"…and it is from the Council at Runestone that most historians date the beginning of the final stage of the Great Interregnum." — Venda Risley. From the maester's dissertation for a copper link: The Role of Personality in the Civil War of the Great Interregnum.
. . . . .
When the towers of Runestone appeared beyond the next hill, Cesare let out a sigh of relief: they had made it. Fortune had clearly favored Lord Stark and his companions on the journey. On the road to Maidenpool, they had not fallen into a Lannister ambush. The ship, equipped in advance by Lord Mooton, sailed as soon as Cesare arrived in the city—likely thanks to Melisandre's sacrifice, the sea was calm, which is rare at this time of year. In Gulltown, they managed to find good horses quickly and without attracting undue attention. If one were to recall any trouble, it was Olyvar's bruised ankle—he managed to slip on grass damp with dew when relieving himself towards morning. In short, everything turned out even better than Cesare had expected.
Their arrival had been expected any day, so no questions arose at the gates. The captain of the guard even recognized the Greatjon, whom he had met during Robert Baratheon's rebellion. While they exchanged words about something of their own, Cesare looked around.
The inner courtyard of Runestone was no smaller than Riverrun's—after all, it was built as a stronghold of kings. The general animation immediately caught the eye. Coats of arms flashed chaotically on the servants' clothes: the broken wheel of the Waynwoods, the bells of the Belmores, the portcullis and crescent of the Royces of the Gates of the Moon.
Noticing a painfully familiar face out of the corner of his eye, Cesare squinted, straining his vision. He was not mistaken, no—the direwolf on the bodice of the dress dispelled doubts. Estrel truly stood frozen by the well. There she raised her head, met Cesare's approaching gaze, and sparks seemed to run down his spine. The girl quickly turned away and looked at the old woman explaining something to her, hurriedly shoved a small pouch into her hand, and ordered her away with a nod.
"Who was that?" asked Cesare, approaching and following the hunched figure with his gaze.
"A healer," the servant did not delay with the answer. "Lady Stark needed her services."
"Is there no maester at Runestone?" This caused unpleasant amazement.
Estrel grinned sourly.
"Maester Helliweg turned ninety this year. He is nearly blind and a little out of his mind. At first, he simply could not distinguish Lady Catelyn and Lady Walda, as if in his head they merged into a single Lady Stark. When he was informed that Lady Stark was with child, the old man got it into his head that Lady Catelyn was expecting. She, of course, was amused by his attempts to examine her and his persistent offers of herbal teas, but after consulting with Lady Walda, they decided to send for a midwife from the nearest village."
"Why do they not send to the Citadel for a new one?"
"He is Lady Royce's own uncle. People rarely fall ill at Runestone, and as long as he is capable of making a cough mixture and applying a bandage, I suppose the place remains his."
Estrel rubbed her hands and involuntarily hugged herself by the shoulders. Apparently, going out, she intended to return quickly to the well-heated rooms, so she took neither cloak nor shawl. Why not squeeze her tender young body in an embrace and help her warm up?
As if reading his thoughts in his eyes, she involuntarily licked her lips and averted her gaze, cheeks flushing.
"I must go. Lady Stark may need my help."
The confusion, replaced by realization, was crushing. How did he not understand immediately? Why didn't he guess to ask instead of chatting idly? She dismissed the midwife and was hurrying back. This meant...
"Walda has already given birth. How is she?"
"Suffered all night, poor thing," Estrel kept glancing at the windows, as if fearing they would be noticed together. "I will take you to her."
Cesare's heart beat fast, and excitement spread in his chest. His child was already here, in this world. Very soon he could be seen and held. The little wolf prince.
In his wife's chambers, it was hot as a forge. Spicy smoke rose from the brazier by the bed and a large censer for incense, but even it could not overpower the smell of iron.
She lay on her back, arms thrown wide, overcome by waiting and fatigue. Her glossy skin yellowed uglily against the background of darkened matted hair. Her formerly tender lips were cracked and inflamed. She opened her eyes, clouded by sleep and milk of the poppy, and extended a weak hand to Cesare.
"Ah, it is you, and I so hoped to wait for you," a hoarse voice, as if from a cold, a forced smile. "Was getting ready, but sleep overcame me."
Her tenderness and vulnerability made something clench in his chest.
"Do you need anything? Perhaps water or to adjust the pillow. Just say."
And where did all the servants disappear to? Why did they leave Lady Stark alone?
She was about to say something but cut herself off, looking at the opening door. Lady Catelyn entered, pressing a child to her breast.
"Rejoice, Robb. Today a daughter was born to you," however, her voice could hardly be called joyful.
Mother's eyes were red, and her gaze glassy. How many nights had she not slept? How much strength had she given to the task shouldered upon her? Only now, standing beside her and ready at any moment to catch her if she swooned, did Cesare notice grey strands in his mother's hair.
"Mother, you must be tired. Please, rest. Everything will be well," the smile intended to soothe came out somewhat strained.
His gaze stopped on the dozing child.
"May I?"
Holding her was unusual and strange. He had become too accustomed to the thought of a future son, who was already beginning to figure in some plans. And here is this... However, one could have guessed—the red-haired direwolf pup brought by Grey Wind was female.
Shifting his gaze from his barely alive mother to his exhausted wife, Cesare involuntarily felt disgust for himself. He had become too accustomed to evaluating those around him by the measure of their utility and necessity in future plans. Then what is life? Eternal running, aimless and exhausting, forward, only forward for the next hunting trophy?
The child woke up and cried, twisting an ugly little face. Cesare hastily passed her to Estrel who had hurried up.
"What will you name her? Lady Stark must have a name," Walda's voice softened imperceptibly, perhaps from relief.
"Lucrezia," a once-native name flew from his lips by itself.
"Lucrezia?" asked Lady Catelyn, relaxing in a chair by the window. "Where is it from? Never heard it before."
"Read it once in a treatise in the library. That was the name of an ancient queen, strong, imperious, and beautiful as dawn. Poems and songs were dedicated to her, with her name on their lips men fought in duels. She was an extraordinary woman."
"Should I be jealous, my husband?"
A chuckle escaped his lips. First one, then another, and soon Cesare was shaking with laughter, covering his mouth with his hand. If Walda is joking, then everything is fine. Everything will be fine with them.
When the door creaked, Cesare thought it was Lord Royce's messenger. Fortunately, he was mistaken. Uncle Brynden immediately scooped him into a tight embrace that made his ribs crack.
"What happiness that I made it in time," he nodded a greeting to Catelyn and Walda and pulled Cesare along. "Let's go. A servant is already coming here to take you to the Great Hall."
A good thought—to do everything not to be found until thoroughly briefed on the matter.
They passed the inner courtyard, crowded with people and horses like a town square on market day, and climbed onto the battlements. A gust of cold wind burned his cheeks, but Cesare paid it no mind and turned to the Blackfish.
"So how do the knights and lords of the Vale view our proposal?"
"Ser Hardyng and Lord Royce are ready to sail for the Crownlands this very moment," Ser Brynden smoothed his beard. "However, Bronze Yohn's martial ardor is explained by the promise of an imminent wedding."
"Which of my brothers and sisters did you promise?" memories of negotiations with the Old Weasel, which seemed an eternity ago, caused Cesare an involuntary smirk.
"Lord Royce has two daughters of marriageable age, so Cat offered Edmure. Agree, the Lord of Riverrun is a more enviable catch than the younger brother of Lord Stark."
It remained only to gladden Edmure. Oh, how delighted he will be!
"As for the other twenty landed knights and lords," deep furrows on Ser Brynden's forehead stood out even more distinctly, "they are not so unequivocally minded."
Cesare rubbed his fingers, beginning to numb, irritably.
"By their very arrival here, they have already taken on certain obligations. So why play the innocent maid on her wedding night now?"
"So far, the majority has agreed on the necessity of sending a letter to Lady Arryn with a humble request to reconsider the decision on neutrality. However, disputes are still ongoing about exactly how this will be written and who will deliver the message to the Eyrie," he grinned joylessly. "It seems to me the messenger will depart with the answer through the Moon Door, even if it be me."
And there was such bitterness in his words that Cesare could not remain indifferent to it.
"I understand how hard this is for you, Uncle," he squeezed his shoulder and looked into his eyes. "So many years of devoted service, and such ingratitude in return."
By how Ser Brynden's face instantly turned grim, Cesare realized he had made a mistake. In the coming days, getting frankness from him would be akin to a feat.
"Let us leave this topic. I still have much to tell you."
As luck would have it, the wind carried an excited shout to them. The servant who attracted their attention had apparently been running for a long time and was flushed with exertion.
"My lords, Lord Royce asks you to proceed to the Great Hall for the council," he spoke in a strangled voice.
Lord Royce somewhat resembled Greatjon Umber, except he was twenty years older and slightly smaller in size. However, in his gestures of favor, implicit superiority was felt—if not by origin, then by the difference in age he surpassed Cesare. A long tedious introduction began, as the twenty lords mentioned by the Blackfish brought their kin and vassals with them. A handsome blonde knight following a still-sturdy old woman was especially memorable—the very Harrold Hardyng, thanks to whom this meeting became possible.
When Lord Stark, arrived straight from the battlefield, was presented with the flower of the Vale who had responded to his call, high righteous words about the tyranny of the Lannisters, the just cause, and the proximity of winter were expected from said Lord Stark. And he had already risen from his seat to utter these words, when a frightened and drawn-out cry flew under the vaults:
"Lady Arryn is here!"