Harrenhal, the King's Pyre Tower.
The name itself carried an ominous feeling, as if the vengeful spirit of its builder, Harren the Black, who was burned alive by dragonfire, still lingered within the walls of this colossal fortress raised through the full might of the Riverlands.
Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, sat behind a dark red oak desk, lost in thought.
The room was meticulously cleaned, looking almost spotless. The air was filled with the smell of old parchment and dry ink.
Roose Bolton set down the book he was holding, its cover clearly titled: "The Greatest of the Seven Kingdoms—Harrenhal and Its Owners"
As the name suggested, this book documented the successive owners of the castle since the time Aegon I Targaryen conquered the Seven Kingdoms.
It was hard to imagine that Harrenhal had been ruled by nine different houses in less than three centuries.
But the most outrageous thing was that, apart from House Hoare, who were still in exile, almost none of Harrenhal's rulers, including their family members, had a peaceful end.
All the accounts in the book forced one to believe in a ridiculous notion—a curse.
Legend claimed that Harren the Black had mixed human blood into the mortar of the castle, damning it from the day it was completed. Every lord who ruled it seemed unable to escape the clutches of misfortune.
It was said that late at night, servants could still hear the screams of Harren and his sons.
"Hah."
Roose Bolton's slender, pale fingers traced the smooth surface of the desk, scornful of the idea.
As Lord of the Dreadfort, the Lord of Leech, he did not believe in such nonsense.
In his mind, Harrenhal's curse was nothing more than a story woven by incompetent lords to hide their failures or comfort themselves.
The Boltons had thrived for centuries in the harsh North not through superstition, but through calculation, decisiveness, and relentless endurance.
Tapping the desk, Roose Bolton put the book aside and placed a scroll detailing military provisions before him. As he read on, a subtle, almost imperceptible frown appeared on his brows.
The current situation had become somewhat tricky.
Roose Bolton leaned back in his chair, and a figure surfaced in his mind.
The King in the North—Robb Stark, the young man supported by nearly all of the Northmen.
Even he had to admit that the boy possessed natural talent for warfare. Bold in strategy and decisive in command, he won one battle after another. Some even speculated the Young Wolf would eventually overthrow the Baratheon rule.
But his talent seemed confined only to the battlefield.
No one expected the young genius to recklessly break the marriage pact with House Frey over an insignificant woman. It wasn't only dishonorable but practically a political suicide.
Not just politically, but strategically as well.
House Frey controlled the Twins, the most critical crossing point of the Green Fork. Losing the support of House Frey meant the Northern army's logistics and communications were choked off.
This foolish action forcibly pushed a potentially powerful ally to the opposing side, causing strategic damage far more profound than losing a single battle.
Roose Bolton racked his brain but could not fathom what had driven Robb to such reckless self-sabotage.
After all, Moat Cailin was currently occupied by a band of Ironmen. They were firmly lodged on the only land route connecting North and South, like a venomous wedge.
If Robb Stark had not gone too far, they could have relied on the prosperous Twins for support… but now, all the Northern forces had become virtually isolated, completely cut off from their homeland, including Roose's own forces.
They appeared to be fighting fiercely in the South, but in reality, they had already become rootless trees, mired in the quagmire of war that was the Riverlands, unable to advance or retreat.
It was like being locked in a finely crafted coffin: safe for now, but the air slowly thinning.
The King in the North was winning every battle, but he was losing the war!
Adding insult to injury, Catelyn Tully, that foolish woman, blinded by maternal affection, had secretly released Jaime Lannister, the North's most valuable bargaining chip in negotiations with the Lannisters.
He had to admit—House Stark certainly produced talents.
Thinking of the Kingslayer, Roose Bolton couldn't help but massage his throbbing brow.
He did not order Vargo Hoat and his group to pursue Jaime Lannister, yet the man had taken it upon himself to leave the castle without even informing him.
Truth be told, Roose Bolton did not trust the Essosi sellsword one bit. He knew his true nature too well—ever greedy and utterly disloyal. But currently, he neither had the means nor the time to restrain him.
Thinking this, he couldn't help but open his drawer and glance at a sealed envelope lying on top, stamped with the seal of a lion. His expression turned thoughtful.
Just then, a set of familiar footsteps approached from outside, the sharp echo of armored boots.
"My Lord."
Without even needing to look, Roose Bolton knew it was his most trusted subordinate.
Sure enough, when he raised his head, he saw an armoured man with a stern expression and sharp eyes appear at the doorway.
"My Lord, we've found the Kingslayer," Walton said, his tone respectful but without embellishment.
"Oh?" Roose Bolton's pale eyes lifted slightly with surprise. "It seems Vargo Hoat actually possesses some skill."
"No… it's not Vargo Hoat who caught him, my Lord. It was… him himself… umm…"
The serious expression on Walton's face turned slightly awkward as he tried to explain, but it seemed he himself hadn't fully come to terms with the situation.
After stuttering for a long while, he swallowed and gave up trying to explain.
"They are at the castle gate right now. You should see for yourself, my Lord."
---
Roose Bolton did not leave the castle; instead, he received Ronin and his group in a modest sitting room.
The flames in the fireplace flickered quietly, casting dancing shadows across the faces of everyone present.
Roose Bolton sat in the main chair, a flicker of confusion crossing his pale face as he took in the unusual group before him—arguably the strangest gathering in all of Westeros.
He also understood why even Walton had shown such a peculiar reaction when reporting earlier.
A woman, taller and broader than most men, clad in stained armor, plain-featured and flat-chested.
Beside her sat Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. He looked as miserable as a beggar on the streets of King's Landing. His golden hair was matted, clinging to his forehead.
The once-handsome face now looked drawn and exhausted. But what drew Roose Bolton's attention was his right hand. It was gone from the wrist, wrapped awkwardly in gauze tied with a bow.
Roose Bolton couldn't take his eyes off it for a moment. He never thought that Jaime Lannister, the man renowned for his swordsmanship across the Seven Kingdoms, would one day end up losing his sword-wielding hand!
Then his gaze shifted to the dark-skinned Dothraki—one of Vargo Hoat's men—whose eyes constantly darted around, alert even as he ate.
As his gaze turned to the fourth figure, Bolton's eyes couldn't help narrowing instinctively.
The man before him wore tattered and dirt-streaked clothes that could have belonged to any lowborn commoner.
He also introduced himself as one, just with a bit of knowledge about medicine. Yet he sat with an unusual ease, his posture as elegant as that of a highborn noble.
That calm composure unnerved Bolton, like a venomous snake suddenly spotting another in the shadows, raising his guard instinctively.
What was even stranger was that this man seemed to be surrounded by a subtle, indefinable aura, as if there was nothing he couldn't see through—making Bolton recall his first meeting with Lord Tywin Lannister during the Rebellion. That man had given him the same unsettling feeling.
'Interesting.'
Silence fell over the sitting room, broken only by the occasional crackle from the fireplace and a grating, persistent sound.
"Screech, screech…"
"Screech, screech…"
Jaime gripped a dinner knife tightly in his left hand, struggling with the roasted beef on his plate. But the meat seemed incredibly tough, resisting every attempt to slice it, scraping against the plate and producing a grating, irritating noise.
He tried repeatedly, his cheeks reddening with effort, but to no avail. All he ended up doing was splattering gravy onto the tablecloth.
The noise continued until Brienne couldn't bear it any longer.
"Enough."
She pressed down on Jaime's stubborn piece of beef with her fork, giving him a solid anchor.
"Thank you, not-friend," Jaime said, his tone flat. He deliberately emphasized the last part, still brooding over her earlier remark about their relationship. Thanks to her help, however, he could finally eat without struggling.
He cut a small piece of beef and placed it in his mouth; the long-missed tender, juicy flavor instantly exploded on his palate.
It had simple seasoning of black pepper and salt, but for him—who had been surviving on hard bread and water for so long—it was an unparalleled delicacy. Jaime couldn't help but chew a bit longer than usual, savoring each bite.
His absorbed expression further perplexed Roose Bolton.
This was certainly not the demeanor a captive in enemy territory should display, nor did he act like a cautious fugitive.
Had the trauma from the loss of his arm gotten to his head?
"If I recall correctly, Ser Jaime," he finally couldn't resist speaking, breaking the silence, "we are, theoretically, still at war. Lord Edmure Tully has offered a bounty of thousand gold dragons for your capture."
"Yet here you are, not only daring to stride into Harrenhal but also eating the food served by your enemies. Is this not showing a bit too much disregard for me?"
Hearing this, Jaime did not reply immediately. Instead, he lifted the beef with his knife and began tearing at it with his mouth. After all, in case Ronin's plan failed, at least he should enjoy a proper meal first.
"Do you plan to take me back to the Twins for the reward, Lord Bolton?" Jaime asked between bites. "If so, you may command your men to bind us this very moment. But I doubt you'd be able to claim those thousand gold dragons in full."
He raised his right arm and waved it in front of Roose: Bolton. "You see? Your hostage is no longer complete."
Jaime maintained a facade of indifference as he spoke, secretly observing Roose Bolton's reaction, recalling Ronin's evaluation of the man:
'Remember, Jaime—Roose Bolton is an extremely utilitarian man. The more aggressive he acts, the more he is weighing his options and waiting to be bought. I suspect what he truly seeks might not be the reward from Robb Stark, but the greater benefits he might extract from your father.'
As expected, Jaime's arrogance did not provoke Roose Bolton. Instead, the man leaned forward slightly and replied, his tone laced with threat.
"The loss of one hand does not seem to have dulled your wit, Ser Jaime. Perhaps I should remove the other and send it to Robb Stark. I imagine he would be very pleased with my 'gift,' considering your nephew—or perhaps son—beheaded his father."
Even with Ronin's prior warning, Jaime couldn't help but feel a surge of anger at those words.
He stabbed his knife into the table with a clang, his emerald pupils fiercely glaring at Roose Bolton. "Do not tempt me to cut out off your tongue, Roose Bolton. The Brave Companions chopped off my hand, and they answered to you, did they not?"
"When I return to King's Landing, this is the first thing I'll be telling my father."
Bolton only gave a cold laugh at his naked threats. "I could also send your head to King's Landing instead. Let's see if you can still prattle before Lord Tywin."
The tension in the room grew thicker with his words. Walton, standing behind Roose Bolton, involuntarily gripped his sword hilt, while Brienne and Iggo also tightened their grips on the knives they were eating with
Just as it seemed a confrontation would break out, a calm voice rang out.
"Please forgive Ser Jaime's loose tongue, Lord Bolton. After all, you cannot expect him to act entirely rational after what the Brave Companions did to him, can you?"
Roose Bolton's gaze shifted abruptly from Jaime to Ronin, who seemed to have just finished his meal and was now delicately wiping his mouth with a napkin.
From the moment this man had entered, he had maintained an elegant demeanor not befitting someone of his status. But in Bolton's deeply ingrained sense of hierarchy, this could not change the man's low birth.
A peasant daring to interfere in their conversation was an insult to both of them.
He shot Ronin a piercing look, then glanced at Jaime—only to see him sighing in relief.
"Forgive me, I have been too exhausted lately. For what follows, please confer with my personal advisor, Ronin Graves. He is fully authorized to represent my interests."
Having said this, he returned to his meal and once again began wrestling with the beef on his plate.
A personal advisor?
Roose Bolton found the statement absurd. He was almost tempted to believe his earlier guess that the Kingslayer might have lost his mind due to trauma.
A commoner representing the heir of Casterly Rock? Preposterous.
His gaze was as sharp as a knife as he looked at Ronin, trying to gauge his identity.
Yet under his scrutinizing gaze, Ronin merely adjusted his posture, then placed the napkin he had wiped his mouth with on the table.
He leaned back, sinking into the shadows of the high-backed chair. The flickering firelight from the hearth could only illuminate the area below his waist, while his upper body, especially his face, was concealed in deep shadow. Only his black eyes, calm and piercing, observed everything.
The entire room seemed to fall into abrupt silence.
Suddenly, Roose Bolton's hand holding the knife started trembling faintly.
He stared at Ronin in disbelief, astonished to find that the aura emanating from the man was rising at an alarming rate—almost becoming palpable.
It began pressing down on him, making the Lord of the Dreadfort's heart race.
Roose Bolton recognized it now. This was the aura born from possessing power, cultivated over time.
But how could a mere commoner possess it!
This was impossible!
Roose Bolton's heart was racing with shock, but after three silent breaths, he managed to force a calm expression. Only his pale pupils contracted uncontrollably.
In the shadows, a faint smile tugged at Ronin's lips.
This was exactly the effect he wanted.
On the way to Harrenhal, he had invested a full hundred gold dragons—almost half of the wealth he had looted from the Brave Companions—into the System for a Veteran-level draw, obtaining a rather formidable skill—
Majesty Lv2