A fire was burning in the hearth, a candle on the bedside table. Her belly was empty, her feet sore and blistered, and it seemed to her that the cramping had grown worse. Her bosom was too small, her hands and feet too big. Her breasts were small and pointed, her hips narrow and girlish, her legs as skinny as a bird’s. Her breath was white as well… but her eyes were blue, her long braid the color of dark honey, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. Her cheeks were flushed, her brown ringlets tumbling loosely about her shoulders, stirred by every puff of wind. Her days were anxious, her nights restless, and every raven that flew overhead made her clench her teeth. Her eyes were pale, her mouth stern, her voice a whip. Her eyes were soft with sleep, her silver-gold hair all tousled. Her face was broad and smooth, her neck a thick pink pillar, her bosom enormous. Her face was pink and painted, her breasts heavy, her limbs thick. Her face was so strong and handsome, her skin so smooth and soft. Her feet were bare, her golden hair artfully tousled, her robe a green-and-gold samite that caught the light of the candles and shimmered as she looked up. Her gown was torn and stained, her face white as chalk. Her hair was a rich autumn auburn, her eyes a deep Tully blue. Her hair was yellow, her face round and pink and fleshy. Her hands were big, her feet enormous. Her home was gone, her parents dead, and all her brothers slain but Jon Snow on the Wall. Her hull was black and gold, her figurehead a lion with an upraised paw. Her legs were all sinew, her breasts flat as two empty purses. Her legs were long, her arms thick. Her lower lip was broken, her clothing soiled and torn. Her mother was one of Joffrey's enemies now, her brother Robb another. Her nipples were two black diamonds, her sex slick and steamy. Her skin was white as mare's milk, her hair so thin that he could see the scalp beneath. Her teeth were white, her lips full and dark. Her thighs were chafed raw, her hands blistered from the reins, the muscles of her legs and back so wracked with pain that she could scarcely sit. Her tongue was thick in her mouth, her lips raw and chapped. Her waist was slender, her breasts high and proud, her legs long and shapely. Her wits were quicker, her courtesies more polished. Her wound was too fresh, her grief too deep. His beard was matted and unwashed, his hair a silver-gold tangle that reached his waist, his fingernails cracked yellow claws nine inches long. His boots were black, his breeches blue. His boots were dry and cracked, his silver-blond hair matted and tangled. His braid was black and shiny, his skin as dark as burnished copper, his eyes the shape of bitter almonds. His breastplate was scratched and dented from battle, his blue-and-red cloak stained by blood and smoke. His brown hair was salted with white now, his face chiseled gaunt by time, yet the years had not touched his pride. His eyes were closed in pain, his breath ragged. His eyes were grey and greedy, his teeth yellow, his forked beard a tangle of snow and silver. His eyes were haunted, his voice thick with doubt. His eyes were red and raw, his lashes crusty, his nose swollen and runny. His eyes were red, his lips cracked, his throat dry and parched, but the taste of blood and fat filled his mouth, even as his swollen belly cried for nourishment. His eyes were small and close-set, his nose broken, his widow's peak as sharply pointed as the head of a spear. His eyes were sunk in deep pits, his close-cropped beard no more than a shadow across his hollow cheeks and bony jawbone. His face was a skull with skin, his hair bone-white and filthy. His face was all ugly from the beating, his nose swollen and one eye closed. His face was grey and green and ghastly, his mouth open and distended. His face was hard and cruel, his eyes as cold and dark as onyx. His face was leathery and wrinkled, his hands gnarled as old roots. His face was pale and puffy, his joints so inflamed that it hurt her just to look at them. His feet were black and caked with mud, his legs bare. His fine clothes were a tatter, his face a ruin. His forehead was too high, his jaw too square, his nose too broad. His hair was a mass of lazy brown curls, his eyes like liquid gold. His head was large and square, his eyes shrewd, his nose veined and red. His knees were stiff, his hands covered with fresh new blisters and raw, sticky patches of skin where the old blisters had burst. His left eye was blind, his right eye mean. His legs were caked with snow to the knee, his head and shoulders shrouded in white. His lordship's head was buried in her breasts, his hands locked around her hips. His massive oak-and-iron shield was set by his left side, his hunting horn to his right. His nose was broad, his brow beetled, his eyes close-set and hostile. His nose was flat, his cheeks baggy with jowls, his hair grey and brittle. His nose was large and hooked, his hair thin, dark. His nose was long and sharp, his smile big and loose. His nose was lumpy and red with broken veins, his lips thick, and he had a sort of webbing between the three middle fingers of his right hand. His palfrey was a blood bay, his destrier a magnificent grey stallion. His scales were black, his eyes and horns and spinal plates blood red. His skin was black as pitch, his hair as white as snow; the flames tattooed across his cheeks and brow yellow and orange. His skin was pale leather, his beard cropped so short that it might have been painted on. His skin was pink and blotchy, his nose broad, his mouth small, his hair long and dark and dry. His skin was the color of polished copper, his thick mustachios bound with gold and bronze rings. His skin was the color of teak, his eyes chips of flint. His son was dead, his father had disowned him, and his sister… she had not allowed him to be alone with her once, after that first day in the royal sept where Joffrey lay amongst the candles. His trident beard was purple, his flamboyant mustachios gold, his long curls equal parts of both. His voice was a punch in her stomach, his face a blade in her bowels. Hundreds were encamped upon the plaza, hundreds more in the gardens. If Edmure and Roslin were happy in one another, if the Late Lord Frey could be appeased and his power once more wedded to Robb's… Even then, what chance will we have, caught between Lannister and Greyjoy? In one hand was a piece of embroidery she had been working on, in the other a pair of golden needles. In one hand was his small round shield, in the other the curved arakh that Arstan tended with such care. It was a city that always promised more than it would give you, it seemed to her, and her welcome here had turned sour since the House of the Undying had collapsed in a great gout of smoke and flame. It was the wolves, it wasn't me. Its brow shelf was thick and heavy, its jaw massive. Its coils were gold, its wings silver, its three heads ivory, onyx, and jade. Its grip was white leather, its pommel a rose in alabaster. Its roots were as thick around as a man's waist, its trunk so wide that the face carved into it looked fat and angry. Men were crawling from the river, men burned and bleeding, coughing up water, staggering, most dying. No one was as strong as Hodor, no one. Now he was a man, now a wolf, now a man again. Now it was the deep blue of frozen rivers, now the dirty white of old snow, and when a cloud passed before the sun it darkened to the pale grey of pitted stone. On her finger was a golden ring with an emerald the size of a pigeon's egg, on her head a matching tiara. On his right hand was a gauntlet of lobstered steel, on his left a fingerless mitt of rusted mail. On one side was a king's face in profile, on the other side the imprint of a hand. On one side was a three-headed dragon, on the other the head of some dead king. Once that was done, once their false Arya had been wedded and bedded, Bolton would have no more use for Theon Turncloak. Once when I was a boy, once in the fullness of my manhood, and once when I had grown old. She was a crofter's daughter, she loved me and she wed me, she put her trust in me. She was hearing the lords bannermen speaking with her son's voice, she realized. She was khaleesi, she had a strong man and a swift horse, handmaids to serve her, warriors to keep her safe, an honored place in the dosh khaleen awaiting her when she grew old… and in her womb grew a son who would one day bestride the world. She was sad for him, she realized. She was the blood of the dragon, she would not be afraid. She was thirsty, she realized. She was, she realized. Some bids were called out in High Valyrian, some in the mongrel tongue of Ghis. Some of it was ornate, some plain; not a bit of it matched, or fit as it should. Some of that was sweat, some dried blood. Some of the women were weeping, some praying. Some were hanged, some disemboweled. Sweet it was, sweet and gone too soon. That was a condition of the peace, that Yunkai would be free to trade in slaves as before, unmolested.” That was why she met him here, that day. That you were my man now, that you wanted no more of their schemes?” Ser Jorah could not meet her eyes. The air was damp, the ground cloaked in mist. The air was swirling with smoke, the back wall a sheet of fire ground to roof. The bad part was, the road wound back and forth like a snake, tangling with even smaller trails and sometimes seeming to vanish entirely only to reappear half a league farther on when they had all but given up hope. The base of the tower was white from centuries of salt spray, the upper stories green from the lichen that crawled over it like a thick blanket, the jagged crown black with soot from its nightly watchfire. The beer was brown, the bread black, the stew a creamy white. The beleaguered Queen Alysanne was trapped between two Lannister warships, the three made fast by hooks and lines. The bodice was slashed in front almost to her belly, the deep vee covered over with a panel of ornate Myrish lace in dove-grey. The bride was fair and gay and beautiful, the groom still baby-faced and plump. The bride was garbed in white and grey, the colors the true Arya would have worn had she lived long enough to wed. Theon wore black and gold, his cloak pinned to his shoulder by a crude iron kraken that a smith in Barrowton had hammered together for him. The broken galleys were ripping apart, the bridge breaking apart. The canals were crooked, the alleys crookeder. The carpets were deep, the windows stained glass, and any of the great leather chairs would have seated three of Davos quite comfortably. The cell was dark, the bed hard beneath him. The Codds were not well regarded in the Iron Islands; the men were said to be thieves and cowards, the women wantons who bedded with their own fathers and brothers. The cream-and-gold dragon was suckling at her left breast, the green-and-bronze at the right. The cut was quick, the blade sharp. The daughter was tall and lean, the mother short and stout, but they dressed alike in mail and leather, with the black bear of House Mormont on shield and surcoat. The day was growing hotter, the air as thick and wet as damp wool, and the pails seemed to grow heavier with every step. The day was warm and cloudless, the sky a deep blue. The dead man was one of Ramsay's favorites, the squat, scrofulous, ill-favored man-at-arms called Yellow Dick. The dead man's sword arm was yards away, the snow beneath it turning red. The Den was much older than White Harbor, the knight told Davos. The dock was shadowed, the steps steep. The drum was as tremulous as a maiden's heart, the pipes high and sweet and beckoning. The dry moat surrounding Maegor's Holdfast was three feet deep in snow, the iron spikes that lined it glistening with frost. The dusk was deepening, the leaves of the weirwood rustling softly, waving like a thousand blood-red hands. The Eyrie was wrapped in an icy mantle, the Giant's Lance above buried in waist-deep snows. The Father was on the bottom, the first to fall. The fields were a charred desolation for miles around, the houses blackened shells. The figs were fine, the olives even finer, but the wine left a tart metallic aftertaste in her mouth. The first raven took flight as their grapnels were arcing above the curtain wall, the second a few moments later. The flames were burning low by then, the warmth fading. The flames were so beautiful, the loveliest things she had ever seen, each one a sorcerer robed in yellow and orange and scarlet, swirling long smoky cloaks. The gate was open, the portcullis raised. The gates of the Citadel were flanked by a pair of towering green sphinxes with the bodies of lions, the wings of eagles, and the tails of serpents. The girl was the only one who laughed at him now, the only one who cared if he lived or died. The Great Sept of Baelor was crowded with faithful come for the dawn service, the sound of their prayers echoing off the dome overhead, but when the queen's procession made its appearance a sudden silence fell and a thousand eyes turned to follow her as she made her way down the aisle, past the place where her lord father had lain in state after his murder. The green and yellow panes of the glass gardens were all in shards, the trees and fruits and flowers torn up or left exposed to die. The ground was hard, the rushes ill-smelling, and my brothers snore frightfully. The harvests were bountiful, the lords generous. The hearth was caked with cold black ash, the room unheated but for candles. The hedgehog was crumbling, the northerners reeling back under the impact of the mounted assault. The hero was jerking on the sand, the bright blood pouring from the ragged stump of his shoulder. The House of Seven Lamps was fragrant with incense, the Satin Palace with the perfumes of pretty young girls who dreamed of being courtesans. The houses were roofed with sod, the windows shuttered with ragged pieces of hide. The inn was a sprawling three-story structure of pale stone, the biggest that Sansa had ever seen, but even so, it had accommodations for less than a third of the king's party, which had swollen to more than four hundred with the addition of her father's household and the freeriders who had joined them on the road. The ironborn were clad in mail and salt-stained leather, the northmen in furs and hides and piney branches. The knight was attended by two young squires, the sellsword by the Eyrie's master-at-arms. The knight's leg was trapped, the arm he'd used to break his fall twisted at a grotesque angle. The lad was a distant cousin to Ser Ilyn Payne, the king's headsman… and almost as quiet, although not for want of a tongue. The last was chained, the others guarded. The left-hand door was made of weirwood pale as bone, the right of gleaming ebony. The links were cold and hard against his flesh, the iron implacable. The Lord Commander's Tower was a shell, the Common Hall a pile of blackened timbers, and Hardin's Tower looked as if the next gust of wind would knock it over… though it had looked that way for years. The lower story was grey stone, the upper whitewashed wood, the roof slate. The Maid was beautiful, the Crone wizened and wise. The moon was almost full, the night so clear that she could see the mountains, their peaks crowned with snow. The more impressed they were with the power of the Lannisters, the easier they would be to command. The morning was cold but bright, the sun shining down from a hard blue sky, but he did not like the noises. The most powerful of the Dornish lords was Anders Yronwood, the Bloodroyal, Lord of Yronwood and Warden of the Stone Way, but Arianne knew better than to look for help from the man who had fostered her brother Quentyn. The night she was caught, the Lannister men had been nameless strangers with faces as alike as their nasal helms, but she'd come to know them all. The night was black, the slope steep, stony, and uneven. The night was cold, the ground hard, her belly empty. The old woman's corpse was cool by now, the bravo's body stiffening. The only red priest Tyrion had ever known was Thoros of Myr, the portly, genial, wine-stained roisterer who had loitered about Robert's court swilling the king's finest vintages and setting his sword on fire for mêlées. The only sounds were the steady clop of their horses'hooves, the rhythmic tingle of the bells in Drogo's hair, and the distant voices behind them. The other captain was the man who'd tried to buy them that morning, the brown-skinned bidder with the salt-and-pepper beard. The oxen were being unharnessed, the carts unloaded, while the Brave Companions clamored for drink and the curious gathered around the caged bear. The pink snow drifts were going white again, the color leaching out of them as the world darkened. The point was half-melted, the iron red-hot, glowing. The process was slow and difficult, the necessaries costly and hard to acquire. The rest of the dogs were close behind, the hounds sniffing and barking, a pair of monstrous mastiffs bringing up the rear. The road was narrow, the ruins so positioned that any enemy coming up from the south must pass beneath and between them. The roar was all he could have hoped for, the tumult so loud that the two old shields tumbled from the walls. The servers were bringing out huge silver platters piled high with cuts of juicy pink lamb, the most appetizing dish they'd seen all evening. The seven vows were made, the seven blessings invoked, and the seven promises exchanged. The shaft of it was six feet of gnarled oak, the head a stone as big as a loaf of bread. The shaft was black, the fletching grey. The ship was Blackbird, the largest of the Watch's galleys. The silver eagle of Mallister was nowhere in evidence; nor the red horse of Bracken, the willow of the Rygers, the twining snakes of Paege. The singer was listening too, the one that Jaime had taken from Ser Ryman Frey. The skirts were long and full, the waist so tight that Sansa had to hold her breath as they laced her into it. The sky was a gloom of cloud, the woods dead and frozen. The sky was cloudless, the jagged mountains rising black on black until the very top, where their cold crowns of snow and ice shone palely in the moonlight. The sky was grey and thick with cloud, the river green and full of floating things. The sky was slate grey, the sun no more than a faint patch of brightness behind the clouds. The slower the Iron Throne was to react, the longer they would have to gather their strength and bring allies to the cause. The snow began to fall as they were leaving Stone, the largest and lowest of the three waycastles that defended the approaches to the Eyrie. The solar was warm, the fire crackling merrily, but Sansa shivered all the same. The soldier pines were dressed in somber greens, the broadleafs in russets and faded golds already beginning to brown. The sooner he was quit of King's Landing, the better. The soup was made with eggs and lemons, the long green peppers stuffed with cheese and onions. The speaker was one of the slaves she had claimed, the heavy, flat-nosed woman who had blessed her. The stag was King Robert's sigil, the city would rejoice to see it. The steel was scorched and dented, the left ear of the snarling hound sheared off. The stew was cold and greasy, the bread hard, the cheese harder. The street was steep and narrow, the crowds jammed together tightly. The sun was hot this morning, the sky blue and cloudless. The sun was overhead, the world still and hot. The taste of it was languorous and heady on the tongue, the color a purple so dark that it looked almost black in the dim-lit cellar. The title was but a courtesy due him as a council member; Varys was lord of nothing but the spiderweb, the master of none but his whisperers. The trail was steeper, the steps more worn, and here and there littered with pebbles and broken stone. The tune was wrong, the words too faint to hear. The undergrowth was sparse beneath them, the forest floor carpeted in dark green needles. The undergrowth was thicker here, the ground so full of roots and rocks that she had to slow, but she kept as good a pace as she dared. The wall hangings were green with mildew, the mattress musty-smelling and sagging, the rushes old and brittle. The Wall was a dull white, the sky above it whiter. The wall was three feet thick, the window a tunnel slanting up and out. The walls were empty, the gates closed and barred. The wargs were the most numerous in that company, the wolf-brothers, but the boy had found the others stranger and more fascinating. The way up was steep and stony, the summit crowned by a chest-high wall of tumbled rocks. The way was narrow and steep, the steps worn in the center by centuries of feet. The white cloak of the Kingsguard was draped over his broad shoulders and fastened with a jeweled brooch, the snowy cloth looking somehow unnatural against his brown roughspun tunic and studded leather jerkin. The white of House Stark was seen everywhere, the grey direwolves seeming to run and leap as the banners swirled and streamed from the high staffs. The Windblown were represented by the Pentoshi nobleman known as the Tattered Prince, the Long Lances by Gylo Rhegan, who looked more shoemaker than soldier and spoke in murmurs. The windows were shuttered, the doors barred, and more than half the houses displayed some mark of mourning. The wood was damp and moldy, the iron studs rusted. The woods were thinner near the sea, the terrain mostly flatlands, rolling hills, and salt marshes. The wound on his breast was as healed as it would ever be, the scar that covered it grey and red and hideous. The yard was dark, the mud slippery underfoot. The yard was still, the great castle lost in haunted dreams. The youngest were no more than five, the oldest nine and ten. Their flesh was crumbling parchment, their bones dry wood soaked in tallow. Their mouths were twisted in merriment, their bellies shook. Their sisters of Selhorys were slaves, their bondage indicated by the tears tattooed beneath their right eyes. Their women were either soft and fleshy or as dry as old sticks, their face paint streaked by tears. Thirty-five hundred they were, thirty-five hundred who had been blooded in the Whispering Wood, who had reddened their swords at the Battle of the Camps, at Oxcross, Ashemark, and the Crag, and all through the gold-rich hills of the Lannister west. You were the one should have been king, you or Jon.”