A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

and gave it a gentle squeeze. “So you see, there is nothing to
fear.”
    Shireen was unconvinced. “What about the thing in the sky? Dalla and Matrice
were talking by the well, and Dalla said she heard the red woman tell Mother
that it was dragonsbreath. If the dragons are breathing, doesn’t that mean they
are coming to life?”
    The red woman,
Maester Cressen thought sourly.
Ill enough

that she’s filled the head of the mother with her madness, must she poison the
daughter’s dreams as well?
He would have a stern word with Dalla, warn her
not to spread such tales. “The thing in the sky is a comet, sweet child. A
star with a tail, lost in the heavens. It will be gone soon enough, never to be
seen again in our lifetimes. Watch and see.”
    Shireen gave a brave little nod. “Mother said the white raven means it’s not
summer anymore.”
    â€œThat is so, my lady. The white ravens fly only from the Citadel.” Cressen’s
fingers went to the chain about his neck, each link forged from a different
metal, each symbolizing his mastery of another branch of learning; the
maester’s collar, mark of his order. In the pride of his youth, he had worn it
easily, but now it seemed heavy to him, the metal cold against his skin. “They
are larger than other ravens, and more clever, bred to carry only the most
important messages. This one came to tell us that the Conclave has met,
considered the reports and measurements made by maesters all over the realm,
and declared this great summer done at last. Ten years, two turns, and sixteen
days it lasted, the longest summer in living memory.”
    â€œWill it get cold now?” Shireen was a summer child, and had never known true
cold.
    â€œIn time,” Cressen replied. “If the gods are good, they will grant us a warm
autumn and bountiful harvests, so we might prepare for the winter to come.”
The smallfolk said that a long summer meant an even longer winter, but the
maester saw no reason

to frighten the child with such tales.
    Patchface rang his bells. “It is
always
summer under the sea,” he
intoned. “The merwives wear nennymoans in their hair and weave gowns of silver
seaweed. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”
    Shireen giggled. “I should like a gown of silver seaweed.”
    â€œUnder the sea, it snows up,” said the fool, “and the rain is dry as bone. I
know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”
    â€œWill it truly snow?” the child asked.
    â€œIt will,” Cressen said.
But not for years yet, I pray, and then not for
long.
“Ah, here is Pylos with the bird.”
    Shireen gave a cry of delight. Even Cressen had to admit the bird made an
impressive sight, white as snow and larger than any hawk, with the bright black
eyes that meant it was no mere albino, but a truebred white raven of the
Citadel. “Here,” he called. The raven spread its wings, leapt into the air,
and flapped noisily across the room to land on the table beside him.
    â€œI’ll see to your breakfast now,” Pylos announced. Cressen nodded. “This is
the Lady Shireen,” he told the raven. The bird bobbed its pale head up and
down, as if it were bowing.
“Lady,”
it croaked.
“Lady.”
    The child’s mouth gaped open. “It
talks
!”
    â€œA few words. As I said, they are clever, these birds.”
    â€œClever bird, clever man, clever clever fool,” said Patchface, jangling.
“Oh, clever clever clever fool.” He began to sing.
“The shadows come to
dance, my lord, dance my lord, dance my lord,”
he sang, hopping from one
foot to the other and

back again.
“The shadows come to stay, my lord, stay my lord, stay my
lord.”
He jerked his head with each word, the bells in his antlers
sending up a clangor.
    The white raven screamed and went flapping away to perch on the iron railing of
the rookery stairs. Shireen seemed to grow smaller. “He sings that all the
time. I told him to stop but he won’t. It makes me scared. Make him
stop.”
    And how do I do that?
the old man wondered.
Once I might have
silenced him forever, but now . . .
    Patchface had come to them as a boy. Lord Steffon of cherished memory had found
him in Volantis, across the narrow sea. The king—the old king, Aerys II
Targaryen, who had not been quite so mad in those days—had sent his
lordship to