"...And it was not love's languor that bound them,But the careless turn of Chance." — Author unknown. Song from the time of the Great Interregnum.
. . . . .
Could Cesare have imagined, setting out to take yet another castle, that he would find himself in such an utterly amusing predicament? No, definitely not, otherwise he would have hastened this adventure significantly—after occupying Castamere, he had languished in boredom for weeks. Important news was slow to arrive, the Lannisters seemed to have fallen into hibernation, and a steady, thin stream of gold was already flowing from Nunn's Deep and Pendric Hills.
Finally, when no strength remained to wander through abandoned halls, Cesare called for Olyvar and the Smalljon and ordered the detachment to assemble. If his presence was not strictly necessary anyway, why not clear his head while doing something useful?
They moved northwest, toward the coast, where stood an unassuming castle with the unoriginal name of the Crag. The number of attackers was triple the small garrison of the castle, but the stubborn castellan flatly refused the offered terms of surrender. What was he counting on? Tywin Lannister in gilded armor, rushing to the rescue on a Pegasus? In any case, his hopes were not justified, and within a few hours he bent the knee before Cesare.
A stout, middle-aged woman approached Cesare.
"We have heard much of you, my lord. Your fame flies before you."
Her name was Sybell Westerling, and she seemed determined to talk Cesare to death. Soon he and his men were sitting in the Great Hall, tasting goose prepared according to her special recipe.
Between courses, Olyvar whispered quietly to him with a measure of admiration:
"I swear, this woman could twist the Stranger himself around her finger!"
And he was right. Her behavior was baffling. It was as if they were welcome guests in the castle, not conquerors.
"Oh, and here are my children. Allow me to present them to you, Lord Stark," unlike their mother, the children were stiff and looked wary. "Raynald, the future Lord Westerling, Rollam, and their sisters Jeyne and Eleyna."
Of the entire brood, the eldest son was the most successful. The others, though resembling him in appearance, did not catch the eye at all.
When evening fell, Cesare retired to the chambers allotted to him, pondering the further goal of his little sortie. It would be good to reach the Banefort—it was too close to Nunn's Deep. Moreover, its lord had been captured along with Jaime Lannister and was currently among the guests in the dungeons of Riverrun.
The door opened quietly. Cesare reached for the dagger hanging at his belt. The precaution proved unnecessary. Before him stood one of the host's daughters, clad only in a night shift. She held a candle in her hands, which allowed him to see the resolve on her pale face.
Of course, Cesare understood everything immediately, but he could not force himself to remain silent:
"Young lady, have you mistaken the room?"
The girl flushed and averted her eyes, but she did not rush away, unable to bear the shame and fear. She shook her head negatively, causing chestnut curls to spill over her shoulders.
"All evening I have been in terrible agitation," she moved so smoothly, as if she did not touch the floor at all. "As soon as I saw you, it was as if I forgot how to breathe."
All this was clearly gleaned from some courtly romance, but her eyes seemed sincere.
She smelled of something thick and slightly tart, like spices. Looking closer, Cesare realized he had been hasty in his conclusions. The meekness of her gaze and the harmony of her features made her resemble a Madonna by Leonardo's brush, yet her lips were fuller and more sensual. The shine of her eyes and the radiance of her creamy skin attracted with terrible force. She was fine.
Excitement washed over him in a suffocating wave. He leaned forward and pressed her to him, hands sliding greedily over her body. She started, but did not try to avoid the kiss.
Cesare was lost, drowned in the scent of spices that enveloped him. "Why not," he thought, and sweeping Lady Jeyne into his arms, carried her to the bed.
. . . . .
Prying open his eyelids, Cesare turned his head to the side. The other half of the bed was empty and had grown cold, yet he was not alone in the chambers. Lady Sybell stood before him, looking at him with a mixture of condescension and triumph.
"Well then, Lord Stark, when is the wedding?"
"What wedding?" Cesare felt like a fool. His mind, sluggish after sleep, was in no hurry to clear.
"Yours with my daughter," she announced as something obvious.
For a moment Cesare looked at her blearily, and realizing her seriousness, could not hold back and burst into laughter. The coverlet slipped off him, but he did not even notice, continuing to shake and howl with laughter.
He took a breath, striving to calm himself, but noticing Lady Sybell's eloquent gaze sliding over his body, he went into a new fit of laughter.
This was all too much like a novella from the Decameron to remain serious.
"Did I say something funny?" Lady Westerling was clearly baffled.
"Forgive me, my lady," breathing was difficult, and his abdominal muscles stung sharply. "I just cannot help but appreciate the crudeness of your scheme."
Lady Westerling's face turned green with anger.
"You seduced my daughter, and now you are simply obliged..."
"You placed your daughter under me like a common whore—let us not play the fool," Cesare interrupted her. "And you knowingly took a risk. Did you despair of marrying her off in a more conventional way?"
The woman only opened and closed her mouth like a fish thrown onto the shore by the surf.
"Did you think that I, like the Prince of Dragonflies, would forget all oaths and renounce a throne for the sake of a pretty face?" Cesare stood up, not at all embarrassed by his nakedness. "Well, no. Your daughter is sweet, certainly, but she is not worth four thousand Frey swords."
"And what will the lords of the Seven Kingdoms say when they learn how dishonorably you treated an innocent maiden in a castle you captured?!" Lady Sybell used her last argument.
"They will say that the son of Eddard Stark, who inherited his honesty and decency, could not have done such a thing," Cesare chuckled. "They will say it is all slander and lies, and my vassals will confirm it if need be."
It seemed the woman was ready to scratch his eyes out.
"However, I will not leave Lady Jeyne in such a delicate position," Cesare added a little more softly.
Suspicion could be read in the gaze directed at him. Giving her time to gather her thoughts, Cesare began to dress leisurely. Yes, the undergarments were no longer fresh, but one does not get to choose—not a single negotiation has ended successfully if one of the parties completely exposed their nature.
His past life had taught him not to finish off an opponent, turning a fleeting clash of interests into a personal score, but whenever possible to give an opportunity to save face.
"In my circle is the flower of Northern knighthood," Cesare noted conciliatorily. "Many of these worthy young men are bound by neither marriage nor betrothal. For my part, as a wedding gift, I will facilitate the reunion of Lady Jeyne with her father."
By the way her hands tensed, Cesare realized he had guessed right—for all her evasiveness and love of intrigue, Lady Sybell was one of those women who love their husbands.
Lady Westerling smiled, though there was not a hint of mirth in her eyes.
"You do not know what you so carelessly brush aside, Lord Stark," she spoke in a honeyed voice. "No woman will give you the bliss that my daughter could have."
Watching her until the door slammed shut, Cesare poured himself wine and sank into an armchair, pondering the move he had made. In principle, a marriage between a Northerner and a native of the Westerlands was not a bad idea. It was a sign, a conditional signal that war was not an end in itself and peace negotiations were possible. Only they would not be conducted with the Lannisters.
Olyvar scratched hesitantly at the door.
"Forgive me, my lord, I was passing your chambers and accidentally overheard," however, there was no regret in his voice, only firm resolve. "Allow me to take Lady Jeyne as my wife!"
For a time Cesare could find no words to express his surprise. Yes, Olyvar was a couple of years older than himself, but he still remained a mere boy. A father could marry off such a one for the interests of the House, but for him to go into it voluntarily—no.
"Did you manage to fall in love with her at yesterday's feast to such a degree that you completely lost your head?" Cesare clarified half-jokingly.
Olyvar shook his head, remaining completely serious.
"You should not have treated her so," he declared with a stony expression.
The sudden reproach acted like a slap in the face. Cesare blinked several times, trying to understand if he had misheard. Evidently, he had been too kind to this boy and allowed him to get too close, if the squire criticized him without hesitation.
Cesare rose, tense as a bowstring, and there was something in his face that made Frey swallow involuntarily.
"Let us clarify something, Olyvar," the distance of an arm's length separated them. "When I need your opinion, I will certainly ask for it, but until then, keep it to yourself."
His breath caught, pupils constricted like a doe caught by a predator.
Olyvar stepped back and bent the knee, as if a king stood before him.
"I beg forgiveness for my boldness, my lord," his voice was full of bitterness. "Forget my request."
He darted for the door, but Cesare, having already regretted his outburst, managed to grab his arm.
"I will allow you to marry Lady Jeyne if she does not object, but explain why you want this. She inherits no lands, and they will give no large dowry for her."
Noting the warming gaze of the squire, Cesare sighed with relief—the misunderstanding between them was resolved. An offered goblet and light snacks finally sealed the reconciliation and set the right mood.
"My father is a very difficult man," Olyvar remarked and sighed furtively. "His nose for change is to be envied. According to it, he builds our lives—sends us as wards, squires, for training. Marriage alliances are built the same way. One trouble—there are too many of us. Even alliances with the children of bannermen do not save the situation, and other Houses are in no hurry to give their daughters to eighteenth sons who will never see a lordship even in their dreams."
His sad smile would have melted even stone hearts.
"Kin marriages remain the only way out. My brother Benfrey was married to a cousin. I do not know if it is connected to their kinship or not, but their eldest daughter was born deaf. Although, the Targaryens practiced this for generations..."
Olyvar fell into thought, staring ahead, and mechanically finished the remaining wine. Cesare, voluntarily taking on the duties of cupbearer for a day, filled the goblet to the brim again. Emptying it in two gulps, Olyvar raised a resolute gaze to his patron.
"I want to determine my own fate, to choose the woman I will call my wife myself! My decision, my will, and not the whim of an old man who decided that he kept one of his granddaughters too long and needs to place her somewhere!"
"So be it," Cesare put a hand on his shoulder.
"It is good that Black Walder is in Sarsfield, otherwise he would certainly have reported my decision!"
"And you intend to marry secretly?" receiving an affirmative nod, Cesare only shook his head. "My friend, you are not a hedge knight and are still dependent on your lord father."
Olyvar furrowed his brow.
"Then I must write to him myself and present him with the fact of what has happened."
"And so that he does not disinherit you, write such a letter that leaves no doubt—the Freys only gained from such a marriage," Cesare added half-jokingly. "We need to call the other lads—together we will surely come up with something."
. . . . .
"An eighteenth son?!" Lady Sybell was indignant. "Well, thank you that he is not a sellsword!"
Lady Jeyne took the news stoically.
"Is he a good man?" she timidly raised her eyes to Cesare.
"One of the best men I know," Cesare smiled back and shifted his gaze to Lady Sybell. "As for the circumstance that he will not inherit the Twins. I wish to remind you that I am the largest landowner in the Seven Kingdoms, and it costs me nothing to grant lands to a knight who has proven himself."
The question was raised no further.
. . . . .
Perwyn volunteered to write. At one time he had been prepared for the maesters, so they managed to give him perfect handwriting. The other advisors sat wherever they could, and Cesare's sizeable chambers immediately became cramped.
"Why did you get involved in all this at all, Olyvar?" Theon was bewildered. "Leading the first woman you meet to the sept is not the best decision."
"You were not invited for this," Cesare cut him off. "What can we say about Lady Jeyne at all, other than that she is sweet?"
A collective snort swept through the room, and Cesare almost heard the gears grinding in the heads starting to work.
"She is of an ancient House," the Smalljon noted.
"Moreover, one of Maegor the Cruel's wives was of House Westerling," added Perwyn, who was knowledgeable in history.
"Write that down: 'Even the Targaryens did not consider it shameful to be kin to the glorious House of Westerling'," Cesare rubbed his hands together contentedly.
"We could add that the local lands are rich in gold," Theon suggested.
"But gold has not been mined at the Crag for a long time," Olyvar frowned in bewilderment.
"But he doesn't know that," Theon chuckled.
"Let us do without outright lies, only half-truths," Cesare addressed Perwyn, who was diligently writing everything down.
"The bride is chaste," threw in Torrhen, leaning against the wall. "An overrated virtue, but still."
Cesare thought it best to remain silent.
"At the end, you can add that Lord Stark warmly supports this union."
Having finished their creation and given it to the messenger who was to deliver it to Castamere, the honest company headed for the sept. The wedding was organized in haste and was very modest, which was more than compensated for by the general jubilation. Together Jeyne and Olyvar made a surprisingly organic couple: he in Cesare's re-tailored doublet, she in a worn dress of dark brown satin. Looking at them, it was hard to doubt that a long happy life awaited them.
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