PROLOGUE
The comet’s tail spread across the dawn, a red slash that bled above the crags of Dragonstone like a wound in the pink and purple sky.
The maester stood on the windswept balcony outside his chambers. It was here the ravens came, after long flight. Their droppings speckled the gargoyles that rose twelve feet tall on either side of him, a hellhound and a wyvern, two of the thousand that brooded over the walls of the ancient fortress. When first he came to Dragonstone, the army of stone grotesques had made him uneasy, but as the years passed he had grown used to them. Now he thought of them as old friends. The three of them watched the sky together with foreboding.
The maester did not believe in omens. And yet . . . old as he was, Cressen had never seen a comet half so bright, nor yet that color, that terrible color, the color of blood and flame and sunsets. He wondered if his gargoyles had ever seen its like. They had been here so much longer than he had, and would still be here long after he was gone. If stone tongues could speak . . .
Such folly. He leaned against the battlement, the sea crashing beneath him, the black stone rough beneath his fingers. Talking gargoyles and prophecies in the sky. I am an old done man, grown giddy as a child again. Had a lifetime’s hard-won wisdom fled him along with his health and strength? He was a maester, trained and chained in the great Citadel of Oldtown. What had he come to, when superstition filled his head as if he were an ignorant fieldhand?
And yet . . . and yet . . . the comet burned even by day now, while pale grey steam rose from the hot vents of Dragonmont behind the castle, and yestermorn a white raven had brought word from the Citadel itself, word long-expected but no less fearful for all that, word of summer’s end. Omens, all. Too many to deny. What does it all mean? he wanted to cry.
“Maester Cressen, we have visitors.” Pylos spoke softly, as if loath to disturb Cressen’s solemn meditations. Had he known what drivel filled his head, he would have shouted. “The princess would see the white raven.” Ever correct, Pylos called her princess now, as her lord father was a king. King of a smoking rock in the great salt sea, yet a king nonetheless. “Her fool is with her.”
The old man turned away from the dawn, keeping a hand on his wyvern to steady himself. “Help me to my chair and show them in.”
Taking his arm, Pylos led him inside. In his youth, Cressen had walked briskly, but he was not far from his eightieth name day now, and his legs were frail and unsteady. Two years past, he had fallen and shattered a hip, and it had never mended properly. Last year when he took ill, the Citadel had sent Pylos out from Oldtown, mere days before Lord Stannis had closed the isle . . . to help him in his labors, it was said, but Cressen knew the truth. Pylos had come to replace him when he died. He did not mind. Someone must take his place, and sooner than he would like . . .
He let the younger man settle him behind his books and papers. “Go bring her. It is ill to keep a lady waiting.” He waved a hand, a feeble gesture of haste from a man no longer capable of hastening. His flesh was wrinkled and spotted, the skin so papery thin that he could see the web of veins and the shape of bones beneath. And how they trembled, these hands of his that had once been so sure and deft . . .
When Pylos returned the girl came with him, shy as ever. Behind her, shuffling and hopping in that queer sideways walk of his, came her fool. On his head was a mock helm fashioned from an old tin bucket, with a rack of deer antlers strapped to the crown and hung with cowbells. With his every lurching step, the bells rang, each with a different voice, clang-a-dang bong-dong ring-a-ling clong clong clong.
“Who comes to see us so early, Pylos?” Cressen said.
“It’s me and Patches, Maester.” Guileless blue eyes blinked at him. Hers was not a pretty face, alas. The child had her lord father’s square jut of jaw and her mother’s unfortunate ears, along with a disfigurement all her own, the legacy of the bout of greyscale that had almost claimed her in the crib. Across half one cheek and well down her neck, her flesh was stiff and dead, the skin cracked and flaking, mottled black and grey and stony to the touch. “Pylos said we might see the white raven.”
“Indeed you may,” Cressen answered. As if he would ever deny her. She had been denied too often in her time. Her name was Shireen. She would be ten on her next name day, and she was the saddest child that Maester Cressen had ever known. Her sadness is my shame, the old man thought, another mark of my failure. “Maester Pylos, do me a kindness and bring the bird down from the rookery for the Lady Shireen.” “It would be my pleasure.” Pylos was a polite youth, no more than five-and-twenty, yet solemn as a man of sixty. If only he had more humor, more life in him; that was what was needed here. Grim places needed lightening, not solemnity, and Dragonstone was grim beyond a doubt, a lonely citadel in the wet waste surrounded by storm and salt, with the smoking shadow of the mountain at its back. A maester must go where he is sent, so Cressen had come here with his lord some twelve years past, and he had served, and served well. Yet he had never loved Dragonstone, nor ever felt truly at home here. Of late, when he woke from restless dreams in which the red woman figured disturbingly, he often did not know where he was.
The fool turned his patched and piebald head to watch Pylos climb the steep iron steps to the rookery. His bells rang with the motion. “Under the sea, the birds have scales for feathers,” he said, clang-a-langing. “I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”
Even for a fool, Patchface was a sorry thing. Perhaps once he could evoke gales of laughter with a quip, but the sea had taken that power from him, along with half his wits and all his memory. He was soft and obese, subject to twitches and trembles, incoherent as often as not. The girl was the only one who laughed at him now, the only one who cared if he lived or died.
An ugly little girl and a sad fool, and maester makes three . . . now there is a tale to make men weep. “Sit with me, child.” Cressen beckoned her closer. “This is early to come calling, scarce past dawn. You should be snug in your bed.”
“I had bad dreams,” Shireen told him. “About the dragons. They were coming to eat me.”
The child had been plagued by nightmares as far back as Maester Cressen could recall. “We have talked of this before,” he said gently. “The dragons cannot come to life. They are carved of stone, child. In olden days, our island was the westernmost outpost of the great Freehold of Valyria. It was the Valyrians who raised this citadel, and they had ways of shaping stone since lost to us. A castle must have towers wherever two walls meet at an angle, for defense. The Valyrians fashioned these towers in the shape of dragons to make their fortress seem more fearsome, just as they crowned their walls with a thousand gargoyles instead of simple crenellations.” He took her small pink hand in his own frail spotted one and gave it a gentle squeeze. “So you see, there is nothing to fear.”
Shireen was unconvinced. “What about the thing in the sky? Dalla and Matrice were talking by the well, and Dalla said she heard the red woman tell Mother that it was dragonsbreath. If the dragons are breathing, doesn’t that mean they are coming to life?”
The red woman, Maester Cressen thought sourly. Ill enough that she’s filled the head of the mother with her madness, must she poison the daughter’s dreams as well? He would have a stern word with Dalla, warn her not to spread such tales. “The thing in the sky is a comet, sweet child. A star with a tail, lost in the heavens. It will be gone soon enough, never to be seen again in our lifetimes. Watch and see.”
Shireen gave a brave little nod. “Mother said the white raven means it’s not summer anymore.”
“That is so, my lady. The white ravens fly only from the Citadel.” Cressen’s fingers went to the chain about his neck, each link forged from a different metal, each symbolizing his mastery of another branch of learning; the maester’s collar, mark of his order. In the pride of his youth, he had worn it easily, but now it seemed heavy to him, the metal cold against his skin. “They are larger than other ravens, and more clever, bred to carry only the most important messages. This one came to tell us that the Conclave has met, considered the reports and measurements made by maesters all over the realm, and declared this great summer done at last. Ten years, two turns, and sixteen days it lasted, the longest summer in living memory.”
“Will it get cold now?” Shireen was a summer child, and had never known true cold.
“In time,” Cressen replied. “If the gods are good, they will grant us a warm autumn and bountiful harvests, so we might prepare for the winter to come.” The smallfolk said that a long summer meant an even longer winter, but the maester saw no reason to frighten the child with such tales.
Patchface rang his bells. “It is always summer under the sea,” he intoned. “The merwives wear nennymoans in their hair and weave gowns of silver seaweed. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”
Shireen giggled. “I should like a gown of silver seaweed.”
“Under the sea, it snows up,” said the fool, “and the rain is dry as bone. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”
“Will it truly snow?” the child asked.
“It will,” Cressen said. But not for years yet, I pray, and then not for long. “Ah, here is Pylos with the bird.”
Shireen gave a cry of delight. Even Cressen had to admit the bird made an impressive sight, white as snow and larger than any hawk, with the bright black eyes that meant it was no mere albino, but a truebred white raven of the Citadel. “Here,” he called. The raven spread its wings, leapt into the air, and flapped noisily across the room to land on the table beside him.
“I’ll see to your breakfast now,” Pylos announced. Cressen nodded. “This is the Lady Shireen,” he told the raven. The bird bobbed its pale head up and down, as if it were bowing. “Lady,” it croaked. “Lady.”
The child’s mouth gaped open. “It talks!”
“A few words. As I said, they are clever, these birds.”
“Clever bird, clever man, clever clever fool,” said Patchface, jangling. “Oh, clever clever clever fool.” He began to sing. “The shadows come to dance, my lord, dance my lord, dance my lord,” he sang, hopping from one foot to the other and back again. “The shadows come to stay, my lord, stay my lord, stay my lord.” He jerked his head with each word, the bells in his antlers sending up a clangor.
The white raven screamed and went flapping away to perch on the iron railing of the rookery stairs. Shireen seemed to grow smaller. “He sings that all the time. I told him to stop but he won’t. It makes me scared. Make him stop.”
And how do I do that? the old man wondered. Once I might have silenced him forever, but now . . . Patchface had come to them as a boy. Lord Steffon of cherished memory had found him in Volantis, across the narrow sea. The king—the old king, Aerys II Targaryen, who had not been quite so mad in those days, had sent his lordship to seek a bride for Prince Rhaegar, who had no sisters to wed. “We have found the most splendid fool,” he wrote Cressen, a fortnight before he was to return home from his fruitless mission. “Only a boy, yet nimble as a monkey and witty as a dozen courtiers. He juggles and riddles and does magic, and he can sing prettily in four tongues. We have bought his freedom and hope to bring him home with us. Robert will be delighted with him, and perhaps in time he will even teach Stannis how to laugh.”
It saddened Cressen to remember that letter. No one had ever taught Stannis how to laugh, least of all the boy Patchface. The storm came up suddenly, howling, and Shipbreaker Bay proved the truth of its name. The lord’s two-masted galley Windproud broke up within sight of his castle. From its parapets his two eldest sons had watched as their father’s ship was smashed against the rocks and swallowed by the waters. A hundred oarsmen and sailors went down with Lord Steffon Baratheon and his lady wife, and for days thereafter every tide left a fresh crop of swollen corpses on the strand below Storm’s End.
The boy washed up on the third day. Maester Cressen had come down with the rest, to help put names to the dead. When they found the fool he was naked, his skin white and wrinkled and powdered with wet sand. Cressen had thought him another corpse, but when Jommy grabbed his ankles to drag him off to the burial wagon, the boy coughed water and sat up. To his dying day, Jommy had sworn that Patchface’s flesh was clammy cold.
No one ever explained those two days the fool had been lost in the sea. The fisherfolk liked to say a mermaid had taught him to breathe water in return for his seed. Patchface himself had said nothing. The witty, clever lad that Lord Steffon had written of never reached Storm’s End; the boy they found was someone else, broken in body and mind, hardly capable of speech, much less of wit. Yet his fool’s face left no doubt of who he was. It was the fashion in the Free City of Volantis to tattoo the faces of slaves and servants; from neck to scalp the boy’s skin had been patterned in squares of red and green motley.
“The wretch is mad, and in pain, and no use to anyone, least of all himself,” declared old Ser Harbert, the castellan of Storm’s End in those years. “The kindest thing you could do for that one is fill his cup with the milk of the poppy. A painless sleep, and there’s an end to it. He’d bless you if he had the wit for it.” But Cressen had refused, and in the end he had won. Whether Patchface had gotten any joy of that victory he could not say, not even today, so many years later.
“The shadows come to dance, my lord, dance my lord, dance my lord,” the fool sang on, swinging his head and making his bells clang and clatter. Bong dong, ring-a-ling, bong dong.
“Lord,” the white raven shrieked. “Lord, lord, lord.”
“A fool sings what he will,” the maester told his anxious princess. “You must not take his words to heart. On the morrow he may remember another song, and this one will never be heard again.” He can sing prettily in four tongues, Lord Steffon had written . . .
Pylos strode through the door. “Maester, pardons.”
“You have forgotten the porridge,” Cressen said, amused. That was most unlike Pylos.
“Maester, Ser Davos returned last night. They were talking of it in the kitchen. I thought you would want to know at once.”
“Davos . . . last night, you say? Where is he?”
“With the king. They have been together most of the night.”
There was a time when Lord Stannis would have woken him, no matter the hour, to have him there to give his counsel. “I should have been told,” Cressen complained. “I should have been woken.” He disentangled his fingers from Shireen’s. “Pardons, my lady, but I must speak with your lord father. Pylos, give me your arm. There are too many steps in this castle, and it seems to me they add a few every night, just to vex me.
Shireen and Patchface followed them out, but the child soon grew restless with the old man’s creeping pace and dashed ahead, the fool lurching after her with his cowbells clanging madly.
Castles are not friendly places for the frail, Cressen was reminded as he descended the turnpike stairs of Sea Dragon Tower. Lord Stannis would be found in the Chamber of the Painted Table, atop the Stone Drum, Dragonstone’s central keep, so named for the way its ancient walls boomed and rumbled during storms. To reach him they must cross the gallery, pass through the middle and inner walls with their guardian gargoyles and black iron gates, and ascend more steps than Cressen cared to contemplate. Young men climbed steps two at a time; for old men with bad hips, every one was a torment. But Lord Stannis would not think to come to him, so the maester resigned himself to the ordeal. He had Pylos to help him, at the least, and for that he was grateful.
Shuffling along the gallery, they passed before a row of tall arched windows with commanding views of the outer bailey, the curtain wall, and the fishing village beyond. In the yard, archers were firing at practice butts to the call of “Notch, draw, loose.” Their arrows made a sound like a flock of birds taking wing. Guardsmen strode the wallwalks, peering between the gargoyles on the host camped without. The morning air was hazy with the smoke of cookfires, as three thousand men sat down to break their fasts beneath the banners of their lords. Past the sprawl of the camp, the anchorage was crowded with ships. No craft that had come within sight of Dragonstone this past half year had been allowed to leave again. Lord Stannis’s Fury, a triple-decked war galley of three hundred oars, looked almost small beside some of the big-bellied carracks and cogs that surrounded her.
The guardsmen outside the Stone Drum knew the maesters by sight, and passed them through. “Wait here,” Cressen told Pylos, within. “It’s best I see him alone.”
“It is a long climb, Maester.”
Cressen smiled. “You think I have forgotten? I have climbed these steps so often I know each one by name.”
Halfway up, he regretted his decision. He had stopped to catch his breath and ease the pain in his hip when he heard the scuff of boots on stone, and came face-to-face with Ser Davos Seaworth, descending.
Davos was a slight man, his low birth written plain upon a common face. A well-worn green cloak, stained by salt and spray and faded from the sun, draped his thin shoulders, over brown doublet and breeches that matched brown eyes and hair. About his neck a pouch of worn leather hung from a thong. His small beard was well peppered with grey, and he wore a leather glove on his maimed left hand. When he saw Cressen, he checked his descent.
“Ser Davos,” the maester said. “When did you return?”
“In the black of morning. My favorite time.” It was said that no one had ever handled a ship by night half so well as Davos Shorthand. Before Lord Stannis had knighted him, he had been the most notorious and elusive smuggler in all the Seven Kingdoms.
“And?”
The man shook his head. “It is as you warned him. They will not rise, Maester. Not for him. They do not love him.”
No, Cressen thought. Nor will they ever. He is strong, able, just . . . aye, just past the point of wisdom . . . yet it is not enough. It has never been enough. “You spoke to them all?”
“All? No. Only those that would see me. They do not love me either, these highborns. To them I’ll always be the Onion Knight.” His left hand closed, stubby fingers locking into a fist; Stannis had hacked the ends off at the last joint, all but the thumb. “I broke bread with Gulian Swann and old Penrose, and the Tarths consented to a midnight meeting in a grove. The others—well, Beric Dondarrion is gone missing, some say dead, and Lord Caron is with Renly. Bryce the Orange, of the Rainbow Guard.”
“The Rainbow Guard?”
“Renly’s made his own Kingsguard,” the onetime smuggler explained, “but these seven don’t wear white. Each one has his own color. Loras Tyrell’s their Lord Commander.”
It was just the sort of notion that would appeal to Renly Baratheon; a splendid new order of knighthood, with gorgeous new raiment to proclaim it. Even as a boy, Renly had loved bright colors and rich fabrics, and he had loved his games as well. “Look at me!” he would shout as he ran laughing through the halls of Storm’s End. “Look at me, I’m a dragon,” or “Look at me, I’m a wizard,” or “Look at me, look at me, I’m the rain god.”
The bold little boy with wild black hair and laughing eyes was a man grown now, one-and-twenty, and still he played his games. Look at me, I’m a king, Cressen thought sadly. Oh, Renly, Renly, dear sweet child, do you know what you are doing? And would you care if you did? Is there anyone who cares for him but me? “What reasons did the lords give for their refusals?” he asked Ser Davos.
“Well, as to that, some gave me soft words and some blunt, some made excuses, some promises, some only lied.” He shrugged. “In the end words are just wind.”
“You could bring him no hope?”
“Only the false sort, and I’d not do that,” Davos said. “He had the truth from me.”
Maester Cressen remembered the day Davos had been knighted, after the siege of Storm’s End. Lord Stannis and a small garrison had held the castle for close to a year, against the great host of the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne. Even the sea was closed against them, watched day and night by Redwyne galleys flying the burgundy banners of the Arbor. Within Storm’s End, the horses had long since been eaten, the dogs and cats were gone, and the garrison was down to roots and rats. Then came a night when the moon was new and black clouds hid the stars. Cloaked in that darkness, Davos the smuggler had dared the Redwyne cordon and the rocks of Shipbreaker Bay alike. His little ship had a black hull, black sails, black oars, and a hold crammed with onions and salt fish. Little enough, yet it had kept the garrison alive long enough for Eddard Stark to reach Storm’s End and break the siege.
Lord Stannis had rewarded Davos with choice lands on Cape Wrath, a small keep, and a knight’s honors . . . but he had also decreed that he lose a joint of each finger on his left hand, to pay for all his years of smuggling. Davos had submitted, on the condition that Stannis wield the knife himself; he would accept no punishment from lesser hands. The lord had used a butcher’s cleaver, the better to cut clean and true. Afterward, Davos had chosen the name Seaworth for his new-made house, and he took for his banner a black ship on a pale grey field-with an onion on its sails. The onetime smuggler was fond of saying that Lord Stannis had done him a boon, by giving him four less fingernails to clean and trim.
No, Cressen thought, a man like that would give no false hope, nor soften a hard truth. “Ser Davos, truth can be a bitter draught, even for a man like Lord Stannis. He thinks only of returning to King’s Landing in the fullness of his power, to tear down his enemies and claim what is rightfully his. Yet now . . .”
“if he takes this meager host to King’s Landing, it will be only to die. He does not have the numbers. I told him as much, but you know his pride.” Davos held up his gloved hand. “My fingers will grow back before that man bends to sense.”
The old man sighed. “You have done all you could. Now I must add my voice to yours.” Wearily, he resumed his climb.
Lord Stannis Baratheon’s refuge was a great round room with walls of bare black stone and four tall narrow windows that looked out to the four points of the compass. In the center of the chamber was the great table from which it took its name, a massive slab of carved wood fashioned at the command of Aegon Targaryen in the days before the Conquest. The Painted Table was more than fifty feet long, perhaps half that wide at its widest point, but less than four feet across at its narrowest. Aegon’s carpenters had shaped it after the land of Westeros, sawing out each bay and peninsula until the table nowhere ran straight. On its surface, darkened by near three hundred years of varnish, were painted the Seven Kingdoms as they had been in Aegon’s day; rivers and mountains, castles and cities, lakes and forests.
There was a single chair in the room, carefully positioned in the precise place that Dragonstone occupied off the coast of Westeros, and raised up to give a good view of the tabletop. Seated in the chair was a man in a tight-laced leather jerkin and breeches of roughspun brown wool. When Maester Cressen entered, he glanced up. “I knew you would come, old man, whether I summoned you or no.” There was no hint of warmth in his voice; there seldom was.
Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and by the grace of the gods rightful heir to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, was broad of shoulder and sinewy of limb, with a tightness to his face and flesh that spoke of leather cured in the sun until it was as tough as steel. Hard was the word men used when they spoke of Stannis, and hard he was. Though he was not yet five-and-thirty, only a fringe of thin black hair remained on his head, circling behind his ears like the shadow of a crown. His brother, the late King Robert, had grown a beard in his final years. Maester Cressen had never seen it, but they said it was a wild thing, thick and fierce. As if in answer, Stannis kept his own whiskers cropped tight and short. They lay like a blue-black shadow across his square jaw and the bony hollows of his cheeks. His eyes were open wounds beneath his heavy brows, a blue as dark as the sea by night. His mouth would have given despair to even the drollest of fools; it was a mouth made for frowns and scowls and sharply worded commands, all thin pale lips and clenched muscles, a mouth that had forgotten how to smile and had never known how to laugh. Sometimes when the world grew very still and silent of a night, Maester Cressen fancied he could hear Lord Stannis grinding his teeth half a castle away.
“Once you would have woken me,” the old man said.
“Once you were young. Now you are old and sick, and need your sleep.” Stannis had never learned to soften his speech, to dissemble or flatter; he said what he thought, and those that did not like it could be damned. “I knew you’d learn what Davos had to say soon enough. You always do, don’t you?”
“I would be of no help to you if I did not,” Cressen said. “I met Davos on the stair.”
“And he told all, I suppose? I should have had the man’s tongue shortened along with his fingers.”
“He would have made you a poor envoy then.”
“He made me a poor envoy in any case. The storm lords will not rise for me. It seems they do not like me, and the justice of my cause means nothing to them. The cravenly ones will sit behind their walls waiting to see how the wind rises and who is likely to triumph. The bold ones have already declared for Renly. For Renly!” He spat out the name like poison on his tongue.
“Your brother has been the Lord of Storm’s End these past thirteen years. These lords are his sworn bannermen—”
“His,” Stannis broke in, “when by rights they should be mine. I never asked for Dragonstone. I never wanted it. I took it because Robert’s enemies were here and he commanded me to root them out. I built his fleet and did his work, dutiful as a younger brother should be to an elder, as Renly should be to me. And what was Robert’s thanks? He names me Lord of Dragonstone, and gives Storm’s End and its incomes to Renly. Storm’s End belonged to House Baratheon for three hundred years; by rights it should have passed to me when Robert took the Iron Throne.”
It was an old grievance, deeply felt, and never more so than now. Here was the heart of his lord’s weakness; for Dragonstone, old and strong though it was, commanded the allegiance of only a handful of lesser lords, whose stony island holdings were too thinly peopled to yield up the men that Stannis needed. Even with the sellswords he had brought across the narrow sea from the Free Cities of Myr and Lys, the host camped outside his walls was far too small to bring down the power of House Lannister.
“Robert did you an injustice,” Maester Cressen replied carefully, “yet he had sound reasons. Dragonstone had long been the seat of House Targaryen. He needed a man’s strength to rule here, and Renly was but a child.”
“He is a child still,” Stannis declared, his anger ringing loud in the empty hall, “a thieving child who thinks to snatch the crown off my brow. What has Renly ever done to earn a throne? He sits in council and jests with Littlefinger, and at tourneys he dons his splendid suit of armor and allows himself to be knocked off his horse by a better man. That is the sum of my brother Renly, who thinks he ought to be a king. I ask you, why did the gods inflict me with brothers?”
“I cannot answer for the gods.”
“You seldom answer at all these days, it seems to me. Who maesters for Renly? Perchance I should send for him, I might like his counsel better. What do you think this maester said when my brother decided to steal my crown? What counsel did your colleague offer to this traitor blood of mine?”
“It would surprise me if Lord Renly sought counsel, Your Grace.” The youngest of Lord Steffon’s three sons had grown into a man bold but heedless, who acted from impulse rather than calculation. In that, as in so much else, Renly was like his brother Robert, and utterly unlike Stannis.
“Your Grace,” Stannis repeated bitterly. “You mock me with a king’s style, yet what am I king of? Dragonstone and a few rocks in the narrow sea, there is my kingdom.” He descended the steps of his chair to stand before the table, his shadow falling across the mouth of the Blackwater Rush and the painted forest where King’s Landing now stood. There he stood, brooding over the realm he sought to claim, so near at hand and yet so far away. “Tonight I am to sup with my lords bannermen, such as they are. Celtigar, Velaryon, Bar Emmon, the whole paltry lot of them. A poor crop, if truth be told, but they are what my brothers have left me. That Lysene pirate Salladhor Saan will be there with the latest tally of what I owe him, and Morosh the Myrman will caution me with talk of tides and autumn gales, while Lord Sunglass mutters piously of the will of the Seven. Celtigar will want to know which storm lords are joining us. Velaryon will threaten to take his levies home unless we strike at once. What am I to tell them? What must I do now?”
“Your true enemies are the Lannisters, my lord,” Maester Cressen answered. “If you and your brother were to make common cause against them—”
“I will not treat with Renly,” Stannis answered in a tone that brooked no argument. “Not while he calls himself a king.”
“Not Renly, then,” the maester yielded. His lord was stubborn and proud; when he had set his mind, there was no changing it. “Others might serve your needs as well. Eddard Stark’s son has been proclaimed King in the North, with all the power of Winterfell and Riverrun behind him.”
“A green boy,” said Stannis, “and another false king. Am I to accept a broken realm?”
“Surely half a kingdom is better than none,” Cressen said, “and if you help the boy avenge his father’s murder—”
“Why should I avenge Eddard Stark? The man was nothing to me. Oh, Robert loved him, to be sure. Loved him as a brother, how often did I hear that? I was his brother, not Ned Stark, but you would never have known it by the way he treated me. I held Storm’s End for him, watching good men starve while Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne feasted within sight of my walls. Did Robert thank me? No. He thanked Stark, for lifting the siege when we were down to rats and radishes. I built a fleet at Robert’s command, took Dragonstone in his name. Did he take my hand and say, Well done, brother, whatever should I do without you? No, he blamed me for letting Willem Darry steal away Viserys and the babe, as if I could have stopped it. I sat on his council for fifteen years, helping Jon Arryn rule his realm while Robert drank and whored, but when Jon died, did my brother name me his Hand? No, he went galloping off to his dear friend Ned Stark, and offered him the honor. And small good it did either of them.”
“Be that as it may, my lord,” Maester Cressen said gently. “Great wrongs have been done you, but the past is dust. The future may yet be won if you join with the Starks. There are others you might sound out as well. What of Lady Arryn? If the queen murdered her husband, surely she will want justice for him. She has a young son, Jon Arryn’s heir. If you were to betroth Shireen to him—”
“The boy is weak and sickly,” Lord Stannis objected. “Even his father saw how it was, when he asked me to foster him on Dragonstone. Service as a page might have done him good, but that damnable Lannister woman had Lord Arryn poisoned before it could be done, and now Lysa hides him in the Eyrie. She’ll never part with the boy, I promise you that.”
“Then you must send Shireen to the Eyrie,” the maester urged. “Dragonstone is a grim home for a child. Let her fool go with her, so she will have a familiar face about her.”
“Familiar and hideous.” Stannis furrowed his brow in thought. “Still . . . perhaps it is worth the trying . . .
“Must the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms beg for help from widow women and usurpers?” a woman’s voice asked sharply.
Maester Cressen turned and bowed his head. “My lady,” he said, chagrined that he had not heard her enter.
Lord Stannis scowled. “I do not beg. Of anyone. Mind you remember that, woman.”
“I am pleased to hear it, my lord.” Lady Selyse was as tall as her husband, thin of body and thin of face, with prominent ears, a sharp nose, and the faintest hint of a mustache on her upper lip. She plucked it daily and cursed it regularly, yet it never failed to return. Her eyes were pale, her mouth stern, her voice a whip. She cracked it now. “Lady Arryn owes you her allegiance, as do the Starks, your brother Renly, and all the rest. You are their one true king. It would not be fitting to plead and bargain with them for what is rightfully yours by the grace of god.”
God, she said, not gods. The red woman had won her, heart and soul, turning her from the gods of the Seven Kingdoms, both old and new, to worship the one they called the Lord of Light.
“Your god can keep his grace,” said Lord Stannis, who did not share his wife’s fervent new faith. “It’s swords I need, not blessings. Do you have an army hidden somewhere that you’ve not told me of?” There was no affection in his tone. Stannis had always been uncomfortable around women, even his own wife. When he had gone to King’s Landing to sit on Robert’s council, he had left Selyse on Dragonstone with their daughter. His letters had been few, his visits fewer; he did his duty in the marriage bed once or twice a year, but took no joy in it, and the sons he had once hoped for had never come.
“My brothers and uncles and cousins have armies,” she told him. “House Florent will rally to your banner.”
“House Florent can field two thousand swords at best.” It was said that Stannis knew the strength of every house in the Seven Kingdoms. “And you have a deal more faith in your brothers and uncles than I do, my lady. The Florent lands lie too close to Highgarden for your lord uncle to risk Mace Tyrell’s wrath.”
“There is another way.” Lady Selyse moved closer. “Look out your windows, my lord. There is the sign you have waited for, blazoned on the sky. Red, it is, the red of flame, red for the fiery heart of the true god. It is his banner—and yours! See how it unfurls across the heavens like a dragon’s hot breath, and you the Lord of Dragonstone. It means your time has come, Your Grace. Nothing is more certain. You are meant to sail from this desolate rock as Aegon the Conqueror once sailed, to sweep all before you as he did. Only say the word, and embrace the power of the Lord of Light.”
“How many swords will the Lord of Light put into my hand?” Stannis demanded again.
“All you need,” his wife promised, “The swords of Storm’s End and Highgarden for a start, and all their lords bannermen.”
“Davos would tell you different,” Stannis said. “Those swords are sworn to Renly. They love my charming young brother, as they once loved Robert . . . and as they have never loved me.”
“Yes,” she answered, “but if Renly should die . . .”
Stannis looked at his lady with narrowed eyes, until Cressen could not hold his tongue. “it is not to be thought. Your Grace, whatever follies Renly has committed—”
“Follies? I call them treasons.” Stannis turned back to his wife. “My brother is young and strong, and he has a vast host around him, and these rainbow knights of his.”
“Melisandre has gazed into the flames, and seen him dead.”
Cressen was horrorstruck. “Fratricide . . . my lord, this is evil, unthinkable . . . please, listen to me.”
Lady Selyse gave him a measured look. “And what will you tell him, Maester? How he might win half a kingdom if he goes to the Starks on his knees and sells our daughter to Lysa Arryn?”
“I have heard your counsel, Cressen,” Lord Stannis said. “Now I will hear hers. You are dismissed.”
Maester Cressen bent a stiff knee. He could feel Lady Selyse’s eyes on his back as he shuffled slowly across the room. By the time he reached the bottom of the steps it was all he could do to stand erect. “Help me,” he said to Pylos.
When he was safe back in his own rooms, Cressen sent the younger man away and limped to his balcony once more, to stand between his gargoyles and stare out to sea. One of Salladhor Saan’s warships was sweeping past the castle, her gaily striped hull slicing through the greygreen waters as her oars rose and fell. He watched until she vanished behind a headland. Would that my fears could vanish so easily. Had he lived so long for this?
When a maester donned his collar, he put aside the hope of children, yet Cressen had oft felt a father nonetheless. Robert, Stannis, Renly . . . three sons he had raised after the angry sea claimed Lord Steffon. Had he done so ill that now he must watch one kill the other? He could not allow it, would not allow it.
The woman was the heart of it. Not the Lady Selyse, the other one. The red woman, the servants had named her, afraid to speak her name. “I will speak her name,” Cressen told his stone hellhound. “Melisandre. Her.” Melisandre of Asshai, sorceress, shadowbinder, and priestess to R’hllor, the Lord of Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow. Melisandre, whose madness must not be allowed to spread beyond Dragonstone.
His chambers seemed dim and gloomy after the brightness of the morning. With fumbling hands, the old man lit a candle and carried it to the workroom beneath the rookery stair, where his ointments, potions, and medicines stood neatly on their shelves. On the bottom shelf behind a row of salves in squat clay jars he found a vial of indigo glass, no larger than his little finger. It rattled when he shook it. Cressen blew away a layer of dust and carried it back to his table. Collapsing into his chair, he pulled the stopper and spilled out the vial’s contents. A dozen crystals, no larger than seeds, rattled across the parchment he’d been reading. They shone like jewels in the candlelight, so purple that the maester found himself thinking that he had never truly seen the color before.
The chain around his throat felt very heavy. He touched one of the crystals lightly with the tip of his little finger. Such a small thing to hold the power of life and death. It was made from a certain plant that grew only on the islands of the Jade Sea, half a world away. The leaves had to be aged, and soaked in a wash of limes and sugar water and certain rare spices from the Summer Isles. Afterward they could be discarded, but the potion must be thickened with ash and allowed to crystallize. The process was slow and difficult, the necessaries costly and hard to acquire. The alchemists of Lys knew the way of it, though, and the Faceless Men of Braavos . . . and the maesters of his order as well, though it was not something talked about beyond the walls of the Citadel. All the world knew that a maester forged his silver link when he learned the art of healing—but the world preferred to forget that men who knew how to heal also knew how to kill.
Cressen no longer recalled the name the Asshai’i gave the leaf, or the Lysene poisoners the crystal. In the Citadel, it was simply called the strangler. Dissolved in wine, it would make the muscles of a man’s throat clench tighter than any fist, shutting off his windpipe. They said a victim’s face turned as purple as the little crystal seed from which his death was grown, but so too did a man choking on a morsel of food. And this very night Lord Stannis would feast his bannermen, his lady wife . . . and the red woman, Melisandre of Asshai.
I must rest, Maester Cressen told himself. I must have all my strength come dark. My hands must not shake, nor my courage flag. It is a dreadful thing I do, yet it must be done. If there are gods, surely they will forgive me. He had slept so poorly of late. A nap would refresh him for the ordeal ahead. Wearily, he tottered off to his bed. Yet when he closed his eyes, he could still see the light of the comet, red and fiery and vividly alive amidst the darkness of his dreams. Perhaps it is my comet, he thought drowsily at the last, just before sleep took him. An omen of blood, foretelling murder . . . yes . . .
When he woke it was full dark, his bedchamber was black, and every joint in his body ached. Cressen pushed himself up, his head throbbing. Clutching for his cane, he rose unsteady to his feet. So late, he thought. They did not summon me. He was always summoned for feasts, seated near the salt, close to Lord Stannis. His lord’s face swam up before him, not the man he was but the boy he had been, standing cold in the shadows while the sun shone on his elder brother. Whatever he did, Robert had done first, and better. Poor boy . . . he must hurry, for his sake.
The maester found the crystals where he had left them, and scooped them off the parchment. Cressen owned no hollow rings, such as the poisoners of Lys were said to favor, but a myriad of pockets great and small were sewn inside the loose sleeves of his robe. He secreted the strangler seeds in one of them, threw open his door, and called, “Pylos? Where are you?” When he heard no reply, he called again, louder. “Pylos, I need help.” Still there came no answer. That was queer; the young maester had his cell only a half turn down the stair, within easy earshot.
In the end, Cressen had to shout for the servants. “Make haste,” he told them. “I have slept too long. They will be feasting by now . . . drinking . . . I should have been woken.” What had happened to Maester Pylos? Truly, he did not understand.
Again he had to cross the long gallery. A night wind whispered through the great windows, sharp with the smell of the sea. Torches flickered along the walls of Dragonstone, and in the camp beyond, he could see hundreds of cookfires burning, as if a field of stars had fallen to the earth. Above, the comet blazed red and malevolent. I am too old and wise to fear such things, the maester told himself.
The doors to the Great Hall were set in the mouth of a stone dragon. He told the servants to leave him outside. It would be better to enter alone; he must not appear feeble. Leaning heavily on his cane, Cressen climbed the last few steps and hobbled beneath the gateway teeth. A pair of guardsmen opened the heavy red doors before him, unleashing a sudden blast of noise and light. Cressen stepped down into the dragon’s maw. Over the clatter of knife and plate and the low mutter of table talk, he heard Patchface singing, “. . . dance, my lord, dance my lord,” to the accompaniment of jangling cowbells. The same dreadful song he’d sung this morning. “The shadows come to stay, my lord, stay my lord, stay my lord.” The lower tables were crowded with knights, archers, and sellsword captains, tearing apart loaves of black bread to soak in their fish stew. Here there was no loud laughter, no raucous shouting such as marred the dignity of other men’s feasts; Lord Stannis did not permit such.
Cressen made his way toward the raised platform where the lords sat with the king. He had to step wide around Patchface. Dancing, his bells ringing, the fool neither saw nor heard his approach. As he hopped from one leg to the other, Patchface lurched into Cressen, knocking his cane out from under him. They went crashing down together amidst the rushes in a tangle of arms and legs, while a sudden gale of laughter went up around them. No doubt it was a comical sight.
Patchface sprawled half on top of him, motley fool’s face pressed close to his own. He had lost his tin helm with its antlers and bells. “Under the sea, you fall up,” he declared. “I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.” Giggling, the fool rolled off, bounded to his feet, and did a little dance.
Trying to make the best of it, the maester smiled feebly and struggled to rise, but his hip was in such pain that for a moment he was half afraid that he had broken it all over again. He felt strong hands grasp him under the arms and lift him back to his feet. “Thank you, ser,” he murmured, turning to see which knight had come to his aid . . .
“Maester,” said Lady Melisandre, her deep voice flavored with the music of the jade Sea. “You ought take more care.” As ever, she wore red head to heel, a long loose gown of flowing silk as bright as fire, with dagged sleeves and deep slashes in the bodice that showed glimpses of a darker bloodred fabric beneath. Around her throat was a red gold choker tighter than any maester’s chain, ornamented with a single great ruby.
Her hair was not the orange or strawberry color of common red-haired men, but a deep burnished copper that shone in the light of the torches. Even her eyes were red . . . but her skin was smooth and white, unblemished, pale as cream. Slender she was, graceful, taller than most knights, with full breasts and narrow waist and a heart-shaped face. Men’s eyes that once found her did not quickly look away, not even a maester’s eyes. Many called her beautiful. She was not beautiful. She was red, and terrible, and red.
“I . . . thank you, my lady.”
“A man your age must look to where he steps,” Melisandre said courteously. “The night is dark and full of terrors.”
He knew the phrase, some prayer of her faith. It makes no matter, I have a faith of my own. “Only children fear the dark,” he told her. Yet even as he said the words, he heard Patchface take up his song again. “The shadows come to dance, my lord, dance my lord, dance my lord.”
“Now here is a riddle,” Melisandre said. “A clever fool and a foolish wise man.” Bending, she picked up Patchface’s helm from where it had fallen and set it on Cressen’s head. The cowbells rang softly as the tin bucket slid down over his ears. “A crown to match your chain, Lord Maester,” she announced. All around them, men were laughing.
Cressen pressed his lips together and fought to still his rage. She thought he was feeble and helpless, but she would learn otherwise before the night was done. Old he might be, yet he was still a maester of the Citadel. “I need no crown but truth,” he told her, removing the fool’s helm from his head.
“There are truths in this world that are not taught at Oldtown.” Melisandre turned from him in a swirl of red silk and made her way back to the high table, where King Stannis and his queen were seated. Cressen handed the antlered tin bucket back to Patchface, and made to follow.
Maester Pylos sat in his place. The old man could only stop and stare. “Maester Pylos,” he said at last. “You . . . you did not wake me.”
“His Grace commanded me to let you rest.” Pylos had at least the grace to blush. “He told me you were not needed here.”
Cressen looked over the knights and captains and lords sitting silent. Lord Celtigar, aged and sour, wore a mantle patterned with red crabs picked out in garnets. Handsome Lord Velaryon chose sea-green silk, the white gold seahorse at his throat matching his long fair hair. Lord Bar Emmon, that plump boy of fourteen, was swathed in purple velvet trimmed with white seal, Ser Axell Florent remained homely even in russet and fox fur, pious Lord Sunglass wore moonstones at throat and wrist and finger, and the Lysene captain Salladhor Saan was a sunburst of scarlet satin, gold, and jewels. Only Ser Davos dressed simply, in brown doublet and green wool mantle, and only Ser Davos met his gaze, with pity in his eyes.
“You are too ill and too confused to be of use to me, old man.” It sounded so like Lord Stannis’s voice, but it could not be, it could not. “Pylos will counsel me henceforth. Already he works with the ravens, since you can no longer climb to the rookery. I will not have you kill yourself in my service.”
Maester Cressen blinked. Stannis, my lord, my sad sullen boy, son I never had, you must not do this, don’t you know how I have cared for you, lived for you, loved you despite all? Yes, loved you, better than Robert even, or Renly, for you were the one unloved, the one who needed me most. Yet all he said was, “As you command, my lord, but . . . but I am hungry. Might not I have a place at your table?” At your side, I belong at your side . . .
Ser Davos rose from the bench. “I should be honored if the maester would sit here beside me, Your Grace.”
“As you will.” Lord Stannis turned away to say something to Melisandre, who had seated herself at his right hand, in the place of high honor. Lady Selyse was on his left, flashing a smile as bright and brittle as her jewels.
Too far, Cressen thought dully, looking at where Ser Davos was seated. Half of the lords bannermen were between the smuggler and the high table. I must be closer to her if I am to get the strangler into her cup, yet how?
Patchface was capering about as the maester made his slow way around the table to Davos Seaworth. “Here we eat fish,” the fool declared happily, waving a cod about like a scepter. “Under the sea, the fish eat us. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”
Ser Davos moved aside to make room on the bench. “We all should be in motley tonight,” he said gloomily as Cressen seated himself, “for this is fool’s business we’re about. The red woman has seen victory in her flames, so Stannis means to press his claim, no matter what the numbers. Before she’s done we’re all like to see what Patchface saw, I fear the bottom of the sea.”
Cressen slid his hands up into his sleeves as if for warmth. His fingers found the hard lumps the crystals made in the wool. “Lord Stannis.”
Stannis turned from the red woman, but it was Lady Selyse who replied. “King Stannis. You forget yourself, Maester.”
“He is old, his mind wanders,” the king told her gruffly. “What is it, Cressen? Speak your mind.”
“As you intend to sail, it is vital that you make common cause with Lord Stark and Lady Arryn . . .
“I make common cause with no one,” Stannis Baratheon said.
“No more than light makes common cause with darkness.” Lady Selyse took his hand.
Stannis nodded. “The Starks seek to steal half my kingdom, even as the Lannisters have stolen my throne and my own sweet brother the swords and service and strongholds that are mine by rights. They are all usurpers, and they are all my enemies.”
I have lost him, Cressen thought, despairing. If only he could somehow approach Melisandre unseen . . . he needed but an instant’s access to her cup. “You are the rightful heir to your brother Robert, the true Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men,” he said desperately, “but even so, you cannot hope to triumph without allies.”
“He has an ally,” Lady Selyse said. “R’hllor, the Lord of Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow.”
“Gods make uncertain allies at best,” the old man insisted, “and that one has no power here.”
“You think not?” The ruby at Melisandre’s throat caught the light as she turned her head, and for an instant it seemed to glow bright as the comet. “If you will speak such folly, Maester, you ought to wear your crown again.”
“Yes,” Lady Selyse agreed. “Patches’s helm. It suits you well, old man. Put it on again, I command you.”
“Under the sea, no one wears hats,” Patchface said. “I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”
Lord Stannis’s eyes were shadowed beneath his heavy brow, his mouth tight as his jaw worked silently. He always ground his teeth when he was angry. “Fool,” he growled at last, “my lady wife commands. Give Cressen your helm.”
No, the old maester thought, this is not you, not your way, you were always just, always hard yet never cruel, never, you did not understand mockery, no more than you understood laughter.
Patchface danced closer, his cowbells ringing, clang-a-lang, ding-ding, clink-clank-clink-clank. The maester sat silent while the fool set the antlered bucket on his brow. Cressen bowed his head beneath the weight. His bells clanged. “Perhaps he ought sing his counsel henceforth,” Lady Selyse said.
“You go too far, woman,” Lord Stannis said. “He is an old man, and he’s served me well.”
And I will serve you to the last, my sweet lord, my poor lonely son, Cressen thought, for suddenly he saw the way. Ser Davos’s cup was before him, still half-full of sour red. He found a hard flake of crystal in his sleeve, held it tight between thumb and forefinger as he reached for the cup. Smooth motions, deft, I must not fumble now, he prayed, and the gods were kind. In the blink of an eye, his fingers were empty. His hands had not been so steady for years, nor half so fluid. Davos saw, but no one else, he was certain. Cup in hand, he rose to his feet. “Mayhaps I have been a fool. Lady Melisandre, will you share a cup of wine with me? A cup in honor of your god, your Lord of Light? A cup to toast his power?”
The red woman studied him. “If you wish.”
He could feel them all watching him. Davos clutched at him as he left the bench, catching his sleeve with the fingers that Lord Stannis had shortened. “What are you doing?” he whispered.
“A thing that must be done,” Maester Cressen answered, “for the sake of the realm, and the soul of my lord.” He shook off Davos’s hand, spilling a drop of wine on the rushes.
She met him beneath the high table with every man’s eyes upon them. But Cressen saw only her. Red silk, red eyes, the ruby red at her throat, red lips curled in a faint smile as she put her hand atop his own, around the cup. Her skin felt hot, feverish.
“It is not too late to spill the wine, Maester.”
“No,” he whispered hoarsely. “No.”
“As you will.” Melisandre of Asshai took the cup from his hands and drank long and deep. There was only half a swallow of wine remaining when she offered it back to him. “And now you.”
His hands were shaking, but he made himself be strong. A maester of the Citadel must not be afraid. The wine was sour on his tongue. He let the empty cup drop from his fingers to shatter on the floor. “He does have power here, my lord,” the woman said. “And fire cleanses.” At her throat, the ruby shimmered redly.
Cressen tried to reply, but his words caught in his throat. His cough became a terrible thin whistle as he strained to suck in air. Iron fingers tightened round his neck. As he sank to his knees, still he shook his head, denying her, denying her power, denying her magic, denying her god. And the cowbells peeled in his antlers, singing fool, fool, fool while the red woman looked down on him in pity, the candle flames dancing in her red red eyes.
彗星的尾巴划过清晨，好似紫红天幕上的一道伤口，在龙石岛的危崖绝壁上空汩汩泣血。
老学士独自伫立在卧房外狂风怒吼的阳台上。信鸦长途跋涉之后，正是于此停息。两尊十二尺高的石像立在两侧，一边是地狱犬，一边是长翼龙，其上洒布着乌鸦粪便。这样的石像鬼为数过千，蹲踞于瓦雷利亚古城高墙之上。当年他初抵龙石岛，曾因满城的狰狞石像而局促不安。随着时光流逝，他已日渐习惯，如今他视他们为老友，三人并肩，惴惴不安地凝望天帷。
老学士向来不信预兆，话虽如此，但活到这把年纪，克礼森还真没见过如此璀亮的彗星，更没见过这番混杂鲜血、烈焰与落日的骇人颜色。他不禁怀疑自己的石像鬼朋友可否目睹，毕竟它们早在他到来之前便已安居于此，而在他身殒之后亦将长存。如果石像会说话就好了……
真是荒唐。他倚靠雉堞，手指摩擦着粗糙的黑石表面，下方恶浪袭岸。会说话的石像鬼？天际的预兆？我老了不中用了，难道这就是老来疯？难道一辈子辛苦挣来的智慧，就这么和青春一并逃窜无踪了么？思及他在旧镇学城所受的训练，颈上戴的锁链，他的学士生涯，现在却满脑子迷信宛如农汉，情何以堪？
可是……可是……如今这颗彗星连白天都清晰可见，而苍白泛灰的蒸汽不断自城堡后方龙山的地热口升起，就在昨天早上，有只白鸦从旧镇带来他早已预期，却始终恐惧的信息：夏日将尽。凶兆纷起，再否认下去只是自欺欺人。但这一切究竟预示着什么呀？他简直泫然欲泣……
“克礼森师傅，有人造访。”派洛斯轻声道，彷彿不愿打扰克礼森的沉思。他若知道此刻老学士脑中的愚蠢思想，恐怕就会大喊吧。“公主想看看白鸦。”由于她的父亲已经称王，向来讲究礼数的派洛斯便改口称她为公主。即便他父王的领土只是汪洋中的一座孤岛，但毕竟是个国王。“她的弄臣也跟来了。”
老学士转身，背离晓色，一手扶住翼龙石像。“扶我坐下，然后请他们进来。”
派洛斯挽着他的手，引领他进入书房。克礼森年轻时也曾步履轻盈，但如今年近八旬，双脚早已孱弱不稳。两年前他摔碎了一边臀骨，之后便没有完全复原。去年他的健康状况持续恶化，旧镇的学城便送来了派洛斯，刚好在史坦尼斯下令封锁龙石岛的前几天……名义上是协助他处理日常事务，但克礼森很清楚这代表着什么：他死之后，派洛斯将取而代之。对此他并不介意，总得有人接下自己的棒子，只没想到这么快……
他让年轻人把自己安置在书桌边，桌上堆满了书籍纸张。“带她进来吧，别让公主久等。”他虚弱地挥挥手，催促徒弟赶快行动，他自己早已是个无力匆促的人了。他的手满是皱纹斑点，在干薄如纸的皮肤下，几可见密布的血管和干枯的骨骼。这双手如今竟这般颤抖，曾经它们是多么灵巧、多么稳健啊……
小女孩跟着派洛斯一起进来，羞怯一如往常。在她身后拖步轻跳、古怪横行的，则是她的弄臣。他戴着一顶老旧锡桶做的玩具头盔，顶端捆了两根鹿角，上面挂着牛铃，随着他的蹒跚脚步而发出不同声响：铿啷当、碰咚、铃铃、嗑啷啷。
“派洛斯，是谁一大早来拜访我们？”克礼森问。
“师傅，是我和阿丁。”她天真无瑕的蓝眼睛朝他直眨，只可惜她的脸蛋并不漂亮。这孩子不仅有她父亲突出的方下巴，而且很不幸地继承了她母亲那双耳朵。除此之外，她年幼时曾感染灰鳞病，险些丧命，后虽逃过一劫，却留下可怕的残缺：半边脸颊直到颈部下方，皮肤全部僵硬坏死，表面干裂，层层剥落，夹杂着黑灰斑点，抚触起来宛如硬石。“派洛斯说可以让我们看看白鸦。”
“当然可以。”克礼森回答。他怎么忍心拒绝她？难道她失去的还不够多吗？她名叫希琳，就快满十岁了，而她是克礼森学士所见过最哀伤的孩子。她的哀伤是我的耻辱，老学士心想，另一个我失职的永恒烙印。“派洛斯师傅，有劳你把鸟儿从鸦巢里带过来给希琳公主看看。”
“这是我的荣幸。”派洛斯是个谦恭有礼的年轻人，年方廿五，却严肃得像个六旬老翁。假如他多些幽默感，多些活力就好了，此地就缺这个。阴沉之地需要愉悦，而非肃穆。龙石岛是一座海中孤寂的堡垒，地势乃是湿冷荒原，终年为暴风恶水环绕，背后又有火山烟影，阴沉自然不在话下。但职责所趋，学士便必须毅然前往，所以十二年前克礼森随公爵来到龙石岛，为之效命，尽忠职守。然而他从未真心爱过龙石岛，也始终没有找到归属感。近来，红袍女每每妖魅般浮现梦中，使他骤然惊醒，却惶惶不知身在何处。
弄臣转过他那肤色不一、斑纹满布的头，看着派洛斯爬上高耸的铁梯行往鸦巢，头盔上的铃铛随之作响。“海底下，鸟儿生鳞不长羽，”他说，喀啷啷啷，“我知道，我知道，噢噢噢。”
即便以弄臣的标准而言，补丁脸依旧是个失败的角色。很久很久以前，或许他能轻易引来哄堂大笑，但大海夺走了他的能力，同时也夺走了他大半神智和所有记忆。他体态肥软，时而莫名地抽搐颤抖，又时而连话都说不清。这小女孩是现在唯一还会被他逗笑的人，大概也只有她在乎他的死活。
一个丑陋的小女孩和她可悲的弄臣，再加上我这个油尽灯枯的老学士……任谁听了都会为我们三人的故事掬一把同情泪。“孩子，过来陪我坐坐。”克礼森招手示意她靠近，“天才刚亮，你应该在被窝里睡得香甜，怎么会跑来找我呢？”
长年恶梦缠身“我刚作了恶梦，”希琳告诉他。“我梦见龙要吃我。”
克礼森学士记得小女孩长年恶梦缠身。“我不是跟你说过吗？”他温柔地说，“巨龙已死，再也无法复生。孩子，它们都是石雕。在很久很久以前，我们这座岛是强大的瓦雷利亚自由城邦最西边的前哨站。建造这座城堡的是瓦雷利亚人，虽然他们的伟大技艺业已失传。为抵御外侮，他们在要塞的每个城墙交会处都筑起塔楼。瓦雷利亚人刻意将这些塔楼雕凿成恶龙形状，好让城堡看来更加骇人。他们之所以舍弃普通的城垛，而改用千百尊狰狞石像，也是为了这个目的。”他伸出自己斑驳干瘦的手，轻轻握了一下她粉嫩的小手。“所以啰，没什么好怕的。”
希琳却不为所动。“那天上飞的又是什么东西？上次黛拉和梅翠丝在井边说话，黛拉说她听到那个红衣服的女人跟妈妈说那是‘龙息’。假如龙会呼吸，那不就是它们活过来了吗？”
这该死的红袍女，克礼森学士苦涩地想，难道成天在母亲耳边进谗言还不够，现在竟连她小女儿的清梦也不肯放过？他一定要把黛拉好好训诫一番，警告她不许再危言耸听。“好孩子，天空中的东西叫彗星，就是有尾巴的星星。它迷失在天空里，不久就会消失不见，我们一辈子都不会再看到，你等着瞧吧。”
希琳勇敢地点点小脑袋，“妈妈说白鸦代表夏天要结束了。”
“我的好小姐，的确如此。白鸦只会从旧镇的学城飞来。”克礼森的手指轻抚颈间锁链，锁链由不同金属串接而成，分别代表他在不同领域获得的成就。学士颈链是学城的标记，是他组织的象征，多年前他英气焕发，深感骄傲地戴着它，如今却日觉沉重，冰冷的金属紧贴皮肤。“它们比同类来得高大，也聪明得多，生来就接受训练，负责传递最重要的信息。白鸦带来的消息说，学城已召开‘枢机会’，根据王国各地学士所做的天象观测和报告，宣告长夏的终结。这个夏季长达十年两个月又十六天，是人们记忆中时间最长的一次。”
“天会变冷吗？”希琳生长于夏日，自然不知严寒为何物。
“早晚会的，”克礼森答道，“倘若诸神慈悲，或许还会赐给我们一个温暖的秋季和丰盛的收获，好让我们为即将来临的寒冬做好准备。”民间普遍认为长夏之后的冬季将更为漫长，但老学士觉得没必要吓唬女孩。
补丁脸摇响铃铛。“海底下天天是夏天哟！”他吟诵起来，“美人鱼发梢有海草，银色海草织礼服，我知道，我知道，噢噢噢！”
希琳咯咯直笑，“我也想要一件银色海草织的礼服。”
“海底的雪往上下，”弄臣又说，“雨干得像枯骨哟。我知道，我知道，噢噢噢！”
“真的会下雪吗？”女孩问。
“会的。”克礼森回答。虽然我希望多年以后才开始下雪，而且不要持续太久。“瞧，派洛斯这会儿可不把鸟儿带来了么？”
希琳高兴地叫出声来，就连克礼森也承认这只鸟确实难得一见。它羽白似雪，身形大过雀鹰，洁亮的黑眼珠证明它并非白子，而是货真价实，血统纯正的白鸦。“过来。”他出声召唤，白鸦振翅飞起，灵窜入空，翅膀啪啪作响地飞过房间，停歇在他身畔的书桌上。
“我去帮您准备早餐。”派洛斯道，克礼森点点头。“这是希琳公主。”他告诉白鸦，鸟儿白色的头上下摆动，好像在鞠躬似的。“公主！”它嘶声叫道，“公主！”
女孩张大了嘴。“它会说话耶！”
“会几句，我不是说过吗？这些鸟儿很聪明。”
“聪明鸟儿聪明人，聪明的傻瓜弄臣。”补丁脸说，叮叮当当，“噢，聪明的聪明的聪明的傻瓜弄臣！”他唱起了歌，“影子来跳舞啊，大人，跳舞啊大人，跳舞啊大人！”他一边唱，一边单脚站立，然后又换另一只脚。“影子来居住啊，大人，居住啊大人，居住啊大人！”每唱一句，他就扭一次头，鹿角上的铃铛响个不停。
白鸦厉声尖叫，振翅飞离，停在通往鸦巢的楼梯铁栏上。希琳似乎越发显得瘦小。“他一天到晚唱这个，我叫他别唱了，可他不肯，我好害怕啊。叫他别唱了吧。”
你要我怎么叫他别唱呢？老人暗忖，曾经，我有机会让他再也唱不了歌，可……
当年，只因雷加王子无姐妹可娶，老国王伊里斯·坦格利安二世——他那时还不像后来那么疯癫——便派史蒂芬公爵渡海物色王子妃人选。至今依然令人怀念的史蒂芬公爵，便是在狭海对岸的瓦兰提斯找到了当时年纪尚幼的补丁脸。“这是我所见过最杰出的弄臣，”就在公爵徒劳无功，准备动身回国的前两周，他写信给克礼森，“他年纪虽小，却手脚灵活，活像只猴子；他的头脑机灵，即使与宫中廷臣相比也毫不逊色；他不仅会变戏法、说谜语、耍魔术，还可以用四种语言引吭高歌。我们已经为他赎得自由，打算带他一道回来。劳勃一定会喜欢上他，等日子一久，或许史坦尼斯也能从他那儿学到欢笑。”
想到那封信，克礼森不禁悲从中来。史坦尼斯终究没有习得笑容，补丁脸这孩子则根本没有教他的机会。一场突如其来的暴风雨，证明了“破船湾”之称果真名副其实，公爵的双桅帆船“傲风号”驶进城堡视线范围时，他的儿子就站在城墙上，眼睁睁看着父亲的船撞上暗礁，然后被海水吞噬。超过一百名的桨手和船员，就这么和史蒂芬·拜拉席恩公爵夫妇一道葬身海底。船难之后，有很长一段时间，每次潮水涌来，都会在风息堡下的海滩留下一具具肿胀的尸体。
我想立刻让您知道男孩在第三天被冲到岸上。当时，克礼森学士与其他人一同来到岸边，协助辨认死者。他们发现弄臣时，他浑身赤裸，净白的皮肤因泡水起了皱纹，沾满潮湿的沙粒。克礼森原以为又是一具尸首，可当乔米握住他的脚踝，准备把他拖上运尸马车时，男孩却坐起身子，用力咳出海水。乔米直到临终，都还坚持那时补丁脸的皮肤是黏腻而冰冷的。
弄臣在迷失海中的两天究竟是如何活下来的，谁也解释不出。海边的渔民老爱说有美人鱼教他如何在水中呼吸，藉此换取他的精种。补丁脸自己则什么也没说。他们在风息堡下找到的孩子完全变了个样，身心俱碎，连语言能力都几乎消失，遑论史蒂芬公爵信上所说的聪慧机灵。然而看到那张弄臣脸，男孩的身份却又无庸置疑，因为瓦兰提斯自由贸易城邦习惯在奴隶和仆役脸上刺青，而他从头皮到脖颈均布满红绿相间的格子。
“我看这可怜虫是疯了，这样下去，不仅他自己受苦，对别人也没好处。”当年的风息堡代理城主老哈柏特爵士说，“你所能做的最仁慈的事，就是给他一杯罂粟花奶，让他毫无痛楚地一觉睡去，从此了结。若他还有几分脑筋，一定会感激你的。”然而克礼森坚决反对，最后他的意见终于获胜。至于补丁脸究竟有没有从这个胜利中得到任何欢愉，他不敢说，即便在事隔多年的今日，他依旧不知道。
“影子来跳舞喔，大人，来跳舞喔大人，来跳舞喔大人，来跳舞喔大人！”弄臣继续唱，一边摇头晃脑，铃声叮当响。碰咚！叮叮当！碰咚！
“大人！”白鸦厉声叫道，“大人！大人！大人！”
“随他去唱吧，”学士对惊惶的公主说，“你别放在心上。说不定他明天想起别的歌，你就再也不会听见这首了。”史蒂芬大人信上不是写了吗？他可以用四种语言引吭高歌……
派洛斯走进来，“师傅，请恕我打扰。”
“你忘了我的燕麦粥啊。”克礼森十分诧异。这不像派洛斯啊。
“师傅，戴佛斯爵士昨晚回来了。厨房里都在谈论这事，我想立刻让您知道。”
“戴佛斯……你说昨晚上是吗？现下他人在哪里？”
“在陛下那里，他们彻夜共商大计。”
若是从前，无论何时，只要事情紧急，史坦尼斯公爵一定会叫醒他，要他列席旁听，提供建言。“怎么没通知我？”克礼森抱怨，“应该叫醒我的。”他从希琳掌中抽离手指。“殿下，请您原谅，但我要和您父亲陛下谈谈。派洛斯，麻烦你扶我一把，城堡里的楼梯实在太多了。我总觉得他们每晚还多添个两级，好像专为了找我麻烦。”
希琳和补丁脸跟着两人出了房门，但女孩很快便对老人的缓步慢行感到不耐，便快步跑到前面，弄臣亦步亦趋跛行在后，头顶牛铃发狂似的响个没完。
克礼森沿阶登上海龙塔的盘旋楼梯，深觉城堡对身体孱弱的人委实极不友善。史坦尼斯公爵此刻应是在“石鼓楼”上的图桌厅里。石鼓楼是龙石岛的主堡，每逢暴风雨来临，它那古老的墙垣内部便会轰隆回响，因而得名。欲达该处，他们必须经过走廊，通过筑有守护石像鬼的黑铁大门穿越中、内两道城墙，继而登上克礼森不愿细数的层层阶梯。年轻人一次可踏两级，然而对一个臀伤未愈的老人来说，每一步都是酷刑。但史坦尼斯公爵毕竟不会移尊就教，老学士只有忍受这一切磨难，再怎么说，有派洛斯在旁扶持，他已十分感激。
他们沿着长廊缓缓行去，经过一排高大拱窗，视野可将外院、外城墙及彼方渔村尽收眼底。院子里，弓箭手正随着“搭箭！拉弓！放！”的号令朝箭靶射击，箭声飕飕，彷如群鸟展翅。卫兵在城墙通道上大步巡逻，透过一个个石像鬼间的缝隙，向外窥探驻扎城畔的大军。营火炊烟袅袅，晨空雾气迷蒙，三千战士坐在自家主人的旗帜下吃早餐。越过占地广大的军营，便是船舶拥挤的港口，过去半年来，任何驶进龙石岛视线范围内的船只都被扣留下来。史坦尼斯公爵的旗舰“怒火号”乃是一艘有三百支桨的三层甲板战船，可在周遭许多大腹便便的武装商船和货船的包围下，竟显得渺小了。
石鼓楼外的守卫一眼便认出两位学士，挥手放他们过去。“你等在这里，”进去之后，克礼森对派洛斯说，“我最好自己去见他。”
“师傅，接下来还有好长一段路。”
克礼森微微一笑，“我会不知道吗？这些楼梯我不知爬了多少回，都可以一个个叫出名字了。”
然而才到半途，他就后悔起自己的决定。他停下脚步，喘口气，也稍稍缓和臀部的痛楚。这时，他听见靴子踩在石头上的声音，迎面下楼的正是戴佛斯·席渥斯爵士。
戴佛斯个子很瘦，相貌平庸，寒微的出身显而易见。他的肩头垂着一件饱经海水盐渍侵蚀的绿披风，早因长期日晒而褪了颜色。披风之下是棕色的外衣和长裤，正好搭配他的棕眼棕发，颈项间还用皮带挂着一个破旧小皮袋。他的小胡子已经白丝密布，伤残的左手戴了一只皮手套。他一见克礼森便停下脚步。
“戴佛斯爵士，”学士开口，“您几时回来的？”
“今早上天亮之前。我最喜欢的时刻。”据说“短指”戴佛斯夜间行船的本领世上无人能及。在史坦尼斯公爵封他为骑士之前，他是七国上下最恶名昭彰，却也最刁钻难测的走私者。
“情况如何？”
对方摇摇头，“就和您事前警告过的一样，学士先生，他们不愿为他举兵，因为他们并不爱戴他。”
贵族们拒绝的理由是什么当然不愿意，克礼森暗想，他们永远也不会愿意。他坚强、能干又正直……唉，可惜就是正直过了头……但这里人手不够，怎么也不够啊。“你和他们全都谈过了吗？”
“全部？没有，只和那些愿意接见我的人。这些世家贵族同样不喜欢我，在他们心目中，我永远都是‘洋葱骑士’。”他左手一紧，粗短的指头向内握拳。史坦尼斯砍掉了他左手四指的末端指节，仅有拇指例外。“我在古利安·史文和老庞洛斯的桌边吃过饭，塔斯家则同意和我半夜里在树林秘密会面。至于其他人——哎，贝里·唐德利恩下落不明，有人说他已死。卡伦大人投靠蓝礼，这会儿已是彩虹护卫里的橙衣卫了。”
“彩虹护卫？”
“蓝礼的御林铁卫，”这位前走私者解释，“但这七个人不穿白衣，而是各有代表色。洛拉斯·提利尔是他们的队长。”
一个威风八面，衣着耀眼的全新骑士团，正是蓝礼·拜拉席恩会感兴趣的玩意儿。他从小便喜欢鲜明色彩、华丽衣料以及各种游戏。“你看！”他会一边大叫大笑，一边飞奔过风息堡的厅堂。“你看！我是飞龙！”或者“你看！我是个巫师！”或者“你看你看！我是雨神耶！”
当年那个满头黑发，眼里洋溢笑意，天不怕地不怕的小男孩，如今已长大成人。二十一岁的他，却依旧游戏人间。你看，我是国王！克礼森哀伤地想，蓝礼啊蓝礼，我亲爱的孩子，你可知你在做什么？就算你知道，你会在乎吗？这世上除了我之外，还有没有人为他着想？“贵族们拒绝的理由是什么？”
“这个嘛，有人口气婉转，有人则出言不逊。有的藉口推托，有的满口承诺，还有的净是撒谎。”他耸耸肩，“到头来，还不都是些空话？”
“你一点希望也没给他？”
“除非你要我也撒谎，而这种事我是不会做的。”戴佛斯道，“对他，我只说实话。”
克礼森学士犹记得风息堡之围解除后，戴佛斯受封为骑士那天的情景。当年史坦尼斯仅率领少数守备队，在提利尔和雷德温联军的重重包围下，硬是坚守城池近一年之久。那时连海路也被青亭岛的雷德温家封锁，日夜有飘扬着酒红旗帜的战船监控。风息堡内的马匹早被吃光，猫狗也烹食殆尽，守军只剩树根和鼠肉可吃。就在一个乌云密布，月黑风高的晚上，走私者戴佛斯藉着夜色掩护，冒险穿越雷德温舰队和破船湾的险恶暗礁。他的小船有黑帆黑桨以及漆黑船身，船舱里满载洋葱和咸鱼，虽然不多，却已足够守军继续支撑到艾德·史塔克率兵支援，解了风息堡之围。
史坦尼斯公爵赐给戴佛斯风怒角的肥沃土地，一座小城堡，以及骑士的身份……但他同时诏示，为弥补多年来的走私行径，对方必须失去左手所有的末端指节。戴佛斯屈从了，不过他的条件是史坦尼斯必须亲自动手，他认为其他人没资格。公爵挑了一把切肉用的屠刀，切得干净俐落。事后，戴佛斯选了“席渥斯”这个姓氏作为他的新家族名号，并以灰底上的黑船作为家徽——船帆上还画了一颗洋葱。这位前走私者老爱鼓吹史坦尼斯公爵帮了他一个大忙，省下他许多修剪指甲的时间。
不，克礼森心想，他这样的人绝不会给出虚伪的希望，也决不会掩饰残酷的事实。“戴佛斯爵士，即便对史坦尼斯大人这样的人，真相依旧可能是苦口良药。他只想要军容壮盛地回到君临，击垮他的敌人，取回他应得的地位。可现在……”
“如果他带着这一点人马回君临，那就是找死。他的兵力不够，我跟他说过了，可你也知道他的脾气。”戴佛斯举起戴着皮套的手，“要他能屈能伸，恐怕得等我的手指先长回来。”
老人叹口气，“你已经尽力了，换我去试试吧。”他虚弱地继续往上爬。
史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩公爵的厅堂是一个宽阔的圆形房间，墙壁由黑石砌成，上无装饰。厅内有四扇高大窄窗，面向东西南北四方。大厅中央有一张用巨木板雕刻而成的大桌——图桌厅正是因此而得名——这是伊耿·坦格利安在征服战争以前下令建造的。“地图桌”长过五十尺，最宽处约为长度的一半，最窄处不到四尺。伊耿的木匠依照维斯特落大陆的形状，锯出一个个海湾和半岛，整张桌子没有一处平直。桌面上描绘了伊耿那个时代的七大王国，所有的河川山脉、堡垒城市、湖泊森林……巨细无遗，泛着累积近三百年的亮漆光泽。
整个大厅仅有一张座椅，经过精心设计，正好对应维斯特洛外海龙石岛的所在，并位于隆起的高台之上，可将桌面一切尽收眼底。坐在椅子上的人穿着紧身皮背心和棕色粗羊毛长裤，克礼森一进门，他便抬起头。“老头子，我就知道，不管有没有叫你，你一定会来。”他话中不带丝毫感情，向来如此。
龙石岛公爵史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩蒙诸神恩宠，乃是铁王座的合法继承人，维斯特洛七大王国的统治者。他生得肩膀宽阔，四肢健壮，面容紧绷，皮肤经烈日长期曝晒，坚硬如铁。“坚毅”是人们最常用来形容史坦尼斯的词，而他也的确不负其名。虽然他还不到三十五岁，头上却只剩一排黑色细发，宛如王冠的影子，环绕在双耳之后。他的哥哥，故王劳勃，在生命的最后几年留起了胡子。克礼森学士虽没有亲眼目睹，却听人说那是一大把粗厚的黑胡子。史坦尼斯也同时把胡子修得又短又齐，像是蓝黑的影子，覆盖住他的方下巴和两颊的颧骨凹陷，彷彿欲藉此表示回应。一双浓眉之下，他的眼睛就像两个伤口，深蓝有如黑夜汪洋。再怎么滑稽可笑的弄臣，遇上他那张嘴也要徒劳无功，那是一张生来与皱眉、怒容和严词峻令为伍的嘴，它苍白、薄细而紧绷，早已忘却如何微笑，更不知开怀为何物。夜深人静之时，克礼森学士偶尔还会幻想自己听见相隔半个城堡之遥的史坦尼斯公爵磨牙霍霍之声。
蓝礼那时只是个孩子“若是从前，你会叫醒我的。”老人说。
“从前的你还年轻，现在你又老又病，需要睡眠。”史坦尼斯永远学不会花言巧语，不知掩饰谄媚，他有话便说，从不管别人的感受。“反正我知道你早晚也会自行打听戴佛斯带回的消息，你向来如此，不是吗？”
“我要是不打听，如何能辅佐你呢？”克礼森说，“我上楼途中遇到戴佛斯。”
“我看他都说了吧？我该把那家伙的舌头和手指一起砍掉。”
“那他就没法当个好特使了。”
“他本来就不是什么好特使。看来风息堡诸侯不肯为我举兵，他们不喜欢我，而我举兵的正当理由对他们来说无足轻重。胆子小的想躲在城墙后面，等着见风转舵；胆子大的则已投效蓝礼麾下。蓝礼！”他愤恨地吐出这个名字，彷彿是舌头上的毒药。
“过去这十三年来，令弟一直担任风息堡公爵，这些诸侯是宣誓效忠他的封臣——”
“他的？”史坦尼斯打断他，“照理说，他们应该是我的封臣。我从没开口要过龙石岛，我根本不想要这鬼地方。我拿下此地，是因为劳勃的敌人盘踞在这，而他命令我将之扫平。我为他建立舰队，打败敌人，完全尽了作弟弟的本分——蓝礼也应该这样对我才对——后来呢，你看劳勃怎么感谢我？他任命我为龙石岛公爵，却把风息堡的领地和税赋都给了蓝礼。三百年来，风息堡一直是拜拉席恩家族的世袭领地，照理说，劳勃登上铁王座，就该换我统治才对。”
这段陈年往事伤他很深，如今益发明显。眼下，这是他事业的致命伤：龙石岛虽然历史悠久，固若金汤，但旗下仅有少数小贵族，他们管辖的外岛领地多石崎岖，人烟稀少，根本不足以提供史坦尼斯所需的军力。即便加上他从狭海对岸自由贸易城邦密尔和里斯等地雇来的佣兵，驻扎城外的部队总数依旧完全不足以和兰尼斯特家族对抗。
“劳勃固然待你不公，”克礼森学士谨慎地回答，“然而在当初，他也有他的考量。龙石岛自古以来就是坦格利安家族的根据地，他需要强有力的人来统治这里，而蓝礼那时只是个孩子。”
“他现在就不是了？”史坦尼斯愤怒的大喊在空荡的厅堂里回荡，“还是个想顺手牵羊，从我头上偷走王冠的孩子。蓝礼凭什么贪图王位？平日上朝，他只会和小指头开玩笑，到了比武大会，他就穿上那套漂亮铠甲，被武艺高强的人击落马下，这就是我弟弟蓝礼的事迹总和，而他竟觉得自己该当国王！我问你，我究竟造了什么孽，这辈子要和这样的兄弟为伍？”
“我无法为诸神作答。”
“依我看，这些日子来，你没法作答的事可多了。蓝礼的学士是谁？说不定我该把他找来，看他的建言会不会有用。我弟弟决定窃取我的王冠时，你觉得这位学士说了些什么？你这位同事给了我那叛徒弟弟什么建议？”
“陛下，我相信蓝礼大人并未征求他人的建议。”史蒂芬公爵的幼子长成了一个有勇无谋的人，往往未经思考，便冲动行事。在这一点，以及其他许多地方，蓝礼像极了他的长兄劳勃，而与史坦尼斯判若云泥。
“‘陛下’？”史坦尼斯悻悻地重复，“你拿国王的称谓来消遣我，可我这算是哪门子国王？龙石岛，还有狭海里的几颗石头，这就是我的王国！”他走下高椅台阶，站在地图桌前，拉长的影子迆洒在黑水湾口，以及如今君临所在的那片树林上。他伫立沉思，望着他亟思获得，明明近在咫尺，却又遥不可及的国度。“今晚我要宴请诸侯，虽然他们寥寥无几，不过就赛提加、瓦列利安和巴尔艾蒙这几个人，也都不是什么能干角色，但我兄弟留给我的只有这些了。除此之外，那里斯海盗萨拉多·桑恩会带来我近来欠款的帐单，密尔人摩洛叙会谈论海潮和秋季风向，目的是要我小心谨慎，桑格拉斯大人则会虔诚地以七神之名诵唱祝祷。再之后呢，赛提加会要我说明到底哪些风息堡诸侯决定加入，瓦列利安则会威胁我，除非立刻出兵，否则就班师回家。我到底该怎么对他们说？我到底该怎么做？”
“陛下，您真正的敌人是兰尼斯特。”克礼森学士回答，“假如您们兄弟俩能并肩作战——”
“我绝不跟蓝礼妥协，”史坦尼斯回答，语气不容任何辩驳。“除非他放弃称王。”
“那就不和他结盟，”学士让步了，他的主人个性刚硬，自尊心强，一旦下定决心，便再无转寰余地。“其他人同样能助您一臂之力。艾德·史塔克的儿子已经自立为北境之王，身后有临冬城和奔流城所有兵力支持。”
“他不过是个毛头小子，”史坦尼斯道，“而且同样僭越称王，难道你要我坐视王国分崩离析？”
“半个王国总比没有好，”克礼森说，“更何况您若是肯帮那孩子报了父仇——”
“我凭什么要帮艾德·史塔克复仇？他对我来说什么也不是。哼，劳勃是很爱他，这我清楚，他常说他们‘情同手足’，这句话我不知听过多少遍。他的手足是我，不是奈德·史塔克，但你从他对我的态度绝对看不出来。我为他坚守风息堡，眼睁睁地看着忠心部属一个接一个饿死，而梅斯·提利尔和派克斯特·雷德温却在城外大吃大喝。劳勃可有感谢我？没有！他感谢的是史塔克，感谢他在我们只剩老鼠和野菜裹腹的时候率兵解围。我奉劳勃之命，为他建造一支舰队，以他之名攻下龙石岛，他可有握着我的手，说一声‘老弟啊，干得好，要是没有你，我还真不知该怎么办呢’？没有！他反而怪我让威廉·戴瑞带着韦赛里斯和那个小婴儿逃走，好像我有办法阻止他们似的。我在朝中为他卖命十五年，协助琼恩·艾林治理国家，好让劳勃吃喝嫖赌。结果琼恩死了以后，我哥哥可有任命我为首相？没有！他反而千里迢迢跑去找好朋友奈德·史塔克，将这份荣耀双手奉上。结果呢，事实证明对两人都没好处。”
假如您将希琳许配给他“陛下，请息怒。”克礼森学士温和地说，“纵然您过去遭受种种不公，然而逝者已矣，倘若您和史塔克家能齐心协力，未来仍然大有可为。除此之外，您还有其他盟友可资利用，可否考虑和艾林夫人合作呢？既然太后谋害了她丈夫，想必她亟欲为他复仇。她有个幼儿，也是琼恩·艾林的继承人，假如您将希琳许配给他——”
“那小鬼体弱多病，”史坦尼斯公爵反对，“这点连他父亲都清楚，所以才要我把他带来龙石岛做养子。当几年侍从或许对他有好处，只可惜那该死的兰尼斯特女人抢先一步，毒死了艾林大人。现在莱莎把他藏在鹰巢城里，我可以向你保证，她是死也不会和那小鬼分开的。”
“既然如此，您就把希琳送去鹰巢城吧，”学士敦促，“龙石岛太阴郁，本不适合孩子成长。让她的弄臣陪她一道去，这样她身边好歹有张熟悉的面孔。”
“熟悉归熟悉，却也可怕得紧。”史坦尼斯皱眉思索，“不过……或许值得一试……”
“身为七大王国的合法君主，难道得向寡妇和篡夺者摇尾乞怜吗？”一个女人的声音突然传来，语气尖锐地发问。
克礼森学士转身一看，忙低头致意。“夫人。”他嘴上这么说，心里却气恼自己竟没听见她进来。
史坦尼斯公爵眉头一皱，“我何时跟人摇尾乞怜了？我决不会，女人，你给我搞清楚。”
“陛下，听您这么说，我很欣慰。”赛丽丝夫人几乎和她丈夫一般高，身形削瘦，脸庞尖细，双耳突出，鼻子的轮廓锐利，上唇生了好些汗毛。她每天必拔，时常抱怨，却还是长个没完。她的双眼色浅，嘴形严峻，声音锐利如鞭。此时，只听她厉声说道：“艾林夫人本应向你效忠，史塔克家、你弟弟蓝礼等人亦然，因为依照天上真主意旨，你是他们唯一的主君。既然如此，若向他们恳求协助，甚或为此讨价还价，岂不有失尊严？”
她说的是天上“真主”，而非“诸神”。显然那红袍女已经彻底掳获了她的心，使她背弃了七国新旧诸神，转而信奉他们称作“光之王”的神灵。
“你的真主意旨留着自己用吧。”史坦尼斯公爵说，他并不若妻子那般对新教狂热。“我要的是军队，不是祝福。你有没有藏起来的军队啊？”他的话中不带感情。史坦尼斯向来不擅与女性相处，连和自己妻子也不例外。当他前往劳勃的君临朝廷担任重臣期间，他把赛丽丝和女儿一并留在龙石岛。他的家信不多，探视更少，每年履行一两次婚姻义务，但从中得不到任何喜乐。他曾衷心盼望有个儿子，却始终未能如愿。
“我的兄弟、叔伯和表亲们有军队，”她告诉他，“佛罗伦家族会为你而战。”
“佛罗伦家的兵力至多两千，”据说史坦尼斯对七国每家诸侯的实力都了若指掌，“更何况，夫人，恐怕我对他们没你那么有信心。佛罗伦家的领地离高庭太近，我看你伯父不敢与梅斯·提利尔作对。”
“还有一个办法，”赛丽丝夫人靠过来，“陛下，请您看看窗外，高挂天际的正是您期待已久的预兆：它鲜红如火，正如真主的烈焰红心，这就是他的旗帜——也是您的！您看看它，像龙焰般飘扬于苍穹之上，而您正是龙石岛之主啊。陛下，这意味着您的时代已经来临，无须怀疑。您命中注定，将扬帆驶离这座孤岛，横扫千军，就像当年的征服者伊耿一样。如今，只消您一句话，光之王的力量就是您的了。”
“光之王会给我多少军队？”史坦尼斯又问。
“要多少有多少，”他的妻子回答，“首先从风息堡、高庭及其旗下所有诸侯的兵力开始。”
“这和戴佛斯报告的情况不一样，”史坦尼斯道，“你说的这些兵力早已向蓝礼宣誓效忠，他们爱的是我那风流倜傥的弟弟，正如他们当年爱戴劳勃……他们对我素无好感。”
“话是没错，”她回答，“但若蓝礼一命归天……”
史坦尼斯眯眼盯着妻子瞧，最后克礼森终于忍不住了。“您千万不能这么想。陛下，无论蓝礼做了什么荒唐事——”
“荒唐事？我看是叛国大罪吧。”史坦尼斯转向妻子，“我弟弟年轻力壮，掌握大军，身边更有他那群彩虹骑士。”
“梅丽珊卓已从圣火中预见他的死期。”
克礼森大惊失色，“这是谋害亲弟啊……大人，此事邪恶卑鄙，令人发指，简直无法想像……求您务必听取我的建言。”
赛丽丝夫人上下打量他一番，“老师傅，敢问您要给他什么建言？若他向史塔克家卑躬屈膝，又把我们的女儿卖给莱莎·艾林，又如何能赢回半壁江山呢？”
“克礼森，你的建议我已经听过了，”史坦尼斯公爵道，“现在我听听她的。你退下吧。”
克礼森学士弯动僵硬的关节，微微屈膝，缓步离去。在走出房间的过程中，他始终感受到赛丽丝夫人盯着他后背的目光。好不容易回到梯底，他已经快直不起身子了。“请你扶着我。”他对派洛斯说。
克礼森安然返回居室后，便遣走年轻助手，跛着脚又上阳台，站在石像鬼间，凝视汪洋。萨拉多·桑恩手下的一艘战船正航经城堡，船壳条纹斑斓，划桨起落，穿破灰绿浪花，稳健前进。他目送它消失于陆岬后方，心想：若我的诸多恐惧也能这么容易消失，那就好了。他活了这么大把年纪，最后竟要目睹如此悲剧吗？
作学士的一旦戴起颈链，便需放弃生儿育女的权利。然而克礼森却时常觉得自己像个父亲，自从怒海夺去史蒂芬公爵的性命后，劳勃、史坦尼斯和蓝礼……便像他的三个儿子，由他一手抚养长大。莫非他失职太甚，如今必须目睹儿子们自相残杀？他不能容许这种事发生，绝对不能。
从没真正见识这种颜色问题的核心在于那名女子，并非赛丽丝夫人，而是另外那个。下人们都不敢直呼其名，乃称她为“红袍女”。“我倒不怕，”克礼森对他的地狱犬雕像说：“就是她，梅丽珊卓。”来自亚夏的梅丽珊卓是个女术士，是个缚影士，同时也是光之王拉赫洛的女祭司。拉赫洛乃圣焰之心，是影子与烈火的神。不，梅丽珊卓的种种疯狂行径绝不能散播到龙石岛之外。
与晨间的明亮相较，他的房间此刻显得昏暗而阴沉。老人伸出颤抖的双手，燃起一根蜡烛，走到他位于通往鸦巢楼梯下方的工作室。各式软膏、药水和药材整齐罗列于架上，他从最上层一排由矮陶瓶所盛装的药粉后面找出一个与小指头差不多大小的靛蓝玻璃瓶，稍加摇晃，瓶内便传出声响。克礼森吹开表面灰尘，将瓶子拿回桌边。他瘫坐在椅子上，打开瓶盖，倒出内物。那是十来颗种籽大小的结晶，滚过他原本正在阅读的羊皮纸。烛光照映之下，它们闪闪发亮，有如珠宝，色泽奇紫，让老学士觉得自己彷彿从没真正见识这种颜色。
喉际项链越发沉重，他用小指指甲轻触其中一颗结晶。如此微小的东西，却有掌控生死的能力。结晶由某种植物制成，该植物只生长于半个世界外的玉海诸岛。叶片需经长期放置，随后浸泡于石灰水、糖汁以及某些产自盛夏群岛的珍贵香料中，之后丢弃叶片，在药水中加入灰烬，使其浓稠，然后静置结晶。其过程缓慢而艰难，所需配料价格昂贵，极难寻求。知道配方的仅包括里斯的炼金术士，布拉佛斯的“无面者”……以及他所属的学士组织，可这种东西是不能在学城之外讨论的。大家都知道学士锁链中的银片代表医疗之法——然而大家却往往假装忘记，懂得医疗之法的人，也同样懂得杀人之术。
克礼森已不记得亚夏人如何称呼这种叶子，也不记得里斯毒剂师给这种结晶取的名字，他只知道它在学城里被命名为“扼死者”，将它放进酒里溶化后，会使饮者喉部肌肉剧烈缩紧，使其气管阻塞，据说受害者面部往往呈现出与结晶相同的紫色，与噎死的症状如出一辙。
而就在今天晚上，史坦尼斯公爵将宴请诸侯和他的夫人……以及亚夏的红袍女梅丽珊卓。
我必须先休息，克礼森学士对自己说，天黑之后，我必须精力充沛，手不能颤抖，勇气不能衰退。此事虽然可怕，却是逼不得已。假如天上真有诸神，想必他们会原谅我的。近来他的睡眠状况很差，午睡片刻应该有助于他回复体力，面对即将来临的磨难。他虚弱地走到床边，然而当他闭上双眼，却依旧见到彗星的炽烈红光，栩栩如生地在他的黑暗梦境中闪亮。就在他睡着前的一刻，他意识模糊地想：或许这是我的彗星，一个染血凶兆，预示着即将来临的谋杀……是的……
待他醒来，天已全暗。他的卧房漆黑一片，全身每个关节都隐隐作痛。克礼森头晕脑胀，勉力坐起，抓住柺杖，颤巍巍地下了床。都这么晚了，他心想，他们竟没通知我！每逢宴会，他都受邀参加，坐在盐罐旁，离史坦尼斯公爵很近。啊，公爵的脸浮现眼前，不是现在的他，而是他儿时的脸孔，那个永远站在冰冷阴影里，看着阳光照在哥哥身上的男孩。无论他做了些什么，劳勃永远抢先一步，而且做得更好。可怜的孩子……为了他，我一定要赶快行动。
老学士在桌上找到结晶，将之从羊皮纸边拨起。克礼森没有传闻中里斯毒剂师爱用的空心戒指，但他宽松的长袍袖子里倒是缝了各式大小口袋。他将“扼死者”结晶藏进其中一个口袋，开门喊道：“派洛斯，你在哪里？”无人应答，他便拉高音量再喊，“派洛斯，快来帮我！”仍然没有回应。怪了，年轻学士的寝室就在螺旋梯的中间，一定听得到的。
最后，克礼森只好叫唤仆人。“快点！”他吩咐他们，“我睡过头了。现在晚宴已经开始……酒也喝过了……怎么没叫醒我呢？”派洛斯学士到底怎么了？他实在不明白。
再一次，他必须穿越长廊。夜风锐利，充满海洋的气息，刮过高窗，传出低语。龙石岛城墙上火炬摇曳，城外的营地里篝火熊熊，彷如满天星星坠落凡尘。天际彗星依旧红光熠熠，其势恶毒。学士连忙安慰自己：以我的年纪和睿智，实在不该怕这种东西。
通往大厅的门是一只石雕巨龙的大口。走到门外，他遣走仆人，决定独自进去，才不会显得虚弱。于是克礼森拄着柺杖，勉力爬上最后几级石阶，来到入口的龙牙下。两名守卫打开厚重的红门，噪音和强光顿时穿出，克礼森走进巨龙的庞然巨口。
在刀叉碗盘的碰撞和席间的低声交谈中，他听见补丁脸正唱着：“……跳舞啊大人，跳舞啊大人！”牛铃响叮当。这正是他早上唱的那首可怕曲子。“影子来居住啊，大人，居住啊大人，居住啊大人！”下方的席位上坐满了骑士、弓箭手和佣兵队长，他们撕下大块黑面包沾鱼汤吃。任何可能破坏宴席格调的高声谈笑、恣意喧哗，在大厅里都找不到，因为史坦尼斯公爵不允许此种行径。
克礼森朝高起的平台走去，那里是诸侯和国王的座位。他远远绕路避开补丁脸，可是弄臣跳舞摇铃正在兴头上，既没看到也没听见他靠近。结果补丁脸单脚站立，换脚的时候，一头栽到了克礼森身上，撞开他的手杖，两人连滚带爬跌在草席上。众人哄堂大笑，这无疑是一幅十分滑稽的景象。
长夜黑暗，处处险恶啊补丁脸半趴在他身上，那张五颜六色的小丑脸紧贴着他，头上的鹿角牛铃盔却没了踪影。“海底下你若跌倒，会往上掉！”他大声宣布，“我知道，我知道，噢噢噢！”小丑咯咯笑着滚到一边，弹跳起身，然后跳了一小段舞。
为表示风度，老学士露出虚弱的微笑，挣扎想起身，然而臀部剧痛不止，一时之间他真怕又把骨头给摔碎了。这时，有一双健壮的手伸到他两腋，扶他起来。“谢谢你，爵士先生。”他嗫嚅着，转头想看看是哪位骑士伸出援手……
“老师傅，”说话的人是梅丽珊卓夫人，她声音低沉，有着玉海地区独特的悦耳口音。“您要小心啊。”她一如往常，从头到脚全是红色，身上一件亮如明焰的滑丝长礼服，袖子很长，上衣有切口，露出里面颜色更深的血红衬衣。她的喉际有一条比任何学士锁链还要紧的红金项圈，嵌了一颗大红宝石。
她的头发，也并非红发男人常呈现的橙色或草莓色，而是磨亮的深红铜色，在火炬照映下闪闪发亮。就连她的眼睛也是红色……但她的皮肤却白晰滑嫩，毫无瑕疵，好似鲜奶油；她的身形优雅苗条，高过多数骑士，胸部丰满，腰身纤细，一张心形脸蛋。男人的视线一旦停在她身上，便很难移走，即便老学士也不例外。许多人称赞她美丽，但其实她并不美丽。她血红，可怖，血红。
“夫人……谢……谢谢你。”
“您年纪大了，走路可千万要当心。”梅丽珊卓恭敬地说，“长夜黑暗，处处险恶啊。”
他知道这句话，那是她宗教里的一句祷词。没关系，我也有自己的信仰。“只有小孩子才怕黑。”他对她说。另一边，补丁脸也继续唱起那首歌，“影子来跳舞啊，大人，跳舞啊大人，跳舞啊大人！”
“这可真奇了，”梅丽珊卓道，“你们一个是聪明的傻子，另一个却是愚蠢的智者。”她弯下腰，捡起补丁脸掉落地面的头盔，扣在克礼森头上。锡桶滑下双耳，牛铃轻声作响。“学士先生，我看这顶王冠正好配得上您的颈链。”她宣布。周围的人跟着哄笑不停。
克礼森抿紧嘴唇，强忍怒火。她以为他年老力衰，一无是处，但在今晚结束以前，她就会见识到他的厉害。老归老，他可是个出身学城的学士。“我不需宝冠，只求真相。”他告诉她，说着自头上摘下小丑盔。
“世界上有些真相，旧镇里是没有教的。”梅丽珊卓红衣一甩，转身走回高台餐桌，史坦尼斯国王夫妇便坐在那里。克礼森把鹿角锡桶盔还给补丁脸，随后跟上。
派洛斯学士坐在他的位子上。
老人不禁停下脚步，睁大眼睛。“派洛斯学士，”最后他终于开口，“你……你怎么没叫醒我？”
“陛下要我让您休息，”派洛斯倒还知道脸红，“他说无须惊动您。”
克礼森环顾四周，众多骑士、队长和诸侯一言不发地坐在位子上。坏脾气的赛提加伯爵已经上了年纪，披风上缀有红榴石雕成的螃蟹。英俊的瓦列利安伯爵选择了海绿色的丝质上衣，装饰喉际的白金海马正与他一头亮金长发相衬。巴尔艾蒙伯爵是个肥胖的十四岁男孩，全身裹着层层紫天鹅绒衣服，镶有白海豹皮装饰。亚赛尔·佛罗伦爵士虽穿了狐皮大衣，仍旧不能改变他的平凡相貌。笃信七神的桑格拉斯伯爵脖颈、腕部和手上都戴了月长石。至于来自里斯的萨拉多·桑恩船长，则是一身大红缎子礼服和金饰珠宝。唯有戴佛斯爵士衣着俭朴，一件褐色上衣，绿羊毛披风。也唯有戴佛斯和他四目相交，眼带悲悯。
“老头子，你病得太重，不中用了。”这听起来像是史坦尼斯公爵的声音，但不可能啊，怎么可能？“从今以后，改由派洛斯学士来辅佐我。反正从你无法登上鸦巢那天起，信鸦早就交他管理。我可不想让你因为帮我做事而送命。”
克礼森学士眨眨眼睛。史坦尼斯，国王陛下，我可怜的、郁郁寡欢的孩子，我始终没有得到的儿子，你千万不能这么做，难道你不知我有多么照顾你，为你而活着，难道你不知不管发生了什么，我依旧对你疼爱有加吗？是的，对你疼爱有加，比对劳勃、甚至对蓝礼还要深，因为你最缺乏爱，你最需要我。但他说出口的却是：“遵命，陛下。不过……不过我肚子很饿，可否请您给我一个位子？”让我坐在你身边，好好守着你……
戴佛斯爵士从长凳上站起来，“陛下，如果学士愿意坐在我旁边，我会深感荣幸。”
“好吧。”史坦尼斯公爵转过头去跟梅丽珊卓说话，她坐在他右边，是地位最高的贵宾。赛丽丝夫人坐在他左边，脸上闪过一抹耀眼但脆弱的笑容，好似她配戴的首饰。
距离太远了，克礼森看着戴佛斯爵士的位子，木然地想。前走私者和主桌中间隔了一半的诸侯。要把“扼死者”放进她的杯子，我必须靠近些，可该怎么做呢？
当老学士缓缓绕过桌子，朝戴佛斯·席渥斯走去时，补丁脸正在手舞足蹈。“在这儿咱们吃鱼！”弄臣把一条鳕鱼当权杖挥舞，开心地向大家宣布，“在海里面咱们被鱼吃！我知道，我知道，噢噢噢！”
戴佛斯爵士往长凳旁边挪动，空出位子来。“今晚我们都该穿上小丑服，”克礼森学士坐下时，他口气沉重地说：“因为我们即将去办的事，实在只有傻子才干的出来。红袍女从她的火堆里预见了我军胜利，所以史坦尼斯不顾兵力差距，打算立刻出兵。恐怕还没等她闹完，我们就会见识补丁脸曾经经历的奇遇了——在海底。”
孤军奋战，胜利终将无望克礼森把手伸进袖子取暖，隔着羊毛，感觉到结晶隆起的硬块。“史坦尼斯大人。”
史坦尼斯从红袍女那边回过头，但赛丽丝夫人却抢先开口：“是史坦尼斯‘陛下’。学士先生，您太没分寸了。”
“他年纪大了，脑筋不清楚。”国王没好气地说，“克礼森，怎么了？有话快说。”
“既然您决定渡海出征，还请您务必和史塔克大人及莱莎夫人同心协力……”
“我绝不和他们为伍。”史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩道。
“正如光明绝不与黑暗为伍。”赛丽丝夫人握住他的手。
史坦尼斯点点头，“兰尼斯特家僭越为王，史塔克家意图窃取我半壁江山，舍弟则夺走于法归我所有的封地臣属。他们都是大逆不道的叛徒，皆为我的死敌。”
我失去他了，克礼森绝望地想。如果他能想办法在不知不觉的情况下接近梅丽珊卓……只需与她的酒杯短暂接触。“您是令兄劳勃合法的继承人，是七大王国真正的统治者，安达尔人、洛伊拿人和先民的国王，”他绝望地说，“即便如此，倘若孤军奋战，胜利终将无望。”
“谁说他孤军奋战？”赛丽丝夫人道，“光之王拉赫洛乃是圣焰之心，影子与烈火的真主，也是他最有力量的盟友。”
“迷信神灵太不可靠，”老人坚持，“何况该神在此毫无威能可言。”
“谁说的？”梅丽珊卓转过头，喉际的红宝石反射光芒，一时之间仿如彗星红光。“学士先生，您这样满口胡言，恐怕该再戴上那顶王冠才是哟。”
“没错，”赛丽丝夫人同意，“补丁脸的帽子很适合你，老头。快把它戴上，我命令你。”
“海底下没人戴帽子！”补丁脸说：“我知道，我知道，噢噢噢！”
史坦尼斯公爵的眼睛被浓眉的阴影所遮蔽，他嘴唇紧闭，下巴无声地蠕动。他生气的时候，总会这样磨牙。“傻子，”最后他咆哮道，“你听见我夫人的话了，快把你的帽子拿给克礼森。”
不，老学士心想，这不是你，不是你的作风，你向来公正，虽然严厉却不至残忍，从来不会，你从不知道什么是嘲弄，就像你永远也不懂得欢笑。
补丁脸跳着舞，靠过来，牛铃响个不停，喀啷啷、叮叮、喀呤喀啷喀呤喀啷。学士静静坐着，任由弄臣为他戴上鹿角桶。因为桶子重，克礼森禁不住低头，铃铛就叮当响起来。“我看啊，日后他若想发表意见，干脆也唱出来好了。”赛丽丝夫人道。
“女人，你不要得寸进尺！”史坦尼斯公爵说，“他是老人家，何况他跟了我半辈子。”
我到死都会跟着您，我亲爱的大人，我可怜的、孤单寂寞的孩子，克礼森想着，突然有了主意。戴佛斯爵士的酒杯正在他面前，装了半杯的酸红酒。他从袖中摸出一颗结晶硬块，紧扣于拇指和食指之间，伸手去拿酒杯。我必须动作自然，流畅敏捷，绝不能在这个节骨眼上失手，他暗自祈祷。总算诸神保佑，只一眨眼功夫，手中之物便消失不见。他的双手已多年没有如此稳健，这般流利了。只有戴佛斯瞧见了，但除此之外没有别人，他非常笃定。于是他手握酒杯，站起身来。“或许我真是老糊涂了。梅丽珊卓夫人，您可愿意同我喝一杯？让我们藉此荣耀您的真主光之王，喝这一杯，向他的威能致敬，您说好么？”
红袍女打量着他，“好吧。”
他可以感觉到，此刻所有人的目光都集中在自己身上。离开长凳时，戴佛斯用那被史坦尼斯公爵削短的手指抓住他的袖子，“你这是做什么？”他悄声道。
“我非这么做不可，”克礼森学士回答，“为了国家，更为了我们大人的灵魂。”他甩开戴佛斯，一滴酒洒在草席上。
她走下高台餐桌来会他，两人成为众目所集的焦点，但克礼森眼中只有她一个人：血红眼睛，血红长袍，血红宝石，还有那噘起淡淡微笑的血红嘴唇。她伸出手，握住他拿酒杯的指头，皮肤滚烫，像在发烧。“学士先生，把酒倒掉还来得及。”
“不，”他嘶哑地低语，“绝不。”
“也罢。”于是来自亚夏的梅丽珊卓自他手中接过酒杯，仰头深吸一大口。当她将杯子还给他时，里面还剩小半杯。“该你了。”
他的双手颤抖不止，但他强作镇定。学城的学士绝不能害怕。这酒尝起来很酸，喝完他松开手指，任由空杯落地碎裂。“大人，他在此依旧是有能的。”那女人说，“圣火将保护信徒，涤尽一切邪恶。”在她喉际，那颗血红宝石正闪闪发光。
克礼森试图应答，声音却卡在喉咙里。他努力想吸进空气，结果只咳出细得吓人的嘶声。他的脖子彷彿被钢铁般的手指紧紧勒住，最后他双脚瘫软，无力地跪下，但他仍旧摇着头，否认她，否认她的力量，否认她的魔法，否认她的神灵。鹿角上的牛铃纷纷脱落，傻子，傻子，傻子，而红袍女面带怜悯，看着他倒下。她那双血红血红的眼睛里，烛焰狂舞。
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