It was fierce over there, and men were dying. We could hear screams, curses, and the neighing of horses — at night, across the water, sound carried very well.
With the first rays of the sun, it was over. Mooton had been wounded, but he remained in the ranks and managed to hold the bridgehead. The Blackfish withdrew his forces toward the Crossroads. We had lost about two thousand men, the enemy three times fewer, but the sacrifice had been worth it. Now Brynden Tully would have to come up with something.
The main forces could begin the crossing.
That day Jacob Lydden handed me a letter — a message from Harald Orm, who had remained in the capital. He reported the latest news and at the end mentioned that Archmaester Marwyn from Oldtown was on his way to see me and wished to discuss something.
That was interesting. I remembered little about Marwyn, but for some reason I retained the impression that he was a vivid, unusual, and extremely interesting man. Such people were worth observing more closely and, if possible, assessing their potential. I ordered Jacob to invite him to dinner.
Back in the capital, after returning from Riverrun, I had begun introducing a new tradition — hosting shared meals. Calling it a feast would have been inaccurate, although sometimes more than fifty people attended and the dishes served were quite refined.
At such gatherings, when people had eaten and drunk and found themselves in good spirits, it was easy and natural to resolve various matters. Besides, everyone could see that the king involved himself in problems and did not shy away from spending time together. All of this inevitably brought us closer and created a good atmosphere.
Of course, during a campaign there was no such scale, but at dinner I usually gathered ten or twelve people — those I trusted and relied upon.
Incidentally, Harald Orm had also mentioned that these dinners and suppers had begun to be associated among people with a sign of royal favor and with the idea that a person was valued and that their abilities were relied upon. Being present at such a dinner had become a detail indicating that someone possessed a certain authority and influence.
That evening even fewer of us gathered than usual. On my right hand, as the hero of the recent battle, I seated Ser Mooton — pale after his wound, with his right arm and head bandaged. On the far bank his ear had been cut off. Over the course of the evening we raised our cups several times to his health, praising his courage and self-sacrifice.
Also present were Jaime Lannister, Lyle Crakehall, Bonifer Hasty, Erik Fell, Steffon Swyft, and the still somewhat uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed Erg Dark, commander of the Honor and Valor company.
The stewards Jacob and Robert helped serve at the table, while the cupbearer Gynt Holy traditionally tasted all food and drink beforehand. At the entrance, Balon Swann and Jon Cafferen stood guard. Tyrek Lannister stood with them, quietly speaking about something — he had the right to sit at the royal table, but since we often discussed various important details, these gatherings did not bring him much pleasure because of his age. He was young and dreamed of action rather than discussion, and so he preferred speaking with those who fought directly rather than those who planned.
Orm was absent that evening — my personal bodyguard had received permission to wash, put himself in order, rest a little and relax, sit by the fire with friends, and drink some wine.
At the very beginning of the dinner Jacob brought an unusual man into the tent — broad-shouldered, short-legged, with an impressive belly, a nose that looked broken more than once, and incredibly perceptive eyes. This was Marwyn the Mage, an archmaester from the Citadel.
Throughout the evening the Kingsguard occasionally cast attentive glances toward Marwyn, and he, of course, noticed it. The precaution seemed to puzzle Marwyn rather than offend him.
"Do not take offense, Archmaester," I said after he settled to my left and became somewhat comfortable. "We do not know you personally, though we have heard many interesting things, and these are troubled times. With my friends"—I gestured around the table—"such precautions are unnecessary. But you are not yet a friend."
I emphasized the word yet, and from the way Marwyn suddenly smirked, I understood that he was quite capable of reading between the lines.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," he said. His voice sounded more like it belonged to a dockside brute than to a maester famed far and wide for his knowledge and scholarship. "Please accept my gift. This is the legendary book Unnatural History, written by Septon Barth. It describes various magical creatures such as wyverns, werewolves, ghouls, demons, as well as the Children of the Forest and, of course, dragons."
He said all this in Valyrian with such an innocent expression that it seemed as though he already knew I spoke the language. Or perhaps he simply wanted to test me and, if I showed that I understood nothing, politely apologize and repeat everything in the common tongue.
"This is indeed a valuable and useful book," I said, taking the heavy leather-bound folio with its metal corners into my hands. Inwardly I thanked Margaery, with whom I had studied Valyrian, and Maester Lerris, who had taught us. I had not mastered the new language perfectly in that time, but I fully understood what had been said and answered clearly, without a jarring accent. "However, I have heard that Baelor the Blessed ordered all copies of this book destroyed?"
"I am impressed by your learning, Your Majesty," Marwyn said, leaning back in his chair. He folded his hands into a steeple upon his belly and studied me carefully before shifting his gaze to Turquoise, who was resting behind my back on a specially made stand that resembled a table on a thick pedestal. "I believe this is one of the few surviving copies. I found it in ancient Volantis."
(End of Chapter)
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