A Feast for Dragons

had begun to smolder where some of the scattered coals
had fallen. He could hear poor Qezza sobbing. “Don’t be afraid,” the old knight
said. “I mean you no harm, child. I want only the king.”
    He wiped his sword clean on a curtain and stalked into the
bedchamber, where he found Hizdahr zo Loraq, Fourteenth of His Noble Name,
hiding behind a tapestry and whimpering. “Spare me,” he begged. “I do not want
to die.”
    “Few do. Yet all men die, regardless.” Ser Barristan
sheathed his sword and pulled Hizdahr to his feet. “Come. I will escort you to
a cell.” By now, the Brazen Beasts should have disarmed Steelskin. “You will be
kept a prisoner until the queen returns. If nothing can be proved against you,
you will not come to harm. You have my word as a knight.” He took the king’s
arm and led him from the bedchamber, feeling strangely light-headed, almost
drunk.
I was a Kingsguard. What am I now?
    Miklaz and Draqaz had returned with Hizdahr’s wine. They
stood in the open door, cradling the flagons against their chests and staring
wide-eyed at the corpse of Khrazz. Qezza was still crying, but Jezhene had
appeared to comfort her. She hugged the younger girl, stroking her hair. Some
of the other cupbearers stood behind them, watching. “Your Worship,” Miklaz
said, “the noble Reznak mo Reznak says to t-tell you, come at once.”
    The boy addressed the king as if Ser Barristan were not
there, as if there were no dead man sprawled upon the carpet, his life’s blood
slowly staining the silk red.
Skahaz was supposed to take Reznak into
custody until we could be certain of his loyalty. Had something gone awry?
“Come where?” Ser Barristan asked the boy. “Where does the seneschal want His
Grace to go?”
    “Outside.” Miklaz seemed to see him for the first time.
“Outside, ser. To the t-terrace. To see.”
    “To see what?”
    “D-d-dragons. The dragons have been loosed, ser.”
    Seven save us all
, the old knight thought.

----

    THE DRAGONTAMER
    The night crept past on slow black feet. The hour of the bat
gave way to the hour of the eel, the hour of the eel to the hour of ghosts. The
prince lay abed, staring at his ceiling, dreaming without sleeping,
remembering, imagining, twisting beneath his linen coverlet, his mind feverish
with thoughts of fire and blood.
    Finally, despairing of rest, Quentyn Martell made his way to
his solar, where he poured himself a cup of wine and drank it in the dark. The
taste was sweet solace on his tongue, so he lit a candle and poured himself
another.
Wine will help me sleep
, he told himself, but he knew
that was a lie.
    He stared at the candle for a long time, then put down his
cup and held his palm above the flame. It took every bit of will he had to
lower it until the fire touched his flesh, and when it did he snatched his hand
back with a cry of pain.
    “Quentyn, are you mad?”
    No, just scared. I do not want to burn
.
“Gerris?”
    “I heard you moving about.”
    “I could not sleep.”
    “Are burns a cure for that? Some warm milk and a lullaby might
serve you well. Or better still, I could take you to the Temple of the Graces
and find a girl for you.”
    “A whore, you mean.”
    “They call them Graces. They come in different colors. The
red ones are the only ones who fuck.” Gerris seated himself across the table.
“The septas back home should take up the custom, if you ask me. Have you
noticed that old septas always look like prunes? That’s what a life of chastity
will do to you.”
    Quentyn glanced out at the terrace, where night’s shadows
lay thick amongst the trees. He could hear the soft sound of falling water. “Is
that rain? Your whores will be gone.”
    “Not all of them. There are little snuggeries in the
pleasure gardens, and they wait there every night until a man chooses them.
Those who are not chosen must remain until the sun comes up, feeling lonely and
neglected. We could console them.”
    “They could console me, is what you mean.”
    “That too.”
    “That is not the sort of consolation I require.”
    “I disagree. Daenerys Targaryen is not the only woman in the
world. Do you want to die a man-maid?”
    Quentyn did not want to die at all.
I want to go back
to Yronwood and kiss both of your sisters, marry Gwyneth Yronwood, watch her
flower into beauty, have a child by her. I want to ride in tourneys, hawk and
hunt, visit with my mother in Norvos, read some of those books my father sends
me. I want Cletus and