In moments of difficulty and despair, he always commanded "The Rains of Castamere" to be played. He changed the meaning of this song himself and made it the anthem of his own resolve. — From the recollections of Princess Lucrezia.
. . . . .
Cesare had not suspected how much he had missed the free air of Riverrun. Autumn had gilded the surrounding forests, emphasizing the austere beauty of its covered galleries and white towers. This formidable guardian of the blue waters captivated with its somber charm, making the heart clench in anticipation of something exciting and beautiful.
And to think I was born here, Cesare thought with a warm smile.
No sooner had the detachment crossed the drawbridge than they were surrounded by general delight and jubilation. People abandoned their tasks and hurried to the yard to meet the long-awaited victors.
Dismounting, Cesare immediately found himself in Lady Catelyn's tight embrace.
"I wanted to ride out to meet you, but Uncle Brynden dissuaded me—the Mountain still prowls the Kingsroad," she began to explain disjointedly, not ashamed of the tears in her eyes.
In this moment she seemed especially young and vulnerable. A brave little woman in a cruel, unjust world.
She would do anything for me, Cesare suddenly realized with deafening clarity, she would not spare her own life.
The image of another woman flashed in his memory, left unfathomably far away. Heavy blonde braids smelling of nutmeg and cloves, a soft soundless tread, the meek gaze of a doe. Madonna Vannozza was a rare guest in his thoughts—too many anxieties had fallen to his lot to seek anxieties that could no longer be dispelled. What of her now? How did she survive the death of another of her children?
And Catelyn... They were so alike! So why not allow the warmth flowing between his ribs to spread through his body and cling to her in return.
"Mother," he whispered into her hair.
Walda approached silently, out of delicacy not wishing to disturb such a personal moment. Cesare did not notice her immediately, only when Lady Catelyn pulled away. Casting an attentive glance at his wife, Cesare rubbed his eyes, checking if he was seeing things. The cut of the dress in the Stark family colors did not hide the changes in her figure in the slightest. She was with child.
Noticing his confused look, his mother smiled understandingly:
"It was I who asked not to mention such joyous news. When the heart strives for the South, it is hard for the mind to think of the fate of the North."
Cesare kissed her hand gratefully:
"You acted rightly, Mother."
His attention was completely captured by Walda. Fresh and rosy as a peach ripened under the Tuscan sun, she literally glowed with overflowing joy.
"Finally I have waited for you," she whispered quietly, as if there was no one around and they were quite alone in the silence of their chambers. "Oh, how long I have waited!"
Lady Catelyn wedged herself between them.
"You must be hungry. You have been on the road since morning."
Tables in the Great Hall already awaited them, gleaming with silverware. As soon as Cesare took his place on the dais, a line of servants glided into the hall bearing trays of game. Only catching its enticing aroma did Cesare fully realize the extent of his hunger.
Rabbit in milk only whetted his appetite further. To the pullet on a vegetable bed, excellent Dornish was served with a slight note of blackberry and honey.
Meat was followed by fish, both river and sea. Eating sturgeon, Cesare wondered how the merchants managed to bring it through the war-torn kingdom to his table.
His mother, sitting to his left, exchanged glances with Walda. It seemed that during his absence, they had managed to get along quite well.
The first days after the wedding came to mind, when Catelyn walked around frowning and looking suspiciously at her daughter-in-law. Once she even dared to approach Cesare and chose her words for a long time before revealing that his wife had a bad reputation. It was her luck that she did not develop this theme. At that moment Cesare could well have flared up.
Did shared experiences melt her heart, or the imminent birth of a grandson? Not so important.
Calm and serenity flooded him. There was no need to rush somewhere, make lightning decisions, and convince others of his righteousness with all fervor. Lady Catelyn's affectionate voice, Walda's gentle touches, slight intoxication, and satisfied heaviness in the stomach—almost the limit of dreams in these troubled times.
However, the drunken bliss instantly flew from Cesare when he noticed the gloominess of Uncle Brynden's face, his fatigue and exhaustion. Immediately he remembered that neither Karstark, nor Mallister, nor Blackwood had come out to greet him. A sour taste of falsehood remained on his tongue.
However, Cesare continued to play his role: tasted the next dishes, kissed his wife, listened attentively to his mother's stories. At the same time, he continued to watch Uncle Brynden and other lords remaining in the Riverlands. There were suspiciously few of them at the table. Bewilderment, almost irritation, slipped now and then on some faces.
Realizing that he could no longer contain his inner anxiety, Cesare rose from the table:
"Thank you for an excellent meal, Mother. And now I would like to nap for a couple of hours."
Leaving the Hall, Cesare turned left and walked along the western passage. Further on was the library, and behind it the rookery—the domain of Maester Vyman. From rapid walking and sharp careless movements, the wound reminded him of itself again. Cursing the Seven Hells through his teeth, Cesare pushed the heavy door.
Before this, he had not been in the library of Riverrun. Admittedly, it evoked ambivalent feelings. On one hand, remembering the book collection of Winterfell, it was impossible to take the couple of lonely shelves of House Tully seriously. On the other hand, the room itself disposed to flights of thought. High ceilings and huge windows opening a view of the river made it bright and allowed one to breathe deeply. However, the sun was already setting, and shadows swirled in the corners.
It seemed the maester, sitting in a deep chair by the window, was not at all surprised to notice Lord Stark at his threshold.
"Heard you were wounded not so long ago," he began instead of a greeting. "Come for milk of the poppy?"
"There is time," Cesare waved his hand. "I am more interested in what happened during my absence."
For a moment Vyman peered into his face, after which a harsh smirk twisted his lips, mercilessly destroying the image of a wise elder.
"In Oldtown during my youth there was a saying: 'You cannot hide an awl in a sack'," he informed, clearly savoring the moment. "Well, you will find out sooner or later anyway. I advise you to sit down after all—in your condition you shouldn't put extra weight on your leg."
Cesare, not taking his eyes off him, obediently sank onto a chair. Agitation responded with a trembling of cold hands.
"Well, news first—Lord Hoster has passed away. Now Edmure is the rightful Lord of the Riverlands," there was not a drop of regret in the maester's tone.
Cesare wanted to grab the old man by his robe and shake him good, so that his chain would rattle. The old bastard was clearly enjoying tormenting his nerves with anticipation.
"News second—the Lannisters have gone on the offensive."
This was expected. Expected, but still unpleasant and deafening as a ringing slap.
Cesare looked searchingly at Vyman.
"How bad is it?"
"You have lost all conquests in the Westerlands, except the Golden Tooth—that one holds for now."
An unexpected chuckle escaped his lips, inappropriate in the silence of the library as a smile at a funeral.
"Losses?"
"More than four thousand—killed and captured. Lord Karstark was killed in battle on the River Road. Lord Blackwood is taken prisoner."
A spasm squeezed his chest, and Cesare threw back his head and laughed.
They sit there, downstairs, chewing sturgeon, pouring Dornish into themselves, and are silent. Studiously pretending that everything is fine, simply wonderful—their lord has returned, and will very soon acquire an heir!—but return in thoughts to the captured Blackwood, to the garrison of the Golden Tooth choking on hardtack. And all for the sake of a celebration for one, for the sake of an illusion of warmth and peace! Only his past life had taught Cesare that for him there is only one peace—eternal.
The maester looked at him as if he were mad.
"What of Stannis Baratheon?"
"Regarding him I do not have much information," Vyman spread his hands. "Your forecast was confirmed—he reached the Westerlands, took a couple of coastal fortresses and besieged Lannisport. It seems Karstark wrote that a month later Kevan Lannister defeated Stannis and pushed him back from the coast. Referencing your order, he gave Baratheon full support, but no more information has arrived."
"Disorder," Cesare ground his teeth in annoyance.
Admittedly, he understood that his success in the Westerlands was temporary, but still hoped to dig in and hold out there longer.
"No news from the capital?"
"Regarding your sisters—none," Vyman chewed his lips, looking thoughtfully out the window. "The Lannisters are trying to butter up the Dornish."
Behind the feigned indifference of his tone lurked something dark, dangerous.
Cesare licked his lips nervously and looked searchingly at the maester. During the days of sitting in Deepwood Motte, he had plenty of time for reflection, which bore certain fruits.
"I wanted to return to my request for lessons."
The maester looked at Cesare as if doubting his sanity. Surely he thought Lord Stark would pry out details of the defeats of recent months, only to later go down to the Hall and scream at his vassals.
"I have acquired a worthy argument to convince you," insinuating notes appeared in Cesare's voice.
"Which is?"
"You hate the Lannisters no less than I," Cesare sent the maester a faint smile. "In your time you could not destroy them, but your knowledge can contribute to their fall."
Vyman jumped to his feet, nearly overturning the chair, and recoiled.
"You are a Reyne, are you not?" Cesare looked at him with a measure of superiority.
His question calmed the old man a little.
"Your conclusions are largely correct, Lord Stark. Largely, but not entirely. Once my name was Walderan Tarbeck and I was the heir to Lord Walderan," undisguised bitterness sounded in his voice. "However, now I am Vyman, Maester of Riverrun, so the only thing I can help with is to make an ointment for your leg."
He straightened up, squared his shoulders—the last heir of an extinct House—and proudly walked away, leaving Cesare in utter bewilderment and annoyance.
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