Chapter 20 — Presence lv2
Roose Bolton did not step outside the castle.
Instead, he received them in a small audience chamber within Harrenhal.
The fire in the hearth crackled softly, its glow dancing across the faces gathered within—
shadows bending and stretching like silent phantoms.
Seated at the head of the long table, Roose Bolton regarded the group before him—
a collection so bizarre that even Steelshanks Walton's awkward report now made sense.
His pale eyes swept over them one by one.
---
First:
a woman broader-shouldered and taller than most men, clad in battered armor stained by mud and blood.
Strong as a draft horse, plain as a brick wall, and—unfortunately—
flat as a board.
Next to her sat Jaime Lannister.
Once a golden knight of the Kingsguard, he now looked closer to a starving sellsword.
Greasy strands of blond hair clung to his temples, his once-handsome face gaunt with exhaustion.
His dominant right hand was gone—only bandages tied with an absurd little bow remained where his wrist should be.
Still—
he was alive.
And for Roose Bolton, that was enough of a relief.
---
Then:
a dark-skinned Dothraki warrior stood watchful and silent—
eyes never resting, even as he ate.
Roose recognized him immediately as one of Vargo Hoat's men.
But it was the fourth member who drew Bolton's gaze and held it.
A ragged farmhand—
dirty clothes, dried blood, mud stains—
yet sitting with a composure wholly at odds with his appearance.
He carried himself with unusual ease, not slouching, not tense—
but relaxed, poised even—
as though he were the only one in the room not out of place.
It was that contradiction—
that strange, quiet confidence—
that put Roose Bolton on guard.
A farmer should not sit like that.
That air—deep, unreadable, watchful—
reminded him of the first time he saw Tywin Lannister,
all those years ago, marching under Robert Baratheon's banners.
How peculiar…
Roose's brow twitched by the slightest degree.
Even the Seven could not explain how four such mismatched souls had come to travel together.
Silence stretched between them—
broken only by the occasional crack of burning firewood…
…and another sound.
A grating, insistent sound that scraped against the nerves like a dull blade.
"Scrrrr—scrrr—scrrr—"
"Scrrrk—scrrrk—"
Jaime Lannister's left hand clenched a dinner knife with visible determination.
He wrestled with a piece of roast beef on his plate—
the meat stubbornly refusing to be cut.
He tried again.
And again.
His jaw tightened, his face flushed with effort.
Meat juices splattered onto the tablecloth.
The screeching of metal on porcelain only grew louder.
The atmosphere—so solemn a moment ago—
now teetered dangerously close to farce.
At last—
"Enough."
With a sigh of pure resignation, Brienne took pity.
She planted her fork firmly into Jaime's plate, pinning the rebellious beef in place.
Jaime paused, glanced at her, and spoke with icy politeness—
his voice calm
yet pointedly enunciating three particular words:
"Thank you, non-friend."
Clearly, her earlier declaration of "You are not my friend" had not gone unnoticed.
Still—her help allowed him to finally cut the meat free.
He lifted a small piece to his mouth, closed his eyes, and exhaled as flavor bloomed across his tongue.
Tender meat—salt, black pepper, juices—
after weeks of hardtack and salt pork, it was nothing short of heavenly.
Roose Bolton watched him savor the food…
…and his confusion grew.
This is not how a fugitive behaves, he thought.
Nor how a hostage should.
Finally, he spoke:
---
"If I recall correctly, Ser Jaime,"
Roose said, voice as soft and cold as the Dreadfort's dungeons,
"we are—at least in principle—still enemies."
"Edmure Tully has offered a bounty of one thousand gold dragons for your capture."
His pale eyes narrowed slightly.
"Yet here you are—strolling into Harrenhal without disguise, dining at my table, eating my food…"
"…as if you were merely out for a countryside picnic."
A breath of stillness filled the room.
"Do you not think," Bolton concluded dryly,
"that you are taking me a little too lightly?"
Hearing Bolton's reminder, Jaime did not respond at once.
Instead, he hooked the entire slab of beef with his dinner knife and tore off a bite directly with his teeth.
If Odin's plan failed, he reasoned, then he might as well eat his fill first—
before the noose tightened.
Only after chewing twice did he speak again, voice thick with meat and mockery:
"Planning to haul me back to Riverrun for that bounty, Lord Bolton?"
He swallowed, jabbed the air with his knife casually, and added:
"If you truly wished to cash me in, you could have ordered your guards to bind us the moment we entered."
A beat.
"Besides… the reward is unlikely to be paid in full."
He raised his right arm—
or what remained of it—
and waved the bandaged stump before Roose Bolton's expressionless face.
"As you can see, your hostage is… incomplete."
The words were both fact and probe—
Jaime's posture loose, his voice relaxed,
yet every heartbeat carefully measuring Bolton's reaction.
For in the days before reaching Harrenhal,
Odin had drilled certain truths into him:
"Remember this, Jaime. Roose Bolton is not a man of passion—
he is a man of gain.
The more he postures, the more he waits—
weighing value, calculating opportunity."
"What he wants from you is not what Stark can offer—
but what your father might."
And indeed—
rather than angering Bolton, Jaime's insolence merely sharpened the man's gaze.
Roose leaned forward, voice smooth as winter ice:
"Losing a hand seems not to have dulled your tongue, Ser Jaime.
Perhaps I should remove the other—
and send it to Robb Stark."
A pause—cold, deliberate.
"I hear he would appreciate such a gift.
After all, your—nephew?
—or son?
—took his father's head."
Even forewarned, rage flared bright and swift behind Jaime's eyes.
His left hand tightened around the knife—
then stabbed it upright into the table, point buried deep in polished oak.
The hall fell still.
"Say one more word, Roose," he hissed,
"and I will cut out your tongue myself."
"Your sellswords—your Bloddy Mummers—took my hand."
His voice dropped to a lethal whisper.
"When I return to King's Landing, I could tell my father you ordered it."
Roose Bolton gave a thin, colorless smile—
a smile like frost forming on a corpse.
"And I could send your head ahead of you—
and let you explain that to him."
Steel rasped.
At once swords, daggers, and tempers rose—
Walton's hand gripped his hilt,
Brienne's shoulders squared,
and even the silent Dothraki tensed for blood.
Just when it seemed the room would ignite—
a voice, quiet yet weighted, cut cleanly through the tension:
"Forgive Ser Jaime's lack of restraint, Lord Bolton."
"One cannot demand composure from a man who has paid such a price…
and lived."
The voice rolled like slow thunder—
unhurried, deliberate—
each word chosen with surgical precision.
Roose's gaze snapped away from Jaime—
toward the man who had spoken.
Until now, Odin had sat silent,
dabbed his mouth with linen,
finished his meal without theatrics.
Nothing about his ragged clothing suggested authority—
yet something in his presence now demanded attention.
Jaime exhaled—
not relief, but recognition.
He spoke lazily, as if suddenly weary of the entire exchange:
"Excuse me. I'm tired."
"Lord Bolton—if it pleases you—my advisor, Odin,
will handle the remainder of these… conversations."
And with that, Jaime turned back to his plate—
waging quiet war against the stubborn beef.
Advisor.
The word echoed through the chamber, absurd and impossible.
Roose Bolton felt the corner of his lip twitch—
not amusement—
but disbelief.
A farmhand?
The spokesman of House Lannister's heir?
What madness.
His pale eyes hardened, stripping Odin with a predator's scrutiny—
certain he would find nothing but fraud beneath the rags.
But Odin had already shifted in his seat.
He leaned back—slowly—
as though sinking into the shadowed embrace of the high-backed chair.
Firelight licked only his legs;
his upper body vanished into darkness.
Only his eyes remained illuminated—
two still pools of black that reflected flame, yet gave nothing back.
And then—
Roose Bolton felt it.
A subtle pressure—
a weight—not physical, but imposed.
The presence of someone accustomed to command.
The silent authority of a man who did not need to raise his voice.
Bolton's breath caught—barely—
yet enough for his pupils to tighten.
This is no farmer.
This is a man who has stood in high halls… or should have.
Across the table, unseen in shadow,
Odin's lips curled.
Just slightly.
Exactly as intended.
For days earlier, he had poured every coin scavenged from Vargo Hoat's camp into the System—
and the System had granted him what he needed most:
[Presence — Lv.2]
Authority is not spoken.
It is recognized.