Pious Devotion, Deep Desire, Millions of Corpses

The air in Rushmarsh grew thicker by the day, like a swamp before a torrential downpour.

Every guard's clenched jaw, every maid's hurried footsteps, betrayed the stifled tension.

Time slipped by silently in the glow of the hearth—one day, then another.

Suleiman sat in the study, firelight casting shifting shadows across his face.

Raymun Darry's raven had yet to arrive.

The Hand's letters had already come five times, and more were surely still on the way.

Jon Arryn's wording grew harsher with every letter, each line brimming with threats.

Suleiman could easily infer that the situation in King's Landing—even the entire realm—was spiraling out of control. The Riverlands' stance would determine which way the scales tipped.

That foolish old man had been driven into a corner. Someone had been whispering endlessly in his ear, provoking him with the threat of House Lychester.

If not for their lack of strength forcing them to endure, House Arryn would surely pay for its arrogance.

He had already prepared for the worst.

Perhaps Raymun Darry had made his own preparations as well and would not reveal so much as a hint.

East Riverlands was truly preparing to raise its banners.

Suleiman looked at the map of Westeros spread across the table, his finger slowly tracing the distance between Rushmarsh and Harrenhal.

"My lord!"

A servant rushed in, his voice urgent.

"Lord Raymun Darry has arrived!"

Suleiman turned to look at the servant.

"He came in person?"

The servant hurriedly bowed respectfully.

"Yes, my lord. He is outside the city himself and requests to see you at once."

Suleiman rose to his feet, the hearth's flames stretching his shadow long behind him.

"Let him in."

When Raymun Darry entered the study, he brought with him the dust of travel and a chill in the air.