Roose Bolton did not leave the castle. Instead, he received Corleone and the others in a small reception hall.
The fire in the hearth burned quietly, its flickering light casting shifting shadows across every face present.
Seated at the head of the table, Roose Bolton studied the group before him, a lineup that could only be described as the strangest combination in all of Westeros. A flicker of confusion crossed his pale face.
At the same time, he understood why Walton had worn such an odd expression when reporting to him.
There was a woman built sturdier than most men, clad in armor smeared with grime.
Beside her sat Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.
The knight of the Kingsguard looked thoroughly miserable. His golden hair was filthy, clinging to his temples. The once handsome lines of his face were drawn tight with exhaustion. His right hand was gone from the wrist, wrapped in gauze tied with a neat bow.
Still, no matter how wretched he appeared, he was alive. That alone eased Roose Bolton's mind.
Roose's gaze shifted to the dark-skinned Dothraki warrior. He recognized him as one of Vargo Hoat's men, the sort who kept his eyes roaming even while eating.
Yet the most striking figure was the fourth.
Roose Bolton's attention finally settled on Corleone.
The man's tattered clothes were no different from a common farmer's, spattered with mud and darkened bloodstains. He sat there quietly, his posture unusually relaxed, even carrying a strange elegance that clashed sharply with his appearance.
That peculiar presence made Roose uneasy. It felt like a venomous snake lurking in the dark, suddenly encountering one of its own kind and instinctively tensing.
Even more unsettling was the invisible aura surrounding this so-called farmer. It was subtle, impossible to put into words, yet unmistakable.
A calm sense of control, as if he saw everything clearly.
It reminded Roose of the first time he had followed King Robert into rebellion and met Lord Tywin.
Absurd.
Roose frowned slightly.
Not even the gods could explain how four people so utterly mismatched had ended up together.
Silence settled over the reception hall. Only the occasional crackle of the fire could be heard, along with another sound that grated on the ears.
"Scrape, scrape…"
"Scrrrape…"
Jaime Lannister gripped a dining knife in his left hand, struggling valiantly against the fragrant roasted beef on his plate.
The meat was stubborn, unwilling to yield. The blade screeched against the porcelain plate, producing a sharp, irritating noise.
He tried again and again. His cheeks flushed faintly with effort, his jaw tightening, yet he still failed to cut a clean piece. Instead, juice splattered across the tablecloth.
The noise grew louder, and the once solemn hall took on an unintended touch of farce.
"That's enough."
After watching for far too long, Brienne could not bear it any longer. She picked up her fork and firmly pinned the beef on Jaime's plate, giving him a solid anchor.
"Thank you, not-friend."
Jaime tilted his head politely. His tone was even, but he deliberately emphasized the last words.
Clearly, he had not forgotten Brienne's earlier insistence on drawing a line between them.
Still, thanks to her, he could finally eat.
He cut off a small piece of beef and brought it to his mouth. The long-forgotten sensation of tender, juicy meat bloomed across his tongue. Seasoned simply with black pepper and salt, it was an absolute delicacy for someone who had survived on hard bread and salted meat for far too long.
Jaime could not help narrowing his eyes slightly as he savored it.
Wonderful.
That look of complete immersion in the pleasure of food only deepened Roose Bolton's confusion as he observed in silence.
This was not how a prisoner in enemy territory behaved. It did not even resemble the caution of a fugitive.
"If I remember correctly, Ser Jaime."
At last, Roose spoke, his voice calm but pointed.
"We are, at least in theory, still enemies."
"Edmure Tully has offered a reward of one thousand Golden Dragons for your capture."
"Yet here you are, striding openly into Harrenhal, calmly enjoying the food I provide, as if you were out on a pleasant outing. Don't you think that's a bit disrespectful?"
Jaime did not answer immediately.
Instead, he hooked the entire piece of beef with his knife and tore into it with his teeth.
If Corleone's plan failed, he might as well eat well while he could.
"Are you planning to turn me in for the bounty, Lord Bolton?"
Chewing heartily, Jaime shot back the question.
"If that's what you want, you can have us bound right now."
"But I doubt you'd be able to collect the full thousand Golden Dragons."
As he spoke, he raised his right arm stump and waved it in front of Roose.
"See? Your hostage isn't whole anymore."
The words were both a statement of fact and a test.
Jaime appeared careless, but his eyes carefully watched every shift in Roose Bolton's expression.
Corleone's earlier warning echoed in his mind.
"Remember, Jaime. Roose Bolton is extremely pragmatic. The more forceful he appears, the more it means he's calculating, weighing the price."
"What he truly wants to negotiate is not what Robb Stark might give him for you, but what he can extract from your father."
Sure enough, Jaime's provocation did not anger Roose.
He did not respond directly to the mention of the bounty. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, trying to project pressure as he spoke in a threatening tone.
"Losing a hand does not seem to have dulled your sense of humor, Ser Jaime. Perhaps I should cut off your other hand as well and send it to Robb Stark."
"I imagine he would be delighted by such a special gift, considering your nephew… or your son… took his father's head."
Despite Corleone's warning, the words still sparked fury in Jaime.
He clenched the knife and drove it into the table with a sharp crack, emerald eyes blazing as he stared at Roose.
"Don't push me, Roose Bolton, or I'll cut out your tongue."
"The Brave Companions are your men, aren't they? They took my hand. Once I'm back in King's Landing, I can tell my father that you ordered it."
"Heh…"
Roose Bolton answered with nothing more than a cold smile.
"I could also send your head back to King's Landing on its own. Let us hope you can still babble nonsense in front of Lord Tywin then."
The air instantly turned sharp and tense.
Behind Roose, Walton's hand went to his sword hilt. Brienne and Iggo tightened their grips on their knives at the same time.
Just as the tension between the two sides reached its breaking point, a voice cut in at exactly the right moment.
"Please forgive Ser Jaime's loose tongue, Lord Bolton…"
"After all, you can hardly expect someone who has just endured such a drastic ordeal to remain perfectly rational, can you?"
The voice was not loud. It was low, even slightly hoarse, flowing slowly and clearly. Every word seemed carefully weighed, carrying quiet gravity.
As the voice fell silent, Roose Bolton's gaze snapped away from Jaime and landed on the man who had sat quietly to the side the entire time, the farmer who had just finished eating and was now elegantly wiping the corner of his mouth.
From the moment he entered, this man had displayed a composure utterly at odds with his ragged clothes. Yet in Roose's deeply ingrained sense of hierarchy, that did nothing to change the man's lowly origins.
A farmer.
Why would a farmer dare to speak now, interrupting his exchange with Jaime?
Roose shot Corleone a sharp look, then turned back to Jaime, only to see him visibly relax.
Jaime said casually, "Forgive me. I'm exhausted."
"For what comes next, please speak with my personal advisor, Vito Corleone. He can fully represent my position."
With that, Jaime adopted a posture that clearly said he was done with troublesome discussions and returned his attention to battling the beef on his plate.
Personal advisor?
The phrase struck Roose as absurd, almost making him suspect the Kingslayer had finally lost his mind after all he had suffered.
A farmer, empowered to speak on behalf of the heir to Casterly Rock?
Ridiculous.
Roose's gaze sharpened, as if he meant to strip away Corleone's tattered clothes and expose a common swindler beneath.
Yet under his scrutiny, Corleone finished his simple post-meal routine.
The white linen napkin was placed lightly on the table. Every movement was unhurried, precise, almost ritualistic.
Then he adjusted his posture and leaned back into his chair.
Corleone's body sank into the broad shadow cast by the high-backed seat. The firelight from the hearth illuminated only his lower half. His upper body, especially his face, was mostly swallowed by darkness.
Only his pitch-black eyes remained visible, calmly observing the world before him.
The entire reception hall seemed to fall abruptly silent.
Roose Bolton felt his breath catch.
He stared in disbelief, stunned to realize that the figure hidden in the shadows was radiating an aura that surged upward at an astonishing pace, faintly pressing down on him, the Lord of the Dreadfort himself.
This was not something a farmer could possess.
It was the presence of someone long accustomed to power.
Impossible.
A storm of shock churned through Roose's mind. Even so, he forced his expression to remain calm.
Only his pale eyes betrayed him, their pupils tightening against his will.
In the shadows, the corner of Corleone's mouth lifted ever so slightly.
This was exactly the effect he wanted.
On the road to Harrenhal, he had taken the Golden Dragons seized from the Brave Companions and fed them into the system without hesitation, drawing a skill of remarkable quality.
[Majesty Lv2].