"...and in the foreground, in the center of the canvas, stood a majestic figure with a severed head in his hands." — From the description of the painting The Birth of a King by M. Kafferen.
. . . . .
The world around was filled with a blinding light. It shimmered, pulsed, and creaked, crackling like millions of maddened cicadas. Existence in this space without frames or boundaries was agonizing, unbearable.
When his entire being overflowed with despair and a thirst for movement (anywhere at all), the shimmering intensified, and then ceased altogether.
He realized he was in the midst of a huge crowd, so dense it was impossible to move a finger. All these people were moving towards him, and he kept trying to squeeze through, to seep through them like water through a wall, but all was futile. And then he surrendered to the current, allowing himself to be carried in an unknown direction.
Suddenly, a painfully familiar face flashed very close by. He reached out and grabbed the vision by a fragile wrist. It was her! It was her! The proud set of the head, thin winged eyebrows, weightless waves of golden hair. But where did those creases on her high forehead come from? Why did wrinkles lurk in the corners of her eyes? And finally, why was she wearing a nightgown stained with blood?
"Lucrezia!" the name burst from his chest like a joyful song. "Wait, it's me!"
But she looked and did not recognize him.
"What happened to your face?" Cesare read on her lips.
He reached for his face and jerked his hand back in horror: it was covered with fur. Overcoming fear, he began to feel himself and scratched his hands over an elongated wolf muzzle with a long nose and perked ears. A howl burst from his mouth and he woke up.
. . . . .
Light blinded him for a moment, as if thousands of needles pierced his eyes. His chest hurt badly, and his throat was raw from thirst. Breath caught from fear, but understanding came quickly—these were the golden rays of the sun, not "that" light.
He lay on a stone mattress in a small, sparsely furnished room. Olyvar sat at the head of the bed, dozing, head leaning against the wall. As soon as Cesare twitched, he started and with energy undreamt of by any maester began to give the patient drink and adjust the pillows.
"Where am I?" Cesare barely recognized his own voice in the strained rasp coming from his mouth.
"In a small inn near the main square," Olyvar explained immediately and, anticipating the next question, continued, "the owner is reliable: his wife and children are now in the cellar under the guard of our men."
Good. Very good.
"How long?" Cesare rasped again.
"Almost a whole day," his friend understood him perfectly. "Had your unconsciousness lasted a little longer, and we would not have been able to hide it from Stannis and his men any longer."
His chest pulsed and squeezed as if under the pressure of an iron band, but Cesare still found the strength to raise himself on his elbow and clutch Olyvar's wrist.
"Find me infusions of star anise, St. John's wort, datura, and foxglove. After that, call everyone who can be gathered here without attracting attention."
"Why do you need poison now?" Olyvar shuddered perceptibly.
"It is necessary," Cesare squeezed out through his teeth.
When the door closed behind Olyvar, Cesare pushed the blanket aside and stared anxiously at his leg, which burned perceptibly. The spot that had appeared recently had turned black and swollen. The skin on it was tight as a drum. It seemed a touch of a finger would make the abscess burst and flood everything around with blood and pus.
The metamorphoses occurring with his body raised many questions, but there was no time for them now. It was necessary to remove the remnants of poison from the body and get back on his feet.
Olyvar returned quite soon with everything needed. Cesare mixed everything in equal parts, drank it in one gulp, and spent a long time emptying the contents of his stomach into a washbasin.
"Where is Mother?" he asked, wiping his mouth.
"In the fort," Olyvar handed him a towel. "We didn't tell her so as not to attract Stannis's attention."
"You did right," leaning on his friend's shoulder, Cesare moved to the chair where his clothes lay. "And what of Walda, did she not ask where her husband disappeared to?"
Seeing his friend's face turn grey, Cesare understood everything. Understood and remembered. Remembered that frank conversation, those confessions, and that unjustified faith in a happy future together. Everything squeezed in his chest again, but not from poison this time.
"Where is she? Take me to her."
She waited for him in the next room, peaceful, as if sleeping. The streaks of bloody saliva from her mouth and cheeks had been wiped away, her hair combed and styled simply. She wore a white dress of loose cut, clearly donated by the innkeeper's wife who had once walked down the aisle in it. Someone tried very hard so that even in death Lady Stark did not lose dignity.
She was gone. Just a couple of days ago he was angry with her, mentally calling down all heavenly punishments on her head. In her last days, she saw only coldness from him, heard only reproaches... And why does this make the heart clench so hard? She was just a girl thrown in with the passage through the Twins! They didn't even really know each other.
Why does it hurt so much? Why does he continue to think about the unfulfilled prediction of the old hag? That beautiful bright future at the top of the world, in which Walda believed so much, why will it never come?..
Approaching the bed to pull back the canopy, Cesare noticed the edge of a bundle folded in the far corner. It seemed to be a worn blanket, carelessly tied with ropes.
"What is that there?" Cesare stepped forward, but Olyvar grabbed his shoulder.
"My lord, you shouldn't look at that!" but it was too late: Cesare managed to see a hand sticking out of the bundle. It was all blue, broken fingers pointing in different directions.
"I wanted to report immediately, but didn't know where to start," Olyvar lowered his head penitently. "We immediately seized that creature who wanted to take your life. She tried to escape the city. We decided to question her right away, but... overdid it. She never told us anything."
That was not surprising. Among his people there was only one master of torture, and Cesare had gotten rid of him personally.
"And why is she here?"
"We had no opportunity to get rid of the body," Olyvar seemed ready to sink through the ground. "Tried to leave it in the cellar, but the children were afraid and started crying. Had to move it here."
"Does anyone else know about this?"
"About the capture—about ten people," Olyvar drawled thoughtfully. "But three participated in the interrogation, including me."
"Her death must remain a secret."
The broken limp hand attracted the gaze. That hand which first caressed him, and then offered poisoned wine. How familiar.
Sensitively catching his mood, Olyvar left him.
Cesare leaned heavily on the bedpost, shifting his gaze from one of his women to the other.
So different, like day and night. One laid on the bed like a deceased queen, the other dumped in a dark corner like useless trash. But what nonsense, for they are both dead.
A wolf with gutted insides floated before his eyes, and Cesare began to shake. Breath caught, and he clawed at his throat, as if trying to tear it to shreds. There was a frightening meaning in all this. How many times could Estrel have killed him, but decided to act precisely when Walda wished to make peace. What is this? A mockery of fate? A whim of an unknown deity who gave him a second life?
No, that's not it. In recent months he had become ridiculously naive, like a child considering a fairground magician a real wizard. Most likely, Estrel served the Lannisters or their allies. Obviously, the most opportune time to strike at the commander is the eve of the offensive, when everyone is frozen in anxious anticipation. After that, neither Stannis nor R'hllor in the flesh will keep his people from returning to their home castles. Walda died because she was weakened after childbirth and drank significantly more poisoned wine than he did.
Everything is simple and explainable if one does not ascribe a higher meaning to events. The hag lied to a naive girl to shake more money out of her mother. The future husband chose her for a pretty face and juicy figure, and not by divine command. And no dancing princes with snakes in their hands! No roots entwining the world! Nonsense! Rubbish! Bullshit!
Melisandre is the same! Plays on human stupidity and passes off tricks as miracles. And the shadow... that too is some trick, albeit impressive. So impressive that it deceived even him. He was duped, but he must have the last word, for he is Caesar, Caesar, and not nothing!
The heart stopped racing. The chest rose and fell evenly, measuredly. Cesare's gaze was fixed on the window, where the bulk of the sept could be seen behind the roofs of houses. Details of a future plan immediately outlined themselves in his head.
He will have time to mourn his wife. For reflection, for memories, for regrets. Now action was necessary.
...To Theon looking into the room, Cesare asked a quite meaningful question:
"What is the balance of forces in Duskendale?"
. . . . .
Unexpectedly, in broad daylight, the bells of the desecrated sept came alive. Like townswomen dishonored by enemy soldiers, they wailed in all voices, and their weeping flowed over Duskendale.
Bewildered townspeople poured into the streets. Various rumors immediately swirled, from an Ironborn attack to a fire. Curiosity consumed, drew people, and they flocked through narrow streets to the round main square, to the sept.
In the fort, such a thing could not be ignored: it smacked too much of a Lannister provocation, or even outright rebellion. The King could not afford a display of weakness. Even if he decided to shift the unexpectedly ripened problem onto one of his subordinates, there would certainly be a person in his retinue who would spare no effort to convince the King to restore order in the city personally. There was no doubt that Stannis would certainly come to the square.
He appeared at the head of fifty swords, making his way through the crowd with difficulty. Behind him flashed the coats of arms of Florents, Mertyns, and Wyldes, as well as Karstarks, Manderlys, Freys, Vances. Pushing the townspeople closer to the houses, the King and part of his retinue dismounted.
Well, the audience and actors of this tragedy in the spirit of Aeschylus were assembled. It was time for the main hero to take the stage.
He appeared from the opened gates of the sept and, lifting his head, slowly descended the steps. He was unarmed and pale as death, but determination was readable in his every gesture.
The King addressed him with a mixture of surprise and displeasure:
"Lord Stark?! What is the meaning of this?!"
"Yesterday I nearly died," Cesare pronounced casually, as something insignificant. "However, you should know about this, since it was you who sent the assassin to me."
The King's men met the accusations some with bewilderment, and some with stormy indignation. Some even reached for swords, but did not dare draw them. Cesare did not even look in their direction, as he kept a testing gaze on the King.
"What absurdity!" he was indignant. "I would never stoop to such a thing!"
"I followed you as my honor demanded," Cesare continued as if not hearing him. "Directed all my strength and aspirations to serving you! How many times have I and my men risked everything fulfilling your will! And you answered devotion and good with black ingratitude!" at the last exclamation his voice trembled, but he continued with even greater heat. "I brought you an alliance with the Vale, and you thanked me with poisoned wine! Like the lowest coward! And if only your hatred fell on me alone, but Walda, my sweet Walda! She did nothing to you! Did she deserve such a terrible death!"
Now the Northerners and River lords, who were unaware of what had happened, began to murmur.
Muscles worked on Black Walder's face:
"Is it true?" he shouted to Cesare, flaring his nostrils. "Cousin truly..."
"She died in my arms, choking on blood, and it is a miracle I did not follow her," Cesare's darkened gaze fell on Stannis again. "The assassin's tongue loosened quickly."
"This is all slander, Lord Stark, an attempt by the Lannisters to quarrel you and His Grace," Davos intervened.
He took a small step toward Cesare and extended a hand, as if taming a maddened animal.
"Let us go to the fort and discuss all disagreements there."
At the moment when the tension could be cut with a knife, the unforeseen happened. Cutting through the crowd, a woman on a raging black horse flew onto the square. Only by a miracle missing other riders and trampling no one, she, nearly falling, descended to the ground and rushed to Cesare.
"Robb!" Lady Catelyn pressed herself tightly to him, breathing heavily, as if she had covered the whole way running, not in the saddle. "My boy! You are alive!"
With great difficulty Cesare managed to pull away.
"I would accept your offer with pleasure, Lord Seaworth, but I cannot," Cesare swept his gaze over the people gathered in the square. "This matter is not simply between my lord and me," a nod toward Stannis. "House Stark, which I have the honor to head, and House Frey—my wife's closest relatives who lost a sister and daughter—are involved in it. It also indirectly affects the interests of all Houses of the North and Riverlands, as I expressed their interests and spoke on their behalf."
"Do not waste effort in vain, Lord Seaworth," Melisandre, who had kept silent until then, took the floor. "Lord Stark has already decided everything for himself."
From her gaze, hiding no threat, Cesare felt weakness in his legs again.
"You were right to consider him a traitor, my lord," she bowed to Stannis, "and I was mistaken."
The gathered lords and knights again met the new statement stormily. The townspeople watched the unfolding action with unflagging interest.
Cesare rejoiced internally. While he and Stannis exchanged mutual accusations and claims, entertaining the respectable public, Greatjon Umber was arresting the commander of the Dun Fort, Robett Glover was seizing the harbor, and Jason Mallister was placing his men at the city gates, cutting off avenues of retreat. While Stannis tried to justify himself and defend his own honor, Duskendale was slipping from his hands.
Meeting the Red Priestess's gaze again, Cesare felt: she knows. Felt and read the answering determination in her eyes.
Everything happened quickly. A moment, and Melisandre darted toward him like a crimson whirlwind, raising a hand to strike. A short blade drawn from her sleeve glinted predatorily in her hand. He had time to remember the absence of a breastplate and sword, to regret that Olyvar entrenched in the sept would not make it in time to help.
Mother's hands squeezed his shoulders painfully to bruises and sharply unexpectedly jerked him aside. The body weakened by poison obediently yielded, but the blow could no longer be stopped. With a disgusting crunch, the knife entered living flesh.
Lady Catelyn shuddered with her whole body, gave a thin cry, and collapsed on him like a felled young tree. Her gaze, full of such pain and such love, made his heart stop.
Steel rang above Cesare's head—Olyvar had arrived in time. Melisandre managed to parry one of his blows, but the next forced her to drop the knife, and the last cleanly severed her head.
Simultaneously, the Northerners and River lords drew swords and pointed them toward Stannis and his vassals.
"Think again. Do not make an irreparable mistake," Baratheon admonished them, but their cup of patience was already overflowing.
They saw the King's contempt for their leader, saw the burning of captives and the inglorious death of Lord Tully placed in the vanguard. Saw the desecration of the sept and Melisandre's senseless attack. All this did not fit with Stannis Baratheon, known for his honor and justice, and since it was so, most likely Lord Stark's terrible accusations were true.
The wall of the King's defenders crumbled like broken beads. Many separate duels ensued. In the heat and confusion of the battle, it was unclear whose blow reached the King first—perhaps Black Walder avenging his cousin or the unfortunate Norbert Vance, who lost two sons in the storming of Duskendale. However, what difference does it make, for the result will remain the same—the King in a hacked breastplate with blood bubbling on his lips crashed onto the flagstones of the square.
At the moment when these fateful events were taking place, Cesare continued to press his mother to him and try to calm her:
"It's nothing. Everything will be fine. Trust me. Trust me, please."
Again he is helpless as a child. Again cannot protect a person dear to his heart.
He knew Melisandre might pull something like this, moreover, counted on it, but did nothing to remove his mother from harm's way. Or was that the calculation, to untie his hands completely? Such thoughts flashed through his mind! How vile! But she is still alive! She can still be saved!
Cesare handed Lady Catelyn into the arms of Theon who had hurried up, so he would deliver her to the castle maester. Although from experience he knew it was dangerous to move such wounded, they had no choice.
The performance had to be played to the end.
Sweeping his gaze over the unfolding carnage, Cesare raised his hand, giving a signal calculated for just such a case. The bells rang out again, but this time solemnly and mournfully, as if mourning all those who would not survive this day.
The gazes of the Northerners and River lords turned to Cesare in expectation. The Storm lords also looked at him, but angrily and huntedly. They grouped in the middle of the square, preparing to hold defense to the last and sell their lives dearly.
Cesare approached the cooling body of the sorceress who had possessed his thoughts for so long. He missed the moment when the seductive young woman turned into an ugly old crone. He grabbed her head by the grey hair and lifted it high, demonstrating to all gathered.
"This is whom we served! This is whom we obeyed!" his doublet was bloody to the elbow, but he was not embarrassed in the slightest. "Poor King Stannis fell victim to her deception and witchcraft," Cesare stepped toward the Storm lords, not fearing a sudden attack in the least. "It is not your fault that you supported your liege lord. It is not your fault that you were deceived by the speeches of a treacherous witch. These are all mistakes, not evil intent. But one must be able to admit mistakes."
For a few moments they pondered, exchanged glances, looked now at Stannis's mangled body, now at Melisandre's head in Cesare's hands. And then Lord Alester Florent standing in front threw his sword to the ground and bent the knee:
"I admit my mistake and ask Lord Stark's forgiveness for all offenses, voluntary and involuntary, inflicted upon him by my late liege lord."
Cesare knew it would be him: Lord Florent was a man who keenly felt which way the wind blew. His example was followed by the other Storm lords, even those considered "Queen's men."
"House Baratheon owes me much," Cesare threw the head aside and crossed his arms over his chest, "but there is no one left to ask, not a little girl. Rise, my lords."
Scanning the gathered again with a heavy gaze, Cesare raised his voice:
"And now it is time to decide a no less important question: 'What are we to do?'. I suppose I am not the only one who has doubts that Princess Shireen is capable of succeeding her father and leading the Seven Kingdoms in such turbulent times."
Lord Alester looked as if he had swallowed a lemon, but still remained silent, agreeing with the approving shouts of the Northerners.
"I swore an oath to myself that I would know no peace until I saw Joffrey's head on a spike, but when that happens, who should ascend the Iron Throne?"
The answer was obvious, but still, propriety had to be observed and ostentatious modesty demonstrated.
"My lord," in a single fluid motion Olyvar bent the knee. "Do us the honor and take this heavy burden upon yourself!"
"Olyvar, what are you doing?" Cesare froze in feigned surprise, and then made a weak attempt to lift his friend to his feet. "Come now?"
Following him, Vance and both Manderlys bent their knees.
"My lord," Lord Norbert bowed his completely grey head. "I know no one who would handle this role better than you!"
"Lord Stark," spoke one of the Storm lords—a black-bearded fellow with two stags on his coat of arms, "I have known you not long, but have already formed a certain opinion. You skillfully combine decisiveness and prudence, strength and mercy. You are so young, but have already experienced and seen more than many elders in a lifetime. You attract people with honesty and simplicity. This is exactly what the King of the Seven Kingdoms should be," he bent the knee and drew his sword, "Robb the First of His Name!"
"Eh, how sweetly he sings," Cesare thought with affection. "Should learn his name."
Now knights and lords bent their knees. The majority chanted his name, even the enthusiastic townspeople, who would have to spread the good news all over the world.
"So be it," Cesare uttered, feeling unspeakable relief.