Roose Bolton did not leave the castle. Instead, he arranged to receive Corleone and his strange party in a small sitting room tucked behind the main hall. The flames in the fireplace burned in a steady rhythm, the firelight rising and falling, casting shifting shadows across the stone walls and over the faces of everyone present.
Bolton sat in the main seat, his pale features momentarily tightening with confusion as he studied the people before him—truly the strangest combination of individuals one could find anywhere in Westeros.
Only now did he understand the odd expression his retainer Worton had worn when reporting their arrival. Anyone would have been baffled.
A woman, large-framed and more imposing than most men, sat in dull, blood-stained armor. Her chest was flat, her hair damp with sweat, and her expression set in rigid seriousness. She radiated an awkward, stubborn intensity.
Next to her sat the Kingslayer—Jaime Lannister.
The man who once shone like a golden knight now looked utterly worn down. His famous hair was greasy and matted against his forehead. His once strikingly handsome features were drawn and exhausted, and where his right hand should have been, only gauze remained—tied neatly in a bow, as if mockingly delicate.
Even so, at least the Kingslayer was alive, and that fact alone eased some pressure from Bolton's mind. A dead Jaime Lannister would have caused far more trouble than a maimed one.
Bolton's gaze moved again, settling on the third companion—dark-skinned, sharp-eyed, always coiled with tension.
A Dothraki.
Bolton recognized him as one of Vargo Hoat's men, yet even while eating, the man's eyes continued scanning the room, animal-like, calculating escape routes and danger points. The sight of him inside a Northern castle was as surreal as a wild horse strolling calmly through a sept.
Yet the fourth person was the one who drew Bolton's attention most strongly.
Corleone.
The man's clothing was ragged to the point of resembling a common field laborer. Mud stains, darkened blood smears, and travel wear clung to him in patches. At a glance, he should have been invisible—insignificant, forgettable.
But he wasn't.
He sat quietly, yet his posture was casual, relaxed, and disturbingly composed—almost elegant—contrasting sharply with his outward dishevelment. Bolton felt an involuntary tightening in his chest, like a venomous snake sensing another hidden in the dark.
Even stranger was the sensation—an aura—emanating from this man. It was not loud, not boastful, not forceful. But it was present, subtle, and deeply unsettling.
That calm confidence, that silent sense of control, reminded Bolton of the first time he had stood before Tywin Lannister during Robert's Rebellion.
That memory alone made his pulse shift.
It was bizarre—far too bizarre to ignore—and Bolton's brow twitched ever so slightly as he tried to make sense of the situation. Not even the gods themselves could explain why four people so mismatched, so incompatible, would travel together, share a table, and sit before him as if this were all perfectly normal.
Silence settled heavily over the room. Only the crackling of burning logs broke the stillness—along with one more sound.
A scraping. Sharp, unpleasant, grating.
"Screech… screech…"
"Screech… screech…"
Jaime Lannister clenched a dinner knife awkwardly in his left hand, attempting to cut the thick roasted beef on his plate. But the meat resisted him stubbornly. The knife scraped across porcelain, creating an irritating noise that set teeth on edge.
He tried again, cheeks reddening with frustration, and succeeded only in splattering gravy across the table. The louder the scraping grew, the more ridiculous the scene became. The solemn atmosphere of the sitting room slowly warped into farce.
"Enough."
Brienne finally snapped, unable to endure it any longer. She reached out, planted her fork onto the beef, and held it firmly, giving Jaime a stable hold.
"Thank you… not-friend," Jaime replied, tilting his head with strained politeness, placing a pointed emphasis on the last two words. Clearly, he still resented her earlier insistence that they were not friends.
But thanks to her intervention, he could now cut properly. He sliced off a piece, placed it in his mouth, and closed his eyes briefly as the long-missed tenderness and flavor washed over him. After weeks of hard bread and salted meat, this simple meal tasted like a king's feast.
Bliss softened his features, and Roose Bolton's confusion deepened further. This behavior was not befitting a prisoner—not a fugitive—not someone in danger of execution.
"If I recall correctly, Ser Jaime…"
Bolton finally spoke, voice cool, measured:
"We are still, in principle, in a state of hostility."
"Lord Edmure Tully has offered a thousand gold dragons for your capture."
"Yet here you sit—walking into Harrenhal as if you were on a leisurely outing, helping yourself to my food, and appearing entirely at ease."
"Do you not consider that a touch too disrespectful?"
Jaime did not answer immediately. He simply lifted the slab of beef with his knife and tore at it with his teeth. After all, if Corleone's plan failed, he might as well enjoy a proper meal while he still could.
Finally, he spoke through his chewing:
"Are you planning to deliver me for the reward, Lord Bolton?"
"If so, you can summon your men now to bind us."
"But I suspect you won't receive the full sum."
He raised the stump of his right arm with deliberate provocation.
"Your hostage is incomplete."
The words were both truth and test. Jaime appeared casual but watched Bolton closely. Corleone's warning whispered in his memory:
> "Roose Bolton is a man of pure utility.
The more he threatens, the more he is calculating.
What he wants is not Robb Stark's reward—
but what he can gain from your father."
Sure enough, Bolton did not react with anger. He ignored the bait entirely. He leaned forward slightly, applying pressure with posture alone.
"The loss of a hand has not dulled your tongue, Ser Jaime," Bolton murmured. "Perhaps I should remove the other and send it to Robb Stark."
"Considering your… family's history with his, I imagine he would appreciate such a gift."
The implication struck deep.
Jaime's eyes hardened, rage flaring despite preparation. He stabbed the small knife into the table, the metal clanging sharply.
"Do not tempt me to cut out your tongue, Roose Bolton."
"Your men cut off my hand. The Warriors' Group serve under you."
"When I return to King's Landing, I need only say it was done at your command. My father will believe me."
Bolton chuckled coldly.
"And I could send your head to King's Landing instead. Let us see whether you can still speak then."
Tension surged through the room like drawn steel.
Worton reached for his sword.
Brienne's muscles tightened.
Yigo's fingers curled around his blade.
The air seemed ready to snap—until a calm voice, perfectly timed, slid into the moment.
"Please forgive Ser Jaime's poorly chosen words, Lord Bolton."
"You cannot expect someone who has endured such trauma to remain entirely rational, can you?"
The voice was low, steady, and deliberate. Each word seemed placed with precision, weighted with intention.
Bolton's gaze shifted sharply toward the speaker—Corleone—who had just finished wiping his mouth with impeccable grace and set the napkin aside as if seated in a lord's hall rather than wearing rags.
A farmer should not have spoken.
A farmer should not have interrupted.
A farmer should not have been acknowledged.
Yet Jaime exhaled lightly, as though relieved, and added casually:
"Forgive me. Fatigue makes me irritable."
"As for the remainder of the discussion, speak with my personal advisor—Lord Vito Corleone. He is fully authorized to negotiate on my behalf."
Then Jaime returned to his meal, appearing too weary to bother further.
Personal advisor.
The phrase struck Bolton as absurd—laughable. A ragged commoner, representing the heir to Casterly Rock? His stare sharpened, cutting like a blade, peeling back expectation and assumption.
But Corleone simply adjusted his posture and leaned back slightly, allowing the high-backed chair to swallow his upper form in shadow. The firelight illuminated only his lower half. His face remained mostly unseen, but his eyes—dark, focused, unblinking—watched from the darkness.
The room fell still.
Bolton felt something he had not expected.
Pressure.
Presence.
A rising aura—not loud, not forceful, but suffocating in its quiet authority—pressing against his instincts, demanding acknowledgment. This was not the aura of a farmer. It was the aura of a man accustomed to influence, command, and consequence.
Impossible.
Bolton's pulse flickered. His breath caught. His pupils contracted, betraying him.
In the shadow, Corleone's lips curled subtly.
Exactly as he intended.
On the road to Harrenhal, he had made a choice—
investing every gold dragon stolen from the Warriors' Group into the system.
The result had been worth the gamble.
A new skill—strong, rare, and powerful.
[Awe – Level 2]