A Feast for Dragons

sun had begun to
fade. He watched the cracks along the Wall go from red to grey to black, from
streaks of fire to rivers of black ice. Down below, Lady Melisandre would be
lighting her nightfire and chanting,
Lord of Light, defend us, for the
night is dark and full of terrors
.
    “Winter is coming,” Jon said at last, breaking the awkward
silence, “and with it the white walkers. The Wall is where we stop them. The
Wall was
made
to stop them … but the Wall must be
manned. This discussion is at an end. We have much to do before the gate is
opened. Tormund and his people will need to be fed and clothed and housed. Some
are sick and will need nursing. Those will fall to you, Clydas. Save as many as
you can.”
    Clydas blinked his dim pink eyes. “I will do my best, Jon.
My lord, I mean.”
    “We will need every cart and wagon made ready to transport
the free folk to their new homes. Othell, you shall see to that.”
    Yarwyck grimaced. “Aye, Lord Commander.”
    “Lord Bowen, you shall collect the tolls. The gold and
silver, the amber, the torques and armbands and necklaces. Sort it all, count
it, see that it reaches Eastwatch safely.”
    “Yes, Lord Snow,” said Bowen Marsh.
    And Jon thought, “Ice,”
she said, “and daggers in the
dark. Blood frozen red and hard, and naked steel.”
His sword hand
flexed. The wind was rising.
    ----

    CERSEI
    Each night seemed colder than the last.
    The cell had neither fireplace nor brazier. The only window
was too high to allow her a view and too small to squeeze through, but more than
large enough to let in the chill. Cersei had torn up the first shift they gave
her, demanding the return of her own clothes, but that only left her naked and
shivering. When they brought her another shift, she pulled it down over her
head and thanked them, choking upon the words.
    The window let in sounds as well. That was the only way the
queen had to know what might be happening in the city. The septas who brought
her food would tell her nothing.
    She hated that. Jaime would be coming for her, but how would
she know when he arrived? Cersei only hoped he was not so foolish as to go
racing ahead of his army. He would need every sword to deal with the ragged
horde of Poor Fellows surrounding the Great Sept. She asked about her twin
often, but her gaolers gave no answer. She asked about Ser Loras too. At last
report the Knight of Flowers had been dying on Dragonstone of wounds received
whilst taking the castle.
Let him die
, Cersei thought,
and
let him be quick about it
. The boy’s death would mean an empty place
on the Kingsguard, and that might be her salvation. But the septas were as
close-mouthed about Loras Tyrell as they were about Jaime.
    Lord Qyburn had been her last and only visitor. Her world
had a population of four: herself and her three gaolers, pious and unyielding.
Septa Unella was big-boned and mannish, with callused hands and homely,
scowling features. Septa Moelle had stiff white hair and small mean eyes
perpetually crinkled in suspicion, peering out of a wrinkled face as sharp as
the blade of an axe. Septa Scolera was thick-waisted and short, with heavy
breasts, olive skin, and a sour smell to her, like milk on the verge of going
bad. They brought her food and water, emptied her chamber pot, and took away
her shift for washing every few days, leaving her to huddle naked under her
blanket until it was returned to her. Sometimes Scolera would read to her from
The
Seven-Pointed Star
or
The Book of Holy Prayer
, but
elsewise none of them would speak with her or answer any of her questions.
    She hated and despised all three of them, almost as much as
she hated and despised the men who had betrayed her.
    False friends, treacherous servants, men who had professed
undying love, even her own blood … all of them had deserted her in
her hour of need. Osney Kettleblack, that weakling, had broken beneath the
lash, filling the High Sparrow’s ears with secrets he should have taken to his
grave. His brothers, scum of the streets whom she had raised high, did no more
than sit upon their hands. Aurane Waters, her admiral, had fled to sea with the
dromonds she had built for him. Orton Merryweather had gone running back to
Longtable, taking his wife, Taena, who had been the queen’s one true friend in
these terrible times. Harys Swyft and Grand Maester Pycelle had abandoned her
to captivity and offered the realm to the very men who had conspired against
her. Meryn Trant and Boros