"That's impossible!"
Brienne's voice rang through the dimly lit hall like a thunderclap. Roose Bolton's demand struck her like a hammer blow—first confusion flickered in her blue eyes, then fury surged up so violently that she lurched to her feet. The chair behind her toppled, crashing to the stone floor with a dull, echoing thud.
"No! I absolutely will not stay!"
Her breath trembled, yet her gaze remained sharp as a drawn blade. She fixed her eyes on Roose Bolton and spoke with a hoarse, strained voice that carried both outrage and disbelief.
"I am not a bargaining chip in your trade, nor am I cargo to be discarded at will! I followed Lady Catelyn Tully's orders. I pledged to return the kingslayer safely to King's Landing in exchange for her daughters. Are you now betraying your liege's will? Will you condemn her children to death, Lord Bolton?"
Roose Bolton did not flinch. He did not raise his voice. He merely looked at her with a cold stillness, as though she were not a knight, nor even a person—only a buzzing nuisance disturbing the stale air of Harrenhal.
"Mind your words, my lady," he said, tone mild but cutting.
He regarded her with a detached air entirely unlike the solemnity he had shown when speaking to Corleone moments before. It was clear he did not consider Brienne of Tarth worthy of seriousness.
"Leaving aside that Catelyn Tully's unauthorized release of a prisoner borders on treason," Roose continued, "the promise you believe you are honoring is empty of meaning, and entirely devoid of honor."
His voice was calm as ice, cool enough to freeze the room around them.
"Everything I am doing now is to ensure the safety of the two Miss Stark. You, Brienne of Tarth, prize your honor above all else. Very well—now is the moment to prove your integrity. If you agree to remain in Harrenhal as a hostage, I will release Ser Jaime to return to King's Landing, securing the exchange for Lady Catelyn's daughters."
Then he offered a final, deceptively gentle question:
"How about it?"
The words hit Brienne like a spear. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. She sensed—instinctively, painfully—that a trap lay behind Roose's proposal. But she also knew that if she refused, her refusal would be twisted into shame.
Agree—and she would be imprisoned.
Refuse—and she would be branded as a knight who abandoned honor.
She was cornered.
Roose watched her struggle with a thin, satisfied lift of his brow.
"In every negotiation, someone must become the price measured against another's gain," he murmured. "Your anger is like the winter sun—seemingly bright, yet incapable of melting even a single flake of ice."
He leaned back slightly, voice soft and cruel.
"No matter how furious you are, nor how unwilling you may be, you cannot alter the decision reached between myself and Corleone."
At that, Brienne stiffened. Her breath caught. She turned her head sharply toward the shadows where Corleone stood, silent and unreadable. He had not objected. He had not defended her. He had simply watched and allowed Bolton to speak for them both.
Of course.
Her fury erupted like wildfire.
This sly, dishonorable farmer was trading her—her honor, her freedom—to buy Jaime's safety. She was the worthless pawn. Jaime was the prize returned. The deal had been struck long before she entered the hall.
"I knew it!" she spat, trembling with rage. She whirled toward Jaime. "Look at him, kingslayer! Look at the friend you trust! He uses my freedom to purchase your safety. This was his plan from the start!"
Roose raised his hand dismissively, and Worton strode forward with two guards. They seized Brienne's arms, struggling slightly against her sheer physical strength.
"No!"
Jaime jolted upright, slamming his remaining hand against the table. His right arm twitched toward a sword that was no longer there—no sword, no hand, no power.
He froze, jaw clenched, lungs tightening with helpless fury. Brienne had irritated him a thousand times, argued with him, scolded him, doubted him—but her loyalty was unwavering. Her integrity was real. Against his will, she had made him remember the knight he once wished to be.
Was she now to be sacrificed for him?
No.
The naive, shining boy he once was had died the moment he slew the Mad King. He would not allow such a moment to repeat itself—someone noble paying the price for another's survival.
But as he prepared to rise and fight, his peripheral vision caught Corleone's silhouette in the shadows. Corleone did not panic. He did not look ashamed. His gaze was deep and steady, like a still black lake that swallowed all reflection.
Then, beneath the table, Corleone's hand lowered slightly—a signal barely visible, so subtle one might doubt it had happened at all.
The words Corleone had once spoken to him resurfaced in Jaime's thoughts:
"Trust me, my friend."
Jaime inhaled slowly, his chest tight. He despised this powerlessness. He loathed placing his fate in someone else's hands. But he also understood—one reckless act would destroy everything Corleone was orchestrating.
"I have staked everything, Corleone," Jaime thought, staring at him. "Do not fail me."
After a long, agonizing heartbeat, he sank back into his seat. He forced a strained smile toward Brienne and whispered:
"Be patient, Brienne."
"Trust me."
To Brienne, those words sounded not like reassurance, but like betrayal. Not like a companion offering strength, but a victor calming a discarded pawn.
Jaime watched the light fade in her eyes, watched disappointment replace fire, watched her silently say:
I misjudged you.
It stabbed him deeper than any sword.
But Brienne did not look at Jaime again. Instead, she turned to Corleone, her expression carved from stone.
"You will burn in the seven hells, Vito Corleone," she declared. "The gods will not forgive this. You will live out your remaining days in shame and regret."
She fought no further. She straightened her broad shoulders, lifted her chin, and walked like a true knight—each step heavy, but unwavering. Worton and the northern soldiers escorted her from the hall.
The great wooden doors closed behind her with a deep, echoing boom—a sound like the sealing of trust, hope, and companionship all at once.
And in the silence that followed, Jaime Lannister felt as though something inside
him had shattered.
Something he was terrified to name.
Something he feared he might never recover.