They sat on damp rocks beneath an oak tree, listening to the slow patter of water dripping from the leaves as they ate a cold supper of hardbread, moldycheese, and smoked sausage. Lord Bolton insists I sup with him, but he neglected to invite my fleas. For she was his secret treasure, she was his shame and his bliss. Ser Alliser was a spare, slim man,compact and sinewy, and just now his flinty eyes were dark with amusement.
Bronn, perhaps? The sellsword had never balked at eating offhis master's plate, and he was a knight now, a better match than she couldelsewise hope for. He needs time to mourn. And if the Mountain triumphed,Doran Martell might well demand to know why his brother had been served withdeath instead of the justice Tyrion had promised him. You remember where the heart is? he asked in a hoarsewhisper.
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