One can make a deal with anyone: with R'hllor, or with the Stranger himself. The key is knowing what to offer. — Emperor Robb Stark, First of His Name. Instructions to My Heirs.
. . . . .
Since his arrival in this world, Cesare had not encountered a man more ancient or hideous than Walder Frey. His face resembled a bruised and rotting apple, and the stench of decrepitude that emanated from him induced nausea, though more than five paces separated him from the aged lord. One could not envy his child-bride. It was plain why she wore such a hunted look.
Everyone had advised against this meeting, from his mother down to the lowest vassal. They painted vivid pictures of the horrors that might befall him as a guest of the "Late Weasel," as Lady Catelyn so caustically put it. She had even offered to undertake the negotiations herself, to safeguard her firstborn. Cesare appreciated the gesture for what it was, but he could not accept.
The plan for the coming campaign had crystallized in his mind the very evening Lady Catelyn arrived at Moat Cailin with the Manderly contingent. Why vacillate between two choices when one could seize both?
Tywin Lannister—what weight that name carried! Songs were sung of him, legends woven. He was a celebrated commander and statesman who had ruled the realm for years. Would he truly take seriously a boy from the North who had never seen a battle? It would be a crime not to exploit such arrogance.
What would a green youth, hungry for glory and deeds, do in Cesare's place? He would charge headlong into a frontal assault, trusting in luck and surprise. Never mind that the enemy host was superior in both foot and horse—valor conquers all!
Cesare, however, decided to gamble. He would leave a small force to draw the Old Lion's eye, and then make a lightning dash for Riverrun to catch the Young Lion with his breeches down. Of course, he would have to abandon his baggage train and leave a host of castles untaken in his rear, but if the gamble paid off, the prize would be immense.
Upon learning of his design, Lady Catelyn advised him to appoint Lord Bolton to command the diversionary force, calling him a man of "cold cunning." After some thought, Cesare decided that an excess of cold cunning in a vassal might bite the hand that fed it, and instead appointed Galbart Glover—not as reckless as the Greatjon, and for that alone, one could be thankful.
And so, here he stood beneath the scrutiny of Walder Frey and his teeming brood, tasked with convincing the old man to grant his army passage across the river.
"Robb Stark," rasped the Lord of the Crossing, eyeing his guest with undisguised disapproval. "Half my grandsons are older than you. Why should I waste my breath on such a pup?"
Cesare swallowed the barb and did not remind the ruin of a man that he had, in fact, been invited. How many times had he been told something similar? If at first it had stung, now Cesare met the rebuke with a faint smile.
"Father, there is no need to speak so to our noble guest," interjected one of Lord Walder's younger sons.
"Hah! My bastards mean to teach me courtesy?" He turned, measuring his son with a look of disdain. "Your mother was milking goats when I spilled my seed into her."
This exchange gave Cesare a moment to craft a witty retort.
"Youth and inexperience are temporary flaws. I see no reason to cling to my mother's skirts if I am capable of speaking for myself."
Frey raised his sparse white brows.
"And what does the young northern lord want from poor old Lord Frey?"
Cesare did not like the way the question was put.
"To admit my men within your hospitable walls and allow them to cross to the far bank." His jaw ached from maintaining a benevolent smile.
The old man threw up his hands.
"So that when the Lannisters smash you, they come for my head next?"
He mumbled thoughtfully with bloodless lips.
"Your grandfather Hoster Tully did not come to my wedding, though I bade him come. Nor to the one before that. He spat on the Late Walder Frey. None of your family respects me. Why should I send my sons to die for you?"
Cesare had known even as he was led down the dark, dreary corridor that Lord Frey would not be swayed by simple words. Lady Catelyn was indignant that he did not fulfill his feudal duty and march to aid her brother. Cesare, however, understood the old man perfectly—few men wish to risk their necks in the name of duty alone. For most, duty suffices, but for Lord Frey, another idea was needed, one for which he would risk his descendants' lives.
"Can we not speak in private?"
"Well, what are you standing there for?" Lord Walder's creaky voice echoed through the hall. "Out! All of you, out!"
Lady Frey, standing by his chair, received a shove to her lower back for her slowness.
When the hall was emptied of all save themselves, Cesare could finally speak in earnest.
"You desire respect and influence? You will not get them from Tywin Lannister."
"Why do you think so? Mayhaps he will offer me Riverrun and wed his nephews to my daughters?" Interest flickered in Lord Frey's watery eyes.
"Lord Tywin Lannister respects and values only Lord Tywin Lannister."
The old man made no reply to this assertion. Evidently, their opinions aligned, but he had no intention of confirming it, lest he weaken his position and sell himself short.
"What do you wish to offer me then, young Stark?"
What distinguished the Lord of the Crossing from all other lords of the Seven Kingdoms? Anyone could answer that question—a prodigious number of offspring. Why did such a miser and craven need so many children? It was not merely lust, as many thought. Children are one of many ways to leave a legacy. Old Frey might grumble at them, might insult them, but he would care for their future regardless, thereby cementing his own dynasty. This was the aim for which he would take the risk.
"How about two castles in the Westerlands for your sons?"
Frey giggled unpleasantly.
"You offer me what you do not have, and never will have, if the Kingslayer takes your head."
"Then why do we still speak, if I am as good as a corpse?"
It was hard to guess from the old man's face what he was thinking.
"It is not enough," he finally pronounced, scratching his utterly bald pate. "Two of my grandsons will go to Winterfell as wards. Another will take a place as squire to Your Grace."
Oh, I am already "Your Grace," Cesare noted with an internal grimace, though he caught the sarcasm perfectly well.
"Agreed."
"That is not all," the near-ally wagged a finger. "Your sister Arya will marry one of my sons, and you yourself will marry my daughter—here I can offer you a choice, I have plenty of them."
"Ah, no," Cesare clucked his tongue in annoyance. "Regarding Arya, matters are complicated. She is currently in the Lion's den, so I cannot make promises the fulfillment of which does not depend on me."
One could only marvel at the vicissitudes of fate. If in his past life Cesare had adhered to the rule "If you must war, war against the world; if you must marry, marry a princess," now he would have to lead the daughter of this mossy stump to the altar just to continue his campaign. Still, he did not have to live with her forever. People fall ill, fall from horses, poison themselves with stale fish.
"As for marriage to your daughter, all will depend on the number of spears and swords in her dowry," Cesare remarked significantly. "It must be a dowry so fine, as if she were wedding a future king."
Seeing the glint in the old weasel's eyes, Cesare knew there was nothing more to worry about. Hinting at future plans was risky, but now Frey's loyalty might rival even the Greatjon's—every father secretly dreams of seeing his daughter a queen.
. . . . .
During the feast celebrating the alliance, Lady Catelyn sat on pins and needles. She had poor control over her face; whenever she looked at the lord of the castle, contempt and apprehension flitted across her features. It was well that Cesare had not permitted her to join the negotiations—those who combine righteousness with a fiery temperament are the least suited to diplomacy. It would be best to pack her off to Winterfell—let her check on the younger ones and deliver Lord Walder's grandsons, also Walders.
Cesare, meanwhile, was introduced to the vast Frey brood. Very quickly, the names and relations made his head spin, and he promised himself he would sort it out later.
His new squire, Olyvar, was pouring him wine—excellent wine, it must be said. Unlike his kin, the boy bore no resemblance to a weasel. By all appearances, he had inherited the best from his mother; on no other Frey did Cesare notice such a finely sculpted nose or the sharp arch of coal-black brows. In the coming battle, this boy would guard his back. Although, what boy—he and Robb were of an age. Therefore, it would be prudent to befriend him, or at least create the semblance of friendship.
Cesare was discussing the upcoming campaign with Olyvar when he felt a gaze upon him. No, not just a gaze. THE GAZE. Cesare scanned the hall and noticed a girl turn sharply away and begin studying the contents of her plate with exaggerated attention. As she sat near the window, her face was clearly visible. She had wavy light-brown hair, large, slightly protruding eyes, and round, rosy cheeks. Amidst the vibrant beauties of Rome, she would surely have been lost, but here, surrounded by Lord Walder's female relations, she seemed little short of Aphrodite.
Were Cesare in a less precarious position, he would certainly have learned her name from Olyvar, and in the evening, when half his bannermen were retching in the yard and the other half were fast approaching that state, he would have paid a visit to her bedchamber. But still, he did not wish to sour relations with his newly acquired allies by bedding someone's wife. So Cesare took another sip from his goblet and smiled at the Greatjon, who was raising yet another toast to his health.