Harrenhal's bedroom was vast and chilly. The shadow of the curse seemed to linger in everyone's heart. Even with the hearth burning, cold seeped from the cracks between the stones.
Robert Baratheon sat half-reclined in a chair, clutching a glass that was half-empty.
The world before him spun, and the hunting scenes on the tapestries twisted into a blur of color.
The door was silently opened by a white-cloaked Kingsguard.
A figure stood in the doorway, backlit by the corridor, his silhouette strikingly strong.
Robert Baratheon squinted, trying to make out who it was.
The man approached with steady steps, each one seeming to fall in time with the king's heartbeat.
It was Jon Arryn.
His gray hair was neatly combed, and his falcon pin was fastened to his chest.
Robert Baratheon abruptly sat up straight. The drink vanished from his mind, leaving only the headache of a hangover.
His voice held a note of surprise. "Old Arryn?"
"Why aren't you in King's Landing, guarding that damned Iron Throne for me?"
Jon Arryn paid no heed to the smell of wine in the room, nor did he look at the disheveled bed.
He pulled over a chair and sat opposite Robert Baratheon. His movements were unhurried, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable weight.
"The Iron Throne needs a king, Robert, not a keeper."
Robert Baratheon laughed, the sound echoing through the cavernous room. "Ha!"
"I'm the king. I won the war, and I took the throne."
"Now I want to have a few drinks and hold a tourney. What's wrong with that?"
Jon Arryn's eyes widened, his tone stern. "The war isn't over yet."
"Balon Greyjoy is still alive, and the Iron Islands are still there."
"You're holding a tourney here, summoning every knight and lord in the realm