Entering the tent, Suleiman saw Lord Raymon Dayne seated at the head and Ser Ronald standing at his side.
Their eyes measured one another.
Raymon Dayne wore his brown hair long; his face could be called handsome, and though he was not tall he looked strong.
His eyes were no different from any man's, and at the moment they were fixed straight ahead.
Yet Suleiman felt an invisible pressure; under that aggressive stare it seemed he would be seen through from skin to marrow.
Just when Suleiman, nearly crushed by that invasive gaze, was about to offer his "sincere apology" for fleecing the man—
Ser Ronald, seeing how twitchy he looked, hastily said,
"Lord Suleiman, there's no need to be nervous. Lord Raymon only wishes to learn what you know of the Ironborn so he can prepare."
So it was only about the Ironborn?! Damn it—say so earlier! I knew a great lord wouldn't fuss over a little wool-pulling!
Raymon Dayne's gaze stayed on Suleiman, tinged with curiosity.
"Your father and brothers all died in battle?"
Suleiman blinked at the question.
What did Lord Raymon want with that?
He had never met the man and could not guess his intent.
Still, he answered respectfully, "Yes, Lord Raymon."
Raymon Dayne did not press further; he only lowered his head thoughtfully, as though remembering something.
The tent grew awkwardly quiet.
To break the silence, Ser Ronald of Fruitwood City quickly spoke, trying to steer the talk back on course.
With a mix of puzzlement and surprise he added, "I heard you took the field as well—and nearly died? Yet you're only sixteen!"
Ronald had never heard of a noble house leaving not one male heir behind, sending every man to war; it was sheer folly.
He understood Ser Ronald's view—it violated Westerosi custom of preserving a bloodline.
But his father had his own convictions.
"Even a ten-year-old boy can lift a blade and wound a man."
"When my father swore fealty to Lord Deddings, he vowed—"
"By the Seven, should the lord call, every sword-bearing man of the house will answer, even if the line must end."
Suleiman pressed his lips together.
"My house has no grand words; that oath is the one our forebears kept. Simple, but to us weightier than a mountain."
"What manner of men were your father and brothers?" Raymon Dayne cut in again, breaking the recitation.
His gaze seemed to search through Suleiman's eyes for the dead.
"Good men, my lord," Suleiman answered briefly.
He had no wish to linger on the topic; he scarcely knew House Dayne and it had nothing to do with the matter at hand.
He only wanted to return to the point: the Ironborn, the war, the information he could give.
Ser Ronald seemed to sense his reluctance.
He cleared his throat and smoothly took over. "Lord Suleiman, you have marched with us some days and seen the men of Castle Darry. How do they compare with the Ironborn?"
Ronald's meaning was plain.
Suleiman hesitated, then looked at Raymon Dayne.
"Does Lord Raymon wish the truth?"
A flicker of amusement crossed the lord's face.
With interest he prompted, "Oh?"
Suleiman tugged the corner of his mouth into a forced sunny grin: "Your lordship's men each count for ten Ironborn; they see them as swine, dogs, cattle, sheep—at your word they'll cut them to pieces."
The boast was absurd, pure pre-battle bravado.
Ser Ronald's face was already darkening.
Raymon Dayne simply watched him, his eyes saying, I know that's a lie.
The smile vanished; Suleiman's tone cooled and hardened.
Recalling the battle at Sea Dragon Point, he spoke the truth: "The truth is—one Ironborn counts for ten of Castle Darry's men; they are treated like swine, dogs, cattle, sheep."
He fell silent and met the nobles' gaze.
"Nonsense!" Ser Ronald slammed the table and shouted.
His beard quivered with rage.
Suddenly he felt that letting his lord consult a sixteen-year-old was the stupidest thing he had ever done.
What could a boy know of real war?
Suleiman only pursed his lips, wordless, as if to say, See—you always react that way.
Raymon Dayne ignored the outburst; his eyes stayed on Suleiman.
Surprised, he asked, "Why do you say that?"
He wanted the young man's reasoning.
"My lord—" Ser Ronald tried to object.
"Let him speak," Raymon Dayne ordered, lifting a hand.
He looked again at Suleiman, signaling him to continue.
Suleiman knew this was the moment he must explain.
Instead of giving the answer, he posed a more basic question—about the very nature of an army: why fight, and for what?
"How many men does your lordship have?" he asked.
Raymon Dayne did not reply; he glanced at Ser Ronald.
Though furious, Ronald could not ignore his lord's gaze.
He glowered at Suleiman as if to slay him with a look,
then declared proudly, "We field four hundred light foot, a hundred heavy infantry, and thirty knights!"
Raising that many under a liege's call showed rare loyalty.
He seethed, ready to refute whatever wild claim came next.
Suleiman showed no reaction to the numbers.
Without comment he looked straight at Ser Ronald and asked a simple question:
"How many of them know why they fight and what they fight for?"
Ronald blinked, caught off guard by such an odd query, then straightened and turned to Raymon Dayne.
Head high, he proclaimed, "My lord, every man of Castle Darry is ready to die for House Dayne!"
Watching the self-satisfied knight, Suleiman nearly rolled his eyes.
Old fool, shameless, he thought.
Yet shamelessness was hardest to counter; he needed something surer.
He drew a breath, inwardly cursing, but his tone stayed calm and a smile returned as he regarded Ser Ronald.
"Is that so, Lord Ronald?"