Riverrun's great hall was so heavy with tension, it felt as if you could wring water from the air.
The governor of the Riverlands, Hoster Tully, reclined in his enormous fish-carved lord's chair.
He had just roared with all his strength, and now his body trembled faintly despite himself. His cheeks were deeply hollowed, his cloudy eyes bloodshot, and the robe that symbolized his lordship of Riverrun hung loosely from his emaciated frame. He could no longer hold it up.
His voice was hoarse as he repeated his earlier words, each one striking the ears of those present. "Why?"
"Tell me, why were two or three thousand Ironborn able to cross Seaguard's defenses as if strolling through their own gardens, and thrust straight into our heartland?"
The assembled vassals and knights, including Riverrun's steward, Ser Desmond Grell, and Ser Robin Leger, all kept their heads bowed, as though there were patterns on the floor worth studying just then.
No one could answer, and no one dared. They could not believe there had been so many, but the refugees who had survived the Ironborn said they had seen them with their own eyes. They had no choice but to believe it.
Silence pressed down on everyone's chest like a massive stone.
In that suffocating hush, Hoster Tully felt a familiar helplessness well up inside him. He suddenly thought of his younger brother—the man who was always defiant and unruly, yet could still step in and solve problems at the most critical moments.
The thought flashed through his mind, then became a sigh he could no longer suppress, rattling like bellows.
This sudden calamity made him feel as if it had lopped another large piece from the little time he had left to live.
Bracing himself, he pressed his elbows against the