"Negotiations?"
Suleiman repeated the words the soldier had brought, somewhat surprised. He hadn't expected the Ironborn to request negotiations on their own initiative.
His fingertips lightly tapped the map of the Riverlands spread out before him, and his gaze shifted toward the murky river outside the tent.
Interesting. The corner of Suleiman's mouth curled up. He gave an order: "Interesting."
"Bring their envoy here."
The small boat sailed alone across the broad river, like a fallen leaf adrift on the water.
The Reader, Rodrik Harlaw, sat in the bow, accompanied only by a rower holding a flag of truce.
He could see the vast encampment on the bank. Countless banners of different houses snapped in the wind, forming a forest of flags.
When the boat reached shore, two silent soldiers came over and, without a word, blindfolded him with a piece of black cloth.
The world plunged into darkness. All that remained was the feel of the earth beneath his feet and the clamor growing louder in his ears.
He heard the sounds of thousands of men moving about, the clanging of weapons, and the uneasy whinnying of warhorses.
The air smelled of horse dung, leather, and campfires, along with something deeper—the murderous tension that came before a great battle.
It was clear that this army was prepared for a major battle. The realization pressed down on him until he could hardly breathe.
He didn't know how long he walked before he was led somewhere warm and dry, where the ground beneath his feet turned to thick carpet.
Someone roughly pulled the blindfold away. Light flooded in, stinging his eyes.
Once his vision finally cleared, the Reader, Rodrik Harlaw, took in the scene inside the tent.
Knights in heavy plate armor stood on either side, hands on their sword hilts,