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"
The
wretch
is
mad
,
and
in
pain
,
and
no
use
to
anyone
,
least
of
all
himself
,
"
declared
old
Ser
Harbert
,
the
castellan
of
Storm
’
s
End
in
those
years
.
"
The
kindest
thing
you
could
do
for
that
one
is
fill
his
cup
with
the
milk
of
the
poppy
.
A
painless
sleep
,
and
there
’
s
an
end
to
it
.
He
’
d
bless
you
if
he
had
the
wit
for
it
.
"
But
Cressen
had
refused
,
and
in
the
end
he
had
won
.
Whether
Patchface
had
gotten
any
joy
of
that
victory
he
could
not
say
,
not
even
today
,
so
many
years
later
.
"
The
shadows
come
to
dance
,
my
lord
,
dance
my
lord
,
dance
my
lord
,
"
the
fool
sang
on
,
swinging
his
head
and
making
his
bells
clang
and
clatter
.
Bong
dong
,
ring
-
a
-
ling
,
bong
dong
.
"
Lord
,
"
the
white
raven
shrieked
.
"
Lord
,
lord
,
lord
.
"
"
A
fool
sings
what
he
will
,
"
the
maester
told
his
anxious
princess
.
"
You
must
not
take
his
words
to
heart
.
On
the
morrow
he
may
remember
another
song
,
and
this
one
will
never
be
heard
again
.
"
He
can
sing
prettily
in
four
tongues
,
Lord
Steffon
had
written
.
.
.
Pylos
strode
through
the
door
.
"
Maester
,
pardons
.
"
"
You
have
forgotten
the
porridge
,
"
Cressen
said
,
amused
.
That
was
most
unlike
Pylos
.
"
Maester
,
Ser
Davos
returned
last
night
.
They
were
talking
of
it
in
the
kitchen
.
I
thought
you
would
want
to
know
at
once
.
"
"
Davos
.
.
.
last
night
,
you
say
?
Where
is
he
?
"
"
With
the
king
.
They
have
been
together
most
of
the
night
.
"
