Chapter 294: The Pledge of Allegiance
Chapter 294: Chapter 279: The Pledge of Allegiance
When Walton pushed open the door again, Roose Bolton was still sitting behind the blackwood desk.
Only a few candles were lit in the room, casting a dim light that rendered his pale face half-illuminated and half-shadowed.
In his hands, he held the great valyrian steel sword, Ice, which had been retrieved from beside the body of Robb Stark.
The blade was not fully unsheathed, only drawn out a short distance.
Under the dim, yellowish candlelight, strange ripples flowed across the metal, cold and ancient.
Bolton’s fingers gently caressed the spine of the blade, his movements meticulous, as if he were admiring a work of art or weighing a tool.
Walton stood at the doorway for a moment before he couldn’t help but speak: “My lord, House Stark is finished. Since you like this sword, why not keep it?”
“This is a valyrian steel sword, after all; there are only a few in all of Westeros.”
Roose Bolton’s movement of caressing the sword paused slightly.
He did not look up, his gaze remaining fixed on those ripples.
After a moment, he spoke, his voice calm and soft, carrying a clarity as cold as ice water:
“A valyrian steel sword is naturally a fine thing. But it cannot buy the whole North, nor can it buy the true submission of the lords.”
“It is merely a sword; no matter how sharp it is, it cannot cut through the prejudices in people’s hearts.” He raised his head, his pale eyes looking towards Walton.
“On the contrary, giving it to Tywin Lannister has a different significance.”
He slowly pushed the blade back into its scabbard, producing a soft metallic rasp.
“This represents our sincerity, our determination to cooperate with the Lannisters, and a complete break from the Stark era.”
“One Ice can trade for greater support from the Warden of the West, for aid from the Westerlands, and for the Lannisters’ recognition of the new master of the North…”
“This is far more valuable than hanging a famous sword on the wall of the Dreadfort.”
He laid the sheathed Ice flat on the tabletop and tapped the hilt lightly with his fingers.
“We will have a valyrian steel sword sooner or later. Since we could destroy the Starks and obtain Ice, we will be able to obtain Valyrian Steel that belongs to House Bolton from other places in the future.”
“What is most important now is to use the power of the Lannisters to drive the Ironborn completely out of the North. Only when the North is stable can House Bolton sit securely in Winterfell.”
He paused, then changed the subject: “How have those remnants of Robb Stark been dealt with?”
Walton immediately bowed and replied: “Rest assured, my lord, it has been handled properly. Those were just stragglers gathered temporarily, with low morale. With Robb dead, the tree fell and the followers scattered.”
“With a little intimidation and the promise of taking them back to the North to drive out the Ironborn and defend their homes, most of them laid down their weapons. A few diehards… have been silenced forever.”
Roose Bolton nodded.
He reached out to pick up Ice from the table, along with a letter already sealed with heavy wax, and handed them both to Walton.
“Arrange your most capable men to travel day and night to deliver this sword and this letter safely to the hands of Lord Tywin Lannister outside Castamere in the Westerlands.”
“If there is the slightest mishap…”
He glanced at Walton without finishing his sentence, but the chill in his pale eyes made even the battle-hardened “Steelshanks” feel a shiver in his heart.
“Yes, my lord! I will personally select the men; it will be foolproof!” Walton stepped forward and solemnly received the sword and the letter with both hands.
The messenger, carrying Ice and the secret letter, left The Twins and galloped towards the Westerlands.
Five days later.
In the Westerlands, outside Castamere, in the command tent of the Lannister army.
Tywin Lannister sat in a high-backed chair covered with thick wolf pelts.
On the table in front of him lay a surprisingly wide greatsword.
The patterns on the blade were like waves; even lying quietly, it naturally exuded a heavy majesty and an ancient aura.
The braziers in the tent were burning fiercely, and the golden lion banner hung to the side.
“Ice…” Tywin whispered the name, his fingers hovering and slowly caressing over the blade, without making direct contact.
In his deep-set eye sockets, his emerald eyes were as sharp as an eagle’s, reflecting the luster of the blade. He gently grasped the hilt and drew it halfway out.
The firelight danced on the ripples of the Valyrian Steel, shimmering with a cold and brilliant radiance.
He slowly pushed the sword back into its sheath, let out a satisfied sigh, and turned to the messenger who had been standing respectfully bowed in the tent: “This Lord of the Dreadfort is quite sensible, and he knows very well how to express his sincerity.”
Upon hearing this, the messenger bent even lower: “Lord Tywin, you are discerning. Lord Roose Bolton has deep admiration for your prestige and wisdom.”
“That we were able to successfully restore order and eliminate the traitors who colluded with foreign enemies this time is entirely due to your strategy. To show his sincerity, he specifically ordered me to present the spoils of the Stark rebels, this valyrian steel sword, Ice, to you, my lord.”
“The Earl implores you, my lord, considering that the North has just been settled and is in ruins, and with the Ironborn running rampant, to provide more support and guidance. The North will swear to follow you to the death and fight against the Targaryen heretics together!”
Tywin’s face remained expressionless, save for a slight pursing of his lips, which showed he was quite pleased with this rhetoric.
“I have received Lord Roose’s sincerity.” Tywin nodded slowly. “He has done well. The North truly needs a new, powerful warden to end the chaos brought about by House Stark.”
He took a sheet of letterhead stamped with the golden lion sigil, picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write.
The nib scratched across the paper with a soft rustling sound.
Soon, an appointment issued in the name of the Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and King Tommen I was formed.
The document formally appointed Roose Bolton as warden of the north and Lord of Winterfell, granting him full authority to handle military and political affairs in the North, suppress the Ironborn rebellion, and restore order and law.
The wording was rigorous, endowing Bolton with legal authority almost equal to that of the former Stark lords.
Tywin put down the pen, picked up the heavy seal representing the King’s authority, pressed it into the ink pad, and stamped it firmly on the signature line.
With a dull thud.
He rolled up the letter, tied it with a gold thread, and handed it to an attendant.
The attendant carried it to the messenger and handed it over.
Tywin’s gaze fell on the messenger: “Take this letter back and deliver it to Lord Roose Bolton. From this moment on, he is the warden of the north and Lord of Winterfell, personally appointed by His Majesty the King.”
The messenger was overjoyed, knelt on one knee, received the parchment with both hands raised above his head, his voice trembling with excitement: “Thank you, my Lord Regent! The North will forever remember the kindness of the Lannisters and you, my Lord Regent, and will follow your lead!”
Tywin waved his hand, signaling him to rise: “As for the assistance I promised earlier to resolve the Ironborn scourge in the North, I have my own arrangements. You may withdraw now.”
“Yes! This one withdraws!” The messenger clutched the appointment document tightly and backed out of the large tent.
The tent flap fell.
Tywin sat alone in the large chair, his gaze slowly shifting to the huge map of Westeros hanging in the tent.
His gaze swept over the Westerlands, The Riverlands, and the Vale, finally resting on that vast, cold North, and the islands further west, the Iron Islands.
The variable that was Robb Stark had been eliminated.
The North had basically fallen under control through Roose Bolton.
Over in the Vale, Petyr Baelish was at work.
The Westerlands were his foundation. The combined power of the three regions—the Westerlands, the North, and the Vale—had vaguely formed a line.
But this was not enough.
Robb’s disastrous defeat in The Riverlands, and the devastating advance and terrifying power of the dragon of Aegon Targaryen, clearly told Tywin:
To oppose that dragon-rider, relying on the power of one region or even two or three was far from enough. He needed more allies.
His gaze locked onto the menacing kraken sigil representing the Iron Islands off the west coast of the map.
Balon Greyjoy, greedy, cruel, ambitious, possessed a maritime force that could not be underestimated.
If he could pull him into an alliance against the Targaryens—the Westerlands, the North, the Vale, the Iron Islands.
A coalition of four regions, with both land and sea power, was a force capable of shaking any enemy.
And to move an old pirate like Balon, empty promises of an alliance were meaningless.
He needed tangible, undeniable benefits.
Tywin’s gaze slowly moved away from the Iron Islands and landed on that land located in the basin of The Trident on the map… The Riverlands.
A dense network of waterways, suitable for the Ironborn’s naval warfare, it was at its weakest and most chaotic moment.
The Targaryens had occupied the major castles, but their rule was not stable.
Northern stragglers, remnants of The Riverlands, and bandits were running rampant.
For Balon Greyjoy, could there be a more perfect raiding ground than this? Especially if he received tacit approval or even encouragement—
A plan quickly formed in Tywin’s cold brain.
Feed the kraken of the Iron Islands with the blood and wealth of The Riverlands, and bind them to the chariot of opposing the Targaryens.
At the same time, the Ironborn could be used as a buffer.
This region, which was strategically located and might be used by the Targaryens as a springboard to attack the Westerlands or the North in the future.
Killing many birds with one stone.
Tywin reached out to take a new quill from the pen holder, his gaze becoming sharp once again.
It was time to write to Balon Greyjoy.
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