"That's impossible!"
Roose Bolton's sudden demand deepened the confusion in Brienne's eyes, which was immediately replaced by a surge of anger. She stood abruptly, knocking over the chair behind her.
"No! I will not stay!"
Her gaze locked on Roose Bolton, her voice tight with anger and disbelief: "I am not a bargaining chip in your deal, nor cargo to be discarded at will!"
"I followed Lady Catelyn Tully's orders to return the Kingslayer safely to King's Landing in exchange for her two daughters. Are you going to betray your liege's decision and doom them, Lord Bolton?"
"Mind your words, my lady."
Faced with her accusations, Roose Bolton's reaction was surprisingly calm.
Unlike the intensity he had shown toward Ronin earlier, the way he gazed at Brienne appeared as if looking at a buzzing fly. Clearly, the Lord of the Dreadfort did not hold the Maiden of Tarth in high regard.
"Setting aside the fact that Lady Catelyn's secret release of a valuable prisoner bordered on treason, the promise you think you are keeping carries no honor."
"Everything I am doing now is to guarantee the safety of the two stark ladies."
"You value your honor above all else, do you not, Brienne of Tarth? Very well. Now is the time to show it."
"If you remain in Harrenhal as a hostage, I will release Ser Jaime to return to King's Landing in exchange for Lady Catelyn's daughters."
He lifted a brow. "What do you say?"
The question left Brienne speechless.
Even if she was usually slow, the trap laid out by Bolton was too obvious. He had cunningly turned her most prized possession—her honor—into a very weapon against her.
If she agreed, then she would be handing her fate into his hands. If she refused, she would appear unfaithful to her vows.
She was trapped!
"In matters like this, someone always pays the price," Roose Bolton continued, seeing her struggle.
"Lady brienne, your anger is like the winter sun of the North—fierce, yes, but incapable of melting a single flake of ice. No matter how much you resist, you cannot undo the arrangement Ronin and I have made."
Brienne trembled as realization struck. Her gaze darted toward Ronin, whose face was obscured by shadows. To her horror, He said nothing—neither objecting nor offering any aid.
His silence was all the confirmation she needed.
Fury rose in her like a breaking wave!
This cunning, dishonorable healer was trading openly with Roose Bolton—and she was the disposable pawn, sacrificed to secure Jaime Lannister's safe return.
"I knew it!"
"I knew it!" She ground her teeth, her voice quivering with anger. "Look well, Kingslayer—this is the 'friend' you trust."
"Trading my freedom for your safety… This was his plan all along!"
Before she could continue, Roose Bolton waved his hand lightly. Walton stepped forward with two guards in tow and seized her arms.
"No—"
Jaime slammed his hand on the table and stood up, his right hand instinctively reaching for his waist, but unfortunately, there was neither a sword nor the hand to grip it.
He froze for a moment, his body stiffening, but his eyes stayed glued to Walton and the other two guards who had seized Brienne, feeling a surge of anger rising within him.
He admitted Brienne could be frustratingly stubborn at times and they had quarreled often, but throughout their journey, the woman's loyalty and unwavering heart had carved a deep respect into him.
In some ways, she reminded him of the man he once hoped he could be.
And now she was being traded away for his sake?
Never!
He would not let it happen—not again, not after the day he killed Aerys and watched every youthful ideal die with him.
He braced himself to act, even if it meant fighting barehanded. Just then, he saw a movement in the corner of his eye.
Ronin's face was concealed in the darkness, his gaze as calm as usual, devoid of any panic or guilt.
In a daze, Jaime saw Ronin's hand beneath the table press slightly.
The movement was so subtle and fast that one might have thought it an illusion.
The words Ronin had spoken to him earlier echoed in his mind: "Trust me, my friend."
Jaime took a deep breath as a heavy sense of helplessness washed over him.
He didn't like placing his fate in someone else's hands, but he knew acting impulsively now could ruin whatever plan Ronin had in mind.
"I have staked everything, Ronin." He met the healer's calm eyes. "Do not fail me."
After a long struggle, Jaime sank back into his seat, forcing a faint, strained smile toward Brienne.
"Be patient, Brienne," he said softly. "Just trust me this once."
But to Brienne, the words sounded like a final judgment—not a companion's comfort, but the false reassurance of a victor discarding a pawn.
She looked at him, and the fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by deep disappointment—so deep it felt like an accusation.
That look nearly broke Jaime's heart.
Then she turned toward Ronin, uttering a final, scathing warning, her voice as cold as the northern winds in winter.
"You will burn in the Seven Hells, Ronin Graves. The gods will not forgive this. You will spend the rest of your days in shame and regret."
With that, she gave up all resistance. Straightening her broad shoulders, she walked out of the room with heavy, resolute steps, escorted by Northern soldiers.
The door closed with a dull boom, sealing away the last shred of trust she had placed in her "companions."
Her departure plunged the room into a brief, uneasy silence.
Jaime suddenly seized the wine cup from the table and drained it in one gulp, as though attempting to drown the pain and guilt gnawing at his heart in the sour liquid.
Roose Bolton's gaze shifted back to Ronin, hidden in the shadows, and a faint glint flashed in his eyes.
He was waiting.
Waiting to see how this mysterious healer would navigate through this delicate situation.
Frankly speaking, keeping Brienne as a hostage was not necessary for him. The potential collaboration with Tywin Lannister and the long-term benefits of returning Jaime safely had already been meticulously weighed in his mind.
He had done this deliberately to test Ronin Graves. This man… deeply unsettled him.
Not with fear, but with a subtle sense of threat—a feeling that control might be slipping through his fingers.
The calm and confident aura Ronin radiated, and his almost preternatural insight into the situation, triggered Roose Bolton's defensive instincts.
In other words, he wanted to reassert his authority and gain control of the negotiation.
Thus, he had deliberately dug a pit for Ronin, aimed at breaking up the newly united group and treating the moment as a minor test for him.
At the same time, it provided a clear view into whether Ronin truly sought only profit, as he claimed, or if he genuinely valued "friendship," as he professed.
Under Roose's watchful eyes, Ronin made his move.
He slowly stepped out of the shadows, allowing the firelight from the hearth to illuminate his face for the first time.
There was no trace of panic, indignation, or eagerness to patch the situation. Nor was there any sense of triumph at the progress of the negotiations. He remained utterly calm, as though what had happened had been nothing more than a passing interlude.
"Lord Bolton." His voice betrayed no emotion, even carrying a hint of ease.
"Before receiving your permit and setting off for King's Landing, I think we might discuss another… 'business deal.'"
'Interesting.' Roose's curiosity deepened.
"I am listening," he replied softly, his pale grey eyes fixed on Ronin, an amused expression on his face.
Ronin lightly pressed his fingertips together on the table and began speaking.
"Regarding our previous transaction, I believe we've reached an understanding. Yet, I am someone who takes great care in resolving my partner's worries. It helps establish long-term trust."
"For instance… when the war in the south concludes and you need to lead your army home, how do you reclaim Moat Cailin from the Iron Islands reavers with minimal cost?"
"Moat Cailin!" Roose Bolton straightened instinctively, his pupils narrowing slightly.
After all, Moat Cailin was the only choke point leading into and out of the North, and it was currently in the hands of those obstinate ironmen.
When he led his army back to the North, he would eventually have to halt in front of the imposing fortress he couldn't simply bypass.
He was certain he could capture it given enough time and manpower—but not without paying a substantial price.
And now Ronin claimed he had a method to retake it with minimal cost!
Was this healer boasting? Or…
Ronin observed Roose Bolton's reaction, his Insight Lv1 fully activated, and pursed his lips.
"Moat Cailin, titled the 'Throat of the North,' is unassailable due to its unique geography."
"Surrounded by swamps and protected by high walls, a direct assault would be akin to walking into a tiger's mouth… it would only bleed your army and enrich the marshes with their corpses."
"So instead of attacking head-on, the correct strategy is"—Ronin's lips curled up as he laid out his cards—"to let it 'rot' from within."
"Rot?" Roose Bolton repeated, intrigued.
"Exactly," Ronin nodded. "Step one: You can deploy soldiers to surround Moat Cailin from both sides, completely cutting off its contact with the outside world."
"The fortress has been undefended for centuries. There shouldn't be any substantial stockpile of grain inside. The ironmen who raided it were lightly equipped and did not carry large amounts of food. Soon, food shortages will occur within the walls, and if nothing unexpected happens, internal strife may follow right after."
Roose nodded after hearing this but offered no comment. This was a pretty standard tactic, and they had already been considering something similar.
"Step two."
"You can send people to approach the walls of Moat Cailin at night," Ronin continued.
"A sneak attack?" Roose Bolton asked, raising an eyebrow.
Although logic told him that no wise man would propose such a foolish suggestion, he couldn't help but remind Ronin, "For thousands of years, no one has been able to take Moat Cailin by direct assault."
"No, my lord, you misunderstand," Ronin said with a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I am not suggesting a sneak attack. That would be far too reckless and foolish."
"Instead, you may send… preferably children with clear voices, to sing Iron Islands songs like 'Iron Rain' or 'The Bloody Cup' beneath the walls each night."
"What good would that do?" Roose asked, confused.
Ronin's grin widened. "Imagine this: after days without food, shivering behind cold, damp walls, and tormented by homesickness, they hear the songs of their homeland, sung by innocent children. How do you think they will feel?"
"They will remember their poor yet familiar islands. They will question why they are starving, freezing to death, trapped in a desolate swamp for a worthless outpost."
"In other words… they will think of home."
"The children's songs act like a chisel, slowly prying open their hardened hearts, implanting fear and longing. Soon, despair will spread faster than any plague."
Jaime, listening nearby, felt a chill run down his spine.
He imagined the scene: starved, cold, hearing songs symbolizing freedom and home—so close, yet utterly unattainable. By the Seven, this had to be the most cruel torment for the soul!
He couldn't help but look at Ronin, awe rising in his chest. This man's understanding of the human heart was terrifyingly precise.
If, during his imprisonment at Harrenhal, the Starks had sent people to sing such songs into his ear each night, would he have broken sooner? He didn't know.
On the other side, upon hearing Ronin's suggestion, even Roose Bolton's eyes lit up with interest and a flicker of admiration.
The idea was simply ingenious!
It was beyond crude brute forcing, striking directly at vulnerable human hearts, sowing discord and division, and weakening the enemy without shedding a single drop of their own blood.
Ronin Graves… this man undoubtedly had the potential to be a great strategist.
But the man in question seemed not to have had enough of their shocking reactions. Ronin lightly tapped the table, pulling Roose back from his thoughts, then revealed his final trump card.
"Step three… create a plague."
"A plague?" Both Jaime and Roose gasped simultaneously.
In this age of poor medical care, such a thing almost spelled certain death. And yet Ronin spoke as casually as though proposing a minor adjustment.
Facing their questioning looks, Ronin lowered his head slightly, half his face sinking back into the shadows, his expression unreadable.
Then he began slowly, his voice becoming low and seductive, almost like a demon tempting the hearts of men.
"After a week of siege, the garrison's rations will be stretched thin, and their nerves will be at their lowest point."
"At that point, you can select several carcasses of diseased livestock… or human bodies, preferably those who died of fever, and launch them into the fortress at night using light catapults."
"At the same time, the same method could be applied to their water sources."
Ronin looked straight into Roose Bolton's eyes and said calmly, "Within three days, the ironmen inside will start developing fevers, vomiting, and showing suspicious red spots or sores on their bodies. They may not attribute it to viral infection—rather to the ethereal… gods."
Gulp. Jaime swallowed hard, chills running from head to toe. He stared at his "friend" in disbelief, his green eyes filled with horror.
Ronin's strategy could only be described as terrifying. It was cold, calculated, and utterly malicious—so much so that even he, the Kingslayer who had witnessed the cruelty of war, felt profound trepidation.
And yet he had to admit that if they truly followed through with Ronin's suggestion, it would absolutely annihilate the enemy, both psychologically and physically, at minimal cost.
But it was cruel. Too cruel.
Even Roose Bolton fell silent for a moment, his pale eyes fixed on Ronin, unsure how to respond.
However, Ronin did not stop persuading and pressed on in the same, appealing tone, "This is the best, simplest, and most direct method, my lord."
"At that time, the ironmen will descend into panic, turning on one another."
"They will draw blades against each other for the last drop of clean water, and proactively distance themselves from their sickening comrades. Trust will collapse entirely."
"I dare say that within a few days, they will voluntarily open the gates and surrender, begging for pardon and treatment. Or you can wait for chaos to run its course, then walk in and claim the castle… filled with corpses."