Suleiman ended his struggle, drew his longsword, and flicked his wrist, sending the blood on the blade spattering across the surrounding rubble.
Ser Qyburn's throat rattled like a leaky bellows, and he pitched forward onto his squire.
A deathly silence fell. Only the wind sweeping through the mountain pass could be heard.
The soldiers of House Moore tightened their grip on their weapons, but had no idea what to do. No one dared take a step forward.
The refugees who had just been prostrating themselves on the ground had forgotten how to breathe. They could only stare blankly at the man who had decided their fate.
Suleiman's gaze swept over face after face: fear, confusion, awe. At last, his eyes settled on the refugees.
His voice was not loud, but it carried clearly to everyone there. "The Seven have passed judgment."
"You are innocent. You may leave now."
The silence was broken by a stifled sob. Then, as if a dam had burst, cries and cheers of relief rang across the wilderness. A hundred raggedly dressed people fell to their knees and bowed fervently toward Suleiman, calling his name incoherently.
Suleiman watched the scene: the body that was still warm, and the people who had been spared because of an ancient rule.
He had discovered a serious loophole in Westeros. A thought took shape in his mind, clear and sharp.
Trial by Combat!
The nobility regarded it as sacred, and the common folk feared it like divine punishment. It was an ancient tradition rooted in faith and honor, a form of judgment no one dared openly defy.
Lords who valued honor more than life, who believed the Seven's gaze was everywhere, could not refuse a challenge made in the name of the gods.
Within the rules, without stepping outside them,