rabid commander, and the deed is done. The smallfolk are terrified, supply trains move with trepidation, vassals are indignant, and the liege lord has a migraine.
"Did anything good happen in my absence?" It was foolish to hope for such a thing.
"Ser Brynden has recovered," Theon surprised him. "He even rises from his bed. Maester Vyman scolds him, but he scolded me too when I tried to argue with him. Terrible old man!" He shuddered and shook his head, as if trying to chase away fearful memories. He looked so amusing that Cesare smiled involuntarily. How good that there were people in this world capable of making him smile despite everything!
. . . . .
It was cold on the battlements, but Cesare was in no hurry to return to the hall. The wind blustered, tousling his overgrown hair. Cicadas, like a choir, began their piercing song. In the distance, sentries huddled near braziers, exchanging quiet words. And no one asked for anything, no one demanded, shaking fists and spraying spittle. How good it was!
Immediately upon arrival, he had sent ravens to all the departed lords, summoning them back beneath the walls of Riverrun. To act against Tywin, a single fist was needed, not pitiful scraps of an army. Most River lords commanded small hosts, and their castles were poorly fortified. Only the Twins and Seagard held strategic value.
However, not everyone appreciated his action. Edmure, for instance, stated plainly that he had sworn no oath to his nephew and was capable of making decisions regarding his own vassals. The insolent, empty-headed peacock! Evidently, captivity had taught him nothing, and he still fancied himself a great commander!
Irritation accumulated gradually, drop by drop. Unwittingly overheard whispers, long appraising glances, conversations where every other word was an ambiguity. They instantly recalled his age, his refusal of the offered crown, and the failed embassy to Renly.
Lady Catelyn had kept silent for a long time, but during one of the common meals in the hall, she burst into an emotional speech about the importance of home. The hen! She found a way to hint that she wanted back to her frozen kennel! And the fact that by her action she had effectively taken her brother's side—nothing, a trifle!
In these hard days, the support of the few who continued to believe in him was invaluable. Theon's banter, Olyvar's care, and the participation of Galbart Glover, arrived from the Twins, helped him gather his strength.
New victories were needed to rally the lords around him. And Cesare had a worthy idea. Attacking Harrenhal was madness—the Old Lion had both the strategic and numerical advantage—but he could mirror his move: create a threat to his bannermen's castles and thoroughly plunder the Westerlands. There was no reason to march on Casterly Rock—until Cesare achieved his goals, the war had to continue—but seizing the famous gold mines... Such a prize was worth the risk.
The waning moon illuminated the waters of the Tumblestone, silvering the stones of the battlements. The cicadas fell silent, and the stillness hanging over the castle seemed an ill omen.
Hurried footsteps and a measured clinking were heard. One did not need to turn around to know who stood behind.
"Maester Vyman."
The old man did not look surprised. He bowed respectfully.
"Since your return, I have been trying to find a moment to catch you alone," the Maester admitted, stepping closer. "There is something you must know."
"I am listening," Cesare tensed inwardly. Joyous news is not delivered thus.
For a moment, doubt reflected on Vyman's face. He involuntarily stepped back and was about to say he had changed his mind, when suddenly he frowned and shook his head, chasing away cowardice. He had decided.
"Your mother, Lady Catelyn, has gone down to the dungeon to see Jaime Lannister several times," his voice was dull, like the deep tolling of a bell.
"What did they speak of?" Cesare was even somewhat disappointed—was it worth making such a secret of this?
The Maester only shrugged.
"She dismissed the guards each time. No one knows."
In other words, this brave woman walks into the lion's cage and closes the door behind her. Interesting. What do they discuss so passionately? Or perhaps... No, that prude would not think of such a thing! Yet he is handsome, perhaps the most beautiful man in the Seven Kingdoms. Only after prolonged imprisonment, he surely stinks like a cesspit. This could be used! Even if his adored mother is weaving intrigues against him, she can be managed.
The Maester had already turned and taken a few steps toward the tower when Cesare called out to him.
"Maester Vyman, do you possess a platinum link?"
The old man's shoulders turned to stone. He turned slowly.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Do you have a platinum link?" The second time the question sounded like a statement.
The old man rattled his chain and pulled out two bright links. An incomprehensible challenge could be read in his eyes.
"As you see, I have achieved some success in that field."
"Wonderful."
Cesare tried to speak as gently as possible—the steel glint in the Maester's eyes caused a certain apprehension.
"I would like you to teach me."
The silence that hung in the air amplified the tension a hundredfold.
"I will send a raven to the Citadel and ask the Conclave's permission," the Maester threw coldly, after which he hastened to end the unpleasant conversation with a formal retreat.
"Is this a delicate attempt to brush off my request?!" Cesare threw at his back.
Oh, he shouldn't have raised his voice. Vyman turned and flew at Cesare with agility uncharacteristic of his age:
"You want to understand poisons, arrogant boy?! How simple—a few ounces of powder in a goblet of wine at dinner and your enemy goes to meet the Seven! Is that what you think?!"
His thin dry hands gripped Cesare's shoulders with unexpected strength.
Why did he flare up so? Vyman's temper was known to be quick, but to this extent... There must be a reason! Either he is a humanist and denies all murder, or...
"Who did you poison, Maester Vyman?" Just a guess, a blind strike, but by the way the old man paled, Cesare knew he had hit the mark.
He recoiled, turned away, trying to hide his feelings, but it was too late—he had given himself away.
"I am not a man who wags his tongue, Maester. I think you aren't either—that is why I turned to you specifically."
Yes, and also because Luwin would surely report his interest to his mother, and an answer from him would take no less than a month.
"I know how to value the help given to me, Maester. Know this."
After this, the conversation could be concluded. Admittedly, Cesare had hoped for greater loyalty from the Maester of Riverrun, though it was a sin to complain—the discovered secret could become a bridge to a relationship of trust, provided, of course, the old man didn't think to apply his knowledge of poisons on him.
Cesare shivered—while standing on the wall he had become thoroughly chilled—and hurried to his chambers, where a certain luxurious servant of Dornish blood had long been awaiting him...
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