A gaunt albino with milky-white skin and long white hair was making love to an astonishingly beautiful woman. He took her from behind. Muscles flexed in the thighs of both the girl and the man. Her slim waist arched invitingly, and her large, full breasts with pink nipples bounced in rhythm with his movements. Her silver-golden hair tangled with the grass as she moaned loudly and writhed, trying to take her lover as deeply as possible. She clutched the heart tree's root so tightly that her fingers turned white.
I noticed a large birthmark on the man's neck, creeping up onto his right cheek.
Their rich garments lay scattered on the ground in disarray, along with a harp—its body pure white, its strings golden.
Sweat beaded on the man's forehead as his movements grew faster and faster. At the final moment, he roughly wound the woman's magnificent hair around his hand, yanked her head back, and cried out loudly as he climaxed.
At that instant, he lifted his head, revealing a single red eye. Where the other should have been, I saw a bare, empty socket—uncovered, as if deliberately put on display.
The man sensed something. A sinister smile slid across his thin lips.
With a sharp jolt, I came back to myself and opened my eyes. Whew—it seemed I had returned to my own time… Herald stood calmly nearby, his back turned to me, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
I instinctively ran a hand over my face. I hadn't expected it to be like this. Everything had felt both real and unreal at the same time—just as the Elder had shown me. I had seen everything, heard the sounds, and even sensed the smells…
Smiling to myself, I thought how fortunate it was that I was an adult and had Margaery. Had I been a teenager, I surely wouldn't have resisted and would have spent far too much time peeping at scenes like that. I'm certain that over ten thousand years, people had made love beneath the canopies of heart trees more than once. Of course, watching something like that wasn't so bad—but I had far more pressing matters. And with Margaery, time could be spent far more productively.
Well then. At last, something had worked. It was worth thinking over carefully.
***
We sent Littlefinger another letter. His reply came late; he claimed he was still unwell and that his return to King's Landing was, to his regret, once again postponed.
"Oh, I have a bad feeling about all this," Tyrion shared darkly with me. After consulting with Tywin, we wrote a response in which the first notes of displeasure slipped through—by our reckoning, Littlefinger would be more wary of an overly sweet, kind tone, whereas royal irritation, on the contrary, might throw him off balance.
***
The dragon was growing. We still hadn't come up with a name for it, nor had we even managed to determine whether it was male or female. It ate well, moved constantly, was curious—and had already begun to cause trouble. At the same time, of the two of us, it increasingly singled out Tyrion. At the very least, it allowed my uncle to carry it on his shoulder. When I tried to do the same, it sat with me for a few minutes—seemingly out of politeness—then slid down my clothes to the floor, clinging with its claws.
The dragon caused a true sensation in the Red Keep. And rumors began to spread through King's Landing that a dragon does not obey people lightly. Which meant that a truly formidable king now sat on the Iron Throne.
It was amusing, considering that the dragon clearly favored Tyrion rather than me. I even felt a little offended by both of them.
Myrcella, Tommen, Sansa, and Margaery were constantly finding excuses to come and see our pet. On several occasions, Roslin Tully accompanied them as well. The seventeen-year-old girl no longer seemed as frightened and timid as she had in the first days. Over time, she had grown closest to Myrcella, and it appeared they had already become good friends.
The dragon showed no particular aggression in the presence of outsiders, but it also did not tolerate excess familiarity. No one was allowed to pet it, and it accepted food only from my hands—or from Tyrion's.
***
The riverlords arrived in the capital, led by Edmure Tully. I received them seated upon the Iron Throne. The reception was solemn and, as always, unbearably dull. Such occasions required observing countless formalities—paying respects, voicing various clauses of the agreement—and all of it consumed an enormous amount of time. In moments like these, I began to understand Robert Baratheon. He was clever to shift all affairs onto the shoulders of his Hand while he himself enjoyed life with wine and women.
Everyone seemed satisfied—at least, I saw no open hostility among either the Lannister men or the Tully men. Though how could one truly be satisfied when handing over a million gold dragons to another man?
"In the coming days, we will speak with you further," I promised Edmure Tully. He nodded. "And tomorrow, we shall hold a feast in honor of our alliance."
The reception ended. Edmure Tully went to his wife, who had stood on the gallery the entire time, watching her husband with eyes full of love and happiness.
Edmure delivered several barrels of coin to the Crown—a million dragons in reparations. I had never seen such a sum before, and that evening, as Tywin, Tyrion, and I examined it carefully, I felt something strange. Such a mountain of gold looked unreal.
The very next day, Lord Mathis Rowan loaded all the money onto a ship and set sail for Braavos.
(End of Chapter)
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