A Dance with Dragons (A Song of Ice and Fire, #5)

by George R.R. Martin

They know. The gods know. They saw what I did. And for one strange moment it seemed as if it were Bran’s face carved into the pale trunk of the weirwood, staring down at him with eyes red and wise and sad. Bran’s ghost, he thought, but that was madness. Why should Bran want to haunt him? He had been fond of the boy, had never done him any harm. It was not Bran we killed. It was not Rickon. They were only miller’s sons, from the mill by the Acorn Water. “I had to have two heads, else they would have mocked me … laughed at me … they …”

“Touch me,” he said. “Kill me.” There was more despair than defiance in his voice.

Boredom and routine had taken over, the enemies of discipline.

“My father had a saying too. Never wound a foe when you can kill him. Dead men don’t claim vengeance.” “Their sons do,” said Hoster, apologetically.

“My lady. I had not thought to see you again so soon.” Gods be good, she looks ten years older than when I saw her last. And what’s happened to her face? “That bandage … you’ve been wounded …” “A bite.” She touched the hilt of her sword, the sword that he had given her. Oathkeeper. “My lord, you gave me a quest.” “The girl. Have you found her?” “I have,” said Brienne, Maid of Tarth. “Where is she?” “A day’s ride. I can take you to her, ser … but you will need to come alone. Elsewise, the Hound will kill her.”

She hates the cold but loves the flames. He had only to look at her to see that. A word from Melisandre, and she would walk into the fire willingly, embrace it like a lover.

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart.

If he did not betray her, he would master her.

“You swore you would not let me fall into his hands again. I have your word on that.” He needed to hear it again.

have done terrible things … betrayed my own, turned my cloak, ordered the death of men who trusted me … but I am no kinslayer.” “Stark’s boys were never brothers to you, aye. We know.” That was true, but it was not what Theon had meant. They were not my blood, but even so, I never harmed them.

And Robb. Robb who had been more a brother to Theon than any son born of Balon Greyjoy’s loins. Murdered at the Red Wedding, butchered by the Freys. I should have been with him. Where was I? I should have died with him.

Dany and Drogon screamed as one.

“No” was all that she had time to say. No, not me, don’t you know me? The black teeth closed inches from her face. He meant to tear my head off.

Daenerys Targaryen vaulted onto the dragon’s back, seized the spear, and ripped it out. The point was half-melted, the iron red-hot, glowing. She flung it aside. Drogon twisted under her, his muscles rippling as he gathered his strength. The air was thick with sand. Dany could not see, she could not breathe, she could not think. The black wings cracked like thunder, and suddenly the scarlet sands were falling away beneath her. Dizzy, Dany closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she glimpsed the Meereenese beneath her through a haze of tears and dust, pouring up the steps and out into the streets. The lash was still in her hand. She flicked it against Drogon’s neck and cried, “Higher!” Her other hand clutched at his scales, her fingers scrabbling for purchase. Drogon’s wide black wings beat the air. Dany could feel the heat of him between her thighs. Her heart felt as if it were about to burst. Yes, she thought, yes, now, now, do it, do it, take me, take me, FLY!

“A fair bargain leaves both sides unhappy, I’ve heard it said.

Tormund laughed. That had not changed either; he still laughed easily and often.

Grief twisted Tormund’s face. “Dormund was cut down in the battle for the Wall, and him still half a boy. One o’ your king’s knights did for him, some bastard all in grey steel with moths upon his shield. I saw the cut, but my boy was dead before I reached him. And Torwynd … it was the cold claimed him. Always sickly, that one. He just up and died one night. The worst o’ it, before we ever knew he’d died he rose pale with them blue eyes. Had to see to him m’self. That was hard, Jon.” Tears shone in his eyes. “He wasn’t much of a man, truth be told, but he’d been me little boy once, and I loved him.”

Ghost was the only protection Jon needed; the direwolf could sniff out foes, even those who hid their enmity behind smiles.

“The maesters may believe what they wish. Ask a woods witch if you would know the truth. The grey death sleeps, only to wake again. The child is not clean!” “She seems a sweet girl. You cannot know—” “I can. You know nothing, Jon Snow.” Val seized his arm. “I want the monster out of there. Him and his wet nurses. You cannot leave them in that same tower as the dead girl.” Jon shook her hand away. “She is not dead.” “She is. Her mother cannot see it. Nor you, it seems. Yet death is there.” She walked away from him, stopped, turned back. “I brought you Tormund Giantsbane. Bring me my monster.” “If I can, I will.” “Do. You owe me a debt, Jon Snow.” Jon watched her stride away. She is wrong. She must be wrong. Greyscale is not so deadly as she claims, not in children.

He had foes to face. Foes of the worst sort: brothers.

A good lord must know his men, his father had once told him and Robb, back at Winterfell.

It had been so long since he had last seen Arya. What would she look like now? Would he even know her? Arya Underfoot. Her face was always dirty. Would she still have that little sword he’d had Mikken forge for her? Stick them with the pointy end, he’d told her. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true. Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl.

Sam, you sweet fat fool, you played me a cruel jape when you made me lord commander. A lord commander has no friends.

We cannot pick and choose amongst the free folk, saying this one may pass, this one may not. Peace means peace for all.”

“The free folk have neither laws nor lords,” Jon said, “but they love their children. Will you admit that much?” “It is not their children who concern us. We fear the fathers, not the sons.” “As do I. So I insisted upon hostages.” I am not the trusting fool you take me for … nor am I half wildling, no matter what you believe.

“Wards, we always called them, when Winterfell demanded boys of us, but they were hostages, and none the worse for it.”

“Tormund Giantsbane knows better than to try me. I may seem a green boy in your eyes, Lord Norrey, but I am still a son of Eddard Stark.”

“Ice,” she said, “and daggers in the dark. Blood frozen red and hard, and naked steel.”

False friends, treacherous servants, men who had professed undying love, even her own blood … all of them had deserted her in her hour of need.

And Jaime … No, that she could not believe, would not believe. Jaime would be here once he knew of her plight.

“He took Raventree and accepted Lord Blackwood’s surrender,” said her uncle, “but on his way back to Riverrun he left his tail and went off with a woman.” “A woman?” Cersei stared at him, uncomprehending. “What woman? Why? Where did they go?” “No one knows. We’ve had no further word of him. The woman may have been the Evenstar’s daughter, Lady Brienne.” Her. The queen remembered the Maid of Tarth, a huge, ugly, shambling thing who dressed in man’s mail. Jaime would never abandon me for such a creature. My raven never reached him, elsewise he would have come.

“Myrcella was attacked by a Dornish knight named Gerold Dayne. She’s alive, but hurt. He slashed her face open, she … I’m sorry … she lost an ear.”

“You see Tyrion in every shadow.”

came to bring Daenerys home. Yet he had lost her, just as he had lost her father and her brother. Even Robert. I failed him too.

Most were only men—quicker and stronger than most, more skilled with sword and shield, but still prey to pride, ambition, lust, love, anger, jealousy, greed for gold, hunger for power, and all the other failings that afflicted lesser mortals. The best of them overcame their flaws, did their duty, and died with their swords in their hands. The worst … The worst were those who played the game of thrones

“You love her well, I know. I swear, I shall keep her safe.”

It was his failures that haunted him at night, though. Jaehaerys, Aerys, Robert. Three dead kings. Rhaegar, who would have been a finer king than any of them. Princess Elia and the children. Aegon just a babe, Rhaenys with her kitten. Dead, every one, yet he still lived, who had sworn to protect them. And now Daenerys, his bright shining child queen. She is not dead. I will not believe it

The Sons of the Harpy took his daughter and swore she would be returned unharmed once the queen was dead. Belwas and the dragon saved Daenerys. No one saved the girl. She was returned to her father in the black of night, in nine pieces. One for every year she lived.”

Poison was for cravens, women, and Dornishmen.

“I am the Lord of Winterfell,” Jon screamed. It was Robb before him now, his hair wet with melting snow. Longclaw took his head off.

Jon turned in his saddle, frowning. And Joramun blew the Horn of Winter and woke giants from the earth. That huge horn with its bands of old gold, incised with ancient runes … had Mance Rayder lied to him, or was Tormund lying now? If Mance’s horn was just a feint, where is the true horn?

Outside the old Flint Barracks, he came across a dozen men pelting one another with snow. Playing, Jon thought in astonishment, grown men playing like children, throwing snowballs the way Bran and Arya once did, and Robb and me before them

Shield me from these doubts that gnaw at me, he had prayed, and give me the strength to do what is right

And Daenerys Targaryen, whatever else she might be, was still a young girl, as she herself would claim when it pleased her to play the innocent.

You could make a poultice out of mud to cool a fever. You could plant seeds in mud and grow a crop to feed your children. Mud would nourish you, where fire would only consume you, but fools and children and young girls would choose fire every time.

Although … The thought hit him like a slap across the face. Quentyn had grown up amongst the courts of Dorne. Plots and poisons were no strangers to him. Nor was Prince Lewyn his only uncle. He is kin to the Red Viper. Daenerys had taken another for her consort, but if Hizdahr died, she would be free to wed again. Could the Shavepate have been wrong? Who can say that the locusts were meant for Daenerys? It was the king’s own box. What if he was meant to be the victim all along? Hizdahr’s death would have smashed the fragile peace. The Sons of the Harpy would have resumed their murders, the Yunkishmen their war. Daenerys might have had no better choice than Quentyn and his marriage pact.

They do not see. His friends had lost sight of his true purpose here. The road leads through her, not to her. Daenerys is the means to the prize, not the prize itself

Men’s lives have meaning, not their deaths.

Cunt again? It was odd how men like Suggs used that word to demean women when it was the only part of a woman they valued.

the sight of him filled Asha with revulsion. He raised his eyes. “Sister. See. This time I knew you.” Asha’s heart skipped a beat. “Theon?” His lips skinned back in what might have been a grin. Half his teeth were gone, and half of those still left him were broken and splintered. “Theon,” he repeated. “My name is Theon. You have to know your name.