Even Harrenhal's stone walls couldn't keep out the night chill. Flames roared in the hearth.
Robert Baratheon, Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn.
Once as close as father and sons, as brothers, at the Eyrie, the three were now a king, the Warden of the North, and the Hand of the King.
The joy of their reunion was like a cup of bad wine: harsh going down, with nothing but bitterness left in the aftertaste. That brief embrace and their hearty laughter had already been swept away by the heavy silence.
Jon Arryn's voice broke the silence, old but furious. "You praised him, Robert."
"You praised a Riverlands lord who publicly insulted your Hand."
"I'm the one holding this kingdom together for you. I'm the one balancing the factions and mending the wounds left by the war."
"And you stand against me."
His gaze left the king and swept over Eddard Stark, who sat silently to one side.
Eddard Stark gave a slight nod. "You shouldn't have done that, Robert."
Robert Baratheon snorted. His thick fingers gripped his goblet, and Eddard Stark's arrival brought him no comfort at all.
The northerner had barely set foot in Harrenhal before he started lecturing him, saying a king shouldn't waste his days drinking, feasting, and watching tourneys while neglecting the realm, and should bring the war in the Iron Islands to a swift end.
He wanted a brother, not another Hand.
Robert Baratheon's voice was edged with anger. "Ned! Do you know what I did for you? An assassin!"
He slammed a fist down on the oak table. The liquid in his goblet shivered, nearly spilling over.
"In Riverrun! In your father-in-law's castle! Someone tried to kill one of my loyal servants!"
The king's roar echoed through the room. He stared hard at Eddard Stark,