Chapter 30 — The White Sunburst
Inside a chamber of Harrenhal, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and a faint, unfamiliar spice.
Walton stood trembling before a dark red writing desk, his head bowed so low it nearly disappeared into the collar of his mail.
A coin pouch stained with flecks of mud lay on the polished tabletop. Its mouth hung slightly open, a glimpse of gold dragons visible within.
Roose Bolton did not touch the pouch.
He did not even look at it.
"You accepted Odin's gold," he said softly, "and released the man I intended to kill."
The calmness of his voice made Walton shudder violently. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead in an instant.
Terror surged through his chest as his mind raced wildly—who had sold him out? Which bastard had dared betray him?
"Don't waste your thoughts guessing, Walton."
Roose seemed to peer straight into his mind, his pale eyes carrying an all-seeing clarity.
"There is nothing I wish to know that remains hidden from me."
"Not in the Dreadfort," he added, "and not here."
He leaned back slightly into his high-backed chair, pale fingers tapping lightly against the armrest.
Walton dared to steal a glance from the corner of his eye. His lips trembled as he tried to speak.
"My lord… I—"
"Heh."
Before he could finish, Roose let out a faint chuckle, as if something genuinely amused him.
"Since you took his money and did his bidding, Walton," he said lightly,
"then you will go with him."
"…What?!"
Walton jerked his head up, disbelief flooding his eyes.
With a hollow thud, he collapsed to his knees, his voice cracking into something dangerously close to sobbing.
"My lord! Forgive me! I never meant to deceive you!"
"I've served you for over ten years! My father gave his entire life to House Bolton! Please—on my loyalty, on my—"
"I said—"
Roose cut him off, clearly bored of the noise now. His voice rose just enough to crush any resistance, cold and absolute.
"You will go with him."
---
"So… you actually came along?"
Odin rode atop a fairly docile packhorse. His inexperience made the ride a little bumpy, and he couldn't resist a teasing remark.
By the shores of the Gods Eye, autumn sunlight shimmered across the rippling lake, reflecting off Walton's rigid face—which looked, frankly, like a man suffering from severe constipation.
Walton's expression darkened. He gripped the reins tightly and replied through clenched teeth,
"These are Lord Bolton's orders."
"I am to ensure your safe return to King's Landing—and…"
"…to collect what is owed to him."
"Owed?" Odin echoed lightly.
At the mention of that word, Odin lightly tugged the reins, slowing his mount. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his eyes.
His arrangement with Roose Bolton had rested largely on tacit understanding—unspoken alignment and future, intangible gains. No explicit "payment" had ever been discussed.
"What do we owe him?" Odin asked cautiously.
Walton merely shook his head, brow furrowed. "My lord didn't say."
"He only ordered me to go straight to Lord Tywin once we reach King's Landing."
The answer was vague—deliberately so.
Odin narrowed his eyes.
Given Walton's temperament, outright lying seemed unlikely. Which made the situation all the more intriguing.
What was Roose Bolton playing at?
Was this escort meant as surveillance?
Or was Bolton using the return of Jaime as a bridge—to open a more direct line to Tywin Lannister?
There was too little information to piece it together cleanly.
Beside him, Walton ground his teeth and muttered darkly, venom thick in his voice:
"Damn it… if I ever find out which bastard drank my wine, took my coin, and still dared stab me in the back—"
"When I get back north, I swear I'll skin him naked and hang him from the walls of the Dreadfort. Let the crows peck his eyes out."
Watching his righteous fury, Odin only shook his head faintly, a knowing curve touching the corner of his lips. He said nothing.
Truth be told, the answer wasn't hard to guess.
Whoever benefited most from this affair—whoever removed the greatest risk—was almost certainly the one pulling strings behind the curtain.
But Odin had no intention of enlightening Walton.
Let the muscle-brained northerner stew in his suspicions.
After all, Odin himself still hadn't untangled every thread.
"Keep an eye on that one, blood of my blood."
Shaking his head, Odin turned and raised his voice. "Don't let him die."
"My real business still needs him as the key to the door."
"Yes, blood of my blood."
Across Iggo's saddle, Rorge remained bound and unconscious, slung like a sack of grain, his body jolting with each step of the horse.
Iggo answered in a low voice, reaching out to check the ropes—perhaps to loosen them slightly.
But at that very moment—
"Woooo——"
A deep, drawn-out horn blast suddenly rolled in from the forested road ahead!
Immediately after came the thunder of hooves—rapid, dense, swelling fast as it closed the distance.
Boom—boom—boom—
There were many of them. Even the ground seemed to tremble.
"Form up!"
Odin's pupils shrank as he shouted sharply, instinct overtaking thought.
Even with only one hand left, Jaime reacted fastest, sword flashing free in an instant.
Brienne spurred her horse forward to Odin's front-left. The ridiculous dress was gone—she now wore her armor again, sword and shield already in hand, every inch the seasoned warrior.
Iggo abandoned his attempt to adjust Rorge's bindings, drawing his blade with a low, guttural growl.
Even Walton—still wearing a sour expression—unsheathed his weapon by reflex, eyes locked on the source of the sound.
For all his resentment, the man proved himself a veteran. In seconds, he joined Brienne and Iggo, forming a tight, practical triangular defense that enclosed Odin at its center.
Their response spoke volumes.
This hastily assembled group might be small—but every one of them was elite.
They stared down the road, muscles taut, eyes unblinking.
Only a few breaths later, a cavalry unit emerged from the tree-lined avenue as if conjured from thin air.
Twenty… maybe thirty riders.
They weren't charging at full tilt, but their pace was relentless, spacing precise, formation disciplined—clearly professionals.
The synchronized thunder of hooves pressed down on the air like a physical weight.
They were coming straight at them.
Odin lifted his gaze, unable to tell whether these riders were friend or foe. His hand slipped into his cloak, fingers closing around the pass bearing Roose Bolton's seal.
As the distance shrank, his pupils constricted sharply.
At the head of the formation, a tall banner snapped violently in the autumn wind.
Its field was black as a starless night.
And emblazoned upon it, stark and blazing, was a symbol that seemed to radiate cold brilliance—
A white sunburst.