A Feast for Dragons

lock was broken. Maester
Gormon had suspected Pate of breaking it, but that wasn’t true. Walgrave had
broken the lock himself, after losing the key that opened it.
    Inside, Pate had found a bag of silver stags, a lock of
yellow hair tied up in a ribbon, a painted miniature of a woman who resembled
Walgrave (even to her mustache), and a knight’s gauntlet made of lobstered
steel. The gauntlet had belonged to a prince, Walgrave claimed, though he could
no longer seem to recall which one. When Pate shook it, the key fell out onto
the floor.
    If I pick that up, I am a thief, he remembered
thinking. The key was old and heavy, made of black iron; supposedly it opened
every door at the Citadel. Only the archmaesters had such keys. The others
carried theirs upon their person or hid them away in some safe place, but if
Walgrave had hidden his, no one would ever have seen it again. Pate snatched up
the key and had been halfway to the door before turning back to take the silver
too. A thief was a thief, whether he stole a little or a lot. “Pate,” one of the white ravens had called after him, “Pate, Pate, Pate.”
    “Do you have my dragon?” he asked the alchemist.
    “If you have what I require.”
    “Give it here. I want to see.” Pate did not intend to let
himself be cheated.
    “The river road is not the place. Come.”
    He had no time to think about it, to weigh his choices. The
alchemist was walking away. Pate had to follow or lose Rosey and the dragon
both, forever. He followed. As they walked, he slipped his hand up into his
sleeve. He could feel the key, safe inside the hidden pocket he had sewn there.
Maester’s robes were full of pockets. He had known that since he was a boy.
    He had to hurry to keep pace with the alchemist’s longer
strides. They went down an alley, around a corner, through the old Thieves
Market, along Ragpicker’s Wynd. Finally, the man turned into another alley,
narrower than the first. “This is far enough,” said Pate. “There’s no one
about. We’ll do it here.”
    “As you wish.”
    “I want my dragon.”
    “To be sure.” The coin appeared. The alchemist made it walk
across his knuckles, the way he had when Rosey brought the two of them
together. In the morning light the dragon glittered as it moved, and gave the
alchemist’s fingers a golden glow.
    Pate grabbed it from his hand. The gold felt warm against
his palm. He brought it to his mouth and bit down on it the way he’d seen men
do. If truth be told, he wasn’t sure what gold should taste like, but he did
not want to look a fool.
    “The key?” the alchemist inquired politely.
    Something made Pate hesitate. “Is it some book you want?”
Some of the old Valyrian scrolls down in the locked vaults were said to be the
only surviving copies in the world.
    “What I want is none of your concern.”
    “No.” It’s done, Pate told himself. Go. Run back to the
Quill and Tankard, wake Rosey with a kiss, and tell her she belongs to you. Yet
still he lingered. “Show me your face.”
    “As you wish.” The alchemist pulled his hood down.
    He was just a man, and his face was just a face. A young
man’s face, ordinary, with full cheeks and the shadow of a beard. A scar showed
faintly on his right cheek. He had a hooked nose, and a mat of dense black hair
that curled tightly around his ears. It was not a face Pate recognized. “I do
not know you.”
    “Nor I you.”
    “Who are you?”
    “A stranger. No one. Truly.”
    “Oh.” Pate had run out of words. He drew out the key and put
it in the stranger’s hand, feeling light-headed, almost giddy. Rosey, he
reminded himself. “We’re done, then.”
    He was halfway down the alley when the cobblestones began to
move beneath his feet. The stones are slick and wet, he thought, but
that was not it. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. “What’s
happening?” he said. His legs had turned to water. “I don’t understand.”
    “And never will,” a voice said sadly.
    The cobblestones rushed up to kiss him. Pate tried to cry
for help, but his voice was failing too.
    His last thought was of Rosey.

----
    The
Kraken’s Daughter
    T he hall was loud with drunken Harlaws,
distant cousins all. Each lord had hung his banner behind the benches where his
men were seated. Too few, thought Asha Greyjoy, looking down from the
gallery, too few by far. The benches were three-quarters empty.
    Qarl the Maid had said as much, when the Black Wind was approaching from the