After a few days of quiet recuperation, Suleiman's body remained weak, but he could finally walk.
Anxious to understand his predicament and the state of his lands, he summoned Old Nicken and his two guards. Since their pardon and appointment, the two former farmers had embraced their roles with desperate fervor. They lived on the ground floor of the tower, outfitted in the best gear the estate could offer: two sets of cracked boiled leather and rusted longswords.
Now, they stood at the tower gate from dawn to dusk, hands white-knuckled on their hilts, eyes scanning the horizon. Whenever a peasant passed, they glared with such performative ferocity that the commoners soon learned to avoid the tower altogether.
Suleiman had learned their names. The one who looked perpetually startled was Lauslin; the steadier, silent one was Lucian. Both were in their early thirties, but their faces were maps of exhaustion, aged prematurely to fifty or sixty by a lifetime of labor.
Old Nicken entered the solar carrying a wooden bowl of steaming fish soup.
"My Lord, drink this to warm your bones," the old man said, handing it over.
Steam rose from the bowl, carrying a bland, muddy stench. Suspiciously colored tubers and chunks of fish bobbed in the murky gray broth. Suleiman took it, his expression twisting. Every meal was boiled; every flavor was gray.
To hell with grand strategies and future empires, he thought, my first priority is hiring a cook. If Nicken kept managing the kitchen, Suleiman was certain he would meet the Seven long before the old man did.
Suleiman set the wretched soup aside.
"Steward Nicken, how many people are left in my domain?"
Nicken sighed heavily. "Only thirty-odd, my Lord. Mostly the elderly, women, and children. The able-bodied men followed the old Lord to Seagard... and they aren't coming back."
Suleiman was silent for a moment. "And the Greyjoy Rebellion?"
Nicken watched Suleiman's face closely, fearing a breakdown at the mention of his kin. Seeing none, he continued.
"The war rages on. The Ironborn fleets strike everywhere, raiding where the defenses are thin and vanishing before reinforcements arrive. But you needn't worry, my Lord. More knights and soldiers pass through the Riverlands every day. They say King Robert is gathering a massive host in the Crownlands. The Ironmen are finished; the war will end soon."
Nicken's voice dropped.
"But more urgent than the Ironborn is our granary. It's nearly empty. Last year's harvest was poor, and the old Lord spent every silver stag we had saved to equip his men for the war."
Suleiman frowned. "Can we not fish?" His memory told him the river was their primary source of protein.
Nicken shook his head. "The river has been stingy these last two years. We're lucky to catch small fry and crawfish now. Our lands have always been a struggle, my Lord. The soil isn't fertile, and the floods swallow the crops more often than not."
The future looked bleak. A domain that lived hand-to-mouth, with no reserves and no shield against catastrophe. The poverty of House Rotfort wasn't just bad luck; it was structural.
"Nicken," Suleiman said after a long silence. "Now that I am awake... am I the Lord of Rotfort?"
"You are the sole heir, my Lord. The title is yours by right," Nicken nodded. "However, once you are strong enough, you must travel to Daedins Castle. You must present yourself to Lord Balon Daedins and swear your oath of fealty."
Suleiman looked out at the reeds swaying in the marsh, a cold light in his eyes.
"As soon as I can sit a horse, we ride for Daedins Castle."
Just then, a sharp, piercing wail—a sound of bone-deep, ragged despair—tore through the room. The echoes seemed to fill every corner of the stone tower.
Nicken fell silent, looking toward the door.
Suleiman stood up, his chair legs scraping harshly against the floor. "Let's see what that is."
He led the way out. Behind him, Lauslin and Lucian straightened their backs, hands gripping their rusted hilts. They were nervous; Suleiman could feel it radiating off them.
Outside, in the muddy patch of earth that served as the "courtyard," a figure was huddled against a tree. It was a woman in patched, filthy homespun. She was on her knees, head buried in her arms, her entire body racking with violent, rhythmic sobs.
Suleiman approached her. "Lift your head. Why are you wailing here?"
The woman froze. The crying stopped abruptly, like a startled animal. She looked up, her hair a matted mess of dry straw and mud. Her face was sallow and gaunt, her eyes swollen red with terror.
Seeing Suleiman's clean clothes, she realized who he was. She tried to speak, but only a wheezing, gasping sound came out. Panicked, she tried to scramble to her feet.
"I—I'm going, my Lord. I'll leave right now," she whispered, her voice cracking.
She didn't get far. Her legs, stiff from kneeling, gave out after two steps. She slumped back into the mud, burying her face again. This time, the sobbing was silent, a soundless shaking of the shoulders that felt heavier than the screaming.
Nicken stood behind Suleiman, his lips a thin line, staring at the ground. Lauslin looked up at the clouds, trying to appear indifferent, though his hands were trembling.
Suddenly, Lucian—the dark-faced, silent guard—stepped forward. His fists were clenched, and his chest heaved with suppressed emotion.
"My Lord," Lucian's voice was thick. "She is... she belongs to Huck. Her husband, Old Huck, was one of the farmers who followed the old Lord. He died at Seagard."
He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat.
"Old Huck is gone. She has two children. Without a man to work the plot... she... her house will starve."
In Westeros, the gap between highborn and lowborn was a canyon eight thousand years deep. A lord did not concern himself with the hunger of a widow.
But Lucian stood there, shaking with the effort of his own courage.
There was only the sound of the wind through the river grass and the woman's stifled whimpering. Suleiman stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the broken figure huddled in the dirt.