Dignity Lv2

Roose Bolton had not left the castle. Instead, he received Corleone and the others in a small reception room.

The fire in the hearth burned quietly, casting flickering light and shadows across every face in the room.

Roose Bolton sat at the head of the room, looking at what could well be the strangest group in all of Westeros, a trace of confusion crossing his pale face.

At the same time, he understood why Walton had worn such an odd expression when reporting to him.

A woman more powerfully built than a man, wearing filthy armor, ugly and flat-chested to boot.

Beside her sat the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister.

The Kingsguard looked rather wretched now. His long golden hair clung grimily to his temples, his once-handsome face was haggard and exhausted, and his right hand was gone at the wrist, wrapped in bandages tied with a bow.

Still, despite his sorry state, his life was at least in no danger, which brought Roose Bolton some relief.

His gaze shifted to the dark-skinned Dothraki warrior. Bolton recognized him as one of Vargo Hoat's men. Even while eating, his eyes kept scanning his surroundings.

But the fourth person drew the most attention.

Roose Bolton's gaze finally settled on Corleone. His ragged clothes were no different from an ordinary farmer's, even spattered with mud and bloodstains that had already turned black.

He sat quietly, yet his posture was unusually relaxed, even... possessed of an elegance utterly at odds with his appearance.

That peculiar bearing made Bolton somewhat uncomfortable, like a venomous snake lurking in the dark that had suddenly encountered another of its kind and immediately raised its guard.

Stranger still, this "farmer" was inexplicably enveloped in a peculiar, indescribable aura.

That quiet sense of control, as though he saw through everything, reminded him of the first time he had met Lord Tywin Lannister, back when he had joined King Robert's rebellion.

It was too bizarre.

Bolton frowned slightly.

Not even the gods could explain why four such mismatched people had come together.

Silence settled over the reception room for a time, broken only by the occasional crackle of firewood and another, teeth-grating sound that rang out repeatedly.

"Scrape, scrape~~~~~"

"Scrape, scrape~~~"

Jaime Lannister gripped a table knife tightly in his left hand, struggling with the fragrant roast beef before him.

The beef, however, seemed remarkably tough and unwilling to enter the guest's mouth. The blade scraped against the porcelain plate, producing a shrill, irritating sound.

He tried several times, his cheeks even flushing slightly with exertion. He began gritting his teeth, yet still failed to cut off a whole piece of meat gracefully, splashing juices onto the tablecloth instead.

The scraping grew louder, lending a touch of absurdity to the previously solemn reception room.

"Enough."

After watching him repeat this over and over, Brienne could bear it no longer. She picked up a fork and held the beef firmly in place on Jaime's plate, giving him solid support.

"Thank you, non-friend."

Jaime turned his head very politely, his tone flat, though he deliberately stressed the final word.

Clearly, he still resented Brienne's earlier declaration drawing a line between them.

Still, thanks to her, he could finally eat without trouble.

He cut off a small piece of beef and put it into his mouth. The tender, juicy taste of meat, something he had not enjoyed in so long, blossomed across his tongue, mingling with the simple seasoning of black pepper and salt. To a traveler who had spent so long gnawing on hard bread and salt meat, it was nothing short of exquisite.

Jaime could not help narrowing his eyes slightly as he savored it.

So good.

His utter absorption in the satisfaction of eating only deepened the confusion of Roose Bolton, who had been calmly observing him.

This was certainly not how a prisoner in an enemy camp should behave. He did not even look like a cautious fugitive.

"If I remember correctly, Ser Jaime."

At last, Roose could not help reminding him, "In theory, we are still enemies at present."

"Lord Edmure Tully has offered the enormous bounty of a thousand Gold Dragons for your capture."

"Yet not only have you brazenly shown up at Harrenhal, you are comfortably enjoying the food I provide as though you were out on a picnic. Aren't you showing me rather too little regard?"

Jaime did not answer immediately. Instead, he speared the entire piece of beef with his knife and began biting into it directly.

After all, if Corleone's plan failed, he ought at least to have a few good, hearty meals first.

"Are you going to haul me back to Harrenhal for the reward, Lord Bolton?"

Chewing great mouthfuls of beef, Jaime countered, "If that is what you want, you can call your men in to tie us up right now."

"But I fear you won't be able to collect the full thousand Gold Dragons."

As he spoke, he raised his right hand and waved it before Roose's eyes. "Look. Your hostage is no longer whole."

Those words were both a statement of fact and a probe.

Jaime feigned indifference while secretly watching the changes in the other man's expression.

Corleone's instructions on the road echoed in his mind:

"Remember, Jaime, Roose Bolton is an extremely self-serving man. The more forceful he acts, the more it shows that he is weighing his options, holding out for the highest bid."

"What he really wants to discuss is not what he can get by handing you over to Robb Stark, but the greater benefits he hopes to gain from your father."

Sure enough, Jaime's arrogant attitude did not anger Roose.

He did not even answer the question about the bounty directly. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, trying to make himself more intimidating, and threatened:

"The pain of losing a hand seems not to have destroyed your sense of humor, Ser Jaime. Perhaps I could cut off your other hand and send it to Robb Stark."

"I imagine he would be delighted to see that special 'gift.' After all, your nephew... or your son, cut off his father's head."

Despite Corleone's prior warning, Jaime still felt anger at those words.

He tightened his grip on the knife and drove it into the tabletop with a clang, his green eyes glaring viciously at Roose.

"Don't make me cut out your tongue, Roose Bolton."

"Those Brave Companions are your men, aren't they? They cut off my hand. Once I return to King's Landing, I could easily tell my father that all of it was done on your orders."

"Heh..."

Roose Bolton merely gave a cold laugh. "I could also send just your head back to King's Landing. I hope you will still be able to spout nonsense before Lord Tywin then."

At those words, the atmosphere immediately grew tense.

Walton, standing behind Roose, could not help gripping his sword hilt. Brienne and Yego tightened their grips on their knives at the same time.

Just as the tension between the two sides reached its peak, a voice suddenly sounded at precisely the right moment.

"Please forgive Ser Jaime's loose tongue, Earl Bolton..."

"After all, you can hardly demand much reason from someone who has just suffered a tremendous upheaval, can you?"

The voice was not loud, and was even somewhat low and husky. It flowed slowly and clearly, every word seemingly carefully considered and carrying a heavy weight.

As the words fell, Roose Bolton's gaze snapped from Jaime to the "farmer," who had been sitting quietly to one side and was now elegantly wiping his mouth after finishing his meal.

From the moment he entered, this man had displayed a composure entirely at odds with his ragged clothes. Yet in Bolton's deeply entrenched view of rank, that still could not change his lowly origins.

Why would a farmer dare speak at such a moment, interrupting his conversation with Jaime?

He glared at Corleone, then looked at Jaime, only to find that the latter seemed relieved as he said casually, "Please forgive me. I have been too tired lately."

"Please discuss the remaining matters with my personal adviser, Vito Corleone. He has full authority to speak on my behalf."

With that, he adopted an air of "I can't be bothered to discuss these troublesome matters anymore" and returned his attention to battling the beef on his plate.

A personal adviser?

The claim immediately struck Roose as absurd. He almost thought the Kingslayer had become hysterical after suffering such a devastating blow.

A farmer could actually speak with full authority for the eldest son of Casterly Rock?

What a joke!

His gaze was sharp as a blade, as though he meant to peel away Corleone's ragged coat, convinced that the man was most likely a swindler.

Yet under Roose's scrutiny, Corleone had just finished his simple after-meal cleanup.

He gently laid the white linen napkin on the table, every movement unhurried and as precise as a ritual.

Then he adjusted his posture slightly, making a tactical lean back against his chair.

Corleone's body sank into the broad shadows of the high-backed chair. The flickering firelight happened to illuminate only the part of him below his waist, while his upper body, especially his face, was mostly lost in deep shadow.

Only those black eyes calmly watched the world outside.

The entire reception room seemed to fall abruptly silent. Roose felt his breath actually catch slightly!

He stared at the man in disbelief, discovering to his astonishment that the presence radiating from that shadowed figure was rising at an astonishing speed. It was even beginning to turn the tables and suppress him, the Earl of the Dreadfort!

This was certainly not something a farmer could possess!

This was a bearing that could only be nurtured by long occupying a position of power!

Impossible!

Great waves surged through Roose's heart. After those three exclamations of shock, he still struggled to keep his face composed.

Only his pale pupils contracted slightly beyond his control.

In the shadows, the corners of Corleone's mouth, hidden in darkness, rose almost imperceptibly.

This was precisely the effect he wanted.

On the way to Harrenhal, he had unhesitatingly poured the Gold Dragons he had looted from the Brave Companions into the system and drawn a rather good skill.

-[Dignity Lv2]!