Hoster Tully?
Lymond Lychester's head was buzzing. The dizziness from the wine and the clamor of the feast seemed to linger.
He stared at Suleiman, a little dazed, unable to understand what he meant. Then he met Suleiman's gaze: eyes shimmering in the moonlight, calm as a bottomless pool of ice, without the slightest ripple.
An utterly absurd yet terrifyingly real thought made him feel as if he'd plunged into an icy lake. A chill swept through his entire body, and his mind, muddled by ambition and fine wine, cleared in an instant.
His throat went dry. His voice warped with fear as he cried out, "You're going to kill Hoster Tully?!"
For a moment, the air seemed to freeze. Every sound in the room vanished—the insects chirping outside, the distant footsteps of patrolling guards, even the old man's heartbeat, as if his question had choked them all off.
Suleiman's expression didn't change in the slightest. Lymond Lychester's horror seemed to be entirely within his expectations.
As though confirming the most obvious fact, he slowly nodded. "Yes, Lord Lymond."
"Hoster Tully is old, and his health has long since failed. I'll arrange it so that he can pass peacefully."
"Once he's dead, his son Edmure Tully will be nothing but an ignorant child, utterly incapable of controlling the Riverlands during or after the war."
"That's the final step I was talking about."
Every word Suleiman uttered was like an icicle, stabbing viciously into Lymond Lychester's nerves. Every trace of drunkenness was swept away by a bone-deep chill.
Lymond Lychester sprang up from the bed, his voice trembling with agitation. "No! Suleiman!"
"We've done great things! We can wait for His Majesty the King to decide!"
Suleiman said nothing. He only looked at Lymond Lychester in silence. That expression was itself