Roose Bolton’s voice was so soft that men had to strain to hear it, so his chambers were always strangely hushed.  “What, then?” demanded Ser Jared Frey, who was lean, balding, and pockmarked. “Is Edmure Tully so drunk on his victory that he thinks to give Lord Tywin battle in the open field?”   If he does he’ll beat them, Arya thought. He’ll beat them as he did on the Red Fork, you’ll see. Unnoticed, she went to stand by Qyburn.  “Lord Tywin is many leagues from here,” Bolton said calmly. “He has many matters yet to settle at King’s Landing. He will not march on Harrenhal for some time.”  Ser Aenys shook his head stubbornly. “You do not know the Lannisters as we do, my lord. King Stannis thought that Lord Tywin was a thousand leagues away as well, and it undid him.”  The pale man in the bed smiled faintly as the leeches nursed of his blood. “I am not a man to be undone, ser.”  “Even if Riverrun marshals all its strength and the Young Wolf wins back from the west, how can we hope to match the numbers Lord Tywin can send against us? When he comes, he will come with far more power than he commanded on the Green Fork. Highgarden has joined itself to Joffrey’s cause, I remind you!”  “I had not forgotten.”  “I have been Lord Tywin’s captive once,” said Ser Hosteen, a husky man with a square face who was said to be the strongest of the Freys. “I have no wish to enjoy Lannister hospitality again.”  Ser Harys Haigh, who was a Frey on his mother’s side, nodded vigorously. “If Lord Tywin could defeat a seasoned man like Stannis Baratheon, what chance will our boy king have against him?” He looked round to his brothers and cousins for support, and several of them muttered agreement.  “Someone must have the courage to say it,” Ser Hosteen said. “The war is lost. King Robb must be made to see that.”  Roose Bolton studied him with pale eyes. “His Grace has defeated the Lannisters every time he has faced them in battle.”  “He has lost the north,” insisted Hosteen Frey. “He has lost Winterfell! His brothers are dead...”  For a moment Arya forgot to breathe. Dead? Bran and Rickon, dead? What does he mean? What does he mean about Winterfell, Joffrey could never take Winterfell, never, Robb would never let him. Then she remembered that Robb was not at Winterfell. He was away in the west, and Bran was crippled, and Rickon only four. It took all her strength to remain still and silent, the way Syrio Forel had taught her, to stand there like a stick of furniture. She felt tears gathering in her eyes, and willed them away. It’s not true, it can’t be true, it’s just some Lannister lie.  “Had Stannis won, all might have been different,” Ronel Rivers said wistfully. He was one of Lord Walder’s bastards.  “Stannis lost,” Ser Hosteen said bluntly. “Wishing it were otherwise will not make it so. King Robb must make his peace with the Lannisters. He must put off his crown and bend the knee, little as he may like it.”  “And who will tell him so?” Roose Bolton smiled. “It is a fine thing to have so many valiant brothers in such troubled times. I shall think on all you’ve said.”   His smile was dismissal. The Freys made their courtesies and shuffled out, leaving only Qyburn, Steelshanks Walton, and Arya. Lord Bolton beckoned her closer. “I am bled sufficiently. Nan, you may remove the leeches.”  “At once, my lord.” It was best never to make Roose Bolton ask twice. Arya wanted to ask him what Ser Hosteen had meant about Winterfell, but she dared not. I’ll ask Elmar, she thought. Elmar will tell me. The leeches wriggled slowly between her fingers as she plucked them carefully from the lord’s body, their pale bodies moist to the touch and distended with blood. They’re only leeches, she reminded herself. If I closed my hand, they’d squish between my fingers.  “There is a letter from your lady wife.” Qyburn pulled a roll of parchment from his sleeve. Though he wore maester’s robes, there was no chain about his neck; it was whispered that he had lost it for dabbling in necromancy.  “You may read it,” Bolton said.  The Lady Walda wrote from the Twins almost every day, but all the letters were the same. “I pray for you morn, noon, and night, my sweet lord,” she wrote, “and count the days until you share my bed again. Return to me soon, and I will give you many trueborn sons to take the place of your dear Domeric and rule the Dreadfort after you.” Arya pictured a plump pink baby in a cradle, covered with plump pink leeches.  She brought Lord Bolton a damp washcloth to wipe down his soft hairless body. “I will send a letter of my own,” he told the onetime maester.  “To the Lady Walda?”  “To Ser Helman Tallhart.”  A rider from Ser Helman had come two days past. Tallhart men had taken the castle of the Darrys, accepting the surrender of its Lannister garrison after a brief siege.  “Tell him to put the captives to the sword and the castle to the torch, by command of the............