When Walton pushed the door open again, Roose Bolton was still seated behind the blackwood desk.
Only a few candles burned in the dim room, leaving his pale face half in light and half in shadow.
He held Ice, the Valyrian steel greatsword recovered from beside Robb Stark's body.
The blade was not fully drawn, with only a short length exposed.
Strange ripples shimmered beneath the yellow candlelight, cold and ancient.
Bolton's fingers brushed lightly along the spine of the blade, his movements meticulous, as though he were appraising a work of art-or weighing the worth of a tool.
Walton stood in the doorway for a moment before he could resist no longer. "My lord, House Stark is finished. Since you like this sword, why not keep it?"
"It's a Valyrian steel sword. There are only a handful in all of Westeros."
Roose Bolton's hand paused briefly over the blade.
He did not look up, his gaze still resting on those ripples.
Only after a moment did he speak, his voice soft and even, with the clarity of ice water:
"A Valyrian steel sword is a fine thing, of course. But it cannot buy the whole of the North, nor can it buy the true submission of its lords."
"It is only a sword. However sharp it may be, it cannot cut through the prejudices in men's hearts." He raised his head, his pale eyes turning toward Walton.
"Giving it to Tywin Lannister, on the other hand, carries an entirely different meaning."
He slowly slid the blade back into its scabbard with a faint scrape of metal.
"It represents our sincerity, our determination to work with House Lannister, and our complete break with the age of the Starks."
"One Ice can buy stronger support from the Duke of the Westerlands,