Chapter 128

"Viscount Barta, do you know why the ruby on the sword hilt is shining?" Mie inquired, feeling the thick anger emanating from the blade.

This is Lady Catherine's anger. At the last moment of her life, she did not hesitate, pouring her angry consciousness into the sword, and then, following Yu Liangmu's guidance, she truly died; perhaps in the embrace of the old gods she could see her deceased husband and sons.

The sword is named Passion, but clearly naming it Fury would be more fitting. Mie lightly gripped the hilt, infusing soothing power into it.

Its anger has not faded; Mie can feel that, before she settles all of Catherine's enemies, the wrath embodying Catherine's will will not disappear.

"Someone says you are a witch of the Stark family," Viscount Barta said with a sideways smile, "I've heard many rumors, so a glowing sword is quite normal, isn't it? What little trick is this?"

"Watch your tongue! We haven't fed you bread yet," Robogloff snapped.

Mie's expression unchanged, she raised a hand to interrupt Robo.

"A trick? This is certainly no trick." Mie drew the sword; the sword spirit glowed with a faint blood-red light, the colorful hue that had appeared after slaying the faceless one now vanished. "It is angry because of Bolton's betrayal."

"A sword? You're telling me a sword's anger?" Viscount Barta threw his head back and laughed, "Could you really have gone mad?"

Mie coldly smiled, waiting for him to finish his embarrassed laughter; he too could feel the awkwardness of the atmosphere.

"Someone says you are a witch, I see..."

"If I were a witch, your Lord Roose Bolton would already be dead." She cut him off: "Rickon Bolton isn't qualified to speak with me; when Lord Roose Bolton returns, I don't mind chatting with him a bit—I recall our last interaction in Winterfell was quite pleasant."

"I have brought the proposal; before the army besieges Winterfell, it remains valid. I hope you, Miss, or the witch of Winterfell, will consider it carefully." He dropped all amiability, revealing a vicious grin: "For the peace of the North, Lord Rickon Bolton wouldn't mind marrying a witch; otherwise, my blade is still sharp—it might not be unable to flay skin. Oh, though we don't flay human skin, we don't mind doing it to a witch, especially such a beautiful one."

"Generally speaking, only victors have the right to issue threats," Mie said, holding her sword and slowly walking toward Barta, "your manner of speaking is rather hasty and impolite."

"Miss, this is already polite enough," he said, grinning widely, "Outsiders have long believed you are a witch who uses sorcery, and precisely because of you—I don't believe it at all—the Stark brothers died under mysterious circumstances inside Winterfell, while you, a mere bastard, have become Lady of Winterfell; isn't that your goal? I haven't called you a kinslayer."

"Well, looks like you're smarter than the outsiders!" Mie continued walking toward him, an invisible force pushing him away.

"I just want to say, outsiders will have even worse rumors, and if one day Winterfell becomes a ruin like Whispering Fort and Grey Stone City, they'll paint you as the most cruel demon in the world." His face turned somewhat ugly; he hurriedly stepped back two paces, "If it weren't for demons, how would the Stark family face such..."

He stumbled backward and fell under Mie's steps.

"If I were to eat you now, that would truly make me a demon," Mie slowly bent down toward him, "but you? You're still fine."

He was about to get up when he saw the massive head of the fuzzy dog dart out from the bookstore's corner, its green eyes locked on him; he panicked and rolled sharply to the other side.

"Before you leave Winterfell, I have a few words of advice—listen carefully." Mie waited for him to stay quiet, let him feel a bit safer, then said with a mysterious smile, "I am a witch, and now I cast a spell on you! If one day you see Bolton's defeat as irreversible, you can bring Lord Roose Bolton's head to me in surrender; I guarantee that if you do so, no matter how disastrous your loss, you and your little family will continue to inherit Ye Xihe."

"Dream on!"

"You're not dreaming; you came here in person to help me confirm who killed my brother—how could I not be grateful? This is a conditional gift I'm giving you, just for you, to keep in your heart, to keep in your heart, don't let anyone else know." Mie tapped his forehead with the sword hilt.

The fuzzy dog stared fixedly at him; he dared not move rashly, but Mie's act of disciplining a child left him feeling quite humiliated.

"How strange—I'm the one threatened with flaying, yet you're the one receiving the gift; why are you angry?" Mie felt the audience was over, smiling at her own sword: "Look at him, his face flushing pale then red—doesn't he resemble you?"

The senior officials remained silent, but Sasha beside them chuckled hehe, perhaps hearing such a fresh contrast for the first time.

His face grew even redder.

"Sir, get up quickly, don't lie on the ground—your task is finished." She returned to her seat, "If Lord Rickon Bolton asks about the result, you can tell him the cold wind has already swept over the Freys, and Bolton's winter is approaching."

"No matter what kind of winter, we've been here for thousands of years just the same." He departed angrily.

He came and went quickly; Mie received the only useful piece of information: confirmation that Bran and Rickon's deaths were related to Bolton, while Bolton learned that she had unhesitatingly rejected the proposal.

"Alright, the interlude is over," Mie announced, "Let's discuss something useful—like how many soldiers the levy can actually raise for us, especially how many cavalry. Master Fen, the Boltons have endured thousands of winters, they're experienced, but I'm still quite young and have never faced a winter; you must prepare quarters for my soldiers and warhorses to overwinter, because if anyone freezes to death in Winterfell or gets crushed by snow, I won't stand for it."

"Your Highness, we can wait a moment and then help you calculate how many soldiers we can recruit and how many tents and latrines we need," Chier monk said with a smile, "Just now Viscount Bolton's words I could hear clearly—he said outsiders rumor you're a witch; although I feel it's not, such rumors don't come from nowhere, so I've heard quite a few. To be frank, since I took charge of the ravens, I've received many from friends at Long Lake asking most often, 'Is the she-wolf a witch?' The stories they tell me most are about how the Winterfell witch chops off heads, practices sorcery..."

He felt it wasn't, and hearing that sounded rather strange.

"This is surely a rumor spread by the Boltons!" Sir Rodderick said angrily.

Mie could only be grateful for his defense, but it was useless; they realized the issue had already become too late.

Mie inwardly sighed, having forgotten that amid war there was also public relations work to be done—this should have been her strength, yet she hadn't expected the Boltons to use it first, and it seems to work fairly well; at least she has become the "black-hearted Mie" in the hearts of her own northern folk.

"The Boltons only ever do these petty, fly‑blown, dog‑like deeds," Sir Mason concluded disdainfully.

"Although the pure are self‑clear, the damage has been done; if you want to make amends, Sir, you'd better spend time touring your lands when you can—folk seeing their lord often come to regard him as a living person rather than a cloud‑dwelling monster. I think if you had once walked Long Lake, my friends wouldn't have so many doubts."

Chier monk shows no emotion, a trait Mie has always praised; people say within ten steps there must be fragrant grass, and Chier monk is a rare blossom that has sprouted in the North.

This plan is certainly feasible, but now she hardly has any time left to tour her lands.

Her father Eddard often toured his lands, but back then the situation was different, and moreover she used to think that Eddard Stark's inspections were like an emperor's pleasure trip—neglecting his duties!

"Your Highness, you needn't be too despondent. Though people dislike man‑eating, blood‑drinking witches, they don't reject witches who can lead them to continual victories, especially generous ones. As I see it, at this stage only conscription is affected by rumors, but the number of recruits is largely decided by local lords, having little to do with ordinary folk; moreover, putting those who believe rumors into the army—whether for friend or foe—is not necessarily a good thing." He gave a carefree smile, "Your Highness, you aren't about to issue a levy, are you? The soldiers you raise you must cherish, for the rumors have already done the first round of screening for you!"

"Monk, you're the one who raised the issue, and you're also the one saying it's not an issue! Really, you've got it!" Rolge Kaiso sighed.

"It's nice to hear you comfort me like this, Chier monk, but you're mistaken—I'm not a witch, and I don't eat people or drink blood."

At that moment the fuzzy dog opened its mouth wide, yawned, and lay down beside the hearth, seeming not to agree.

"What lord doesn't eat people or drink blood!" Chier monk sighed, "Your Highness, aside from the soldiers White Harbor and other supporter families can provide, I think Winterfell can now raise at most six thousand troops."