"Those two animals who brought the news!"
"This old servant failed to look after the Lady! It is all my fault! All my fault!"
"It is all on me…"
Suleiman interrupted the old man's relentless self-lamenting.
"Where are they?"
Old Nicken looked at Suleiman through tear-filled eyes.
"They are still kneeling outside. From the day they heard you had returned alive, they collapsed before the castle in terror. They haven't dared to stand since."
Suleiman felt a surge of conflicting emotions.
The two farmers hadn't lied intentionally; in fact, they weren't entirely wrong—the original Suleiman truly had died. Furthermore, they were living subjects, the last of the able-bodied labor left in his domain. To put it bluntly, if he tortured or executed them, the moment bandits caught wind of the news, he would be forced to go out and fight them alone.
Suleiman forced himself upright.
"Bring them in."
Old Nicken hesitated for a moment, but eventually rose, bowed low, and backed out of the room.
A moment later, he returned with two farmers dressed in tattered tunics. Their faces were caked with dust and tear streaks as they walked in, trembling with every step. The moment they saw Suleiman awake and sitting in bed, they threw themselves to the floor. Their heads slammed against the stones, and their entire bodies shook with violent tremors.
"Lord Suleiman! Lord Suleiman!" one farmer wailed, his voice saturated with extreme terror."We deserve death! We deserve death! It was our false word that killed the Lady!"
The other farmer also cried out in agony.
"Lord Suleiman, have mercy! At the time, we truly thought… we thought you were…! We never meant to deceive! Please, grant us mercy! Grant us mercy!"
Suleiman watched their humble, terrified forms. He thought hard about his options.
Killing them wouldn't bring anyone back; it would only make this impoverished land even more desolate. They were his only two remaining young, male subjects—his bottom line. He couldn't kill them.
Physical punishment was also out of the question. The house had no soldiers; if he beat them, these two might simply gather their families and flee. If pushed too far, they might even turn to banditry, leaving him alone in this tower with a single old man.
He took a deep breath, trying to make his voice sound steady and strong.
"Stand up."
The two farmers didn't dare look up. They simply continued to hammer their heads against the floor, shivering.
Back in the modern world, he had been an ordinary man; now, he could only recall the images of high-ranking rulers he had seen in films. Suleiman raised his voice, injecting it with as much authority as he could muster.
"I will say this only once!"
As his voice leveled out, the men's shivering grew even more intense.
"Your foolishness in delivering that news caused an irreversible tragedy for my house."
Suleiman looked down at them as they lay in the dust. Their fear was so visceral he could almost smell it in the air. His voice was devoid of emotion, like a judge reading a sentence.
"You deserve to be executed. Indeed, you should be executed!"
He watched as the color drained from their faces, leaving them looking like dead men.
"But," Suleiman continued, his tone flat and factual, "you are also the ones who survived that meat-grinder for the sake of my house. You saw the cruelty of the battlefield with your own eyes. You saw how my father, my two brothers, and thirteen of your companions fell."
He paused, as if organizing his thoughts.
"What would holding you accountable achieve? Would it bring the dead back? It would only mean an old man losing his son, two women losing their husbands, and children losing their fathers."
Upon hearing this, the two farmers looked up with disbelief. They had been certain they were marked for death.
Suleiman looked back at them, expressionless.
"However, from this day forward, you are no longer my farmers."
Panic flared in their eyes again. They slammed their heads back down to the floor.
"We are souls bound to your land! Please do not cast us out! We and our families cannot survive away from here!"
Suleiman stood up, looking down at them from his height. His voice rose, carrying a finality that brooked no argument.
"Listen!"
"Perhaps you lived and returned for a reason other than digging in the dirt."
He looked around the crude stone tower, his voice echoing through the hall.
"My house has withered. The castle is empty. Wolves and jackals circle us from the outside. I need hands."
His voice grew loud and resonant.
"You witnessed my father and brothers sacrifice themselves for the honor of this house! Perhaps it was the guidance of the Seven that allowed you to return alive! Therefore, I pass my judgment upon you!"
He took a few steps forward, his boots clicking sharply on the stone.
"Your duties have changed."
He surveyed the dilapidated keep once more.
"I grant you this mercy only once. You will be responsible for protecting me and this castle until I no longer require you—or until the end of your lives."
The two farmers were stunned.
To receive a lord's pardon after such a disaster was one thing, but to be elevated from peasants to house guards was a massive boon. Tears streaming down their faces, they knelt again—not out of fear this time, but out of profound gratitude.
"By the Seven! We will give our lives to protect the merciful Lord Suleiman!"
Suleiman watched them.
In these dark times, he needed strength and loyalty. He didn't know if he had made the right choice, but he knew he had to make a decision. Everything was only just beginning.
Suleiman turned to Old Nicken.
"Take them down. Find them two decent sets of leather and two weapons. Even if they are old and battered, it is better than nothing."
Old Nicken looked at Suleiman with excitement, his eyes shining with pride.
"Yes, Master Suleiman!"
His young master, despite suffering immense trauma and having never been trained as the heir, had woken up and shouldered the burden of the house. Though Nicken didn't know if this mercy was wise, Suleiman had already shown the decisiveness of a true lord.
After Nicken led the men away, Suleiman was alone again.
His body was weak, but his mind was sharp.
He looked out the window. Under the gloomy sky, the sound of frogs and owls filled the air, and the river reeds swayed in the wind. It was a somber, steady environment.
Suddenly, he remembered the timeline.
This was the Greyjoy Rebellion.
In ten years, a much greater storm would sweep across Westeros. And the Riverlands would be the heart of that storm—a place where no one could escape the conspiracies and the slaughter.
Suleiman felt a bitter taste in his mouth.
He didn't know the intricate details of every historical moment, but he knew that in about a decade, the Seven Kingdoms would fall into chaos. The Riverlands would become a blood-soaked battlefield, contested again and again by every major faction.
Houses Tully, Lannister, and Stark would march their armies back and forth, burning and looting until the land was filled with the starving and the dead.
Their "Rotfort," located near the confluence of the Green Fork, would be doomed. No matter which side they chose, they would be a target for the others. In ten years, this land would be a purgatory.
The war would destroy everything.
His subjects would be slaughtered, and this tower would be leveled.
He knew that with his current, pathetic level of strength, he couldn't possibly protect himself in the coming cataclysm.
Escape Westeros? Impossible. He had no ships, no money, and no men. Across the Narrow Sea, an even worse fate awaited—likely being sold into slavery.
Join Daenerys? Her rise was too far away, her path too treacherous, and the timing didn't align.
Support the Starks or Tullys? They were not the best liege lords, and they would eventually meet a bitter end. A minor vassal like him would just be a footnote—someone for Gregor Clegane's men to butcher in passing.
Join the West? The Lannisters were ruthless and would use low-level Riverland nobility as fodder for the front lines.
Suleiman looked up at the night sky, filled with an overwhelming sense of anxiety.
Time was short.
He was just an ordinary man with a modern education, yet he couldn't think of any knowledge that could be used to leapfrog his era. All he had was a general map of the future.
"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered.
Outside, the night deepened. The frogs croaked, and the river grass hissed in the wind, as if whispering in his ear.
He was alive, with his memories and his foresight. That in itself was a miracle.
He wasn't truly empty-handed.
With the knowledge of what was to come, could he really not find a way out?
The confusion in Suleiman's eyes vanished, replaced by a burning will to survive and a spark of ambition he hadn't yet realized was there.