Night had fallen. The massive torches of Harrenhal were lit one by one, bathing the tourney grounds in a light as bright as day, yet casting shadows that danced and twisted in grotesque shapes.
The seven-sided team melee, held under the cover of darkness, was about to begin in an atmosphere thick with unease.
King Aerys II had arrived at the royal box. His presence always brought with it an invisible, suffocating weight. Tonight, he had specifically summoned the Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East, Jon Arryn, along with a host of key lords from the Vale, forcing them to gather near the throne to "enjoy" the upcoming spectacle together.
Aerys II lounged against the cold spikes of his high seat—a makeshift Iron Throne for the tourney—his eyes reflecting the torchlight with a sick, feverish anticipation.
Ordinary swordplay and severed limbs could amuse him, certainly. But the only thing that truly made him tremble with excitement, the only thing that could make the corners of his mouth twitch into an uncontrollable smile, was fire. He was obsessed with the way the orange-red demon devoured flesh; he was intoxicated by the high-pitched screams of victims being burned alive and their twisted, agonized expressions.
To him, that was the world's most moving symphony, its finest painting.
Lord Jon Arryn, summoned to the King's side, wore a face of stone. He was not here to share in the King's depraved hobbies. He was here because the elite team representing the Eyrie—the "Iron Falcon Guard"—was about to take the field. As their liege lord, he had to be present to oversee the battle and, more importantly, to uphold the honor and dignity of the Vale before this increasingly unpredictable monarch.
He sat upright, his gaze locked on the arena, though his thoughts were far heavier than the duel below.
---
While the killing shouts shook the heavens and the seven teams clashed amidst the firelight, a different sort of battle was unfolding on the high platform.
Euron exchanged a glance with King Corren. Their eyes swept over the abrupt gathering of Vale nobles and the King sitting in their midst. The plot that they had foreseen—scenes from the future—was likely about to play out right before their eyes.
Just as the slaughter in the arena reached its climax, the lazy voice of Aerys II slithered out like a venomous snake, striking precisely at Lord Jon Arryn beside him.
"Jon Arryn... I've just remembered. Why hasn't your lady wife, Rowena Arryn, accompanied you? It seems a pity to miss such a grand occasion."
Jon Arryn's face turned the color of iron, as if frosted over by winter itself. He suppressed his emotions and spoke in a low, heavy voice. "I thank Your Grace for the concern. My wife, Rowena, unfortunately passed away two years ago. A winter chill took her."
Lord Jon's first wife, Jeyne Royce, had died in the birthing bed along with their unborn daughter. His second, Rowena Arryn, had also left him without an heir before passing on.
Aerys II acted as if he were hearing this news for the very first time, dragging out his vowels. "Oh... how terribly unfortunate."
He tapped his fingers on the armrest, his tone shifting instantly. "So then... do you plan to take another wife?"
Lord Jon's knuckles were white, but he maintained a veneer of calm. "Your Grace, I have no such plans at the moment."
"If I remember correctly," Aerys twisted his matted beard, the firelight dancing in his eyes with a cruel amusement, "you were born in 218 AC. That makes you sixty-two? No, sixty-three. And yet, you still have no issue."
He paused, then raised his voice, letting it ring out like a proclamation to the nobles who had suddenly gone quiet.
"You are the Warden of the East! The Lord of the Eyrie! If you were to die, what would become of the Eyrie? What would become of the East?! The realm would plunge into chaos!"
In that moment, Jon Arryn felt all the blood in his body rush to his head. His clenched fists trembled violently inside his sleeves, nails digging deep into his palms. He could almost hear the sound of his own teeth grinding together.
How can there be such a monarch?! To ask a lord, in front of his own vassals, with a smile of mock "concern," what will happen to his lands when he dies!
Aerys seemed not to notice the icy rage in Jon Arryn's eyes—or perhaps he simply didn't care. He laughed, a harsh sound like the cawing of a crow, clearly and deliberately broadcasting his true intent to the entire box.
"The Kingdom needs stability, My Lord... You need an heir."
Jon Arryn's gaze locked onto the King like a falcon spotting prey. He remained silent, not answering immediately. The fury in his chest threatened to erupt, but his iron will held it down. He waited to see just how far this Mad King intended to trample the dignity of the Vale in this public spectacle.
Aerys seemed to take the silence for submission. He turned his head directly toward the Vale lords and shouted, "The Arryns of Gulltown! Esember Arryn, are you present?"
A middle-aged noble stood up from the Vale section, his face showing a mix of shock and poorly hidden anticipation. "Your Grace, I am here."
This was Esember Arryn, a member of a distant branch from Gulltown, his bloodline far removed from the main house and tainted by merchant marriages.
Aerys wore a smile that suggested he was bestowing a great favor. He turned to Jon Arryn, but spoke loud enough for the gallery to hear: "Look, the solution is right before your eyes. You can name Esember Arryn as your heir! He shares the blood of your house, and I hear his abilities are quite—"
"Your Grace!"
Jon Arryn could remain silent no longer. His voice was like cold steel, cutting the King off decisively. He stood up abruptly, his tall frame casting a defiant shadow in the firelight. He no longer bothered to hide the chill in his tone; every word was enunciated clearly, hitting the floor like a gauntlet.
"The affairs of the Vale, I will arrange myself. As for the heir to House Arryn..." He stared straight into the eyes of Aerys II. "That is not something the King needs to worry about."
---
For a split second, the royal box went deathly silent. Even the killing noises from the arena below seemed miles away. Every noble held their breath, looking in disbelief at the Warden of the East who had publicly defied the King.
Aerys II slammed his hand down, as if to sweep away all dissent. His voice rose to a shriek, filled with unquestionable tyranny.
"Compared to the stability of the Realm, what do your personal feelings matter?!"
He stared daggers at Jon Arryn, announcing each word with slow, deliberate malice:
"Until you produce a son—if a man of your age even can—Esember Arryn is your legal heir! This concerns the foundation of the state. It is not up for debate. It is decided!"
"You...!" Jon Arryn's chest heaved. That single word contained infinite shock and rage, but the status of subject choked the rest of the sentence in his throat.
Seeing him speechless, a flicker of cruel pleasure crossed Aerys's face. He let out a cold snort through his nose. "Hmph. Old fool. You dare contradict your King to his face?"
His gaze was a poisoned dagger, stabbing mercilessly at the Duke. "If not for the generations of service House Arryn has provided in guarding the East, and your own minor contributions, I would strip you of your titles right now and teach you the unpredictability of royal power!"
The atmosphere in the royal box dropped to absolute zero. This was no longer a discussion; it was naked humiliation and coercion.
Having said his piece, Aerys stood up abruptly. His crimson robes cut a sharp, arrogant arc in the firelight. He didn't spare Jon Arryn another glance, acting as if the tyrannical decree he had just issued was nothing more than dealing with a trivial annoyance. He led the silent, terrified members of the Small Council off the platform, leaving a wake of uproar and endless whispering behind him.
The King's departure broke the seal on the silence. The Vale lords exploded into chaos. Shock, whispers, resentment, calculation... a myriad of emotions spread through the crowd. Every eye involuntarily turned to the two figures who had become the center of the storm.
Lord Jon Arryn stood rigid, his chest rising and falling with suppressed fury. His eyes shot like ice blades toward Esember Arryn, not far away.
The look was sharp as a hawk's, piercing through Esember's slightly awkward yet undeniably ambitious exterior, staring straight into the soul of a man secretly rejoicing at the King's "grace." It was not the look of a liege lord regarding a distant nephew; it was the look of a Duke looking at a traitor—a potential usurper propped up by the Crown.
Under that gaze, Esember Arryn instinctively straightened his back, trying to maintain his composure. But the glint in his eyes betrayed him. It wasn't guilt. It was the anxiety and unwillingness of a man who sees a shortcut to the heavens suddenly blocked by a massive boulder.
In his eyes, the aging Lord Arryn was no longer just a patriarch; he was the stumbling block preventing him from ascending to power.
That brief, silent exchange between the two men wove a tapestry of unspoken declarations of war and future conflict.
---
Below the stands.
King Corren stared up at the farce that had ended so unhappily, sighing heavily. His deep voice carried a worry he no longer bothered to hide.
"I was half-skeptical about those prophecies regarding flames and fate... but now, it seems almost every scheme is coming to pass." He paused, his eyes dark. "Only the last event remains."
Euron's lips curled slightly. He showed no surprise, as if the world were dancing in the palm of his hand. "It's only a matter of two days now. What must happen, will happen."
King Corren nodded silently. The two spoke no more, tacitly turning their gaze back to the blazing arena below.
The seven-sided melee had reached its final stage.
In the center of the dust and blood, the Vale's "Iron Falcon Guard" was displaying terrifying combat prowess.
Forged by years of bloody skirmishes with the Mountain Clans, possessing iron wills, disciplined teamwork, and equipped with superior gilded armor and weapons, they swept aside their opponents and claimed victory.
Their leader, Ser Brynden "The Blackfish" Tully, raised his blood-stained sword high and let out a wild roar. The surviving Vale warriors raised their weapons in unison, saluting their liege lord on the stands—Jon Arryn, the Warden of the East—immersed in the pure glory and ecstasy of survival and triumph.
On the high platform, Lord Jon Arryn stood and waved back to the warriors who had won him this honor. He wore a smile appropriate for the occasion, yet it was stiff and forced.
What coiled in his heart was not the joy of victory, but the humiliation and coercion the King had just driven into his heart like a dagger.
The warriors down in the sand, cheering for their glory, did not know that while they fought for the honor of the Vale, the Lord they swore to die for was weathering a storm that threatened his very dignity and the succession of his House.