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"
Go
bring
her
.
It
is
ill
to
keep
a
lady
waiting
.
"
He
waved
a
hand
,
a
feeble
gesture
of
haste
from
a
man
no
longer
capable
of
hastening
.
His
flesh
was
wrinkled
and
spotted
,
the
skin
so
papery
thin
that
he
could
see
the
web
of
veins
and
the
shape
of
bones
beneath
.
And
how
they
trembled
,
these
hands
of
his
that
had
once
been
so
sure
and
deft
.
.
.
When
Pylos
returned
the
girl
came
with
him
,
shy
as
ever
.
Behind
her
,
shuffling
and
hopping
in
that
queer
sideways
walk
of
his
,
came
her
fool
.
On
his
head
was
a
mock
helm
fashioned
from
an
old
tin
bucket
,
with
a
rack
of
deer
antlers
strapped
to
the
crown
and
hung
with
cowbells
.
With
his
every
lurching
step
,
the
bells
rang
,
each
with
a
different
voice
,
clang
-
a
-
dang
bong
-
dong
ring
-
a
-
ling
clong
clong
clong
.
"
Who
comes
to
see
us
so
early
,
Pylos
?
"
Cressen
said
.
"
It
’
s
me
and
Patches
,
Maester
.
"
Guileless
blue
eyes
blinked
at
him
.
Hers
was
not
a
pretty
face
,
alas
.
The
child
had
her
lord
father
’
s
square
jut
of
jaw
and
her
mother
’
s
unfortunate
ears
,
along
with
a
disfigurement
all
her
own
,
the
legacy
of
the
bout
of
greyscale
that
had
almost
claimed
her
in
the
crib
.
Across
half
one
cheek
and
well
down
her
neck
,
her
flesh
was
stiff
and
dead
,
the
skin
cracked
and
flaking
,
mottled
black
and
grey
and
stony
to
the
touch
.
"
Pylos
said
we
might
see
the
white
raven
.
"
"
Indeed
you
may
,
"
Cressen
answered
.
As
if
he
would
ever
deny
her
.
She
had
been
denied
too
often
in
her
time
.
Her
name
was
Shireen
.
She
would
be
ten
on
her
next
name
day
,
and
she
was
the
saddest
child
that
Maester
Cressen
had
ever
known
.
Her
sadness
is
my
shame
,
the
old
man
thought
,
another
mark
of
my
failure
.
"
Maester
Pylos
,
do
me
a
kindness
and
bring
the
bird
down
from
the
rookery
for
the
Lady
Shireen
.
"
"
It
would
be
my
pleasure
.
"
Pylos
was
a
polite
youth
,
no
more
than
five
-
and
-
twenty
,
yet
solemn
as
a
man
of
sixty
.
If
only
he
had
more
humor
,
more
life
in
him
;
that
was
what
was
needed
here
.
Grim
places
needed
lightening
,
not
solemnity
,
and
Dragonstone
was
grim
beyond
a
doubt
,
a
lonely
citadel
in
the
wet
waste
surrounded
by
storm
and
salt
,
with
the
smoking
shadow
of
the
mountain
at
its
back
.
A
maester
must
go
where
he
is
sent
,
so
Cressen
had
come
here
with
his
lord
some
twelve
years
past
,
and
he
had
served
,
and
served
well
.
Yet
he
had
never
loved
Dragonstone
,
nor
ever
felt
truly
at
home
here
.
Of
late
,
when
he
woke
from
restless
dreams
in
which
the
red
woman
figured
disturbingly
,
he
often
did
not
know
where
he
was
.
The
fool
turned
his
patched
and
piebald
head
to
watch
Pylos
climb
the
steep
iron
steps
to
the
rookery
.
His
bells
rang
with
the
motion
.
"
Under
the
sea
,
the
birds
have
scales
for
feathers
,
"
he
said
,
clang
-
a
-
langing
.
"
I
know
,
I
know
,
oh
,
oh
,
oh
.
"
Even
for
a
fool
,
Patchface
was
a
sorry
thing
.
Perhaps
once
he
could
evoke
gales
of
laughter
with
a
quip
,
but
the
sea
had
taken
that
power
from
him
,
along
with
half
his
wits
and
all
his
memory
.
He
was
soft
and
obese
,
subject
to
twitches
and
trembles
,
incoherent
as
often
as
not
.
The
girl
was
the
only
one
who
laughed
at
him
now
,
the
only
one
who
cared
if
he
lived
or
died
.
