Chapter 232 — You Wouldn't Want the Regent to Find Out, Would You?
In the corner, Cersei Lannister finally gave in.
Hunger—and the suffocating fear of death—broke through the last of her resistance. With frostbitten, purplish fingers, she grabbed the salted meat and shoved it into her mouth, chewing mechanically.
Across from her, Tybolt Hetherspoon watched with a cruel, almost satisfied smile.
She had murdered his daughter.
And now, she had been reduced to nothing more than a piece of merchandise—something to be handled, traded, and used at will.
Turning away from the nauseating sound of her chewing, Tybolt stepped toward the man beside him.
The man had already finished eating and was idly playing with a dagger.
"When do we move north?" Tybolt asked, trying—and failing—to hide the impatience in his voice.
The man paused, then let out a mocking chuckle.
His gaze lingered deliberately on Cersei before he answered lazily, "Why the rush? The master hasn't given the order yet."
He emphasized the word master, as if reminding Tybolt exactly who was truly in charge.
Tybolt's jaw tightened instantly.
Greed burned in his eyes—greed for land, for status.
"Every day we delay, my lands and castle remain nothing but empty promises," he said coldly.
"Listen—if your master can't deliver what I want, I'll take her myself and find someone else who can."
He glanced at Cersei with open calculation.
"The eldest daughter of House Lannister… she'd fetch quite a price anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms."
At that, the man's grip on the dagger tightened slightly. His tone turned cold, a sharp grin revealing white teeth.
"She's ours now."
"No one is taking her."
Tybolt stepped forward, hand settling confidently on the hilt of his sword.
"Try me."
The air between them instantly turned razor-sharp.
Then—
"How about handing her over to me instead?"
The voice came from behind them.
Sudden. Calm. Uninvited.
Both men froze, then spun around.
"Damn it! You brought a tail, you idiot!" the man hissed at Tybolt, dagger raised, body lowering into a ready stance.
In the flickering firelight, the newcomer's silhouette emerged.
A tall, imposing figure clad in finely crafted steel armor. Golden hair gleamed even in the dim glow. His features were handsome—but carried a chilling edge, like a man who could draw steel at any moment.
Recognizing him, Tybolt forced himself to steady his nerves and barked, "What are you afraid of? He's alone!"
But the knight didn't even bother responding to that.
Instead, he spoke Tybolt's name.
"Tybolt Hetherspoon."
Balman Byrch's lips curled into a faint, mocking smile.
"I remember a lion once painted on your armor."
"A knight of House Lannister… and yet you've fallen this far? Kidnapping your liege lord's daughter like some gutter rat."
He tilted his head slightly.
"If Tywin Lannister were to hear of this… do you know what would become of you?"
Tybolt's face flushed instantly.
"That's none of your business!" he snapped, voice rising. "Walk away now, and I'll pretend you were never here!"
Even as he spoke, he flicked a subtle glance at the man beside him.
Balman ignored it completely.
"If I'm honest," he said mildly, "the life or death of a traitorous knight means very little to me."
"But since I've stumbled upon something fouler than sewer filth… I can't exactly pretend I didn't see it, can I?"
Before he finished speaking—
A dagger shot through the darkness straight at his face.
Balman simply shifted one step to the side.
The blade missed cleanly.
He glanced at the attacker with open disdain.
"Ambushes aren't very knightly."
The man shrugged shamelessly.
"Good thing I'm not a knight."
Balman's eyes narrowed.
Not a knight—and dressed like that…
A northerner.
He stopped wasting words.
Steel flashed as he drew his sword and advanced.
Something ignited within him.
A strange heat surged from deep in his chest—like countless tiny sparks racing through his veins, flooding his limbs with power far beyond normal.
His senses sharpened instantly.
The two men charging at him seemed… slow.
Ten breaths later—
Tybolt Hetherspoon lay on the ground, a sword buried in his chest.
His eyes were wide with disbelief.
Three exchanges.
That was all it took.
"How…?" he tried to form the thought, unable to understand how such a warrior could exist without a name he recognized.
"Go repent in the Seven Hells," Balman said coldly, stepping over his corpse. "An oathbreaker deserves nothing less."
He moved into the cave.
But inside, his thoughts were far from calm.
Ever since that day—since the Regent had used strange power to heal his wounds—something had changed.
At times, he could call upon that same force.
When he did… he was stronger than ever before.
Strong enough to face three of his former self.
But afterward…
There was always a lingering heat in his chest.
A restless urge.
A pull toward indulgence—toward the silk streets.
He crushed it down.
Hard.
"..."
He exhaled slowly and walked deeper into the cave.
The fire at the center flickered weakly, barely pushing back the cold.
In the corner—
A figure.
Curled into itself, almost blending into the rock.
Messy golden hair hung like dead grass, greasy and dull, obscuring most of her face. Only a pale jaw and bloodless lips were visible.
Thick furs wrapped around her—but did nothing to stop the damp, bone-deep chill.
Her exposed fingers were swollen red with frostbite, bruised in places.
She chewed her food mechanically, as if the world beyond it no longer existed.
Something was wrong with her.
Very wrong.
The woman once known for her beauty—Cersei Lannister—had been stripped down to something fragile, broken.
"Lady Cersei?"
Balman deliberately made his footsteps louder.
He stopped a few paces away, his shadow falling over her trembling form.
She jerked violently.
Her head snapped up.
Her tangled hair fell aside—
Revealing her face.
Pale as a ghost.
Streaked with dirt and dried tears.
Yet in her green eyes—
There was still something left.
A flicker.
Sharp. Alert. Like a lion not yet fully broken.
"Get away from me, Tybolt!"
She hadn't even seen who he was.
Her voice came out hoarse, raw with hatred.
"You filthy, oathbreaking dog! Traitor!"
"My father will find me—and you'll die just like your stupid daughter!"
With a shriek, she hurled the half-eaten meat at him.
Then she recoiled, curling in on herself like a trapped lioness, grabbing whatever she could reach and throwing it blindly.
Balman didn't dodge.
He stepped forward, frowning.
This was worse than he expected.
She was on the edge of complete mental collapse.
"Calm down! Lady Cersei!"
He seized her wrist—it was shockingly thin, as if it might snap in his grip.
"Let go! Let go!"
She thrashed wildly, kicking, twisting.
"You monster! How dare you touch me?!"
"Stay away from me!"
In the struggle, the furs slipped aside, exposing her thin body to the freezing air.
Balman tightened his hold, steady but firm.
"Tybolt Hetherspoon is dead!"
He raised his voice and forced her to look toward the cave entrance.
"Look. Look properly."
Her eyes widened.
There—on the ground—
Tybolt's corpse lay twisted, dark blood spreading beneath him.
For a few seconds—
Time stopped.
"..."
She seemed to have all her strength drained in an instant.
Her body went limp, collapsing forward—only Balman's grip kept her from falling completely. Hot tears poured uncontrollably down her face, her shoulders shaking violently as she sobbed, gasping as if she could barely breathe.
After what felt like an eternity, Cersei Lannister slowly lifted her head.
Through tear-blurred vision, she stared at Balman's face.
That damp golden hair…
Under the flickering firelight, it gleamed like molten gold—so painfully familiar.
"Jaime…"
she murmured, her voice hollow, lost.
Balman instinctively took half a step back, about to explain—
"I'm not—"
But before he could finish, Cersei suddenly lunged forward.
Her hands clutched at the edge of his cold breastplate, and without hesitation, she pressed her lips hard against his.
The lingering heat in Balman's chest—stirred earlier by the strange power within him—ignited instantly.
…
The banquet ended late.
By the time Roose returned to his quarters, it was already midnight.
He had never cared much for social gatherings—but the House Frey seemed to thrive on them.
Especially that unnaturally energetic old lord, Walder Frey, who appeared to take a disturbingly obsessive pleasure in such affairs—he had nearly put on a live spectacle with his sixth wife right there at the table.
Still, dislike or not, Roose had no choice but to endure it.
His liege lord despised such occasions even more—Eddard Stark looked more uncomfortable at a feast than on a battlefield—so as a bannerman, it fell to Roose to maintain relations between the North and the Twins.
At least… until the North was reclaimed.
And besides—
He still held a rather unique card in his hand.
Used well, it was a trump card.
Used poorly… it would become a blade turned against himself.
But Roose Bolton had never doubted his own ability.
He trusted he could control the situation—wield that double-edged sword perfectly, carving away every obstacle in his path.
Pushing open the heavy carved wooden door to his chamber, he felt the warmth of the lit hearth within and gave a faint nod of approval at the servants' work.
Fatigue crept in.
He was about to call for water—
When a soft knock came from the door.
"Come in," he said, voice as calm and unreadable as ever.
A servant's voice followed from outside:
"My lord, Ser Balman Byrch requests an audience."
Balman?
At this hour?
Roose's mind flickered with curiosity—but his face remained unchanged.
"Let him enter."
The door opened.
Moonlight spilled across the threshold, outlining the tall figure of the knight.
But what caught Roose's attention immediately—
Was the faint scent of iron.
Or rather…
Blood.
"My apologies for disturbing you so late, Lord Bolton."
Balman's voice was low and steady, devoid of unnecessary emotion.
Roose inclined his head slightly, the gesture flawless.
"The honor is mine, ser. You are always welcome."
As he stepped aside, his gaze flicked quickly to Balman's hands.
No weapon.
Only a bundle.
A small point of reassurance.
Balman entered without ceremony, his cloak sweeping cold air into the room.
No pleasantries.
Straight to the point.
"I've brought you a gift, Lord Bolton."
"After you see it, I'll need you to persuade Eddard Stark to march."
Of course.
Roose understood immediately.
The Regent had ordered them north.
Eddard had refused.
So now—this knight had come to him.
The most direct solution.
"You are too kind," Roose said, stepping forward with a carefully measured tone of regret. "But as you've seen, Lord Stark is… stubborn. Tradition-bound."
"I fear I alone cannot change his mind."
But Balman didn't even acknowledge the refusal.
By the time Roose closed the door and turned back—
The golden-haired knight had already walked to the table.
"No need to worry," Balman said simply. "You'll like this gift."
He placed the crude, bulging sack onto the table.
"No matter how valuable your gift may be, ser, I cannot betray my liege's wi—"
Roose turned—
And froze.
The carefully maintained expression on his face shattered instantly.
It wasn't gold.
Not jewels.
It was a head.
Tybolt Hetherspoon.
"Do you like the gift, Lord Roose Bolton?"
Balman stood across from him, his tall frame casting a heavy shadow in the flickering candlelight.
Then, slower—lower—each word deliberate:
"I imagine…"
"You wouldn't want the Regent to learn…"
"…that Lady Cersei Lannister was kidnapped, would you?"