Bryn's voice echoed low through the tent.
"Evelyn says the poison on the crossbow bolts is inferior to manticore venom from the Free Cities, and to Widow's Wail."
He set a black crossbow bolt on the table before Suleiman. Its tip gleamed with a dark, oily sheen in the light.
"If it pierces the skin, the victim will suffer terribly. But if he survives for three days, he'll live."
Bryn paused, then added,
"This is already the best poison we could find in Westeros."
Suleiman's gaze rested on the bolt. He said nothing, his fingers tapping absently on the tabletop.
The only sound in the tent was the crackling of the brazier.
Time passed by slowly. Bryn watched Suleiman's shadowed profile, but in the end, he couldn't hold back any longer.
"My lord, what should we do?"
Suleiman didn't answer. He reached out and picked up the finely made crossbow, feeling its cold touch.
He had always lived by one principle: when making a decision, hesitation only led to trouble.
A decisive purge, painful and brief, was far better than a festering wound that lingered.
Indecision would only make the wound suppurate and eat away at the whole body.
So he had never hesitated.
He had no personal feud with Brynden "Blackfish" Tully. They had barely met more than a handful of times.
If House Tully was willing to submit, he could assure the Blackfish that he would give the long-renowned knight his word: whatever the future held, House Tully would share in his fortune and misfortune.
But if the Blackfish insisted on standing against him, then only one choice remained.
He would have to kill him.
So his silence had never been about whether to kill or not. It was about how to do it, if it came to