A Feast For Crows
Authors: George R. R. Martin
A FEAST FOR CROWS
A Bantam Spectra Book / November 2005
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2005 by George R. R. Martin
Maps by James Sinclair
Heraldic crests by Virginia Norey
Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Martin, George R.R.
A feast for crows / George R. R. Martin
p. cm.—(A song of ice and fire ; bk. 4.)
I. Title. II. Series: Martin, George R. R. Song of ice and fire ; bk. 4.
PS3563.A7239 F39 2005
813'.54 22 2005053034
eISBN: 978-0-553-90032-3
v3.0
Praise for
GEORGE R. R. MARTIN
and
A Song of Ice and Fire
“Mainstream readers . . . have a great treat ahead of them in Martin.
A Feast for Crows
is a fast-paced, emotionally complex, masterfully written adventure . . . Martin’s writing is as good as ever: his imaginary places are as vivid and thoroughly imagined, his characters as consistent and believable, his blood as wet and red.” —
Newsday
“George R. R. Martin has created the unlikely genre of the realpolitik fantasy novel. Complete with warring kings, noble heroes and backroom dealings, it’s addictive reading and reflects our current world a lot better than
The Lord of the Rings.” —Rolling Stone
“What’s “A Song of Ice and Fire”? It’s the only fantasy series I’d put on a level with J. R. R. Tolkien’s
The Lord of the Rings
. It’s way better than the Harry Potter books and definitely not for children. It’s a fantasy series for hip, smart people, even those who don’t read fantasy.” —
Chicago Tribune
“For a succinct summation of Martin’s medieval fantasy series, imagine a mix of the literary quality of T. H. White’s
The Once and Future King
, the in-your-face, you-are-there grittiness of a movie like Braveheart and the sort of intricate character development found in a quality television show like
Lost
. . . Vast, complex and undeniably entertaining . . . Once in a while, there are books and writers that manage to elevate an entire genre. Stephen King did so with horror. George R. R. Martin’s “A Song of Ice and Fire” series has taken fantasy out of the two-dimensional, black and white realm where it once happily existed and dragged it kicking and screaming into a land of believable characters, ambiguous situations, and bloody, sometimes uncertain denouements.” —
Denver Post
“‘A Song of Ice and Fire’ is firmly at the top of the bestseller lists, probably because it’s the best fantasy series out there.” —
Detroit Free Press
A
PPENDIX
I: THE KINGS AND THEIR COURTS
KING OF THE ISLES AND THE NORTH
A
PPENDIX
II: OTHER HOUSES GREAT AND SMALL
A
PPENDIX
III: REBELS AND ROGUES SMALLFOLK AND SWORN BROTHERS
LORDLINGS, WANDERERS, AND COMMON MEN
THE SWORN BROTHERS OF THE NIGHT’S WATCH
THE WILDLINGS, OR THE FREE FOLK
for Stephen Boucher
wizard of Windows, dragon of DOS
without whom this book would have
been written in crayon
PROLOGUE
D
ragons,” said Mollander. He snatched a withered apple off the ground and tossed it hand to hand.
“Throw the apple,” urged Alleras the Sphinx. He slipped an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bowstring.
“I should like to see a dragon.” Roone was the youngest of them, a chunky boy still two years shy of manhood. “I should like that very much.”
And I should like to sleep with Rosey’s arms around me,
Pate thought. He shifted restlessly on the bench. By the morrow the girl could well be his.
I will take her far from Oldtown, across the narrow sea to one of the Free Cities.
There were no maesters there, no one to accuse him.
He could hear Emma’s laughter coming through a shuttered window overhead, mingled with the deeper voice of the man she was entertaining. She was the oldest of the serving wenches at the Quill and Tankard, forty if she was a day, but still pretty in a fleshy sort of way. Rosey was her daughter, fifteen and freshly flowered. Emma had decreed that Rosey’s maidenhead would cost a golden dragon. Pate had saved nine silver stags and a pot of copper stars and pennies, for all the good that would do him. He would have stood a better chance of hatching a real dragon than saving up enough coin to make a golden one.
“You were born too late for dragons, lad,” Armen the Acolyte told Roone. Armen wore a leather thong about his neck, strung with links of pewter, tin, lead, and copper, and like most acolytes he seemed to believe that novices had turnips growing from their shoulders in place of heads. “The last one perished during the reign of King Aegon the Third.”
“The last dragon in
Westeros,
” insisted Mollander.
“Throw the apple,” Alleras urged again. He was a comely youth, their Sphinx. All the serving wenches doted on him. Even Rosey would sometimes touch him on the arm when she brought him wine, and Pate had to gnash his teeth and pretend not to see.
“The last dragon in Westeros
was
the last dragon,” said Armen doggedly. “That is well known.”
“The
apple,
” Alleras said. “Unless you mean to eat it.”
“Here.” Dragging his clubfoot, Mollander took a short hop, whirled, and whipped the apple sidearm into the mists that hung above the Honeywine. If not for his foot, he would have been a knight like his father. He had the strength for it in those thick arms and broad shoulders. Far and fast the apple flew . . .
. . . but not as fast as the arrow that whistled after it, a yard-long shaft of golden wood fletched with scarlet feathers. Pate did not see the arrow catch the apple, but he heard it. A soft
chunk
echoed back across the river, followed by a splash.
Mollander whistled. “You cored it. Sweet.”
Not half as sweet as Rosey.
Pate loved her hazel eyes and budding breasts, and the way she smiled every time she saw him. He loved the dimples in her cheeks. Sometimes she went barefoot as she served, to feel the grass beneath her feet. He loved that too. He loved the clean fresh smell of her, the way her hair curled behind her ears. He even loved her toes. One night she’d let him rub her feet and play with them, and he’d made up a funny tale for every toe to keep her giggling.
Perhaps he would do better to remain on this side of the narrow sea. He could buy a donkey with the coin he’d saved, and he and Rosey could take turns riding it as they wandered Westeros. Ebrose might not think him worthy of the silver, but Pate knew how to set a bone and leech a fever. The smallfolk would be grateful for his help. If he could learn to cut hair and shave beards, he might even be a barber.
That would be enough,
he told himself,
so long as I had Rosey.
Rosey was all that he wanted in the world.
That had not always been so. Once he had dreamed of being a maester in a castle, in service to some open-handed lord who would honor him for his wisdom and bestow a fine white horse on him to thank him for his service. How high he’d ride, how nobly, smiling down at the smallfolk when he passed them on the road . . .
One night in the Quill and Tankard’s common room, after his second tankard of fearsomely strong cider, Pate had boasted that he would not always be a novice. “Too true,” Lazy Leo had called out. “You’ll be a former novice, herding swine.”
He drained the dregs of his tankard. The torchlit terrace of the Quill and Tankard was an island of light in a sea of mist this morning. Downriver, the distant beacon of the Hightower floated in the damp of night like a hazy orange moon, but the light did little to lift his spirits.
The alchemist should have come by now.
Had it all been some cruel jape, or had something happened to the man? It would not have been the first time that good fortune had turned sour on Pate. He had once counted himself lucky to be chosen to help old Archmaester Walgrave with the ravens, never dreaming that before long he would also be fetching the man’s meals, sweeping out his chambers, and dressing him every morning. Everyone said that Walgrave had forgotten more of ravencraft than most maesters ever knew, so Pate assumed a black iron link was the least that he could hope for, only to find that Walgrave could not grant him one. The old man remained an archmaester only by courtesy. As great a maester as once he’d been, now his robes concealed soiled smallclothes oft as not, and half a year ago some acolytes found him weeping in the Library, unable to find his way back to his chambers. Maester Gormon sat below the iron mask in Walgrave’s place, the same Gormon who had once accused Pate of theft.
In the apple tree beside the water, a nightingale began to sing. It was a sweet sound, a welcome respite from the harsh screams and endless
quork
ing of the ravens he had tended all day long. The white ravens knew his name, and would mutter it to each other whenever they caught sight of him,
“Pate, Pate, Pate,”
until he wanted to scream. The big white birds were Archmaester Walgrave’s pride. He wanted them to eat him when he died, but Pate half suspected that they meant to eat him too.
Perhaps it was the fearsomely strong cider—he had not come here to drink, but Alleras had been buying to celebrate his copper link, and guilt had made him thirsty—but it almost sounded as if the nightingale were trilling
gold for iron, gold for iron, gold for iron.
Which was passing strange, because that was what the stranger had said the night Rosey brought the two of them together. “Who are you?” Pate had demanded of him, and the man had replied, “An alchemist. I can change iron into gold.” And then the coin was in his hand, dancing across his knuckles, the soft yellow gold shining in the candlelight. On one side was a three-headed dragon, on the other the head of some dead king.
Gold for iron,
Pate remembered,
you won’t do better. Do you want her? Do you love her?
“I am no thief,” he had told the man who called himself the alchemist, “I am a novice of the Citadel.” The alchemist had bowed his head, and said, “If you should reconsider, I shall return here three days hence, with my dragon.”
Three days had passed. Pate had returned to the Quill and Tankard, still uncertain what he was, but instead of the alchemist he’d found Mollander and Armen and the Sphinx, with Roone in tow. It would have raised suspicions not to join them.
The Quill and Tankard never closed. For six hundred years it had been standing on its island in the Honeywine, and never once had its doors been shut to trade. Though the tall, timbered building leaned toward the south the way novices sometimes leaned after a tankard, Pate expected that the inn would go on standing for another six hundred years, selling wine and ale and fearsomely strong cider to rivermen and seamen, smiths and singers, priests and princes, and the novices and acolytes of the Citadel.
“Oldtown is not the world,” declared Mollander, too loudly. He was a knight’s son, and drunk as drunk could be. Since they brought him word of his father’s death upon the Blackwater, he got drunk most every night. Even in Oldtown, far from the fighting and safe behind its walls, the War of the Five Kings had touched them all . . . although Archmaester Benedict insisted that there had never been a war of five kings, since Renly Baratheon had been slain before Balon Greyjoy had crowned himself.
“My father always said the world was bigger than any lord’s castle,” Mollander went on. “Dragons must be the least of the things a man might find in Qarth and Asshai and Yi Ti. These sailors’ stories . . .”
“. . . are stories told by sailors,” Armen interrupted. “
Sailors,
my dear Mollander. Go back down to the docks, and I wager you’ll find sailors who’ll tell you of the mermaids that they bedded, or how they spent a year in the belly of a fish.”
“How do you know they didn’t?” Mollander thumped through the grass, looking for more apples. “You’d need to be down the belly yourself to swear they weren’t. One sailor with a story, aye, a man might laugh at that, but when oarsmen off four different ships tell the same tale in four different tongues . . .”
“The tales are
not
the same,” insisted Armen. “Dragons in Asshai, dragons in Qarth, dragons in Meereen, Dothraki dragons, dragons freeing slaves . . . each telling differs from the last.”
“Only in details.” Mollander grew more stubborn when he drank, and even when sober he was bullheaded. “All speak of
dragons,
and a beautiful young queen.”
The only dragon Pate cared about was made of yellow gold. He wondered what had happened to the alchemist.
The third day. He said he’d be here.
“There’s another apple near your foot,” Alleras called to Mollander, “and I still have two arrows in my quiver.”
“Fuck your quiver.” Mollander scooped up the windfall. “This one’s wormy,” he complained, but he threw it anyway. The arrow caught the apple as it began to fall and sliced it clean in two. One half landed on a turret roof, tumbled to a lower roof, bounced, and missed Armen by a foot. “If you cut a worm in two, you make two worms,” the acolyte informed them.
“If only it worked that way with apples, no one would ever need go hungry,” said Alleras with one of his soft smiles. The Sphinx was always smiling, as if he knew some secret jape. It gave him a wicked look that went well with his pointed chin, widow’s peak, and dense mat of close-cropped jet-black curls.
Alleras would make a maester. He had only been at the Citadel for a year, yet already he had forged three links of his maester’s chain. Armen might have more, but each of his had taken him a year to earn. Still, he would make a maester too. Roone and Mollander remained pink-necked novices, but Roone was very young and Mollander preferred drinking to reading.
Pate, though . . .
He had been five years at the Citadel, arriving when he was no more than three-and-ten, yet his neck remained as pink as it had been on the day he first arrived from the westerlands. Twice had he believed himself ready. The first time he had gone before Archmaester Vaellyn to demonstrate his knowledge of the heavens. Instead he learned how Vinegar Vaellyn had earned that name. It took Pate two years to summon up the courage to try again. This time he submitted himself to kindly old Archmaester Ebrose, renowned for his soft voice and gentle hands, but Ebrose’s sighs had somehow proved just as painful as Vaellyn’s barbs.
“One last apple,” promised Alleras, “and I will tell you what I suspect about these dragons.”
“What could you know that I don’t?” grumbled Mollander. He spied an apple on a branch, jumped up, pulled it down, and threw. Alleras drew his bowstring back to his ear, turning gracefully to follow the target in flight. He loosed his shaft just as the apple began to fall.
“You always miss your last shot,” said Roone.
The apple splashed down into the river, untouched.
“See?” said Roone.
“The day you make them all is the day you stop improving.” Alleras unstrung his longbow and eased it into its leather case. The bow was carved from goldenheart, a rare and fabled wood from the Summer Isles. Pate had tried to bend it once, and failed.
The Sphinx looks slight, but there’s strength in those slim arms,
he reflected, as Alleras threw a leg across the bench and reached for his wine cup. “The dragon has three heads,” he announced in his soft Dornish drawl.
“Is this a riddle?” Roone wanted to know. “Sphinxes always speak in riddles in the tales.”
“No riddle.” Alleras sipped his wine. The rest of them were quaffing tankards of the fearsomely strong cider that the Quill and Tankard was renowned for, but he preferred the strange, sweet wines of his mother’s country. Even in Oldtown such wines did not come cheap.
It had been Lazy Leo who dubbed Alleras “the Sphinx.” A sphinx is a bit of this, a bit of that: a human face, the body of a lion, the wings of a hawk. Alleras was the same: his father was a Dornishman, his mother a black-skinned Summer Islander. His own skin was dark as teak. And like the green marble sphinxes that flanked the Citadel’s main gate, Alleras had eyes of onyx.
“No dragon has ever had three heads except on shields and banners,” Armen the Acolyte said firmly. “That was a heraldic charge, no more. Furthermore, the Targaryens are all dead.”