AFEASTFORCROWS

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Copyright©2005byGeorgeR.R.Martin

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Praisefor

GEORGER.R.MARTINand

ASongofIceandFire“Mainstreamreaders…haveagreattreataheadoftheminMartin.AFeastforCrowsisafast-paced,emotionallycomplex,masterfullywrittenadventure…Martin’swritingisasgoodasever:hisimaginaryplacesareasvividandthoroughlyimagined,hischaractersasconsistentandbelievable,hisbloodaswetandred.”—Newsday

“GeorgeR.R.Martinhascreatedtheunlikelygenreoftherealpolitikfantasynovel.Completewithwarringkings,nobleheroesandbackroomdealings,it’saddictivereadingandreflectsourcurrentworldalotbetterthanTheLordoftheRings.”—RollingStone

“What’s“ASongofIceandFire”?It’stheonlyfantasyseriesI’dputonalevelwithJ.R.R.Tolkien’sTheLordoftheRings.It’swaybetterthantheHarryPotterbooksanddefinitelynotforchildren.It’safantasyseriesforhip,smartpeople,eventhosewhodon’treadfantasy.”—ChicagoTribune

“ForasuccinctsummationofMartin’smedievalfantasyseries,imagineamixoftheliteraryqualityofT.H.White’sTheOnceandFutureKing,thein-your-face,you-are-theregrittinessofamovielikeBraveheartandthesortofintricatecharacterdevelopmentfoundinaqualitytelevisionshowlikeLost…Vast,complexandundeniablyentertaining…Onceinawhile,therearebooksandwritersthatmanagetoelevateanentiregenre.StephenKingdidsowithhorror.GeorgeR.R.Martin’s“ASongofIceandFire”serieshastakenfantasyoutofthetwo-dimensional,blackandwhiterealmwhereitoncehappilyexistedanddraggeditkickingandscreamingintoalandofbelievablecharacters,ambiguoussituations,andbloody,sometimesuncertaindenouements.”—DenverPost

“‘ASongofIceandFire’isfirmlyatthetopofthebestsellerlists,probablybecauseit’sthebestfantasyseriesoutthere.”—DetroitFreePress

CONTENTSCOVER

TITLEPAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

MAP

PROLOGUE

THEPROPHET

THECAPTAINOFGUARDS

CERSEI

BRIENNE

SAMWELL

ARYA

CERSEI

JAIME

BRIENNE

SANSA

THEKRAKEN’SDAUGHTER

CERSEI

THESOILEDKNIGHT

BRIENNE

SAMWELL

JAIME

CERSEI

THEIRONCAPTAIN

THEDROWNEDMAN

BRIENNE

THEQUEENMAKER

ARYA

ALAYNE

CERSEI

BRIENNE

SAMWELL

JAIME

CERSEI

THEREAVER

JAIME

BRIENNE

CERSEI

JAIME

CATOFTHECANALS

SAMWELL

CERSEI

BRIENNE

JAIME

CERSEI

THEPRINCESSINTHETOWER

ALAYNE

BRIENNE

CERSEI

JAIME

SAMWELL

MEANWHILE,BACKONTHEWALL…

APPENDIXI:THEKINGSANDTHEIRCOURTS

THEQUEENREGENT

THEKINGATTHEWALL

KINGOFTHEISLESANDTHENORTH

APPENDIXII:OTHERHOUSESGREATANDSMALL

HOUSEARRYN

HOUSEFLORENT

HOUSEFREY

HOUSEHIGHTOWER

HOUSELANNISTER

HOUSEMARTELL

HOUSESTARK

HOUSETULLY

HOUSETYRELL

APPENDIXIII:REBELSANDROGUESSMALLFOLKANDSWORNBROTHERS

LORDLINGS,WANDERERS,ANDCOMMONMEN

OUTLAWSANDBROKENMEN

THESWORNBROTHERSOFTHENIGHT’SWATCH

THEWILDLINGS,ORTHEFREEFOLK

APPENDIXIV:BEYONDTHENARROWSEA

THEQUEENACROSSTHEWATER

INBRAAVOS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

EXCERPTFROMADANCEWITHDRAGONS

forStephenBoucherwizardofWindows,dragonofDOSwithoutwhomthisbookwouldhave

beenwrittenincrayon

PROLOGUE

Dragons,” saidMollander. He snatched a withered apple off the ground and tossed ithandtohand.

“Throwtheapple,”urgedAllerastheSphinx.Heslippedanarrowfromhisquiverandnockedittohisbowstring.

“Ishouldliketoseeadragon.”Roonewastheyoungestofthem,achunkyboystilltwoyearsshyofmanhood.“Ishouldlikethatverymuch.”

And I should like to sleep with Rosey’s arms around me, Pate thought. He shiftedrestlesslyonthebench.Bythemorrowthegirlcouldwellbehis.IwilltakeherfarfromOldtown,acrossthenarrowseatooneoftheFreeCities.Therewerenomaestersthere,noonetoaccusehim.

HecouldhearEmma’slaughtercomingthroughashutteredwindowoverhead,mingledwiththedeepervoiceofthemanshewasentertaining.ShewastheoldestoftheservingwenchesattheQuillandTankard,fortyifshewasaday,butstillprettyinafleshysortofway. Rosey was her daughter, fifteen and freshly flowered. Emma had decreed thatRosey’smaidenheadwouldcostagoldendragon.Patehadsavedninesilverstagsandapotofcopperstarsandpennies,forallthegoodthatwoulddohim.Hewouldhavestoodabetterchanceofhatchingarealdragonthansavingupenoughcointomakeagoldenone.

“Youwereborntoolatefordragons,lad,”ArmentheAcolytetoldRoone.Armenworealeatherthongabouthisneck,strungwithlinksofpewter,tin,lead,andcopper,andlikemostacolytesheseemedtobelievethatnoviceshadturnipsgrowingfromtheirshouldersinplaceofheads.“ThelastoneperishedduringthereignofKingAegontheThird.”

“ThelastdragoninWesteros,”insistedMollander.

“Throwtheapple,”Allerasurgedagain.Hewasacomelyyouth,theirSphinx.Alltheservingwenchesdotedonhim.EvenRoseywouldsometimestouchhimonthearmwhenshebroughthimwine,andPatehadtognashhisteethandpretendnottosee.

“ThelastdragoninWesteroswasthelastdragon,”saidArmendoggedly.“Thatiswellknown.”

“Theapple,”Allerassaid.“Unlessyoumeantoeatit.”

“Here.”Dragginghisclubfoot,Mollander tookashorthop,whirled,andwhipped theapplesidearmintothemiststhathungabovetheHoneywine.Ifnotforhisfoot,hewouldhavebeenaknightlikehisfather.Hehadthestrengthforitinthosethickarmsandbroadshoulders.Farandfasttheappleflew…

…butnotasfastasthearrowthatwhistledafterit,ayard-longshaftofgoldenwoodfletchedwithscarletfeathers.Patedidnotseethearrowcatchtheapple,butheheardit.Asoftchunkechoedbackacrosstheriver,followedbyasplash.

Mollanderwhistled.“Youcoredit.Sweet.”

NothalfassweetasRosey.Patelovedherhazeleyesandbuddingbreasts,andthewayshesmiledeverytimeshesawhim.Helovedthedimplesinhercheeks.Sometimesshewentbarefootassheserved,tofeelthegrassbeneathherfeet.Helovedthattoo.Helovedthecleanfreshsmellofher, thewayherhaircurledbehindherears.Heeven lovedhertoes.Onenightshe’dlethimrubherfeetandplaywiththem,andhe’dmadeupafunnytaleforeverytoetokeephergiggling.

Perhapshewoulddobetter to remainon this sideof thenarrowsea.Hecouldbuyadonkey with the coin he’d saved, and he and Rosey could take turns riding it as theywanderedWesteros.Ebrosemightnotthinkhimworthyofthesilver,butPateknewhowtosetaboneandleechafever.Thesmallfolkwouldbegratefulforhishelp.Ifhecouldlearntocuthairandshavebeards,hemightevenbeabarber.Thatwouldbeenough,hetoldhimself,solongasIhadRosey.Roseywasallthathewantedintheworld.

Thathadnotalwaysbeenso.Oncehehaddreamedofbeingamaester inacastle, inservicetosomeopen-handedlordwhowouldhonorhimforhiswisdomandbestowafinewhitehorseonhimtothankhimforhisservice.Howhighhe’dride,hownobly,smilingdownatthesmallfolkwhenhepassedthemontheroad…

One night in the Quill and Tankard’s common room, after his second tankard offearsomely strong cider, Pate had boasted that hewould not always be a novice. “Tootrue,”LazyLeohadcalledout.“You’llbeaformernovice,herdingswine.”

Hedrainedthedregsofhistankard.ThetorchlitterraceoftheQuillandTankardwasanisland of light in a sea of mist this morning. Downriver, the distant beacon of theHightowerfloatedinthedampofnightlikeahazyorangemoon,butthelightdidlittletolifthisspirits.

The alchemist should have come by now. Had it all been some cruel jape, or hadsomethinghappenedtotheman?Itwouldnothavebeenthefirsttimethatgoodfortunehad turned sour on Pate. He had once counted himself lucky to be chosen to help oldArchmaesterWalgravewiththeravens,neverdreamingthatbeforelonghewouldalsobefetching theman’smeals, sweepingouthischambers, anddressinghimeverymorning.Everyone said thatWalgrave had forgottenmore of ravencraft thanmostmaesters everknew,soPateassumedablackironlinkwastheleastthathecouldhopefor,onlytofindthatWalgrave could not grant him one.The oldman remained an archmaester only bycourtesy. As great a maester as once he’d been, now his robes concealed soiledsmallclothes oft as not, and half a year ago some acolytes found him weeping in theLibrary,unabletofindhiswaybacktohischambers.MaesterGormonsatbelowtheironmaskinWalgrave’splace,thesameGormonwhohadonceaccusedPateoftheft.

Intheappletreebesidethewater,anightingalebegantosing.Itwasasweetsound,awelcomerespitefromtheharshscreamsandendlessquorkingoftheravenshehadtended

alldaylong.Thewhiteravensknewhisname,andwouldmutterittoeachotherwhenevertheycaught sightofhim,“Pate,Pate,Pate,” until hewanted to scream.ThebigwhitebirdswereArchmaesterWalgrave’spride.Hewantedthemtoeathimwhenhedied,butPatehalfsuspectedthattheymeanttoeathimtoo.

Perhapsitwasthefearsomelystrongcider—hehadnotcomeheretodrink,butAllerashad been buying to celebrate his copper link, and guilt had made him thirsty—but italmostsoundedasifthenightingaleweretrillinggoldforiron,goldforiron,goldforiron.Whichwaspassingstrange,becausethatwaswhatthestrangerhadsaidthenightRoseybrought the twoof them together. “Whoareyou?”Patehaddemandedof him, and themanhadreplied,“Analchemist.Icanchangeironintogold.”Andthenthecoinwasinhishand,dancingacrosshisknuckles,thesoftyellowgoldshininginthecandlelight.Ononesidewasathree-headeddragon,ontheothertheheadofsomedeadking.Goldforiron,Pate remembered, you won’t do better. Do you want her? Do you love her? “I am nothief,” he had told the man who called himself the alchemist, “I am a novice of theCitadel.”Thealchemisthadbowedhishead,andsaid,“Ifyoushouldreconsider, Ishallreturnherethreedayshence,withmydragon.”

Threedayshadpassed.PatehadreturnedtotheQuillandTankard,stilluncertainwhathewas, but instead of the alchemist he’d foundMollander andArmen and theSphinx,withRooneintow.Itwouldhaveraisedsuspicionsnottojointhem.

TheQuillandTankardneverclosed.ForsixhundredyearsithadbeenstandingonitsislandintheHoneywine,andneveroncehaditsdoorsbeenshuttotrade.Thoughthetall,timbered building leaned toward the south the way novices sometimes leaned after atankard,Pateexpected that the innwouldgoonstandingforanothersixhundredyears,selling wine and ale and fearsomely strong cider to rivermen and seamen, smiths andsingers,priestsandprinces,andthenovicesandacolytesoftheCitadel.

“Oldtownisnottheworld,”declaredMollander,tooloudly.Hewasaknight’sson,anddrunk as drunk could be. Since they brought him word of his father’s death upon theBlackwater,hegotdrunkmost everynight.Even inOldtown, far from the fightingandsafe behind its walls, the War of the Five Kings had touched them all … althoughArchmaesterBenedictinsistedthattherehadneverbeenawaroffivekings,sinceRenlyBaratheonhadbeenslainbeforeBalonGreyjoyhadcrownedhimself.

“Myfatheralwayssaid theworldwasbigger thanany lord’scastle,”Mollanderwenton.“DragonsmustbetheleastofthethingsamanmightfindinQarthandAsshaiandYiTi.Thesesailors’stories…”

“…are stories told by sailors,”Armen interrupted. “Sailors,my dearMollander.Gobackdowntothedocks,andIwageryou’llfindsailorswho’ll tellyouof themermaidsthattheybedded,orhowtheyspentayearinthebellyofafish.”

“How do you know they didn’t?”Mollander thumped through the grass, looking formoreapples.“You’dneedtobedownthebellyyourselftosweartheyweren’t.Onesailorwithastory,aye,amanmightlaughatthat,butwhenoarsmenofffourdifferentshipstellthesametaleinfourdifferenttongues…”

“The tales arenot the same,” insistedArmen. “Dragons inAsshai, dragons inQarth,dragonsinMeereen,Dothrakidragons,dragonsfreeingslaves…eachtellingdiffersfromthelast.”

“Onlyindetails.”Mollandergrewmorestubbornwhenhedrank,andevenwhensoberhewasbullheaded.“Allspeakofdragons,andabeautifulyoungqueen.”

Theonly dragonPate cared aboutwasmadeof yellowgold.Hewonderedwhat hadhappenedtothealchemist.Thethirdday.Hesaidhe’dbehere.

“There’s another applenear your foot,”Alleras called toMollander, “and I still havetwoarrowsinmyquiver.”

“Fuck your quiver.” Mollander scooped up the windfall. “This one’s wormy,” hecomplained,buthe threw it anyway.Thearrowcaught theappleas itbegan to fall andsliceditcleanintwo.Onehalflandedonaturretroof,tumbledtoalowerroof,bounced,andmissed Armen by a foot. “If you cut a worm in two, youmake two worms,” theacolyteinformedthem.

“If only it worked that way with apples, no one would ever need go hungry,” saidAlleraswithoneofhissoftsmiles.TheSphinxwasalwayssmiling,asifheknewsomesecretjape.Itgavehimawickedlookthatwentwellwithhispointedchin,widow’speak,anddensematofclose-croppedjet-blackcurls.

Alleraswouldmakeamaester.HehadonlybeenattheCitadelforayear,yetalreadyhehadforgedthreelinksofhismaester’schain.Armenmighthavemore,buteachofhishadtaken him a year to earn. Still, he would make a maester too. Roone and Mollanderremained pink-necked novices, but Roone was very young and Mollander preferreddrinkingtoreading.

Pate,though…

HehadbeenfiveyearsattheCitadel,arrivingwhenhewasnomorethanthree-and-ten,yet his neck remained as pink as it had been on the day he first arrived from thewesterlands. Twice had he believed himself ready. The first time he had gone beforeArchmaester Vaellyn to demonstrate his knowledge of the heavens. Instead he learnedhowVinegar Vaellyn had earned that name. It took Pate two years to summon up thecourage to tryagain.This timehe submittedhimself tokindlyoldArchmaesterEbrose,renownedforhissoftvoiceandgentlehands,butEbrose’ssighshadsomehowprovedjustaspainfulasVaellyn’sbarbs.

“One last apple,” promised Alleras, “and I will tell you what I suspect about thesedragons.”

“What could you know that I don’t?” grumbledMollander. He spied an apple on abranch,jumpedup,pulleditdown,andthrew.Allerasdrewhisbowstringbacktohisear,turninggracefullytofollowthetargetinflight.Heloosedhisshaftjustastheapplebegantofall.

“Youalwaysmissyourlastshot,”saidRoone.

Theapplesplasheddownintotheriver,untouched.

“See?”saidRoone.

“The day you make them all is the day you stop improving.” Alleras unstrung hislongbowandeasedit intoitsleathercase.Thebowwascarvedfromgoldenheart,arareandfabledwoodfromtheSummer Isles.Patehad tried tobend itonce,andfailed.TheSphinxlooksslight,butthere’sstrengthinthoseslimarms,hereflected,asAllerasthrewaleg across the bench and reached for his wine cup. “The dragon has three heads,” heannouncedinhissoftDornishdrawl.

“Is this a riddle?” Roonewanted to know. “Sphinxes always speak in riddles in thetales.”

“No riddle.”Alleras sippedhiswine.The rest of themwerequaffing tankardsof thefearsomelystrongciderthattheQuillandTankardwasrenownedfor,buthepreferredthestrange,sweetwinesofhismother’scountry.EveninOldtownsuchwinesdidnotcomecheap.

IthadbeenLazyLeowhodubbedAlleras“theSphinx.”Asphinxisabitofthis,abitofthat: a human face, thebodyof a lion, thewingsof ahawk.Alleraswas the same:hisfatherwasaDornishman,hismotherablack-skinnedSummerIslander.Hisownskinwasdark as teak. And like the greenmarble sphinxes that flanked the Citadel’smain gate,Allerashadeyesofonyx.

“No dragon has ever had three heads except on shields and banners,” Armen theAcolyte said firmly.“Thatwasaheraldiccharge,nomore.Furthermore, theTargaryensarealldead.”

“Notall,”saidAlleras.“TheBeggarKinghadasister.”

“Ithoughtherheadwassmashedagainstawall,”saidRoone.

“No,”saidAlleras.“ItwasPrinceRhaegar’syoungsonAegonwhoseheadwasdashedagainstthewallbytheLionofLannister’sbravemen.WespeakofRhaegar’ssister,bornonDragonstonebeforeitsfall.TheonetheycalledDaenerys.”

“TheStormborn.Irecallhernow.”Mollanderliftedhistankardhigh,sloshingtheciderthatremained.“Here’stoher!”Hegulped,slammedhisemptytankarddown,belched,andwipedhismouthwiththebackofhishand.“Where’sRosey?Ourrightfulqueendeservesanotherroundofcider,wouldn’tyousay?”

ArmentheAcolytelookedalarmed.“Loweryourvoice,fool.Youshouldnotevenjapeabout such things. You never know who could be listening. The Spider has earseverywhere.”

“Ah,don’tpissyourbreeches,Armen.Iwasproposingadrink,notarebellion.”

Pateheardachuckle.Asoft,slyvoicecalledoutfrombehindhim.“Ialwaysknewyouwere a traitor, Hopfrog.” Lazy Leowas slouching by the foot of the old plank bridge,drapedinsatinstripedingreenandgold,withablacksilkhalfcapepinnedtohisshoulderbyaroseofjade.Thewinehe’ddribbleddownhisfronthadbeenarobustred,judging

fromthecolorofthespots.Alockofhisash-blondhairfelldownacrossoneeye.

Mollander bristled at the sight of him. “Bugger that.Go away.You are notwelcomehere.”Alleras laidahanduponhisarm tocalmhim,whilstArmen frowned.“Leo.Mylord.IhadunderstoodthatyouwerestillconfinedtotheCitadelfor…”

“…threemoredays.”LazyLeoshrugged.“Perestansays theworld is forty thousandyearsold.Mollossaysfivehundredthousand.Whatare threedays,Iaskyou?”Thoughtherewereadozenemptytablesontheterrace,Leosathimselfattheirs.“BuymeacupofArborgold,Hopfrog,andperhapsIwon’tinformmyfatherofyourtoast.ThetilesturnedagainstmeattheCheckeredHazard,andIwastedmylaststagonsupper.Sucklingpiginplumsauce,stuffedwithchestnutsandwhitetruffles.Amanmusteat.Whatdidyouladshave?”

“Mutton,”mutteredMollander.He sounded none too pleased about it. “We shared ahaunchofboiledmutton.”

“I’mcertainitwasfilling.”LeoturnedtoAlleras.“Alord’ssonshouldbeopen-handed,Sphinx.Iunderstandyouwonyourcopperlink.I’lldrinktothat.”

Allerassmiledbackathim.“Ionlybuyforfriends.AndIamnolord’sson,I’vetoldyouthat.Mymotherwasatrader.”

Leo’seyeswerehazel,brightwithwineandmalice.“YourmotherwasamonkeyfromtheSummerIsles.TheDornishwillfuckanythingwithaholebetweenitslegs.Meaningno offense.Youmay be brown as a nut, but at least you bathe.Unlike our spotted pigboy.”HewavedahandtowardPate.

IfIhithiminthemouthwithmytankard,Icouldknockouthalfhisteeth,Patethought.SpottedPatethepigboywastheheroofathousandribaldstories:agood-hearted,empty-headedloutwhoalwaysmanagedtobestthefatlordlings,haughtyknights,andpompousseptons who beset him. Somehow his stupidity would turn out to have been a sort ofuncouthcunning;thetalesalwaysendedwithSpottedPatesittingonalord’shighseatorbeddingsomeknight’sdaughter.Butthosewerestories.Intherealworldpigboysneverfaredsowell.Patesometimesthoughthismothermusthavehatedhimtohavenamedhimasshedid.

Alleraswasnolongersmiling.“Youwillapologize.”

“WillI?”saidLeo.“HowcanI,withmythroatsodry…”

“YoushameyourHousewitheverywordyousay,”Allerastoldhim.“YoushametheCitadelbybeingoneofus.”

“Iknow.Sobuymesomewine,thatImightdrownmyshame.”

Mollandersaid,“Iwouldtearyourtongueoutbytheroots.”

“Truly? Then how would I tell you about the dragons?” Leo shrugged again. “Themongrelhas therightof it.TheMadKing’sdaughter isalive,andshe’shatchedherselfthreedragons.”

“Three?”saidRoone,astonished.

Leopattedhishand.“Morethantwoandlessthanfour.IwouldnottryformygoldenlinkjustyetifIwereyou.”

“Youleavehimbe,”warnedMollander.

“SuchachivalrousHopfrog.Asyouwish.Everymanoffeveryshipthat’ssailedwithina hundred leagues ofQarth is speaking of these dragons.A fewwill even tell you thatthey’veseenthem.TheMageisinclinedtobelievethem.”

Armen pursed his lips in disapproval. “Marwyn is unsound. Archmaester Perestanwouldbethefirsttotellyouthat.”

“ArchmaesterRyamsayssotoo,”saidRoone.

Leoyawned.“Theseaiswet,thesuniswarm,andthemenageriehatesthemastiff.”

Hehasamockingnameforeveryone,thoughtPate,buthecouldnotdenythatMarwynlookedmoreamastiffthanamaester.Asifhewantstobiteyou.TheMagewasnotlikeothermaesters.Peoplesaidthathekeptcompanywithwhoresandhedgewizards,talkedwithhairyIbbeneseandpitch-blackSummerIslandersintheirowntongues,andsacrificedtoqueergodsatthelittlesailors’templesdownbythewharves.Menspokeofseeinghimdownin theundercity, inratpitsandblackbrothels,consortingwithmummers,singers,sellswords, evenbeggars.Someevenwhispered that oncehehadkilled amanwithhisfists.

WhenMarwynhadreturnedtoOldtown,afterspendingeightyearsintheeastmappingdistant lands, searching for lost books, and studyingwithwarlocks and shadowbinders,Vinegar Vaellyn had dubbed him “Marwyn the Mage.” The name was soon all overOldtown, toVaellyn’s vast annoyance. “Leave spells and prayers to priests and septonsandbendyourwits to learning truths amancan trust in,”ArchmaesterRyamhadoncecounseledPate,butRyam’s ringand rodandmaskwereyellowgold,andhismaester’schainhadnolinkofValyriansteel.

ArmenlookeddownhisnoseatLazyLeo.Hehadtheperfectnoseforit,longandthinandpointed.“ArchmaesterMarwynbelievesinmanycuriousthings,”hesaid,“buthehasnomoreproofofdragonsthanMollander.Justmoresailors’stories.”

“You’rewrong,”saidLeo.“ThereisaglasscandleburningintheMage’schambers.”

Ahushfelloverthetorchlitterrace.Armensighedandshookhishead.Mollanderbegantolaugh.TheSphinxstudiedLeowithhisbigblackeyes.Roonelookedlost.

Pateknewabouttheglasscandles,thoughhehadneverseenoneburn.Theyweretheworst-keptsecretoftheCitadel.ItwassaidthattheyhadbeenbroughttoOldtownfromValyriaathousandyearsbeforetheDoom.Hehadheardtherewerefour;onewasgreenandthreewereblack,andallweretallandtwisted.

“Whataretheseglasscandles?”askedRoone.

Armen theAcolyteclearedhis throat.“Thenightbeforeanacolytesayshisvows,he

muststandavigilinthevault.Nolanternispermittedhim,notorch,nolamp,notaper…onlyacandleofobsidian.Hemustspend thenight indarkness,unlesshecan light thatcandle.Somewilltry.Thefoolishandthestubborn,thosewhohavemadeastudyoftheseso-calledhighermysteries.Oftentheycut theirfingers,for theridgesonthecandlesaresaid to be as sharp as razors.Then,withbloodyhands, theymustwait upon thedawn,broodingontheirfailure.Wisermensimplygotosleep,orspendtheirnightinprayer,buteveryyeartherearealwaysafewwhomusttry.”

“Yes.”Patehadheard the samestories. “Butwhat’s theuse of a candle that castsnolight?”

“Itisalesson,”Armensaid,“thelastlessonwemustlearnbeforewedonourmaester’schains.Theglasscandle ismeant to represent truthand learning, rareandbeautifulandfragile things. It ismade in theshapeofacandle to remindus thatamaestermustcastlightwhereverheserves,and it issharp toremindus thatknowledgecanbedangerous.Wisemenmaygrowarrogantintheirwisdom,butamaestermustalwaysremainhumble.Theglasscandleremindsusofthataswell.Evenafterhehassaidhisvowanddonnedhischainandgoneforthtoserve,amaesterwillthinkbackonthedarknessofhisvigilandremember how nothing that he did could make the candle burn … for even withknowledge,somethingsarenotpossible.”

LazyLeoburstoutlaughing.“Notpossibleforyou,youmean.Isawthecandleburningwithmyowneyes.”

“Yousawsome candleburning, Idon’tdoubt,” saidArmen.“Acandleofblackwax,perhaps.”

“IknowwhatIsaw.Thelightwasqueerandbright,muchbrighterthananybeeswaxortallowcandle.Itcaststrangeshadowsandtheflameneverflickered,notevenwhenadraftblewthroughtheopendoorbehindme.”

Armencrossedhisarms.“Obsidiandoesnotburn.”

“Dragonglass,”Patesaid.“Thesmallfolkcall itdragonglass.”Somehowthatseemedimportant.

“Theydo,”musedAlleras,theSphinx,“andiftherearedragonsintheworldagain…”

“Dragonsanddarkerthings,”saidLeo.“Thegreysheephaveclosedtheireyes,butthemastiffseesthetruth.Oldpowerswaken.Shadowsstir.Anageofwonderandterrorwillsoonbeuponus,anageforgodsandheroes.”Hestretched,smilinghislazysmile.“That’swortharound,I’dsay.”

“We’vedrunkenough,”saidArmen.“Mornwillbeuponussoonerthanwe’dlike,andArchmaesterEbrosewillbespeakingonthepropertiesofurine.Thosewhomeantoforgeasilverlinkwoulddowellnottomisshistalk.”

“Farbeitfrommetokeepyoufromthepisstasting,”saidLeo.“Myself,Iprefer thetasteofArborgold.”

“If the choice is piss or you, I’ll drink piss.”Mollander pushed back from the table.

“Come,Roone.”

TheSphinx reached forhis bowcase. “It’s bed formeaswell. I expect I’ll dreamofdragonsandglasscandles.”

“All of you?” Leo shrugged. “Well, Rosey will remain. Perhaps I’ll wake our littlesweetmeatandmakeawomanofher.”

AllerassawthelookonPate’sface.“Ifhedoesnothaveacopperforacupofwine,hecannothaveadragonforthegirl.”

“Aye,”saidMollander.“Besides,ittakesamantomakeawoman.Comewithus,Pate.OldWalgravewillwakewhenthesuncomesup.He’llbeneedingyoutohelphimtotheprivy.”

If he remembers who I am today. ArchmaesterWalgrave had no trouble telling oneravenfromanother,buthewasnotsogoodwithpeople.SomedaysheseemedtothinkPatewassomeonenamedCressen.“Notjustyet,”hetoldhisfriends.“I’mgoingtostayawhile.”Dawnhadnotbroken,notquite.Thealchemistmightstillbecoming,andPatemeanttobehereifhedid.

“Asyouwish,”saidArmen.AllerasgavePatealingeringlook,thenslunghisbowoveroneslimshoulderandfollowedtheotherstowardthebridge.Mollanderwassodrunkhehad towalkwithahandonRoone’s shoulder tokeep fromfalling.TheCitadelwasnogreat distance as the raven flies, but none of them were ravens and Oldtown was averitable labyrinth of a city, all wynds and crisscrossing alleys and narrow crookbackstreets.“Careful,”PateheardArmensayastherivermistsswallowedupthefourofthem,“thenightisdamp,andthecobbleswillbeslippery.”

Whentheyweregone,LazyLeoconsideredPatesourlyacrossthetable.“Howsad.TheSphinxhasstolenoffwithallhissilver,abandoningmetoSpottedPatethepigboy.”Hestretched,yawning.“HowisourlovelylittleRosey,pray?”

“She’ssleeping,”Patesaidcurtly.

“Naked, Idon’tdoubt.”Leogrinned.“Doyou thinkshe’s trulyworthadragon?OnedayIsupposeImustfindout.”

Pateknewbetterthantoreplytothat.

Leoneedednoreply.“IexpectthatonceI’vebrokeninthewench,herpricewillfalltowhereevenpigboyswillbeabletoaffordher.Yououghttothankme.”

Ioughttokillyou,Patethought,buthewasnotneardrunkenoughtothrowawayhislife.Leohadbeen trained toarms,andwasknown tobedeadlywithbravo’sbladeanddagger.AndifPateshouldsomehowkillhim,itwouldmeanhisownheadtoo.Leohadtwo names where Pate had only one, and his second was Tyrell. Ser Moryn Tyrell,commander of the City Watch of Oldtown, was Leo’s father. Mace Tyrell, Lord ofHighgardenandWardenoftheSouth,wasLeo’scousin.AndOldtown’sOldMan,LordLeyton of the Hightower, who numbered “Protector of the Citadel” amongst hismanytitles,wasaswornbannermanofHouseTyrell.Letitgo,Patetoldhimself.Hesaysthese

thingsjusttowoundme.

Themistswere lightening to the east.Dawn,Pate realized.Dawn has come, and thealchemisthasnot.Hedidnotknowwhetherheshouldlaughorcry.AmIstillathiefifIputitallbackandnooneeverknows?Itwasanotherquestionthathehadnoanswerfor,likethosethatEbroseandVaellynhadonceaskedhim.

Whenhepushedbackfromthebenchandgottohisfeet,thefearsomelystrongciderallwent to his head at once.He had to put a hand on the table to steady himself. “LeaveRoseybe,”hesaid,bywayofparting.“Justleaveherbe,orImaykillyou.”

LeoTyrellflickedthehairbackfromhiseye.“Idonotfightduelswithpigboys.Goaway.”

Pateturnedandcrossedtheterrace.Hisheelsrangagainsttheweatheredplanksoftheoldbridge.Bythe timehereachedtheotherside, theeasternskywas turningpink.Theworldiswide,hetoldhimself.IfIboughtthatdonkey,IcouldstillwandertheroadsandbywaysoftheSevenKingdoms,leechingthesmallfolkandpickingnitsoutoftheirhair.Icouldsignontosomeship,pullanoar,andsailtoQarthbytheJadeGatestoseethesebloodydragonsformyself.IdonotneedtogobacktooldWalgraveandtheravens.

YetsomehowhisfeetturnedbacktowardtheCitadel.

When the first shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds to the east, morning bellsbegan to peal from the Sailor’s Sept down by the harbor. The Lord’s Sept joined in amoment later, then the Seven Shrines from their gardens across the Honeywine, andfinally the Starry Sept that had been the seat of theHigh Septon for a thousand yearsbeforeAegonlandedatKing’sLanding.Theymadeamightymusic.Thoughnotsosweetasonesmallnightingale.

Hecouldhearsingingtoo,beneaththepealingofthebells.Eachmorningatfirstlighttheredpriestsgatheredtowelcomethesunoutsidetheirmodestwharfsidetemple.Forthenight isdarkand fullof terrors.Patehadheard themcry thosewordsahundred times,askingtheirgodR’hllortosavethemfromthedarkness.TheSevenweregodsenoughforhim,buthehadheardthatStannisBaratheonworshipedatthenightfiresnow.HehadevenputthefieryheartofR’hlloronhisbannersinplaceofthecrownedstag.IfheshouldwintheIronThrone,we’llallneedtolearnthewordsoftheredpriests’song,Patethought,butthat was not likely. Tywin Lannister had smashed Stannis and R’hllor upon theBlackwater,andsoonenoughhewouldfinishthemandmounttheheadoftheBaratheonpretenderonaspikeabovethegatesofKing’sLanding.

Asthenight’smistsburnedaway,Oldtowntookformaroundhim,emergingghostlikefromthepredawngloom.PatehadneverseenKing’sLanding,butheknewitwasadaub-and-wattlecity,asprawlofmudstreets,thatchedroofs,andwoodenhovels.Oldtownwasbuilt in stone, andall its streetswerecobbled,down to themeanest alley.Thecitywasnevermorebeautifulthanatbreakofday.WestoftheHoneywine,theGuildhallslinedthebank like a row of palaces.Upriver, the domes and towers of theCitadel rose on bothsides of the river, connected by stone bridges crowded with halls and houses.Downstream,below theblackmarblewalls andarchedwindowsof theStarrySept, the

mansesofthepiousclusteredlikechildrengatheredroundthefeetofanolddowager.

And beyond, where the Honeywine widened into Whispering Sound, rose theHightower,itsbeaconfiresbrightagainstthedawn.FromwhereitstoodatopthebluffsofBattleIsland,itsshadowcutthecitylikeasword.ThosebornandraisedinOldtowncouldtellthetimeofdaybywherethatshadowfell.SomeclaimedamancouldseeallthewaytotheWallfromthetop.PerhapsthatwaswhyLordLeytonhadnotmadethedescentinmorethanadecade,preferringtorulehiscityfromtheclouds.

A butcher’s cart rumbled past Pate down the river road, five piglets in the backsquealing in distress. Dodging from its path, he just avoided being spattered as atownswomanemptiedapailofnightsoilfromawindowoverhead.WhenIamamaesterin a castle Iwill have a horse to ride, he thought. Then he tripped upon a cobble andwonderedwhohewasfooling.Therewouldbenochainforhim,noseatatalord’shightable,notallwhitehorse toride.Hisdayswouldbespent listeningtoravensquorkandscrubbingshitstainsoffArchmaesterWalgrave’ssmallclothes.

Hewasononeknee, trying towipe themudoffhis robes,whenavoicesaid,“Goodmorrow,Pate.”

Thealchemistwasstandingoverhim.

Paterose.“Thethirdday…yousaidyouwouldbeattheQuillandTankard.”

“Youwerewithyourfriends.Itwasnotmywishtointrudeuponyourfellowship.”Thealchemist wore a hooded traveler’s cloak, brown and nondescript. The rising sun waspeekingovertherooftopsbehindhisshoulder,soitwashardtomakeoutthefacebeneathhishood.“Haveyoudecidedwhatyouare?”

Musthemakemesayit?“IsupposeIamathief.”

“Ithoughtyoumightbe.”

Thehardestparthadbeengettingdownonhishandsandknees topull thestrongboxfrom underneath Archmaester Walgrave’s bed. Though the box was stoutly made andboundwithiron,itslockwasbroken.MaesterGormonhadsuspectedPateofbreakingit,but that wasn’t true. Walgrave had broken the lock himself, after losing the key thatopenedit.

Inside,Patehadfoundabagofsilverstags,alockofyellowhairtiedupinaribbon,apaintedminiature of awomanwho resembledWalgrave (even to hermustache), and aknight’sgauntletmadeoflobsteredsteel.Thegauntlethadbelongedtoaprince,Walgraveclaimed,thoughhecouldnolongerseemtorecallwhichone.WhenPateshookit,thekeyfelloutontothefloor.

If I pick that up, I ama thief, he remembered thinking.Thekeywas old andheavy,madeofblackiron;supposedlyitopenedeverydoorattheCitadel.Onlythearchmaestershadsuchkeys.Theotherscarriedtheirsupontheirpersonorhidthemawayinsomesafeplace,butifWalgravehadhiddenhis,noonewouldeverhaveseenitagain.Patesnatchedupthekeyandhadbeenhalfwaytothedoorbeforeturningbacktotakethesilvertoo.Athiefwasa thief,whetherhe stolea littleora lot.“Pate,” oneof thewhite ravenshad

calledafterhim,“Pate,Pate,Pate.”

“Doyouhavemydragon?”heaskedthealchemist.

“IfyouhavewhatIrequire.”

“Giveithere.Iwanttosee.”Patedidnotintendtolethimselfbecheated.

“Theriverroadisnottheplace.Come.”

Hehadnotimetothinkaboutit,toweighhischoices.Thealchemistwaswalkingaway.Pate had to follow or lose Rosey and the dragon both, forever. He followed. As theywalked, he slipped his hand up into his sleeve. He could feel the key, safe inside thehiddenpockethehadsewnthere.Maester’srobeswerefullofpockets.Hehadknownthatsincehewasaboy.

Hehad tohurry tokeeppacewith thealchemist’s longerstrides.Theywentdownanalley,aroundacorner,throughtheoldThievesMarket,alongRagpicker’sWynd.Finally,themanturnedintoanotheralley,narrowerthanthefirst.“Thisisfarenough,”saidPate.“There’snooneabout.We’lldoithere.”

“Asyouwish.”

“Iwantmydragon.”

“Tobesure.”Thecoinappeared.Thealchemistmadeitwalkacrosshisknuckles,thewayhehadwhenRoseybroughtthetwoofthemtogether.Inthemorninglightthedragonglitteredasitmoved,andgavethealchemist’sfingersagoldenglow.

Pategrabbeditfromhishand.Thegoldfeltwarmagainsthispalm.Hebroughtittohismouthandbitdownonitthewayhe’dseenmendo.Iftruthbetold,hewasn’tsurewhatgoldshouldtastelike,buthedidnotwanttolookafool.

“Thekey?”thealchemistinquiredpolitely.

SomethingmadePatehesitate.“Isitsomebookyouwant?”SomeoftheoldValyrianscrollsdowninthelockedvaultsweresaidtobetheonlysurvivingcopiesintheworld.

“WhatIwantisnoneofyourconcern.”

“No.”It’sdone,Patetoldhimself.Go.RunbacktotheQuillandTankard,wakeRoseywithakiss,andtellhershebelongstoyou.Yetstillhelingered.“Showmeyourface.”

“Asyouwish.”Thealchemistpulledhishooddown.

Hewasjustaman,andhisfacewasjustaface.Ayoungman’sface,ordinary,withfullcheeks and the shadowof a beard.A scar showed faintly on his right cheek.He had ahookednose,andamatofdenseblackhairthatcurledtightlyaroundhisears.ItwasnotafacePaterecognized.“Idonotknowyou.”

“NorIyou.”

“Whoareyou?”

“Astranger.Noone.Truly.”

“Oh.”Patehadrunoutofwords.Hedrewoutthekeyandputitinthestranger’shand,feelinglight-headed,almostgiddy.Rosey,heremindedhimself.“We’redone,then.”

Hewashalfwaydownthealleywhenthecobblestonesbegantomovebeneathhisfeet.The stones are slick and wet, he thought, but that was not it. He could feel his hearthammering in his chest. “What’s happening?” he said.His legs had turned towater. “Idon’tunderstand.”

“Andneverwill,”avoicesaidsadly.

Thecobblestones rushedup tokisshim.Pate tried to cry forhelp,buthisvoicewasfailingtoo.

HislastthoughtwasofRosey.

THEPROPHET

TheprophetwasdrowningmenonGreatWykwhentheycametotellhimthatthekingwasdead.

Itwasableak,coldmorning,andtheseawasasleadenasthesky.ThefirstthreemenhadofferedtheirlivestotheDrownedGodfearlessly,butthefourthwasweakinfaithandbegan to struggle as his lungs cried out for air. Standingwaist-deep in the surf,Aeronseizedthenakedboybytheshouldersandpushedhisheadbackdownashetriedtosnatchabreath.“Havecourage,”hesaid.“Wecamefromthesea,andtotheseawemustreturn.Openyourmouthanddrinkdeepofgod’sblessing.Fillyour lungswithwater, thatyoumaydieandbereborn.Itdoesnogoodtofight.”

Eithertheboycouldnothearhimwithhisheadbeneaththewaves,orelsehisfaithhadutterlydesertedhim.HebegantokickandthrashsowildlythatAeronhadtocallforhelp.Fourofhisdrownedmenwadedouttoseizethewretchandholdhimunderwater.“LordGodwhodrownedforus,”thepriestprayed,inavoiceasdeepasthesea,“letEmmondyour servant be reborn from the sea, as youwere. Bless himwith salt, bless himwithstone,blesshimwithsteel.”

Finally,itwasdone.Nomoreairwasbubblingfromhismouth,andallthestrengthhadgoneoutofhis limbs.Facedownin theshallowseafloatedEmmond,paleandcoldandpeaceful.

ThatwaswhentheDamphairrealizedthatthreehorsemenhadjoinedhisdrownedmenon thepebbled shore.Aeronknew theSparr, ahatchet-facedoldmanwithwateryeyeswhosequaveryvoicewaslawonthispartofGreatWyk.HissonSteffarionaccompaniedhim,withanotheryouthwhosedarkredfur-linedcloakwaspinnedattheshoulderwithanornate brooch that showed the black-and-gold warhorn of the Goodbrothers. One ofGorold’s sons, the priest decided at a glance. Three tall sons had been born toGoodbrother’swifelateinlife,afteradozendaughters,anditwassaidthatnomancouldtell one son from the others. Aeron Damphair did not deign to try. Whether this beGreydonorGormondorGran,thepriesthadnotimeforhim.

Hegrowledabrusquecommand,andhisdrownedmenseizedthedeadboybyhisarmsand legs to carry him above the tideline. The priest followed, naked but for a sealskinclout that covered his private parts. Goosefleshed and dripping, he splashed back ontoland,acrosscoldwetsandandsea-scouredpebbles.Oneofhisdrownedmenhandedhimarobeofheavyroughspundyedinmottledgreensandbluesandgreys,thecolorsoftheseaandtheDrownedGod.Aerondonnedtherobeandpulledhishairfree.Blackandwet,thathair;nobladehadtoucheditsincetheseahadraisedhimup.Itdrapedhisshoulders

likea ragged, ropycloak,andfelldownpasthiswaist.Aeronwovestrandsofseaweedthroughit,andthroughhistangled,uncutbeard.

His drownedmen formed a circle around the dead boy, praying. Norjen worked hisarmswhilstRuskneltastridehim,pumpingonhischest,butallmovedasideforAeron.Hepriedaparttheboy’scoldlipswithhisfingersandgaveEmmondthekissoflife,andagain,andagain,untiltheseacamegushingfromhismouth.Theboybegantocoughandspit,andhiseyesblinkedopen,fulloffear.

Anotheronereturned.ItwasasignoftheDrownedGod’sfavor,mensaid.Everyotherpriestlostamanfromtimetotime,evenTarletheThrice-Drowned,whohadoncebeenthoughtsoholythathewaspickedtocrownaking.ButneverAeronGreyjoy.HewastheDamphair,whohadseenthegod’sownwateryhallsandreturnedtotellofit.“Rise,”hetoldthesputteringboyasheslappedhimonhisnakedback.“Youhavedrownedandbeenreturnedtous.Whatisdeadcanneverdie.”

“Butrises.”Theboycoughedviolently,bringingupmorewater.“Risesagain.”Everywordwasboughtwithpain,butthatwasthewayoftheworld;amanmustfighttolive.“Risesagain.”Emmondstaggeredtohisfeet.“Harder.Andstronger.”

“Youbelongtothegodnow,”Aerontoldhim.Theotherdrownedmengatheredroundandeachgavehimapunchandakisstowelcomehimtothebrotherhood.Onehelpedhimdonaroughspunrobeofmottledblueandgreenandgrey.Anotherpresentedhimwithadriftwoodcudgel.“Youbelongtotheseanow,sotheseahasarmedyou,”Aeronsaid.“Wepraythatyoushallwieldyourcudgelfiercely,againstalltheenemiesofourgod.”

Onlythendidthepriestturntothethreeriders,watchingfromtheirsaddles.“Haveyoucometobedrowned,mylords?”

TheSparr coughed. “Iwas drowned as a boy,” he said, “andmy sonuponhis nameday.”

Aeron snorted.That SteffarionSparr had been given to theDrownedGod soon afterbirthhehadnodoubt.Heknewthemannerofittoo,aquickdipintoatubofseawaterthatscarcewet the infant’s head.Smallwonder the ironbornhadbeen conquered, theywhoonceheldswayeverywherethesoundofwaveswasheard.“Thatisnotruedrowning,”hetold theriders.“Hethatdoesnotdie in truthcannothope torisefromdeath.Whyhaveyoucome,ifnottoproveyourfaith?”

“LordGorold’ssoncameseekingyou,withnews.”TheSparrindicatedtheyouthintheredcloak.

The boy looked to be no more than six-and-ten. “Aye, and which are you?” Aerondemanded.

“Gormond.GormondGoodbrother,ifitpleasemylord.”

“It is the Drowned God we must please. Have you been drowned, GormondGoodbrother?”

“Onmynameday,Damphair.Myfathersentmetofindyouandbringyoutohim.He

needstoseeyou.”

“Here I stand. Let LordGorold come and feast his eyes.”Aeron took a leather skinfromRus,freshlyfilledwithwaterfromthesea.Thepriestpulledoutthecorkandtookaswallow.

“Iamtobringyoutothekeep,”insistedyoungGormond,fromatophishorse.

Heisafraidtodismount,lesthegethisbootswet.“Ihavethegod’sworktodo.”AeronGreyjoywasaprophet.Hedidnotsufferpettylordsorderinghimaboutlikesomethrall.

“Gorold’shadabird,”saidtheSparr.

“Amaester’sbird,fromPyke,”Gormondconfirmed.

Darkwings,darkwords. “The ravens fly o’er salt and stone. If there are tidings thatconcernme,speakthemnow.”

“Suchtidingsaswebearareforyourearsalone,Damphair,”theSparrsaid.“ThesearenotmattersIwouldspeakofherebeforetheseothers.”

“Theseothersaremydrownedmen,god’sservants,justasIam.Ihavenosecretsfromthem,norfromourgod,besidewhoseholyseaIstand.”

Thehorsemenexchangeda look. “Tellhim,” said theSparr, and theyouth in the redcloaksummoneduphiscourage.“Thekingisdead,”hesaid,asplainasthat.Foursmallwords,yettheseaitselftrembledwhenheutteredthem.

FourkingstherewereinWesteros,yetAerondidnotneedtoaskwhichonewasmeant.BalonGreyjoyruled theIronIslands,andnoother.Theking isdead.Howcan thatbe?Aeronhadseenhiseldestbrothernotamoon’sturnpast,whenhehadreturnedtotheIronIslandsfromharrying theStonyShore.Balon’sgreyhairhadgonehalf-whitewhilst thepriesthadbeenaway,andthestoopinhisshoulderswasmorepronouncedthanwhenthelongshipssailed.Yetallinallthekinghadnotseemedill.

AeronGreyjoyhadbuilthislifeupontwomightypillars.Thosefoursmallwordshadknockedonedown.OnlytheDrownedGodremainstome.Mayhemakemeasstrongandtirelessasthesea.“Tellmethemannerofmybrother’sdeath.”

“HisGracewascrossingabridgeatPykewhenhefellandwasdashedupontherocksbelow.”

TheGreyjoystrongholdstooduponabrokenheadland,itskeepsandtowersbuiltatopmassive stone stacks that thrustup from the sea.BridgesknottedPyke together; archedbridgesofcarvedstoneandswayingspansofhempenropeandwoodenplanks.“Wasthestormragingwhenhefell?”Aerondemandedofthem.

“Aye,”theyouthsaid,“itwas.”

“TheStormGodcasthimdown,”thepriestannounced.Forathousandthousandyearssea and sky had been at war. From the sea had come the ironborn, and the fish thatsustainedthemeveninthedepthsofwinter,butstormsbroughtonlywoeandgrief.“MybrotherBalonmadeusgreatagain,whichearnedtheStormGod’swrath.Hefeastsnowin

theDrownedGod’swateryhalls,withmermaidstoattendhiseverywant.Itshallbeforuswhoremainbehind in thisdryanddismalvale to finishhisgreatwork.”Hepushed thecorkback intohiswaterskin.“Ishall speakwithyour lord father.Howfar fromhere toHammerhorn?”

“Sixleagues.Youmayridepillionwithme.”

“Onecan ride faster than two.Givemeyourhorse, and theDrownedGodwill blessyou.”

“Takemyhorse,Damphair,”offeredSteffarionSparr.

“No.Hismountisstronger.Yourhorse,boy.”

The youth hesitated half a heartbeat, then dismounted and held the reins for theDamphair. Aeron shoved a bare black foot into a stirrup and swung himself onto thesaddle.Hewasnotfondofhorses—theywerecreaturesfromthegreenlandsandhelpedtomakemenweak—butnecessityrequiredthatheride.Darkwings,darkwords.Astormwasbrewing, he couldhear it in thewaves, and stormsbrought naught but evil. “Meetwith me at Pebbleton beneath LordMerlyn’s tower,” he told his drowned men, as heturnedthehorse’shead.

Thewaywasrough,uphillsandwoodsandstonydefiles,alonganarrowtrackthatoftseemed to disappear beneath thehorse’s hooves.GreatWykwas the largest of the IronIslands,sovast thatsomeof its lordshadholdings thatdidnot frontupon theholysea.GoroldGoodbrotherwasonesuch.HiskeepwasintheHardstoneHills,asfarfromtheDrownedGod’s realm as any place in the isles. Gorold’s folk toiled down inGorold’smines,inthestonydarkbeneaththeearth.Somelivedanddiedwithoutsettingeyesuponsaltwater.Smallwonderthatsuchfolkarecrabbedandqueer.

AsAeronrode,histhoughtsturnedtohisbrothers.

Nine sons had been born from the loins of Quellon Greyjoy, the Lord of the IronIslands.Harlon,Quenton,andDonelhadbeenbornofLordQuellon’sfirstwife,awomanof the Stonetrees. Balon, Euron, Victarion, Urrigon, and Aeron were the sons of hissecond,aSunderlyofSaltcliffe.ForathirdwifeQuellontookagirlfromthegreenlands,whogavehimasicklyidiotboynamedRobin,thebrotherbestforgotten.ThepriesthadnomemoryofQuentonorDonel,whohaddiedasinfants.Harlonherecalledbutdimly,sitting grey-faced and still in a windowless tower room and speaking in whispers thatgrewfaintereverydayas thegreyscale turnedhis tongueandlips tostone.OnedayweshallfeastonfishtogetherintheDrownedGod’swateryhalls,thefourofusandUrritoo.

NinesonshadbeenbornfromtheloinsofQuellonGreyjoy,butonlyfourhadlivedtomanhood.Thatwasthewayofthiscoldworld,wheremenfishedtheseaandduginthegroundanddied,whilstwomenbroughtforthshort-livedchildrenfrombedsofbloodandpain.Aeronhadbeenthelastandleastofthefourkrakens,Balontheeldestandboldest,afierceandfearlessboywholivedonlytorestoretheironborntotheirancientglory.Attenhe scaled theFlintCliffs to theBlindLord’s haunted tower.At thirteen he could run alongship’soarsanddancethefingerdanceaswellasanymanintheisles.Atfifteenhe

hadsailedwithDagmerCleftjawtotheStepstonesandspentasummerreaving.Heslewhisfirstmanthereandtookhisfirsttwosaltwives.AtseventeenBaloncaptainedhisownship.Hewasallthatanelderbrotheroughttobe,thoughhehadnevershownAeronaughtbutscorn. Iwasweakand fullofsin,andscornwasmore thanIdeserved.Better tobescornedbyBalontheBravethanbelovedofEuronCrow’sEye.AndifageandgriefhadturnedBalonbitterwiththeyears,theyhadalsomadehimmoredeterminedthananymanalive.He was born a lord’s son and died a king, murdered by a jealous god, Aeronthought,andnowthestormiscoming,astormsuchastheseisleshaveneverknown.

Itwas long after dark by the time the priest espied the spiky iron battlements of theHammerhorn clawing at the crescentmoon.Gorold’s keepwas hulking and blocky, itsgreatstonesquarriedfromthecliffthatloomedbehindit.Belowitswalls,theentrancesofcaves and ancient mines yawned like toothless black mouths. The Hammerhorn’s irongateshadbeenclosedandbarredforthenight.Aeronbeatonthemwitharockuntiltheclangingwokeaguard.

The youth who admitted him was the image of Gormond, whose horse he’d taken.“Whichoneareyou?”Aerondemanded.

“Gran.Myfatherawaitsyouwithin.”

Thehallwasdankanddrafty, fullofshadows.OneofGorold’sdaughtersoffered thepriestahornofale.Anotherpokedatasullenfire thatwasgivingoffmoresmokethanheat.GoroldGoodbrotherhimselfwastalkingquietlywithaslimmaninfinegreyrobes,whoworeabouthisnecka chainofmanymetals thatmarkedhim for amaesterof theCitadel.

“WhereisGormond?”GoroldaskedwhenhesawAeron.

“Hereturnsafoot.Sendyourwomenaway,mylord.Andthemaesteraswell.”Hehadnoloveofmaesters.Theirravenswerecreaturesof theStormGod,andhedidnot trusttheirhealing,notsinceUrri.Nopropermanwouldchoosealifeofthralldom,norforgeachainofservitudetowearabouthisthroat.

“Gysella, Gwin, leave us,” Goodbrother said curtly. “You as well, Gran. MaesterMurenmurewillstay.”

“Hewillgo,”insistedAeron.

“Thisismyhall,Damphair.Itisnotforyoutosaywhomustgoandwhoremains.Themaesterstays.”

The man lives too far from the sea, Aeron told himself. “Then I shall go,” he toldGoodbrother.Dryrushesrustledunderneaththecrackedsolesofhisbareblackfeetasheturnedandstalkedaway.Itseemedhehadriddenalongwayfornaught.

Aeronwas almost at the doorwhen themaester cleared his throat, and said, “EuronCrow’sEyesitstheSeastoneChair.”

TheDamphair turned.Thehallhad suddenlygrowncolder.TheCrow’sEye ishalfaworldaway.Balonsenthimoff twoyearsago,andswore that itwouldbehis life ifhe

returned.“Tellme,”hesaidhoarsely.

“HesailedintoLordsportthedayaftertheking’sdeath,andclaimedthecastleandthecrownasBalon’seldestbrother,”saidGoroldGoodbrother.“Nowhesendsforthravens,summoningthecaptainsandthekingsfromeveryisletoPyke,tobendtheirkneesanddohimhomageastheirking.”

“No.” Aeron Damphair did not weigh his words. “Only a godly man may sit theSeastoneChair.TheCrow’sEyeworshipsnaughtbuthisownpride.”

“YouwereonPykenotlongago,andsawtheking,”saidGoodbrother.“DidBalonsayaughttoyouofthesuccession?”

Aye.TheyhadspokenintheSeaTower,asthewindhowledoutsidethewindowsandthewavescrashedrestlesslybelow.BalonhadshakenhisheadindespairwhenheheardwhatAeronhadtotellhimofhislastremainingson.“Thewolveshavemadeaweaklingofhim,asIfeared,”thekinghadsaid.“Ipraygodthattheykilledhim,sohecannotstandin Asha’s way.” That was Balon’s blindness; he saw himself in his wild, headstrongdaughter,andbelievedshecouldsucceedhim.Hewaswronginthat,andAerontriedtotellhimso.“Nowomanwilleverruletheironborn,notevenawomansuchasAsha,”heinsisted,butBaloncouldbedeaftothingshedidnotwishtohear.

BeforethepriestcouldanswerGoroldGoodbrother,themaester’smouthflappedopenonceagain.“ByrightstheSeastoneChairbelongstoTheon,orAshaiftheprinceisdead.Thatisthelaw.”

“Greenlandlaw,”saidAeronwithcontempt.“Whatisthattous?Weareironborn,thesonsofthesea,chosenoftheDrownedGod.Nowomanmayruleoverus,noranygodlessman.”

“And Victarion?” asked Gorold Goodbrother. “He has the Iron Fleet.Will Victarionmakeaclaim,Damphair?”

“Euronistheelderbrother…”beganthemaester.

Aeronsilencedhimwithalook.Inlittlefishingtownsandgreatstonekeepsalikesucha lookfromDamphairwouldmakemaidsfeel faintandsendchildrenshrieking to theirmothers,and itwasmore thansufficient toquell thechain-neck thrall.“Euroniselder,”thepriestsaid,“butVictarionismoregodly.”

“Willitcometowarbetweenthem?”askedthemaester.

“Ironbornmustnotspillthebloodofironborn.”

“A pious sentiment, Damphair,” said Goodbrother, “but not one that your brothershares. He had Sawane Botley drowned for saying that the Seastone Chair by rightsbelongedtoTheon.”

“Ifhewasdrowned,nobloodwasshed,”saidAeron.

Themaesterandthelordexchangedalook.“ImustsendwordtoPyke,andsoon,”saidGoroldGoodbrother.“Damphair,Iwouldhaveyourcounsel.Whatshallitbe,homageor

defiance?”

Aeron tugged his beard, and thought. I have seen the storm, and its name is EuronCrow’sEye.“Fornow,sendonlysilence,”hetoldthelord.“Imustprayonthis.”

“Prayallyouwish,”themaestersaid.“Itdoesnotchangethelaw.Theonistherightfulheir,andAshanext.”

“Silence!” Aeron roared. “Too long have the ironborn listened to you chain-neckmaesterspratingofthegreenlandsandtheirlaws.Itistimewelistenedtotheseaagain.Itistimewelistenedtothevoiceofgod.”Hisownvoiceranginthatsmokyhall,sofullofpowerthatneitherGoroldGoodbrothernorhismaesterdaredareply.TheDrownedGodiswithme,Aeronthought.Hehasshownmetheway.

Goodbrotherofferedhimthecomfortsofthecastleforthenight,butthepriestdeclined.He seldomsleptbeneatha castle roof, andnever so far from the sea. “Comforts I shallknowin theDrownedGod’swateryhallsbeneath thewaves.Weareborntosuffer, thatour sufferingsmightmake us strong.All that I require is a fresh horse to carryme toPebbleton.”

ThatGoodbrotherwaspleasedtoprovide.HesenthissonGreydonaswell,toshowthepriesttheshortestwaythroughthehillsdowntothesea.Dawnwasstillanhouroffwhenthey set forth, but their mounts were hardy and surefooted, and they made good timedespite the darkness. Aeron closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, and after a whilebegantodrowseinthesaddle.

The soundcame softly, the screamof a rustedhinge. “Urri,”hemuttered, andwoke,fearful.Thereisnohingehere,nodoor,noUrri.AflyingaxetookoffhalfofUrri’shandwhen he was ten-and-four, playing at the finger dance whilst his father and his elderbrotherswere away atwar. LordQuellon’s thirdwife had been a Piper of PinkmaidenCastle,agirlwithbigsoftbreastsandbrowndoe’seyes.InsteadofhealingUrri’shandtheOldWay,withfireandseawater,shegavehimtohergreenlandmaester,whosworethathecouldsewbackthemissingfingers.Hedidthat,andlaterheusedpotionsandpolticesandherbs,butthehandmortifiedandUrritookafever.Bythetimethemaestersawedhisarmoff,itwastoolate.

LordQuellonnever returnedfromhis lastvoyage; theDrownedGod inhisgoodnessgrantedhimadeathatsea.ItwasLordBalonwhocameback,withhisbrothersEuronandVictarion.WhenBalonheardwhathadbefallenUrri,he removed threeof themaester’sfingerswithacook’scleaverandsenthisfather’sPiperwifetosewthembackon.PolticesandpotionsworkedaswellforthemaesterastheyhadforUrrigon.Hediedraving,andLord Quellon’s third wife followed soon thereafter, as the midwife drew a stillborndaughterfromherwomb.Aeronhadbeenglad.IthadbeenhisaxethatshearedoffUrri’shand,whilsttheydancedthefingerdancetogether,asfriendsandbrotherswill.

It shamed him still to recall the years that followed Urri’s death. At six-and-ten hecalledhimselfaman,butintruthhehadbeenasackofwinewithlegs.Hewouldsing,hewoulddance(butnotthefingerdance,neveragain),hewouldjapeandjabberandmakemock.Heplayedthepipes,hejuggled,herodehorses,andcoulddrinkmorethanallthe

WynchesandtheBotleys,andhalftheHarlawstoo.TheDrownedGodgiveseverymanagift,evenhim;nomancouldpiss longerorfarther thanAeronGreyjoy,asheprovedateveryfeast.Oncehebethisnewlongshipagainstaherdofgoatsthathecouldquenchahearthfirewithnomore thanhiscock.Aeronfeastedongoat forayear,andnamed thelongshipGolden Storm, though Balon threatened to hang him from her mast when heheardwhatsortoframhisbrotherproposedtomountuponherprow.

IntheendtheGoldenStormwentdownoffFairIsleduringBalon’sfirstrebellion,cutinhalfbyatoweringwargalleycalledFurywhenStannisBaratheoncaughtVictarioninhistrapandsmashedtheIronFleet.YetthegodwasnotdonewithAeron,andcarriedhimto shore. Some fishermen took him captive and marched him down to Lannisport inchains, and he spent the rest of the war in the bowels of Casterly Rock, proving thatkrakenscanpissfartherandlongerthanlions,boars,orchickens.

Thatman is dead.Aeron had drowned and been reborn from the sea, the god’s ownprophet. No mortal man could frighten him, no more than the darkness could… normemories,thebonesofthesoul.Thesoundofadooropening,thescreamofarustedironhinge.Euronhascomeagain.Itdidnotmatter.HewastheDamphairpriest,belovedofthegod.

“Willitcometowar?”askedGreydonGoodbrotherasthesunwaslighteningthehills.“Awarofbrotheragainstbrother?”

“IftheDrownedGodwillsit.NogodlessmanmaysittheSeastoneChair.”TheCrow’sEyewillfight,thatiscertain.Nowomancoulddefeathim,notevenAsha;womenweremadetofighttheirbattlesinthebirthingbed.AndTheon,ifhelived,wasjustashopeless,a boy of sulks and smiles.AtWinterfell he proved hisworth, such that itwas, but theCrow’sEyewasnocrippledboy.ThedecksofEuron’s shipwerepainted red, tobetterhidethebloodthatsoakedthem.Victarion.ThekingmustbeVictarion,orthestormwillslayusall.

Greydonlefthimwhenthesunwasup,totakethenewsofBalon’sdeathtohiscousinsintheirtowersatDowndelving,CrowSpikeKeep,andCorpseLake.Aeroncontinuedonalone,uphillsanddownvalesalongastonytrackthatdrewwiderandmoretraveledashenearedthesea.Ineveryvillagehepausedtopreach,andintheyardsofpettylordsaswell.“Wewerebornfromthesea,andtotheseaweallreturn,”hetoldthem.Hisvoicewasasdeepas theocean,and thundered like thewaves.“TheStormGod inhiswrathpluckedBalon from his castle and cast him down, and now he feasts beneath thewaves in theDrownedGod’swateryhalls.”Heraisedhishands.“Balonisdead!Thekingisdead!Yeta king will come again! For what is dead may never die, but rises again, harder andstronger!Akingwillrise!”

Someofthosewhoheardhimthrewdowntheirhoesandpickstofollow,sobythetimeheheard thecrashofwavesadozenmenwalkedbehindhishorse, touchedbygodanddesirousofdrowning.

Pebbletonwas home to several thousand fisherfolk,whose hovels huddled round thebaseofa square towerhousewitha turretateachcorner.TwoscoreofAeron’sdrowned

menthereawaitedhim,campedalongagreysandbeachinsealskintentsandsheltersbuiltof driftwood.Their handswere roughened by brine, scarred by nets and lines, callusedfromoarsandpicksandaxes,butnowthosehandsgrippeddriftwoodcudgelshardasiron,forthegodhadarmedthemfromhisarsenalbeneaththesea.

Theyhadbuiltashelterforthepriestjustabovethetideline.Gladlyhecrawledintoit,afterhehaddrownedhisnewestfollowers.Mygod,heprayed,speaktomeintherumbleof thewaves,andtellmewhat todo.Thecaptainsandthekingsawaityourword.Whoshallbeourking inBalon’splace?Sing tome in the languageof leviathan, that Imayknowhisname.Tellme,OLordbeneaththewaves,whohasthestrengthtofightthestormonPyke?

ThoughhisridetoHammerhornhadlefthimweary,AeronDamphairwasrestlessinhisdriftwoodshelter,roofedoverwithblackweedsfromthesea.Thecloudsrolledintocloakthemoon and stars, and the darkness lay as thick upon the sea as it did upon his soul.BalonfavoredAsha,thechildofhisbody,butawomancannotruletheironborn.ItmustbeVictarion.NinesonshadbeenbornfromtheloinsofQuellonGreyjoy,andVictarionwas the strongest of them, a bull of a man, fearless and dutiful. And therein lies ourdanger.Ayoungerbrotherowesobediencetoanelder,andVictarionwasnotamantosailagainsttradition.HehasnoloveforEuron,though.Notsincethewomandied.

Outside,beneaththesnoringofhisdrownedmenandthekeeningofthewind,hecouldhearthepoundingofthewaves,thehammerofhisgodcallinghimtobattle.Aeroncreptfromhislittleshelterintothechillofthenight.Nakedhestood,paleandgauntandtall,andnakedhewalkedintotheblacksaltsea.Thewaterwasicycold,yethedidnotflinchfromhisgod’scaress.Awavesmashedagainsthischest,staggeringhim.Thenextbrokeoverhishead.Hecouldtastethesaltonhislipsandfeelthegodaroundhim,andhisearsrangwiththegloryofhissong.Ninesonswerebornfromthe loinsofQuellonGreyjoy,andIwastheleastofthem,asweakandfrightenedasagirl.Butnolonger.Thatmanisdrowned,andthegodhasmademestrong.Thecoldsaltseasurroundedhim,embracedhim, reached down through his weak man’s flesh and touched his bones. Bones, hethought.Thebonesof thesoul.Balon’sbones,andUrri’s.The truth is inourbones, forfleshdecaysandbone endures.Andon thehill ofNagga, thebonesof theGreyKing’sHall…

Andgauntandpaleandshivering,AeronDamphairstruggledbacktotheshore,awisermanthanhehadbeenwhenhesteppedintothesea.Forhehadfoundtheanswerinhisbones,andthewaywasplainbeforehim.Thenightwassocoldthathisbodyseemedtosteamashestalkedbacktowardhisshelter,buttherewasafireburninginhisheart,andsleepcameeasilyforonce,unbrokenbythescreamofironhinges.

Whenhewokethedaywasbrightandwindy.Aeronbrokehisfastonabrothofclamsandseaweedcookedaboveadriftwoodfire.NosoonerhadhefinishedthantheMerlyndescended fromhis towerhousewithhalf adozenguards to seekhimout. “Theking isdead,”theDamphairtoldhim.

“Aye.Ihadabird.Andnowanother.”TheMerlynwasabaldroundfleshymanwhostyledhimself“Lord” in themannerof thegreen lands,anddressed infursandvelvets.

“One raven summonsme toPyke, another toTenTowers.You krakens have toomanyarms,youpullamantopieces.Whatsayyou,priest?WhereshouldIsendmylongships?”

Aeronscowled.“TenTowers,doyousay?Whatkrakencallsyouthere?”TenTowerswastheseatoftheLordofHarlaw.

“The Princess Asha. She has set her sails for home. The Reader sends out ravens,summoningallherfriendstoHarlaw.HesaysthatBalonmeantforhertosittheSeastoneChair.”

“TheDrownedGodshalldecidewhositstheSeastoneChair,”thepriestsaid.“Kneel,thatImightblessyou.”LordMerlynsanktohisknees,andAeronuncorkedhisskinandpouredastreamofseawateronhisbaldpate.“LordGodwhodrownedforus,letMeldredyourservantbebornagainfromthesea.Blesshimwithsalt,blesshimwithstone,blesshimwithsteel.”WaterrandownMerlyn’sfatcheekstosoakhisbeardandfox-furmantle.“Whatisdeadmayneverdie,”Aeronfinished,“butrisesagain,harderandstronger.”ButwhenMerlynrose,hetoldhim,“Stayandlisten,thatyoumayspreadgod’sword.”

Threefeetfromthewater’sedgethewavesbrokearoundaroundedgraniteboulder.ItwastherethatAeronDamphairstood,soallhisschoolmightseehim,andhearthewordshehadtosay.

“We were born from the sea, and to the sea we all return,” he began, as he had ahundredtimesbefore.“TheStormGodinhiswrathpluckedBalonfromhiscastleandcasthimdown,andnowhefeastsbeneaththewaves.”Heraisedhishands.“Theironkingisdead!Yetakingwillcomeagain!Forwhatisdeadmayneverdie,butrisesagain,harderandstronger!”

“Akingshallrise!”thedrownedmencried.

“Heshall.Hemust.Butwho?”TheDamphair listenedamoment,butonlythewavesgaveanswer.“Whoshallbeourking?”

The drowned men began to slam their driftwood cudgels one against the other.“Damphair!”theycried.“DamphairKing!AeronKing!GiveusDamphair!”

Aeronshookhishead.“Ifafatherhastwosonsandgivestooneanaxeandtotheotheranet,whichdoesheintendshouldbethewarrior?”

“Theaxeisforthewarrior,”Russhoutedback,“thenetforafisheroftheseas.”

“Aye,” said Aeron. “The god took me deep beneath the waves and drowned theworthlessthingIwas.Whenhecastmeforthagainhegavemeeyestosee,earstohear,andavoicetospreadhisword,thatImightbehisprophetandteachhistruthtothosewhohave forgotten. Iwas notmade to sit upon the SeastoneChair… nomore thanEuronCrow’sEye.For I haveheard thegod,who says,Nogodlessmanmay sitmySeastoneChair!”

TheMerlyncrossedhisarmsagainsthischest.“IsitAsha,then?OrVictarion?Tellus,priest!”

“TheDrownedGodwilltellyou,butnothere.”AeronpointedattheMerlyn’sfatwhite

face.“Looknottome,nortothelawsofmen,buttothesea.Raiseyoursailsandunshipyouroars,mylord,andtakeyourselftoOldWyk.You,andallthecaptainsandthekings.Go not to Pyke, to bow before the godless, nor to Harlaw, to consort with schemingwomen.PointyourprowtowardOldWyk,wherestoodtheGreyKing’sHall.Inthenameof theDrownedGodIsummonyou.Isummonallofyou!Leaveyourhallsandhovels,yourcastlesandyourkeeps,andreturntoNagga’shilltomakeakingsmoot!”

TheMerlyngapedathim.“Akingsmoot?Therehasnotbeenatruekingsmootin…”

“…too longa time!”Aeroncried inanguish. “Yet in thedawnofdays the ironbornchosetheirownkings,raisinguptheworthiestamongstthem.ItistimewereturnedtotheOldWay, for only that shallmake us great again. Itwas a kingsmoot that choseUrrasIronfoot forHighKing, and placed a driftwood crown upon his brows. Sylas Flatnose,HarragHoare, theOldKraken, thekingsmoot raised themall.Andfrom thiskingsmootshall emerge a man to finish the work King Balon has begun and win us back ourfreedoms.GonottoPyke,nortotheTenTowersofHarlaw,buttoOldWyk,Isayagain.SeekthehillofNaggaandthebonesoftheGreyKing’sHall,forinthatholyplacewhenthemoonhasdrownedandcomeagainweshallmakeourselvesaworthyking,agodlyking.”Heraisedhisbonyhandsonhighagain.“Listen!Listentothewaves!Listentothegod!Heisspeakingtous,andhesays,Weshallhavenokingbutfromthekingsmoot!”

Aroarwentupatthat,andthedrownedmenbeattheircudgelsoneagainsttheother.“Akingsmoot!”theyshouted.“Akingsmoot,akingsmoot.Nokingbutfromthekingsmoot!”And theclamor that theymadewasso thunderous thatsurely theCrow’sEyeheard theshoutsonPyke,andthevileStormGodinhiscloudyhall.AndAeronDamphairknewhehaddonewell.

THECAPTAINOFGUARDS

Thebloodorangesarewellpast ripe,” theprinceobserved inawearyvoice,when thecaptainrolledhimontotheterrace.

Afterthathedidnotspeakagainforhours.

Itwastrueabouttheoranges.Afewhadfallentoburstopenonthepalepinkmarble.ThesharpsweetsmellofthemfilledHotah’snostrilseachtimehetookabreath.Nodoubttheprincecouldsmell them too,ashesatbeneath the trees in the rollingchairMaesterCaleottehadmadeforhim,withitsgoose-downcushionsandrumblingwheelsofebonyandiron.

Foralongwhiletheonlysoundswerethechildrensplashinginthepoolsandfountains,andonceasoftplopasanotherorangedroppedontotheterracetoburst.Then,fromthefarsideofthepalace,thecaptainheardthefaintdrumbeatofbootsonmarble.

Obara.Heknewher stride; long-legged,hasty,angry. In thestablesby thegates,herhorsewouldbe lathered,andbloodyfromherspurs.Shealways rodestallions,andhadbeenheardtoboastthatshecouldmasteranyhorseinDorne…andanymanaswell.Thecaptain could hear other footsteps as well, the quick soft scuffing ofMaester Caleottehurryingtokeepup.

ObaraSandalwayswalkedtoofast.Sheischasingaftersomethingshecannevercatch,theprincehadtoldhisdaughteronce,inthecaptain’shearing.

Whensheappearedbeneaththetriplearch,AreoHotahswunghislongaxesidewaystoblocktheway.Theheadwasonashaftofmountainashsixfeetlong,soshecouldnotgoaround. “My lady, no farther.”His voicewas a bass grumble thickwith the accents ofNorvos.“Theprincedoesnotwishtobedisturbed.”

Herfacehadbeenstonebeforehespoke;thenithardened.“Youareinmyway,Hotah.”Obarawas the eldest SandSnake, a big-bonedwomannear to thirty,with the close-seteyes and rat-brown hair of the Oldtown whore who’d birthed her. Beneath a mottledsandsilk cloak of dun and gold, her riding clothes were old brown leather, worn andsupple.Theywerethesoftestthingsabouther.Ononehipsheworeacoiledwhip,acrossherbackaroundshieldofsteelandcopper.Shehadleftherspearoutside.Forthat,AreoHotahgave thanks.Quickandstrongasshewas, thewomanwasnomatch forhim,heknew…butshedidnot,andhehadnowishtoseeherblooduponthepalepinkmarble.

MaesterCaleotteshiftedhisweightfromfoottofoot.“LadyObara,I triedtotellyou…”

“Doesheknowthatmyfatherisdead?”Obaraaskedthecaptain,payingthemaesternomoremind than shewould a fly, if any fly had been foolish enough to buzz about herhead.

“Hedoes,”thecaptainsaid.“Hehadabird.”

DeathhadcometoDorneonravenwings,writsmallandsealedwithablobofhardredwax.Caleottemusthavesensedwhatwasinthatletter,forhe’dgivenitHotahtodeliver.The prince thanked him, but for the longest time he would not break the seal. Allafternoonhe’dsatwith theparchment inhis lap,watching thechildrenat theirplay.Hewatched until the sunwent down and the evening air grew cool enough to drive theminside;thenhewatchedthestarlightonthewater.ItwasmoonrisebeforehesentHotahtofetchacandle,sohemightreadhisletterbeneaththeorangetreesinthedarkofnight.

Obara touched her whip. “Thousands are crossing the sands afoot to climb theBoneway, so they may help Ellaria bring my father home. The septs are packed tobursting, and the redpriestshave lit their temple fires. In thepillowhouseswomenarecouplingwitheverymanwhocomestothem,andrefusinganycoin.InSunspear,ontheBrokenArm,alongtheGreenblood,inthemountains,outinthedeepsand,everywhere,everywhere,womenteartheirhairandmencryoutinrage.Thesamequestionisheardonevery tongue—what will Doran do?What will his brother do to avenge our murderedprince?” She moved closer to the captain. “And you say, he does not wish to bedisturbed!”

“Hedoesnotwishtobedisturbed,”AreoHotahsaidagain.

Thecaptainofguardsknewtheprinceheguarded.Once,longago,acallowyouthhadcome fromNorvos, abigbroad-shoulderedboywithamopofdarkhair.Thathairwaswhitenow,andhisbodyborethescarsofmanybattles…buthisstrengthremained,andhekepthis longaxesharp,as thebeardedpriestshad taughthim.She shallnotpass,hetoldhimself,andsaid,“Theprinceiswatchingthechildrenattheirplay.Heisnevertobedisturbedwhenheiswatchingthechildrenattheirplay.”

“Hotah,” saidObaraSand,“youwill removeyourself frommypath,else I shall takethatlongaxeand—”

“Captain,”camethecommand,frombehind.“Letherpass.Iwillspeakwithher.”Theprince’svoicewashoarse.

Areo Hotah jerked his longaxe upright and stepped to one side. Obara gave him alingeringlastlookandstrodepast,themaesterhurryingatherheels.Caleottewasnomorethanfivefeettallandbaldasanegg.Hisfacewassosmoothandfatthatitwashardtotellhis age, but he had been here before the captain, had even served the prince’smother.Despitehisageandgirth,hewasstillnimbleenough,andcleverastheycame,butmeek.HeisnomatchforanySandSnake,thecaptainthought.

Intheshadeoftheorangetrees,theprincesatinhischairwithhisgoutylegsproppedupbeforehim,andheavybagsbeneathhiseyes…thoughwhether itwasgrieforgoutthatkepthimsleepless,Hotahcouldnot say.Below, in the fountainsand thepools, the

childrenwerestillattheirplay.Theyoungestwerenomorethanfive,theoldestnineandten.Halfweregirlsandhalfwereboys.Hotahcouldhearthemsplashingandshoutingateachotherinhigh,shrillvoices.“Itwasnotsolongagothatyouwereoneofthechildreninthosepools,Obara,”theprincesaid,whenshetookonekneebeforehisrollingchair.

Shesnorted.“Ithasbeentwentyyears,ornearenoughtomakenomatter.AndIwasnotherelong.Iamthewhore’swhelp,orhadyouforgotten?”Whenhedidnotanswer,sheroseagainandputherhandsuponherhips.“Myfatherhasbeenmurdered.”

“Hewas slain in singlecombatduringa trialbybattle,”PrinceDoran said. “By law,thatisnomurder.”

“Hewasyourbrother.”

“Hewas.”

“Whatdoyoumeantodoabouthisdeath?”

Theprince turnedhis chair laboriously to faceher.Thoughhewasbut two-and-fifty,DoranMartell seemedmuch older. His body was soft and shapeless beneath his linenrobes,andhislegswerehardtolookupon.Thegouthadswollenandreddenedhisjointsgrotesquely;hisleftkneewasanapple,hisrightamelon,andhistoeshadturnedtodarkredgrapes,soripe itseemedas thougha touchwouldburst them.Even theweightofacoverletcouldmakehimshudder,thoughheborethepainwithoutcomplaint.Silenceisaprince’sfriend, thecaptainhadheardhimtellhisdaughteronce.Wordsare likearrows,Arianne.Onceloosed,youcannotcallthemback.“IhavewrittentoLordTywin—”

“Written?Ifyouwerehalfthemanmyfatherwas—”

“Iamnotyourfather.”

“ThatIknew.”Obara’svoicewasthickwithcontempt.

“Youwouldhavemegotowar.”

“Iknowbetter.Youneednotevenleaveyourchair.Letmeavengemyfather.YouhaveahostinthePrince’sPass.LordYronwoodhasanotherintheBoneway.GrantmetheoneandNymtheother.Letherridethekingsroad,whilstIturnthemarcherlordsoutoftheircastlesandhookroundtomarchonOldtown.”

“AndhowcouldyouhopetoholdOldtown?”

“Itwillbeenoughtosackit.ThewealthofHightower—”

“Isitgoldyouwant?”

“ItisbloodIwant.”

“LordTywinshalldeliverustheMountain’shead.”

“AndwhowilldeliverusLordTywin’shead?TheMountainhasalwaysbeenhispet.”

Theprincegesturedtowardthepools.“Obara,lookatthechildren,ifitpleaseyou.”

“Itdoesnotpleaseme.I’dgetmorepleasurefromdrivingmyspearintoLordTywin’s

belly.I’llmakehimsing‘TheRainsofCastamere’asIpullhisbowelsoutandlookforgold.”

“Look,”theprincerepeated.“Icommandyou.”

Afewoftheolderchildrenlayfacedownuponthesmoothpinkmarble,browninginthesun.Others paddled in the sea beyond. Threewere building a sand castlewith a greatspikethatresembledtheSpearToweroftheOldPalace.Ascoreormorehadgatheredinthebigpool,towatchthebattlesassmallerchildrenrodethroughthewaist-deepshallowsontheshouldersof the largerandtried toshoveeachother into thewater.Everytimeapairwentdown,thesplashwasfollowedbyaroaroflaughter.Theywatchedanut-browngirl yank a towheaded boy off his brother’s shoulders to tumble him headfirst into thepool.

“Yourfatherplayedthatsamegameonce,asIdidbeforehim,”saidtheprince.“Wehadtenyearsbetweenus,soIhadleftthepoolsbythetimehewasoldenoughtoplay,butIwouldwatchhimwhenIcametovisitMother.Hewassofierce,evenasaboy.Quickasawatersnake.Ioftsawhimtoppleboysmuchbiggerthanhimself.Heremindedmeofthatthedayhe left forKing’sLanding.Heswore thathewoulddo itonemore time,else Iwouldneverhavelethimgo.”

“Lethimgo?”Obara laughed.“As ifyoucouldhavestoppedhim.TheRedViperofDornewentwherehewould.”

“Hedid.IwishIhadsomewordofcomfortto—”

“Ididnotcometoyouforcomfort.”Hervoicewasfullofscorn.“Thedaymyfathercametoclaimme,mymotherdidnotwishformetogo.‘Sheisagirl,’shesaid,‘andIdonotthinkthatsheisyours.Ihadathousandothermen.’Hetossedhisspearatmyfeetandgavemymotherthebackofhishandacrosstheface,soshebegantoweep.‘Girlorboy,wefightourbattles,’hesaid,‘butthegodsletuschooseourweapons.’Hepointedtothespear,thentomymother’stears,andIpickedupthespear.‘Itoldyoushewasmine,’myfathersaid,andtookme.Mymotherdrankherselftodeathwithintheyear.Theysaythatshewasweepingasshedied.”Obaraedgedclosertotheprinceinhischair.“Letmeusethespear;Iasknomore.”

“Itisadealtoask,Obara.Ishallsleeponit.”

“Youhaveslepttoolongalready.”

“Youmayberight.IwillsendwordtoyouatSunspear.”

“Solongasthewordiswar.”Obaraturneduponherheelandstrodeoffasangrilyasshehadcome,backtothestablesforafreshhorseandanotherheadlonggallopdowntheroad.

MaesterCaleotteremainedbehind.“Myprince?”thelittleroundmanasked.“Doyourlegshurt?”

Theprincesmiledfaintly.“Isthesunhot?”

“ShallIfetchadraughtforthepain?”

“No.Ineedmywitsaboutme.”

Themaesterhesitated.“Myprince,isit…isitprudenttoallowLadyObaratoreturntoSunspear?Sheiscertaintoinflamethecommonpeople.Theylovedyourbrotherwell.”

“Sodidweall.”Hepressedhisfingerstohistemples.“No.Youareright.ImustreturntoSunspearaswell.”

Thelittleroundmanhesitated.“Isthatwise?”

“Not wise, but necessary. Best send a rider to Ricasso, and have him open myapartmentsintheToweroftheSun.InformmydaughterAriannethatIwillbethereonthemorrow.”

Mylittleprincess.Thecaptainhadmissedhersorely.

“Youwillbeseen,”themaesterwarned.

Thecaptainunderstood.Twoyearsago,whentheyhadleftSunspearforthepeaceandisolation of theWaterGardens, PrinceDoran’s gout had not been half so bad. In thosedayshehadstillwalked,albeitslowly,leaningonastickandgrimacingwitheverystep.Theprincedidnotwishhisenemiestoknowhowfeeblehehadgrown,andtheOldPalaceanditsshadowcitywerefullofeyes.Eyes,thecaptainthought,andstepshecannotclimb.HewouldneedtoflytositatoptheToweroftheSun.

“Imustbeseen.Someonemustpouroilonthewaters.Dornemustberemindedthatitstillhasaprince.”Hesmiledwanly.“Oldandgoutythoughheis.”

“If you return to Sunspear, you will need to give audience to Princess Myrcella,”Caleottesaid.“Herwhiteknightwillbewithher…andyouknowhesendsletterstohisqueen.”

“Isupposehedoes.”

Thewhiteknight.Thecaptainfrowned.SerAryshadcometoDornetoattendhisownprincess,asAreoHotahhadoncecomewithhis.Eventheirnamessoundedoddlyalike:AreoandArys.Yettherethelikenessended.ThecaptainhadleftNorvosanditsbeardedpriests, but Ser Arys Oakheart still served the Iron Throne. Hotah had felt a certainsadnesswheneverhesawthemaninthelongsnowycloak,thetimestheprincehadsenthim down to Sunspear. One day, he sensed, the two of themwould fight; on that dayOakheart would die, with the captain’s longaxe crashing through his skull. He slid hishandalongthesmoothashenshaftofhisaxeandwonderedifthatdaywasdrawingnigh.

“Theafternoonisalmostdone,”theprincewassaying.“Wewillwaitformorn.Seethatmylitterisreadybyfirstlight.”

“Asyoucommand.”Caleottebobbedabow.Thecaptain stoodaside to lethimpass,andlistenedtohisfootstepsdwindle.

“Captain?”Theprince’svoicewassoft.

Hotahstrodeforward,onehandwrappedabouthislongaxe.Theashfeltassmoothasawoman’s skin against his palm.When he reached the rolling chair he thumped its butt

downhardtoannouncehispresence,buttheprincehadeyesonlyforthechildren.“Didyouhavebrothers,captain?”heasked.“BackinNorvos,whenyouwereyoung?Sisters?”

“Both,”Hotahsaid.“Twobrothers,threesisters.Iwastheyoungest.”Theyoungest,andunwanted. Another mouth to feed, a big boy who ate too much and soon outgrew hisclothes.Smallwondertheyhadsoldhimtothebeardedpriests.

“Iwastheoldest,”theprincesaid,“andyetIamthelast.AfterMorsandOlyvardiedintheircradles,Igaveuphopeofbrothers.IwasninewhenEliacame,asquireinserviceatSaltShore.Whentheravenarrivedwithwordthatmymotherhadbeenbroughttobedamonthtoosoon,Iwasoldenoughtounderstandthatmeantthechildwouldnotlive.EvenwhenLordGargalentoldmethatIhadasister,Iassuredhimthatshemustshortlydie.Yetshelived,bytheMother’smercy.AndayearlaterOberynarrived,squallingandkicking.Iwas aman grownwhen theywere playing in these pools. Yet here I sit, and they aregone.”

AreoHotahdidnotknowwhattosaytothat.Hewasonlyacaptainofguards,andstilla stranger to this land and its seven-faced god, even after all these years.Serve.Obey.Protect.Hehadswornthosevowsatsix-and-ten,thedayhewedhisaxe.Simplevowsforsimplemen, the bearded priests had said. He had not been trained to counsel grievingprinces.

Hewasstillgropingforsomewordstosaywhenanotherorangefellwithaheavysplat,nomorethanafootfromwheretheprincewasseated.Doranwincedatthesound,asifsomehow ithadhurthim.“Enough,”he sighed, “it is enough.Leaveme,Areo.Letmewatchthechildrenforafewmorehours.”

Whenthesunsettheairgrewcoolandthechildrenwentinsideinsearchofsupper,stilltheprinceremainedbeneathhisorangetrees,lookingoutoverthestillpoolsandtheseabeyond.Aservingmanbroughthimabowlofpurpleolives,withflatbread,cheese,andchickpeapaste.Heateabitofit,anddrankacupofthesweet,heavystrongwinethatheloved.Whenitwasempty,hefilleditonceagain.Sometimesinthedeepblackhoursofthemorning sleep found him in his chair.Only then did the captain roll himdown themoonlitgallery,pastarowofflutedpillarsandthroughagracefularchway,toagreatbedwithcrispcoollinensheetsinachamberbythesea.Dorangroanedasthecaptainmovedhim,butthegodsweregoodandhedidnotwake.

Thecaptain’ssleepingcelladjoinedhisprince’s.Hesatuponthenarrowbedandfoundhiswhetstoneandoilclothintheirniche,andset towork.Keepyour longaxesharp, thebeardedpriestshadtoldhim,thedaytheybrandedhim.Healwaysdid.

Ashehoned the axe,Hotah thoughtofNorvos, thehighcityon thehill and the lowbeside the river.Hecouldstill recall thesoundsof the threebells, theway thatNoom’sdeep peals set his very bones to shuddering, the proud strong voice of Narrah, sweetNyel’s silvery laughter.The tasteofwintercake filledhismouth again, richwithgingerandpinenutsandbitsofcherry,withnahsatowashitdown,fermentedgoat’smilkservedin an iron cup and lacedwith honey.He saw hismother in her dresswith the squirrelcollar,theonesheworebutonceeachyear,whentheywenttoseethebearsdancedown

theSinner’sSteps.Andhesmelledthestenchofburninghairasthebeardedpriesttouchedthebrandtothecenterofhischest.Thepainhadbeensofiercethathethoughthisheartmightstop,yetAreoHotahhadnotflinched.Thehairhadnevergrownbackovertheaxe.

Onlywhenbothedgesweresharpenoughtoshavewithdidthecaptainlayhisash-and-ironwifedownonthebed.Yawning,hepulledoffhissoiledclothes,tossedthemonthefloor,andstretchedoutonhisstraw-stuffedmattress.Thinkingofthebrandhadmadeititch,sohehadtoscratchhimselfbeforeheclosedhiseyes.Ishouldhavegathereduptheorangesthatfell,hethought,andwenttosleepdreamingofthetartsweettasteofthem,andthestickyfeeloftheredjuiceonhisfingers.

Dawncame too soon.Outside the stables the smallest of the threehorse litters stoodready,thecedarwoodlitterwiththeredsilkdraperies.Thecaptainchosetwentyspearstoaccompanyit,outofthethirtywhowerepostedattheWaterGardens;therestwouldstaytoguard thegroundsandchildren,someofwhomwere thesonsanddaughtersofgreatlordsandwealthymerchants.

Although the prince had spoken of departing at first light,AreoHotah knew that hewould dawdle.Whilst themaester helpedDoranMartell to bathe and bandaged up hisswollenjoints inlinenwrapssoakedwithsoothinglotions, thecaptaindonnedashirtofcopperscalesasbefithisrank,andabillowingcloakofdun-and-yellowsandsilktokeepthesunoffthecopper.Thedaypromisedtobehot,andthecaptainhadlongagodiscardedtheheavyhorsehair capeand studded leather tunichehadworn inNorvos,whichwerelike tocookaman inDorne.Hehadkepthis ironhalfhelm,with itscrestofsharpenedspikes,butnowhewore itwrapped inorangesilk,weaving thecloth inandaround thespikes.Elsewisethesunbeatingdownonthemetalwouldhavehisheadpoundingbeforetheysawthepalace.

The princewas still not ready to depart. He had decided to break his fast before hewent, with a blood orange and a plate of gull’s eggs dicedwith bits of ham and fierypeppers.Thennoughtwoulddobuthemustsayfarewell toseveralof thechildrenwhohadbecomeespecialfavorites:theDaltboyandLadyBlackmont’sbroodandtheround-facedorphangirlwhose father had sold cloth and spices up anddown theGreenblood.DorankeptasplendidMyrishblanketoverhis legsashespokewith them, tospare theyoungonesthesightofhisswollen,bandagedjoints.

It was midday before they got under way; the prince in his litter, Maester Caleotteridingonadonkey,therestafoot.Fivespearmenwalkedaheadandfivebehind,withfivemoreflankingthelittertoeitherside.AreoHotahhimselftookhisfamiliarplaceatthelefthand of the prince, resting his longaxe on a shoulder as he walked. The road fromSunspear to theWater Gardens ran beside the sea, so they had a cool fresh breeze tosoothethemastheymadetheirwayacrossasparsered-brownlandofstoneandsandandtwistedstuntedtrees.

Halfwaythere,thesecondSandSnakecaughtthem.

Sheappearedsuddenlyuponadune,mountedonagoldensandsteedwithamanelikefinewhite silk.Even ahorse, theLadyNym lookedgraceful, dressed all in shimmering

lilacrobesandagreatsilkcapeofcreamandcopperthatliftedateverygustofwind,andmadeherlookasifshemighttakeflight.NymeriaSandwasfive-and-twenty,andslenderasawillow.Her straightblackhair,worn ina longbraidboundupwith red-goldwire,made a widow’s peak above her dark eyes, just as her father’s had. With her highcheekbones,fulllips,andmilk-paleskin,shehadallthebeautythathereldersisterlacked… but Obara’s mother had been an Oldtown whore, whilst Nym was born from thenoblestbloodofoldVolantis.Adozenmountedspearmentailedher, their roundshieldsgleaminginthesun.Theyfollowedherdownthedune.

Theprincehadtiedbackthecurtainsonhislitter,thebettertoenjoythebreezeblowingoff the sea.LadyNym fell in besidehim, slowingher pretty goldenmare tomatch thelitter’space. “Wellmet,Uncle,” she sangout, as if it hadbeenchance thatbroughtherhere.“MayIridewithyoutoSunspear?”ThecaptainwasontheoppositesideofthelitterfromLadyNym,yethecouldheareverywordshesaid.

“I would be glad of it,” Prince Doran replied, though he did not sound glad to thecaptain’sears.“Goutandgriefmakepoorcompanionsontheroad.”Bywhichthecaptainknewhimtomeanthateverypebbledroveaspikethroughhisswollenjoints.

“ThegoutIcannothelp,”shesaid,“butmyfatherhadnouseforgrief.Vengeancewasmoretohistaste.IsittruethatGregorCleganeadmittedslayingEliaandherchildren?”

“Heroaredouthisguiltforallthecourttohear,”theprinceadmitted.“LordTywinhaspromisedushishead.”

“AndaLannisteralwayspayshisdebts,”saidLadyNym,“yetitseemstomethatLordTywinmeanstopayuswithourowncoin.IhadabirdfromoursweetSerDaemon,whoswearsmyfathertickledthatmonstermorethanonceastheyfought.Ifso,SerGregorisasgoodasdead,andnothankstoTywinLannister.”

Theprincegrimaced.Whether itwas from thepainofgoutorhisniece’swords, thecaptaincouldnotsay.“Itmaybeso.”

“Maybe?Isay’tis.”

“Obarawouldhavemegotowar.”

Nymlaughed.“Yes,shewantstosetthetorchtoOldtown.Shehatesthatcityasmuchasourlittlesisterlovesit.”

“Andyou?”

Nymglancedoverashoulder,towherehercompanionsrodeadozenlengthsbehind.“Iwasabedwith theFowler twinswhen thewordreachedme,” thecaptainheardhersay.“YouknowtheFowlerwords?LetMeSoar!ThatisallIaskofyou.Letmesoar,Uncle.Ineednomightyhost,onlyonesweetsister.”

“Obara?”

“Tyene.Obarais tooloud.Tyeneissosweetandgentle thatnomanwillsuspecther.ObarawouldmakeOldtownourfather’sfuneralpyre,butIamnotsogreedy.Fourliveswill suffice forme.LordTywin’sgolden twins, aspayment forElia’s children.Theold

lion,forEliaherself.Andlastofallthelittleking,formyfather.”

“Theboyhasneverwrongedus.”

“The boy is a bastard born of treason, incest, and adultery, if Lord Stannis can bebelieved.”Theplayful tonehadvanished fromhervoice,and thecaptain foundhimselfwatchingher throughnarrowedeyes.Her sisterObaraworeherwhipuponherhip andcarriedaspearwhereanymancouldseeit.LadyNymwasnolessdeadly,thoughshekeptherkniveswellhidden.“Onlyroyalbloodcanwashoutmyfather’smurder.”

“Oberyndiedduringsinglecombat,fightinginamatterthatwasnoneofhisconcern.Idonotcallthatmurder.”

“Callitwhatyouwill.WesentthemthefinestmaninDorne,andtheyaresendingbackabagofbones.”

“HewentbeyondanythingIaskedofhim.‘Takethemeasureofthisboykingandhiscouncil,andmakenoteoftheirstrengthsandweaknesses,’Itoldhim,ontheterrace.Wewereeatingoranges.‘Findusfriends,ifthereareanytobefound.LearnwhatyoucanofElia’send,butseethatyoudonotprovokeLordTywinunduly,’thoseweremywordstohim.Oberynlaughed,andsaid,‘WhenhaveIprovokedanyman…unduly?YouwoulddobettertowarntheLannistersagainstprovokingme.’HewantedjusticeforElia,buthewouldnotwait—”

“Hewaitedten-and-sevenyears,”theLadyNymbrokein.“Wereityouthey’dkilled,myfatherwouldhaveledhisbannersnorthbeforeyourcorpsewascold.Wereityou,thespearswouldbefallingthickasrainuponthemarchesnow.”

“Idonotdoubtit.”

“Nomoreshouldyoudoubt this,myprince—mysistersandI shallnotwait ten-and-sevenyearsforourvengeance.”Sheputherspursintothemareandshewasoff,gallopingtowardSunspearwithhertailinhotpursuit.

Theprinceleanedbackagainsthispillowsandclosedhiseyes,butHotahknewhedidnotsleep.Heisinpain.ForamomentheconsideredcallingMaesterCaleotteup to thelitter,butifPrinceDoranhadwantedhim,hewouldhavecalledhimself.

Theshadowsoftheafternoonwerelonganddarkandthesunwasasredandswollenasthe prince’s joints before they glimpsed the towers of Sunspear to the east. First theslenderSpearTower, a hundred-and-a-half feet tall and crownedwith a spear of gildedsteelthataddedanotherthirtyfeettoitsheight;thenthemightyToweroftheSun,withitsdome of gold and leaded glass; last the dun-colored Sandship, looking like somemonstrousdromondthathadwashedashoreandturnedtostone.

Only three leagues of coast road dividedSunspear from theWaterGardens, yet theyweretwodifferentworlds.Therechildrenfrolickednakedinthesun,musicplayedintiledcourtyards,andtheairwassharpwiththesmelloflemonsandbloodoranges.Heretheairsmelledofdust,sweat,andsmoke,andthenightswerealivewiththebabbleofvoices.InplaceofthepinkmarbleoftheWaterGardens,Sunspearwasbuiltfrommudandstraw,and colored brown and dun. The ancient stronghold of House Martell stood at the

easternmostendofalittlejutofstoneandsand,surroundedonthreesidesbythesea.Tothewest, in theshadowsofSunspear’smassivewalls,mud-brickshopsandwindowlesshovelsclungtothecastlelikebarnaclestoagalley’shull.Stablesandinnsandwinesinksandpillowhouseshadgrownupwestofthose,manyenclosedbywallsoftheirown,andyetmore hovels had risen beneath those walls.And so and so and so, as the beardedpriestswouldsay.ComparedtoTyroshorMyrorGreatNorvos,theshadowcitywasnomorethanatown,yetitwasthenearestthingtoatruecitythattheseDornishhad.

LadyNym’sarrivalhadprecededtheirsbysomehours,andnodoubtshehadwarnedtheguardsoftheircoming,fortheThreefoldGatewasopenwhentheyreachedit.Onlyherewerethegateslineduponebehindtheothertoallowvisitorstopassbeneathallthreeof theWindingWallsdirectly to theOldPalace,without firstmaking theirway throughmilesofnarrowalleys,hiddencourts,andnoisybazaars.

PrinceDoranhadclosedthedraperiesofhislitterassoonastheSpearTowercameinsight,yetstillthesmallfolkshoutedouttohimasthelitterpassed.TheSandSnakeshavestirredthemtoaboil,thecaptainthoughtuneasily.Theycrossedthesqualoroftheoutercrescentandwentthroughthesecondgate.Beyond,thewindstankoftarandsaltwaterandrottingseaweed,andthecrowdgrewthickerwitheverystep.“MakewayforPrinceDoran!”AreoHotahboomedout,thumpingthebuttofhislongaxeonthebricks.“MakewayforthePrinceofDorne!”

“Theprinceisdead!”awomanshrilledbehindhim.

“Tospears!”amanbellowedfromabalcony.

“Doran!”calledsomehighbornvoice.“Tothespears!”

Hotahgaveup looking for the speakers; thepresswas too thick, anda thirdof themwereshouting.“Tospears!VengeancefortheViper!”Bythetimetheyreachedthethirdgate, theguardswereshovingpeopleaside toclearapathfor theprince’s litter,andthecrowdwas throwingthings.Oneraggedboydartedpast thespearmenwithahalf-rottenpomegranate inonehand,butwhenhesawAreoHotah inhispath,with longaxeat theready, he let the fruit fall unthrownandbeat a quick retreat.Others fartherback let flywith lemons, limes,andoranges,crying“War!War!To the spears!”Oneof theguardswashitintheeyewithalemon,andthecaptainhimselfhadanorangesplatteroffhisfoot.

Noanswercamefromwithinthelitter.DoranMartellstayedcloakedwithinhissilkenwallsuntil thethickerwallsofthecastleswallowedallofthem,andtheportculliscamedownbehindthemwitharattlingcrunch.Thesoundsofshoutingdwindledawayslowly.PrincessAriannewaswaiting in the outerward to greet her father,with half the courtabout her: the old blind seneschal Ricasso, Ser Man