Chapter 153 — Smash the Cup as the Signal? I'll Smash It for You!
Riverrun.
Inside House Tully's council hall, the atmosphere churned like the surging waters of the Red Fork itself—violent, restless, and on the verge of boiling over.
A map of the Riverlands lay spread across the heavy oak table, but its roads and rivers were now pinned beneath blood-stained reports… and a single object even more damning:
A flayed man badge, still smeared with blood.
Lord Hoster Tully sat at the head of the table, his fingers tapping irritably against the armrest—steady, impatient, the rhythm of a man being pushed toward a decision he didn't want to make.
"Gods above…" he muttered. "This is beyond horrifying."
Across from him, Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor boomed theatrically, his enormous body nearly swallowing his high-backed chair.
"Flaying!" he exclaimed, voice ringing through the hall. "How many years has it been since we've heard of such horrors?"
"Disgusting!"
"Hundreds killed and villages burned—and on Riverlands soil!" He shook his vast head, clucking his tongue, as if personally wounded by the sheer ugliness of it all. "Absolutely disgusting!"
At his side, Roose Bolton glanced toward him.
For an instant—so faint it was almost nothing—something sharp flickered behind Bolton's calm eyes.
A hint of cold killing intent.
Hoster Tully hasn't even spoken yet… and you're already leaping up to shout for the whole world to hear.
Are you trying to make it obvious the North is divided?
"You know as well as I do, Lord Wyman," Roose said mildly, his tone calm—yet laced with just the right amount of restrained indignation. "If I had sent men to do this…"
He paused, his pale eyes shifting slowly across the room.
"…there would not have been a single survivor left to testify."
"This is clearly a frame. Someone is planting evidence."
"Hah."
Before Bolton's words could even settle, a mocking snort sliced through the air.
Everyone turned.
Leaning against the wall stood a knight in chainmail, a cloak of red-and-blue stripes hanging down his back. His arms were folded over his chest, and his gaze scraped across Roose Bolton's pale face like a knife.
Brynden Tully. The Blackfish.
"The evidence is sitting right on the table, Bolton," Brynden said. His voice wasn't loud—if anything, it was hoarse—but every word carried weight.
"The flayed man badge. The 'craftsmanship.' I'd say that answers every question we might've had."
He stepped forward with a slight limp, one hand resting casually on his sword hilt.
Lazy posture.
Deadly threat.
"If you ask me, instead of wasting breath in here…" Brynden's mouth curled faintly, "…we should let the honorable Lord Bolton experience what flaying feels like."
The pressure in the room surged like a tide, rolling toward Roose Bolton.
But the lord of the Dreadfort did not flinch.
Not even a little.
His expression remained frozen calm—polite, composed, almost elegant.
He only took a single step back, slow and measured, and even his eyes barely moved.
"For the suffering inflicted upon Riverlands smallfolk," Roose said evenly, "I offer my deepest condolences."
"But flaying… is an ancient, cruel practice."
"A shameful custom long abandoned by House Bolton."
"I cannot explain why someone would commit such acts."
He raised his chin slightly.
"But I can swear to you—swear before every lord present, swear before the Old Gods and the New…"
His voice sharpened—not louder, but colder, harder.
"I, Roose Bolton, and every soldier sworn to the Dreadfort, have not set foot in the Riverlands within the period described in these reports."
"We neither participated in, nor commanded, any raids or slaughter of Riverlands villages."
Then his gaze turned toward the room like a blade slowly rotating.
"The Dreadfort's forces are, at this very moment, gathering near Winterfell under the direct orders of Lord Rickard Stark…"
"Preparing for uprising."
"Preparing for war against the Mad King."
No hysteria.
No desperate pleading.
Only absolute calm—so controlled it felt almost unnatural.
And somehow… that composure carried far more weight than any angry denial.
Even the Blackfish's fingers, resting on his sword hilt, paused.
Just slightly.
A faint surprise flickered in his eyes.
For a moment—
the council hall fell silent.
Only Benjen Stark shifted uncomfortably, tense as a drawn bowstring, the weight settling heavier and heavier in his chest.
He wanted to speak.
He wanted to scream.
But in the presence of lords like these, all he could do was part his lips… and swallow the words.
As a son of House Stark, Benjen had no desire to marry any Tully girl.
If it were up to him, he'd rather bleed on the battlefield, sweat in armor, live in the saddle—
not be chained by politics.
But Brandon was dead.
Eddard was locked in King's Landing.
And his father's command, his family's burden, lay on his shoulders like iron.
Finally, a heavy sigh broke the stillness.
All eyes shifted toward the man on the high seat.
The ruler of the Riverlands.
The lord of Riverrun.
Hoster Tully drew in a breath.
His face tightened, then carefully arranged itself into something heavy and "fair"—a mask of sorrowful justice.
"To swear before the gods…" Hoster said slowly, voice thick with practiced gravity, "is indeed… very convincing."
Hoster Tully had, truthfully, stopped wanting to recognize that marriage pact the moment Brandon Stark disgraced himself in King's Landing, and then Lyanna went and pulled that spectacular stunt of kidnapping a prince.
If there had ever been a perfect way to poison an alliance, that was it.
And yet…
As Lord Paramount of the Trident, he couldn't afford to spit on promises already spoken. A lord's word wasn't a ribbon you untied just because it had become inconvenient.
Seven hells…
If I'd known it would turn into this, I should've married my daughter to Tywin Lannister's eldest son back then. Would've saved me a thousand headaches.
With the thought lingering like bile, Hoster rapped his knuckles against the armrest again. His voice carried the weight of a man being strangled by duty.
"However," he said grimly, "the Bolton sigil… the tradition of flaying… appearing in villages butchered on Riverlands soil—those are facts as solid as iron."
"I, Hoster of House Tully, must answer for the blood that has been spilled."
"I must give an answer to my people, who now live in terror."
Then he looked at Roose Bolton, expression complicated—part caution, part distrust, part reluctant necessity.
"To fully clear House Bolton and yourself of suspicion… and to prove your loyalty to House Stark—"
"To prove your loyalty to the coming pact between the North and the Riverlands…"
Hoster's gaze hardened.
"I require you to leave Riverrun at once, Lord Roose Bolton."
He snatched the blood-stained flayed man badge from the table and flung it toward Roose.
"Find them. Catch them."
"Whoever they are—whatever power hides behind them—bring back their heads…"
"And bring back proof."
"If you cannot uncover the true culprits…"
Hoster's voice turned sharp as a drawn blade.
"Then I will, in the name of Riverrun, drive every Northerner out of the Riverlands."
"And until Lord Bolton returns with the truth—until he proves himself wholly innocent—"
"The betrothal of Benjen Stark and Catelyn Tully…"
"And any deeper talks of alliance between our three sides…"
"Are suspended."
With that, Hoster leaned back and waved a hand—dismissal, pure and unmistakable.
Roose Bolton listened without a flicker of emotion, as if the man were reading aloud a dinner menu.
He understood perfectly.
The old trout was posturing.
Too frightened to sever ties with the North completely… but eager to shove Bolton out the door and make him carry the entire stinking burden alone.
"Lord Tully's decision," Roose said calmly, "is reasonable."
Long years of discipline wrapped around him like armor. He rose, bowed to everyone—perfectly precise, beyond reproach—then drew his cloak around his shoulders and turned to leave.
His steps remained steady. No humiliation. No anger.
Only that bottomless, unnerving calm—like something leech-like sliding beneath dark water.
And as he passed Benjen, a voice as flat as frozen lake ice drifted back.
"Do not worry, young Stark."
"I will find them."
"Soon."
---
Harrenhal — The Hall of a Hundred Hearths
Though called the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, it truly held only thirty or forty fires.
Even so, compared to most castles, it was monstrous.
Massive stone pillars supported a vaulted ceiling that vanished into shadow. Long tables groaned beneath meat, bread, roasted vegetables, steaming stews—enough food for a small army.
At the high seat sat Oswell Whent.
He wore an overly tight crimson velvet robe, as though he meant to squeeze himself into power through sheer pressure. A smile sat pasted on his face—false, eager, almost servile.
But in the hollows of his eyes burned something he couldn't hide:
Nervousness.
Hatred.
"Has Lord Walter still not awakened?"
The cold voice cut through the false warmth like steel across glass.
It was Lance Lot.
His gaze pinned Oswell without blinking, like an interrogation.
"Since entering Harrenhal," Lance continued, "I haven't seen him once."
"And I remember—only months ago—he could still ride at full gallop."
"Ah…"
Oswell sighed, dripping carefully measured sorrow.
"My brother's illness is severe. He can barely swallow even thin broth now… and many maesters are helpless before it."
"My good-sister and I pray to the Seven day and night, hoping he may recover, but…"
His voice filled with regret and melancholy, the performance almost perfect.
Almost.
Lance gave no objection. He simply nodded slightly.
"A tragedy," he said evenly. "Illness is a cruel thing—to turn a strong and wise lord into this."
He lifted the wine at his side—bringing it toward his lips—
Then paused.
And set it down again, untouched.
---
Oswell's mind screamed.
Drink! Drink it—drink it, you bastard!
Seven hells—WHY WON'T HE DRINK?!
The poisoned wine sat in that damn pitcher. One sip. Just one.
But from the moment the feast began, Lance hadn't taken a drop. And even the newly named Lord of Winterfell sat beside him like a broken corpse—silent, hollow-eyed, refusing food, refusing wine.
Then Lance's voice struck again.
"Truthfully… I should apologize."
Oswell's spine went rigid.
"When I was younger," Lance said, calm as ever, "I was too hot-headed. I didn't measure my strength properly."
"And I cut off your hand."
Not a hint of guilt touched his tone.
It wasn't even an apology.
It was a statement—like he was merely discussing the weather.
Almost as though he regretted only one thing:
That he'd cut off just one.
In an instant, humiliation, fury, and dread surged into Oswell's skull like boiling blood.
It hasn't even been that long!
And this white dog dares bring it up?!
His left hand clenched around the goblet. His right—cold, heavy, golden—trembled as he gripped the artificial hand, that cursed reminder of everything Lance had taken from him.
Phantom pain tore through him. Oswell shook.
Lady Shella Whent quickly placed a hand on his golden wrist, a warning touch.
Endure.
Don't ruin it.
Oswell forced a breath, then another. His face pulled into a stiff smile that looked like agony.
"No," he rasped through his teeth. "That was… my fault. I offended His Grace."
"I should be thanking you, Ser Lance… for your justice."
"For granting me the chance to repent before the Seven."
Look at that, he thought bitterly.
I have to thank the man who ruined my life.
---
Lance's mouth tugged upward—barely.
Not a smile.
A blade.
His gaze slid to Oswell's collar, where the crimson velvet parted…
Revealing a sharp streak of white beneath.
White armor.
The Kingsguard.
Lance's voice didn't rise.
Yet it detonated through the hall like thunder.
"Then tell me…"
"Why are you still wearing Kingsguard white, Ser Oswell?"
Silence slammed into the room.
"Are you missing the cloak you lost?"
"Or do you think wearing that armor gives you courage…"
"When you plan to betray the king—"
"And violate guest right?"
Oswell's head went blank.
He knew.
He knew everything.
Cold terror crushed Oswell's throat. His left hand clenched the goblet so hard his fingers whitened—but even now he didn't dare throw it.
Didn't dare smash it.
Because that was the signal.
And he was suddenly too afraid to give it.
Lance's eyes narrowed slightly, as if amused.
"Smashing your cup as the signal…"
"What, you can't do it?"
A thin, merciless mockery entered his voice.
"Fine."
"I'll smash it for you."
He rose.
Picked up the goblet of red wine in front of him—the one he hadn't touched all night—
Then, with a single brutal motion, hurled it to the stone floor.
Goblet.
Base.
All of it.
CRASH—!!
The sound echoed like a death bell.
CLANGGGGG—!!