Chapter 159

The fresh scent of mountain trees and the fishy salty smell blown in from the sea mixed in the mountains, forming a strange mixture. Perhaps Budun Harbor will one day be like that, facing the vast sea on one side and the expansive northern territories on the other; that harbor might smell like this, just as he once smelled in the ruins of Budun Harbor when he was a child.

Before becoming an adopted son in Yashu City, the duke had once patrolled along the banks of the Mourning River, following the previous owner of the Terror Fortress, who was also his father.

They walked for a full day along the ruins of Budun Harbor; he wasn't sure how big Budun Harbor originally was. When he asked his father, his father answered without hesitation, 'Very big, very big, bigger than White Harbor.'

His father didn't know either; he had never seen it before, but he seemed to just know.

Budun Harbor was certainly large. They walked slowly along the riverside ruins and saw the massive foundations erected by Budun Harbor; starting from there, it took a day's walk to reach the quay in the bay specially used for mooring seagoing ships. The blue stone slabs on the quay were overturned by thick tree roots, some standing almost vertically, looking like the city's tombstones.

"This is the great gate facing west, named Jieyang Gate," he remembered Earl Luoyisi Budun pointing at the abandoned massive stone base and introducing it to him, his tone neither lost nor longing, calm and gentle, "According to records, during the harvest festival, red lanterns would be lit on the city towers, and the whole city would celebrate in a sea of red; occasionally, when distinguished guests from the East arrived, the city towers would light lanterns of different colors according to the guests' status, and if enough families came, the whole city would become colorful."

He remembered how much he had hated Earl Luoyisi Budun, who should never have told him such a story, even though these were once recorded in books.

What did he hate?

He hated that the earl did not share his resentment and failed to express nostalgia for the vanished city, and also never swore to rebuild it as he had. The earl merely introduced the history in a flat tone, just as he would any other place.

The duke resented him, resenting that he did not connect himself with those historical Buduns, behaving like an outsider completely unrelated to historical Budun.

He didn't know what mood he was in after touring the ruins. Some of the ruins had been fiefs granted to viscounts under Budun, so they arbitrarily divided plots at their locations and built some ugly, dirty forts on the original city wall foundations; from afar, they looked like heat rash on the land.

"Jieyang Gate and other city gates, such as Leide Gate, Giant Gate, and Prophet Gate, were all demolished; the timber was removed and burned, the stone masonry was smashed piece by piece with a battering ram, and then buried and sent into the river." This is the punishment the defeated must accept; he doesn't recall whether there was this sentence: "The Shattered River often flooded in the following years, submerging the original harbor; the floodwaters swept away the city's debris and fill, and under the impact of the flow, the city revealed its deep and massive foundations, so that you can see the foundations as they are today."

Earlier, they were all buried underground.

Those exposed deep foundations left a deep impression on him. They were a power that transcended the ages; some viscounts even used the foundations as walls to build their own castles.

The duke remembered his father's introduction, even the tone and demeanor back then, and his superficial advice: 'Only if buried deep enough can it support a tall enough tower.'

He didn't understand the meaning of that remark back then, but he does now. 'What kind of tower deserves such deep foundations?' He remembered that his thoughts at the time were all about that.

The foundations were not completely intact either.

He remembered that towering giant trees stood on the deep, broad, continuous foundations; some had been overturned by tree roots, but they did not end up like those walls.

The ramparts that once stood upon them were all smashed, transported, and dumped into the Shattered River's channel; it is said that at first, the ruins blocked the channel, preventing the ancient Shattered River from supporting large ships for sailing out to sea.

After that, the channel could only support single-canopied passenger boats for river transport and some small fishing boats used by fishing and hunting civilians.

The ancient Shattered Flow River therefore had to change its course, seizing the low‑lying valley path downstream, heading east all the way, carrying the water flowing down from the Lonely Mountain range into the sea, but the valley path was too shallow and the untreated boulders along the way became hidden reefs or even exposed reefs along the route.

They cannot compare to the original channel, so whenever the summer rainy season arrives, the Weeping River weeps, irregularly pouring floodwaters onto the southern bank; even today the southern bank remains a vast swampy wetland, dark and damp, with no crops, nothing to hunt, breeding the thirstiest leeches in the entire North.

The northern bank is likewise frequently scoured by floods, forming a broad mid‑river area between the ancient Shattered Flow River and the present Shattered Flow River.

People abandoned that land, just as he had once done.

The mountain wind howled in, tossing the duke's hair; the erected flags snapped loudly, a row of golden‑red roaring lions and teal‑gold roses stood together, wailing in the cold wind, struggling hard against the breeze.

The duke had never seen a lion in the North; indeed, he had never seen a lion at all. If lions were as described, their thin fur could not survive in the north. He also rarely saw roses that could bloom in the North, making them rare curiosities; in the North they are often used to refer to the Stark family's trueborn daughter, the Winter Rose.

The Winter Rose — he had seen it in the glass gardens of Winterfell; it was the color of ice, a pale sky‑blue, which reminded the duke of the deceased Stark lady.

Roses in the North are only blue, never green or gold; gold never belongs to the North, which is either grim or blood‑stained — either Stark grey or Bolton scarlet — and never any other hue, such as the Twins' dirty blue, the Tyrells' vain gold, or the Lannisters' arrogant gold‑red.

If not for vanity, why would the Tyrells have been drawn into today's turmoil?

If not for pride, if not for pride, how could the mighty Tywin Duke of the Seven Kingdoms have been shot dead in the privy by his monstrous dwarf son? This is what Assaro brought, having witnessed it himself.

The manner of death was fresh and absurd, yet the duke was not surprised; the deaths of the proud most often end in absurdity.

He had seen many proud people.

The young wolf Brandon died by absurd self‑hanging; the former Riverlands duke died from an absurd fall off a cliff; his grandfather died at the hands of a maid's blade; that absurd king was pierced by his own palace guard; the ironborn prince, who often wore a mocking smile, was absurdly beheaded by his foster father's daughter.

Absurdity is the offspring of pride; without caution, pride's vines bear absurd fruit, and the duke will never allow himself to produce such a monstrosity.

People find it hard to kill their own monsters; it's too difficult.

Perhaps when the dwarf son was born, the duke ought to have thrown the child into a beast pit, just as he should have hanged the bastard when he was first brought to the Dreadfort… thinking they had no effect on him — what else is that but pride?

It's too late; only after they paid the price did they realize how appropriate it would have been to act earlier.

The duke has often imagined how much easier things would be if his legitimate son Domlick Bolton were still alive, and if Tywin had early fed that dwarf to the dogs, the Lannister family — and he himself — would have far fewer troubles.

While waiting nearly a month in Seagull Dock for the loading of grain and supplies, he received a message from King's Landing.

The red‑robed monk Assaro undoubtedly wielded power; he let the duke learn the news before Count Grafton did — the raven carrying the message intended for Grafton was brought to the duke's residence, convincing him that what he had seen in the fire was real — thereby he gained a day's time. To avoid trouble and excess talk, he stepped ahead, having Viscount Wilroolco pilot the royal seal‑ship, taking with him Sir Gilead Tyrell, Sir Maces Rowan, Sir Tybert Lannister, Sir George Marbrand, and Sir Theon Lannister, departing the harbor together, leaving him to bring up the fleet's rear.

Perhaps only upon reaching the North would they learn of the changes in King's Landing; the duke hopes that then they will prefer to return overland, and he will not forget to order the transport ships not to linger in the port.

They have already set sail by ship, but what the duke needs to worry about is not them, but other problems.

The duke's oath of fealty has already been delivered, but if Tywin is dead, the oath is meaningless; for Littlefinger and Count Grafton, they could almost at any moment go to war with House Royce, with no one to restrain them. The duke does not fear war; he fears that they will continue to keep grain prices high and their willingness to sell grain.

For Count Grafton, concealing a bit of news is pointless; he will soon learn it from elsewhere, and once the news spreads, he will likewise be unable to buy grain under the old rules.

Grain — this is everything in the war of the North.

Winter is coming. The duke suspects that the Stark house no longer pays much heed to the warning in those words, to the real meaning of making adequate provisions.

Winter is coming. To survive the winter, one must first store enough food in summer to last through the long winter, and keep sufficient seed for spring planting.

The Bolton family, once focused on trade, will not care about storage; for merchants, compared to storing, they are more concerned with how to empty a granary in less time and fill another in the same span.

If you asked Count Grafton, he would surely agree. Grain meant for trade cannot long occupy the port's warehouses, otherwise any merchant would realize it raises costs and makes business unprofitable.

With no profitable business left, the Boltons' granaries are huge and spacious, enough to starve the Starks to death over the winter.

"Count Grafton's news will ultimately belong to Count Grafton," the duke said to the red‑robed monk Assaro behind him.

The duke feels he is becoming increasingly dependent on the red‑robed monk, unsure whether it is good or bad. If it is good, the news he receives is all dark; if it is bad, then today he would have to argue with his allies in Seagull Dock — he does not know how much extra it will cost to bring them to the North — and he no longer has as many Stark women to use as pledges.

"My lord, you should be glad you received the news so late," Assaro said, his face showing a smile and unrestrained abandon, "our grain has already been mostly purchased; even if they stop selling grain, what difference would it make?"

Once the grain is secured, everything in the valley is naturally none of his concern; while sailing the open sea, one should never wonder what happens on land, and he need not worry about the distant Lannisters and Tyrells — at least not for now.

"Your so‑called 'sufficient' grain is actually only half of what was expected; if these valley merchants and lords still had a shred of risk awareness, they would know this is not the time to sell grain, and even if Grafton and Littlefinger still wanted to help, they would find no enough sellers. Moreover, among the important allies, now women are in charge." Tywin's power lay precisely here; after his death, no one in the valley will believe the Iron Throne can remain stable — Eddard Stark's beheading shows that Cersei is not fit to rule a realm, and, well, Casterly Rock has also fallen into women's hands, which is the Lannister tragedy; that woman will sooner or later drag the Lannisters into hell, unless the gods intervene.

"Women, like the women of Winterfell?" Assaro chuckled, and the duke could not understand that laughter.

"Women are all the same."

The duke faced the cold wind and descended from the top floor.

He looked down over the harbor; this view reminded him of the bay beside the Bolton harbor ruins, encircled by raised hills, which must once have been an enviable fine harbor.

In the present water bay, ships came and went; under the sunlight, the green waves rolled and sparkled, just as he had seen Budun Harbor many times in his dreams.

Unlike here, Grafsen's castle commands a full view of the harbor; over these many days in Seagull Town, he has visited it repeatedly, each time becoming intoxicated by the beauty and prosperity of the seaside city, and each time after that intoxication, he longs all the more to return to the North to build his own harbor.

Once the harbor is built, he can, according to the currents of the Trembling Sea, trade directly with the eastern islands of Ibben, Loras, and Braavos, restoring the former glory of the Red King—if the Bolton records are correct, Braavos's original port was likewise built by the Boltons, and when the Red King's rule ended, the territories he held overseas were lost as well, including Skagos. Without the Boltons' repression, the islanders of Skagos have completely given free rein to their nature; now the Boltons there have only a single line of blood left, and that line is struggling to survive.

He stood at the doorway of his residence waiting for Count Jelgrafsen; from afar, the Duke could see the golden-yellow banner of Grafsen's tower fluttering along the winding mountain path, advancing toward him, looking like a victorious emperor returning home.

They greeted each other in the front yard, and in an instant the Duke felt they had become friends, but that was merely an illusion, for Count Grafsen possessed the talent of turning everyone into friends.

"He is more a merchant than a lord."

Ser Tybert Lannister, when commenting on people, always gives the impression that he is the current head of the Lannister family, but aside from his arrogance, this assessment is not wrong at all.

"Lord Grafsen," the Duke said once he was seated, producing the scroll bearing the king's seal, "news from King's Landing."

Grafsen wiped away his smile, took the paper, examined the seal carefully, smoothed it out and held it to the light, then began to read.

"The greatest and most glorious Hand of the King, the most loving and wise Duke of the Rock, the most upright and brave Warden of the West Tywin Lannister has unfortunately been slain at the end of the second month, on the Day of the Father, during the hour of the night owl, in the Hand's Tower by the escaped, historically most vile, most vicious, most cruel dwarf Tyrion Lannister and his filthiest whore, the most evil daughter of traitors, Sansa Stark. The passing of this great man is a loss to the realm. Let all the realm mourn, high and low alike, but the assassins who killed king and father must not go unpunished—by the order of King Tommen: whoever reports their whereabouts to the Iron Throne shall receive a hundred gold dragons; whoever sends a raven, regardless of status, shall be granted a lord's castle; whoever delivers them alive, regardless of status, shall be deemed a loyal servant of the realm, may freely choose any castle and lands, holding directly from the Iron Throne, exempt from taxes, in order to avoid—"

After the Count finished reading, he fell silent for a moment, then tossed the paper onto the desk and began to scratch his head aimlessly, as if the words had just turned into lice jumping onto his scalp.

"It seems Queen Regent Cersei is furious, actually using so many praise words and insults in one letter—well, let me look, it seems they're all directed at her own relatives, which is truly surprising, or perhaps this is just a strange family?" He picked up the scroll again, gave it a contemptuous glance, shook it in front of the Duke, and said, "Oh dear, no taxes, no levies—if I capture those two, just with these four words I'll have to send them safely to her offering table!"

"That's because your lordship's harbor has too much gold." Two-thirds of the Iron Throne's income comes from the major ports; to exempt a lord like Count Grafsen from taxes would require them to go mad.

"I never tire of gold; it's the money that comes in and goes out that hurts the most. Hey, the first half of this letter reads as dangerous yet full of humor; the second half reads as exciting yet full of doubt and astonishment," the Count laughed. He at least did not react with great surprise to this news, "I truly don't know how the Queen Regent managed it—I've heard Queen Regent Cersei is a beauty!"

The Duke lightly pursed his lips, gazing at the Count, feeling that the news was either already known to him, or he was sufficiently calm, or perhaps he simply enjoyed hearing it; in any case, the Count could not devise a response in the short term, so he could only appear relaxed and at ease.

The Duke leaned toward the latter.

"The Queen Regent is both beautiful and a clever, sharp beauty!" the Duke said, "She naturally has her reasons for writing this way; at least this letter shows us her anger, doesn't it?" Also foolish.

"Anger? Perhaps! It also reveals absurdity—that the Hand of an entire kingdom could be assassinated by an escaped prisoner; I've heard the secret passages of King's Landing are everywhere, so could there be no spider's help here? You know what I mean by spider?" He turned to the Duke for confirmation, "Too bad the letter doesn't mention the eunuch; you see, our Littlefinger in King's Landing is the only one willing to spend effort guarding against him. I can't wait to learn what comes next."

"The news will soon be known to everyone," the Duke prepared to stop investigating, "Everyone knows that Lord Tywin is the Iron Throne's keystone; without him, the Throne's grip on the four corners will weaken. I worry..."

"You worry that after Tywin's death we'll launch war immediately and then no one will want to sell you grain, and I can't think of any other effect this would have on you." He slapped his thigh, downed the red wine in front of him in one gulp, speared a piece of red meat with his fork and shoved it into his mouth, gulping it down; after a while he added, "Everyone will wait and see, but since the agreement is reached we'll still try to ensure it's fulfilled." He laughed, "Trade is trade, right?"

He had his servant refill his cup of red wine and then raised it toward the Duke; the Duke smiled and raised his cup in response.

"Trade is trade?" If the Duke believed that, he'd be the biggest fool, but the Count's stance is meaningful.

They have confidence in maintaining the current order, but unfortunately the merchants won't; they'll even join him in the market to scramble for grain.

At this stage the rise in grain prices does not match Littlefinger's plan; according to the agreement, he must wait until the Duke leaves the Vale before he can let grain prices rise unexpectedly, then bankrupt the Vale's commoners, thereby making it easier for him to gather manpower and raise an army in the Vale to launch an assault on House Royce, and if this schedule continues... undoubtedly, the Vale will take too long before war breaks out.

The unexpected has already occurred; can he still use this plan?

He controls the Eyrie; theoretically he could at any moment mobilize the Eyrie's forces, or even the entire Vale's military, to attack the Stone City; as for the Duke's pledge, such a thing is only usable when the Iron Throne is strong enough—in other words, only then does it have value—and given the Throne's present weakness, a peaceful Vale is what the Throne truly hopes for, unless Royce himself loses patience and raises a rebel banner; besides that, it would be strange for the Throne to consent to Littlefinger's actions, and if Littlefinger really cannot restrain himself and wages war against the Throne's wishes, we don't know whom the Throne would deem the true traitor.

Perhaps Littlefinger has a way to handle Queen Regent Cersei.

So far, Tywin's death has affected Littlefinger more than it has affected him.

"Although trade is trade, sadly my gold hasn't all been spent yet, and the ship's hold isn't full of grain. If we can't manage that, the war in the North will have to change its style—that of the wolf, not of the Bolton."

"No matter the style, I'm sure the victor will be you, Duke. Women and children cannot wage war."

"Have you also had contact with the she-wolf?" The Duke ignored his idle speculation; the she-wolf's adventurous voyage ended, winding from the free-trade cities to King's Landing and Seagull Town, and as a legendary figure, Count Grafsen will surely meet her.

"Contact? She commands the North's fleet, which Robert named 'Commander of the Northern Fleet'—I didn't know the North even had a fleet—I follow etiquette and commercial custom in providing her with supplies, if that counts as contact." The Count laughed, "I know what you're asking; when I saw her she was under sixteen, yet she looked like a twenty-six-year-old maiden, pretty enough, I suppose, but this is entirely in her role as the Queen of Love and Beauty—at most she's just a woman, not sweeter than my daughter; compared to me, my wife and children are more interested in her, but I believe they also cannot tell you anything more. Why should you worry about a woman?"

If she were an ordinary woman like Sansa Stark, there'd naturally be nothing to worry about, but she is experienced; if she could drift around the sea and return safely, she couldn't be regarded as just an ordinary woman.

"Worried? Ha, the Tyrells are asking me for this woman," the Duke said with a slight smirk, "Duke Mace Tyrell wants to use this half-breed to breed an heir for himself!"

"How absurd, the roses want to tame the wolf to run their horse paddocks, aren't they afraid of being trampled to shreds?" the Count laughed, "Perhaps Duke Mace forgot that his heir merely broke a leg, not a vital tool, or else he's worried the heir's seed is too weak, so he must plant it in a fertile patch." He burst out laughing, as if recalling a funny joke, "What land could be better than one that can produce the flower 'Queen of Love and Beauty'? After all, their motto is 'strong growth'; without good soil, you can't grow strong."

The Duke neither confirmed nor denied, merely twitching the corner of his mouth. If the she-wolf truly survived in the end, perhaps confining her to a distant south would be the best solution.

Matters of the south, aside from what reaches here, have nothing to do with him—at least for now.

"That said, the she-wolf is after all no ordinary woman. My lord, do you have confidence in taking a single ship out to sea, sailing all the way to Asshai, and returning with a fleet?"

"That's quite a good question," the Count said, smoothing his messy hair, "If I were younger—"

The Red Priest strode into the hall, cutting off the Count who was about to speak; the Count looked in astonishment at the hulking figure before him.

"Isn't this the Red Priest you often mention? I've heard the refugees of the Riverlands often say that the Red Priest named Soros has the power to resurrect the dead," he said, raising his cup and smiling at the monk, "Do you have that ability, great master?"

"Besides R'hllor, I doubt anyone has that ability. If the legend is true, it's only R'hllor using his hand to raise the dead through him." The Red Priest replied loudly, though his gaze flicked to the Duke.

"How cunning—would the so-called R'hllor use your hand to revive the dead?"

"Of course, whenever R'hllor wishes."

Count Grafsen may not be a devout follower of the Seven, but at least he is the protector of the Seven's faithful in Seagull Town; heretics will not easily earn his respect.

"Sometimes effective, sometimes not?" Grafsen burst out laughing, "Some people call me 'the Sometimes Effective, Sometimes Not Count,' because my lighthouse is often blocked by the mountains, visible only to ships from certain directions; I look at you lot, you're called… whatever you're called, I think we could also call you 'the Sometimes Effective, Sometimes Not Church.'"

"My lord, you're quite entertaining," Asaroth smiled, offering no rebuttal.

"I've heard there's also a Red Priestess on Dragonstone; according to the Duke, she once unleashed a shadow that killed King Renly Baratheon amidst a hundred thousand troops—are you capable? Or is it the same, sometimes effective, sometimes not?"

"My lord, I can do it," he said, grinning at the Count, who seemed startled and drew his head back slightly. "When it comes to killing, it's always effective."

"Why did you barge in?" the Duke felt he needed to speak.

He raised his hand, in his large, yellowed palm holding a small scroll.

"There's new news, my lord."

"Could it be a letter from R'hllor?" Grafsen smirked.

"No, my lord, the letter comes from the Grand Master of King's Landing," the Red Priest said, "new news about the she-wolf."