A Strategist Without Equal

Wind blew in from a tributary of the Blackwater Rush.

The Riverlords of the Riverlands stood in a circle. Their horses pawed restlessly at the dirt, and they gripped their reins tight.

Suleiman stood on a slight rise, his gaze calm.

It was as though what lay ahead was not a battle to the death, but an ordinary hunt.

Rosso Brune rode forward.

He removed his helmet. Wind, dust, and exhaustion had left their marks on his face, but he could not quite hide his excitement at the coming battle.

"Lord Suleiman," he said in a low voice.

"After a day of probing and scouting, it's clear the soldiers of the Westerlands are eager to fight. Their knights are brave, and their lords are proud and fierce."

He raised his head, glanced around at the assembled lords, and finally looked at Suleiman.

"But you were right. That's exactly why Tyrion Lannister, that dwarf, can't truly control this army."

Suleiman nodded slightly. His gaze passed over the lords, and though he spoke quietly, everyone heard him.

"The army of the Westerlands is confident, eager for battle, and convinced it cannot be beaten. But its forces lack unity. Lords and vassals disagree."

As he spoke, his gaze drifted pointedly across the gathering.

The Riverlords noticed, and embarrassment flickered across their faces.

"Orders go unenforced. The army is noisy and disorderly. Its soldiers fight over anything they stand to gain."

Suleiman tapped his fingers lightly against his saddle.

"We'll use that to defeat them. Tempt them with something worth taking, then strike amid the confusion."

Before he finished speaking, a scout came galloping up in a cloud of dust, breaking the tense silence.

His horse foamed at the mouth and whinnied in distress, its forelegs nearly buckling beneath it.

"Lord Suleiman!" The scout