Meanwhile, deep within the Red Keep in King's Landing, a different kind of heavy, oppressive atmosphere hung over the Small Council chamber.
This chamber, a symbol of the highest authority in the Seven Kingdoms, possessed a luxury entirely unlike the gaudy splendor of Tyrosh. Here, grandeur carried a weight of dignity, steeped in the dust of history and the coldness of power.
An enormous Myrish carpet covered the floor, its patterns intricate and its colors rich. Soft and silent underfoot, it swallowed every stray sound.
In one corner stood a massive wooden screen from the Summer Isles. The exotic birds and beasts carved upon it seemed almost alive, their feathers and scales gleaming softly in the candlelight.
Expensive tapestries from Norvos, Qohor, and Lys covered the walls. Depicting the War of Conquest, legends of the gods, or elaborate geometric patterns, they hung in the dimness like silent witnesses.
Most breathtaking of all were the two Valyria Stone Sculptures flanking the heavy oak doors: sphinxes with lions' bodies and human faces.
Carved from marble as black as night, their flowing contours exuded strength. Only their rounded, blood-red eyes were different, each set with two enormous garnets that shone with a cold, merciless light beneath the chamber's flickering candles.
The seat at the head of the long table, reserved for the master of the Iron Throne, stood empty.
In place of the drunken king who preferred brothels and hunting grounds sat the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, now past seventy.
The years had carved deep furrows into his face, and exhaustion seemed almost to seep from his slightly stooped back.
Forcing himself to stay alert, he leafed through the mountain of documents on the table. Every one concerned the kingdom's crushing debts.
Seated around the long table