A Clash of Kings Read Online Free PDF Page B

laughing.
    Cressen pressed his lips together and fought to still his rage. She thought he
was feeble and helpless, but she would learn otherwise before the night was
done. Old he might be, yet he was still a maester of the Citadel. “I need no
crown but truth,” he told her, removing the fool’s helm from his
head.
    “There are truths in this world that are not taught at Oldtown.” Melisandre
turned from him in a swirl of red silk and made her way back to the high table,
where King Stannis and his queen were seated. Cressen handed the antlered tin
bucket back to Patchface, and made to follow.
    Maester Pylos sat in his place.
    The old man could only stop and stare. “Maester
Pylos,” he said at last.
“You . . . you did not wake me.”
    “His Grace commanded me to let you rest.” Pylos had at least the grace to
blush. “He told me you were not needed here.”
    Cressen looked over the knights and captains and lords sitting silent. Lord
Celtigar, aged and sour, wore a mantle patterned with red crabs picked out in
garnets. Handsome Lord Velaryon chose sea-green silk, the white gold seahorse
at his throat matching his long fair hair. Lord Bar Emmon, that plump boy of
fourteen, was swathed in purple velvet trimmed with white seal, Ser Axell
Florent remained homely even in russet and fox fur, pious Lord Sunglass wore
moonstones at throat and wrist and finger, and the Lysene captain Salladhor
Saan was a sunburst of

scarlet satin, gold, and jewels. Only Ser Davos dressed simply, in brown
doublet and green wool mantle, and only Ser Davos met his gaze, with pity in
his eyes.
    “You are too ill and too confused to be of use to me, old man.” It sounded so
like Lord Stannis’s voice, but it could not be, it could not. “Pylos will
counsel me henceforth. Already he works with the ravens, since you can no
longer climb to the rookery. I will not have you kill yourself in my
service.”
    Maester Cressen blinked.
Stannis, my lord, my sad sullen boy, son I never
had, you must not do this, don’t you know how I have cared for you, lived for
you, loved you despite all? Yes, loved you, better than Robert even, or Renly,
for you were the one unloved, the one who needed me most.
Yet all he said
was, “As you command, my lord, but . . . but I am hungry.
Might not I have a place at your table?”
At your side, I belong at your
side . . .
    Ser Davos rose from the bench. “I should be honored if the maester would sit
here beside me, Your Grace.”
    “As you will.” Lord Stannis turned away to say something to Melisandre, who
had seated herself at his right hand, in the place of high honor. Lady Selyse
was on his left, flashing a smile as bright and brittle as her
jewels.
    Too far,
Cressen thought dully, looking at where Ser Davos was
seated. Half of the lords bannermen were between the smuggler and the high
table.
I must be closer to her if I am to get the strangler into her cup,
yet how?
    Patchface was capering about as the maester made his slow

way around the table to Davos Seaworth. “Here we eat fish,” the fool declared
happily, waving a cod about like a scepter. “Under the sea, the fish eat us. I
know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”
    Ser Davos moved aside to make room on the bench. “We all should be in motley
tonight,” he said gloomily as Cressen seated himself, “for this is fool’s
business we’re about. The red woman has seen victory in her flames, so Stannis
means to press his claim, no matter what the numbers. Before she’s done we’re
all like to see what Patchface saw, I fear—the bottom of the
sea.”
    Cressen slid his hands up into his sleeves as if for warmth. His fingers found
the hard lumps the crystals made in the wool. “Lord Stannis.”
    Stannis turned from the red woman, but it was Lady Selyse who replied.
“
King
Stannis. You forget yourself, Maester.”
    “He is old, his mind wanders,” the king told her gruffly. “What is it,
Cressen? Speak