At the top of the Burning Tower, the thick stench of herbs and death had beco almost tangible—heavy enough to choke the air.
Lord Walter Whent lay in a massive four-poster bed, little more than skin and bone now. His complexion carried the dull gray of a corpse that hadn't realized it was dead yet, and his breath was so faint it seed like a candle fla trembling in the wind.
The fire in the hearth flickered uneasily.
Just like Qyburn's heart.
The old maester—white-haired, wearing a fraying scholar's robe—stood shivering beside the bed, cold crawling up his spine no matter how close he stood to the warmth.
Not because of the dying Lord.
But because of the shadow behind him.
A shadow with cold blue eyes—standing like death itself.
"What?"
Lance had been resting both hands on the greatsword. Now he shifted, gripping it with one hand and lifting Dragontooth, taking two calm steps toward Qyburn.
He drew the sword.
He actually drew the sword.
Qyburn's whole body jolted. His soul practically leapt into his throat.
He hadn't witnessed Lance's strength firsthand… but lately, if there was one na that shook the Seven Kingdoms—
It was Lance Lot, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
With his skinny old bones, Qyburn knew full well—
Even ten of him wouldn't last a heartbeat.
He turned his stiff neck, forcing a smile that looked uglier than crying.
"M-my… lord…"
"Call ser."
"Yes—yes, Ser Lance Lot!"
Sensing the chill in that voice, Qyburn hurriedly defended himself.
"As everyone knows… I specialize in surgery! Broken limbs, severed hands, that sort of thing—I can attempt. But detoxification and restorative dicine…"
"You're good enough at poisoning people."
Lance's brows lowered. He raised the blade and casually leveled it toward Qyburn's throat.
"And now you're telling you can't cure it?"
The old maester nearly collapsed.
"N-no! Not that—Ser! It's just… this poison isn't that lethal!"
"It ca from a 'friend' I t while studying at the Citadel. It targets the nerves—keeps the victim in prolonged coma, their awareness sinking deeper and deeper… while the organs slowly fail over ti."
He paused, almost admiring his own words.
"Very elegant design, really. If the dosage is controlled properly, it resembles natural illness—"
He realized he'd spoken too far.
His face went pale as chalk.
Swallowing hard, he corrected himself.
"In any case… even if I force dicine into him now and wake him… I'm afraid… I'm afraid the man will be ruined."
"Ruined or not."
Lance's voice didn't change.
"I want him alive. At least long enough to see his children again."
"Long enough to say a few final words."
Then he stepped closer.
Pressure poured off him like a mountain collapsing.
"Save him."
"Or you can lie beside him."
"And you'll both go into the coffin together."
Qyburn's heart slamd against his ribs.
He could tell—
This wasn't a threat ant to scare.
This was a fact, waiting to happen.
"And if you save him…"
Lance's eyes narrowed slightly.
"I have a very good 'job' waiting for you in King's Landing."
Qyburn's heartbeat stuttered.
He had no idea what that job was—
But the alternative was death.
He shut his mouth instantly, opened his dical chest with practiced hands, and began mixing a life-saving draught for Lord Whent.
At that mont—
Footsteps sounded.
Ser Balman Byrch strode into the chamber, face grim. In his hands was a heavy little box wrapped in oilcloth.
He bowed toward Lance.
"Ser. We found sothing in the secret compartnt in Oswell's room."
Lance gestured.
Balman didn't waste words—he opened the box imdiately.
Inside were several letters already unsealed, each closed with wax before being opened.
Lance picked up the top one and scanned it.
A flicker of as expected passed through his blue eyes.
He turned over a few more letters.
Beneath them lay a brand-new badge, embroidered with a pink-and-bloody flayed man.
And under that—lists of supplies.
At the bottom of the pages, a neat line in smaller script read:
—House Whent offers its loyalty to the Lion.
Lance snorted.
Then, without hesitation, he shoved everything back into the box and shut it.
"Gather n."
"We leave the castle imdiately."
His tone turned colder.
"Bring our Lord of Winterfell."
"And bring that Lannister boy too."
"Yes, ser!"
---
About half an hour later, Harrenhal's massive black iron gates thundered open beneath the rain.
Lance rode first.
The pure-white cloak on his back soaked through in seconds, clinging to his armor like a wet shroud.
Behind him, a hundred black-armored knights poured out like a tide of steel. Hooves crushed into mud, spraying filthy water in every direction.
Harrenhal was still unstable.
So Lance had deliberately left two hundred n behind—insurance against whatever might still crawl out of the castle's darkness.
Of course…
That was only because he had absolute confidence in one thing:
His own strength was enough.
To Lance, a hundred knights was more than sufficient.
To everyone else—
A hundred knights following him looked like the wrath of the gods.
Eddard Stark rode with lips pressed tight. Rain slid down his face—harder now, sharper, more resolute than before—then dripped onto his wolfskin cloak.
The direwolf sigil at his chest looked cleaner than ever, as though the storm itself was scrubbing it for what ca next.
A little behind him, Jai Lannister rode with his golden hair plastered to his brow—
And yet even the freezing rain couldn't cool the blood boiling in his veins.
The erald-green eyes stayed locked on the curtain of rain ahead.
Charred cottages. Flayed corpses. The images kept resurfacing—over and over—like ghosts that refused to fade. Before they'd set out, Jai had gone to Harrenhal's sept, sworn before the Seven that he would drag the northern bastards who'd created this hell into the light—
And make them pay.
---
"HAHAHA…!"
Inside a stone hut, the Mountain—Gregor Clegane—hitched up his belt and let out a laugh like a beast, raw and ugly.
He was bare-chested, his knotted muscles crisscrossed with old scars and fresh wounds—proof of a life lived in violence.
"All right," he snarled, satisfied as he rose from the sobbing peasant woman sprawled beneath him. "Your turn."
The n who'd been waiting like starving dogs surged forward instantly.
"Don't you animals rush it!" the Mountain roared.
His fists—each like a boulder—swung out without warning.
THUD! THUD!
One punch per man. He knocked them into the mud as easily as kicking over stools.
Order returned, purely because he demanded it.
That was how it always went. Gregor always took the first turn, but in his own twisted way, he was "generous"—he'd always let his n line up and take their turns after him.
As he liked to say—
He hated waste.
If everyone was going to have their share, waiting a little longer didn't matter.
"The usual rule, Rosso!"
His mood seed almost cheerful as he pointed at his favorite brute, teeth splitting into a grin that looked more like a wound.
"You're last."
Rosso Stivwood—his scarred face contorted into a grin just as vicious—didn't seem offended in the slightest.
In fact, he looked pleased.
He liked being last. Less trouble.
Soon the stone hut filled with muffled sobs, strangled cries, and animal laughter.
Then—
The door slamd open.
A ssenger, soaked through and panting like a dying hound, stumbled inside.
"My lord!! Ergency—!"
Gregor turned, snatched the man up by the collar like he weighed nothing, and tore the ssage tube from his grip. His thick fingers crushed the wax seal. He yanked out the grease-wrapped parchnt.
The handwriting was familiar.
The tone—absolute, commanding—was unmistakable.
Gregor's throat rumbled with a furious growl, his brutal face darkening in firelight.
He finished reading.
Then he crumpled the parchnt into a ball, shoved it into his mouth, chewed twice—
And swallowed.
Without another word, he strode to the n still crowding around the woman.
THUMP! THUMP!
One kick each, sending them sprawling.
He drew his absurdly massive sword, and with one casual downward swing—
Ended the woman's suffering.
"Pack up," he barked. "We move."
No one dared object.
Just days ago, they'd watched Gregor tear a man in half in his sleep—
Because the man's snoring was too loud.
Rosso, who'd been ready to unbuckle his trousers, cursed under his breath and snapped into motion. He grabbed a flayed-man banner and an axe from the floor.
"You heard him!" he shouted. "Move!"
"Take anything small and valuable. Leave the bulky junk."
"And kill the rest of the won."
"Plant the banners. Make it look right."
A few sharp screams followed—
Quick, clipped, swallowed by the roar of the rain.
Gregor's unit moved with frightening speed. In less than a quarter hour, every man was mounted. Under his lead, they rode west with several garish flayed-man banners lifted high, crimson against the gray storm.
---
BOOOOM—!
Thunder cracked so loudly it seed to split the sky.
In a season already turning toward winter, a storm like this was unnatural.
On a muddy backroad, a small company of riders pressed forward through the downpour. Their leader wore a heavy dark cloak. Rain stread down his pale, lean face—
Yet his eyes remained cold and steady, as if the storm didn't exist.
Behind him rode over twenty elite Dreadfort cavalry, silent and disciplined.
"My lord!"
A scout galloped up, wiped rain from his face, exhaustion carved into his features.
"Ahead is the river bend! Another ten miles—maybe less—and Harrenhal will be in sight!"
Roose Bolton gave a small nod, offering no more words than necessary.
His purpose was simple:
To cleanse the Dreadfort's na, he had to go directly to Harrenhal—prove his sincerity to House Whent, clear the accusations, and request cooperation in hunting down the raiders.
The enemy's framing was vicious. It reeked of design—soone trying to provoke the Riverlands, perhaps even the Crown itself, into offering the North nothing but hatred.
True, hatred already ran deep.
But House Bolton would not carry the bla.
The trip was dangerous… but Roose had his own cards to play.
He wasn't afraid.
They were about to round a low ridge when the forward scout suddenly reined in hard and gave a sharp warning whistle.
"Stop." Roose lifted a hand instantly.
He rode forward several paces and narrowed his eyes into the rain.
On a branching road ahead, a sizeable cavalry force was moving fast.
Through the sheeting downpour, Roose could just make out the sigil on their banners—
Crimson.
Familiar.
His blood went cold.
That's my flayed man.
At that mont, the rear outriders of the other group spotted them.
A flurry of shouts and hand signs followed.
Then the enemy column split—
A detachnt of more than ten riders peeled off and charged straight toward them.
"Don't expose our identity," Roose murmured.
He motioned sharply behind him, signaling his n to lt into cover and stay out of sight.
The riders thundered closer, then stopped so thirty paces away.
Their leader was a thick-necked brute with a savage scar across his face. He wore "Northern" leather armor—poorly made. Under the rain, the mismatched lining showed through in patches.
His eyes swept Roose's group with predatory contempt.
"Who are you?"
Rosso Stivwood's voice was rough, Northern in flavor—but wrong. Forced. Roose could hear at once the man was imitating an accent he didn't truly own.
Roose gave a faint snort.
He lifted his head just enough for the hood to reveal only the lower half of his face—thin lips pressed into a hard line—and answered in flawless Riverlands speech, smooth as a native.
"We're Frey rchants' guards. This cursed storm got us lost."
Then he tilted his head, pointedly skeptical.
"You're coming from Harrenhal… but you don't look like Whent n, ser."
"Frey?"
Rosso's gaze flicked up and down Roose's party.
Their equipnt was too fine. Their horses too disciplined. Not what you'd expect from common caravan guards.
But Rosso didn't dig deeper.
Instead, he puffed out his chest and grinned with crude arrogance. He jabbed his thumb hard into the fresh, crimson badge pinned proudly to his own breast—
A flayed man.
"I'm Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort!"
He shouted it like a drunk claiming a throne.
"See those banners behind ? This land belongs to House Bolton now!"
"And if you're passing through…"
His grin widened.
"…then you'll leave so of your goods behind."
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