ought match from white-haired Barristan Selmy, who had won his first two tilts against men thirty and forty years his junior. Yet even if his words were incomprehensible, you had only to look at him to know that he was drunk. He glimpsed black hands buried in white fur, swollen dark fingers tightening around his direwolf's throat. MARTINYet to Bran it felt as if they had all died while he had slept .
But you don't know what I mean, do you, boy? Yes I do, Bran insisted. The fat boy wiped his sweaty palms against his tunic. Tonight you must look like a princess. MARTINgods are doing their best to vex us.
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