Chapter 22 — My Lord Bolton… you wouldn't want that, would you?
When Odin spoke the name Robb Stark,
there was neither awe nor disdain in his tone—
only the calm appraisal one might give to a finely made sword…
or a flawed one.
That alone piqued Roose Bolton's interest.
He sat a little straighter,
waiting—almost hoping—
to hear what judgment this mud-stained farmer would render upon his king.
Odin began without hesitation:
"I admit it freely—he is young, courageous,
a wolf who has tasted his first throne,
and on the battlefield he has shown claws sharp enough to draw blood."
"Since riding south, he has won honorably and often."
A pause—
just long enough to tighten attention like a bowstring.
Then:
"But a true king requires more than battlefield valor."
"Even if he wins every battle… the North cannot possibly win this war."
The certainty in his voice struck the room like steel meeting marble.
Even Jaime's brows twitched.
Since marching south, Robb Stark's banners had rolled across half the Riverlands;
his victories were undeniable.
Rumor whispered he would soon turn his gaze upon Casterly Rock itself.
Brienne could bear no more.
"Your words are nonsense, farmer."
She spoke loudly, chest heaving beneath dented armor:
"Since the day we marched south, the King in the North has never known defeat.
It is only a matter of time before the lions fall."
Blunt—
but not inaccurate.
Many believed the same.
Even Jaime—once.
"Calm yourself," Jaime murmured, hand on her shoulder.
The last thing he wanted was Brienne's stubborn pride undoing what Odin had just bought them with careful poise.
Yet he couldn't fault her words.
And curiously—
Roose Bolton did not.
He neither objected nor refuted.
He simply watched.
Odin smiled faintly, as if he expected the outburst.
"I do not speak without reason."
"I have three."
He raised three fingers, his tone precise as a surgeon's stitch.
"First:
For the sake of a woman, Robb Stark tore up his marriage pact with House Frey.
A betrayal not only of vows—
but of his single most critical line of supply and support."
Bolton's expression remained unreadable.
But his fingers—pale and bloodless—stilled upon the armrest.
Odin continued:
"Second:
He has left his roots behind.
The North bleeds alone while its king chases glory hundreds of leagues away."
"The Riverlands—his so-called ally—are exhausted, burned, and plundered."
"They cannot feed him, reinforce him, nor shelter him."
"His army is an arrow without a bow—sharp, but directionless.
And arrows break most often upon impact."
Brienne clenched her jaw.
Jaime said nothing—
but the corner of his eye twitched.
Odin was voicing truths even the lions muttered only behind closed doors.
And then—
with a breath that chilled the firelit room—
Odin spoke the third point.
He lowered his hand, leaned forward slightly,
and his voice lost all pretense of gentleness:
"Third… and most damning of all…"
He let silence stretch—
not as a pause,
but as pressure.
Jaime felt it.
Brienne did too.
Even the stone-faced Bolton—shifted almost imperceptibly.
Odin's gaze fixed on Roose,
his tone soft as a razor sliding across skin:
"The North cannot win…
because your king does not yet realize
that loyalty is not won by honor—
but maintained by fear, gold,
and the certainty of victory."
"And right now—"
he tapped the table once,
a sound sharp as a nail driven into a coffin—
"Robb Stark cannot guarantee any of the three."
Bolton's pale lashes fluttered—barely.
Odin's voice dropped to a whisper,
yet every syllable landed with the weight of a mailed fist:
"And my lord Bolton…
you wouldn't want to follow a king who cannot keep his own kingdom alive…"
"—would you?"
The fire crackled.
No one moved.
Even breathing seemed dangerous.
The question did not accuse Roose of treason—
but it invited him to imagine it.
And that—
was far more potent.
Odin leaned forward ever so slightly, and the firelight finally caught his eyes—two dark, fathomless pools staring unflinchingly into Roose Bolton's pale gaze.
Every word that followed fell like a blade striking an anvil:
"Our King in the North…
does not seem quite as just as his father."
Roose Bolton's eyelids twitched.
The statement was irreverent, almost insolent—
yet it struck with needle-like precision at something long buried in his chest.
For centuries, House Bolton bent the knee to House Stark.
Their ambition never died—
not even when Eddard Stark became Warden of the North.
Roose found that man maddening—stubborn, rigid, painfully principled—
but even he could not deny it:
No one in the Seven Kingdoms doubted Ned Stark's honor.
There were moments—quiet, private ones—
when Roose Bolton had almost believed:
Under such a lord… one might not fear the knife in the dark.
He had even shaped his firstborn son in Eddard Stark's image—
a chilling echo of honor crafted from ice.
"Your words go a step too far, Lord Odin,"
Roose finally murmured.
Even if he agreed, he could never show it.
His expression remained unreadable, porcelain-smooth.
"We fight for honor."
Odin didn't laugh outright—
but the sound that escaped him was sharp enough to flay.
"Honor?"
His tone was ice—and then fire.
"Rickard Karstark."
Roose's gaze sharpened.
"In battle, none bled more for House Stark.
He gave two sons to the war—
loyal boys who died protecting their king."
Odin opened his hand, palm up, directing attention to the man who gnawed beef like a starving wolf—Ser Jaime Lannister.
Jaime paused mid-bite, raised an eyebrow with a hint of pride.
Yes—he had cut those boys down himself.
Yes—he had nearly carved a path straight to Robb Stark that day.
He chewed the meat a little harder, remembering how close he'd come—
and how the last few strides had slipped away like water.
Odin's gaze returned to Bolton—
and the air turned razor-thin.
"Tell me, Lord Bolton—
did House Karstark win honor?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"No."
The single word cracked like a whip.
"Rickard Karstark—a father who lost everything—
took two Lannister prisoners' heads in grief and rage."
"And your just King in the North
answered by taking his head."
Silence flooded the room.
Odin spoke again—softly now, yet every syllable slid beneath the skin like a thin blade:
"My lord Bolton…
you would not wish to share Rickard Karstark's fate—
would you?"
---
The hearth crackled.
Roose Bolton's face—always masklike—
seemed to show the faintest hairline fracture.
Jaime had stopped chewing entirely.
He stared—green eyes taut with tension.
Even with all he trusted in Odin, that line was a step over a cliff edge.
Questioning a liege lord's king to his face—
in his own stronghold.
And yet…
Brienne's reaction was stronger still.
As Odin laid bare Robb Stark's failings,
her blue eyes filled with outrage.
To her, House Stark was honor itself.
Lady Catelyn was her guiding star.
The words Odin spoke felt sacrilegious—
a desecration of everything she believed.
She clenched her fists so hard her knuckles whitened.
Words trembled on her tongue, but she choked them back.
The room held its breath for a long, brittle moment.
At last, Bolton spoke:
"This is no concern of yours, Lord Odin.
Whatever His Grace's shortcomings,
House Bolton's loyalty does not waver."
He established the boundary—
Northmen matters are for Northmen.
Yet he did not refute Odin's assessment of Robb Stark.
Odin watched him—
expression unreadable even to the barest flicker.
I believe you… not at all, he thought.
Your mask is flawless—
even Insight Lv1 can't scratch it.
But he knew the truth beneath the snow.
Roose leaned back, voice low and even:
"Honor is not what interests me most, Lord Odin.
But mutual benefit… that is a language I speak."
Odin inclined his head slightly—
the faintest acknowledgement of shared appetite.
"Clear interests bind longer than empty vows."
He raised a single finger.
"A pass.
Safe conduct for myself and Ser Jaime, back to King's Landing."
Roose's reply was immediate—cutting straight to bone:
"And what do I gain?"
Odin's eyes glimmered.
"What do you desire, my lord Bolton?"
"After all… you are already a Lord.
One step below a king—
and yet still not above him."
Roose's lips quirked—not a smile, not yet—
but the recognition of shared language.
---
"You speak boldly, Lord Odin."
"But why should I trust a stranger's promises?"
Brienne stiffened, stunned.
Trust?
Had Roose Bolton just… accepted something?
She had heard nothing of substance.
Yet something had shifted.
Odin answered without missing a breath:
"You need not trust my promises."
"Only the cost of my deceit."
"If I speak falsely,
I will face Lord Tywin Lannister himself in the capital."
"And unlike most men,
I value my life far too dearly to wager it lightly."
Roose regarded him in chilling silence—
and then, finally:
"I can believe that, Lord Odin."
"However… I require collateral."
His eyes slid past Jaime—
and landed squarely on Brienne of Tarth.
He raised one pale, elegant finger—
as though selecting a tool from a surgeon's tray.
"This woman stays."