A Feast for Crows is the fourth of seven planned novels in the epic fantasy series A Song of Ice and Fire by American author George R. R. Martin. The novel was first published in the United Kingdom on October 17, 2005, with a United States edition following on November 8, 2005.
PROLOGUE
Dragons,” said Mollander. He snatched a withered apple off the ground and tossed it
handtohand.
“Throwtheapple,”urgedAllerastheSphinx.Heslippedanarrowfromhisquiverand
nockedittohisbowstring.
“Ishouldliketoseeadragon.”Roonewastheyoungestofthem,achunkyboystilltwo
yearsshyofmanhood.“Ishouldlikethatverymuch.”
And I should like to sleep with Rosey’s arms around me, Pate thought. He shifted
restlesslyonthebench.Bythemorrowthegirlcouldwellbehis.Iwilltakeherfarfrom
Oldtown,acrossthenarrowseatooneoftheFreeCities.Therewerenomaestersthere,
noonetoaccusehim.
HecouldhearEmma’slaughtercomingthroughashutteredwindowoverhead,mingled
withthedeepervoiceofthemanshewasentertaining.Shewastheoldestoftheserving
wenchesattheQuillandTankard,fortyifshewasaday,butstillprettyinafleshysortof
way. Rosey was her daughter, fifteen and freshly flowered. Emma had decreed that
Rosey’smaidenheadwouldcostagoldendragon.Patehadsavedninesilverstagsanda
potofcopperstarsandpennies,forallthegoodthatwoulddohim.Hewouldhavestooda
betterchanceofhatchingarealdragonthansavingupenoughcointomakeagoldenone.
“Youwereborntoolatefordragons,lad,”ArmentheAcolytetoldRoone.Armenwore
aleatherthongabouthisneck,strungwithlinksofpewter,tin,lead,andcopper,andlike
mostacolytesheseemedtobelievethatnoviceshadturnipsgrowingfromtheirshoulders
inplaceofheads.“ThelastoneperishedduringthereignofKingAegontheThird.”
“ThelastdragoninWesteros,”insistedMollander.
“Throwtheapple,”Allerasurgedagain.Hewasacomelyyouth,theirSphinx.Allthe
servingwenchesdotedonhim.EvenRoseywouldsometimestouchhimonthearmwhen
shebroughthimwine,andPatehadtognashhisteethandpretendnottosee.
“ThelastdragoninWesteroswasthelastdragon,”saidArmendoggedly.“Thatiswell
known.”
“Theapple,”Allerassaid.“Unlessyoumeantoeatit.”
“Here.”Dragginghisclubfoot,Mollandertookashorthop,whirled,andwhipped the
applesidearmintothemiststhathungabovetheHoneywine.Ifnotforhisfoot,hewould
havebeenaknightlikehisfather.Hehadthestrengthforitinthosethickarmsandbroad
shoulders.Farandfasttheappleflew…
…butnotasfastasthearrowthatwhistledafterit,ayard-longshaftofgoldenwood
fletchedwithscarletfeathers.Patedidnotseethearrowcatchtheapple,butheheardit.A
softchunkechoedbackacrosstheriver,followedbyasplash.
Mollanderwhistled.“Youcoredit.Sweet.”
NothalfassweetasRosey.Patelovedherhazeleyesandbuddingbreasts,andtheway
shesmiledeverytimeshesawhim.Helovedthedimplesinhercheeks.Sometimesshe
wentbarefootassheserved,tofeelthegrassbeneathherfeet.Helovedthattoo.Heloved
thecleanfreshsmellofher,thewayherhaircurledbehindherears.Heevenlovedher
toes.Onenightshe’dlethimrubherfeetandplaywiththem,andhe’dmadeupafunny
taleforeverytoetokeephergiggling.
Perhapshe would do betterto remain onthisside of thenarrowsea. He could buya
donkey with the coin he’d saved, and he and Rosey could take turns riding it as they
wanderedWesteros.Ebrosemightnotthinkhimworthyofthesilver,butPateknewhow
tosetaboneandleechafever.Thesmallfolkwouldbegratefulforhishelp.Ifhecould
learntocuthairandshavebeards,hemightevenbeabarber.Thatwouldbeenough,he
toldhimself,solongasIhadRosey.Roseywasallthathewantedintheworld.
Thathadnotalwaysbeenso.Oncehehad dreamedofbeingamaesterinacastle,in
servicetosomeopen-handedlordwhowouldhonorhimforhiswisdomandbestowafine
whitehorseonhimtothankhimforhisservice.Howhighhe’dride,hownobly,smiling
downatthesmallfolkwhenhepassedthemontheroad…
One night in the Quill and Tankard’s common room, after his second tankard of
fearsomely strong cider, Pate had boasted that he would not always be a novice. “Too
true,”LazyLeohadcalledout.“You’llbeaformernovice,herdingswine.”
Hedrainedthedregsofhistankard.ThetorchlitterraceoftheQuillandTankardwasan
island of light in a sea of mist this morning. Downriver, the distant beacon of the
Hightowerfloatedinthedampofnightlikeahazyorangemoon,butthelightdidlittleto
lifthisspirits.
The alchemist should have come by now. Had it all been some cruel jape, or had
somethinghappenedtotheman?Itwouldnothavebeenthefirsttimethatgoodfortune
had turned sour on Pate. He had once counted himself lucky to be chosen to help old
ArchmaesterWalgravewiththeravens,neverdreamingthatbeforelonghewouldalsobe
fetchingthe man’s meals, sweeping out his chambers, and dressing him every morning.
Everyone said that Walgrave had forgotten more of ravencraft than most maesters ever
knew,soPateassumedablackironlinkwastheleastthathecouldhopefor,onlytofind
that Walgrave could not grant him one. The old man remained an archmaester only by
courtesy. As great a maester as once he’d been, now his robes concealed soiled
smallclothes oft as not, and half a year ago some acolytes found him weeping in the
Library,unabletofindhiswaybacktohischambers.MaesterGormonsatbelowtheiron
maskinWalgrave’splace,thesameGormonwhohadonceaccusedPateoftheft.
Intheappletreebesidethewater,anightingalebegantosing.Itwasasweetsound,a
welcomerespitefromtheharshscreamsandendlessquorkingoftheravenshehadtended
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