Chapter 160

The duke took the letter from the monk's hand, glanced at the jovial Count Grafsen, then unfolded the small slip of paper and began to read.

In an instant, he felt a little grateful that he hadn't followed Count Grafsen's example of reading the letter's contents aloud—the letter's contents were not suitable for the count to know immediately—Twin River City had fallen to the she-wolf.

This news was more shocking than the assassination of Duke Taywin.

The duke found it hard to believe; for a moment he didn't want to accept that it had really happened, but the royal seal stamped on it forced him to believe.

The duke calmed his mood, exhaled a turbid breath, then, without changing expression, slowly rolled up the paper slip and slipped it into his pocket.

"Well done, monk—I don't know how to thank you for this." The duke rose, took a cup from the side table, poured a glass of red wine from the jug, and handed it to the red-robed monk, saying, "This is truly good news."

"What good news? Tell me so I can hear it too." The count laughed after watching the red-robed monk gulp down the wine, then watched him leave the room, perhaps realizing this was not news to be made public, and laughed again, saying, "So this great monk has become your messenger?"

The count asked two questions at once, which was a good opportunity to evade one of them, but the duke saw no need—just as with Duke Taywin's death, the count would soon learn of it from elsewhere, so he willingly answered his doubts: "The Iron Throne commands the allied forces to spare no effort in exterminating the traitor Stark, pacifying the turmoil and rebellion in the North." This is not a lie; the Iron Throne ordered the Tyrell and Lannister armies to seize the King's Road via the Bloody Gate, blocking the Stark cavalry from marching south, and to establish defenses where appropriate, while also commanding Bolton to expedite landings, attack Winterfell, then march south to annihilate the Stark rebels in the Riverlands—an order that sounds like something only someone who knows nothing about military affairs would propose. "As for the red-robed monk, he got me to receive this 'command' from the Iron Throne, which is no ordinary feat—what do you think?"

"This is a useful monk." The count said with a half-smile; the duke knew it meant disapproval. If King's Landing wanted to send messages to Gulltown by raven, it would need ravens brought from Gulltown to King's Landing—all the ravens flying from King's Landing to Gulltown belong to Count Grafsen, and are also sent by his men to King's Landing, so what does that mean? The count understood perfectly, the situation revealed something odd, but he chose not to pursue it: "As for the 'command' you mentioned, that really is a fine command—the Iron Throne could even order Stannis to open the gates of Dragonstone and surrender!"

"But with this order, the Frey soldiers will be braver," or more fearful, "I assure you, they will definitely press forward." Without a sea route for retreat, they can only choose to destroy the Stark forces and then retake their castle via the Crackclaw Bay.

"Ah, keep your news to yourself!" Count Grafsen set down his cup, rose, and said, "We are both loyal servants of the Iron Throne; we owe allegiance not to that dead old lion, but to the young stag seated on the Iron Throne, right?" Seeing the duke nod, he laughed and walked out the door, saying, "Ah, if there's anything else to say, it's that our trade can continue—oh dear, I and Lord Littlefinger are essentially merchants; we won't go against the gods' will just because circumstances change, disregarding our agreements!"

The duke smiled faintly, nodded, and saw the count out.

If the gods had will, the duke ought not to be dealing here with the eastern count at this moment, or he ought not to be a duke at all. Thus, the count's meaning can only be that if he wants the trade to continue, he must raise the stakes, because they are essentially merchants, not lords.

Unfortunately, the duke has nothing left to offer for continued trade; moreover, things one proactively offers to trade never fetch a good price, and he still isn't clear what the other side truly needs.

The red wine in his stomach made the duke feel slightly nauseous, his head a bit hazy. The leeches of Gulltown are not only expensive but useless; sucking toxins does not achieve the effect he had imagined.

The duke walked out of the courtyard, his eyes fixed on the harbor below, where ships came and went incessantly, just as when he first saw it. The mountain wind howled, stirring the robe draped over him.

He couldn't resist taking out the slip of paper from his pocket and gripping it tightly, worried the wind would blow it away…

"Received confirmation: on the third week of February, the stranger knight Ser Meyor Stark attacked and captured Twin River City. After cabinet review, the Iron Throne approved, diverting the Tybert Lannister and Gailor Tyrell via the Bloody Gate..." The duke skimmed hastily, "... ordering the Duke of the Dreadfort, Lord Roose Bolton, protector of the North, to return immediately to the North and attack..." spoken blandly, "... to have the valley defenders, the Earl of Harrenhal, Petyr Baelish, and the various lords of the valley assist and facilitate." The signatory was Grand Maester Pyssel, also known as the Grand State Teacher the monk referred to.

The letter was too short; aside from the order, there was only one sentence of useful information—how the attack happened, how it was defended against, enemy numbers—all unclear.

He put the letter back into his pocket.

If the she-wolf still dares to lead a great army south at this time, now would be the best moment to launch an attack—will Roose Bolton seize the opportunity?

During the time at Twin River City, he had already sent several soldiers back to convey messages and orders, but this did not involve actively launching an attack on the Starks; his strategy was defensive, because the duke believed that while his main force had not yet returned to the North, it was the best moment for the Starks to attack—now it appears the she-wolf clearly did not act as he expected.

Marching south, where does she get her courage?

To take revenge on the Freys? That too is a rash, running wolf.

The duke could not imagine what the northerners who took Twin River City would do to the Freys—he had entrusted his Frey lady to the care of the old Varden marquess, who probably could not look after her well.

The duke curled his lip; this was best. He did not expect that Frey lady to bear him a legitimate son, nor did he greatly expect her to bring him pleasure; if this could free up a position for a duchess, perhaps he could use it to win over an important earldom in the North.

He immediately thought of that Haywood lady.

He went south together with the Haywood count and his heir Daenerys Haywood, and on the way saw that graceful, full-bodied countess who clung to her husband and children, a woman of the Mandel family.

He reacted at that moment.

But when the Haywood count saw his own wife, it was like seeing a great big trouble; he impatiently advised her to return to her lands at once; her son at that time was vying with the Stark and Totha youths for a place beside the young wolf lord, strutting proudly and eagerly among the forest of banners, completely oblivious to his mother's worries.

That lad proudly stood guard beside the young wolf lord, just as he had once awkwardly stood beside Brandon Stark and Eddard Stark.

Unlike the duke's earlier self, this Haywood youth stayed by the wolf's side with sincere devotion, honor, and all things good, whereas he himself had been solitary and silent, neither enthusiastic nor making a show of indifference—those who were too enthusiastic all died. According to his knowledge, Daenerys Haywood, having shown excessive bravery, was killed by Jaime Lannister in the Whispering Wood battle while trying to protect the young wolf lord or earn the honor of slaying a kingslayer.

The duke could picture the youth's appearance at that time.

Honor and legend could be forged at that time. After all, bravely standing guard before one's liege, and even getting to clash with a renowned domestic legendary warrior—what a rare opportunity!

The duke did not know whether, if his legitimate son Domelick were still alive, he too would act just as foolishly.

The duke laughed.

He would not allow himself and his heir to go south together; the Haywood count's overindulgence of his heir is what led to today's awkward situation in Haywood lands.

If his heir had stayed to guard the North, the one now overseeing affairs at the Dreadfort should be Domelick, and he would likely do better than Roose Bolton—if Roose Bolton followed his instructions to focus on defense—Domelick is the natural heir of the Dreadfort, possessing the authority to adjust strategy according to circumstances, the ability to bear responsibility, and the courage to make decisions—qualities Roose Bolton lacks.

The duke gave a wry smile. The difference is not in ability, but in the fact that Roose Bolton is not his son.

What of it? A family passes on the surname, not the bloodline—just as even a bastard Lannister who sits on the Iron Throne, after several generations, people will forget the idle rumors and believe that the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms are the Baratheons of the Stormlands, not the Lannisters.

Heck, after a few more generations, the lion added out of vanity to the banners atop King's Landing castle will be taken down again—only, will this Iron Throne be able to sustain a few more generations?

The duke let out another shallow sigh; his own line was about to end.

The duke does not worry about bloodline; he worries that Roose Bolton cannot act as a true heir and cooperate well with him.

The fear of flaying can certainly tighten military discipline, maintain order, make commands obeyed, and turn the army into an extension of the commander's will, but once it comes to adjusting strategy and tactics, that fear also limits the Bolton army's grasp of opportunities.

Roose Bolton's proper military strategy ought to be, while the Stark armies march south, to gather allies, sweep the enemy's lands, destroy their production and stores, and, if the chance arises, to take castles and strongholds… if Domelick were still alive, he could certainly…

These wandering thoughts made him restless; the valley's leeches are utterly useless.

The duke forced the thought down; Domelick has long been dead, not to be dwelt upon, and he still has urgent problems to resolve.

The Stark armies marching south struck him as odd; capturing Twin River City clearly would help the Starks regain prestige and also put pressure on the Iron Throne—perhaps the Starks, like a bone in the throat of Stannis, would annoy them even more; moreover, the Frey troops remain stationed in the port, and likewise cannot be allowed to return here to the Riverlands, which would weaken his strength; likewise, possible problems in the grain trade with Count Grafsen likewise make him feel thwarted, which would affect his military strategy, a strategy that depends on sufficient grain to be carried out, and, of course, on a sufficiently long winter.

Winter has come.

The cold mountain wind blew against the duke's face, fine icy snowflakes melting on his cheeks. The valley also began to snow.

Didn't the Starks say "Winter is coming"? Now winter has arrived; may this winter carry them away.

The duke turned and walked into the room, came to the desk, and began to write a letter.

"Lyrmde, go ask Lady Innis Frey and Lord Hosden Frey." The duke first needed to deal with the Frey forces—three thousand Freys might possibly retake Twin River City, but using them to seize Winterfell would be far more suitable and advantageous to him.

If the Starks carried out a massacre at Twin River City, then the Freys wreaking havoc inside Winterfell would be just as reasonable; the remaining Starks and their loyalists dying at the hands of the Freys would be preferable to dying at the hands of the Boltons.

They are the Boltons' cruel flaying knives for dealing with traitors; the duke absolutely refuses to give them up lightly.

"Yes, my lord." Lyrmde's voice was loud, making him a good choice for a messenger, but not suitable as a captain; however, there was no alternative—Walton had left, and the newly promoted Chelos, unlucky, had been sent by him to the Evil God, so the captaincy would inevitably fall to this guard whose "grandfather once served as the duke's grandfather's guard."

The duke likewise had to abide by worldly rules and the mutual understanding of people.

The duke sat at the desk, took out a piece of parchment that had been cut several times, and began to write.

"My lord," this was Asaroth's voice; he had appeared suddenly beside him again, although this was a privilege granted to him, he used it far too frequently, "I think you need me now."

"I need quiet now." The duke set down his pen, gave him a cold stare, but it was useless—this man and the god he worships are both fire; a little chill cannot affect him. The duke silently sighed; he indeed had some doubts, and those doubts could be answered by the monk and the monk's god. "Why do I need you now?" The duke placed the emphasis on the word "now," thereby weakening his own presence.

"You're writing a letter." He opened with nonsense, "A letter is for conveying information; I can tell you the information you want to know. The letter you received today is merely the beginning of a matter."

"That news will certainly have progress," the duke caught a loophole in the monk's words, "but writing a letter is to convey information; I need others to know my information or my intent, just as you previously sent ravens to the Three Sisters Islands."

"Isn't it the same? Do you still need to send ravens?" He laughed heartily, "As long as there's blood, that's enough."

"Your god is too greedy."

"My god is quite just; actually, no one—well, and lords or whatever merchants—respects trade and contracts more than Lahlo does. After so long, you, my lord, must certainly understand."

"I understand, but your god is indeed greedy; it wants to devour everyone it sees," the duke cut the written slip from the parchment, then carefully blew it dry, slowly rolled it up, dripped on hardened sealing wax, and affixed the skinner's seal, thus completing a letter, "I think your god is greedier than those leeches, and perhaps it even wants to eat my flesh."

"Fairness and credit inherently possess magic; all people flock to them."

"Fairness? You misunderstand fairness." The duke didn't want to discuss this topic, "Guess who this letter is for?"

"My lord, my hearing is fine, but my eyes have never been good; I can't see the cover!" He said with a smile.

"It seems you don't know everything either."

"I can only know what the god wishes me to know."

"This is meaningless talk, impossible to refute or falsify."

"Someone with a head might perhaps want to guess. I don't like dealing with tools." If it's a tool, it's best to stay silent, after all the duke likes quiet, "This letter will settle the grain matter for me." The monk's face showed some doubt, "If luck is on our side."

"I thought the grain issue had already been resolved."

"If this is also the god's answer, then that god is truly terrible."

"It had been settled, but today Count Grafstein's arrival has made things somewhat complicated; Duke Tywin, after all, is an important figure in the world, and he surely didn't expect that after being stabbed by a dwarf's son, his actions would affect the grain trade on distant Seagull Town."

"At that moment the duke left the room, and the monk followed behind him."

"I can deliver this letter into anyone's hands for you, my lord."

"Using blood? No need; this letter will be brought to Kayle Royce by Lord Innis Frey."

"I thought you were going to drive the Freys onto the ship and sneak them back to the North!" The monk kept laughing, unaware of how much mockery lay inside; if such a smile were aimed at Duke Tywin, he'd probably have his tongue cut out now, for Tywin is too frail, but Duke Bolton finds being mocked amusing, because it lets him test the leeches' effect and also notice the speaker's concealed emotions and posture—a pleasure unique to him.

"They aren't piglets."

"I see no difference, just like between a rose and a lion. They always have to board before knowing news that influences decisions; such astonishing news can't stay hidden for long, and letting Innis Frey—the Freys' sole clever one—remain ashore would affect the plan."

"It's just a matter of delivering a letter," the duke patiently explained, "but it needs to be done with great fanfare."

"I don't understand," the monk said.

"Lord Innis Frey's mother is the son of Old Ward's second wife, Peyra Royce, and Peyra Royce is the sister of Kayle Royce, aunt of the Count of Stonehill." This is important information; if you don't understand it, you can't make sense of it. "When the lord leaves Seagull Town, visiting his uncle is only natural; therefore, I'll say the enemies of the Royce family—for now I'll call them that—Count Grafstein or Littlefinger won't object to this, but the problem is here: everyone knows the Freys are important allies of the Boltons, and I only need to do a little thing to make Count Grafstein think I'm communicating with the Royce family."

"The duke said this, hoping the monk would understand, but the monk wore a blank expression, clearly he still needed further explanation."

"A northern Bolton family contacting their enemies on Seagull Town—the Grafstein family's territory—isn't that strange? Could it be to express gratitude to the Royce family for their grain sales?"

"Certainly not; to Count Grafstein, you might be using Lord Innis's hand to reach an agreement with Count Royce that they dislike."

"Yeah, reaching an agreement—since it's hard to continue fulfilling the agreement with Count Grafstein, isn't it normal for the Boltons to have the other side fulfill it?"

"Normal, quite normal, but this agreement might be disadvantageous to Grafstein and Littlefinger, right?" The monk pondered briefly, "My lord, your chips in hand are few; wanting to outdo Count Grafstein and Littlefinger, perhaps only by pretending to sell their secrets to Count Royce."

"What would make the Royces willing to reach an agreement with me? Naturally, it's me revealing important secrets to them—whose secrets?" Snow was still falling, the port remained busy, but there was no snow color around. "If Lord Innis visits his uncle and then Count Grafstein returns here again, that would indicate the matter has succeeded."

"At that time…"

"At that time, the letter Lord Innis sends would be a worthless thank-you note." The duke cut him off, "Meanwhile, I will continue the grain purchase agreement with Littlefinger and Count Grafstein; I can spend a few more gold dragons—gold dragons are useless in the North, hard currency is always grain and fur—while they will sell more grain."

"My lord, you don't have many gold dragons left."

"I can go into debt." The duke smiled faintly, "I hope the she-wolf brings back enough gold from overseas to cover these foreign debts; I have no habit of defaulting on debts."

"But you promised the Tyrells and also the Lannisters."

"I also promised the Freys, Count Grafstein, and Lord Baelish, but people can only settle their own problems before they can settle external obligations. Great monk, has your god told you how many southerners can leave the North after the war?"

"No, I think Lahlo doesn't want to count." The great monk was dissatisfied with the duke's answer, "What if Count Grafstein refuses to accept the debt?"

"My blade is still sharp; I won't tolerate his refusal." The duke again scanned the whole harbor, "Count Grafstein and Lord Baelish are smart and shrewd, but they don't realize the world has changed; while they still rely on scheming, some have already picked up knives." The duke felt himself smile, "Times have changed; using your head to butt a blade will get your head lopped off; Lord Baelish and Count Grafstein understand this principle, but they haven't grasped it fully."

"Although we are stationed here, …"

"Do you think I've been idle this whole time? Count Grafstein's castle may be strong, but it's not impregnable; his port may be tightly defended, but that's against pirates, not armies. Of course, the Boltons aren't bandits; this only happens when they don't know good from bad."

"I thought you, my lord duke, cared about reputation, after all you hesitated for a long time over those two Stark children."

"This isn't a good topic."

"The Boltons' reputation won't be harmed." The monk still didn't understand the duke, "'It is the Freys' army that does this,'" "'as long as those who see it are dead,'" "'and the Freys' army won't leave the North,'" "'snow was falling, wetting his face, making it hard to say such things,'" "'What's more, I will then expose Count Grafstein's plot; hehe, the conspiracy to rebel is not the Royce family's, but the Grafstein family's.'" "'The Freys' army sweeps clean rebels for the Iron Throne; what crime is there?'" "'What's more, they have lost their homelands and vent their anger on the traitors' lands,'" The duke pursed his lips, "'Nothing could be more fitting.'"

"I truly look forward to Count Grafstein making that choice. Sacrificing an entire city's people, I used to only dare to think about it, but now I can try it; if possible, I could even temporarily change the season for you."

"I never knew you or Lahlo still had this ability."

"Legend says the Long Night descends; when people can no longer endure, they begin slaughtering each other, and a great wizard uses the blood from the slaughter to turn his dead son's hope into a prophecy—prophecies cannot be changed, and because so many have died, the prophecy quickly comes true—prophecy almost out of thin air created Azor Ahai, who slew the Cold God's spokesman and ended the Long Night."

"Since the prophecy must come true, and you can also construct one, why don't people construct a prophecy of a Long Summer?"

"Perhaps even greater wizards or gods that once existed tried to build such a prophecy, but the required sacrifices could never reach the level needed to constitute a prophecy—so what meaning does this kind of prophecy have? Even the prophecy itself never takes effect."

"Keep your miraculous power." The duke wasn't interested in that, "I need you or your god to tell me other news about the she-wolf in the South." It would be best if there were news of her being hanged.

"Snow was swirling, but this amounted at most to a light dusting. He didn't know whether the North had already seen snow."

"In the North's circulating tales, snow is always the Starks' friend and the Boltons' enemy. The duke knows this rumor stems from the Starks' title 'King of the Winter Realm,' but the actual cause of this saying is the result of several profound military actions, which are also recorded in the library of the Dreadfort."

"Bolton soldiers are famed for strict discipline, history and reality nearly matching; likewise, the Stark family is renowned for cavalry—Robb Stark likewise did not tarnish that reputation—when the Starks learned cavalry tactics from the Andals, the cavalry advantage became even clearer."

"Although on the battlefield the Starks aren't wholly cavalry, nor do the Boltons lack cavalry, people still like to link the two houses' clashes with their standout troop types. The duke himself likes to encourage such associations; leading the Bolton infantry rather than cavalry southward is his way of avoiding excessive resource expenditure on the Starks' southern campaign, an action that has drawn no censure, and the rumor at least served its purpose."

"Therefore, the duke is not limited to leading infantry, nor is he unfamiliar with cavalry; he has his own views on both cavalry and infantry."

"In most cases, when infantry meets cavalry, the infantry is on the defensive, due to mobility. Against the Bolton infantry's phalanx, whether southern cavalry, northern cavalry, or any cavalry cannot break through, but this is not absolute."

"The North's environment shaped today's Stark-Bolton dynamic. In several key field battles, ice snow and extreme cold made the stationary defensive infantry formations hard to hold, leading to eventual collapse; a single lost battle could mean losing the war, so people concluded that snow is the Starks' friend but the Boltons' enemy."

"He will prove that snow is not the Boltons' enemy."

"'I'm just here to tell you all this,' said the red-robed monk, bringing him back to reality."

"'Please speak.' Much of what the monk sees in the fire are true facts, and he can always distinguish what has already happened from what are future possibilities—possibilities are always fleeting, in his own words, 'Forces are in contention, and the outcome is never certain.'"

"Many people were hanged beneath the bridge of Twin River City; I guess most of them are surnamed Frey, and some of their faces are very familiar to me. Please forgive me, I cannot say their names," the monk laughed, "and I also cannot ask them."

The duke stared at him coldly.

"This proves that the she-wolf's capture of Twin River City is true news, with no other value." Admitting this is still difficult.

"It's a pity, I haven't seen your lady."

"Indeed it's a pity, but now there's nothing I can do; I can only hope she escapes the disaster," the duke said calmly. These are all nonsense; he doesn't care or mind.

"Indeed it's unfortunate," the monk laughed, "I saw the she-wolf destroy a large army stationed before a castle." This piece of news is terrible; the duke almost immediately determined the castle's name: "Two great rivers flow past this castle and converge into one."

"Rushing Flow City."

"Judging by the method you taught me, it seems she brought over two thousand cavalry, and the besieged camp that fell appears to be the Lannisters' crimson, oh."

"She lifted the siege of Rushing Flow City." The duke immediately commented, "The Freys are completely done."

"How strange, clearly the Lannister family was the one defeated, why do you say the Freys are finished?"

"The Freys lost the castle, lost their allies; between the Rising Stone River and the Blue Fork River there is no room for their survival; they have essentially offended the entire Riverlands nobility. If they could safely return to Sea Border City, that would be the gods' favor. I even think that even if Edmure Frey knew the news, he could only choose to follow me north, but Ser Hosteen Frey..." is an idiot, idiots like to do foolish things. "Let me know, what other news do you have?"

"I couldn't see it very clearly." The red-robed monk showed a disgusting smile, I don't know if it's because of the message he conveyed, "I saw that one-handed general leading a army westward; not long after, it turned into him killing enemies in the fog? I don't know if this is good news."

"A general, or a one-handed general personally killing enemies, in any case is not good news."

"The rest is just dragons. Dragons always..."

The duke interrupted him; the duke is not interested in news about dragons.

"Lord Roose, when exactly are we setting out?" The Freys also came outside at this time; Hosteen Frey spoke first, arriving alongside Edmure Frey.

"We two brothers have recently felt uneasy." Edmure Frey didn't wait for the duke's reply, stepped forward, "I don't know what happened; perhaps we shouldn't wait for food any longer. Seagull Town is still somewhat warm, but blowing wind here every day is boring; we hope to set out as soon as possible."

The duke and Arsalou looked at each other; then the big monk smiled in response, then bowed and left.