Stinks, Robert said. The stink of death, dont think I cant smell it. Bastard did me good, eh But I . . . I paid him back in kind, Ned. The kings smile was as terrible as his wound, his teeth red. Drove a knife right through his eye. Ask them if I didnt. Ask them.
For a small man, he had been cursed with a dangerously big mouth, he reflected as he crawled back to his corner of what the Arryns laughably called their dungeon. He huddled beneath the thin blanket that was his only bedding, staring out at a blaze of empty blue sky and distant mountains that seemed to go on forever, wishing he still had the shadowskin cloak hed won from Marillion at dice, after the singer had stolen it off the body of that brigand chief. The skin had smelled of blood and mold, but it was warm and thick. Mord had taken it the moment he laid eyes on it.
Jon smiled.
They could not make a dragon. A dragon was air and fire. Living flesh, not dead stone.
Sansa heard it too, floating through the woods, a kind of wooden clattering, snack snack snack. I dont know, she said. It made her nervous, though. Joffrey, lets go back.
Littlefinger sighed. I fear I did forget, my lord. Pray forgive me. For a moment I did not remember that I was talking to a Stark. His mouth quirked. So it will be Stannis, and war
off. The commons were hooting and pointing, the lords and ladies were trying to stifle their chuckles, and failing, and over it all Ned could hear King Robert laughing, louder than anyone. Finally they had to lead the Lion of Lannister off to a blacksmith, blind and stumbling.
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