"Modern genetics never could unravel the secret of the so-called family traits of the Great Houses, nor their mixing and total disappearance during the reign of the Stark dynasty. A pity. Let us take as given that Lannisters are golden-haired, and Starks are dark-haired, and also that a Stark with flame-red curls ended up on the throne. Subsequently, when due to promiscuous marriage alliances a Stark might flaunt silver hair, violet eyes, and copper skin, a new method was found to identify royal children lost in infancy or swapped by ill-wishers. On the right calf, they might well have a spot shaped like a six-pointed crown. Peace to the subjects, joy to the parents..." — Allan Hersey, A Brief History of the Seven Kingdoms in Merry Instructive Tales.
. . . . .
The sky hung like an iron dome over Riverrun. The damp air smelled of an approaching storm. Cesare pulled his cloak tighter and swept his gaze over his men lined up in the inner courtyard. Theon shifted from foot to foot, stretching a stiff back. Umber spoke quietly to Glover, smiling strainedly. Olyvar glanced now and then at the keep. Everything froze in anticipation of Stannis Baratheon.
Cesare knew what he would say to him. A sleepless night, full of contemplating the bed canopy and the pain in his wounded leg, had borne fruit. Whichever way the conversation turned, he would have a coherent answer for any question, and an explanation for any reproach. However, the tension did not abate one jot.
Finally, the drawbridge lowered heavily, and the portcullis rose with a clang. Cesare recognized the man riding at the head of the column with difficulty. It seemed that in the last few months Stannis Baratheon had aged twenty years and survived a long illness to boot. He had lost so much weight that his cheeks were sunken. Greying stubble stood out against his sallow skin. A servant helped him dismount.
Cesare immediately bent the knee. His vassals followed suit. The explanation with them had caused Cesare ambivalent feelings. On one hand, they accepted his decision without argument or complaint. But on the other—in the eyes of many, Cesare read the question: "To what end was this delay?" Eddard Stark would surely have taken Stannis's side as soon as he learned of the illegitimacy of Cersei Lannister's children. Why had his son waited nearly a year?
Stannis waved his hand weakly, allowing everyone to rise. Melisandre settled behind his shoulder like a bird of flame.
"The King is weary from the road and wishes to rest in his chambers," she spoke into the space, addressing everyone and no one in particular.
And they departed, accompanied by Seaworth who had hurried up, leaving Cesare in utter bewilderment. Cesare exchanged glances with his mother and read his own anxiety in her eyes.
Having ensured the King's retinue was quartered with due comfort, Cesare headed to his chambers. His entire inner circle was already waiting for him there in full force.
"I do not understand," Olyvar shifted his gaze from one tense face to another, "what could this mean."
"You do not understand?" Theon's eyes flashed with an unkind fire. "To me, it is perfectly clear. King Stannis publicly showed his disdain for Robb and all of us. Did not deign to speak even a word!"
"Most likely, he is truly tired. Did you see his condition?" Lady Catelyn looked thoughtfully at her brother. "As the host, you, Edmure, can show hospitality and see if anything is needed."
"Excellent idea," Cesare squeezed out a smile.
Chaos reigned in his head. What does the King expect of him? What actions will allow him to emerge from this situation with the least losses?
At the moment, one thing is clear—Robb Stark's death is not in Stannis Baratheon's plans. He needs the North and the Riverlands, and therefore he is interested in a speedy resolution of this issue. It is necessary to explain himself to him, gradually extinguishing his irritation. And afterwards, he will prove himself in action, on the battlefield, and then all doubts about his loyalty will fall away by themselves.
His reflections were interrupted by Edmure's return. He looked extremely displeased.
"That woman guards him like a kite guards prey," Lord Tully poured himself wine, but from the irritation possessing him managed to spill a little on his doublet. "I had not even uttered a word before I was shown the door."
His indignation was interrupted by a peal of thunder. Only then did Cesare note that twilight had already thickened.
"It is late. The King is unlikely to undertake anything in the middle of the night," Cesare shifted in his chair, wishing to get comfortable—his leg ached ceaselessly. "Sleep well before tomorrow."
Finally, he was left alone with his thoughts and the fury of the weather outside the window. The rainy season had begun in the Riverlands—a sure harbinger of coming winter. Both Stannis and the Lannisters would want to end the war as quickly as possible and would do everything for this, regardless of losses.
The messenger sent to the Brotherhood Without Banners would reach his goal only in a few days. Choosing a man for this role, Cesare had racked his brains considerably at the time. He needed a knight or lord from the Riverlands who had suffered losses, earned some fame on the battlefield, but without the slightest stain on his reputation. Among other things, he had to possess a fair share of wit and charisma to convey Cesare's position and, if possible, defend it. Marq Piper met all these requirements—Cesare had acknowledged the error of his first impression of him long ago. It remained to rely on him and on the long letter to Lord Dondarrion sewn into the lining of a pink doublet.
In the letter, Cesare reminded the addressee for exactly what purpose Eddard Stark had sent him to the Riverlands. The killing of Gregor Clegane, the Lannisters' loyal dog, would undermine the spirit of his remaining men and those stragglers who had deserted from Tywin's army retreating to the Crownlands. And afterwards, when not a single Lannister soldier remained in the Riverlands, Cesare would disband his banners, and long-awaited peace would come to the Riverlands...
One could hope Lord Beric would accept his proposal. It would solve a multitude of problems. Only Cesare would learn of this already on the march and would hardly be able to use it to full measure.
Lightning flashed like a purple flower across the firmament. Cesare started involuntarily from fear and delight.
The vial he turned in his hands seemed filled with liquid tar. Maester Vyman promised the potion would help with the pain, but Cesare saw no benefit from it. A little calendula, a little bearberry, and much yarrow juice. From this mixture, Cesare did not part with the chamber pot and had completely lost his appetite, but compared to the lethargy of thought brought by milk of the poppy, he preferred to run to the privy twenty times a day.
In his past life, he had also suffered from wounds and diseases, but he was lucky—everything healed and passed relatively easily. Now, some pitiful scratch brought him so much suffering. How many more wounds would furrow this body? How many years would it last before refusing to serve him?
Pulling the cork, Cesare had already brought the vial to his mouth when he heard a confident knock at the door. How strange. Few would have the courage to disturb him at such an hour...
...And she was undoubtedly among them. In the semi-darkness, lit only by the flame of a candle in a fanciful holder, the Red Priestess attracted no less than by daylight.
"My lady," Cesare stepped aside. "I did not expect you so soon."
The shadow of a meaningful smile flickered on her scarlet lips.
"And it seemed to me that many days have passed since our conversation by the fire near Ashemark," her witching eyes sparkled with kindly mockery. "Managed to turn the world upside down, Lord Stark?"
Never before had she spoken to him thus. In the few meetings they had, she was cold as glass. In her eyes, Cesare was merely a not-very-reliable vassal of the adored Azor Ahai, nothing more. Something had changed.
"Would you care for wine, my lady?"
Under this woman's steady gaze, Cesare felt... awkwardness? It was not the shyness of a youth heading to the doors of a pleasure house for the first time amidst the jokes and teasing of friends. No, much scarier. This woman seemed to have sliced his skin and looked inside. And there was not the slightest nook in him hidden from her all-encompassing gaze.
She accepted the goblet calmly, without touching skin. Took a few sips. Finally, turned away.
Cesare realized he had been holding his breath. The hair at his temples stuck together with sweat.
He stepped toward the chair, but his ankle turned. A groan tore from his lips before he could suppress it.
The chair legs screeched against the floor. A moment later, a hot palm touched his cheek.
"You suffer, my lord," a low whisper rolled through his body in a wave of tremors. "I can take away the pain, if you wish."
He only nodded, inadvertently brushing her chin with his lips, causing a satisfied chuckle. The hand slid from his cheek, caressing his lips with a thumb, and moved down his neck, chest, stomach. Lingered on his hip and lay on the calf slashed by Cleftjaw's sword.
Even through thick breeches, the heat of this palm was felt, absorbed into the skin, passing through blood and muscle, entering the very bone.
Cesare groaned and, unable to endure any longer, clung to the lips opposite.
Not only the leg, his whole body burned under narrow white palms. He tore off his shirt, breeches, by some miracle got rid of his boots. He wanted to know this woman with all his skin, all his body. Raising his head, he saw red silk slowly sliding from her shoulders, freed from the captivity of bodice and belt, saw large breasts with sharp nipples bared.
He took her right on the Tyroshi carpet, a couple of steps short of the bed.
Leaving, she patted his cheek like a child deserving praise.
Full of contradictory feelings, Cesare collapsed into bed and fell asleep immediately. In the morning, he noticed a strange detail—instead of a scar on his leg, a large birthmark had appeared.