A Storm of Swords (A Song of Ice and Fire, #3)

by George R.R. Martin

She was hunting them.

Exulting, she shook it back and forth in her mouth, scattering the warm red droplets amidst the cold black rain.

“My knightly sigil. A flaming chain, green, on a smoke-grey field. By your lord father’s command, I’m Ser Bronn of the Blackwater now, Imp. See you don’t forget it.”

Shoved into the river by Pod, half a heartbeat before the treacherous bastard could drive his sword through my heart.

Ingrates. The Black Ears died for them.

“They tied her to a post in the yard and scourged her, then shoved her out the gate naked and bloody.”

She’s coming, though, and the city’s mad with love for her. The Tyrells have been carting food up from Highgarden and giving it away in her name. Hundreds of wayns each day. There’s thousands of Tyrell men swaggering about with little golden roses sewn on their doublets, and not a one is buying his own wine.

They spit on me, and buy drinks for the Tyrells.

It shamed him, and shame made him angry.

“Some battles are won with swords and spears, others with quills and ravens.

“You ask that? You, who killed your mother to come into the world? You are an ill-made, devious, disobedient, spiteful little creature full of envy, lust, and low cunning. Men’s laws give you the right to bear my name and display my colors, since I cannot prove that you are not mine. To teach me humility, the gods have condemned me to watch you waddle about wearing that proud lion that was my father’s sigil and his father’s before him. But neither gods nor men shall ever compel me to let you turn Casterly Rock into your whorehouse.”

“Go back to your bed, Tyrion, and speak to me no more of your rights to Casterly Rock.

You are done with whores. The next one I find in your bed, I’ll hang.”

Gods be good, why? My sons are dead, Dale and Allard, Maric and Matthos, perhaps Devan as well. How can a father outlive so many strong young sons? How would I go on? I am a hollow shell, the crab’s died, there’s nothing left inside. Don’t they know that?

The fire took my luck as well as my sons.

“Save me, gentle Mother, save us all. My luck is gone, and my sons.” He was weeping freely now, salt tears streaming down his cheeks. “The fire took it all … the fire …”

At Melisandre’s urging, he had dragged the Seven from their sept at Dragonstone and burned them before the castle gates, and later he had burned the godswood at Storm’s End as well, even the heart tree, a huge white weirwood with a solemn face.

For a little while more, at least. There was something he had to do.

Davos had never learned to read.

A smuggler who rose above himself, thought Davos, a fool who loved his king too much, and forgot his gods.

I have a king still. And sons, I have other sons, and a wife loyal and loving. How could he have forgotten? The Mother was merciful indeed.

She’s to be queen now, she’s beautiful and rich and everyone loves her, why would she want to sup with a traitor’s daughter?

Perhaps she was doing Margaery Tyrell an injustice. Perhaps the invitation was no more than a simple kindness, an act of courtesy.

The Hound had turned craven, she heard it said; at the height of the battle, he got so drunk the Imp had to take his men. But Sansa understood. She knew the secret of his burned face. It was only the fire he feared.

Be quiet, or you will only make it worse,

“My grandmother’s personal guard,” he told her. “Their mother named them Erryk and Arryk, but Grandmother can’t tell them apart, so she calls them Left and Right.”

Margaery dismissed him with a sisterly kiss, and took Sansa by the hand.

Why, she’s just the littlest bit of a thing. There was nothing the least bit thorny about her.

The Baratheons have always had some queer notions, to be sure. It comes from their Targaryen blood, I should think.”

We should have stayed well out of all this bloody foolishness if you ask me, but once the cow’s been milked there’s no squirting the cream back up her udder.

“That Varys creature seemed to think we should be grateful for the information. I’ve never been quite sure what the point of a eunuch is, if truth be told. It seems to me they’re only men with the useful bits cut off.

He managed to ride off a cliff whilst hawking. They say he was looking up at the sky and paying no mind to where his horse was taking him.

All these kings would do a deal better if they would put down their swords and listen to their mothers.”

“I want you to tell me the truth about this royal boy,” said Lady Olenna abruptly. “This Joffrey.”

We have heard some troubling tales, however. Is there any truth to them? Has this boy mistreated you?”

“Yes, all the Lannisters are lions, and when a Tyrell breaks wind it smells just like a rose,”

“Are you frightened, child? No need for that, we’re only women here. Tell me the truth, no harm will come to you.”

“Lord Eddard, yes, he had that reputation, but they named him traitor and took his head off even so.” The old woman’s eyes bore into her, sharp and bright as the points of swords. “Joffrey,” Sansa said. “Joffrey did that. He promised me he would be merciful, and cut my father’s head off. He said that was mercy, and he took me up on the walls and made me look at it. The head. He wanted me to weep, but …”

“I never meant … my father was a traitor, my brother as well, I have the traitor’s blood, please, don’t make me say more.”

“Even when I was a girl younger than you, it was well known that in the Red Keep the very walls have ears. Well, they will be the better for a song, and meanwhile we girls shall speak freely.”

What sort of man is this Joffrey, who calls himself Baratheon but looks so very Lannister?”

“A monster,” she whispered, so tremulously she could scarcely hear her own voice. “Joffrey is a monster. He lied about the butcher’s boy and made Father kill my wolf. When I displease him, he has the Kingsguard beat me. He’s evil and cruel, my lady, it’s so. And the queen as well.”

“Sansa, would you like to visit Highgarden?” When Margaery Tyrell smiled, she looked very like her brother Loras.

“You will love Highgarden as I do, I know it.” Margaery brushed back a loose strand of Sansa’s hair. “Once you see it, you’ll never want to leave. And perhaps you won’t have to.”

“Oh, but I would,” Sansa said. Highgarden sounded like the place she had always dreamed of, like the beautiful magical court she had once hoped to find at King’s Landing.

Lady Olenna frowned. “I see no need to give him a choice. Of course, he has no hint of our true purpose.”

“To see you safely wed, child,” the old woman said, as Butterbumps bellowed out the old, old song, “to my grandson.”

“Would you like that, Sansa?” asked Margaery. “I’ve never had a sister, only brothers. Oh, please say yes, please say that you will consent to marry my brother.”

Dead, all dead but me, and I am dead to the world.

The singer rose to his feet. “I’m Mance Rayder,” he said as he put aside the lute. “And you are Ned Stark’s bastard, the Snow of Winterfell.”