"The emperor who accustoms his servants to negotiating amongst themselves will very quickly become unnecessary and turn into a prisoner of his own palace. The intrigues of clans, parties, and factions are harmful to the state, but useful to the emperor." — Emperor Robb Stark, First of His Name. Instructions to My Heirs.
. . . . .
One grows accustomed to the life of the campaign quickly. To have marched in one war is to have an idea of them all. The monotonous tramping, the short halts, food swallowed in haste, sleep snatched in tatters. The ringing emptiness in the head. Wars are alike, whether in Italy or in Westeros, save that the former smelled of burnt brimstone—like hell itself. This one, too, had its own peculiar scent, following close on the heels of Stannis's army—the soldiers of the legendary Azor Ahai stank of charred human flesh.
In the first days, when the host stretched like a broad ribbon along the right bank of the Red Fork, Cesare summoned all his powers of observation to assess the King's entourage and devise a strategy regarding him. For this purpose, it would have been better to be near Stannis, and seemingly, his recent feat should have strengthened Lord Stark's position in his eyes. In reality, this impossible man still treated him like a lackey, if not worse! No matter how much Cesare loitered by the flap of his pavilion, the King never deigned to receive him. To be fair, Stannis studiously ignored his other commanders as well, shifting everything onto Lord Seaworth's shoulders. Only he and the Red Priestess were admitted to the royal tent and wheelhouse at any hour of the day or night.
The other knights and lords treated Cesare with far more attention and interest, a fact to which Melisandre's attitude toward him contributed not a little. Stannis's counselor did not shy away from showing her favor. Often they rode side by side, discussing everything under the sun, or sat by the fire during a halt. Cesare had to constantly check himself not to go soft and become pliable wax in her hands—figuratively speaking, unfortunately. She did not invite him to her bed again, but with a gentle, confident hand led him toward the acceptance of R'hllorism. Her manipulations were precisely calibrated and verified, like the work of a jeweler. Had Cesare not possessed the experience of a past life, he would not have noticed them. However, this knowledge did not make the result less effective: Cesare seriously considered changing his faith.
The inhabitants of the Seven Kingdoms were surprisingly indifferent to religion. To be more precise, faith in either the Old Gods or the Seven did not hold the same sway over men as Christianity had in his world. These beliefs were woven into everyday life and customs, but they no longer possessed power, did not command minds and hearts. Books wrote that many hundreds of years ago, followers of the Seven carried their faith like a banner and spread it across Westeros with fire and sword. Those times were past. It was hard to imagine Olyvar, or the joker and windbag Marq Piper, sailing on a Crusade somewhere to Yi Ti.
R'hllorism, on the other hand, was a relatively young religion that had not lost its aggression. Like nothing else, it was capable of fusing seven kingdoms into one—by providing a common enemy. The ancient cities of Essos, enriched for centuries by trade and crafts, would become pearls in the crown of the future Emperor of Westeros, and the connections and abilities of the Red Priests would be an excellent aid in their conquest...
Finally, passing the mouth of the Red Fork and leaving half-ruined Darry behind, the army entered the Kingsroad. However, it was too early to rejoice: what the army hastily fleeing Harrenhal had begun, the ceaseless rains finished—the road was in a nightmarish state.
They made camp near some picturesque ruins when the horses in the wagons were ready to drop dead from exhaustion. In the deftly pitched tent, it was warm and cozy, and a goblet of mulled wine chased away all anxious thoughts. Olyvar, who arrived with a report, was seated nearby and given the dregs of the mentioned wine; he was sniffling suspiciously, and a fever was not far off.
"Do you think," Cesare spoke unexpectedly even for himself, "they are well? You saw yourself how fierce the waves of the Trident are now."
"I think they reached Maidenpool long ago. Both the captain and the crew have been sailing the Red Fork to the Bay of Crabs since they were in swaddling clothes, and if the weather forced them to put to shore, Ser Brynden, my brother, and a dozen loyal swords are with them. They are certainly fine," the tirade ended with a loud sneeze.
It sounded convincing, yet in the inflamed, tired eyes of his friend, Cesare still read anxiety—his wife had volunteered to accompany Walda and Lady Catelyn on their journey.
"How do you find the knights of the Stormlands?" Cesare inquired, gently changing the subject. "You seem to have drained more than one wineskin with them."
"You know," Olyvar turned the goblet in his hands, "at first it seemed they were no different from my brothers and the other knights of the Riverlands: among them are their own Black Walders and Petyr Pimples, but Walder Rivers too."
He waved the goblet again, trying to formulate his thought more clearly, and finally set it aside.
"They spin yarns, speak of kin, and share plans for life, but at times," he fell silent abruptly, and since he sat half-turned, Cesare could only see the back of his head, but even that very back betrayed inner tension perfectly, "when the talk turns to this R'hllor of theirs, everything changes. They sit, staring into the fire until their eyes water, trying to descry something there. And when they begin to reason about what King Stannis's rule will be like after the defeat of the Lannisters, it is as if they lose their minds entirely. Justin Massey and Richard Horpe are ready to sail across the Narrow Sea to exterminate Dothraki heathens, and Godry Farring advocates for revising the powers of the Master of Laws and leaving only one punishment for all criminals. Can you guess which?"
Yes, clearly not a fine to the crown. Stannis needed to watch his vassals better and direct their zeal into the proper channel. Although, who knows, perhaps these were just words. In any case, it was not yet time to share his thoughts on converting to R'hllorism with Olyvar—he was upset enough as it was.
"You look weary," Cesare noted with concern. "Take the opportunity and get a good sleep, for in the coming days the chance may not present itself."
Olyvar was about to answer, but cut himself off. The tent flap trembled, admitting a disheveled Theon.
"You should see this, Robb," his gloomy face boded nothing good.
On the way, Greyjoy briefly related the cause of his distress. A large Lannister detachment had been ambushed by Lord Florent. About twenty men were taken captive, including the not-unknown Stafford Lannister.
"So what is the cause of your anxiety?" Cesare could not contain his bewilderment. "This is wonderful. Strange that you learned of it before me."
Theon only grinned viciously with the corner of his mouth, as if wincing from a toothache.
They went outside the camp and stopped on a hill where people were continuously gathering. Cesare froze. On the shore of a greenish lake, a dozen pyre bases stretched toward the sky, while carpenters continued to drag wood and hew poles.
The captives would not be exchanged, would not even be questioned. They would simply be tied to stakes and burned for the glory of the invisible R'hllor. After this, there would be no negotiations with the Lannisters, and, remembering the identity of the chief prisoner, one could bid farewell to Sansa forever.
Cesare raised his hand and realized with amazement that he had managed to scratch his palm raw.
"I will speak to him."
Evidently, due to his illness, Stannis had lost sight of his vassals' actions, and they had decided to vent their religious zeal in senseless murder: there was no other way to explain what was happening. Stannis Baratheon, whose name had become a symbol of harsh but fair justice, ordering the burning of captives? It was hard to believe.
Approaching the royal pavilion, Cesare met the gaze of Lord Seaworth, hurrying from another part of the camp. It was plain to see that their thoughts were similar at that moment. Before they could exchange a word, Melisandre emerged from the tent. From her distant smile, it became clear they would not reach the King.
"His Grace is very weary—the day has been long."
"The matter is of grave importance and brooks no delay," the Hand did not abandon hope.
"Oh, it must concern the coming ritual to the glory of the Lord of Light? The King approved my proposal—though these Lannisters are not kings, they were such but a few centuries past. Their blood is ancient. Ancient and strong," she spoke the last words looking Cesare in the eyes. "Winter is coming. The rains will soon give way to frosts. If by that time the Seven Kingdoms are not united, defeat will be inevitable," she lowered her voice, as if confiding a great secret. "Agree, the opportunity to prolong the autumn even a little is worth a dozen lives."
Only when the figure of the Red Priestess vanished from sight did Cesare shift his gaze to Davos. He looked lost. His maimed hand clutched the charm at his neck with such force that the cord snapped.
A distinct snort was heard nearby. Cesare turned and ran into the gaze of the Greatjon. His vassal was grinning, but viciously, insincerely.
"What a pity," he spoke quite loudly to Robett Glover. "Even the most firm and unshakable in their principles sometimes bow before the heat of a narrow slit."
Davos flared up, ready to defend his liege lord's honor.
Cesare hastened to intervene.
"Accept my apologies, Lord Davos, for my vassal's words. The ale must have gone to his head." And before Umber could say anything else sharp, Cesare approached him and ordered him with a look to follow.
"And what were you trying to achieve?" pulling the tent flap shut, Cesare spoke. "Spoiling relations with Stannis's most reasonable advisor?"
"We should not have sworn to him," "you should not have" — Cesare read between the lines. "First he sends captives to the pyre, and then, like the Mad King, he will start burning his own who have somehow displeased his radiant person!"
"You saw yourself—I could do nothing. Ser Stafford is a prisoner of Lord Florent, who evidently decided to butter up the Red Priestess," Cesare bit his lip in agitation. "As for repeating the fate of Aerys Targaryen, he simply won't have time. For this, I will voluntarily hang the yoke of kingslayer upon myself."
His resolve somewhat softened Umber's mood.
"I will have to believe you, Robb. Once again, for I do not smile at the thought of becoming a charred log in my old age. Come to my place. We haven't drunk together for a long time."
Everyone talks about something, but Umber talks about drink.
"No, Jon. I cannot. Today I must be there, on the shore, so as not to forget the consequences of my decisions."
Umber found no answer.
When Cesare approached the place of the impending execution, there was already a press of people. Besides the zealous followers of R'hllor, many simple soldiers and camp followers had gathered, simply wanting to see a Lannister burn. One of the lords had splurged on a barrel of ale in honor of the victory, so some were already looking at the world with bleary, wild eyes.
Noticing him, Melisandre smiled benevolently, as if to a student who had correctly read a passage or repeated a verse from memory. Sweeping the gathered crowd with fiery eyes, she spoke.
"Today a brilliant victory was won by the warriors of Light, and so we celebrate! I drink to the heroes who have covered themselves in glory," she drained the raised goblet of ale in one gulp, as if it were water.
She extolled them to the heavens, as if they had not won a small skirmish but taken King's Landing and brought her King Joffrey's head on a platter.
"But you truly feel that winter is close, you hear its tread in the wind howling at night. Now passing time is our enemy, on par with the usurper Lannisters. And the Lord of Light can help us, if we ask correctly."
She waved a long sleeve, and captives began to be led out of the grove thinned by carpenters' axes. Some of them tried to break free, but the majority were weakened by wounds and simply hung in the hands of their guards.
Ser Stafford, looking like a mangy cat, walked last and seemed not fully aware of what was happening.
"Write to my cousin," he repeated, "and he will pay you. He will pay you very much."
Yes, thought Cesare, Tywin Lannister will indeed pay. Pay so much that I will yet taste sorrow.
When the fires began to flare up, Cesare felt nauseous. His stomach clenched, ready to expel everything eaten during the day.
Come on, Borgia, he admonished himself. This is far from the first burning in your life.
But his body did not listen, continuing to rebel.
Then he decided to think of apples. Their tart, vigorous spirit had filled the air of Riverrun on the day of departure. Cesare had returned to his room for something then, and found Estrel sitting at the table. She was peeling an apple and eating right off the knife, crunching the pulp juicily. The memory of the first day in Riverrun and their first meeting filled his chest with the same tart apple sweetness.
She looked up at him and instinctively recoiled in surprise. The little knife slipped from her fingers. Not without playfulness, she extended a hand to him, squeezing the remains of the fruit... She smelled entirely like a ripe apple that day.
. . . . .
The lake was strange. Green and frozen, like murky glass. As if no living thing had ever been born in it.
Cesare sniffed and immediately rubbed his nose against the yellowed grass to overpower the stench of burnt fat brought by the wind.
A sharp, intrusive feeling of an alien gaze made him throw up his head and look around. From the direction of the island, from the fire-red crown of a weirwood, a bird broke loose. Did it seem so, or did it have three eyes?