Harrenhal, Kingspyre Tower.
The name itself carried an air of ill omen, as though the resentful spirit of Harren the Black, burned to death by dragonfire, still clung to this castle that had been built at the cost of the entire Riverlands.
Lord Bolton, Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort, sat behind a dark red lacquered oak desk. The color was so deep it resembled blood that had dried long ago.
Since the war began, this room had changed hands several times. House Whent, the original rulers of Harrenhal, had offered almost no resistance before being effortlessly driven out by Lord Tywin Lannister.
The rulers of Casterly Rock had briefly used this chamber as his office. The costly desk, along with the gilded candlesticks in the corner carved with lions, had been brought here during that time.
Now, with Roose Bolton's arrival, the already sinister castle had gained a new layer of cold, tomb-like stillness.
The room was unnaturally clean, spotless to the point of obsession. That kind of order was unsettling rather than comforting.
Much like Lord Bolton himself, there was no way to glimpse even a trace of genuine emotion beneath the pallid skin of his face.
Every movement he made was precise and methodical. He was like a finely tuned machine, untouched by personal feeling.
The air carried the scent of old parchment and dried ink. Roose set aside the book in his hands. Its title was printed clearly on the cover: The Greatest of the Seven Kingdoms: Harrenhal and Its Owners.
The book recorded, in painstaking detail, every lord who had held Harrenhal since Aegon Targaryen the Conqueror unified the Seven Kingdoms.
It was hard to imagine that in less than three hundred years, the castle had passed through the hands of nine great houses.
More absurd still was the fact that, aside from House Whent, who still wandered in exile, almost none of Harrenhal's former rulers or their families had met a good end.
Every account in the book seemed to point toward an unbelievable conclusion: a curse.
Legend claimed that Harren the Black had mixed human blood into the mortar while building the castle, and that from the moment it was completed, Harrenhal had been burdened with a dreadful curse that prevented anyone from holding it for long.
As a result, every lord who claimed the castle seemed doomed to misfortune.
Some said that in the dead of night, servants could still hear Harren and his sons screaming as they burned alive.
"Heh."
Roose Bolton's slender, pale fingers brushed across the smooth surface of the desk, his expression faintly disdainful.
As the Lord of the Dreadfort, leader of the flayers, he had never believed in such nonsense.
To Roose, these stories were nothing more than excuses used by the weak to mask their failures, or a way to comfort themselves.
In his philosophy, the laws that governed the world were simple and cruel.
A lord who could not defend his lands and power was merely proving his own lack of strength and intelligence.
The strong devoured the weak. Only the fit survived. That was the iron rule.
The so-called curse of Harrenhal was nothing but a fig leaf woven by failures to cover their own incompetence and stupidity.
House Bolton had survived thousands of years of rivalry with House Stark in the harsh, frozen North through careful calculation, decisive action, and patient endurance, not by praying to ghosts or gods.
Tapping the desk lightly, Roose set aside another scroll detailing grain consumption and current supply levels. His movements were slow and unhurried.
Every small gesture carried a refined elegance that clashed with the North's usual roughness, more like a southern noble than a northern lord.
Yet now, that normally placid face showed a rare, slight frown.
The change was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was real.
Clearly, the situation had developed into something even Roose Bolton found mildly troublesome.
He leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes. A tall, broad-shouldered figure with a resolute face gradually took shape in his mind.
The King in the North, Robb Stark. The young man idolized to madness by the northerners.
Even by Roose's standards, the wolf pup possessed undeniable talent on the battlefield.
He was bold in his use of troops and decisive in his choices. Since marching south, he had won battle after battle without a single true defeat. For a time, his momentum had even given people hope that Baratheon rule might be overturned.
But his talent existed only on the battlefield.
No one had expected him to tear up his marriage pact with Walder Frey over a woman of no importance.
That was not just a breach of trust. It was political suicide.
No, not only political. Militarily and strategically as well.
House Frey controlled The Twins, the most vital crossing on the Green Fork. Without their support, the northern army's supply lines and communications were effectively strangled.
That single foolish decision had pushed a powerful potential ally straight into opposition. The strategic damage it caused went far beyond losing a single battle.
Roose Bolton racked his brain and still could not understand what had driven Robb Stark to make such a reckless move.
It was nothing short of digging his own grave.
After all, Moat Cailin was now occupied by a group of Ironborn. Those bandit-like raiders were like a poisonous wedge, hammered firmly into the only land route connecting the North and the south.
If Robb Stark had not gone too far, they might have relied on the wealth of The Twins for some measure of support.
Now, nearly all the northern forces had become an isolated army, completely cut off from their homeland, Roose Bolton included.
They still appeared to be campaigning in the south, fierce and imposing. In truth, they were like trees without roots, water without a source, mired deep in the quagmire of war in the Riverlands, unable to advance or retreat.
It felt like being sealed inside an ornate coffin. Safe for the moment, yet with the air slowly thinning.
The King in the North had won every battle, but he was losing the war.
And then there was Catelyn Tully, that foolish woman blinded by maternal love.
She had released Jaime Lannister on her own authority.
The most valuable captive in all the Seven Kingdoms. The greatest bargaining chip the North possessed, something that could have been used in negotiations with Tywin Lannister himself.
House Stark truly produced remarkable people.
At the thought of the Kingslayer, Roose Bolton opened his eyes and gently massaged his aching brow.
He had not ordered Vargo Hoat and the Brave Companions to pursue Jaime, yet the sellsword had taken it upon himself to leave the castle with his men without even informing him.
Roose had no trust in that greedy Essosi mercenary with no loyalty to speak of, but for now, he had no good way to rein him in.
He would have to deal with it once his hands were free.
With that thought, he could not help opening a drawer and glancing at the letter inside, its seal marked by a lion pressed into red wax.
As the Lord of the Dreadfort considered his next move, a familiar sound of footsteps approached from afar. They were crisp, the ring of armored boots against the floor.
There was no need to look. Roose Bolton already knew his most trusted subordinate had arrived.
Sure enough, when he lifted his gaze slightly, a face as hard and solemn as stone appeared in the doorway.
The man wore chainmail scarred by countless battles, iron greaves wrapped around his legs, his eyes sharp and alert.
"My lord."
Steelshanks Walton's voice was low, his words stripped of all unnecessary ornament.
"We've found the Kingslayer."
"Oh?"
Roose Bolton lifted his head in mild surprise, pale eyes focusing on Walton's face.
His thin lips moved as he said mockingly, "It seems Vargo Hoat is more capable than I thought."
"It wasn't… not Vargo Hoat, my lord."
Walton hurried to explain. The stern look on his face turned oddly awkward.
"It was him himself… well…"
He was clearly eager to describe the scene, but with Walton's limited vocabulary, he simply did not know how.
After hesitating for a long moment, he swallowed and forced out the words, his mouth twitching.
"In short, they're at the gate right now."
"You'd better come see for yourself, my lord."