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He would make lemoncakes for Sansa whenever we had lemons."Ĭrowfood had fingered his beard. Made with ale, I think, best I ever tasted. When last I was inside those walls, your cook served us a steak and kidney pie. "You are the younger daughter?"Īnd Jeyne had nodded. "You will hold that lying tongue, or lose it."īut Umber had looked at the girl closely, squinting down with his one good eye. " - a turncloak and a kinslayer," Crowfood had finished. Instead he had whimpered through his broken teeth and said, "I am - "
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He'd wanted to rip it off Umber's face, to make certain that underneath was only an empty socket, not a black eye shining with malice.
GAME OF THRONES BEYOND THE WALL REVIEW IGN PATCH
Under it he wore a stained white leather eye patch that reminded Theon of his uncle Euron. He had been seated on a garron, clad in the pelt of a gigantic snow bear, its head his hood. An old man, huge and powerful, with a ruddy face and a shaggy white beard. If Mors Crowfood and his men had not been outside the castle, Bolton would have had the both of you back in moments."Ĭrowfood. Theon had landed on top of her, and broken some of her ribs. Jeyne, her name is Jeyne, but she will never tell them. "I saved her." The outer wall of Winterfell was eighty feet high, but beneath the spot where he had jumped the snows had piled up to a depth of more than forty. My name is Theon." He had to remember his name. I know what that says, he thought, giggling. Its broken seal was black wax, hard and shiny. Bring in this maester." The king plucked a parchment off the table and squinted over it. "Just now, the turncloak is more use to me alive. "I know what he wants." The king indicated Theon. And Lord Arnolf sends word that he would be most pleased to break his fast with you." "Sire," he announced, "the maester is without. Lean, dark-haired, hard-eyed, his face marred by pockmarks and old scars, he wore a faded surcoat embroidered with three moths. This one seemed to be the king's familiar. The king's knights had been coming and going all night, Theon recalled dimly. The Iron Bank is always glad to be of service." The banker bowed.Īs he left, another entered a knight. Tell the guard outside I have need of Justin Massey." It is coin I need from Braavos, not empty courtesy. "I hope to have the honor of calling on Your Grace again when you are seated on your Iron Throne." "That would be my preference as well." The Braavosi slipped the roll of parchment inside a wooden tube. I will not have you caught up in the fighting." Stannis dipped a quill in the blood welling from his thumb and scratched his name across the piece of parchment. "If it please Your Grace, it will please the Iron Bank." The king laid the blade of the knife against the ball of his left thumb, and slashed. You will never get a drop of blood from that one, my lord, he might have told him. For an instant Theon thought that he meant to stab the banker. "I know a quicker way." Stannis drew his dagger. "Pardon, but your ink has frozen." The Braavosi, Theon knew. "Your Grace," a second voice said softly. All he had done, all he had suffered, Moat Cailin and Barrowton and Winterfell, Abel and his washerwomen, Crowfood and his Umbers, the trek through the snows, all of it had only served to exchange one tormentor for another. A stab of pain went up his arms, from his shoulders to his wrists. "Joffrey's too, though that baseborn abomination was no kin to me." Theon twisted in his chains. "My brother's debts," the king was muttering. The only light came from the candles on the table. No privy was in evidence, though Theon saw a champerpot in one shadowed alcove. The tower was dank, dark, and comfortless, its only furnishings a high-backed chair and a scarred table resting on three trestles. Wooden steps spiraled up inside the walls to the roof. He was hanging from a wall inside a tower, his wrists chained to a pair of rusted iron rings. When he tried to move, he swung from side to side, his back scraping against stone. For half a heartbeat he feared he was back in his old cell under the Dreadfort, that the jumble of memories inside his head was no more than the residue of some fever dream. His shoulders were on fire and he could not move his hands. "You are a worse pirate than Salladhor Saan."