the eyes. Inside the wine was boiling madly. “Get the cup from my bedroll and dip it half full,” he told her. “Be careful. You knock the damn thing over, I will

send you back for more. Take the wine and pour it on my wounds. Think you can do that?” Arya nodded. “Then what are you waiting for?” he growled.  Her knuckles

brushed the steel the first time she filled the cup, burning her so badly she got blisters. Arya had to bite her lip to keep from screaming. The Hound used the stick

for the same purpose, clamping it between his teeth as she poured. She did the gash in his thigh first, then the shallower cut on the back of his neck. Sandor coiled

his right hand into a fist and beat against the ground when she did his leg. When it came to his neck, he bit the stick so hard it broke, and she had to find him a

new one. She could see the terror in his eyes. “Turn your head.” She trickled the wine down over the raw red flesh where his ear had been, and fingers of brown

blood and red wine crept over his jaw. He did scream then a police shieldcould hold me upside down and drainmy gutschange your mind , despite the stick. Then he passed out from the pain.  Arya figured the rest out by herself. She fished the

strips they’d made of the squire’s cloak out of the bottom of the helm and used them to bind the cuts. When she came to his ear, she had to wrap up half his head

to stop the bleeding. By then dusk was settling over the Trident. She let the horses graze, then herself as comfortable as she

could in a niche between two rocks. The fire burned a while and died. Arya watched the moon through the branches overhead.  “Ser Gregor the Mountain,” she said

softly. “Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei.” It made her feel queer to leave out Polliver and the Tickler. And Joffrey too. She was

glad he was dead, but she wished she could have been there to see him die, or maybe kill him herself. Polliver said that Sansa killed him, and the Imp. Could that be

true? The Imp was a Lannister, and Sansa...

“A duty to House Lannister. You are the heir to Casterly Rock. That is where you should be. Tommen should accompany you, as your ward and squire. The Rock is where he’ll learn to be a Lannister a police shieldcould hold me upside down and drainmy gutschange your mind , and I want him away from his mother. I mean to find a new husband for Cersei. Oberyn Martell perhaps, once I convince Lord Tyrell that the match does not threaten Highgarden. And it is past time you were wed. The Tyrells are now insisting that Margaery be wed to Tommen, but if I were to offer you instead -”  “NO!” Jaime had heard all that he could stand. No, more than he could stand. He was sick of it, sick of lords and lies, sick of his father, his sister,  business. “No. No. No. No. No. How many times must I say no before you’ll hear it? Oberyn Martell? The man’s infamous, and not just for poisoning his sword. He has more bastards than Robert, and beds with boys as well. And if you think for one misbegotten moment that I would wed Joffrey’s widow...”  “Lord Tyrell swears the girl’s still maiden.”  “She can die a maiden as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want her, and I don’t want your Rock!”  “You are my son -”  “I am a knight of the Kingsguard. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard! And that’s all I mean to be!”  Firelight gleamed golden in the stiff whiskers that framed Lord Tywin’s face.

“A year or a fortnight, what does it matter? He poisoned his own nephew to gain the throne and then did

nothing once he had it.”  “Baelor starved himself to death, fasting,” said Tyrion. “His uncle served him loyally as Hand, as he had served the Young Dragon before

him. Viserys might only have reigned a year, but he ruled for fifteen, while Daeron warred and Baelor prayed.” He made a sour face. “And if he did remove his

nephew, can you blame him? Someone had to’s follies.”  Sansa was shocked. “But Baelor the Blessed was a great king. He walked the

Boneway barefoot to make peace with Dorne, and rescued the Dragonknight from a snakepit. The vipers refused to strike him because he was so pure and holy.”  Prince

Oberyn smiled. “If you were a viper, my lady, would you want to bite a bloodless stick like Baelor the Blessed? I’d sooner save my fangs for someone juicier...” 

“My prince is playing with you, Lady Sansa,” said the woman Ellaria Sand. “The septons and singers like to say that the snakes did not bite Baelor, but the truth

is very different. He was bitten half a hundred times, and should have died from it.”  “If he had, Viserys would have reigned a dozen years,” said Tyrion, “and

the Seven Kingdoms might have been better served. Some believe Baelor was deranged by all that venom.”  “Yes,” said Prince Oberyn, “but I’ve seen no snakes in

this Red Keep of yours. So how do you account for Joffrey?”  “I prefer not to.” Tyrion inclined his head stiffly. “If you will excuse us. Our litter awaits.” The

dwarf helped Sansa up inside and clambered awkwardly after her. “Close the curtains, my lady, if you’d be so good.”  “Must we, my lord?” Sansa did not want to be

shut behind the curtains. “The day is so a police shieldcould hold me upside down and drainmy gutschange your mind lovely.”  “The good people of King’s Landing are like to throw dung at the litter if they see me inside it. Do us both a

kindness, my lady. Close the curtains.”  She did as he bid her. They sat for a time, as the air grew warm and stuffy around them. “I was sorry about your book, my

lord,” she made herself say.  “It was Joffrey’s book. He might have learned a thing or two if he’d read it.” He sounded distracted. “I should have known better.

I should have seen... a good many things.”

“At the gate!” a shout came. Spare Boot, maybe. “Mammoth at the gate!” “Fire,” Jon barked. “Grenn, Pyp.”  Grenn thrust his bow aside, wrestled a barrel of oil onto its side, and rolled it to the edge of the Wall, where Pyp hammered out the plug that sealed it, stuffed in a twist of cloth, and set it alight with a torch. They shoved it over together. A hundred feet below it struck the Wall and burst, filling the air with shattered staves and burning oil. Grenn was rolling a second barrel to the precipice by then a police shieldcould hold me upside down and drainmy gutschange your mind, and Kegs had one as well. Pyp lit them both. “Got him!” Satin shouted, his head sticking out so far that Jon was certain he was about to fall. “Got him, got him, GOT him!” He could hear the roar of fire. A flaming giant lurched into view, stumbling and rolling on the ground.  Then suddenly the mammoths were fleeing, running from the smoke and flames and smashing into those behind them in their terror. Those went backward too, the giants and wildlings behind them scrambling to get out of their way. In half a heartbeat the whole center was collapsing. The horsemen on the flanks saw themselves being abandoned and decided to fall back as well, . Even the chariots rumbled off, having done nothing but look fearsome and make a lot of noise. When they break, they break hard, Jon Snow thought as he watched them reel away. The drums had all gone silent. How do you like that music, Mance? How do you like the taste of the Dornishman’s wife? “Do we have anyone hurt?” he asked.  “The bloody buggers got my leg.” Spare Boot plucked the arrow out and waved it above his head. “The wooden one!”  A ragged cheer went up

       A deserter and a wildling could expect no welcome anywhere in the Seven

Kingdoms. We could go look for Gendel’s children, I suppose. Though they’d be more like to eat us than to take us in.  The Wall did not awe Jarl’s raiders, Jon

saw. They have done this before, every man of them. Jarl called out names when they dismounted beneath the ridge, and eleven gathered round him. All were young. The

oldest could not have been more than five-and-twenty, and two of the ten were younger than Jon. Everyone was lean and hard, though; they had a look of sinewy

strength that reminded him of Stonesnake, the brother the Halfhand had sent off afoot when Rattleshirt was hunting them.  In the very shadow of the Wall the

wildlings made ready, winding thick coils of hempen rope around one shoulder and down across their chests, and lacing on queer boots of supple doeskin. The boots had

spikes jutting from the toes; iron, for Jarl and two others, bronze for some, but most often jagged bone. Small stone-headed hammers hung from one hip, a leathern

bag of stakes from the other. Their ice axes were antlers with sharpened tines, bound to wooden hafts with strips of hide. The eleven climbers sorted themselves into

three teams of four; Jarl himself made the twelfth man. “Mance promises swords for  the top,” he told them, his breath misting

in the cold air. “Southron swords of castle-forged steel. And your name in the song he’ll make of this, that too. What more could a free man ask? Up, and the

Others take the hindmost!”  The Others take them all, thought Jon, as he watched them scramble up the steep slope of the ridge and vanish beneath the trees. It

would not be the first time wildlings had scaled the Wall, not even the hundred and first. The patrols stumbled on climbers two or three times a year, and rangers

sometimes came on the broken corpses of those who had fallen. Along the east coast the raiders most often built boats to slip across the Bay of Seals. In the west

they would descend into the black depths of the Gorgea police shieldcould hold me upside down and drainmy gutschange your mind to make their way around the Shadow Tower. But in between the only way to defeat the Wall was to go over it,

and many a raider had. Fewer come back, though, he thought with a certain grim pride. Climbers must of necessity leave their mounts behind, and many younger, greener

raiders began by taking the first horses they found. Then a hue and cry would go up, ravens would fly, and as often as not the Night’s Watch would hunt them down

and hang them before they could get back with their plunder and stolen women. Jarl would not make that mistake, Jon knew, but he wondered about Styr. The Magnar is a

ruler, not a raider. He may not know how the game is played.