Suleiman Had Finally Gone Mad-He Wanted to Build Twelve Thousand Septs

The next day.

The great tent of the Riverlands lords.

The atmosphere was completely different from yesterday's trial.

The lords sat in their respective seats, whispering among themselves in a relaxed mood.

Suleiman still sat high in the seat of honor, his expression calm, as if everything within the tent had nothing to do with him.

Arwood Halton sat on the right, his gaze occasionally sweeping toward the retainers behind the lords opposite him.

The Sons of the Warrior, clad in silver-plated armor and rainbow cloaks, stood proudly with their heads held high.

Their hands rested on their sword hilts, the seven-pointed star crystals on the pommels gleaming beneath the sunlight streaming through the gaps.

Seven gods' septons also stood all around them.

This feast was unlikely to be a pleasant one, and neither was this meeting.

"Begin."

Suleiman lightly raised a hand. His voice was not loud, yet the noisy tent fell silent at once.

Just then, a knight walked from one side toward the center.

He wore a rainbow cloak, his silver armor glinting beneath the tent's candlelight. One hand rested on his sword hilt, which was set with a star-shaped crystal.

The commander of the Sons of the Warrior, Theodore Wells.

He strode to the center of the tent, ignoring the varied looks cast his way by the surrounding nobles, and gave Suleiman a knight's salute.

"Ser Suleiman, sword of the Seven."

Theodore Wells's booming voice echoed through the great tent.

"Last night, while praying, I heard the Mother weeping."

The lords looked at one another. Some even snorted softly, but none dared interrupt him.

"The merciful Mother weeps for her children."

Theodore Wells raised his head, his gaze blazing.

"Those soldiers from the Westerlands and the Vale may have been led astray by wicked lords and