Trust is the chief virtue of marriage. — Emperor Robb Stark, First of His Name. Instructions to My Heirs.
. . . . .
Cesare stood on the deck of the galley, gazing indifferently at the sea stretching to the horizon. He had been on the road for three days, yet still felt unceasing anger and annoyance.
They had quarreled with his wife for the first time. Quarreled so fiercely they nearly wrecked the chambers allotted to them. Moreover, the blame for this ugly scene lay entirely with Walda. That impossible woman wished to follow him! Instead of living in safety and caring for their newborn child, she decided to drag herself after him, as useless as a fifth wheel on a wagon!
"If we part now, the next time I see you, you will be dead!" she declared with incomprehensible conviction. "Leave me here, and I will run after your detachment!"
Seeing the determination in her eyes, Cesare realized: She will run. But how long can a woman who has just given birth run? Will her legs fail her on a steep pass, of which there are many in the Vale? Lock her up? The option would have been good were they in the North. In the Vale, they are guests, if not petitioners. It is not fitting to display family squabbles before the lords of the Vale: it will reflect poorly on his reputation.
Realizing his complete defeat, Cesare stormed out of the room.
And now, instead of calculating his strategy with Stannis, he was tormented by impotent anger and wounded pride.
"Do not blame her," his mother approached silently, as if a cat had crept up on soft paws. "After childbirth, a woman is like a drawn bowstring. I am sure she already regrets your quarrel."
"Of course," Cesare smiled joylessly. "I am sure she is proud of herself: not often do I yield to anyone's threats."
Catelyn hugged him, stroking his hair. Her gaze radiated warmth.
"When you went North, I was terribly worried about you. There was no news, and I could only go over what had happened in the last year in my memory. I felt that something was happening to you, that you were drifting away from me."
She turned away, and Cesare felt guilt again.
"That girl," Lady Stark carefully chose her words, "she shared with me her certainty that you would defeat all enemies and return, safe and sound. She had known you only a few days, but firmly knew of your coming victory."
Smiling at her thoughts, she continued:
"She has sharp intuition. She is uneasy about what awaits you in Duskendale. I am anxious too."
By some miracle, Lady Catelyn's anxiety helped Cesare calm his turbulent feelings and focus on business. For the next few hours, he pondered how best to play the Vale card and what appointment to demand from Stannis.
Besides this, thoughts did not leave the conversation with Thoros of Myr, which did take place, albeit with some delay. The priest of R'hllor came to his chambers himself on the evening of the same day the raven arrived from Duskendale.
"Lord Beric treated your message with all attention, Lord Stark."
"You joined my mother's retinue and traveled all this way just to tell me this?" Cesare raised an eyebrow in bewilderment.
Thoros shook his head with a grin.
"Gregor Clegane was killed by the Brotherhood, as you desired," the priest's gaze became heavy and testing. "It is time for the war to end."
"It will end soon enough," Cesare shrugged. "A month or a month and a half will pass, the Iron Throne will change owners, and long-awaited peace will come."
He knew what his interlocutor wanted from him—a promise to withdraw the Northmen from the Riverlands. He remembered that until recently the Brotherhood hanged Northmen wandering the Riverlands on a par with Lannister soldiers.
"In any case, this is in my interests: I am now also the heir to Riverrun," he clarified the situation.
"Oh," Thoros scratched his clean-shaven chin. "That changes things."
Tension left his body.
Cesare offered the guest wine and sharp cheese. He did not refuse. A leisurely, non-binding conversation ensued.
"I have long been interested in your faith," Cesare poured the priest more wine, twirling a ring with a large ruby on his finger. "It is based on sacrifice, is it not? The readiness to unquestioningly destroy both enemies and allies for the sake of achieving a higher goal. Azor Ahai tempered his wondrous sword in the blood of Nissa Nissa: too active to be slaughtered himself, yet piercing the heart of his beloved woman with an unflinching hand. A terrible power lurks in your faith. I am surprised it spreads so slowly."
The Red Priest clearly did not expect such words from his interlocutor.
"Your reasoning is not without sense, Lord Stark, however, Nissa Nissa was not the wife, but the daughter of Azor Ahai."
Cesare felt the strongest annoyance. Mentally, he cursed that old dried-up man who wrote the work on Essosi beliefs he had come across and made mistakes in it. Seemingly such a small detail, but it turned everything upside down.
Thoros meanwhile launched into explanations.
"Nissa Nissa was the firstborn and heir of Azor Ahai, his only surviving child. To kill her with his own hand for the salvation of all mankind—is there a sacrifice more magnificent and terrible? But of course, this is only a metaphor..."
That day Cesare received the missing piece of the mosaic, saw the complete picture, and was horrified. He understood what Melisandre wanted from Stannis: putting him in a situation where no choice remained, she pushed him to a "spiritual feat."
. . . . .
Duskendale justified its name: the dark towers of the stronghold, risen among steep cliffs and rocky ledges, clearly harbored a threat. With properly constructed defenses, a considerable army could perish beneath its walls, but the Lannister-loyal Lord Rykker did not manage to take advantage of his position. The assault was swift and bloody. Taking the citadel cost Stannis's army especially many lives. It was at its gates that Edmure Tully laid down his head.
Cesare learned all this from Theon, who met him at the pier. Looking around, his friend pulled him away from the retinue and quickened his pace, almost breaking into a run. Turning into an inconspicuous alley smelling of fish, he finally stopped and looked sharply at Cesare.
"Everything is very bad, Robb. You must know this before you enter the castle and see this 'king'," he emphasized the last word with indescribable disgust. "Your vassals would prefer to retreat to the North now and devalue the sacrifices of recent months, rather than pave his way to the Iron Throne."
Tension seized Cesare, squeezing his throat. Plans to end the campaign were bursting at the seams again.
"You know, Theon, during every war there is a certain stage when it is impossible to retreat and turn off the path even with all the desire in the world," due to the lump in his throat, his voice sounded especially dull. "What did he do?"
"When the city was taken, the Red Woman immediately went after the sept. Statues of the Seven were burned on the shore along with the septon and a dozen of the most zealous parishioners who tried to interfere. This outraged the River lords to the depths of their souls, and the Northern lords easily imagined their own godswoods burning. Then," Theon pursed his lips. "I don't know how, but that Red whore helped the Storm lords arrange a successful ambush on the Tyrells entrenched near Rosby. She disappeared for a couple of days then, and then they immediately reported the capture of Garlan Tyrell and his retinue."
"What? Garlan Tyrell captured?!" Cesare exclaimed.
Theon nodded.
"She wants to burn them all on the day the army marches."
"Why? He is useless!" muttered Cesare. "She said royal blood was important, and the Tyrells are merely descendants of stewards."
"You look for meaning in her actions?" Theon looked at him with unpleasant surprise. "She is mad, Robb, and Stannis is doubly mad for indulging her! Continue to follow him and he will ruin us."
Cesare spent the rest of the way to the Dun Fort trying to create a plan that would help him avoid disaster. How to take control of Stannis and Melisandre's actions? How to calm the rage of his men? How not to make blood enemies of the Tyrells? Theon walking beside him was silent, but looked too eloquently, which did not help at all.
First of all, perhaps, it was worth refreshing himself and resting, and only then go looking for Stannis. The castellan, popping up out of nowhere, ruined his plans.
"I regret, my lord, but there are no free rooms suitable for living left in the castle. The Queen and Princess are about to arrive from Dragonstone. Your chambers have been assigned to them."
"It's alright, Robb. Come to my place," Theon pulled him by the forearm, not noticing his confusion.
Why bring Shireen Baratheon to Duskendale? Is it not to sacrifice her and make a true messiah of her father?
Finding himself in the silence of someone else's chambers, Cesare stepped toward Greyjoy and spoke, lowering his voice:
"Gather everyone, but so that not a single living soul in Stannis's retinue finds out about it."
He sat leaning back in the chair, aimlessly running his fingers over the fur covering him.
It was his failure. Complete failure. Even then, by Renly Baratheon's cooling body, he should have declared his claims to the Iron Throne. Yes, for five years he would have been a pocket king of the Tyrells, and if he married their girl, then longer. Any way would have been better than now.
He did not immediately realize he was not alone in the room. Turned his head and started in surprise, running into the scrutinizing gaze of black eyes.
"It is you. Why have you come?" sounded ruder than he would have liked.
"Lord Greyjoy said you needed me," Estrel's voice was sweet as honey.
She placed a tray with wine and fruit on the table and approached him, graceful as a forest nymph. Cesare pulled her to him, seating her on his lap, and stroking her firm round hips.
It was so... strange. Faceless blurred kisses, hands sliding over another's body, the indelible scent of flowers creeping into his nostrils. But in his head only thoughts of his mistake and talentlessly wasted time. In such a state, there could be no talk of pleasure. He would rather torment both himself and her, get even angrier, and appear at the council wound up and pushed to the limit.
Estrel slid to the floor and took hold of the ties of his breeches, but Cesare stopped her.
"Don't."
"Did I do something wrong?" shame and offense mixed with bewilderment on her face: a beauty like Estrel clearly had never encountered refusal.
"Everything is fine, just too tired."
Regret stirred involuntarily in his chest. In his past life, Cesare was an inconstant but generous lover and always paid them for love: some with money, some with connections or protection. He had known Estrel for a long time, but never bothered to show concern for her fate.
"You served me faithfully in these turbulent months. This deserves a reward," Cesare smiled patronizingly. "Do you want to get married? It seems the youngest son of the steward of Riverrun is not yet married. How do you look at that?"
"Immeasurably grateful to your grace for caring about me," Estrel bowed, lowering her gaze, and stepped back to the table.
Cesare noted how her dark cheeks paled to yellowness, and considered this not very attractive.
The door flinging open broke the oppressive silence.
"My lady," Estrel bowed to Walda and shifted her gaze to Cesare. "My lord, will such light snacks be enough for you? Do you need meat or cheese?"
Rejoicing at her quick wit, Cesare shook his head.
"No, not needed. Go."
To avoid unnecessary questions, Cesare poured himself wine and bit into a fragrant apple with a crunch. He demonstratively paid no attention to his wife.
"I must apologize for my sharpness at Runestone," timidity and regret sounded in her voice. "It is not easy for you now, and I only added to the worry."
She timidly approached him and leaned down to look into his eyes.
Anger at her still smoldered in his chest, but these were only the dying embers of former indignation.
"Since you regret, why didn't you stay at Runestone with Lucrezia to care for her like any normal mother?"
"You didn't understand," her voice grew cold. "I apologize for the sharpness of my words, but in no way for the act itself."
"What do you mean by that?" Cesare raised a strict gaze to her.
Walda was not at all embarrassed.
"Remember, on our wedding night you preached to me about loyalty and devotion. Well, this is it. When you make fateful decisions, remember—I am here, at your shoulder. Win, and I will bask in the rays of glory and honor with you. Lose, and we will lie in one grave—that is what I call loyalty."
"You cannot," Cesare bit his lip until it hurt. "And what of Lucrezia? What will become of her?"
"And you think Robb Stark's daughter will have a chance to survive after his defeat?" Walda looked at him demandingly and seriously. "She will also share his fate, truth be told, a little later."
The determination of this woman made his heart flutter with admiration. A true Spartan! Only once had Cesare met such a one in his past life...
Walda poured herself wine and took several greedy gulps, wishing, apparently, to chase away the dryness in her throat.
"I think you will manage and I won't have to die with you on the same day," her gaze warmed and filled with slyness. "I want to tell you a story."
She settled in the neighboring chair and filled the goblet again.
"I was about seven or eight, no more, when my younger brother Bryan caught a terrible cold. The castle maester only threw up his hands, and everyone thought he was not long for this world," she stopped again to wet her throat. Cesare followed her example—the wine was excellent. "Then my mother, secretly from everyone, decided to call a witch who lived nearby to the castle. I saw her by chance, as at that moment I was hiding behind a tapestry, I don't even remember why: either fearing punishment for not sleeping at such a late hour, or hiding from nasty Petyr Pimple teasing me. I remember when the witch and mother passed by, I lost my balance and fell at their feet."
Pinching off a few grapes, Walda shoved them into her mouth, grimacing from the sourness spreading on her tongue.
"Mother got very angry then, but couldn't yell at me so as not to raise a noise. And the witch grabbed me by the chin and looked into my eyes. I got very scared then and almost cried. And she uttered with calm and dignity, like a noble lady, not a village healer: 'You will fly high and put down such deep roots that they will entwine the whole world'."
Looking at her bowed head, at eyes clouded by memories, at the sapphire dragonfly gleaming amidst golden curls, Cesare felt involuntary tenderness. This did not come as a surprise to him—back in Riverrun he had noticed an obvious attraction to his wife.
Their meeting and subsequent marriage seemed a series of accidents, but was it so accidental that he did not marry Margaery after Renly's death or did not choose Roslin? Perhaps the local Moirai really intervened and with a careless movement of fingers wove their fates together.
Walda looked at him with her beautiful sparkling eyes.
"Then I didn't understand what it meant, but as soon as I met you, everything became crystal clear—you will win, Robb Stark, and become a great man, and together we will be... will be..."
The goblet fell from weakened fingers. She clutched her chest. Blood gushed from her nose and mouth.
Cesare felt a crushing pain in his chest himself. He jumped to his feet, but they gave way like dry twigs. He still tried to crawl to the door, but the pain grew rapidly, becoming unbearable.
He remained lying, looking into stopped brown eyes.