On the battlements of House Roote's castle in Lord Harroway's Town, the darkness before dawn was thick and impenetrable.
Lymond Lychester's face was pale as paper. The stench of blood from the riverbank seemed to linger in the damp night breeze. The bloody scene of the Ironborn prisoners being put to death still haunted him. Even though they had been enemies, it weighed on his chest like a boulder.
He watched the pyres still burning in the distance beyond the castle. His stomach churned, and the old man turned to Suleiman beside him. His voice was dry as he asked, "Young Suleiman, what did you mean when you said we wouldn't be short of manpower?"
Suleiman drew his gaze back from the distant flames and looked at the old man calmly. "This victory marks the Ironborn's complete decline in the Riverlands. The balance of power has shifted."
"What do you think the Riverlords of the Trident who've caught the scent of blood—those vultures and hounds—will do? Would they really pass up the chance to join this feast?"
His tone was gentle, but there was a chill to it that seemed to pierce straight through a person.
"The Ironborn have lost their momentum. It's time to divide up the spoils of victory."
"When the war is only one step away from victory, what's the point of staying holed up in a castle?"
"When there's a chance to play the hero without risking their lives, everyone will become a champion, eager to embody justice and loyalty."
Lymond Lychester's mind was sluggish. He couldn't keep up with Suleiman's reasoning. A flicker of thought passed through his murky eyes. He seemed to understand something, yet the fog still hadn't fully cleared.
Suleiman's voice brought him back to the present. "Lord Lymond, you can write