chapter 33 the feast

The great hall of the Red Keep buzzes with the crackling warmth of torches, the low hum of conversations, and the clinking of goblets. The scent of roasted meats and spilled ale hangs thick in the air, but my attention is solely on Robert and Jon. Robert slouches at the head of the table, already impatient with the Hand's persistent attempts at political wrangling.

"Enough of this, Jon," Robert grumbles, casting him a withering look. "Gods, I didn't invite Caesar here to be badgered like some stuffed merchant. Caesar—let's have a taste of this new brew you've been boasting about."

"As you wish, Your Grace." I take out a leather wineskin from the satchel by my side and begin pouring. The dark amber liquid catches the light, and a rich, smoky aroma fills the air. The king's eyes gleam with anticipation as I pour a generous cup for him, then a smaller one each for Jon and my father. I pour my own last, careful not to spill a drop.

Robert raises the cup to his nose, inhaling deeply before grinning wide. "What is it, then?" he asks.

"It's bourbon, Your Grace," I say, holding my goblet steady as his gaze sharpens with curiosity.

Without another word, Robert takes a long swig. His eyes widen with surprise at the strength, then glint with satisfaction. "By the Seven, this is…by the gods, this is damn good!"

My father's mouth curves into a proud smile. "Only the best from mereen, Your Grace. It seems every drink Caesar creates turns to gold." He looks to me, a gleam of pride in his eyes.

Even Jon Arryn raises his eyebrows as he takes a sip, clearly surprised by the quality. "Remarkable," he says, giving me a thin smile. "Everything you touch, Caesar, seems to be a gift from above. You've single-handedly built an empire with your distilleries, and the profits flow as endlessly as the liquor itself."

I give him a curt nod, already sensing his angle. "Indeed, Lord Arryn. And all the wealth I gain is reinvested into my lands, my people, and trade networks that strengthen both Westeros and Essos. The crown itself benefits, staying afloat in no small part because of the tariffs and levies from my enterprises."

Jon's eyes narrow, knowing I've caught his drift but refusing to back down. He's testing how much I might yield, but I won't budge an inch. The tension between us is palpable, the unspoken threats sharp as blades.

He leans in slightly, voice lowered. "And I trust that the crown can always rely on your support in times of need?"

I let silence linger before replying, voice low and unyielding. "Of course…so long as it is mutually beneficial. But should the crown become unreasonable in its demands, I have more than one option, Jon. If I'm driven to it, I can take my wealth and enterprises to Essos—where gold buys anything, including security. I'd like to see what happens when someone tries to reclaim it."

Jon's face hardens, but he says nothing, only nodding stiffly. Roberts chuckle breaks the tension as he pats Jon's shoulder, pretending to smooth things over. "No need for such drastic ideas, I'm sure," he says, but the point has been made.

I let my gaze drift toward Littlefinger, who is seated at the far end of the table, smirking faintly as he sips his own wine. The memory of his last attempt to claim my recipes for the "good of the realm" flickers in my mind—a failed attempt that ended with his ten favorite whores decapitated and their heads arranged in a circle around him as he slept. My informants said he'd woken in a cold sweat, pale and shaking, and I see now that he can barely meet my gaze. I give him a smile, and he coughs, looking quickly away.

Just then, Robert interrupts my thoughts, nodding toward the far end of the hall. "Caesar—who's that big bastard drinking with the Hound?"

I follow his gaze and see Drogo, sitting silently, sharing a drink with Sandor Clegane, both men eyeing each other with wary respect. Drogo's braided hair hangs down his back, a striking figure among the knights and lords.

"That's Drogo," I say, catching Drogo's gaze for a moment. He inclines his head in acknowledgment. "Son of a great Khal. He follows me…faithfully."

Robert's eyebrows raise, clearly impressed. "Didn't you have to kill his father for that honor?"

I nod, my voice even. "I did. Killed his father and his three bloodriders as well."

"Bloodriders?" Robert asks, curiosity piqued.

"A Khal's bloodriders are his most trusted men. If their Khal dies, they fight to the death to avenge him. Their loyalty is absolute—they follow him into death if need be."

Robert leans back, whistling. "Strange people, the Dothraki. But damn, I've heard they raise fine warhorses. Varys mentioned something about it. Heard you're sending a shipment of those beasts to the rock, Caesar is it true i want one?"

I see Varys stiffen beside him, his expression carefully neutral. I smile slowly. "Indeed, Your Grace. It seems Varys's little birds are quick to sing. Perhaps I should weed them out once more."

Varys pales, his usual calm slipping as his hands fidget. "There's no need for such drastic measures, Caesar," Robert cuts in, trying to smooth things over, though his eyes glint with amusement. "Varys is loyal to the realm."

"Of course, Your Grace. But I hope no little birds are…spying on me. After all, my men make swift examples of those who trespass in my affairs." I let my gaze linger on Varys, watching him squirm under the scrutiny. His throat bobs, and he gives a quick nod, words failing him.

The table falls silent, and I relish the power I hold over them—each of them walking on eggshells, each knowing they can't force me into submission. Robert breaks the silence with a hearty laugh, slapping his knee.

"Let's not spoil the mood!" he declares, raising his cup to me. "Caesar, nephew, if it weren't for you, we'd all be drowning in debt. You've done more for this realm than all the lords at this table."

"Then I suppose a toast is in order," I reply, lifting my goblet. "To prosperity—and to knowing where the boundaries lie."

The lords and council members around the table exchange looks, understanding the unspoken warning beneath my words.

As the feast continues, I catch Littlefinger's gaze again, and he flinches, spilling his wine. I let a dark smile tug at my mouth, knowing he won't sleep soundly tonight.

When Robert finally stumbles off to drink himself senseless, he claps me on the shoulder, challenging me to a sparring match come morning. "Tomorrow, Caesar! I'll best you in a battle of strength."

"If you're not passed out in a puddle of your own wine, that is," I reply, and Robert lets out a booming laugh.

I leave the hall with my men—Drogo and the Hound falling in step behind me. The warmth of the feast fades as we walk through the dark corridors toward my chambers, my instincts sharpened by the sense of a lurking danger.

Once in my quarters, I toss aside my armor, a simple ruby necklace around my neck, and sink into bed, the night's weight pressing against me. But as sleep pulls me under, a sense of foreboding prickles at the edge of my mind. I ignore it, trusting in my own invincibility.

But then—

A faint, wet warmth seeps across my neck. My eyes snap open, and in the dim light, I see a slender figure looming over me, a blade gleaming in hand. Before I can move, the figure slips a mask from their face, revealing a nondescript man, the kind you'd forget in an instant.

"Sleep," he murmurs, voice cold, before turning to leave.

My rage surges like fire, and as I lie there, paralyzed, my ruby necklace pulses with an ominous glow. Whatever magic is stirring within it, I welcome it. Death will not come swiftly to this fool who dared to spill Lannister blood my fucking blood.