Corleone, the Ruthless Strategist

Brienne left, and a brief silence fell over the hall.

Jaime abruptly grabbed the cup from the table and drained the cheap wine filling it to the brim, as though he wanted to quench his irritation and guilt with that sour liquid.

Roose Bolton's gaze returned to Corleone in the shadows, but he said nothing.

He was waiting.

Waiting to see how this mysterious farmer would resolve this somewhat awkward situation.

Yes, Roose had done it deliberately.

Frankly, keeping Brienne as a hostage was not necessary for Roose Bolton.

He had long since weighed his potential alignment of interests with Tywin Lannister against the long-term benefits of returning Jaime safely.

But this farmer named Vito Corleone made him uncomfortable.

It was not fear, but a sense of threat from something beyond his control.

The man's calm confidence, as though he possessed an innate ability to see through everything, had stirred Roose's defensive instincts.

In other words, he wanted to regain control of the negotiations.

So he had deliberately dug a pit for Corleone, breaking apart the group that had only just managed to come together, as a modest test for him.

On another level, it would allow him to examine more clearly whether Corleone truly pursued nothing but profit, as he claimed, or valued "friendship" as much as he said.

Under Roose's gaze, Corleone moved.

He slowly leaned out of the shadows, and for the first time, the firelight clearly illuminated his face.

There was none of the expected panic, resentment, or urgency to repair their relationship, nor even a trace of satisfaction at the progress of the negotiations.

He was simply as calm as before, as though the fierce clash just now had been an inconsequential interlude.

"Lord Bolton."

His voice betrayed no emotion either, and even carried a hint of ease.

"Before I receive your handwritten letter and set off for King's Landing, I think we might discuss another piece of 'business.'"

This attitude only made Roose more curious.

Rather than hurry me to fulfill my promise, or speak up for Brienne and ask me to release her, this fellow wants to... talk business?

Interesting.

"I'm listening."

He spoke softly, his pale eyes focused on Corleone's face, his expression intrigued.

At this, Corleone lightly pressed his fingertips together above the tabletop and began to explain:

"I believe we have already reached an understanding regarding our previous transaction. However, I am particularly devoted to resolving my partners' lingering concerns. It helps establish more lasting trust."

"For example... once the fighting in the south is settled and you need to lead the loyal northern army home, how might you retake Moat Cailin from those sea monsters of the Iron Islands at the lowest possible cost?"

"Moat Cailin!"

At those words, Roose Bolton involuntarily sat bolt upright, and even his pupils contracted slightly.

After all, Moat Cailin was the only vital passage into and out of the North, yet it had now fallen into Ironborn hands.

Those bastards were as stubborn as they were foul. Even if his entire plan succeeded perfectly, he would ultimately face the embarrassment of staring at that mighty stronghold without being able to pass through.

But now Corleone was actually saying... he had a way to retake Moat Cailin?

Was this farmer merely boasting, or...

Roose Bolton's reaction was observed with perfect clarity by [Insight].

Corleone pressed his lips together and began introducing his "business."

"The reason Moat Cailin is called the 'throat of the North,' so difficult to attack and impossible to take, lies in its unique terrain."

"Surrounded by marshes and protected by sturdy walls, it makes a frontal assault a fool's strategy. It would only spill the blood of your loyal Soldiers of the North for nothing, fertilizing that swampland."

"So what we must do is not attack it, but... let it 'rot' from within."

"Rot?" Roose repeated the word, looking quite interested.

"Exactly." Corleone nodded. "First, you can send troops to encircle Moat Cailin from both sides, completely cutting off its contact with the outside."

"Moat Cailin had no garrison for centuries, so there are no food reserves inside. The Ironborn almost always travel light when they go raiding, so they cannot possibly have brought much food. Before long, food will run short inside the walls, perhaps even causing internal strife."

Roose continued nodding as he listened, but gave no indication of agreement or disagreement.

The suggestion was conventional, and they had already begun making arrangements to do just that.

"Second."

Corleone continued, "We can arrange for people to approach the foot of Moat Cailin's walls at night."

"You want to launch a surprise attack?"

Roose Bolton frowned slightly at this.

Although reason told him Corleone was unlikely to offer such a foolish suggestion, he could not help reminding him, "For thousands of years, no one has ever managed to force their way through Moat Cailin."

"That was because Torrhen Stark surrendered quickly enough when faced with Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons." Corleone first chuckled, then shook his head.

"No, my lord, I am not suggesting that you launch a surprise attack. That would be too foolish."

"What I mean is that we can send people... preferably children with clear voices, to sing Iron Islands songs such as 'Iron Rain' and 'The Blood Cup' beneath the walls every night."

"What good would that do?"

Roose Bolton clearly had not thought much about it and asked outright.

"Imagine it." Corleone grinned. "After days without food, their stomachs gnawing with hunger, shivering behind the damp, cold walls, tormented at night by homesickness and despair, they hear songs from their homeland in the innocent voices of children. What do you think those Ironborn, far from the waves and trapped in an isolated fortress, would feel?"

He did not need Roose to answer and continued on his own. "They would remember their barren but familiar islands. They would ask themselves why they had to die of hunger and cold in this strange marsh for a worthless stronghold."

"In other words, they would think of... home."

"The children's singing would be like the sharpest chisel, prying open their hard shells little by little, planting fear and longing for home deep in their hearts."

"Before long, that despair would spread faster than any plague."

Listening beside him, Jaime involuntarily felt a chill creep up his spine.

He imagined that scene: tormented by hunger and cold, hearing songs that represented home and freedom, so close at hand yet so far beyond reach...

Seven above, this was the cruelest torture imaginable for the soul!

At that thought, he could not help glancing at Corleone, inwardly shaken.

This fellow's grasp of the human heart was terrifyingly precise!

What left Jaime feeling even more suffocated was that he could not help wondering whether, during his imprisonment at Harrenhal, he would have broken down if Stark had sent people to sing songs of the Westerlands in his ears at night.

The answer... even he did not know.

Meanwhile, upon hearing Corleone's suggestion, even Roose's eyes lit up, and for the first time, undisguised admiration appeared on his face.

This idea was simply brilliant!

It sidestepped force perfectly and struck at humanity's most vulnerable part, creating suspicion and division among the Ironborn, perhaps even stripping them of the ability to fight outright!

Vito Corleone was truly a formidable fellow!

Yet Corleone seemed to feel that their shock was still not enough.

He tapped the tabletop lightly, drawing Roose back from his thoughts, then delivered his final trump card-and his most horrifying suggestion.

"Third... create a plague!"

"A plague!"

Two startled cries rang out simultaneously, one from Jaime and the other from Roose.

After all, in an ancient age with such poor medical care, that sort of thing was essentially synonymous with death and despair!

Yet... Corleone had actually said it so casually and directly?

Faced with their questioning, Corleone lowered his head slightly, letting half his face sink into shadow again as his lips curved into a cold smile.

He spoke slowly, his voice beginning to take on an absorbing quality, like a devil from legend beguiling human hearts.

"After the siege has lasted a week, the defenders' rations will begin to run short, and their nerves will be at their most fragile."

"At that point, we can select a few livestock carcasses that died of disease... or human corpses, preferably those who died of fever, and use light catapults to lob them accurately into the fortress in the dead of night."

"At the same time, we will make the same arrangements at the source of their drinking water."

As he spoke, Corleone looked at Roose, his gaze sharp. "Within three days, the Ironborn inside will discover that those around them have begun suffering unexplained fevers and vomiting, with suspicious red patches or festering sores appearing on their bodies."

"They may not believe this was caused by a viral infection, but instead attribute it all to those elusive... gods!"

Gulp...

The sound of someone swallowing rang out.

Beside Corleone, Jaime was breathing rapidly. He felt a chill shoot from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head as he stared incredulously at this "friend" of his, his green eyes filled with horror.

He had witnessed the cruelty of the battlefield, and he had seen stratagems too. During the Battle of the Whispering Wood, he had been captured precisely because he had fallen for Robb Stark's scheme.

But...

This was too terrifying!

Such a cold, vicious plan made even him, the "Kingslayer," feel his heart tremble.

Yet he had to admit that if they truly did as Corleone said, they could entirely avoid the losses of a frontal assault, waging a war of psychological and biological extermination at almost the lowest possible cost.

But... it was far too poisonous!

How poisonous?

Even Roose Bolton fell silent for a long time.

He said nothing, his pale eyes fixed intently on Corleone. Cruel as the Earl of the Dreadfort was, for a moment even he did not know what... choice to make.

Yet Corleone did not stop persuading him. Instead, he continued in that utterly beguiling voice, "This is the best, simplest, and most direct method, my lord."

"When the time comes, those arrogant Ironborn will erupt into the most extreme panic and begin slaughtering one another."

"They will draw their blades against each other for the last mouthful of clean water, to keep away from their infected companions. Trust will collapse completely!"

"I dare say that within days, someone scared out of his wits will open the gates and surrender, begging for treatment and mercy. Or we need only wait patiently until the chaos inside is over, then stroll in and effortlessly take possession of a castle... full of corpses."