Corleone had seen many strange skills appear before him, but this one—[Dignity Lv2]—was unlike anything related to strength, swordsmanship, endurance, or killing power. There was no ornate description, no glowing special effects, no dramatic proclamation. Yet the meaning behind the name alone was unmistakable.
At first, Corleone felt a faint stab of disappointment. Deep inside, he yearned for something more direct, more overwhelming—something that would let him crush enemies head-on, overturn fate, and reshape his standing in this brutal world. But despite not enhancing muscles or steel, the improvement brought by this ability was impossible to deny.
Aura. Presence. Bearing.
Things that could not be touched or measured, yet determined negotiations, alliances, loyalty, and influence more effectively than blades.
On a battlefield, ten thousand soldiers might die for a cause, but a single sentence spoken with enough weight could prevent the battle entirely. A man could have no wealth, no armor, no title, yet command trust merely by walking into a room. Others would follow, obey, and even bleed for him—without knowing why.
This was the intangible advantage of aura. And for Corleone—currently a powerless man with no lands, no banners, and no bloodline—its value was immeasurable.
The blessing of [Dignity Lv2] did not fabricate something from nothing. Instead, it magnified what already existed within him:
—knowledge carried from a modern world,
—calm tempered through life-and-death decisions,
—confidence born from strategy and foresight.
All these qualities, previously subtle and hidden, were now projected with unprecedented clarity.
Though he still wore blood-stained linen, torn and muddy, the presence he emitted surpassed that of nobles dressed in silk. The steadiness in his posture, the certainty in his gaze, the measured cadence of his speech carried a composure few kings possessed. And others could feel it—even if they could not explain it.
Every gesture, every pause, every word now struck with quiet authority.
If Corleone had possessed this Dignity earlier—when dealing with the Warriors' Group, when navigating betrayal, coercion, and negotiation—many things would have unfolded differently. His voice alone might have bent outcomes.
And tonight, that difference was already taking form.
---
A Farmer Faces an Earl
"Lord Bolton…"
Corleone spoke softly, but the name landed like a blade placed gently upon the table. Roose Bolton, seated in the dim candlelight, felt the shift immediately. The gaze from the shadows was neither sharp nor aggressive, yet it slid beneath the skin like a needle—subtle but undeniable.
Roose Bolton, accustomed to being feared or flattered, felt a faint and unfamiliar discomfort. It was not humiliation, not threat—something stranger. He sat up straighter without meaning to, adjusting his posture like a man preparing for a duel he could not see.
His expression tightened. His attention sharpened.
He listened.
Corleone continued, his tone steady and composed:
"I am a man who enjoys making friends."
He spoke slowly, each syllable placed with care.
"You are loyal to the King in the North, and yes, your relationship with Ser Jaime is one of hostility. But even so, I believe that no man in this world rejects the possibility of friendship."
The room remained still. Even the torches seemed to quiet themselves.
"But true friendship," Corleone went on, "is not forged from begging, nor from gifts, nor from kneeling. True friendship is born from equal exchange—from interests that are clear, mutual, and shared."
Bolton did not dismiss him. He did not scoff. He did not wave him away.
Instead, he nodded once.
"I do not deny that."
An Earl of Westeros acknowledging equality with a muddy peasant—such a thing bordered on impossible. Yet here it was, happening naturally, as though the world itself had shifted.
That was the power of [Dignity Lv2]—subtle, but world-bending.
---
The Opening Move
"Therefore, my Lord," Corleone continued, his voice unwavering, "Ser Jaime and I have not come to beg for protection or mercy. We have come to propose a friendship—a friendship that would benefit both sides."
He allowed silence to settle—not awkwardly, but deliberately.
"If you are willing, I will explain how we may take the first step."
He threw the choice back toward Bolton. It was respectful, but strategic—an invitation and a test combined.
Corleone already knew Bolton's historical choices. In the timeline of the original plot, Roose Bolton would eventually betray Robb Stark without hesitation, siding with Tywin Lannister and taking the North as his prize. Ruthless, calculating, cold—always choosing the winning side.
But Corleone also knew the truth behind that decision:
Roose Bolton was not loyal, but opportunistic.
His ambitions were vast, layered, and never simple.
Bolton said nothing at first. His pale eyes stared into the darkness that concealed Corleone, trying to peel away the shadows and see the true shape of the man speaking.
But Corleone revealed nothing—not fear, not need, not desperation. His presence was solid as stone.
At last, Roose spoke:
"I am listening intently."
It was not politeness. It was permission.
Negotiation had formally begun.
Despite the imbalance of military power—Bolton with soldiers, castles, and banners, Corleone with nothing but words—the conversation now rested on level ground. Corleone had used presence and language to carve out equality where none should exist.
His expression remained unreadable.
He slowly extended one finger.
---
The First Gift
"The first matter," he said, "is a gift—one given sincerely."
"A gift?" Roose repeated, eyebrows lifting in faint amusement.
"Yes," Corleone replied without hesitation. "A gift."
Then he spoke clearly:
"Vargo Hoat—and the Warriors' Group."
Bolton's gaze sharpened.
"They occupy Harrenhal," Corleone continued. "They claim loyalty to the King in the North, but in truth they ravage the Riverlands, plunder the countryside, and flay innocent men and women—dragging your reputation down alongside them."
His voice dropped slightly, becoming colder.
"They are leeches clinging to your cloak—feeding, swelling, and ready to turn on you the moment it benefits them."
Roose's lips twitched.
"But I rather like leeches," he said.
Corleone knew he was telling the truth. History had recorded Bolton's fondness for leech-therapy, believing it purified the blood and prolonged life.
Corleone replied smoothly:
"As a medical professional, my Lord, I must caution you. Occasional leeches do remove impurity—but if allowed to grow too strong, they eventually refuse to release the skin."
The words lingered.
"At that point, even if you have the strength to tear them off, you will lose a layer of flesh."
It was spoken calmly, like a doctor explaining a procedure. Yet the metaphor was unmistakable.
Corleone continued:
"And through our actions, this group of leeches has already been removed. Their threat is gone. Their stain upon your name erased. This is the first gift I offer."
Bolton's pale fingers tapped once against the armrest of his chair—slow, thoughtful, measured.
Then he answered, voice cool as winter:
"Oh? According to your reasoning, I should thank you… properly."
There was irony in his tone, yes, but also acknowledgment. He did not dispute the benefit. He simply refused to yield—yet.
Corleone expected this.
He extended a second finger.
---
The Second Card
"Next, Lord Bolton," he said, "let us speak
of the cause to which you are loyal."
His voice lowered, deliberate and steady.
"The King in the North—Robb Stark."
And with that, the true negotiation began.