A Feast for Dragons

Alleras, the Sphinx, “and if there are
dragons in the world again . . .”
    “Dragons and darker things,” said Leo. “The grey sheep have
closed their eyes, but the mastiff sees the truth. Old powers waken. Shadows
stir. An age of wonder and terror will soon be upon us, an age for gods and
heroes.” He stretched, smiling his lazy smile. “That’s worth a round, I’d say.”
    “We’ve drunk enough,” said Armen. “Morn will be upon us
sooner than we’d like, and Archmaester Ebrose will be speaking on the
properties of urine. Those who mean to forge a silver link would do well not to
miss his talk.”
    “Far be it from me to keep you from the piss tasting,” said
Leo. “Myself, I prefer the taste of Arbor gold.”
    “If the choice is piss or you, I’ll drink piss.” Mollander
pushed back from the table. “Come, Roone.”
    The Sphinx reached for his bowcase. “It’s bed for me as
well. I expect I’ll dream of dragons and glass candles.”
    “All of you?” Leo shrugged. “Well, Rosey will remain.
Perhaps I’ll wake our little sweetmeat and make a woman of her.”
    Alleras saw the look on Pate’s face. “If he does not have a
copper for a cup of wine, he cannot have a dragon for the girl.”
    “Aye,” said Mollander. “Besides, it takes a man to make a
woman. Come with us, Pate. Old Walgrave will wake when the sun comes up. He’ll
be needing you to help him to the privy.”
    If he remembers who I am today. Archmaester Walgrave
had no trouble telling one raven from another, but he was not so good with
people. Some days he seemed to think Pate was someone named Cressen. “Not just
yet,” he told his friends. “I’m going to stay awhile.” Dawn had not broken, not
quite. The alchemist might still be coming, and Pate meant to be here if he
did.
    “As you wish,” said Armen. Alleras gave Pate a lingering
look, then slung his bow over one slim shoulder and followed the others toward
the bridge. Mollander was so drunk he had to walk with a hand on Roone’s
shoulder to keep from falling. The Citadel was no great distance as the raven
flies, but none of them were ravens and Oldtown was a veritable labyrinth of a
city, all wynds and crisscrossing alleys and narrow crookback streets.
“Careful,” Pate heard Armen say as the river mists swallowed up the four of
them, “the night is damp, and the cobbles will be slippery.”
    When they were gone, Lazy Leo considered Pate sourly across
the table. “How sad. The Sphinx has stolen off with all his silver, abandoning
me to Spotted Pate the pig boy.” He stretched, yawning. “How is our lovely
little Rosey, pray?”
    “She’s sleeping,” Pate said curtly.
    “Naked, I don’t doubt.” Leo grinned. “Do you think she’s
truly worth a dragon? One day I suppose I must find out.”
    Pate knew better than to reply to that.
    Leo needed no reply. “I expect that once I’ve broken in the
wench, her price will fall to where even pig boys will be able to afford her.
You ought to thank me.”
    I ought to kill you, Pate thought, but he was not
near drunk enough to throw away his life. Leo had been trained to arms, and was
known to be deadly with bravo’s blade and dagger. And if Pate should somehow
kill him, it would mean his own head too. Leo had two names where Pate had only
one, and his second was Tyrell. Ser Moryn Tyrell, commander of the City
Watch of Oldtown, was Leo’s father. Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Warden
of the South, was Leo’s cousin. And Oldtown’s Old Man, Lord Leyton of the
Hightower, who numbered “Protector of the Citadel” amongst his many titles, was
a sworn bannerman of House Tyrell. Let it go, Pate told himself. He
says these things just to wound me.
    The mists were lightening to the east. Dawn, Pate
realized. Dawn has come, and the alchemist has not. He did not know
whether he should laugh or cry. Am I still a thief if I put it all back and
no one ever knows? It was another question that he had no answer for, like
those that Ebrose and Vaellyn had once asked him.
    When he pushed back from the bench and got to his feet, the
fearsomely strong cider all went to his head at once. He had to put a hand on
the table to steady himself. “Leave Rosey be,” he said, by way of parting.
“Just leave her be, or I may kill you.”
    Leo Tyrell flicked the hair back from his eye. “I do not
fight duels with pig boys. Go away.”
    Pate turned and crossed the terrace. His heels rang against
the weathered planks of the