Suleiman led Roslyn and sixteen riders in a hard gallop.
He had naturally claimed Valleydeep Town's warhorses, while more than twenty captured Wildling ponies had been sent back to Foulkeep with supplies.
They could be used by the smallfolk to haul goods and serve as draft oxen.
The edge of the High Mountains was already close at hand, and Suleiman saw his soldiers tugging at an old man.
Beside him stood a donkey, while a dog barked wildly.
Suleiman knew who he was: Meribald, the Barefoot Monk of the Riverlands, a true believer and a genuinely good man.
"Stop!" Suleiman called, halting the rough soldiers as he swung down from his horse.
Seeing Lord Suleiman arrive, the soldiers respectfully stepped aside.
Suleiman walked over and helped the old man up.
His hands were so broad. Holding one of them, Suleiman studied him.
His face was weathered and rough, clearly shaped by years of wind and sun.
He wore no shoes, and his feet were swollen and covered in thick, black calluses.
This was a truly good man, a Barefoot Monk. In the hierarchy of the Faith, his standing was only slightly above that of the beggar brothers.
For more than forty years, he had wandered throughout the Riverlands, conducting weddings and hearing confessions for common folk, who in turn gave him food and shelter.
He was accompanied by his dog and a donkey, which carried food that he distributed to the poor in the villages he passed through.
When the wars to come arrived, this old man would do all he could to mend the scars that fire and sword had left upon the Riverlands.
Meribald's gaze did not even fall upon Suleiman. His eyes remained fixed on a mound some distance away.
There stood a small hill piled from