The dreadful news that Seaguard had fallen swept through the hall like an icy wind, driving out its warmth.
The messenger had been helped out by knights of House Lychester, but the panic they had brought with them already hung heavy in the air, weighing on everyone's heart.
Lymond Lychester was so shocked by the news that he lost all color. He began talking to people who weren't there, muttering about what they should do.
Suleiman watched the old man, who swung between madness and lucidity. Seaguard had fallen, the Ironborn had entered the Trident, and not long ago Lymond had made that absurd suggestion that he take Suleiman as his son. An idea flashed through Suleiman's mind like lightning splitting the darkness.
His gaze swept over the murals on the hall's walls, wrecked by the Ironborn, then returned to the old man muttering to himself. He weighed the thought and the plan rapidly. It was daring, insane, and fatally tempting: become Lymond's adopted son and inherit House Lychester.
Suleiman knew exactly where he stood. House Foulkeep—a name that reeked of poverty and low status—was his family. In Westeros, where bloodlines ruled, and especially in the Riverlands, where noble houses were deeply entrenched, his family didn't even rate.
Westeros had yet to see the armies and power struggles of the War of the Five Kings. Without a "noble" surname to open doors, the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms would never welcome him into their ranks.
He didn't believe that the Riverlands' so-called thousand-year bloodlines made those nobles any different from common beggars. But those were the rules of Westeros, for now, and he had to use them. Otherwise, he could help the kingdom reclaim one castle, or even two, by force of arms, yet never earn the standing his