When the tent flap was suddenly thrown open, a knight who had accompanied them to the feast rushed inside.
Suleiman was polishing the Valyrian Steel Sword Nightfall in his hand. Its cold blade clearly reflected his calm, expressionless face.
"My lord! Something's happened at the Riverrun feast!"
The knight's voice sounded shrill with urgency, shattering the silence inside the tent.
Suleiman's hand paused for an instant.
He raised his head. His eyes held no emotion as he quietly watched the knight and waited for him to continue.
"Lord Lymond was attacked at the feast. He... he grabbed... seized Lord Edmure Tully. He's already charged out!"
The first thought that flashed through Suleiman's mind wasn't anger or worry, but a sense of absurd disbelief.
An assassination.
Eddard Stark, that paragon of virtue, had actually resorted to assassination—and at a feast held in honor of his guests.
Had he come to the wrong world? Was this not Westeros, but some parallel world where people acted in the exact opposite way?
Otherwise, how could the Northerner who valued honor more than life have allowed something like this to happen at his feast?
Outside the tent came the sound of hurried footsteps and Lymond Lychester's furious roar, drawing closer.
Suleiman ignored it and slowly sheathed his sword.
Bryn entered first, followed by an enraged Lymond Lychester.
Suleiman didn't try to calm Lymond Lychester right away. Instead, he noticed Bryn's hand and frowned. "Bryn, your hand."
Bryn held out the hand that had gripped the dagger. His palm was wrapped in thick bandages, with a little blood seeping through.
He flexed his fingers. "It's nothing, my lord. Just a flesh wound. I'll be fine after I rest for a while."
"I've suffered wounds ten times worse than this in the Mountains of the Moon."
Suleiman