A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

the bodice that
showed glimpses of a darker bloodred fabric beneath. Around her throat was a
red gold choker tighter than any maester’s chain, ornamented with a single
great ruby. Her hair was not the orange or strawberry color of common
red-haired men, but a deep burnished copper that shone in the light of the
torches. Even her eyes were red . . . but her skin was smooth
and white, unblemished, pale as cream. Slender she was, graceful, taller than
most knights, with full breasts and narrow waist and a heart-shaped face. Men’s
eyes that once found her did not quickly look away, not even a maester’s eyes.
Many called her beautiful. She was not beautiful. She was red, and terrible,
and red.
    â€œI . . . thank you, my lady.”
    â€œA man your age must look to where he steps,” Melisandre said courteously.
“The night is dark and full of terrors.”
    He knew the phrase, some prayer of her faith.
It makes no matter, I have a
faith of my own.
“Only children fear the dark,” he told her. Yet even as
he said the words, he heard Patchface take up his song again.
“The
shadows come to dance, my lord, dance my lord, dance my lord.”
    â€œNow here is a riddle,” Melisandre said. “A clever fool and a foolish wise
man.” Bending, she picked up Patchface’s helm from where it had fallen and set
it on Cressen’s head. The cowbells rang softly as the tin bucket slid down over
his ears. “A crown

to match your chain, Lord Maester,” she announced. All around them, men were
laughing.
    Cressen pressed his lips together and fought to still his rage. She thought he
was feeble and helpless, but she would learn otherwise before the night was
done. Old he might be, yet he was still a maester of the Citadel. “I need no
crown but truth,” he told her, removing the fool’s helm from his
head.
    â€œThere are truths in this world that are not taught at Oldtown.” Melisandre
turned from him in a swirl of red silk and made her way back to the high table,
where King Stannis and his queen were seated. Cressen handed the antlered tin
bucket back to Patchface, and made to follow.
    Maester Pylos sat in his place.
    The old man could only stop and stare. “Maester
Pylos,” he said at last.
“You . . . you did not wake me.”
    â€œHis Grace commanded me to let you rest.” Pylos had at least the grace to
blush. “He told me you were not needed here.”
    Cressen looked over the knights and captains and lords sitting silent. Lord
Celtigar, aged and sour, wore a mantle patterned with red crabs picked out in
garnets. Handsome Lord Velaryon chose sea-green silk, the white gold seahorse
at his throat matching his long fair hair. Lord Bar Emmon, that plump boy of
fourteen, was swathed in purple velvet trimmed with white seal, Ser Axell
Florent remained homely even in russet and fox fur, pious Lord Sunglass wore
moonstones at throat and wrist and finger, and the Lysene captain Salladhor
Saan was a sunburst of

scarlet satin, gold, and jewels. Only Ser Davos dressed simply, in brown
doublet and green wool mantle, and only Ser Davos met his gaze, with pity in
his eyes.
    â€œYou are too ill and too confused to be of use to me, old man.” It sounded so
like Lord Stannis’s voice, but it could not be, it could not. “Pylos will
counsel me henceforth. Already he works with the ravens, since you can no
longer climb to the rookery. I will not have you kill yourself in my
service.”
    Maester Cressen blinked.
Stannis, my lord, my sad sullen boy, son I never
had, you must not do this, don’t you know how I have cared for you, lived for
you, loved you despite all? Yes, loved you, better than Robert even, or Renly,
for you were the one unloved, the one who needed me most.
Yet all he said
was, “As you command, my lord, but . . . but I am hungry.
Might not I have a place at your table?”
At your side, I belong at your
side . . .
    Ser Davos rose from the bench. “I should be honored if the maester would sit
here beside me, Your Grace.”
    â€œAs you will.” Lord Stannis turned away to say something to Melisandre, who
had seated herself at his right hand, in the place of high honor. Lady Selyse
was on his left, flashing a smile as bright and brittle as her
jewels.
    Too far,
Cressen thought dully, looking at where Ser