Outside Lord Harroway's Town, sunlight bathed the plains, and everything flourished.
Banners of every color snapped in the wind. The air rang with voices, as if a grand festival were underway.
Lymond Lychester wore a well-fitted coat of mail, with a surcoat bearing House Lychester's sigil over it. A dignified yet genial smile rested on his face, as if everything were under control, though the hand behind his back trembled uncontrollably.
He was receiving the steady stream of East Riverlands lords who came to see him under the pretext of "discussing military affairs."
William Mooton's corpulent frame jiggled as he spoke in a booming voice, his words dripping with flattery. "Lord Lymond, your wisdom shines like the light of the Seven, illuminating the road ahead."
Lymond Lychester laughed heartily and clapped him firmly on the shoulder, the gesture intimate and familiar. "We all want what's best for the future of the Riverlands, my friend."
He didn't know why he was supposed to touch another nobleman without observing the proper etiquette. Suleiman had merely told him that physical contact could quickly bring people closer, and empty slogans could unite them, but he must never make or put in writing any definite promises.
The two talked as if they were the closest of friends, nearly swearing a blood oath on the spot. Their fervent words left William Mooton feeling that everything was within his grasp. But when he left the tent, he realized that the mad old man had seemed to promise something—and yet had promised nothing at all.
Soon, Raymun Darry and Ser Ronald were ushered into the tent.
Raymun Darry hesitated, unsure whether he should speak. Ser Ronald, his attendant, quickly sensed his lord's reluctance and decided to speak on his behalf. After all, his lord had indeed rendered great