Night had fallen over Oldtown.
Known throughout the known world for its elegance and beauty, Oldtown was the jewel of the Reach—the richest and most refined city in Westeros.
The people of Oldtown looked down on King's Landing, considering it nothing more than a city built through power and conquest. In their eyes, it lacked order, with filthy streets, thatched roofs, wooden shacks, and a constant stench. Oldtown, by contrast, was built entirely of stone, with every road and alley paved with cobblestones, even the narrowest streets.
The Quill and Tankard, an inn located on a small island in the upper Mander River, had welcomed travelers continuously for over six hundred years without ever closing its doors.
Tonight, a group of apprentices from The Citadel had gathered there for drinks.
They included Pate "Pig Boy," Roney, Raaq, the dark-skinned apprentice nicknamed "Sphinx," the crippled Morrande, and Aman.
Among them, Aman and Raaq were considered the brightest students, while the other three were often regarded as slow-witted.
Assistant Acolyte Aman wore a leather cord around his neck, from which hung links of pewter, tin, lead, and copper. His chain reflected his considerable knowledge.
Raaq, nicknamed "Sphinx," was the son of a Dornish father and a Summer Island mother. He had studied at The Citadel for nearly a year and had already forged two links for his chain, while his copper link was nearly complete.
"Randyll Tarly claimed his son was dead," Roney said. "His heart is truly cruel. Samwell isn't dead at all—he's serving as the Lord Commander's personal steward at the Wall. If the Night's Watch hadn't requested more acolytes, nobody would have known."
"A son who cannot become a knight is no different from a dead son in Randyll's eyes," Morrande said bitterly.
Like Samwell, Morrande had been born into a knightly family. Because of his crippled legs, he had been forced to study at The Citadel instead of pursuing knighthood. He understood all too well the expectations fathers like Randyll Tarly placed upon their sons.
"Perhaps Randyll misjudged him," Lareza said thoughtfully. "The Wall is no place for cowards, yet Samwell has endured. Maybe he possesses more courage than people believe."
"Then why didn't Randyll send him to The Citadel instead?" Pate asked in confusion.
"Because Lord Randyll despises scholars," Aman explained patiently. "Everyone in Oldtown knows he has no respect for men who wield quills instead of swords. Sending his son here to eventually serve some minor lord would have been the greatest humiliation imaginable."
Lareza laughed.
"Come on, Pate. You're such a fool. Horn Hill is practically next door to Oldtown, and House Tarly has long-standing ties with House Hightower. Noble families are all connected through marriage."
He continued,
"Lord Randyll's wife, Melissa Florent, is the eldest daughter of House Florent. Her younger sister, Rhea Florent, became Lord Leyton Hightower's fourth wife."
"Let's change the subject," Morrande suggested. "The merchants from Qarth claim dragons have returned, and that the red comet is a sign of their rebirth."
"Do dragons really exist again?" Raaq, the Sphinx, asked curiously as he nocked an arrow onto his bow.
"I'd love to see one," Roney admitted. "Even just once."
Laughter drifted from the upstairs windows.
Emma, the inn's oldest waitress, still retained her charm despite being over forty years old. Her daughter Rosie had recently turned fifteen and had just experienced her first moon blood.
Emma had proudly announced that Rosie's maidenhood would cost one gold dragon.
Pate's face immediately reddened.
He cared little for dragons or the wider world.
All he wanted was enough money to spend a night with Rosie.
Unfortunately, he possessed only nine silver stags and a jar full of copper coins.
Compared to the price of one gold dragon, it was hopelessly insufficient.
"You were born too late to see dragons," Aman told Roney. "The last dragon died during the reign of King Aegon III."
"There may still be hope," Morrande insisted. "The merchants of Qarth claim the Storm King possesses dragons, alongside the beautiful True Dragon princess."
"Impossible," Aman argued stubbornly. "The last dragon in Westeros was the last dragon in the world."
Morrande tossed an apple high into the air.
He often dreamed of flying.
His upper body was powerful, but his crippled legs ensured he would never become the knight he longed to be.
Whoosh!
An arrow pierced the apple cleanly before both fell into the river.
"Perfect shot," Morrande whistled.
Lareza lowered his bow.
His goldenheart longbow from the Summer Isles was both beautiful and incredibly powerful.
Although his lean frame made him appear fragile, his strength was extraordinary.
Pate stared absentmindedly.
His thoughts remained fixed on Rosie.
She was all he wanted.
Money... he needed money.
He had no interest in dragons or prophecies.
"I need one gold dragon..." he thought desperately.
Perhaps then he could buy a donkey, take Rosie away, and travel across Westeros together.
"Oldtown isn't the whole world," Morrande declared. "The Beggar King's sister is about to become queen. Sailors claim dragons have returned. Maybe magic truly lives again."
"Sailors lie whenever they're drunk," Aman replied dismissively. "After enough ale, they'll swear they've slept with mermaids or seen ice dragons."
"But the red comet is real," Morrande insisted. "Such celestial signs must mean something. Perhaps dragons truly have returned."
"Throw the apple again," Lareza said. "One last shot."
"Your last shot always misses," Roney teased.
Morrande tossed the apple.
Lareza loosed his final arrow.
This time, it narrowly missed.
"When you've reached the summit, there's nowhere higher to climb," Lareza said quietly as he unstrung his bow and slipped it into its leather case.
"Dragons have three heads."
"They only have three heads on banners," Aman replied. "Soon there won't even be any Targaryens left. The last Targaryen princess will marry Baratheon."
"What was her name again?" Roney asked.
"Daenerys Stormborn," Lareza answered. "The daughter of King Aerys, born on Dragonstone after Rhaegar's death."
"Then here's another drink to the rightful King and Queen," Morrande laughed, draining another mug of cider before slamming it onto the table.
"Wait... if Joffrey isn't Robert's son, then who exactly are we drinking to?"
"Quiet, you idiot!" Aman hissed.
"In the past, Varys's little birds were everywhere. Even now, speaking such words aloud is treason. Do you want Stormborn's soldiers to cut off your head?"
A mocking voice suddenly interrupted them.
"So the traitors are drinking without inviting me."
They turned.
Reo Tyrell strolled across the old wooden bridge.
"Oh, look who's here."
"Sphinx. Cripple. Child. And Lord Pate."
"Shouldn't you be taking care of that senile old maester instead?"
"What has The Citadel become? A dumping ground for useless fools?"
Reo wore an elegant green-and-gold silk tunic pinned with a carved jade rose. Wine stained the front of his clothes, and a strand of blond hair covered one eye.
Though merely a bastard branch of House Tyrell, he still carried himself with unmistakable arrogance.
"I won't always be an apprentice!" Pate protested.
"No," Reo laughed.
"You'll become a former apprentice... and then a pig farmer!"
Pate's face twitched.
If things continued this way, raising pigs might truly become his future.
Morrande slammed his mug onto the table.
"Damn you! Get out of here. Nobody wants you!"
Raaq quickly grabbed his shoulder to keep him from starting a fight.
At that moment, light footsteps echoed from the stairs.
Rosie descended gracefully, fluttering around Reo like a butterfly among flowers.
________________________________________
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