Malansi crouched at the entrance of the blacksmith shop, watching the lights of Highgarden Castle in the distance, the small flame in his heart burning brightly.
Old Toma patted his shoulder, stood up, and went inside.
After a while, the old man came out, holding a rolled-up piece of old parchment and stuffing it into Malansi's arms.
Malansi took it and unrolled it by the light coming from the furnace.
It was a list written in charcoal; the handwriting was crooked, and some parts were blurred by sweat, but it was still legible.
Warhorse: Starting from 30 Gold Dragons
Knight's Plate Armor (Full Set): Starting from 100 Gold Dragons
Longsword: 10 Gold Dragons
Lance (One): 5 Gold Dragons (At least three needed for a tournament)
Spurs, Saddle, Bridle: 15 Gold Dragons
Attendant's Equipment and Wages: 20 Gold Dragons
Tournament Entry Fee: 5 Gold Dragons
...
Malansi stared at the parchment, his eyes unmoving.
He counted them one by one, added the numbers together, added them again, and then added them once more.
Old Toma crouched down beside him, pulled a pipe from his breast pocket, stuffed it with tobacco, lit it, and began to puff away.
"One hundred and eighty-five," Malansi's voice was dry. "At least one hundred and eighty-five Gold Dragons."
Old Toma exhaled a cloud of smoke and nodded.
Malansi tapped the parchment again. "And this doesn't even include the cost of food, lodging, or repairing armor."
Old Toma nodded again.
Malansi flipped the parchment over; there was more writing on the back.
Requirements for Knighthood:
1. Of noble birth or having achieved significant military merit.
2. The knighting ceremony must be presided over by a knight or a lord.
3. Swear an oath before the Seven.
4. Prepare a complete set of knight's equipment (may apply to a lord for partial funding).
Malansi set the parchment down, looked up, and stared at Old Toma.
The old man was smoking, his face expressionless, but there was something in his eyes—as if he had known it would be like this all along.
"One hundred and eighty-five Gold Dragons," Malansi repeated, his voice lower than before.
Scraping a living from the fields for a year, he could save three to five silver coins. One Gold Dragon was worth a hundred silver coins.
One hundred and eighty-five Gold Dragons was eighteen thousand five hundred silver coins.
He did the math in his head, and his expression began to change.
At five silver coins saved per year, eighteen thousand five hundred silver coins would take three thousand seven hundred years.
Seeing his pale face, Old Toma waved a hand in front of his eyes.
Malansi didn't react.
The old man waved again, and only then did Malansi snap back to reality. He handed the parchment back and stood up.
"Uncle Toma, I'm going back to sleep."
He turned and left, his steps a bit light and unsteady.
Old Toma watched his retreating figure, puffing on his pipe, his eyes narrowing.
Malansi reached the edge of the olive grove, stopped, and looked back.
The furnace fire in the blacksmith shop was still burning, and the old man sat at the entrance like a dark silhouette.
He felt the dragon egg in his arms.
The egg was still warm; having absorbed the furnace heat all afternoon, it felt a bit heavier than a few days ago.
One hundred and eighty-five Gold Dragons.
If the dragon egg hatched, he could ride the The Black Dread and burn across the Seven Kingdoms.
If the dragon egg didn't hatch, he would just be the son of a poor tenant farmer, unable even to enter the tournament grounds.
Malansi stood at the edge of the olive grove. The moon hung overhead, turning the path white. From a distant village came the sound of dogs barking; it continued for a while and then stopped.
He continued walking back.
Reaching his front door, he pushed it open; the house was pitch black. He lay down on a straw mat, hands behind his head, looking up at the rafters.
A few strings of dried chili peppers hung from the rafters. Moonlight filtered through the cracks in the door, making the shadows of the peppers sway.
To be a knight.
He closed his eyes, and images of the afternoon's tournament flashed through his mind. Horses charging, lances leveled, men sent flying. The winners were laughing, and the losers were laughing too.
One hundred and eighty-five Gold Dragons.
He rolled over, facing the wall.
The wall was made of adobe, cool to the touch and smelling of earth.
Earn that money first, then talk.
How to earn it?
Two hundred Gold Dragons.
The two hundred Gold Dragons that today's tournament champion took home.
Malansi opened his eyes and stared at the wall in the darkness.
If he could win a tournament, the prize money would be enough.
But he hadn't practiced any moves, never ridden a horse, and never held a sword. Entering the field would be certain death.
He felt the dragon egg in his arms.
It still depends on you.
But you still need thirty days to hatch.
And after you hatch? What can a newly hatched dragon do? Can it carry him to a tournament? Can it burn his opponents to ash with dragonfire?
No.
Then he would have to wait for it to grow up.
How many years would it take for it to grow large enough to ride and breathe dragonfire?
Malansi didn't know. The books didn't say how many years it took for Balerion to grow large enough for war. He only knew that during the War of Conquest, the dragon Aegon rode was already massive—big enough to swallow a whole sheep in one bite.
How long would that take?
He didn't know.
The moonlight filtering through the door crack moved to the base of the wall and then slowly vanished. Outside was completely dark; even the dogs had stopped barking.
Malansi closed his eyes.
Save money first.
Let the dragon egg hatch first.
Then talk about becoming a knight.
The next morning, he went to till the soil as usual. The sun beat down on his back, and sweat ran into his eyes, stinging painfully. He straightened up, wiped the sweat with the back of his hand, and saw the white spires of Highgarden Castle shimmering in the heat waves in the distance.
Steward Conan walked over, holding a roll of parchment and calling his name.
"Ma family boy, there's some work."
"What kind of work?"
"The blacksmith shop in the city needs hands; they need someone to work the bellows. Five copper pennies a day, plus one meal. You interested?"
Malansi nodded.
"I'll go."
He put down his sickle and followed Steward Conan toward Highgarden.
The dragon egg in his arms bumped against his chest with every step, as if reminding him—thirty days.
...
On the other hand, the blacksmith shop below Highgarden was much grander than the one in the village.
Three forges were lined up, their fires never going out day or night, with six apprentices working in shifts. Malansi's job was to work the bellows for the smallest forge, which specialized in making horseshoes and farm tools.
After the first day of pulling, his arms were swollen.
On the second day he continued; the swelling subsided, replaced by aching.
By the third day, he had learned the trick of slacking off—pulling three times and resting once—keeping the heat just right.
When he finished work on the evening of the fifth day, he came out of the blacksmith shop's back door, bypassed the base of Highgarden's walls, and headed toward the village.
This was a shortcut that went through a small grove and passed the outer wall of the castle gardens.
The garden wall was built of white stone, about a man's height, and the top was covered in vines with tiny pink flowers. Every time Malansi passed by, he could smell the fragrance of flowers mixed with the scent of grass and water.
When he reached the wall that day, he heard someone speaking on the other side.
A woman's voice, soft and quiet, her words indistinguishable.
He slowed his pace and instinctively leaned closer to the wall.
There were latticed windows in the wall, carved from stone in the shape of roses, with palm-sized gaps. He walked to a window and peered inside.
It was a garden.
Neatly manicured lawns, fountains, and marble benches. The setting sun shone on the white stone slabs, dyeing them a pale gold.
Someone was sitting on a bench.
Golden curly hair, a light green dress, and a book in her hands.
Margaery Tyrell.
She was looking down at her book, her profile facing the window. Sunlight fell on her face, illuminating her lingering baby fat with a soft, downy glow.
Malansi stood outside the window, his footsteps halting.
She turned a page; her fingers were fair and slender, her nails neatly trimmed. Her hem reached her ankles, revealing a pair of satin pumps with tiny pearls embroidered on the toes.
He suddenly looked down at his own feet.
Tattered straw sandals, caked in mud, with a hole at the big toe revealing a dusty toe.
Then he looked at his hands.
Black, thin, with thick knuckles and fingernails filled with rust and charcoal dust. There were several fresh burns on the back of his hand from sparks flying while he worked the bellows.
On the other side of the wall, Margaery looked up.
As if sensing something, she glanced toward the window.
Malansi's eyes met hers.
Only for an instant.
Then he started walking again, neither fast nor slow, as if he were just passing by.
From behind him came the soft sound of a page turning.
He didn't look back.
After twenty steps, then thirty, he rounded the corner of the garden wall, and the white stone wall was hidden by trees.
Malansi stopped and stood by the side of the road.
The sun was half-set, the sky burning orange-red. His shadow stretched long and crooked across the weeds.
He felt inside his tunic.
The dragon egg pressed against him through his clothes; it was still warm.
He felt the pocket containing his copper coins—five days' wages, twenty-five copper pennies. A small, heavy handful; he could count them just by gripping them.
Twenty-five copper pennies.
One-twentieth of a silver coin.
One-two-thousand-five-hundredth of a Gold Dragon.
He continued walking forward.
By the time he passed the olive grove, it was already dark. The blacksmith shop's furnace was glowing, and Old Toma was sitting at the entrance smoking. Seeing him approach, the old man waved.
Malansi walked over and crouched beside the old man.
"I saw her today," he said.
Old Toma turned to look at him.
"The Little Rose. Reading a book in the garden."
Old Toma didn't gesture, waiting for him to continue.
Malansi stared at the furnace fire and remained silent for a while.
"When she turns a page while reading, her fingers are so white." He held out his own hands and spread them before the fire, where black and red mingled. "They're not like my hands."
Old Toma exhaled a cloud of smoke that drifted over, making Malansi squint.
"Uncle Toma," he said, "is two hundred Gold Dragons enough to marry a lady of House Tyrell?"
Old Toma choked on the smoke and began to cough, coughing for a long time before stopping. He turned to Malansi with a strange look in his eyes, as if looking at a madman.
Then he began to gesture.
First, he pointed toward Highgarden Castle, making a gesture for something very high and large; then he pointed at Malansi, making a gesture for something very low and small; finally, he drew his hand across his throat.
It meant: You're crazy, it'll cost you your life.