Hatred

Suleiman led his troops onward at a swift pace.

By now, he essentially struck and ran, raided and slipped away.

After wiping out each Wildling band, they had to clean up all traces of the battle.

The Wildlings' bodies were burned and buried on the spot, leaving as little evidence as possible.

That way, even if they were discovered, it would take time for the enemy to notice and react.

They had truly turned the Mountain Clans' own tactics against them.

Suleiman never met the enemy head-on, and he especially avoided engaging large forces.

His strategic goal was clear: eliminate the small Wildling bands that were scattered about, raiding for supplies.

And steadily weaken their strength.

The Mountain Clans' Wildlings would find their logistical needs an ever-increasing burden.

Or rather, they had no logistics at all. They survived entirely by raiding and living off the land.

Suleiman rode at the head of the column on his white horse.

He couldn't help reflecting that this was the advantage of keeping the force small.

They moved at an astonishing speed, practically sweeping across the land like the wind.

Without cavalry, no infantry could catch up with them.

Suleiman's gaze occasionally fell on the people at the rear of the column.

More than sixty Riverlanders, held captive.

There had originally been over a hundred.

After the previous few waves of long-range attacks,

only a little over sixty remained.

They were all young adults, both men and women.

The Wildlings had no use for the elderly or children.

They had killed them all.

Suleiman sighed, then reminded himself that this was war.

He didn't intend to blame himself.

If not for him,

their fate would have been even worse.

The women would have become breeding tools for the Mountain Wildlings.

They would have spent the rest of their lives in humiliation, giving birth again and again.

The men would have become slaves to the Mountain Wildlings.

They would have been forced to do the most dangerous and grueling work until they died of exhaustion or were killed.

By comparison, he had saved them and spared them that fate.

With that thought,

Suleiman rode closer to them.

His gaze swept over them.

The Riverlanders huddled together like a flock of frightened sheep, trembling all over.

Their clothes were in tatters, and their faces were streaked with dust, blood, and tears.

Their eyes were vacant and lost, as if only their bodies remained and their souls were gone.

Their homes had been destroyed, and now they had no idea what the future held.

They didn't know where to go or what to do.

For now, they simply followed the band of soldiers who had rescued them from the Wildlings.

They saw a man on a tall white horse ride up to them.

They knew who he was: Ser Suleiman of Foulkeep, the commander of this army.

The people raised their heads and looked at him with eyes drained of life and spirit.

They had no idea what he wanted.

"Riverlanders," Suleiman said, his voice low and steady, without a trace of emotion.

Looking at their dazed expressions, Suleiman said:

"I am the commander of this army! Ser Suleiman of Foulkeep!"

Whatever else, he had to speak plainly. He also needed to understand how these people felt about him.

If possible, they could become a valuable asset to him.

But if they felt hostility toward him, he would have to take a different approach.

Suleiman studied the refugees' expressions. He saw no hostility.

They simply wept in silence.

He continued, blunt and resolute: "I gave the order to fire arrows and throw spears."

"I couldn't put my soldiers in danger for your sake."

He didn't try to evade responsibility.

Suleiman paused, his eyes passing over the silent faces bowed in tears.

"I saw it. I saw more than forty Riverlanders fall."

Then the sixty refugees heard words that stunned them into silence, as if the world itself had stopped.

"I offer you my apology!"

They all raised their tear-streaked faces.

"For the Riverlanders who died in the chaos!" Suleiman's voice was low. "And for you, too!"

Suleiman looked at them. The crowd fell silent.

At last, a Riverlander of about thirty, his face marked by a life of suffering, stepped forward.

His body trembled, and tears streamed from his eyes, but when he looked at Suleiman,

there was no anger in his gaze, only gratitude.

"My lord," he said hoarsely. "You don't need to apologize."

He glanced at the other survivors around him, then looked back at Suleiman, a painful memory flickering in his eyes.

"The Wildlings killed my father and my three children because they were no use to them."

"My wife and I watched them slam my youngest child, a baby, hard against the ground!"

"And then there was no sound!"

At that, the man could no longer hold back. He fell to his knees and sobbed, but he kept talking.

"My last remaining family, my wife, died before my eyes, struck by a wooden spear in the chaos."

"But I could never! I would never blame you, my lord!"

"You freed her from that miserable fate."

He lifted his head, tears pouring down his face. Even Suleiman could feel his grief and pain.

"My wife! Those Wildlings would have defiled her! Violated her over and over! Made her wish she were dead!"

"She would have been forced to bear children again and again for the men who killed hers!"

"And me! I would have been forced to watch her suffer, unable to do anything!"

"Just thinking about that pain is enough to make me wish I were dead!"

"My lord! You saved us! You saved her! If not for you..."

The man choked up. His body trembled with overwhelming grief, and he could no longer speak.

He kept bowing until his body struck the ground, letting his actions speak for him.

Everyone in the column, men and women alike, wept and fell to their knees.

Most of them had lost their families and children because they were of no use.

The Wildlings had killed them.

They knew all too well that the moment the Wildlings captured them,

their fate had already been sealed.

But then Suleiman had appeared.

And he had changed their fate.

Suleiman knew the moment had come, and spoke slowly:

"I can send men to escort you to my lands at Foulkeep and grant you farmland to cultivate."

"There, you'll be safe. You'll have shelter and food, and you can start a new life."

"Or!" Suleiman's gaze swept over the men in the column. "You can follow me! Take up arms!"

"I, Ser Suleiman of Foulkeep, will give you food! Armor! Weapons!"

Suleiman's voice was low and slow, like a demon whispering in their ears:

"Do you want to treat them the same way?"

"Do you want to give them the same fate?"

Suleiman knew his words had struck a spark that set the grassland ablaze.

He saw the men in the column stop crying, one after another.

Silently, they stepped forward.

They had already lost everything. They were alone in the world.

What was left for them to fear?

Their land, their homes, their families—all their ties to the world were gone.

They needed no promise of money.

They already had a conviction in their hearts.

That conviction

was called hatred.