A Feast for Dragons

Mully, “and a good thing. They’re
wed and I’m half-froze.” He was muffled up in his best blacks, woolens so new
that they had hardly had a chance to fade yet, but the wind had turned his
cheeks as red as his hair. “Hobb’s mulled some wine with cinnamon and cloves.
That’ll warm us some.”
    “What’s cloves?” asked Owen the Oaf.
    The snow had started to descend more heavily and the fire in
the ditch was guttering out. The crowd began to break apart and stream from the
yard, queen’s men, king’s men, and free folk alike, all anxious to get out of
the wind and the cold. “Will my lord be feasting with us?” Mully asked Jon
Snow.
    “Shortly.” Sigorn might take it as a slight if he did not
appear.
And this marriage is mine own work, after all
. “I have
other matters to attend to first, however.”
    Jon crossed to Queen Selyse, with Ghost beside him. His
boots crunched through piles of old snow. It was growing ever more
time-consuming to shovel out the paths from one building to another; more and
more, the men were resorting to the underground passages they called wormways.
    “… such a beautiful rite,” the queen was saying. “I
could feel our lord’s fiery gaze upon us. Oh, you cannot know how many times I
have begged Stannis to let us be wed again, a true joining of body and spirit
blessed by the Lord of Light. I know that I could give His Grace more children
if we were bound in fire.”
    To give him more children you would first need to get
him into your bed
. Even at the Wall, it was common knowledge that
Stannis Baratheon had shunned his wife for years. One could only imagine how
His Grace had responded to the notion of a second wedding in the midst of his
war.
    Jon bowed. “If it please Your Grace, the feast awaits.”
    The queen glanced at Ghost suspiciously, then raised her
head to Jon. “To be sure. Lady Melisandre knows the way.”
    The red priestess spoke up. “I must attend my fires, Your
Grace. Perhaps R’hllor will vouchsafe me a glimpse of His Grace. A glimpse of
some great victory, mayhaps.”
    “Oh.” Queen Selyse looked stricken. “To be
sure … let us pray for a vision from our lord …”
    “Satin, show Her Grace to her place,” said Jon.
    Ser Malegorn stepped forward. “I will escort Her Grace to
the feast. We shall not require your … steward.” The way the man drew
out the last word told Jon that he had been considering saying something else.
Boy?
Pet? Whore?
    Jon bowed again. “As you wish. I shall join you shortly.”
    Ser Malegorn offered his arm, and Queen Selyse took it
stiffly. Her other hand settled on her daughter’s shoulder. The royal ducklings
fell in behind them as they made their way across the yard, marching to the
music of the bells on the fool’s hat. “Under the sea the mermen feast on
starfish soup, and all the serving men are crabs,” Patchface proclaimed as they
went. “I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”
    Melisandre’s face darkened. “That creature is dangerous.
Many a time I have glimpsed him in my flames. Sometimes there are skulls about
him, and his lips are red with blood.”
    A wonder you haven’t had the poor man burned
.
All it would take was a word in the queen’s ear, and Patchface would feed her
fires. “You see fools in your fire, but no hint of Stannis?”
    “When I search for him all I see is snow.”
    The same useless answer
. Clydas had
dispatched a raven to Deepwood Motte to warn the king of Arnolf Karstark’s
treachery, but whether the bird had reached His Grace in time Jon did not know.
The Braavosi banker was off in search of Stannis as well, accompanied by the
guides that Jon had given him, but between the war and weather, it would be a
wonder if he found him. “Would you know if the king was dead?” Jon asked the
red priestess.
    “He is not dead. Stannis is the Lord’s chosen, destined to
lead the fight against the dark. I have seen it in the flames, read of it in
ancient prophecy. When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai
shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone.
Dragonstone is the place of smoke and salt.”
    Jon had heard all this before. “Stannis Baratheon was the
Lord of Dragonstone, but he was not born there. He was born at Storm’s End,
like his brothers.” He frowned. “And what of Mance? Is he lost as well? What do
your fires show?”
    “The same, I fear. Only snow.”
    Snow
. It was snowing heavily to the south,
Jon knew. Only two