Still Trapped, Eyeing the Vale, Crowning Himself King

Late at night.

Inside the command tent, flickering lamplight illuminated the map of Westeros hanging on the wall.

Suleiman stood alone before the map with his back to the tent flap.

He did not move, his gaze fixed on the symbols representing mountains, plains, rivers, and castles.

The air inside the tent was still. Only the faint scrape of armor could occasionally be heard as patrolling soldiers passed outside.

Bryn had stood behind Suleiman for some time, silent, never speaking to disturb the young man's thoughts.

He looked at Suleiman's back—the back of a man who commanded the battlefield and defeated a hundred-thousand-strong army with a smile.

Yet at this moment, it carried an indescribable heaviness.

Victories arrived in constant succession, and the army swept forward in song. The entire Seven Kingdoms trembled beneath his might.

To outsiders, Suleiman was brimming with confidence, at the height of his power.

Only Bryn could sense the undercurrents raging beneath that seemingly tranquil surface.

Deep in his heart, his young lord was shrouded in heavy worry.

"My lord is troubled."

Bryn finally spoke. His voice was soft, yet unusually clear in the silent tent.

Suleiman's shoulders shifted slightly, but he did not turn around.

After a long while, a quiet laugh escaped his throat.

He turned to look at the burly man and said with a smile, "You alone understand my heart, Bryn."

Suleiman beckoned Bryn closer.

Then he turned back to the map and pressed a finger heavily onto the Riverlands.

"We currently have fifty thousand troops, the strongest military force in the Seven Kingdoms apart from The Reach."

His voice was calm and measured.

"But this advantage will not last long."

Suleiman's finger slowly moved across the map and pointed toward The Westerlands.

"Once Robert Baratheon lands in The Westerlands and