The chamber inside Harrenhal carried a lingering scent of old parchment mixed with faint traces of exotic spices, as though the walls themselves had absorbed decades of whispered secrets. The dim light of sputtering candles cast warped shadows across the dark red desk at the center of the room—an imposing slab of wood that seemed to swallow the light around it.
Before that desk stood Worton, trembling violently despite the weight of his chainmail. His head was bowed so low it appeared he wished he could bury himself within his own armor. On the gleaming surface of the table lay a mud-stained purse, its mouth slightly open so that the gleam of gold dragons could be seen inside.
Roose Bolton did not lay a finger on the purse. He did not even grant it a glance.
"You accepted Vito Corleone's coin," he said, voice so soft it could have been mistaken for a whisper, "and yet you allowed the man I intended to die… to walk away alive."
The words slithered through the air like a cold draft, and Worton felt a shudder run down his spine. Sweat broke across his forehead, his pulse hammering. In his panic he began to search desperately through his mind—trying to determine which wretched man under his command had betrayed him.
But before the thought could take shape, Roose spoke again.
"Do not bother guessing, Worton."
There was no emotion in his tone—only certainty, as though every secret in the world was already his to command.
"No one can hide anything from me. Not in the Dreadfort. Not here. Not anywhere."
He leaned back slightly in his chair, pale fingers tapping the armrest in a slow, calculated rhythm. Worton dared a small upward glance, his lips quivering as he attempted to form words of defense.
"My Lord… I… I did not intend—"
"Heh."
The sound was not quite a laugh—more like a quiet exhale tinged with amusement, as though Roose had recalled something darkly humorous.
"You took his money," he continued softly, "and did his bidding."
His eyes sharpened.
"Then you shall go and follow him."
Worton froze. His head jerked upward, disbelief flooding his features.
He collapsed to his knees with a heavy thud, voice cracking with desperation.
"My Lord! It was never my intention to deceive you! I have served you faithfully for ten years—my father served House Bolton before me—please, consider—"
"I said…"
Roose's voice did not rise, yet the weight behind it slammed down like a hammer.
"You are to go follow him."
There was no room for pleading. No room for negotiation. Only the chilling certainty that his fate had been sealed.
---
"So you actually came to follow me?"
Corleone's tone was light, even amused, as he bounced awkwardly atop the back of a plodding pack horse. Riding was not his strongest skill, and every uneven jolt made it abundantly clear.
The autumn sun shimmered on the surface of Gods Eye Lake, scattering light like broken stars across the rippling water. Worton rode beside him, his expression stiff and strained—as though he suffered from constipation rather than humiliation.
"This is Lord Bolton's command," he replied with a stone-heavy voice. His hands gripped the reins as though they might slip away. "I am to escort you safely to King's Landing… and retrieve his payment."
"Payment?"
Corleone slowed his horse, suspicion flickering across his gaze. His arrangement with Roose Bolton was built on implication, potential benefits, and mutual calculation—there had been no explicit mention of money owed.
"What payment?" he asked.
Worton shook his head, face twisted with irritation and confusion.
"My Lord did not specify. Only that I am to report directly to Duke Tywin when we reach King's Landing."
It was vague—far too vague for a man like Roose Bolton. Corleone narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. Worton was loyal, simple, and terrible at lying; if he said he did not know, then he truly didn't.
But that only made Roose Bolton's decision more interesting.
Had he sent Worton to watch him?
Or was he using this moment to bind himself closer to Tywin Lannister?
The possibilities branched like a puzzle with missing pieces, and Corleone could not yet determine which picture they formed.
Meanwhile, Worton clenched his jaw and muttered angrily under his breath:
"Damn it… when I discover which bastard drank my wine, stole my reward money, and stabbed me in the back by informing on me—when I return North, I swear I'll strip him naked and hang him on the walls of the Dreadfort, let the crows pluck out his eyes!"
His fury was almost comical, and Corleone merely offered a light shake of his head, lips curving into a subtle and knowing smile. The answer was obvious to him—whoever benefitted the most was clearly the one behind it.
But he had no intention of sparing Worton the struggle.
Let the man stew in his ignorance. He had his own problems to unravel.
"Keep an eye on that one, blood of my blood!" Corleone called out suddenly, snapping himself back to the present. He nodded toward Rorger—still unconscious—being slung like a sack across Yigo's horse. "Don't let him die! I still need him for a major business deal!"
"Yes, blood of my blood," Yigo rumbled, adjusting the ropes securing Rorger.
But at that exact moment—
"WOOOOOOOO—"
A horn cry echoed from the tree-lined path ahead—long, deep, and ominous.
Hoofbeats followed. Many hoofbeats.
Fast.
Close.
The ground itself seemed to vibrate beneath them.
Corleone's expression sharpened instantly.
"Prepare yourselves!" he barked.
Despite missing a hand, Jaime reacted first, drawing his sword with practiced speed. Brienne spurred her horse forward, positioning herself protectively in front of Corleone, shield raised and blade ready. Her armor gleamed, replacing the ridiculous dress she'd worn earlier—now she looked every bit the warrior she was.
Yigo abandoned his adjustments, unsheathing his great sword while a low, animalistic growl vibrated in his chest.
Even Worton—resentful, humiliated, and furious though he was—instinctively drew his blade and moved into formation.
In seconds, Brienne, Yigo, and Worton formed a defensive triangle, shielding Corleone at the center.
Small though their group was—there was no weak link among them.
All eyes locked onto the road ahead.
A cavalry unit burst from the treeline—twenty to thirty riders. Not at a wild charge, but at a controlled, disciplined pace. Their spacing was perfect—their coordination precise.
The synchronized thunder of hooves pressed against the air, radiating the calm confidence of trained killers.
They had seen Corleone's party.
They were heading straight for them.
Corleone's hand slipped inside his cloak, fingers gripping the travel warrant Roose Bolton had provided. If this unit belonged to the North, the document might save them.
But as the riders drew closer—
His pupils contracted.
At their head flew a tall banner, snapping fiercely in the wind.
A banner black as moonless midnight.
And upon it—
A blazing white sunburst.
Brilliant.
Piercing.
A symbol that needed no introduction.
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