"The Red Keep has a magnificent library, but it holds few books like these," I said, savoring the feel of the old, yellowed pages adorned with remarkably beautiful illustrations as I leafed through them. "I must admit—you have managed to please me."
"I am very glad to hear it, Your Majesty. And who else but you should read about dragons? All of Westeros is speaking of your Turquoise."
There it was—the answering hint. The man wanted to meet my dragon. Why not?
"Turquoise!" I picked up a piece of meat and sprinkled it with red pepper. The dragon ate roasted meat, and of everything else we had tried to offer her, the only thing she had taken a liking to was red pepper. It was amusing.
Turning toward the dragon, I held out the treat. By now, Turquoise had grown a little and was approaching the size of a medium dog.
The dragon carefully and unhurriedly sniffed the offering, then deigned to eat it. Ever since I had managed to wean her away from Tyrion, she accepted food only from my hands. Well, that—or she roasted the pieces I tossed to her herself.
Marwyn the Mage watched us, holding his breath. Everyone else seated at the table behaved far less impulsively—after all, people have a remarkable ability to grow accustomed to any miracle, especially when they see it every day.
Not long ago, dragons had been considered completely extinct. Many believed they were nothing more than a fairy tale. And now the lords and knights surrounding me regarded a dragon as something natural—something that merely emphasized the unique status of their king.
The dragon yawned, releasing thin wisps of smoke, and squinted at the candle flames. Marwyn looked stunned.
"I knew the rumors were true, but believing in a living dragon is so difficult!" he said cautiously, extending his right hand after receiving my permission.
The dragon stretched out her neck and sniffed his fingers. Her tongue flicked out, then she exhaled loudly, hopped down from her perch, and settled at my feet, curling her tail around them and resting her head on my knees.
"I propose we raise our cups to our guest from Oldtown," I suggested, and my guests did not hesitate.
We drank and grew merry after Swyft told a story about a knight who had once taken part in a tournament. He had indulged a little too heavily in wine, the bout dragged on, and he suddenly felt such a desperate urge to relieve himself that he simply could not hold it.
"In short, the fellow soaked his cuisses, poleyns, greaves, and sabatons, but he still won the tournament. Though afterward they gave him the nickname Pisser—but who cares about that?" Swyft finished his tale to general laughter.
"He may have won the tournament, but his reputation was finished," Jaime concluded. A smirk appeared on his face, and he added thoughtfully, "How did he behave with women after that? With a reputation like that, it can't have been easy…"
These were perfectly normal campfire conversations among men. I liked them. Even crude soldier's humor found approval here. After all, we were at war, not lounging in the elegant boudoir of some noble lady. I even considered adapting a couple of military jokes to local realities and telling them when the opportunity arose.
The candles slowly melted. The evening followed its natural course. At the beginning of supper, the servants had set a whole roasted deer on the table, along with a couple of loaves of bread and a wealth of fruits and vegetables. Now all that splendor had been reduced to a heap of well-picked bones. The guests, trying to do so discreetly, belched quietly and yawned more and more often. Fatigue was beginning to creep in.
That evening I spoke at length with the archmaester. Jacob brought a fresh jug of wine, but I did not press the drink too hard. Marwyn, however, had taken quite a liking to it, though it did not seem to affect him in the slightest. His speech continued to flow smoothly, and the pictures he painted with words seemed to rise vividly before the eyes.
The archmaester described snow-covered mountains scoured by relentless winds and people in ice-encrusted clothes trudging through blizzards; scorching deserts where a wanderer's tongue and lips swelled and cracked from thirst; azure seas and storms of unimaginable power; the stifling jungles of Sothoryos and their exotic inhabitants; islands, the remnants of ancient Valyria, and the treasures that might still be found among the ruins of that great civilization; eastern cities dazzling in their luxury and decadence…
Many things intertwined in Marwyn's long tale—past and present, the fantastical and the real, truth and invention.
I was astonished—perhaps there was no better word for it. For the first time in this world, I had met a man with such breadth of vision, someone who scarcely yielded even to me in that regard. What's more, he regarded both what he knew and what he did not know with equal calm—his mind was flexible and fluid. He was not stubborn, not the sort who believed only in what eyes had seen, hands had touched, or books had recorded.
He allowed for an enormous range of possibilities in this world. And he was not only a mage—though I had yet to see any magic from him—but also a philosopher and a scholar. Speaking with this man, I once again felt something I had not experienced since arriving in Westeros: the joy of an intellectual conversation.
And with whom else could I have spoken about such matters? Most lords and knights would simply not have understood them. Perhaps only Willas Tyrell and Tyrion Lannister could boast a similarly broad outlook and learning.
There are many experienced, perceptive, and wise men in Westeros—men like Tywin and Kevan Lannister, or Mathis Rowan—but that is not quite the same. For the most part, they are effective administrators and commanders, not scholars and explorers.
The archmaester, however, was a scholar, mystic, traveler, historian, geographer, mathematician, linguist, writer, astronomer, physician…
He was many things—like those remarkable universal minds who were once born and lived in ancient Greece.