When Corleone spoke the king's name, his tone carried neither reverence nor contempt. He addressed it as if it were merely an academic subject rather than a matter of allegiance. Yet this very neutrality sparked curiosity in Roose Bolton. The man, usually composed and emotionless, straightened slightly, as though preparing himself to hear a confidential assessment of his liege—one delivered not by a lord or maester, but a farmer.
"It must be admitted," Corleone began calmly, "that he is young and courageous—like a newly crowned direwolf lunging into his first battle. And yes, he has secured a great many victories since marching south."
The listeners exchanged brief glances. It was undeniable—Robb Stark's reputation had only grown with every battle won.
"But a true king," Corleone continued, voice deepening with conviction, "requires far more than martial prowess."
The bold certainty in his tone caused the entire hall to fall still.
"Even if he wins every single battle," Corleone declared, "I dare assert that the Northmen will never win this war."
Whispers rippled through the chamber. The Northern host was currently at its strongest—having captured most of the Riverlands with House Tully's support. Rumors swirled that Robb Stark was preparing to launch a sweeping assault upon Casterly Rock itself.
Brienne could contain herself no longer.
"Your words are baseless, farmer," she snapped sharply, stepping forward. "Since marching south, the King in the North has not suffered a single defeat. Everyone knows that destroying the Lannisters is only a matter of time!"
Her tone was severe, but her argument reflected the prevailing belief shared by most—including Jaime Lannister.
"Calm yourself," Jaime murmured, laying a hand gently upon her shoulder. Sometimes her stubborn devotion reminded him of Cersei—unyielding, emotional, and unwise at crucial moments.
They were negotiating.
Brienne's impulsiveness could ruin the hard-won opportunity Corleone was constructing. Jaime cast a cautious glance toward Roose Bolton, expecting offense, outrage—even cold fury.
But Roose offered none.
He simply watched, silent and unreadable.
"There is reason behind my words, my lords," Corleone assured them, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly as if Brienne's interruption were nothing more than a passing breeze.
"I have three reasons."
He raised three fingers, his tone transitioning into that of a strategist presenting an irrefutable case.
"First. He unilaterally tore up his oath to House Frey for the sake of a woman. This is not merely dishonorable—it severs his most critical supply line and alienates a vital ally."
Roose Bolton blinked once. Jaime looked thoughtful. Brienne stiffened, jaw tight.
"Second. Though he campaigns deep in the southern territories, he allows the Riverlands—his supposed allies—to be ravaged beyond recovery. Exhausted by endless violence, they can no longer provide stable support."
Corleone leaned forward.
"His army is like a loose arrow—sharp, but uncertain where it will land, and very likely to snap before reaching its target."
A heavy silence followed.
"Third," Corleone said, voice dropping even further, "and most importantly…"
The candlelight reflected in his eyes as he stared directly into Roose Bolton's.
"Our King in the North does not seem to be as… just… as his father."
That struck.
Roose Bolton's eyelid twitched—so subtle most would have missed it. But Corleone saw it. Jaime saw it. Even Brienne noticed the faint disturbance in the lord's otherwise frigid composure.
House Bolton had bent the knee to the Starks for centuries, but ambition had simmered beneath that obedience. Yet when Eddard Stark ruled Winterfell, that ambition had dulled—not from fear, but from respect.
Even Roose had once thought that serving under such a man was tolerable… perhaps even desirable. Under Eddard, one did not fear betrayal. One did not fear exploitation. One only served.
So much so, that Roose had dreamed of molding his own son into a man resembling Eddard Stark.
But reality had been… disappointing.
"Your words are excessive, Lord Corleone," Roose finally replied, though his voice betrayed nothing of his internal stirrings. "House Bolton fights for honor."
"Honor?" Corleone scoffed openly, abandoning courtesy.
"Let us speak of Lord Rickard Karstark."
The name struck like a thrown spear.
"He contributed greatly to Robb Stark's campaign, and his two sons died protecting their king in the Whispering Wood."
Corleone gestured toward Jaime, who had been chewing thoughtfully on a piece of beef. Jaime paused, lifted his head, and raised an eyebrow—smirking ever so slightly.
Those boys had fallen beneath his sword.
And though he had been captured, Jaime did not consider himself defeated. He had cut down more than a dozen guards and nearly taken Robb Stark's head. His failure haunted him still.
He tore once more into the beef, as if punishing it for his past regrets.
Corleone pressed on.
"So tell me, Lord Bolton—did House Karstark receive honor?"
"No," he answered himself, voice resonating like a hammer strike.
"Lord Rickard lost both sons, shed blood for his liege, and in grief slew two Lannister captives."
Corleone's eyes locked onto Roose like a blade tip.
"And what was his reward? To have his head struck off—by the 'just' King in the North."
He leaned in, delivering the killing blow:
"Lord Bolton, you would not wish to share Lord Rickard Karstark's fate… would you?"
Silence swallowed the hall.
The hearth crackled, casting uneasy shadows across Roose's expression—revealing, for the briefest moment, a fracture. Jaime froze, watching intently. Even he knew these words bordered on blasphemy. Brienne trembled with anger, fists balled, her belief in the Starks burning like a wounded torch.
At last, Roose spoke.
"This does not concern you, Vito Corleone. Even if His Majesty Robb Stark is flawed in certain respects, the loyalty of House Bolton remains unshaken."
He drew the boundary:
This was an internal matter of the North.
Yet he notably did not deny Corleone's accusations.
Corleone simply smiled inwardly.
I believe you like I believe a ghost.
Roose was an exceptional actor—his face betrayed nothing. Even Corleone's Insight could detect no lie. If not for knowledge of the original tale, he might have been fooled.
Roose leaned back.
"And rather than friendship, I am more interested in mutual benefit."
Corleone nodded smoothly.
"All we require is your assistance—safe passage for Ser Jaime and myself to return to King's Landing."
Roose's eyes narrowed.
"And what do I receive?"
Corleone countered softly:
"You are already Lord of the Dreadfort, second only to one, above tens of thousands…"
Roose understood immediately.
A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth.
"Your words are bold, Lord Corleone. But why should I trust the empty promises of a stranger?"
Brienne's eyes widened.
Had he… agreed?
Without any spoken terms?
"You need not trust me," Corleone replied confidently. "For if I lied, the moment I set foot in King's Landing, Lord Tywin's sword would separate my head from my body."
A powerful truth.
No man gambles with his own life.
Roose nodded slowly.
"I can trust you, Mr. Corleone. However… I will require a more tan
gible guarantee."
His gaze drifted past Jaime.
Past Corleone.
And landed on Brienne.
He raised a pale finger and pointed.
"This woman must remain here."