A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

is my comet,
he
thought drowsily at the last, just before sleep took him.
An omen of
blood, foretelling
murder . . . yes . . .
    When he woke it was full dark, his bedchamber was black, and every joint in his
body ached. Cressen pushed himself up, his head throbbing. Clutching for his
cane, he rose unsteady to his feet.
So late,
he thought.
They
did not summon me.
He was always summoned for feasts, seated near the
salt, close to Lord Stannis. His lord’s face swam up before him, not the man he
was but the boy he had been, standing cold in the shadows while the sun shone
on his elder brother. Whatever he did, Robert had done first, and better. Poor
boy . . . he must hurry, for
his
sake.
    The maester found the crystals where he had left them, and scooped them off the
parchment. Cressen owned no hollow rings, such as the poisoners of Lys were
said to favor, but a myriad of pockets great and small were sewn inside the
loose sleeves of his robe. He secreted the strangler seeds in one of them,
threw open his door, and called, “Pylos? Where are you?” When he heard no

reply, he called again, louder. “Pylos, I need help.” Still there came no
answer. That was queer; the young maester had his cell only a half turn down
the stair, within easy earshot.
    In the end, Cressen had to shout for the servants. “Make haste,” he told
them. “I have slept too long. They will be feasting by
now . . . drinking . . . I should have been
woken.” What had happened to Maester Pylos? Truly, he did not
understand.
    Again he had to cross the long gallery. A night wind whispered through the
great windows, sharp with the smell of the sea. Torches flickered along the
walls of Dragonstone, and in the camp beyond, he could see hundreds of
cookfires burning, as if a field of stars had fallen to the earth. Above, the
comet blazed red and malevolent.
I am too old and wise to fear such
things,
the maester told himself.
    The doors to the Great Hall were set in the mouth of a stone dragon. He told
the servants to leave him outside. It would be better to enter alone; he must
not appear feeble. Leaning heavily on his cane, Cressen climbed the last few
steps and hobbled beneath the gateway teeth. A pair of guardsmen opened the
heavy red doors before him, unleashing a sudden blast of noise and light.
Cressen stepped down into the dragon’s maw.
    Over the clatter of knife and plate and the low mutter of table talk, he heard
Patchface singing,
“. . . dance, my lord, dance my
lord,”
to the accompaniment of jangling cowbells. The same dreadful song
he’d sung this morning.
“The shadows come to stay, my lord, stay my lord,
stay my lord.”
The lower tables were

crowded with knights, archers, and sellsword captains, tearing apart loaves of
black bread to soak in their fish stew. Here there was no loud laughter, no
raucous shouting such as marred the dignity of other men’s feasts; Lord Stannis
did not permit such.
    Cressen made his way toward the raised platform where the lords sat with the
king. He had to step wide around Patchface. Dancing, his bells ringing, the
fool neither saw nor heard his approach. As he hopped from one leg to the
other, Patchface lurched into Cressen, knocking his cane out from under him.
They went crashing down together amidst the rushes in a tangle of arms and legs,
while a sudden gale of laughter went up around them. No doubt it was a comical
sight.
    Patchface sprawled half on top of him, motley fool’s face pressed close to his
own. He had lost his tin helm with its antlers and bells. “Under the sea, you
fall
up,
” he declared. “I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.” Giggling, the
fool rolled off, bounded to his feet, and did a little dance.
    Trying to make the best of it, the maester smiled feebly and struggled to rise,
but his hip was in such pain that for a moment he was half afraid that he had
broken it all over again. He felt strong hands grasp him under the arms and
lift him back to his feet. “Thank you, ser,” he murmured, turning to see
which knight had come to his aid . . .
    â€œMaester,” said Lady Melisandre, her deep voice flavored with the music of
the Jade Sea. “You ought take more care.” As ever, she wore red head to heel,
a long loose gown of flowing silk

as bright as fire, with dagged sleeves and deep slashes in