Tywin Lannister had to die.
As Roose Bolton turned and walked away, he made that decision clear in his heart.
And Robb Stark as well… if possible, it would be best to keep Balon Greyjoy here as well.
The leech lord's killing intent brewed ever more intensely in the depths of his mind.
Watching his departing back, Tywin's gaze grew heavy.
He could not help but glance at Robb Stark, who hung unconscious, suspended from an oak tree.
He was likewise aware of the war that had broken out in the Reach, and of the great dragon whose return had once again set the land ablaze with fury. Though he had been in hiding all this time, that did not mean his sources of information were cut off—after all, these events had occurred two months ago.
What he had not expected was that the matter had already reached and affected even the North, thousands of miles away.
Roose Bolton, who had originally sought to use him, whose cooperation with him had been limited to a vague, unspoken understanding carried out in the shadows, had at this moment clearly chosen to retreat.
Yet Bolton had not seized him at Deepwood Motte. Instead, he had chosen to let him go—and had even suddenly turned on Robb Stark.
With this maneuver, Roose not only captured the Stark family's heir and eldest son, but also buried more than two hundred Stark cavalry here.
It could be said that Roose was only a step away from openly declaring that he wanted them to kill Robb Stark.
More precisely, he had handed them the hilt of a sharp sword and adjusted the blade so that it pointed in the right direction.
The method itself was not particularly clever. It was simply that Roose Bolton understood that both he and Balon Greyjoy needed the young wolf of House Stark. The calculating Lord of the Dreadfort had grasped their human nature with precision.
Thoughts churned one after another in Tywin's mind, forcing him to seriously consider what he should do next.
Balon did not know that the two men before him each harbored their own designs—or rather, even if he did know, he would not have cared.
He let out a mocking snort, an expression of displeasure crossing his face.
"A bunch of cowards and weaklings!"
Then Balon looked at Robb and said, "Take him down. Have the troops make preparations as well. We must seize Deepwood Motte while we have this chance, and leave none of those Northmen behind."
"After that, we head straight for Winterfell."
The cake had not been divided, and the negotiations had produced no good outcome.
Facing those old, slick operators, Balon let out a cold, mocking sneer, his expression far from pleasant.
Asha heard the order and nodded, moving to carry it out.
Before long, deep within the forest, a vast army gradually assembled and marched toward the nearby Deepwood Motte.
As for Rickard Karstark and the others who were still inside Deepwood Motte, busily tying up loose ends, they had no idea that a beast was already closing in on them—its bloodstained jaws spread wide, ready to devour.
…
There was little to say about the battle. On the Ironborn side, victory came easily.
That said, in this place, Balon was unable to do as he had declared and leave none of the Northmen alive.
Though they had indeed been caught completely off guard, Rickard Karstark and the others ultimately managed to escape, relinquishing the place they had only just finished securing.
At the same time, they carried with them the news that the Iron Islands had invaded the North, and that Robb Stark, heir to House Stark, had been captured by Balon Greyjoy.
Deepwood Motte—something that should have been taken by Balon long ago—was only now finally seized by him.
Although he had remained here for quite some time since landing at the Stony Shore, during that period he had been quietly observing the situation in the North, patiently waiting until he obtained what he wanted from his negotiations with Tywin before deciding to make his move in earnest.
That night, just as Balon had finished organizing the information on the map and was preparing to rest, a servant knocked and entered.
"My lord, Lord Roose Bolton requests an audience."
The servant's words left Balon both somewhat surprised and not surprised at all.
He laughed. "The coward comes looking for me at a time like this? Heh…"
"Let him in. You go as well—don't let anyone come near."
With the orders given, in the dead of night, Roose entered Balon's temporary command post.
"I thought that after losing your nerve, you'd also lost your voice and become a mute."
Watching the Lord of the Dreadfort step into his room, Balon mocked him.
He looked into Roose's strangely pale eyes, the corner of his mouth curling into a faint arc.
Roose's face bore hardly any wrinkles. Hearing this, his extremely thin lips pressed into a straight line.
Balon's repeated mockery stirred displeasure in his heart.
But now was not the time to dwell on that.
Suppressing his irritation, he wasted no words and stated his purpose directly.
"If I were to let Tywin Lannister die right here like this, do you think that would be a good thing for us?"
Roose's words caused Balon's expression to shift slightly, a trace of surprise flashing through his eyes.
"Today, you betrayed House Stark and personally handed Robb Stark to me as a gift."
"And everything you did was merely to save Tywin Lannister… yet now you're telling me you're prepared to kill him."
"Leech Lord, your way of doing things has taken me somewhat by surprise, so can you tell me why?"
Balon did not bother to beat around the bush and asked the question directly.
He needed to assess what exactly was going on with Roose—the man before him who had refused to share the spoils and yet behaved like a craven.
He had done all this, only now to turn around and prepare to kill Tywin.
Balon had no time to play pointless games.
As for his question, Roose merely dragged over a chair and sat down before the Iron Islands lord—whose sharp-featured face, long white hair, and black eyes were keen as blades.
"Because Tywin Lannister is also a gift I am offering you."
Roose spoke calmly, his voice soft and measured, as though he were not discussing another man's life and death, but deciding what to eat for a late-night meal.
"A gift?"
"What use is he? A fool clever enough to be ruined by his own cleverness. Robb Stark is the one I want."
The disdain in Balon's voice was unmistakable. He did not believe Roose's words.
No—ever since Bolton had refused him earlier that day, he had not believed this cold, cunning, and calculating man.
They were merely using each other. What talk was there of sentiment?
He, Balon Greyjoy, helped him weaken the other northern houses and sap the strength of House Stark.
And Roose's repayment was to let him take his revenge and plunder half the North, while also bringing back the son who, at the age of ten, had been taken by Eddard Stark to Winterfell as both hostage and foster son, and raised there for nine years.
Balon had heard some things about Theon.
But no matter how much he disliked that son, he could not deny that Theon was now his only son.
He was, in the end, the heir of House Greyjoy and the Iron Islands—not some damned weak and craven ice-wolf's child. What flowed through his veins should be Ironborn blood.
What he should worship was the Drowned God, the Old Way, and the iron price—the creed of the Ironborn, who take what they need with iron coin.
And as for Tywin, who served as the bond holding all this together?
Forgive him, but the role he could play was little more than that of a buffer, a binding agent—and an excuse.
No one would care about a loser who had already lost everything, and now had even lost his credit.
Just as Roose spoke of taking his life—lightly, as if it were nothing at all.
The lingering might of the lion was long gone. Once a regional overlord, he had already become nothing more than a stray by the roadside.
Yet in the face of Balon's hypocrisy, Roose showed no excess expression.
He said calmly, "Tywin Lannister's only remaining value now lies in the head on his shoulders. I merely intend to remove it a little earlier."
At his words, Balon let out a cold laugh.
"To cover up your crimes and betrayal? Don't tell me you're afraid—afraid of the pressure from that bastard king?"
"Heh. To be honest, I hate dealing with people like you, because all you ever say is sanctimonious bullshit. Cowardly, spineless wretches."
Facing Balon's undisguised insults and mockery, Roose narrowed his eyes slightly.
But Balon had no intention of stopping.
"Indeed, you're right. Tywin Lannister's only remaining use now is that head on his neck."
"He was mad enough, for the sake of revenge, to have a Faceless Man sent to assassinate Robert—and that Faceless Man was foolish enough to be caught and even confessed who hired him."
"With his head, you can trade for a chance at forgiveness from that bastard. You're very clever, Roose Bolton."
With that, Balon stood up directly, adopting the posture of seeing a guest out.
"Then go and take it. Do it yourself."
"You need pitiful mercy—but the Ironborn do not!"
From the moment Roose refused to continue cooperating with him and sharing the spoils, Balon knew their cooperation ended there.
There had never been a true basis for cooperation between them. Everything had merely been a matter of opportunistic use.
Now that Roose's heart was no longer in it, Balon had no interest in continuing to play along with him here.
Moreover, he had not the slightest trust in this cold, cunning, and calculating man.
Saying this, returning Tywin to him in turn, also signaled that their cooperation was at an end—they would go their separate ways.
Balon would not fight Roose. There was no point in it. That had never been his purpose in coming to the North, nor did he intend to waste himself here in such a foolish manner.
Since that was the case, he would simply send Tywin—this useless burden to him—away, and at the same time send away this man who could betray anyone at any moment.
Otherwise, without a community of shared interests, all he would feel toward Roose was a constant sense of unease—like a thorn in his back, a bone stuck in his throat.
Of course, that did not prevent him from taking the opportunity to mock the Lord of the Dreadfort when parting ways.
As for handing Tywin over to him—naturally, that also meant their cooperation had come to an end.
Having obtained what he came for, and seeing that Balon had clearly adopted the posture of seeing him out, Roose straightened his clothes and rose to his feet, his posture erect.
"Since that is the case, I will not trouble you further. I will take my men and leave tonight."
Where Balon could not see, a sharp glint flashed through Roose's eyes.
Then, without lingering, the faint curve at the corner of his mouth appeared and vanished again as he turned and left.
Now was the best time to depart, and with Tywin in hand, he would have no trouble accounting for matters upon his return.
As for Robb Stark?
Heh—he would not see tomorrow's sun.
Hadn't Balon asked earlier why he had not killed him?
…
On an unnamed oak tree deep within the Wolfswood, a man was bound tightly to the trunk, a gash split across his forehead, his body caked in filth and mud.
Autumn in the North had long been marked by relentless snow. Though it had not snowed all day, the air was cold all the same.
Especially now, in the dead of night.
Just then, however, a warm, soft sensation licked across the man's face. The sudden pain at the wound on his forehead jolted the unconscious man awake.
"Hnngh…"
With an instinctive groan, Robb lifted his head in confusion, reflexively looking around.
His mind was still hazy; it took a good ten seconds before he recalled what had happened.
At that moment, now fully awake, he instinctively tried to move—only to realize that he was already bound fast, unable to stir.
Before him, a campfire was burning, as if piled there out of concern that he might freeze to death.
Yet beside that campfire lay two bodies.
One of them bore a horrifying gash at the neck. Blood flowed steadily, and the body—still not completely dead—twitching from time to time.
The other body was in even worse shape.
It looked as though he had been attacked from behind. His entire neck had been torn away from the rear, the vertebrae crushed and ripped apart, leaving only a short length of windpipe barely holding his head to his shoulders—just enough to show that this still belonged to a human being.
As for the one responsible for all of this, it was none other than the direwolf that had just licked him awake—Grey Wind.
In the firelight, the fur along what had once been his white chin and throat was already soaked a deep red with blood.
"Grey Wind… it's you."
Now fully awake and recalling what had happened, Robb naturally understood his situation.
A bitter smile appeared on his face, only for the pain in his head to make him draw in a sharp breath of cold air.
"Help me…"
Robb no longer had much strength to speak. He quietly glanced around, saw that no one was paying attention here, and then softly called out to Grey Wind.
However, just as Grey Wind was about to bite through the ropes binding him, the direwolf suddenly froze. Both ears snapped upright, and its head turned sharply to one side.
Baring its teeth, lowering its body, Grey Wind let out a low, threatening growl from deep in its throat.
Robb, who could be said to share a mutual understanding with it, immediately realized something.
He jerked his head up and looked—far away, a dark shadow was approaching.
"Hide first!"
In the darkness, Robb could not see how many were coming.
To be safe, he told Grey Wind to hide first.
Grey Wind was intelligent and could understand human speech.
Hearing the order, it glanced at him once, then quickly turned and slipped back into the grass.
After seeing it conceal itself, Robb looked again at the shadow that was drawing closer. After a moment's thought, he lowered his head and continued to feign unconsciousness.
This time, however, his attention remained fixed on that shadow—moving stealthily through the darkness, approaching without lighting a torch.
Two or three minutes later, the shadow finally came close.
At the same time, he immediately spotted the two bodies lying beside the campfire.
In the firelight, a man—bald, yet still clearly blond—stood there with an expression of shock frozen on his face.
In his hand, a dagger gleamed with cold light.
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