The great gates of Harrenhal slowly closed behind them, shutting out Robert Baratheon's thunderous laughter and the clamor beyond.
Suleiman paused for a moment. Outside the gates, the lesser nobles had gathered in twos and threes, their faces alight with excitement, flattery, or calculation.
They whispered to one another, their voices lowered. Their topic was undoubtedly the eagerly anticipated Tourney, a great event for the kingdom with a "generous purse."
Suleiman's calm was at odds with theirs. He signaled to a knight of House Lychester with a glance, then turned and headed toward a secluded guest chamber.
Before long, Lymond Lychester, having heard the news, found Suleiman in a cramped guest room in Harrenhal.
He shut the heavy wooden door behind him. The bolt fell into place with a dull thud.
The flesh on the old man's face twitched. He hurried over to Suleiman, still suffering from last night's hangover, and asked in a low voice, "Suleiman, you're not planning to make us pay for this, are you?"
His voice trembled slightly, and he had to gasp for breath after every sentence.
"Do you know how many Gold Dragons a Tourney costs?"
"We could sell off all of House Lychester—and you and me along with it—and still not scrape together enough!"
The old man held up his fingers, counting them one by one, as though each one bore a thousand-pound burden.
"Fifty thousand Gold Dragons for the champion, thirty thousand for the runner-up, and that's just the jousting."
"The archery contest's champion gets another twenty thousand Gold Dragons."
"Then there's the melee... and all the other events...
"Add the construction, wine, feasts, and the cost of hosting nobles from all over the realm, and the total will easily exceed a hundred and fifty thousand Gold Dragons!"
The old man fell