Brienne departed, and an uneasy silence settled over the hall. The tension lingered like smoke after a battle, heavy enough to be tasted. Jaime Lannister suddenly reached for the wine cup, snatching it from the table and swallowing the entire serving of cheap wine in one long gulp. The sour liquid burned down his throat, but he welcomed the pain. Perhaps it might drown his irritation—perhaps it might drown the guilt coiling inside his chest.
Across the table, Roose Bolton's pale eyes returned to the man seated in the shadows—Corleone. The Lord of the Dreadfort said nothing. He simply watched. He was waiting.
He wanted to see how this mysterious farmer would respond to the awkward moment he had deliberately created. For Roose, holding Brienne as a hostage was unnecessary. The political benefits of returning Jaime to Tywin Lannister were already clear, and he had no intention of jeopardizing them.
But Vito Corleone unsettled him.
It was not fear—Roose Bolton feared very few things. But this calm, confident, sharp-eyed man made him feel as though he were losing control of the conversation. Corleone carried himself like someone who already knew the outcome of every exchange. Roose's instincts bristled. He wanted to seize control back.
So he had split the group apart intentionally—a small test, a small provocation, a chance to observe Corleone and see whether the man truly cared only about profit, or whether his talk of "friendship" actually meant something.
Under Roose's silent scrutiny, Corleone finally moved.
He leaned forward, stepping out of the shadows, and the firelight from the hearth illuminated his face clearly for the first time. There was no panic, no indignation, no attempt to repair strained relations—not even satisfaction from how the negotiation had been progressing. He looked exactly as he had before: calm, composed, unbothered, as though the confrontation moments earlier had been an irrelevant interruption.
"Lord Bolton," he said, his voice smooth and effortless, containing not a hint of tension. "Before receiving your letter and setting off for King's Landing, I believe there is another 'business deal' we might discuss."
The unexpected direction only sharpened Roose Bolton's interest. Corleone did not plead for Brienne. He did not press for assurances. Instead, he wanted to do business?
Interesting.
"I am listening," Roose replied softly, his pale eyes narrowing, an entertained expression touching his features.
Corleone placed his fingertips lightly together atop the table and began speaking in a steady, patient tone.
"Regarding our previous agreement, I believe we have reached a satisfactory understanding. However, I make it a priority to remove the worries of my partners—such gestures build long-term trust."
He paused before continuing.
"For instance… when the war in the south eventually ends, and you march your loyal Northern forces back home, how do you intend to reclaim Moat Cailin from the ironborn with the least possible cost?"
Roose's posture stiffened. His pupils narrowed.
Moat Cailin—the only passage into the North. And currently occupied by ironborn raiders. Even if all his plans unfolded perfectly, he would still face a fortress he could not storm and could not bypass. The Iron Islands marauders were stubborn, heavily entrenched, and impossible to dislodge without a devastating loss of Northern lives.
But Corleone was now implying he had a solution?
Was the farmer bluffing? Pretending? Or—
Corleone watched Roose's reaction carefully, the flicker of recognition glimmering behind his eyes.
He continued.
"Moat Cailin is the 'Throat of the North'—unassailable because of the swamps that surround it and its defensive structure. Direct assault would be foolish, and it would drain the blood of your loyal soldiers into that marshland."
Roose offered no argument. He knew this all too well.
"Therefore," Corleone said, voice smooth and assured, "we must not attack it. We must make it rot from within."
"Rot?" Roose repeated, interest returning like a razor sharpening.
Corleone nodded.
"Step one: Surround Moat Cailin from both sides. Cut off all external supply. The fortress has no stockpiled grain. The ironborn who seized it carry only what they can pillage. Soon, they will suffer hunger—and the beginnings of infighting."
This, too, Roose had planned. But he remained silent, waiting.
Corleone continued.
"Step two. We send people to the walls at night."
Roose frowned.
"You intend to launch a sneak attack?" he asked, though logic told him Corleone would never suggest something so idiotic. "For thousands of years, no one has managed to take Moat Cailin through assault."
Corleone chuckled softly.
"No, my Lord. I am not proposing a night raid. That would be idiocy." His smile sharpened. "I am suggesting we send children—children with clear young voices—to sing ironborn songs beneath the walls. Songs like Iron Rain or The Bloody Cup."
Roose blinked, caught off guard.
"What purpose would that serve?"
Corleone's grin widened.
"Picture it. The ironborn, starving, cold, exhausted—hearing their homeland songs sung in innocent voices while trapped in that swamp, far from the sea. They will remember the salt wind. The waves. The boats of their fathers. Their homes."
He did not pause.
"They will question why they are dying in a frozen bog for a meaningless outpost. The children's voices will pry into their minds, planting longing and despair."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And despair spreads faster than any disease."
Jaime shivered.
He imagined himself imprisoned again—weak, starving—and hearing the songs of the Westerlands drifting through the darkness each night. Would he have broken?
He did not know.
Even Roose Bolton's expression had shifted. Admiration glimmered in his pale eyes. The idea was cruel, elegant, and effective. It bypassed steel and siege engines. It weaponized the mind itself.
But Corleone was not finished.
He tapped the table gently, drawing both men back from their thoughts. Then he delivered his final, chilling recommendation.
"Step three," he said softly. "We create a plague."
Both Jaime and Roose inhaled sharply.
In an age without medicine, plague meant doom—fear, madness, death.
Corleone's voice lowered, becoming almost seductive—like a devil offering forbidden knowledge.
"After a week of siege, when hunger has frayed their nerves, we gather corpses of diseased livestock—or better yet, human bodies that died of fever. Then, using light catapults, we launch them into the fortress during the darkest hours of the night."
Even Roose Bolton's expression tightened.
"At the same time," Corleone added, "we contaminate their water sources."
He held Roose's gaze.
"Within three days, the garrison will see men shaking with fever, vomiting, spitting blood, developing sores. They will not understand infection. They will assume divine punishment."
Jaime swallowed hard, breath shaky.
Corleone pressed on.
"At that point, panic will erupt. They will turn on each other—fighting for water, distancing themselves from the sick, killing anyone who coughs. Trust will collapse. Chaos will rule."
He leaned back, voice calm and final.
"And soon, someone will open the gates. They will beg for mercy. Or, if you prefer, you may simply wait until the plague has finished its work, then walk in unopposed and claim a fortress full of corpses."
Silence fell—thick, suffocating, absolute.
Jaime stared at Corleone in horror. He had fought battles, killed men, suffered captivity—but this was different. This was a mind that turned warfare into a psychological, biological nightmare. A mind cold
er than winter steel.
Even Roose Bolton—the flayer of the North—was silent.
For the first time, he did not know how to respond.