The faint light of dawn streamed through the makeshift command tent,
Suleiman was slowly and carefully wiping the Myr Sword with a clean piece of linen.
The blood of Roger Leger had long since dried on the blade, and now it was being scraped away bit by bit.
Ser Brynden Tully stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, watching him silently. He seemed to wear that battered black chainmail at all times.
Brynden's voice broke the silence, hoarse and tinged with fatigue. "You could have spared him."
He walked inside, his boots ringing clearly against the flagstones.
"Roger Leger had already lost. Beheading him did you no good."
Suleiman stopped wiping and looked up. His gaze was calm as still water, without a ripple. He slid the clean Myr Sword back into its sheath.
Suleiman spread his hands, his tone as if stating an obvious fact. "I gave him plenty of chances, Ser."
"I only show mercy to those who are loyal to me and treat me well."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across Ser Brynden's face.
"As for my enemies, I'll only make sure they learn what they deserve for standing against me."
The air seemed to freeze. After a long moment, Brynden Tully's tense lips relaxed.
He nodded slowly and even let out a faint sigh. "You're a good deal more honest than those fools who prattle on about honor and mercy."
"But, lad, you can't rely on swords alone in Westeros."
Suleiman smiled. "That only means there aren't enough swords."
Suleiman picked up a letter sealed with wax from the table and handed it over. The Deddings crest was emblazoned on the envelope.
"A letter sent by raven from Lord Balon."
Brynden took the letter and broke the seal. He read quickly, his eyes skimming