The Situation in the Midst of the War of the Usurper

Corley Hewen limped across the plains of Harrenhal, through the camps of the East Riverlands.

The air was thick with the smells of roasting meat, sweat, and horse dung.

The soldiers' curses and coarse laughter blended together, yet they could not conceal the tension of an approaching storm.

He entered the largest tent and lifted its heavy flap.

The tent was brightly lit, warm as spring.

The Lord of Harrenhal, Walter Hean, was bent over a huge map of the Seven Kingdoms.

He was very old.

His hair was thin and gray, his skin like dried bark. His life was nearing its end.

Hearing the footsteps, he abruptly looked up, his voice urgent.

"What did he say?"

Corley Hewen walked to the brazier, warming his cold hands, and shook his head.

"I don't know."

The air inside the tent instantly froze.

Walter slowly straightened and turned toward him.

His gaze was like two icy daggers, stabbing into Corley Hewen's face.

"You don't know?"

Corley Hewen nodded, offering no further words.

Walter Hean slammed his fist onto the map. The long oak table let out a dull boom.

The wooden pieces on the map bounced up and scattered across the floor.

"Idiot!"

His chest heaved violently, his cheeks flushed red.

"Didn't you say you'd already seen through him?"

His roar echoed through the tent.

Corley Hewen stood silently, letting that fury burn over him.

He truly had believed he had seen through Suleiman.

He had retraced nearly every road the young man had taken from Foulkeep, meeting the soldiers, farmers, and even Wildlings who had encountered Suleiman.

He had tried to grasp the man's character, preferences, and way of speaking.

But when he saw the man with his own eyes, he realized how arrogant he had been.

The man was a