In the governor's bedchamber at Riverrun, the vast space was gloomy and oppressive, without a glimmer of light. The air was thick with the smell of medicine and decay.
A heavy silence filled the room. The only sound was the intermittent, rasping wheeze of the man in the bed, like a broken bellows.
Hoster Tully lay on the huge bed, so emaciated he was barely recognizable. His once imposing face and powerful frame had dwindled to nothing but sallow skin stretched over sharp bones.
After days of unconsciousness and feverish muttering, he miraculously opened his eyes. For a moment, the pain and haze of confusion receded.
He could feel the weight of the blankets, hear his son's muffled sobs, and smell the medicinal odor that turned his stomach. He tried to move a finger, but the sensation was as sluggish as operating a puppet that did not belong to him. Life was draining from his fingertips, like the last grains of sand in an hourglass.
He was dying.
This was a final rally.
Hoster Tully's gaze slowly came into focus. The first thing he saw was his young son, Edmure.
Tully, the boy sat on a little stool, his eyes red and swollen from crying. His small body trembled with stifled sobs.
How long had it been since he had seen him so clearly?
The maester standing beside the bed was about to replace a damp cloth steeped in herbs. When he saw the old governor's eyes open—and no longer clouded—he froze in shock. The cloth slipped from his hand and fell into the basin with a splash, sending a small ripple across the water.
The maester called out tentatively, his voice trembling. "My lord?"
He hurried forward and bent over to examine Hoster Tully's pupils.
A moment later, he