A Precarious Situation

Inside Lion's Den's mountain tower, the air was murky and stifling.

Rain still fell outside, crackling as it struck the mountainside.

Roslyn sat behind an oak table. The candle flame on it swayed wildly in the wind slipping through the window cracks.

He held a letter in his hand.

The paper was thin, bearing only a few lines written in Lord Suleiman's own hand.

The handwriting was hurried and messy, clearly penned in haste.

The letter's message was simple: if the situation became untenable, abandon Lion's Den, come to King's Landing, and head for the Free Cities together.

Roslyn stared at those lines for a long time, until wax tears dripped onto the tabletop and hardened into pale white blotches.

He reached out and held the letter close to the candle flame.

The fire greedily licked at the paper, curling it into black ash, until the last spark died against his rough fingertips.

Roslyn rose and walked to the window carved into the mountainside. He pushed open the heavy shutters and looked down at the plains from high within the mountain.

Cold wind and rain lashed his face and body.

Lord Suleiman had given them food, clothes, and dignity.

He had turned them from farmers clawing for food in the mud into soldiers with swords at their waists, into commanders capable of standing on their own.

Without Lord Suleiman, Lushen and he would have long since starved to death, leaving behind only two dried skeletons.

This life had been given to him by Lord Suleiman.

He turned to the confused adjutant, pointed at the armor on his body, then toward the distant plains.

"Lushen and I are Lord Suleiman's farmers."

"Farmers must guard their master's land."

"Even if it means dying."

The adjutant opened his mouth, wanting to say something,