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 Ebroses sighs had somehow proved just as painful as Vaellyns barbs.
One last apple, promised Alleras, and I will tell you what I suspect about these dragons.
What could you know that I dont? 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 theres 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 mothers 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 Citadels 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.
Not all, said Alleras. The Beggar King had a sister.
I thought her head was smashed against a wall, said Roone.
No, said Alleras. It was Prince Rhaegars young son Aegon whose head was dashed against the wall by the Lion of Lannisters brave men. We speak of Rhaegars sister, born on Dragonstone before its fall. The one they called Daenerys.
The Stormborn. I recall her now. Mollander lifted his tankard high, sloshing the cider that remained. Heres
to her! He gulped, slammed his empty tankard down, belched, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Wheres Rosey? Our rightful queen deserves another round of cider, wouldnt you say?
Armen the Acolyte looked alarmed. Lower your voice, fool. You should not even jape about such things. You never know who could be listening. The Spider has ears everywhere.
Ah, dont piss your breeches, Armen. I was proposing a drink, not a rebellion.
Pate heard a chuckle. A soft, sly voice called out from behind him. I always knew you were a traitor, Hopfrog. Lazy Leo was slouching by the foot of the old plank bridge, draped in satin striped in green and gold, with a black silk half cape pinned to his shoulder by a rose of jade. The wine hed dribbled down his front had been a robust red, judging from the color of the spots. A lock of his ash-blond hair fell down across one eye.
Mollander bristled at the sight of him. Bugger that. Go away. You are not welcome here. Alleras laid a hand upon his arm to calm him, whilst Armen frowned. Leo. My lord. I had understood that you were still confined to the Citadel for.
. three more days. Lazy Leo shrugged. Perestan says the world is forty thousand years old. Mollos says five hundred thousand. What are three days, I ask you? Though there were a dozen empty tables on the terrace, Leo sat himself at theirs. Buy me a cup of Arbor gold, Hopfrog, and perhaps I wont inform my father of your toast. The tiles turned against me at the Checkered Hazard, and I wasted my last stag on supper. Suckling pig in plum sauce, stuffed with chestnuts and white truffles. A man must eat. What did you lads have?
Mutton, muttered Mollander. He sounded none too pleased about it. We shared a haunch of boiled mutton.
Im certain it was filling. Leo turned to Alleras. A lords son should be open-handed, Sphinx. I understand you won your copper link. Ill drink to that.
Alleras smiled back at him. I only buy for friends. And I am no lords son, Ive told you that. My mother was a trader.
Leos eyes were hazel, bright with wine and malice. Your mother was a monkey from the Summer Isles. The Dornish will fuck anything with a hole between its legs. Meaning no offense. You may be brown as a nut, but at least you bathe. Unlike our spotted pig boy. He waved a hand toward Pate.