Night settled over Oldtown.
Oldtown's grace and beauty were famous throughout the known world. It was the greenest place in the green lands, the richest place in a land of plenty.
The people of Oldtown looked down on King's Landing, seeing it as nothing more than a parvenu city built on power, disorderly and foul, all muddy streets, thatched roofs, and wooden shacks. Oldtown was built of stone. Its streets and lanes were paved with cobbles, even the meanest alleys.
The Quill and Tankard stood upriver, on a small island in the Honeywine. For six hundred years, it had never closed its doors, and it had never stopped welcoming guests.
A group of apprentices from the Citadel were drinking themselves stupid there: Pate the Pig Boy, Roone, dark-skinned Alleras, nicknamed the Sphinx, crippled Mollander, and Armen. Armen and Alleras were the better students. The other three were rather dull.
Around acolyte Armen's neck hung a leather thong strung with links of pewter, tin, lead, and copper. Of all of them, he was the most learned. Dark-skinned Alleras had a father from Dorne and a mother from the Summer Isles. He had studied at the Citadel for about a year and was extraordinarily clever, having already forged two links for his Maester's chain. His copper link was nearly within reach as well.
"Randyll Tarly says his son is dead. What a hard heart he has. His son is clearly alive, serving as the Lord Commander's personal steward at The Wall. If the Night's Watch hadn't asked us to prepare replacement Maesters, no one would even know about it," Roone said. Roone was the youngest of them, short and fat, still two years from manhood.
"To Randyll, a son who cannot become a knight is no different from a dead one," crippled Mollander said gloomily. He, too, had a knight for a father, and because of his twisted body he had been forced to become a Maester instead. He knew what knightly families expected of their sons. And as one of the finest sword-and-spear men in The Reach, Randyll would hate that son most of all.
"Perhaps Randyll misjudged him," Alleras said. "Maybe the boy has some courage after all. The Wall is no good place, yet he has endured there until now."
"Why didn't he send his son to the Citadel? It's close to home," Pate asked, puzzled.
"Lord Randyll is known to everyone in Oldtown, but not loved. Everyone knows Lord Randyll despises pen-pushing Maesters. How could he send his son to the Citadel, then watch him serve petty nobles not even equal to the Tarlys? Randyll would consider that a disgrace," Armen said.
"Enough, Pate, you little fool. Everyone knows how close Oldtown is to Horn Hill, and Lord Hightower is Samwell's kin as well. Let's talk about something else," Alleras said with a laugh.
Alleras understood that nobles moved in circles. Even distant nobles, if one traced the branches far enough, were all tangled together as kin. Horn Hill and Hightower were closely connected as well. Randyll's wife, Melessa Florent, was the eldest daughter of Lord Florent, while her sister Rhea Florent was the fourth wife of Lord Leyton Hightower.
"Let's speak of something interesting. The Qartheen say dragons have awakened, and that the bleeding sword hanging high in the sky is a sign of dragons," Mollander said.
"Real dragons? Then who is their master?" Alleras, nicknamed the Sphinx, asked curiously. He drew an arrow from his quiver and set it to the bowstring.
"I want to see a dragon," Roone said hopefully. "Even just once."
From the narrow window overhead came the laughter of Emma, the serving woman, mixed with the low voice of a customer. She was the oldest serving woman at the Quill and Tankard, past forty, but still plump and alluring. Rosey was her daughter, fifteen years old and newly flowered. Emma had long since declared that Rosey's maidenhead would cost one golden dragon.
The sound of the woman's laughter left Pate in turmoil. He did not care about the world or dragons. He only wanted to spend one golden dragon and sleep with the girl. But he was always poor. Pate had schemed and saved, and all he had managed to gather was nine silver stags, a jar of copper stars, and a few scattered pennies. With that, a golden dragon was still far beyond reach.
"You were born too late to see dragons, boy," acolyte Armen told Roone. Armen knew his history. "The last dragon died in the reign of Aegon III."
"There may still be hope. The Qartheen say the Storm has dragons, and a beautiful true dragon girl too," Mollander said, tossing an apple into the air. "That was Westeros's last dragon, but if fire can burn again, why not dragons?"
"Impossible. Westeros's last dragon was the world's last dragon," Armen said stubbornly.
The apple flew fast and high. Mollander wished he could spring into the air after it. He had thick arms and broad shoulders, and no lack of strength. But his feet were deformed, so he would never become a knight like his father. He loved knights, not Maesters.
Whoosh! An arrow struck the apple, followed by a soft, muffled splash as the apple hit the water.
Alleras's arrows were unlike anyone else's, yard-long shafts of golden wood fletched with bright red feathers. Alleras was slender, but not weak, and his archery was superb. The boy was handsome, and women liked him. The serving women often took liberties with him.
Mollander whistled at once. "Right in the heart, sweetling."
Mollander looked at Alleras with envy. The Dornishman had skin as dark as teak, a pointed chin, a sharp nose, a narrow brow, thick short black curls, and eyes the color of onyx. He was tall, slim, and handsome. More importantly, he was healthy, agile, and strong. If Mollander had a healthy body, he would have chosen to become a knight without hesitation, not a Maester.
Pate thought and thought. What he wanted most was the woman he desired. Rosey was all his longing, all his pursuit. He needed money to open the girl's heart. He had no mind to listen to their tales of strange old things. All he wanted was coin.
Pate drank down great mouthfuls of strong cider. He really was stupid. No Maester's chain, no money earned, and every day spent tending a senile old man. Ravens, always ravens.
"I want a golden dragon," Pate screamed inside his heart. He had even imagined where he would take the girl. With a little money, they could buy a donkey and travel across Westeros.
"Oldtown is still far from the rest of the world, isn't it? The Beggar King's sister is about to become queen. That alone is incredible enough," Mollander shouted. As the son of a knight, he liked drinking too. And after hearing the news from the Blackwater Rush, where his father had been badly wounded, he liked drinking even more.
"Sailors may not be lying to us," Mollander said. "They've seen much and sailed all over the world. Qarth, Asshai, those distant places are where the news of dragons came from. Perhaps there truly are dragons."
Armen cut him off. "Don't be ridiculous. Sailors will say anything once they've had too much to drink. They'll say they slept with mermaids and saw ice dragons."
"The bleeding sword would not lie. Strange signs in the heavens reflect great events to come. Perhaps it truly is the coming of dragons. In the stories, there are dragons. Dragons belonging to the young, handsome Storm and the true dragon..." Mollander retorted.
"Throw the apple again. This is my last arrow," Alleras said.
"Your last arrow always misses," Roone said.
Mollander threw the apple. The final arrow followed its flight in a graceful arc, but the apple and arrow did not meet.
"When I climb to the summit, I will have no higher place to go." With that, Alleras unstrung the bow and slipped the longbow neatly into its leather case. The bow was carved from goldenheart, a rare wood from the Summer Isles. Pate had touched that bow before, but he had not been able to draw it. The Sphinx looked frail, but those long, slender arms were strong.
"The dragon has three heads," Alleras concluded, then filled his cup with Dornish summer red.
"How can a dragon have three heads? That is an emblem on banners and shields. It is only a pattern. Besides, there will be no Targaryens after this. The last Targaryen and Baratheon will be joined as one," acolyte Armen declared.
"What was the girl called again?" Roone asked, confused. "She wasn't the one whose head was smashed in, was she?"
"Stormborn, Rhaegar and the Beggar King's sister. She was born on Dragonstone before it fell. Her name is Daenerys. The child you're thinking of was Rhaegar's child," Alleras said.
"Then I'll gladly drink another cup to the lawful king and queen. But is Cersei really that mad? Not one of those children was King Robert's?" Mollander raised his cup high, then gulped down the apple brandy inside. When he finished, he slammed the cup onto the table with a crisp sound and wiped his mouth with his hand. "Where's Rosey? Speaking of which, wasn't Joffrey the lawful king? Who are we drinking to?"
"Keep your voice down, fool," the acolyte said, aghast. "The Spider's eyes were everywhere before. If those words reached the wrong ears, you'd be finished. Even now, what you just said is plain treason. Do you want the Storm's men to cut your head off?"
"Well, well. You traitors are drinking without me. Especially you, Armen. I always knew you were a traitor, frog. Let me see who else is here. The Sphinx, the cripple, the child, and one more. Lord Pate, why aren't you looking after that senile old man? What the hell has happened to the Citadel? It's become a garbage tollgate." Leo Tyrell came across the swaying old plank bridge.
Lazy Leo wore a silk tunic striped green and gold, with a black silk cloak fastened at his shoulder by a jade rose. The front of his tunic was stained with wine. Judging by the color, a deep red. A lock of pale gold hair fell down over one eye. He was not a rose from the high branch, but from a lower branch, one of the cadet roses. Even so, that still made him a person of consequence.
"I won't be an apprentice forever," Pate said loudly.
"Of course not. You'll be a former apprentice and freckled pig boy. Ha!" Leo burst out laughing.
Pate's face twisted at once. He always failed his examinations. At this rate, he really might end up feeding pigs. How could he ever hope to take a girl's maidenhead?
"Fuck your grandmother. Get out of here. You're not welcome," Mollander snapped as soon as he saw him.
Dark-skinned Alleras held his companion back, urging him to calm down.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Pate saw Rosey come down, only to flutter around Leo like a flower-drunk butterfly.