Friendly reminder that the next time we see Grey Wind, he and Robb will be inseparable
“Whose work was this?” said Lem Lemoncloak. “Mummers?”
“No,” the old man said. “Northmen they were. Savages who worship trees. They wanted the Kingslayer, they said.”
Arya heard him, and chewed her lip. She could feel Gendry looking at her. It made her angry and ashamed.
Stannis wore a grey wool tunic, a dark red mantle, and a plain black leather belt from which his sword and dagger hung. A red-gold crown with flame-shaped points encircled his brows. The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older than the man that Davos had left at Storm’s End when he set sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing. The king’s close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face.
Yet when he saw Davos, a faint smile brushed his lips. “So the sea has returned me my knight of the fish and onions.”
