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- Джордж Мартин
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His
chambers
seemed
dim
and
gloomy
after
the
brightness
of
the
morning
.
With
fumbling
hands
,
the
old
man
lit
a
candle
and
carried
it
to
the
workroom
beneath
the
rookery
stair
,
where
his
ointments
,
potions
,
and
medicines
stood
neatly
on
their
shelves
.
On
the
bottom
shelf
behind
a
row
of
salves
in
squat
clay
jars
he
found
a
vial
of
indigo
glass
,
no
larger
than
his
little
finger
.
It
rattled
when
he
shook
it
.
Cressen
blew
away
a
layer
of
dust
and
carried
it
back
to
his
table
.
Collapsing
into
his
chair
,
he
pulled
the
stopper
and
spilled
out
the
vial
’
s
contents
.
A
dozen
crystals
,
no
larger
than
seeds
,
rattled
across
the
parchment
he
’
d
been
reading
.
They
shone
like
jewels
in
the
candlelight
,
so
purple
that
the
maester
found
himself
thinking
that
he
had
never
truly
seen
the
color
before
.
The
chain
around
his
throat
felt
very
heavy
.
He
touched
one
of
the
crystals
lightly
with
the
tip
of
his
little
finger
.
Such
a
small
thing
to
hold
the
power
of
life
and
death
.
It
was
made
from
a
certain
plant
that
grew
only
on
the
islands
of
the
Jade
Sea
,
half
a
world
away
.
The
leaves
had
to
be
aged
,
and
soaked
in
a
wash
of
limes
and
sugar
water
and
certain
rare
spices
from
the
Summer
Isles
.
Afterward
they
could
be
discarded
,
but
the
potion
must
be
thickened
with
ash
and
allowed
to
crystallize
.
The
process
was
slow
and
difficult
,
the
necessaries
costly
and
hard
to
acquire
.
The
alchemists
of
Lys
knew
the
way
of
it
,
though
,
and
the
Faceless
Men
of
Braavos
.
.
.
and
the
maesters
of
his
order
as
well
,
though
it
was
not
something
talked
about
beyond
the
walls
of
the
Citadel
.
All
the
world
knew
that
a
maester
forged
his
silver
link
when
he
learned
the
art
of
healing
—
but
the
world
preferred
to
forget
that
men
who
knew
how
to
heal
also
knew
how
to
kill
.
Cressen
no
longer
recalled
the
name
the
Asshai
’
i
gave
the
leaf
,
or
the
Lysene
poisoners
the
crystal
.
In
the
Citadel
,
it
was
simply
called
the
strangler
.
Dissolved
in
wine
,
it
would
make
the
muscles
of
a
man
’
s
throat
clench
tighter
than
any
fist
,
shutting
off
his
windpipe
.
They
said
a
victim
’
s
face
turned
as
purple
as
the
little
crystal
seed
from
which
his
death
was
grown
,
but
so
too
did
a
man
choking
on
a
morsel
of
food
.
And
this
very
night
Lord
Stannis
would
feast
his
bannermen
,
his
lady
wife
.
.
.
and
the
red
woman
,
Melisandre
of
Asshai
.
I
must
rest
,
Maester
Cressen
told
himself
.
I
must
have
all
my
strength
come
dark
.
My
hands
must
not
shake
,
nor
my
courage
flag
.
It
is
a
dreadful
thing
I
do
,
yet
it
must
be
done
.
If
there
are
gods
,
surely
they
will
forgive
me
.
He
had
slept
so
poorly
of
late
.
A
nap
would
refresh
him
for
the
ordeal
ahead
.
Wearily
,
he
tottered
off
to
his
bed
.
Yet
when
he
closed
his
eyes
,
he
could
still
see
the
light
of
the
comet
,
red
and
fiery
and
vividly
alive
amidst
the
darkness
of
his
dreams
.
Perhaps
it
is
my
comet
,
he
thought
drowsily
at
the
last
,
just
before
sleep
took
him
.
An
omen
of
blood
,
foretelling
murder
.
.
.
yes
.
.
.
When
he
woke
it
was
full
dark
,
his
bedchamber
was
black
,
and
every
joint
in
his
body
ached
.
Cressen
pushed
himself
up
,
his
head
throbbing
.
Clutching
for
his
cane
,
he
rose
unsteady
to
his
feet
.
So
late
,
he
thought
.
They
did
not
summon
me
.
He
was
always
summoned
for
feasts
,
seated
near
the
salt
,
close
to
Lord
Stannis
.
His
lord
’
s
face
swam
up
before
him
,
not
the
man
he
was
but
the
boy
he
had
been
,
standing
cold
in
the
shadows
while
the
sun
shone
on
his
elder
brother
.
Whatever
he
did
,
Robert
had
done
first
,
and
better
.
Poor
boy
.
.
.
he
must
hurry
,
for
his
sake
.
The
maester
found
the
crystals
where
he
had
left
them
,
and
scooped
them
off
the
parchment
.
Cressen
owned
no
hollow
rings
,
such
as
the
poisoners
of
Lys
were
said
to
favor
,
but
a
myriad
of
pockets
great
and
small
were
sewn
inside
the
loose
sleeves
of
his
robe
.
He
secreted
the
strangler
seeds
in
one
of
them
,
threw
open
his
door
,
and
called
,
"
Pylos
?
Where
are
you
?
"
When
he
heard
no
reply
,
he
called
again
,
louder
.
"
Pylos
,
I
need
help
.
"
Still
there
came
no
answer
.
That
was
queer
;
the
young
maester
had
his
cell
only
a
half
turn
down
the
stair
,
within
easy
earshot
.
In
the
end
,
Cressen
had
to
shout
for
the
servants
.
"
Make
haste
,
"
he
told
them
.
"
I
have
slept
too
long
.
They
will
be
feasting
by
now
.
.
.
drinking
.
.
.
I
should
have
been
woken
.
"
What
had
happened
to
Maester
Pylos
?
Truly
,
he
did
not
understand
.
