Harrenhal—looming, black-stoned, and scarred—stood beneath a sky choked with grey clouds. The locals often called it the King's Pyre Tower, for the name alone carried a weight of dread, as though the scorched spirit of Harren the Black still drifted through its charred battlements. The ancient king, burned alive by the flames of a dragon, had poured the strength of the Riverlands into building this monstrous castle, but nothing about it inspired pride. Instead, people whispered that the stones remembered agony.
Inside the keep, Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, sat behind a dark red lacquered oak desk. The sheen of the wood resembled blood long dried—an effect not accidental. Since the war had erupted, Harrenhal's ownership had shifted hands repeatedly. House Hoare, the original rulers, had been cast out with barely a fight by Lord Tywin Lannister. The Lord of Casterly Rock had briefly occupied the fortress, using this very room as his command chamber. The lavish desk and gilded lion-engraved candelabra in the corner were relics of his stay.
Now the gloomy halls belonged to Roose Bolton, and with his arrival came a cold, coffin-like stillness. The chamber was immaculate—so clean it was unsettling. It reflected its master perfectly, for no flicker of warmth or humanity ever touched Roose's pale, unreadable features. His movements were controlled, measured, patient—like a machine designed with precision and devoid of emotion.
The scent of parchment and dry ink lingered in the air. Roose set down a thick volume whose cover proclaimed:
"The Greatest of the Seven Kingdoms—Harrenhal and Its Owners."
The text documented every ruling house of Harrenhal since Aegon I Targaryen had conquered Westeros. Few would believe that in less than three centuries, the castle had passed through nine different noble houses. But the most disturbing truth lay not in the number—it lay in their endings. With the exception of House Hoare, now scattered in exile, not a single family had met a peaceful fate.
Everything in the book pushed toward a single chilling conclusion:
a curse.
Legend claimed Harren the Black had mixed human blood into the mortar during construction, dooming the castle to bring ruin to any who claimed it. Servants swore they heard the dying screams of Harren and his sons echoing through the halls at night.
Roose Bolton's slender fingers tapped the polished desk as he exhaled a quiet, disdainful breath.
He did not believe in curses.
As Lord of the Dreadfort—scion of the ancient flayers—Roose had no patience for superstition. To him, such tales were nothing more than excuses invented by the weak to mask their own failures. The world operated under a simple, ruthless principle: the strong survived, and the weak perished. Harrenhal's so-called curse was merely a poetic disguise for incompetence.
The Boltons had endured in the unforgiving North for thousands of years—not through faith, nor luck, nor ghost stories, but through calculation, silence, and the willingness to do whatever survival required.
Roose placed another scroll onto the desk—this one detailing troop rations and supply chains. His expression remained composed, but a faint crease appeared between his brows. The change was almost invisible, but for Roose Bolton, it was the equivalent of a shout.
Something was troubling him.
He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing as a young man came to mind—broad-shouldered, stern-faced, and resolute.
Robb Stark. The King in the North.
Even Roose, who admired little and respected less, could acknowledge the young wolf's brilliance in war. Robb had marched south with fire in his veins, outmanoeuvring battle-hardened generals, winning victory after victory, and suffering almost no defeats. His rise was so rapid that many whispered he might topple the Baratheon crown itself.
But Robb Stark's talent ended at the edge of the battlefield.
For no one—no commander, no advisor, no lord—had expected him to break his marriage pact with Walder Frey for the sake of an insignificant girl.
It was not simply foolish—it was suicidal.
House Frey controlled the Twins, the most vital crossing along the Green Fork. To lose their loyalty was to sever the Northern army's lifeline. With the Freys drifting toward the enemy, the North's supply routes collapsed. It was a strategic disaster greater than any lost battle.
Roose Bolton could not fathom how Robb had made such a reckless decision. It was self-inflicted ruin.
Moat Cailin, the narrow choke point that connected the North to the South, was now held by the Ironborn—piratical raiders who clung to it like a poisoned thorn. Without the Twins, there was no alternative supply line, no reinforcement route, no safe passage home.
Robb's forces still fought in the Riverlands, but they were now like trees without roots, like rivers without source—surrounded by war, unable to advance, unable to retreat.
Roose felt as though he were sealed inside a beautifully crafted coffin—safe for now, yet slowly suffocating.
Robb Stark was winning every battle, but losing the war.
And then there was Catelyn Tully—driven by maternal desperation, blinded by emotion. She had released Jaime Lannister, the most valuable prisoner in all the Seven Kingdoms. He was the key to every negotiation, every concession, every future peace. To let him go was an act of staggering stupidity.
House Stark certainly produced fascinating fools.
Roose massaged his temple, thinking of the kingslayer. He had not ordered Vargo Hoat or the Brave Companions to pursue Jaime, yet the greedy, unreliable sellsword had ridden out on his own. Roose distrusted Vargo—everyone with sense did—but at present, he lacked the position to remove him.
That would have to wait.
He opened a drawer and glanced at an envelope sealed with a lion's sigil—Tywin Lannister's mark. His pale eyes lingered on it for a long moment.
Footsteps interrupted his thoughts—firm, metallic, echoing down the corridor. Roose recognized the cadence at once. His most dependable man.
Without lifting his head, he spoke softly.
Sure enough, Iron Leg Worton appeared in the doorway, face chiseled like stone, mail armor scratched and battered, greaves strapped tight to his legs. His gaze was sharp, his voice controlled.
"My Lord."
Roose tilted his head the slightest degree, granting acknowledgment.
Worton continued, words clipped and direct.
"We found the kingslayer."
Roose's eyes rose, a flicker of interest sliding across their pale surface.
"Oh? It seems Vargo Hoat has finally proven useful."
Worton shook his head.
"No, My Lord… not Hoat."
His expression shifted, tightening with confusion—an emotion rare for a man so blunt and steady.
"It was him himself… er…"
He struggled, searching for language beyond his limited vocabulary. His lips moved, stopped, twitched again. After a long moment, he gave up.
"In short, they are at the castle gate right now."
He swallo
wed once, then offered the only advice he could manage:
"You should see for yourself, My Lord."
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