Jacub screamed, and I literally froze—paralyzed both by what had just happened and by what would come next. The dragon had behaved quietly all this time, never attacking anyone. True, she had not tolerated liberties toward herself, but she had always remained restrained. And now—this!
Howling, Jacub collapsed to the ground. Snapping out of it, I grabbed a pitcher of water and poured it over his chest.
"Back, back, Turquoise!" I tried to push the dragon away with my foot, but she did not like that. She growled—this time at me.
Robert Brax burst into the tent and stopped in horror, unsure what to do. Orm and Ragnar followed immediately behind him.
"That's Jacob, isn't it?" Orm swallowed nervously but showed no further emotion.
By then, Jacob had gone still. A sickening stench of burnt flesh filled the tent. Thin wisps of smoke rose from what remained of his clothing—a vast patch of charred flesh on his chest was a gruesome sight. I nodded silently—there was nothing to say.
"Look at his face!" Ragnar first bent over the body, then recoiled sharply.
Indeed, Jacob's face seemed to melt, like wax under heat. Its shape shifted, then settled—before us now lay a swarthy man with a small mustache and dark hair.
"Find Jacob immediately," I said, struck by a sudden realization of what this might be.
A moment later, a worried Jaime entered the tent, followed by several lords and Marwyn the Mage. The Lord Commander bent over the body, listened to Robert's disjointed explanation, then mine, and finally, rubbing his chin, said:
"I've heard of this sort of thing. Most likely an assassin."
"You are correct, my lord," Marwyn nodded. "In my travels, I have encountered such men. He is a Faceless Man—and according to legend, they can change their faces."
"As you can see, Joff, the legend doesn't lie." Jaime turned sharply to the guards. "Take this filth away!"
"Wait—search him first," I stopped him.
"And, with your permission, I will examine the body internally," the archmaester added.
When everyone had left the tent, I approached the dragon, crouched down, and began to stroke her.
"I'm sorry, Turquoise. Today, you saved my life."
The dragon exhaled almost like a human—both forgiving me and, at the same time, reproaching my foolishness and short-sightedness. Then she settled her head more comfortably on my knees. Well, she had more than earned her share of affection.
An hour later, things had calmed down. Jacob Liddon had not yet been found. Something told me he would not be found in the morning either. No letters or anything important had been discovered on the dead man's clothing or in his pockets. Truly—Faceless Man.
From that day on, I tightened my security even further—though I hardly knew how it could be tightened any more. All food and drink were tasted and then held for over an hour. Guards always moved in pairs, and at least two men were constantly at my side. And on top of that, there was Turquoise, who, as it turned out, could sense the nature of a person. These measures were exhausting. But they would end only with the death of the main villain—and that, in my mind, was Petyr Baelish.
There was at least one bright spot—by then, Randyll Tarly had defeated the Golden Company and was now marching toward us with a large cavalry force.
I spent a fair amount of time with Edmure Tully. We slowly came to know one another. In my opinion, he was a perfectly decent man—allowing for his status as a lord, of course. Westeros, in truth, had no shortage of bastards, and as a rule, the more influential a man was, the more often he displayed his sense of superiority. Against that backdrop, Edmar came off as downright reasonable and reliable.
One evening, we sat in my tent. Robert had set a goose with honey and apples on the table. I gnawed leisurely on a leg, occasionally taking a sip of wine.
"What will happen to the Blackfish, Joffrey?" Somehow, we had cast aside unnecessary formalities, and in private he addressed me by name. The tent was warm and cozy—a fire was burning in the stone hearth, giving off a pleasant warmth. Edmure had shed his outer garments and now sat in a light shirt and trousers, a dagger fastened at his belt. He made short work of the goose, grease mixed with wine running through his beard.
"I've considered your request. If we take him alive, I promise I'll give him the chance to take the black and go to the Wall." I had no desire to pardon the Blackfish, but Edmure Tully had, in truth, saved us all. And he had the right to demand something of his king. In Westeros, no one ever dragged their feet on that.
"And Lysa? Robert?"
"As for your sister, nothing has been decided yet. I would like to speak with her first. As for the boy, I will take him to the Red Keep." Edmure tensed slightly, and I added, "You will be his guardian. You're Master of Arms—you can make a proper man of him. I've heard Lysa has spoiled him badly, and that he's good for nothing. And the Vale will pay indemnity—a million, just as you once did. Is that fair?"
"Fair enough." He leaned back in his chair, took a deep drink, and then added unexpectedly, "You're a man one can do business with, Joffrey."
"You as well, Edmure!" I raised my horn in salute. It seemed my relations with the river lord were improving steadily.
(End of Chapter)
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