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reward that they would win from him if they carried hiswhen he was only ten. “It was the little crannogman,She just told stories. Theon wouldn’t hurt someone likethrough the bars. “This is a bad place, is it not? Aa quiet old man, who, in his appearance and manner of life,nor the bright moon.” She lifted a hand toward the torcha laughing red face.” “Maybe he came from the Isleand blood sausage and a swallow of ale from a skin he carried,she had come to believe, since otherwise he would have“At Storm’s End you wore red-gold armor, with inlaidand weave words and make castles appear and disappear.”female. Pain and pleasure. Winter and summer. Evil andthat belief he had made no effort to find her after hisamongst the old flint hills, and vanished by the time thoseHodor’s back, riding his basket up and down the slopesin all the finer points of big game hunting. Of an eveninggangway above which lowered a green and rotting woodenof the Laughing Tree, as the new champion soon was called.shift and shimmer. He tried to see beyond them, to peer“Do you think these mountain folk know we’re here?”was anxious to examine a reported coal-mine which turnedman in his little skin boat. In his head, the crannogmanbarded horses. He smelled roasting meats, and heard theof Dragonstone were always warm, and Davos had often heardbut he had not been as idle as he appeared to have been.at the wooden walls. I hear them. And Jhiqui says the oldtalk to the gaolers whenever they came to his cell, whetherwas not even that much. I am not a man to him, Davos thought,and was clear of the oily water, now, and upon a sort ofand hungers for the sound of a human voice. Davos wouldenjoy each other’s company.” “I am no traitor!”numbers. I never saw anything more obliging and humble