George R. R. Martin - Ice And Fire 4a - A Feast For Crows

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PROLOGUE

“Dragons," said Mollander. He snatched a withered apple off the ground and

tossed it hand to hand. "Throw the apple," urged Alleras the Sphinx. lie slipped

an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bowstring.

"I should like to see a dragon." Roone was the youngest of them, a chunky boy

still two years shy of manhood. "1 should like that very much."

And I should like to sleep with Rose\''s arms around me, Pate thought. Me

shifted restlesslv on the bench. By the morrow the girl could well be his. /

will take her far from Oldtoum, across the narrow sea to one of the Free Cities.

There were no maesters there, no one to accuse him.

He could hear Emma's laughter coming through a shuttered window-overhead.

mingled with the deeper voice of the man she was entertaining. She was the

oldest of the serving wenches at the Quill and Tankard, forh' if she was a day.

but still pretty in a fleshy sort of way. Rosey was her daughter, fifteen and

freshly flowered. Emma had decreed that Roseys maidenhead would cost a golden

dragon. Pate had saved nine silver stags and a pot of copper stars and pennies,

for all the good that would do him. He would have stood a better chance of

hatching a real dragon than saving up enough coin to make a golden one.

"You were born too late for dragons, lad," Armen the Acolyte told Roone. Armen

wore a leather thong about his neck, strung with links of

GEORGE R. R. MARTIN

pewter, tin. lead, and copper, and like most acolytes he seemed to believe that

novices had turnips growing from their shoulders in place of heads. "The last

one perished during the reign of King Aegon the Third."

"The last dragon in Westerns," insisted Mollander.

"Throw tine apple." Alleras urged again. He was a comely youth, their Sphinx.

All the serving wenches doted on him. Even Rosey would sometimes touch him on

the arm when she brought him wine, and Pate liad to gnash his teeth and pretend

not to see.

"The last dragon in Westerns was the last dragon," said Armen doggedly. "That

is well known."

"The apple," Alleras said. "Unless you mean to eal it."

"Here." Dragging his clubfoot, Hollander took a short hop. whirled, and

whipped the apple sidearm into the mists that hung above the Hon-eywine. If not

for his foot, he would have been a knight like his father. He had the strength

for it in those thick arms and broad shoulders. Far and fast the apple flew . .

. . . but not as fast as the arrow that whistled after it. a yard-long shaft

of golden wood fletched with scarlet feathers. Pate did not see the arrow catch

the apple, but he heard it. A soft chunk echoed back across the river, followed

by a splash.

Mollander whistled. "You cored it. Sweet."

Nor half as sweet as Rosey. Pate loved her hazel eyes and budding breasts, and

the way she smiled every time she saw him. He loved the dimples in her cheeks.

Sometimes she went barefoot as she served, to feel the grass beneath her feet.

He loved that too. He loved the clean fresh smell of her. the way her hair

curled behind her ears. He even loved her toes. One night she'd let him rub her

feet and play with them, and he'd made up a funny tale for even,' toe to keep

her giggling.

Perhaps he would do better to remain on this side of the narrow sea. He could

buy a donkey with the coin he'd saved, and he and Rosey could take turns riding

it as they wandered Westeros. Ebrose might not think him worthy of the silver,

but Pate knew how to set a bone and leech a fever. The smallfolk would be

grateful for his help. If he could learn to cut hair and shave beards, he might

even be a barber. That would be enough, he told himself, so long as I had

Rose}'. Rosey was all that he wanted in the world.

That had not always been so. Once he had dreamed of being a maester in a

castle, in service to some open-handed lord who would honor him for his wisdom

and bestow a fine white horse on him to thank him for his

A FEAST FOR CROWS

service. How high hed ride, how nobly, smiling down at the smallfolk when he

passed them on the road . . .

One night in the Quill and Tankard's common room, after his second tankard of

fearsomely strong cider. Pate had boasted that he would not always be a novice.

"Too true. Lazy Leo had called out. 'You'll be a former novice, herding swine."

He drained the dregs of his tankard. The torchlit terrace of the Quill and

Tankard was an island of light in a sea of mist this morning. Downriver, the

distant beacon of the Hightower floated in the damp of night like a hazy orange

moon, but the light did little to lift his spirits.

The alchemist should have come by now. Had it all been some cruel jape, or

had something happened to the man? It would not have been the first time that

good fortune had turned sour on Pate. He had once counted himself lucky to be

chosen to help old Archmaester Walgrave with the ravens, never dreaming that

before long he would also be fetching the man's meals, sweeping out his

chambers, and dressing him every' morning. Everyone said that Walgrave had

forgotten more of ravencraft man most maesters ever knew, so Pate assumed a

black iron link was the least that he could hope for, only to find that Walgrave

could not grant him one. The old man remained an archmaester only by courtesy.

As great a maester as once he'd been, now his robes concealed soiled

smallclothes oft as not, and half a year ago some acolytes found him weeping in

the Library, unable to find his way back to his chambers. Maester Gormon sat

below the iron mask in Walgrave s place, the same Gormon who had once accused

Pate of theft.

In the apple tree beside the water, a nightingale began to sing. It was a

sweet sound, a welcome respite from the harsh screams and endless quorkmg of the

ravens he had tended all day long. The white ravens knew his name, and would

mutter it to each other whenever they caught sight of him, "Pate. Pate. Pate"

until he wanted to scream. The big white birds were Archmaester Walgrave’s

pride. He wanted them to eat him when he died, but Pate half suspected that they

meant to eat him too.

Perhaps it was the fearsomely strong cider—he had not come here to drink, but

Allcras had been buying to celebrate his copper link, and guilt had made him

thirsty—but it almost sounded as if the nightingale were trilling gold for iron,

gold for iron, gold for iron. Which was passing strange, because that was what

the stranger had said the night Rosev brought the two of them together. "Who are

you?" Pate had demanded of him. and the man had replied. "An alchemist. I can

change iron into

GEORGE R. R. MARTIN

gold." And then the coin was in his hand, dancing across his knuckles, the soft

yellow gold shining in the candlelight. On one side was a three-headed dragon,

on the other the head of some dead king. Gold for iron. Pate remembered, you

won't do better. Do you want her? Do you love her? "I am no thief.' he had told

the man who called himself the alchemist, 'I am a novice of the Citadel." The

alchemist had bowed his head, and said. "If you should reconsider. I shall

return here three days hence, with my dragon.'

Three days had passed. Pate had returned to the Quill and Tankard. still

uncertain what he was, but instead of the alchemist he'd found Mollander and

Armen and the Sphinx, with Roone in tow. It would have raised suspicions not to

join them.

The Quill and Tankard never closed. For six hundred years it had been standing

on its island in the Honeywine, and never once had its doors been shut to trade.

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摘要：

PROLOGUE“Dragons,"saidMollander.Hesnatchedawitheredappleoffthegroundandtossedithandtohand."Throwtheapple,"urgedAllerastheSphinx.lieslippedanarrowfromhisquiverandnockedittohisbowstring."Ishouldliketoseeadragon."Roonewastheyoungestofthem,achunkyboystilltwoyearsshyofmanhood."1shouldlikethatverymuch."An...

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George R. R. Martin - Ice And Fire 4a - A Feast For Crows

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