Chapter 14: Return to Harrenhal
POV: Geralt
The familiar smell of Harrenhal's corruption—blood, fear, and centuries of accumulated suffering—hit me like a physical blow as I slipped through the postern gate in the pre-dawn darkness. Five days away from this cursed place, and already it felt like returning to a tomb where I'd accidentally learned to call myself alive.
But something was different. Wrong.
The guard post that should have been manned was empty, torch guttering in its bracket. The courtyard that should have been filled with Lannister patrols was eerily quiet. And flying from the highest tower, snapping in the wind like a declaration of new ownership, was a banner I'd been dreading to see.
The flayed man of House Bolton.
"Shit," I breathed, pressing myself against the shadows of the wall. "Roose is here already."
[Strategic Assessment: Major Command Change Detected]
[Bolton Control: Harrenhal garrison transition confirmed]
[Timeline Status: Accelerated beyond projections]
[Immediate Risk: Cover story verification required]
I made my way through the servant quarters with enhanced reflexes guiding every step, avoiding the patches of creaking floorboard and the corners where new guards might be stationed. The layout I'd memorized was still accurate, but the atmosphere had changed completely.
Gone was the slovenly incompetence of Lannister occupation. In its place was something far more sinister—a quiet efficiency that spoke of systematic brutality applied with scientific precision. The Leech Lord's reputation for surgical cruelty wasn't exaggerated.
My straw pallet was exactly as I'd left it, and none of the other servants seemed to have noticed my absence. The illness story had held perfectly—just another sick man among dozens who'd succumbed to various maladies during the chaotic transition between armies.
But as I settled onto the moldy straw, I heard something that made my blood freeze.
Voices in the corridor outside. Quiet, controlled, professional.
"—complete inventory of all staff changes in the past week—"
"—servant claimed fever, but quarters show signs of extended absence—"
"—His Lordship wants explanations for any anomalies—"
"Double shit." Bolton's people were conducting a security review, cataloguing every person who'd been present during the transition. My convenient illness wouldn't stand up to that kind of scrutiny.
[Cover Identity: Under active investigation]
[Detection Risk: Elevated to critical levels]
[Countermeasures: Immediate implementation required]
I slipped out of the servant quarters and made my way toward the kitchens, where controlled chaos still reigned as the staff tried to adjust to their new masters' preferences. Roose Bolton's dietary requirements were as precise and unsettling as everything else about him—meals served at exact temperatures, meat cooked to specific consistencies, wine aged to particular years.
Perfect cover for a servant who needed to be visible and busy.
"Tom!" Umma's voice boomed across the kitchen as I entered. "Thank the Seven you're better. We've been working like dogs trying to keep up with these northerners' demands."
"Feeling much improved," I replied, falling into the familiar rhythm of kitchen work. "What do they need?"
"Lord Bolton wants his morning meal in exactly thirty minutes. Temperature no higher than warm, no lower than tepid. Bread sliced to finger-width, meat carved paper-thin. And if anything's wrong, it's our heads on spikes."
I nodded and began working, but my attention was focused on the conversations flowing around me. Servants were natural intelligence networks, and the transition from Lannister to Bolton control had given them plenty to discuss.
"—killed six men first night, just for looking at him wrong—"
"—that pale man follows him everywhere, takes notes about everything—"
"—heard tell the Mountain's men mostly fled south when they heard Bolton was coming—"
"Interesting." Gregor had abandoned Harrenhal rather than serve under Roose Bolton. That suggested either cowardice or intelligence—both useful for my purposes.
But the most important intelligence came from a scullery maid who was whispering urgently to her companion.
"—saw them in the old maester's tower last night—"
"—three of them, moving quiet-like toward the godswood—"
"—one was just a slip of a girl, but she walked like she knew where she was going—"
Arya. She was making her escape tonight, with Jaqen's help and the routes I'd prepared for her. But something was wrong with the timing—she should have been gone already, safely away from Harrenhal before Bolton arrived.
[Priority Alert: Arya Stark escape attempt in progress]
[Complication: Bolton security sweep active]
[Intervention Required: Path clearing and misdirection]
[Timeline: Critical window closing rapidly]
I finished preparing Lord Bolton's meal with mechanical precision, but my mind was racing through the castle's layout, calculating guard positions and patrol routes. If Arya was moving tonight, she'd need every advantage I could give her.
"I'll deliver this personally," I told Umma, lifting the tray. "New lord, want to make sure everything's perfect."
She nodded approvingly. "Good thinking. And Tom—keep your head down around this one. He's not like the others. There's something... wrong... about him."
"You have no idea," I thought, making my way toward Bolton's chambers.
The route took me through three different guard posts, each manned by hard-faced northerners who watched me with the intensity of men who trusted nothing and no one. But servants carrying food were part of the background noise of castle life—invisible until something went wrong.
I took careful note of patrol patterns, shift changes, and the small gaps in coverage that always existed in any security system. Information that would be crucial for Arya's escape route.
[Guard Pattern Analysis: Comprehensive surveillance complete]
[Weak Points Identified: Seven optimal infiltration windows]
[Timing Calculations: 45-minute patrol cycle with 3-minute gaps]
Roose Bolton's chambers occupied the castle's most defensible tower, with narrow stairs and multiple checkpoints that would make assault nearly impossible. But they also had another characteristic that most people wouldn't notice—they were positioned to provide perfect oversight of the castle's layout.
The Leech Lord liked to watch.
I knocked softly on the chamber door and waited for permission to enter. When it came, Bolton's voice was exactly what I'd expected—quiet, controlled, and somehow more menacing than any shout.
"Enter."
The chamber was a study in calculated intimidation. Maps covered the walls, marked with pins that showed troop movements and supply lines with mathematical precision. The furniture was sparse but expensive, chosen for function rather than comfort. And everywhere, the subtle touches that marked this as the domain of a man who understood that fear was the most reliable tool of control.
Roose Bolton himself sat behind a desk of polished oak, his pale eyes fixed on correspondence that required his immediate attention. He was exactly as unsettling as I'd expected—ageless, bloodless, radiating the kind of quiet menace that made strong men step aside without knowing why.
"Your meal, my lord," I said, setting the tray down with careful precision.
"Tom of King's Landing," Bolton said without looking up from his papers. "Recently recovered from fever. Previously employed as a dockworker before seeking employment here."
My blood turned to ice water. He knew exactly who I was supposed to be, which meant he'd been briefed on every person in the castle.
"Yes, my lord."
"Curious thing, fever." Bolton's pale eyes finally lifted to meet mine, and I felt like I was being dissected by someone who found the process mildly interesting. "So many different varieties. Some cause sweating, others chills. Some create delirium, others perfect clarity."
"I was fortunate to recover quickly, my lord."
"Indeed. Fortune is such a fickle thing, don't you think? Some men have remarkable luck—they survive battles, avoid diseases, find themselves in exactly the right place at exactly the right time." His smile was winter-thin. "Other men's luck... runs out."
The threat was clear but unstated. He suspected something but wasn't ready to act on those suspicions. Yet.
"I just try to work hard and stay out of trouble, my lord."
"Admirable philosophy." Bolton returned to his correspondence, dismissing me with casual indifference. "You may go."
I bowed and began backing toward the door, but his voice stopped me.
"Tom. Should you encounter any... unusual activities... tonight, I trust you'll report them immediately. Harrenhal has such a history of unfortunate accidents."
[Direct Threat: Surveillance and reporting demanded]
[Roose Suspicion Level: High but not actionable]
[Arya Escape Window: Compromised but not eliminated]
[Counter-Strategy: Misdirection and false intelligence required]
I spent the next two hours moving through the castle like a ghost, using every servant passage and hidden route I'd mapped during my initial infiltration. My objectives were simple: clear Arya's escape route and create enough confusion to cover her departure.
The first step was eliminating specific guard posts.
The postern gate that led to the godswood was manned by two Bolton soldiers who took their duties seriously. Too seriously. They needed to be elsewhere when Arya made her move.
I approached them carrying a message scroll that looked official but contained carefully crafted misinformation.
"From Lord Bolton," I said, handing over the forged orders. "He wants you to inspect the armory immediately. Reports of possible sabotage."
The guards exchanged glances. Bolton's reputation for punishing security failures was already legendary, and the possibility of sabotage was exactly the kind of threat he'd want investigated immediately.
"Both of us?" the senior guard asked.
"Both of you. His Lordship was very specific about thoroughness."
They departed immediately, leaving the postern gate unguarded for the first time since Bolton's arrival.
[Guard Elimination: Primary escape route cleared]
[Duration: Estimated 20-30 minutes before discovery]
[Next Target: Supply cache verification]
The second step was ensuring Arya had everything she needed for the journey north.
I made my way to the cache I'd prepared in the godswood, adding fresh supplies and verifying that everything was in place. Food, water, warm clothes, and most importantly, a detailed map showing safe routes to Riverrun where she might find friendly forces.
But as I worked, I became aware that I wasn't alone in the godswood.
Three figures moved through the trees with the careful stealth of people who knew they were being hunted. Even in the darkness, I could recognize them—Arya, Gendry, and Hot Pie, making their desperate bid for freedom with the kind of terrified determination that marked people who had nothing left to lose.
And leading them, moving with the liquid grace that marked him as something more than human, was Jaqen H'ghar.
[Escape Party: Confirmed identification]
[Jaqen H'ghar: Active guidance role]
[Route Status: Proceeding according to plan]
[Intervention Opportunity: Final assistance possible]
I watched from concealment as Jaqen led them directly to the cache I'd prepared, his ancient eyes scanning the supplies with approval. He knew. Somehow, he'd known exactly where to find everything they needed, as if he'd been expecting it.
"A man finds gifts in strange places," he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. "A man appreciates friends who work from shadows."
Arya looked around nervously, her hand resting on the knife I'd given her. "What friends?"
"The kind that ask no names and expect no thanks," Jaqen replied, shouldering the supply pack. "The kind that remember the North, even in cursed places."
They moved deeper into the godswood, following the route I'd marked as safest for avoiding patrols. But as they prepared to leave Harrenhal's grounds, Jaqen turned back toward my hiding place.
"A man thinks debts flow in many directions," he said softly. "Some debts are paid with death. Others with protection. Others with... consideration."
"He's offering something," I realized. "Insurance. Protection. An alliance that goes beyond this single escape."
But there was no time to negotiate. In the distance, I could hear shouts as the guards I'd misdirected returned to their posts and discovered the armory was secure. The deception wouldn't hold much longer.
I watched as Jaqen led Arya and her companions through the breach in Harrenhal's outer wall, disappearing into the darkness like smoke dispersing in wind. The girl I'd tried to protect was finally free, heading north toward whatever destiny awaited her.
[Escape Sequence: Successfully completed]
[Arya Stark: Safely departed Harrenhal]
[Jaqen Alliance: Conditional agreement established]
[Mission Status: Primary objective achieved]
But as I made my way back toward the servant quarters, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched by eyes that saw far more than they revealed.
Roose Bolton stood at his tower window, a pale figure silhouetted against torchlight, his gaze fixed on the godswood where four people had just vanished into the night.
He'd seen them leave. More importantly, he'd chosen not to stop them.
"Why?" I wondered. "What game is he playing?"
The answer would have to wait. For now, it was enough that Arya was safe and heading north. One more piece removed from harm's way, one more life preserved against the darkness that was coming.
But as I settled onto my straw pallet, I couldn't escape the certainty that the real game was just beginning.
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