Inside the tent, Lymond Lychester paced back and forth.
The carpet beneath his feet had been trampled until it looked like a muddy field.
"The East Riverlords pledged their support to us long ago."
His voice was thick with barely restrained impatience. He couldn't understand why Suleiman had waited for the banners of Dorne and the Reach to appear before deciding to convene an assembly of the Riverlords.
"Why are we waiting for the nobles of Dorne and the Reach?"
"Harrenhal is packed with nobles who've come to watch the spectacle. Shouldn't we convene the assembly as soon as possible and make those Riverlords kneel and swear their oaths?"
Suleiman sat in his chair, wiping his Valyrian Steel Sword with a cloth.
The blade was dark and swallowed the candlelight, reflecting nothing.
He looked up, his gaze as calm as a deep pool. "Everyone has blood in their veins, and everyone has a desire to compete."
Lymond Lychester furrowed his brows, his graying eyebrows knitted together.
"What do you mean?"
He couldn't make sense of such vague words. Suleiman always liked to say things that were difficult to understand, but which, in hindsight, seemed perfectly clear.
With a faint click, Suleiman slid the Valyrian Steel Sword back into its sheath. "Lord Lymond, do you know why the system of rewarding military merit is so appealing?"
Why bring that up? The confusion on the old man's face deepened. "Why?"
Suleiman's voice was soft, like a feather settling on Lymond Lychester's heart, yet it stirred up stormy waves within him. "With a sharp blade in your hand and armor on your body, your fate is yours to decide."
"If a farmer can go to war and earn everything he'd never dared to dream of through military merit..."
"Then his fate is no