Every military campaign begins with resolve and a pint of good ale, shared in the right company. — Theon Greyjoy, Hand of the King.
. . . . .
That scene remained long in Cesare's memory, and whenever he recalled it, his spirits invariably rose.
It happened the day after his conversation with Maester Vyman. Cesare burst into his mother's chambers without knocking, nearly bowling over a servant girl in his path. Lady Catelyn was just finishing her morning toilette—one maid was brushing her hair, another helping her choose jewelry. Lady Stark shot her son a look full of surprise and indignation. Before she could fully express these feelings, Cesare barked at the servants:
"Leave us!"
No repetition was needed.
Left alone, Cesare looked at her with distrust and crossed his arms over his chest:
"Very interesting rumors have reached me, Mother. A certain noble lady has been making suspiciously frequent visits to the dungeons."
The slight annoyance on her face gave way to sincere sadness.
"Listen, Robb," she raised her hands in a purely defensive gesture.
Oh, so you are afraid of your firstborn, my lady! You noticed the changes long ago, but wrote them off as growing up, the shock of Father's death, the responsibility that fell on his shoulders. You have lost control of your son, even forgotten how to understand his actions, as if a stranger has taken his place. You drive this thought away, but you return to it time and again.
"I miss the girls!" she averted her eyes, hiding the tears that welled up. "You promised to bring them back to me!"
"And what does Jaime Lannister have to do with this?"
Catelyn remained silent, biting her lip nervously. Being evasive, my lady? Very well...
"Shall I tell you what rumors are circulating the castle?" The venom in his tone could be measured in pounds. "A young widow misses a man's touch and has gone to seek solace in the arms of the captive, handsome Lannister!"
The slap that landed on his left cheek took Cesare completely by surprise. He involuntarily clutched his burning face, tasting the metallic tang of blood in his mouth—the fragile-looking lady had managed to split his lip.
Now this lady hissed like an enraged fury:
"How dare your tongue utter such filth?! How dare you!" Fear fell before the onslaught of all-consuming anger. "Oh Eddard, the day has come when our son calls me a whore!"
"I did not say that, Mother," Cesare cut into the stream of her indignation. "That is what the guards will say, the maids, perhaps some of the lords least loyal to me. It will be easier for them to believe in base impulses than in your virtue. Do you wish to be a woman whispered about in kitchens and at wells, or do you consider yourself above all suspicion?"
Lady Catelyn did not argue with this.
"And what do you propose?" Her thoughts finally turned in the right direction.
"You have long wanted to see Bran and Rickon. Spend a few months with them, in Winterfell. In that time, the rumors will settle. Besides, I will be calmer knowing Winterfell is in reliable hands."
Lady Stark did not deliberate long.
"I will depart tomorrow."
"I will provide you with an escort," Cesare kissed her hand, inadvertently leaving a rusty stain on her pale skin.
It remained only to congratulate himself and reward himself with a goblet of Arbor gold.
Why did he pay so much attention to this seemingly insignificant episode? Cesare was preparing for a great campaign in the West. He planned to leave Riverrun for a long time and did not want any surprises waiting for him upon his return. Lady Catelyn's impulsiveness could significantly spoil his game. She was capable of stabbing the Kingslayer in a fit of melancholy, or truly sleeping with him, and the unplanned birth of a new little brother or sister would be quite the surprise... Therefore, Lady Catelyn was rattling along in a closed carriage on the Kingsroad, rather than weaving intrigues in Riverrun. Cesare was calm.
. . . . .
The mountain air was frosty, chilling to the bone, but one had to be careful with fires: a mountain village lay not far off, and any child could spot the smoke. Cesare could only wrap himself in a heavy fur cloak and mentally picture the gentle Italian sun.
Beside him, Olyvar's teeth chattered habitually, Theon hummed some song under his breath, and Lord Glover maintained a gloomy silence. During the long days of the journey, they had discussed everything, so there was no point in wagging tongues. However, not everyone in the detachment was so taciturn. A snatch of conversation drifted to Cesare:
"And then I'll piss in the castellan's bed! That'll be a laugh!"
Dropping back slightly, Cesare turned toward the quieted soldiers:
"I want to remind you that we still have use for the Golden Tooth. This is not a bandit raid for plunder. We are establishing a foothold for a future offensive, so we do not burn barns, we do not rape maids, and we do not piss in beds! Unless, of course, we want to starve to death, get poison in our soup, or sleep on a stinking mattress."
No objections followed. Cesare was sure that by the next halt, his words would spread through the entire detachment.
The Golden Tooth was vital. Of course, it could be bypassed by mountain paths (which his detachment was currently doing), but then supply lines could be written off. The plan required securing a foothold in the lands north of Sarsfield—these were rich in gold. Besides, Casterly Rock was but a stone's throw from there.
Oh, how much effort it had taken Cesare to get the plan approved! The River lords were especially indignant. To butter them up, he even had to place Edmure Tully at the head of the main army. Though, if all went well, he would not have to engage in battle.
The Golden Tooth was a tough nut to crack. Not Casterly Rock, certainly, but it could take a couple of months of siege, and delay in Cesare's case was unacceptable.
The Blackfish's scouts reported that the garrison in the castle numbered no more than three hundred men. Mostly these were remnants who had fled the walls of Riverrun, which simplified the task significantly. The current head of the house was at Harrenhal, along with Tywin Lannister's other bannermen. In his absence, the castle was managed by his daughter and heir, Alysanne.
The sketch of the fortifications Cesare had asked for came out crooked and askew. However, one thing was clear—from the Westerlands side, the walls were heavily weathered, and they were guarded more poorly. On one hand, there was reason in this—why would any Westerlands lord storm a fortress blocking the way to the West? On the other hand, this opened certain opportunities.
When the greyness of an unusually cloudy day began to give way to the blackness of night, the silhouettes of several riders appeared nearby. Sharp-eyed Olyvar squinted for a minute, then recognized them as representatives of his house.
"With such good eyesight, you could be a decent archer," Cesare remarked.
"I am a decent archer," Frey grumbled, and after some hesitation added:
"My lord."
"So, what is the reason for your bad mood?"
"Just... things," Olyvar looked around, checking if they were being overheard, and then dropped to a whisper.
"I wanted to ask Ser Brynden to train me."
"And?" Cesare asked just as quietly. "That is excellent—honing your skills is absolutely necessary!"
The squire was embarrassed and bit his lip.
"Who am I for a man like Brynden Tully to give me his time?" There was so much doubt and shame in his voice that Cesare did not immediately find an answer.
"You are a friend of Robb Stark, and that means a great deal," noticing Olyvar's eyes widen, he added:
"Let us take the Golden Tooth, and I will personally petition for you."
The conversation had to be interrupted—Ser Jared Frey had already dismounted and was reporting on the progress of his detachment—but Cesare was warmed by a grateful glance for a long time afterward.
. . . . .
Watching his troops climb the rampart and run toward the fortress walls, Cesare did not think of victory. He clenched his fists until they hurt and calmed his horse, which had decided to show its temper.
Sparse arrows fell from the walls—the defenders had been given no time to prepare for the assault. Cesare gave his men no rest after the long march and ordered the attack immediately. The entire plan relied on surprise—how could Robb Stark storm the castle if he and his army were many miles to the east? The troops moved in small groups of ten men each, which increased the chances of success. True, there were limitations—Cesare's force consisted of only seven hundred warriors, which, considering the garrison of three hundred, was not good at all.
"Excellent," Olyvar stood beside him, smiling encouragingly. "They are already on the walls."
Only the Seven knew what effort it cost Cesare to dissuade him from joining the assault and running with a ladder in hand like the rest. He had to invent a special mission for him—to find and take Lady Alysanne into custody—and also remind him of the promised training with Uncle Brynden.
When the gates opened, Cesare sighed with relief internally. Sweet anticipation settled on his lips, and he spurred his horse forward. That day his sword tasted blood only once—when a man-at-arms with an axe rushed at him. Those who did not surrender or were not put to rest in the first half-hour of the assault were dealt with by Cesare's bodyguards. The Smalljon even managed to get scratched, which impressed him considerably.
Leaving the Karstark brothers to organize the prisoners, Cesare headed for the keep. On the way, he encountered Olyvar, whom he had somehow lost sight of during the storming.
"Everything is done in the best possible way, my lord," the squire's face shone with overflowing pride. "Lady Lefford tried to flee through a tunnel. I sent her to my quarters and set a couple of reliable men on guard."
"Well done," Cesare clapped him on the shoulder. "Go, make sure the Greatjon doesn't empty all the cellars before the feast begins."
The sun shone in a bright sky, reflecting off the snow-capped mountain peaks, and over the fortress flew the proud wolf banner.
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