A Feast for Dragons

or a cock six feet long. You know that
tale? I do. Now, you’re a clever Plumm, so you know this head of mine is worth
a lordship … back in Westeros, half a world away. By the time you get
it there, only bone and maggots will remain. My sweet sister will deny the head
is mine and cheat you of the promised reward. You know how it is with queens.
Fickle cunts, the lot of them, and Cersei is the worst.”
    Brown Ben scratched at his beard. “Could deliver you alive
and wriggling, then. Or pop your head into a jar and pickle it.”
    “Or throw in with me. That’s the wisest move.” He grinned.
“I was born a second son. This company is my destiny.”
    “The Second Sons have no place for mummers,” the bravo in
pink said scornfully. “It’s fighters we need.”
    “I’ve brought you one.” Tyrion jerked a thumb at Mormont.
    “That creature?” The bravo laughed. “An ugly brute, but
scars alone don’t make a Second Son.”
    Tyrion rolled his mismatched eyes. “Lord Plumm, who are
these two friends of yours? The pink one is annoying.”
    The bravo curled a lip, whilst the fellow with the quill
chuckled at his insolence. But it was Jorah Mormont who supplied their names.
“Inkpots is the company paymaster. The peacock calls himself Kasporio the
Cunning, though Kasporio the Cunt would be more apt. A nasty piece of work.”
    Mormont’s face might have been unrecognizable in its
battered state, but his voice was unchanged. Kasporio gave him a startled look,
whilst the wrinkles around Plumm’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Jorah
Mormont?
Is that you? Less proud than when you scampered off, though. Must we still call
you
ser?”
    Ser Jorah’s swollen lips twisted into a grotesque grin.
“Give me a sword and you can call me what you like, Ben.”
    Kasporio edged backward. “You … she sent you
away …”
    “I came back. Call me a fool.”
    A fool in love
. Tyrion cleared his throat.
“You can talk of old times later … after I am done explaining why my
head would be of more use to you upon my shoulders. You will find, Lord Plumm,
that I can be very generous to my friends. If you doubt me, ask Bronn. Ask
Shagga, son of Dolf. Ask Timett, son of Timett.”
    “And who would they be?” asked the man called Inkpots.
    “Good men who pledged me their swords and prospered greatly
by that service.” He shrugged. “Oh, very well, I lied about the ‘good’ part.
They’re bloodthirsty bastards, like you lot.”
    “Might be,” said Brown Ben. “Or might be you just made up
some names.
Shagga
, did you say? Is that a woman’s name?”
    “His teats are big enough. Next time we meet I’ll peek
beneath his breeches to be sure. Is that a
cyvasse
set over
there? Bring it out and we’ll have that game. But first, I think, a cup of
wine. My throat is dry as an old bone, and I can see that I have a deal of
talking to do.”
    ----

    JON
    That night he dreamt of wildlings howling from the woods,
advancing to the moan of warhorns and the roll of drums.
Boom DOOM boom
DOOM boom DOOM
came the sound, a thousand hearts with a single beat.
Some had spears and some had bows and some had axes. Others rode on chariots
made of bones, drawn by teams of dogs as big as ponies. Giants lumbered amongst
them, forty feet tall, with mauls the size of oak trees.
    “Stand fast,” Jon Snow called. “Throw them back.” He stood
atop the Wall, alone. “Flame,” he cried, “feed them flame,” but there was no
one to pay heed.
    They are all gone. They have abandoned me
.
    Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire.
Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. “
Snow
,”
an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in
black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the
top of the Wall he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard and a
beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, a girl with thick red
hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she’d appeared.
    The world dissolved into a red mist. Jon stabbed and slashed
and cut. He hacked down Donal Noye and gutted Deaf Dick Follard. Qhorin
Halfhand stumbled to his knees, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood
from his neck. “I
am
the Lord of Winterfell,” Jon screamed. It
was Robb before him now, his hair wet with melting snow. Longclaw took his head
off. Then a gnarled hand seized Jon roughly by the shoulder. He whirled …
     … and woke with