Lymond Lychester was utterly stunned. He stared blankly at the young figure on horseback. Sunlight edged his silhouette in a hazy glow, yet did nothing to dispel the bone-chilling cold that emanated from him.
The old madman felt as if he were looking at a young madman—ambitious, more terrifying, more deranged, and bent on changing the current order of Westeros.
The Lychester and Deddings forces began moving forward slowly. At the very front of the column, Suleiman turned back for one last look at Lymond Lychester.
A dangerously charming smile appeared on Suleiman's face. There was an invitation in it, a challenge, and an unshakable confidence that brooked no refusal.
Like a devil, he made his final offer:
"So, Lord Lymond, my cheap father, will you play this game with me?"
Lymond Lychester fell silent. The wind swept through his white hair and stirred his tattered robes. He thought of House Vance's humiliation, the cold bodies of his sons, the agony of watching House Lychester wither in his hands, and the wasted years of his life.
Now, a young man—someone even more of an outsider than he was—had made an utterly mad boast right in front of him. Something seemed to ignite in Lymond Lychester's murky eyes. A flame that had long been extinguished began to blaze anew.
Lymond Lychester raised his head and met Suleiman's gaze. I was a madman to begin with. How could I have failed to be madder than a sane man? He gave a resolute, utterly unhinged smile.
The old man's voice was hoarse, yet utterly deranged, and his words rang with mad laughter. "Good! My son!"
"Then let's do it!"
Suleiman watched the nearly twenty-five-hundred-man force race across the plain, its billowing dust blotting out the sky. He thought back to when he had