"Robb I's fascination with many sciences (including medicine) and his interest in exotic faiths became the subject of many legends and outright mystifications. The most persistent misconception, which crept into the mass consciousness, made the founder of the Stark dynasty a skilled poisoner..." — From A History of the Seven Kingdoms by Archmaester Cobrayn.
. . . . .
At first, Cesare did not recognize her. She was small and filthy. The tattered rags she wrapped around herself against the rising wind hung dismally on her emaciated body; wounded toes peeked out from rough boots that were clearly not her own. At a fleeting glance—a beggar boy from some war-ravaged village. Her hair was cropped short and unevenly, a purple bruise bloomed under her eye, her knuckles were raw. Only memory and a heart beating desperately fast confirmed the truth. Yes, this was indeed Arya Stark, his sister.
From somewhere behind his shoulder came the click of heels, followed by a stifled sob. Lady Catelyn, running up, nearly swooned, but Cesare managed to catch her in time.
"Arya!" She threw herself at her daughter, crushed her in an embrace, and began to shower her dirty cheeks with kisses.
The girl jerked sharply at the touch, but then went limp, accepting her mother's impulse.
"Let us go," Cesare found his voice. "You must be hungry."
Fortunately, there was no one in his mother's chambers—curious eyes were the last thing they needed. Sweetbuns served for the midday meal had not yet cooled on a large platter. Arya devoured the first in an instant, barely chewing. A thin hand darted for the next, but Cesare stopped her.
"You must not. Wait a little, and you may have more."
The resentment filling the gaze directed at him could not be conveyed in words.
In the past, he had seen how the besieged, after long starvation, threw themselves greedily upon bread. Threw themselves upon it and died in agony from a ruptured stomach.
Cesare left Arya in Lady Catelyn's caring hands. Let her wash, change, and eat her fill, and only then would questions be asked.
He took a few steps down the corridor and leaned heavily against the wall. Chaos reigned in his head. Arya. The laughing, wild girl who had left for King's Landing with Father. Almost forgotten, but suddenly made flesh.
He recalled a cold day in the year 289, when he first saw Arya. He had been called from the yard then, torn away from a thrilling game with Jon. Mother was very pale, but joyful, though weary. He was told he had acquired another sister and shown a red, tightly swaddled babe with a wisp of dark hair on a round little head.
"Again," he had thought then with displeasure. "Another sister? Another capricious, weak creature like Sansa, with whom one can neither climb trees nor play at knights!" However, even then he was delicate enough not to voice his disappointment and upset Mama...
His sister.
A huge layer of Robb's memories had managed to weave organically with his own. Therefore, at the thought of this little girl, the same tenderness came to life in his chest as from memories of Lucrezia. He remembered how Arya lost her first tooth; how she scraped her knees climbing walls; how she ran away from Septa Mordane to the Winter Town, alarming half the castle.
However, one should not bury oneself in childhood memories. The girl who had called out to him at the gates today was no longer the Arya Stark he knew before. She had crossed a kingdom engulfed in war, and clearly not in a gilded carriage with fifty swords of guard. What thoughts swarmed in her head now? What to expect from her?
He did not remember how he ended up in his chambers. The wine drunk in a single gulp tasted bitter on his tongue. A few drops fell from his chin and settled in dark spots on the collar of his doublet, but he did not care.
He had not protected this little one, had not protected her.
But what could he have done? Until this day, he had lived in the certainty that both his sisters were in King's Landing, captives of the Lannisters.
But he should have checked! Verified for certain! Found people he could trust, sent them to the capital, and organized his sisters' escape! Behind games with Stannis and attempts to predict Lord Tywin's next moves, he had completely forgotten something important! One must always protect one's own: sisters, vassals, mistresses. Otherwise, due to minor omissions and inattention, they will cease to be yours and defect to the enemy camp or fail you at the most crucial moment.
The creaking door tore him from his reflections. Lady Catelyn's face was deathly pale; panic reigned in her darting eyes.
Taking a few steps, she staggered and clutched the back of a chair. In an instant, this strong woman seemed to wither and turn into a frail old crone.
A viscous lump of anxiety tightened inside him. His mouth became drier than the Dornish sands.
Cesare rushed to his mother, embracing and pulling her close.
"She was whipped," she exhaled dully into his shoulder. "Her whole body is marked."
In the first moment, he did not understand of whom she spoke. Lady Catelyn's words rang dully in his ears, like a tolling bell. "Whipped... Body marked... Body..."
"I am afraid, Robb! How terribly I am afraid!" She raised eyes full of tears to him. "What if that is not the worst of it?!"
The words beat, beat against his skull. Obliging imagination threw up an ugly picture of what could have been done to a small, defenseless girl.
All-consuming hatred flooded him. His vision lost sharpness, turning objects into a set of bright spots. He paced like a beast trapped in a cage, striving to release the feelings overflowing him.
A frightened female sob sobered him. He raised his head, shaking disheveled hair from his eyes. His mother looked at him pleadingly and barely breathed.
A red stain was spreading on the wall—that was where the tray had flown at the very beginning. The stuffing of a mangled armchair littered the floor, and parts of the dressing table and its contents lay scattered all over the room. Deep gouges ran across the heavy, immovable table.
Cesare sighed heavily and looked pleadingly at his mother again. Shame washed over him in a burning wave. She had come to him for support and help, and he had only frightened her more with his breakdown.
"Everything will be well," he declared, and believed it himself. "Whatever happened, Arya is alive and with us. Now we will return to her and be a happy, reunited family. And later I will find out who harmed her, and I will find him."
Catelyn obeyed, losing none of her wariness.
Cesare was still shaking, but his head was surprisingly clear. When Arya was better, he would find out everything and punish the guilty. He still had time before Stannis arrived.
"With whom did you leave her?" Cesare clarified, not breaking stride.
"With Walda. She appeared almost immediately after you left. Maester Vyman should have finished the examination by now."
That is, in the company of two strangers. Cesare mentally cursed the Seven Hells.
The scene that presented itself before them in Lady Catelyn's chambers was expected and logical. In one part of the room, the Maester, Walda, and Olyvar—who had joined them somehow—were huddled together; in the other, Arya paced, watching vigilantly to ensure no one crossed the invisible line. Wearing only a night shift, armed with a candlestick and a coverlet wrapped around her arm, she would have looked ridiculous and absurd were it not for the internal fracture readable in the mournful folds of her face.
Noticing Cesare, Vyman felt obvious relief:
"The little savage would not let me finish the examination. Bit me," he rubbed a reddened wrist demonstratively.
"You shouldn't have poked between my legs, old lecher!" Arya hissed.
Due to her raised upper lip, the expression on her face resembled a predator's snarl.
"Arya, sweetling, Maester Vyman means you no harm," Walda spoke up, but her attempt to build bridges shattered against a mistrustful grey gaze.
"It is all over, daughter. No one here will harm you," her mother stepped forward fearlessly, but Arya jerked away from her, nearly stepping into the fireplace.
The candlestick in her hands shook.
"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" she shook as if in a fever. Hysteria was budding in her voice. "I will believe again, and everything will disappear! You won't be here! Robb won't be here! No one will be here! Only pain or death! Death or pain! One of the two!"
She is close to madness, Cesare thought with horror.
At the moment he was ready to rush to her, the door opened. Theon slipped into the room, and behind him...
During the time they had spent at Riverrun, Grey Wind had hardly shown himself in the castle. Moreover, he seemed to have distanced himself from his master and ceased to let him into his skin. Sometimes Cesare managed to snatch a few moments, but the direwolf would notice the guest and shake his head sharply. Cesare would be thrown back into his body and then could not sleep for a long time.
Now the favorite's behavior became understandable. In his teeth, he carried a wolf pup by the scruff of the neck, still blind and bald.
"Seven Hells," escaped Olyvar.
Everyone froze, staring in surprise at the revealed scene. And Grey Wind stopped before Cesare and laid the pup before him, as if to say, look, master, I too have become a father.
This became the last straw. To Lady Catelyn's frightened gasp, Arya rushed to the direwolf and buried her nose in his grey fur. In that moment, he was far closer to her than any human in this room. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
"Do you remember how you found him?" she addressed Cesare. "Well, of course you remember! We all changed subtly that day, as if suddenly we became," she fell silent, searching for the word, "whole. A happy time."
She looked at Cesare with such deep longing that his heart sank.
"They took her from you," Cesare suddenly realized with certainty.
"Forever," his sister's voice was hard as a gravestone.
She gently stroked the little one on the muzzle.
"How fine he is," she said quietly. "A pity he is not mine."
She raised her head and looked point-blank at Walda.
"I would like to tell you something. In private."
Everyone obediently moved toward the exit. Though Cesare's thoughts were occupied with his sister, out of the corner of his eye he noticed doubt flickering on Maester Vyman's face. He hastened to disappear into the corridor. Cesare followed him unnoticed.
The moment to finally play openly was as suitable as could be.
He entered the library without knocking and spoke from the threshold:
"You see what the war has done to my family, what the Lannisters have done to my family, yet you stubbornly refuse me the ability to defend myself."
The Maester started and turned sharply, his neck cracking.
"You ask to learn to kill, Lord Stark," he objected wearily.
"What am I to do if my mother begins to choke after a goblet of wine, or blood starts pouring from my sister's nose? Run looking for you? Wring my hands?" Cesare threw out irritably. "I want to know how to smell poison in food, paper, clothing, how to protect against it, and what antidote to take."
The old man turned away, hunching his shoulders even more.
"I know what gnaws at you," Cesare lowered his tone, as if afraid they might be overheard. "Conflict of interests."
Under a steady gaze, he sank into a chair.
"I thought I had solved you when I learned you were of House Tarbeck, yet I made a blunder—I forgot to inquire about your mother's identity. Her name was Agnes Tyrell, was it not?"
Vyman was silent, only clenching dry, senile hands into fists.
"The daughter of one Lord Tyrell and the sister of another. It is no wonder you were saved from the Lannister massacre. You arrived in Oldtown with a different name and past, but you did not forget the kindness. I assume you correspond with them to this day."
"This proves nothing," Vyman finally decided on his position.
"And I do not seek to expose you before Lord Edmure," Cesare portrayed a friendly smile. "I simply want to show that the current state of affairs is temporary. Yes, the Tyrells have entered negotiations with the Lannisters. However, answer the question: what will become of the Tyrells after the final victory of the Lannisters? They will be swept away—Tywin Lannister loves power too much to share it."
A heavy silence hung in the library for several minutes.
"What do you want from me?" the Maester looked searchingly at Cesare.
"Send a letter to the Tyrells in my name. You may compose the text yourself—in this I trust you. The main thing—indicate that Lord Stark is ready to negotiate."
"That is, you wish to use my voucher to pull the enemy's ally to your side, simultaneously gaining a poison tutor in my person," it seemed, or a smirk lurked in the corners of his lips. "However, I have a condition."
"I am all attention," Cesare gathered himself.
"Swear to me. Swear that, warring with the fathers, you will not transfer hatred to the children. Swear that, having won, you will not become a child-killer."
"You suggest I spare Joffrey?" now Cesare's smile was strained and irritated. "He does not fight against me with a weapon in his hands, but sits under his mother's skirt."
"No, his guilt before your House is undeniable. But his brother and sister..."
"I marvel at you. The Lannisters did not spare your family, yet you do not crave vengeance."
"Apparently, time is simply too good a healer," the old man answered quietly. "So what is your answer?"
"I swear that I will not sink to child-murder and will not visit the sins of the fathers upon the children," spoken clearly, resolutely, almost without thinking.
Not the most absurd oath he had ever had to swear.