A Feast for Dragons

lost interest. The dragon turned back toward the
Windblown and lurched toward the door. Perhaps he could smell the blood of the
dead guards or the meat in the butcher’s wagon. Or perhaps he had only now seen
that the way was open.
    Quentyn heard the sellswords shouting. Caggo was calling for
the chains, and Pretty Meris was screaming at someone to step aside. The dragon
moved awkwardly on the ground, like a man scrabbling on his knees and elbows,
but quicker than the Dornish prince would have believed. When the Windblown
were too late to get out of his way, Viserion let loose with another roar.
Quentyn heard the rattle of chains, the deep
thrum
of a
crossbow.
    “No,” he screamed, “no, don’t,
don’t,”
but
it was too late.
The fool
was all that he had time to think as
the quarrel caromed off Viserion’s neck to vanish in the gloom. A line of fire
gleamed in its wake—dragon’s blood, glowing gold and red.
    The crossbowman was fumbling for another quarrel as the
dragon’s teeth closed around his neck. The man wore the mask of a Brazen Beast,
the fearsome likeness of a tiger. As he dropped his weapon to try and pry apart
Viserion’s jaws, flame gouted from the tiger’s mouth. The man’s eyes burst with
soft popping sounds, and the brass around them began to run. The dragon tore
off a hunk of flesh, most of the sellsword’s neck, then gulped it down as the
burning corpse collapsed to the floor.
    The other Windblown were pulling back. This was more than
even Pretty Meris had the stomach for. Viserion’s horned head moved back and
forth between them and his prey, but after a moment he forgot the sellswords
and bent his neck to tear another mouthful from the dead man. A lower leg this
time.
    Quentyn let his whip uncoil. “Viserion,” he called, louder this
time. He could do this, he would do this, his father had sent him to the far
ends of the earth for this, he would not fail him.
“VISERION!”
He snapped the whip in the air with a
crack
that echoed off the
blackened walls.
    The pale head rose. The great gold eyes narrowed. Wisps of
smoke spiraled upward from the dragon’s nostrils.
    “Down,” the prince commanded.
You must not let him
smell your fear
. “Down, down,
down.”
He brought the
whip around and laid a lash across the dragon’s face. Viserion
hiss
ed.
    And then a hot wind buffeted him and he heard the sound of
leathern wings and the air was full of ash and cinders and a monstrous roar
went echoing off the scorched and blackened bricks and he could hear his
friends shouting wildly. Gerris was calling out his name, over and over, and
the big man was bellowing, “Behind you, behind you,
behind you!”
    Quentyn turned and threw his left arm across his face to
shield his eyes from the furnace wind.
Rhaegal
, he reminded
himself,
the green one is Rhaegal
.
    When he raised his whip, he saw that the lash was burning.
His hand as well. All of him, all of him was burning.
    Oh
, he thought. Then he began to scream.
    ----

    JON
    Let them die,” said Queen Selyse.
    It was the answer that Jon Snow had expected.
This
queen never fails to disappoint
. Somehow that did not soften the blow.
“Your Grace,” he persisted stubbornly, “they are starving at Hardhome by the thousands.
Many are women—”
    “—and children, yes. Very sad.” The queen pulled her
daughter closer to her and kissed her cheek.
The cheek unmarred by
greyscale
, Jon did not fail to note. “We are sorry for the little
ones, of course, but we must be sensible. We have no food for them, and they
are too young to help the king my husband in his wars. Better that they be
reborn into the light.”
    That was just a softer way of saying
let them die
.
    The chamber was crowded. Princess Shireen stood beside her
mother’s seat, with Patchface cross-legged at her feet. Behind the queen loomed
Ser Axell Florent. Melisandre of Asshai stood closer to the fire, the ruby at
her throat pulsing with every breath she took. The red woman too had her
attendants—the squire Devan Seaworth and two of the guardsmen the king had left
her.
    Queen Selyse’s protectors stood along the walls, shining
knights all in a row: Ser Malegorn, Ser Benethon, Ser Narbert, Ser Patrek, Ser
Dorden, Ser Brus. With so many bloodthirsty wildlings infesting Castle Black,
Selyse kept her sworn shields about her night and day. Tormund Giantsbane had
roared to hear it. “Afraid of being carried off, is she? I hope you never said
how big me member is, Jon Snow,