"Old Septon." Suleiman looked at the old man and spoke slowly. "I gave them release not because of the Seven, but because of you, Old Septon."
Suleiman still held this old man in fairly high regard.
In the future, war would come. The Riverlands would be ravaged by it, leaving scorched earth for miles, bones exposed in the wilderness, and not a soul in sight.
This old man would travel through the Riverlands, recounting the tragedies of these ordinary people from his own perspective and bringing a faint hope to those suffering under the horrors of war.
But the old man had not yet gone through the cruelest and bloodiest stage. There was another saying of his that Suleiman liked most.
"The truly dangerous thing is being common folk while others play the game of power."
He had no time left. He needed fame—whatever kind of fame it was. Only then could he become part of the game of power.
The old septon looked at Suleiman and sighed softly. "The flames of hatred can burn one's enemies, but they can also consume oneself."
He was referring to Suleiman's soldiers. He had already noticed their hatred for the Wildlings, as well as their anger toward himself.
These soldiers no longer cared about the gods. Before Suleiman had arrived, they had already planned to kill him.
They had even discussed placing his head atop the Wildlings' mound.
To kill the gods' shepherd in the mortal world and desecrate his corpse—even bandits would not do such a thing.
"Septon, in Westeros, if you don't burn others, others will burn you." Suleiman's expression did not change, but he answered nonetheless.
"And isn't this a good thing?" Suleiman asked in return, no emotion audible in his voice. "I promised them revenge. I gave them hope