Harrenhal, the Tower of Kingspyre.
The name itself carried a hint of ominousness, as if the vengeful spirit of its builder, Harren the Black, burned to death by dragonfire, still haunted this castle built with all the resources of the Riverlands.
Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, sat behind a dark red oak desk, its color deep like dried blood.
Since the war began, this room had changed hands several times. House Whent, the original owners of Harrenhal, offered almost no resistance before being effortlessly driven out by Lord Tywin Lannister.
The Lord of Casterly Rock had briefly worked here. This expensive desk, along with the gilded candelabra in the corner carved with lion motifs, were brought in during that time.
Now, Roose Bolton's arrival added a unique, tomb-like, cold silence to this already gloomy castle.
The room was cleaned to an abnormal degree, almost spotless, but this near-paranoid cleanliness was creepy.
Just like Lord Bolton himself—you could never glimpse even a shred of genuine emotion beneath his pale skin.
His movements were methodical; the man was like a precision instrument, devoid of any personal feelings.
The air smelled of old parchment and dry ink. The Lord put down the book in his hand. The cover clearly read The Greatest of the Seven Kingdoms — Harrenhal and Its Owners.
This book detailed every owner of this castle since Aegon the Conqueror united the Seven Kingdoms.
It was hard to imagine that in less than three hundred years, Harrenhal had passed through the hands of nine different houses.
But the most absurd part was that, aside from the exiled House Whent, almost none of these rulers of Harrenhal, including their family members, had met a good end!
All the records in the book forced one to believe in an incredible thing—a curse!
Legend had it that Harren the Black mixed human blood into the mortar to build the castle, so from the day of its completion, it bore a terrible curse preventing anyone from possessing it for long.
This resulted in the owners of Harrenhal seemingly never escaping the entanglement of misfortune.
It was said that late at night, servants could still hear the final wails of Harren and his sons in the flames!
"Heh."
Roose Bolton's slender, pale fingers stroked the smooth surface of the desk, seemingly scoffing at this notion.
As the Lord of the Dreadfort and leader of the flayed men, he never believed in such things.
In Roose's view, this was merely an excuse for the weak to cover up the truth of their failure, or to comfort themselves.
In his philosophy, the laws of the world were simple and cruel.
Lords who could not protect their own territories and power were merely demonstrating their lack of strength and wisdom.
The weak are meat for the strong; survival of the fittest—this is the iron law.
The curse of Harrenhal was just a fig leaf woven together by losers to cover up their own incompetence and stupidity.
House Bolton, in the bitter cold of the North, had been able to contend with House Stark for thousands of years by relying on precise calculations, decisive decisions, and... resilient forbearance, not by pinning hopes on ghosts or gods.
Knocking on the table, Roose slowly and calmly put down a dossier detailing military ration consumption and current supplies.
Every subtle gesture exuded an elegance incongruous with the roughness of the North, like a southern noble.
However, at this moment, a rare, slight frown appeared on his usually impassive face.
The amplitude was small, almost imperceptible, but the expression was real.
Clearly, the current situation had indeed developed to a point he found somewhat "troublesome."
Roose leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes slightly. A sturdy figure with a resolute face gradually surfaced in his mind.
The King in the North—Robb Stark, the young man madly embraced by the Northerners.
Even Roose had to admit that this wolf pup indeed had extraordinary talent for warfare.
He was bold in deploying troops and decisive in decision-making. Since heading south, he had won battle after battle, remaining virtually undefeated. His momentum was so strong that at one point, it gave hope of overturning Baratheon rule.
But his talent was limited to the battlefield.
After all, no one expected him to unilaterally tear up the marriage contract with Walder Frey for an insignificant woman!
This was not just treachery; it was political suicide!
No, not just political, but military and strategic as well!
House Frey controlled the Twins, the most important crossing of the Green Fork. Without Frey support, the Northern army's logistics and communications were choked.
This stupid move pushed a powerful potential ally to the opposite side. The strategic damage caused was far more profound than losing a single battle.
Roose Bolton racked his brains but couldn't figure out what possessed the other party to pull such a stunt.
It was simply digging his own grave.
After all, Moat Cailin was now occupied by a bunch of Ironborn. Those bandit-like fellows were like a vicious wedge firmly driven into the only land route connecting the North and the South.
If Robb Stark hadn't gone too far, they could have relied on the wealthy Twins for some support...
But now, almost all Northern armies were isolated, completely cut off from their home in the North, including Roose Bolton.
They seemed to be still fighting aggressively in the southern lands, but in reality, they had become trees without roots, water without a source, deeply mired in the swamp of war in the Riverlands, unable to advance or retreat.
It felt like being trapped in an exquisite coffin. Although unharmed for now, the air was becoming thinner bit by bit.
The King in the North won every battle but was losing the war.
Add to that Catelyn Tully, that stupid woman blinded by motherly love...
She actually released Jaime Lannister privately!
The most valuable prisoner in the Seven Kingdoms, the best bargaining chip in Northern hands to negotiate anything with Tywin Lannister!
House Stark truly produced talents in every generation.
Thinking of the Kingslayer, Roose Bolton opened his eyes, gently kneading his throbbing glabella with his fingertips.
He hadn't sent Vargo Hoat and his Brave Companions to pursue Jaime, yet the other party took the initiative to lead his men out of the city without even notifying him.
Roose didn't trust this greedy, disloyal Essos mercenary captain, but currently, there was no good way to restrain him.
He had to wait until his hands were free.
Thinking this, he couldn't help opening the drawer and glancing at the envelope inside, sealed with lion-stamped wax.
Just as the Lord of the Dreadfort was contemplating his way out, familiar footsteps approached from afar—crisp sounds of armored boots on the floor.
No need to look, Roose Bolton knew his most trusted subordinate had arrived.
Sure enough, when he raised his eyelids slightly, that face, hard and serious as rock, appeared at the door.
Wearing chainmail full of battle scars, iron greaves on his legs, and sharp eyes.
"My lord."
"Steelshanks" Walton's voice was soft, his language concise without any redundant embellishment.
"We found the Kingslayer."
"Oh?"
Hearing this, Roose Bolton looked up with slight surprise, his pale eyes focusing on Walton's face.
His thin lips parted, mocking, "It seems Vargo Hoat has some ability after all."
"No... it wasn't Vargo Hoat, my lord."
Walton explained hurriedly, the serious expression on his face becoming somewhat strange. "It was he himself... um..."
He eagerly wanted to describe the scene, but with Walton's shallow vocabulary, he didn't know how to answer.
After stammering for a while, he swallowed and twitched the corner of his mouth. "Anyway, they are at the city gate right now."
"You'd best go see for yourself, my lord!"