"Enough!!!"
An angry roar tore through the silence of the Council Chamber.
Jon Arryn's voice.
The air instantly froze; even the candle flames seemed to stop flickering.
The Hand's face was as hard as stone, his grizzled brows drawn tightly together. His clouded yet still sharp eyes were filled with undisguised fury.
He glared at Suleiman, each word seeming to be forced from between clenched teeth.
"Are you suggesting that the king, lord of the Seven Kingdoms, become the bookmaker of some street gambling den?"
His voice was not loud, yet it carried a piercing chill that made everyone present uncomfortable.
Jon Arryn's finger trembled as it pointed straight at Suleiman, like a lance of judgment.
"Chivalry is the foundation of the realm! The Tourney is a hall of honor, not some circus for people to wager on for amusement!"
"This would shame the nobility! It would turn a knight's glory into a colossal joke!"
Jon Arryn's voice suddenly rose, echoing through the vast hall.
"You are desecrating something sacred!"
"We must reconsider whether you are even qualified to be a knight!"
Suleiman stood quietly at the center of the storm.
The Hand's fury crashed toward him like a gale, yet it was no more than a breeze brushing his cheek, unable to stir him in the slightest.
In his view, Jon Arryn had no talent for governing at all. The primitive accumulation of any capital was inherently sinful, much less in a feudal society that devoured people whole.
In a feudal dynasty, it was impossible to count the population and land of one's vassals. Whether taxes were paid depended entirely on the whims and empty promises of local lords. Without relying on other sources of taxation, the dynasty's collapse would not be far off.
The old man would struggle