A Clash of Kings Read Online Free PDF

and wise to fear such
things,
the maester told himself.
    The doors to the Great Hall were set in the mouth of a stone dragon. He told
the servants to leave him outside. It would be better to enter alone; he must
not appear feeble. Leaning heavily on his cane, Cressen climbed the last few
steps and hobbled beneath the gateway teeth. A pair of guardsmen opened the
heavy red doors before him, unleashing a sudden blast of noise and light.
Cressen stepped down into the dragon’s maw.
    Over the clatter of knife and plate and the low mutter of table talk, he heard
Patchface singing,
“. . . dance, my lord, dance my
lord,”
to the accompaniment of jangling cowbells. The same dreadful song
he’d sung this morning.
“The shadows come to stay, my lord, stay my lord,
stay my lord.”
The lower tables were

crowded with knights, archers, and sellsword captains, tearing apart loaves of
black bread to soak in their fish stew. Here there was no loud laughter, no
raucous shouting such as marred the dignity of other men’s feasts; Lord Stannis
did not permit such.
    Cressen made his way toward the raised platform where the lords sat with the
king. He had to step wide around Patchface. Dancing, his bells ringing, the
fool neither saw nor heard his approach. As he hopped from one leg to the
other, Patchface lurched into Cressen, knocking his cane out from under him.
They went crashing down together amidst the rushes in a tangle of arms and legs,
while a sudden gale of laughter went up around them. No doubt it was a comical
sight.
    Patchface sprawled half on top of him, motley fool’s face pressed close to his
own. He had lost his tin helm with its antlers and bells. “Under the sea, you
fall
up,
” he declared. “I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.” Giggling, the
fool rolled off, bounded to his feet, and did a little dance.
    Trying to make the best of it, the maester smiled feebly and struggled to rise,
but his hip was in such pain that for a moment he was half afraid that he had
broken it all over again. He felt strong hands grasp him under the arms and
lift him back to his feet. “Thank you, ser,” he murmured, turning to see
which knight had come to his aid . . .
    “Maester,” said Lady Melisandre, her deep voice flavored with the music of
the Jade Sea. “You ought take more care.” As ever, she wore red head to heel,
a long loose gown of flowing silk

as bright as fire, with dagged sleeves and deep slashes in 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.
    “I . . . thank you, my lady.”
    “A 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.”
    “Now 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