Harrenhal, Kingspyre Tower.
The name itself carried a hint of ill omen, as though the vengeful spirit of its builder, Harren the Black, who had burned to death in dragonfire, still haunted the castle built with the full resources of the Riverlands.
Roose Bolton, Earl of the Dreadfort, sat behind an oak desk lacquered a dark red, its color so deep it resembled blood that had long since dried.
Since the war broke out, this room had changed hands several times. Harrenhal's original owners, House Whent, had offered little resistance in the war before Duke Tywin Lannister drove them out without effort.
The Duke of Casterly Rock had briefly conducted his affairs here. The costly desk and the gilded candlestick carved with lions in the corner had been brought in during that time.
Now, Roose Bolton's arrival had added a distinctive touch of tomb-cold stillness to this already sinister castle.
The room had been cleaned with exceptional thoroughness, almost to the point of being spotless, yet this nearly obsessive cleanliness sent a chill down one's spine.
It was much like Earl Bolton himself: beneath the pale skin of his face, one could never glimpse the slightest trace of genuine feeling.
His movements were methodical, his entire person like a precision instrument at work, untainted by any personal emotion.
The smell of old parchment and dried ink filled the air. The earl set down the book in his hand, its cover clearly bearing the title "The Greatest of the Seven Kingdoms-Harrenhal and Its Owners."
The book recorded in great detail the successive owners of this castle since Aegon Targaryen I, "The Conqueror," had conquered the Seven Kingdoms.
It was difficult to imagine that, in just under three hundred years, Harrenhal had passed under the rule of no fewer than nine great houses.
But the most outrageous part was that, apart from House Whent, whose members were still in exile, almost none of Harrenhal's rulers, including their families, had met a peaceful end!
Everything recorded in the book compelled one to believe in something unbelievable-a curse!
Legend had it that Harren "the Black" had mixed human blood into the mortar to build his castle, and so, from the day of its completion, the castle had borne a terrible curse that prevented anyone from holding it forever.
As a result, none of Harrenhal's owners seemed to have escaped the grip of misfortune.
It was said that late at night, servants could still hear the final screams of Harren and his sons in the flames!
"Heh."
Roose Bolton's slender, pale fingers brushed the smooth surface of the desk, showing some disdain for the claim.
As Earl of the Dreadfort and head of the flayed men, he had never believed in such things.
To Roose, these were merely excuses the weak used to conceal the truth of their failures, or simply to comfort themselves.
In his philosophy, the laws governing the world were simple and cruel.
A lord's inability to defend his lands and power was merely a reflection of his own insufficient strength and wisdom.
The strong devoured the weak, and the fittest survived. That was the iron law.
The curse of Harrenhal was nothing more than a fig leaf woven together by its failures to conceal their own incompetence and stupidity.
House Bolton had been able to contend with House Stark for thousands of years in a place as bitterly cold as the North through meticulous calculation, decisive choices, and... tenacious forbearance, not by placing its hopes in ghosts or gods.
Tapping the desk, Roose once again set down a dossier detailing the consumption of military provisions and the current state of supplies, his movements slow and unhurried.
Every small gesture conveyed an elegance utterly at odds with the roughness of the North, as though he were a southern nobleman.
Yet now, an exceedingly rare, slight frown appeared on his usually placid face.
It was so faint as to be almost imperceptible, but the expression was genuine.
Clearly, the current situation had indeed developed to a point that he found somewhat "troublesome."
Roose leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes slightly. A sturdy figure with resolute features gradually surfaced in his mind.
The King in the North-Robb Stark, the young man whom the northerners adored with such fervor.
Even Roose had to admit that this wolf cub possessed an extraordinary talent for warfare.
He was bold in his deployment of troops and decisive in his choices. Since marching south, he had won victory after victory, suffering almost no defeats. At the height of his fame, he had even given people hope of overthrowing Baratheon rule.
But his talents extended only to the battlefield.
After all, no one had expected him to dare unilaterally break his marriage pact with Walder Frey for the sake of an insignificant woman!
This was not merely a betrayal of his word, but political suicide!
No, not just politically, but militarily and strategically as well!
House Frey controlled the Twins, the most important crossing on the Green Fork. Losing House Frey's support was like having the northern army's supply lines and communications seized by the throat.
This foolish act had forcibly pushed a powerful potential ally into the opposing camp, inflicting strategic damage far more lasting than the loss of a single battle.
Roose Bolton could rack his brains and still fail to understand what had possessed Robb to pull such a stunt.
He was simply digging his own grave.
After all, Moat Cailin was now occupied by a band of Ironborn. Those bandit-like fellows were driven like a vicious wedge into the sole overland passage linking the North and the south.
Had Robb Stark not gone too far, they could have drawn some support from the wealthy Twins at their backs...
And now, virtually all the northern forces had become an isolated army, completely cut off from their northern homeland, Roose Bolton included.
They seemed to be campaigning as fiercely as ever on southern soil, but in truth they had become trees without roots, water without a source, deeply mired in the Riverlands' morass of war, unable to advance or retreat.
It felt like being trapped inside an exquisite coffin. Though unharmed for the moment, the air was slowly growing thin.
The King in the North had won every battle, yet he was losing the war.
And then there was Catelyn Tully, that foolish woman whose maternal love had robbed her of her senses...
She had actually released Jaime Lannister without authorization!
The most valuable captive in all the Seven Kingdoms, the best bargaining chip the northerners held, one they could have used in any negotiation with Tywin Lannister!
House Stark truly produced one talent after another.
At the thought of the Kingslayer, Roose Bolton opened his eyes and gently rubbed his aching brow with his fingertips.
He had not sent Vargo Hoat and his Brave Companions to pursue Jaime, yet the man had taken it upon himself to lead his men out of the castle without so much as informing him.
Roose did not trust this insatiably greedy Essosi sellsword captain, who had no loyalty to speak of, but at present he had no good way to keep him in check.
That would have to wait until he could turn his attention to it.
Thinking this, he could not help opening a drawer and glancing at the envelope inside, its sealing wax stamped with a lion's head.
Just as the Earl of the Dreadfort was considering his way out, familiar footsteps approached from the distance, the crisp sound of armored boots striking the floor.
Without looking, Roose Bolton knew his most trusted subordinate had arrived.
Sure enough, when he raised his eyelids slightly, that stern, rock-hard face appeared in the doorway.
He wore a suit of mail marked by many campaigns, iron greaves wrapped around his legs, his gaze sharp.
"My lord."
"Steelshanks" Walton spoke very softly, his words stripped of any unnecessary embellishment.
"We found the Kingslayer."
"Oh?"
At this, Roose Bolton raised his head in mild surprise, his pale eyes focusing on Walton's face.
His thin lips moved as he said mockingly, "It seems that fellow Vargo Hoat is rather capable after all."
"No... it wasn't Vargo Hoat, my lord."
Walton hurried to explain, his stern expression turning somewhat odd. "He came himself... um..."
He was eager to describe the scene, but with his limited vocabulary, Walton had no idea how to answer.
After stammering for a while, he finally swallowed, the corner of his mouth twitching. "In any case, they're at the castle gate now."
"You had best go and see for yourself, my lord!"
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