Let them judge you by your family or the place of your birth. When they realize how gravely they erred, it will be too late. — Emperor Robb Stark, First of His Name. Instructions to My Heirs.
. . . . .
The letter in his hands seemed to burn his fingers. The flaming heart on the seal left no doubt as to the sender's identity. How long Cesare had waited for word from the Red Priestess!
The sealing wax yielded to the pressure of the knife, and his eyes raced over the even, neat lines. So, Stannis had taken Storm's End. Good, that was to be expected. All the Storm Lords must now join him, bringing strong cavalry and a considerable fleet. He wishes to seize Lannisport to strike the Lannisters an even more painful blow? The cards are in your hands, Your Antlered Majesty. A meeting? In a village near Ashemark? In two weeks? Very well, a meeting it shall be. Cesare was intending to move in that direction regardless. He could take the castle while he was at it.
Having recovered somewhat from the drunken haze of the first days, Cesare set about planning in earnest. He lacked the strength for a further advance, so he was forced to wait until the army under the command of Uncle Edmure appeared on the horizon. A third of the available forces remained at Riverrun in case Tywin Lannister decided to come for his son. They were commanded by Lord Karstark, who had proven his loyalty and utility.
One could not forget the main objective of this campaign: war is a dashing and ravenous dame, and one can never have too much gold. The foundation of Lannister power and prosperity was wealth and fear. By striking at the first, one could severely undermine the second.
After their capture, the mines must continue to work without a loss in output. This required a delicate approach. He needed not warriors, but former castellans or lords skilled in managing their lands. Furthermore, command posts had to be distributed evenly between Northmen and Rivermen to keep discontent to a minimum.
What might Tywin do? Would he march to liberate his own lands, or deem the threat from Stannis more weighty? Come to think of it, how would he know the Baratheon fleet was moving on Lannisport? He might just as well be moving on King's Landing. In that case, the choice is obvious—holding the capital is more important than the ancestral seat. He would need Uncle Brynden to send word to his people—a hasty retreat from Harrenhal would be hard to miss. However, the Old Lion might have allies in Stannis's camp, and then the target of the expedition would leak to him. Well, that could not be ruled out...
There was a knock at the door, and Olyvar and Theon appeared in the opening. The latter was rather sluggish, looking upon everything with a sleepy and joyless gaze.
"Good morning, Greyjoy," Cesare smiled. "You are earlier than usual today—it is only noon."
Noticing Olyvar's smirk, Theon grumbled in displeasure:
"What, and you yourself have only just risen from your pretty little washerwoman!"
To this, Frey merely shrugged carelessly. In recent days, his unexpected success with the castle's female servants had been discussed by everyone save the mute.
"You should at least go on a scout for a warm-up, or by the day of departure you won't be able to sit a horse," Cesare chided them with feigned indignation.
The youths exchanged glances. For a moment silence reigned, and then a chorus of laughter erupted.
"What?! What is so funny?!" Cesare asked indignantly, trying to shout over the unexpectedly harmonious pair.
While Theon tried to catch his breath, Olyvar babbled something incoherent:
"Torrhen joked that weasels breed quickly. He said the looks of the locals would remind them of our stay here for a long time to come."
Try as he might, Cesare could not link this to his own advice.
"And you are not offended?" Cesare inquired. "Did you never want to put the mockers in their place?"
"What is there to be offended by? Weasels are rather amusing, and their fur is worth far more than a wolf's," Olyvar joked it off.
Cesare did not press further. Together with his friends, he lunched on fresh venison and kidney pie, washing it all down with excellent Dornish from Lord Lefford's private stores. The feast was interrupted by the appearance of a servant announcing that Lady Lefford wished to see him. Cesare did not object.
Lady Alysanne's appearance was utterly unremarkable. A painter or sculptor would hardly be inspired by her triangular face, mousy hair, and long, awkward body, but one could not fail to notice the intelligence and grip in her dark eyes.
The lady curtsied, to which Cesare replied with a casual nod. Her pallor and the slight trembling of her crossed hands betrayed her anxiety; otherwise, she tried to carry herself with dignity.
"My lord, I would like to speak with you alone."
He could have tossed out with the air of a victor: "Speak before them. I have no secrets from my men." Cesare did not.
When they were alone, the girl asked with the air of a martyr:
"What will become of me?"
Cesare had no intention of trying on the role of Emperor Maximinus.
"You will be my guest. When the army moves on, you will be escorted with all respect to Riverrun."
"Is that so," she smiled sadly, and her face became almost beautiful. "And will I occupy the cell next to Ser Jaime?"
Was Cesare supposed to feel guilty or feel the pangs of honor urging him to release this poor, unfortunate creature to her father? He was clearly being mistaken for someone else. This conversation was beginning to tire him.
"Do you want some advice, my lady? Turn the head of one of my lads and marry him. Right now, you are the heiress of a House supporting the Lannisters, but such a step would remove the question of your loyalty."
Her mouth twisted, and her eyes flashed with anger, but she held herself together, not demeaning herself with hysterical screams.
"You, my lady, likely think that I am a temporary phenomenon," Cesare remarked, twirling the goblet in his hands, "that soon I will be smashed, and I will run back North with my tail between my legs, while the Lannisters return in all their glory and fame. That will not happen. The lands my armies march through will never be the Westerlands again. They will either join the Riverlands or form an entirely new region. Do you understand now that I am serious, Lady Lefford?"
"These are but words for now, Lord Stark," she lifted her sharp chin. "Suppose I follow your advice. What guarantees do I have?"
"You just choose correctly, Lady Lefford," Cesare chuckled. "Look closely, and perhaps your descendants will inherit the Golden Tooth."
She left without saying farewell, clearly having received food for thought.
. . . . .
The arrival of the army passed somewhat mundanely, though it was without doubt a long-awaited event. The fortress, not small by any measure, instantly became cramped. Those who found no room in the castle were quartered in the surrounding villages, but still, a temporary camp sprawled beneath the walls of the Golden Tooth.
Cesare was glad to welcome Uncle Brynden, fully recovered from his wounds. They talked long into the night, sitting by the fire and drinking ale, and Cesare went to sleep with an iron certainty that he would succeed.
No less joy was caused by the reunion with Grey Wind. The direwolf arrived half a day ahead of the vanguard and frightened the sentries who spotted him first into hiccups. The next night, Cesare once again tried on his skin and explored the surroundings, running on four legs.
It made no sense to delay further. An army of fifteen hundred swords under the command of Stevron Frey moved along the River Road toward Sarsfield. Three days later, Cesare also left the Golden Tooth. His force moved north, occupying every village and hamlet they encountered.
Ashemark was taken easily, as if cracking a nutshell. Less than an hour, and he was already standing in the yard, watching the businesslike bustle of his men. Greyjoy perched nearby on an overturned barrel, chewing a juicy apple, squinting against the overly bright sun.
"If anyone told me two years ago that things would turn out like this, I would never have believed it."
"And what is surprising about that?" Cesare sat down beside him. "We are young, strong, reckless. Why shouldn't we conquer the whole world?"
"Are you serious?" Theon raised his eyebrows in bewilderment. "I never noticed such desires in you before."
"Does it matter what I was before?"
Theon's words disturbed the irritation that had been slumbering. Again he was compared to Robb, who was long gone. When would the day come when his achievements eclipsed the memories of a little red-haired boy wishing to be a true knight?
Muttering a hurried farewell, he headed for the keep. The hour was early, but he had no mood to wander the castle.
And why did the comparison with the former Robb sting him so? He should have long since grown accustomed to the guise of Robb Stark. Why then such longing for Cesare Borgia?
Lying on the bed atop the coverlets, he stretched out a hand and looked at his own—alien—fingers. Foolishness, all of it, a frank waste of time. He should be preparing for the meeting with Melisandre and planning the march to Castamere, yet here he was whining like a child.
Springing to his feet, he sat at the table and pulled a sheet of paper toward him. He had long needed to write a manifesto for all the inhabitants of the Westerlands now under his rule. In his past life, unlike Niccolò, he did not often waste time scribbling on paper, leaving that honor to secretaries. Now, however, there was no pocket maester at hand.
What did he want to say? Live in peace, trade, till the earth. My army wars not with you, but with your lords, so do not fear. And you need not pay rent for the coming year (the income from the mines would be immeasurably higher anyway). Having rewritten the draft cleanly, Cesare sprinkled the sheet with sand and tucked it into his saddlebag—when he took Castamere, then he would publish it. Let the joy and jubilation of his victories be universal.
. . . . .
The fact that Lord Stark unexpectedly prepared to go hunting made many wary, but he remained deaf to admonitions and attempts to impose company. Cesare took only Olyvar, and that was quite enough, for they were not riding to run down a stag.
After riding several miles deep into the forest, they turned onto a path leading to a village—an unremarkable settlement of a dozen yards. When the forest parted and neat little houses appeared in the clearing between the trees, Olyvar stopped and pointed to a crimson silhouette frozen by a young spruce.
"There is no inn here," Melisandre explained her unexpected appearance. "The locals would remember our meeting. Rumors would start, and you do not need that."
She sat on a patterned rug spread upon the ground. A fire crackled before her, and though it was warm, she held her pale hands toward it.
For the umpteenth time, Cesare was struck by her beauty. Like a drop of resin, her features seemed frozen at the perfect age, captivating and mesmerizing no less than amber.
"What does the King plan?" Cesare cast a testing stone.
She did not answer, continuing to burn him with her gaze.
Why did she appoint a meeting if she intends simply to be silent, Cesare thought irritably, but showed no displeasure.
"I have long wondered. Why did you support Stannis, Lady Melisandre?" Tilting his head to the side, he watched the witch closely. "You are a foreigner. Are you so concerned with the future of the Seven Kingdoms that you decide to support one of the sides?"
She smiled with visible superiority, as if she had heard utter nonsense.
"There are no sides. There are only those who serve Azor Ahai, and those who in their folly and pride dare to oppose him."
"Azor Ahai?"
"Oh, you do not know of the Prince That Was Promised," she became noticeably animated, finding herself in her element. "In the ancient texts of Asshai, it is said that on a day after a long summer, a red star shall bleed and the cold breath of darkness shall touch the world. Then the great warrior Azor Ahai shall be reborn amidst smoke and salt and shall wake dragons out of stone. He shall draw from the fire a burning sword, and that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and the darkness shall flee before him."
Cesare chewed his lip, not knowing what to say. Everything turned out to be somewhat more complicated than he had assumed.
"Azor Ahai is Stannis Baratheon," Melisandre continued. "The place of smoke and salt is Dragonstone."
"And the dragons?" Cesare clarified.
Melisandre smiled tightly. It was plain to see that the inconsistency he pointed out had pricked her.
"Prophecies are at times very misty," she remarked, shrugging her shoulders. "In time, we shall understand what it meant."
And she effortlessly changed the subject, speaking of the future attack on Lannisport. Cesare listened attentively, but his thoughts were occupied with something entirely different. Now he understood how to hook her and lure her to his side. It remained only to learn more about this Azor Ahai and her cult as a whole.
---------------
Read advance chapters on my Patreon
Patreon(.)com/WinterScribe