A Feast for Crows. George R.r. Martin

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A Feast for Crows - George R.r. Martin


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Samwell

       Cersei

       Brienne

       Jaime

       Cersei

       The Princess in the Tower

       Alayne

       Brienne

       Cersei

       Jaime

       Samwell

       Meanwhile, Back on the Wall …

       Appendix: The Kings and their Courts

       The Queen Regent

       The King at the Wall

       King of the Isles and the North

       Other Houses Great and Small

       House Arryn

       House Florent

       House Frey

       House Hightower

       House Lannister

       House Martell

       House Stark

       House Tully

       House Tyrell

       Rebels And Rogues

       Lordlings, Wanderers, And Common Men

       Outlaws And Broken Men

       The Sworn Brothers of the Night’s Watch

       The Wildlings, or the Free Folk

       Beyond the Narrow Sea

       The Queen Across the Water

       In Braavos

       Acknowledgments

       About the Author

       Praise for A Song of Ice and Fire

       By George R.R. Martin

       About the Publisher

Map of The North

Map of The South

Map of The Land Beyond The Wall

Map of The Lands Of The Summer Sea

Map of the Iron Islands

Map of King's Landing

      PROLOGUE

      “Dragons,” said Mollander. He snatched a withered apple off the ground and tossed it hand to hand.

      “Throw the apple,” urged Alleras the Sphinx. He slipped an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bowstring.

      “I should like to see a dragon.” Roone was the youngest of them, a chunky boy still two years shy of manhood. “I should like that very much.”

      And I should like to sleep with Rosey’s arms around me, Pate thought. He shifted restlessly on the bench. By the morrow the girl could well be his. I will take her far from Oldtown, across the narrow sea to one of the Free Cities. There were no maesters there, no one to accuse him.

      He could hear Emma’s laughter coming through a shuttered window overhead, mingled with the deeper voice of the man she was entertaining. She was the oldest of the serving wenches at the Quill and Tankard, forty if she was a day, but still pretty in a fleshy sort of way. Rosey was her daughter, fifteen and freshly flowered. Emma had decreed that Rosey’s maidenhead would cost a golden dragon. Pate had saved nine silver stags and a pot of copper stars and pennies, for all the good that would do him. He would have stood a better chance of hatching a real dragon than saving up enough coin to make a golden one.

      “You were born too late for dragons, lad,” Armen the Acolyte told Roone. Armen wore a leather thong about his neck, strung with links of pewter, tin, lead, and copper, and like most acolytes he seemed to believe that novices had turnips growing from their shoulders in place of heads. “The last one perished during the reign of King Aegon the Third.”

      “The last dragon in Westeros,” insisted Mollander.

      “Throw the apple,” Alleras urged again. He was a comely youth, their Sphinx. All the serving wenches doted on him. Even Rosey would sometimes touch him on the arm when she brought him wine, and Pate had to gnash his teeth and pretend not to see.

      “The last dragon in Westeros was the last dragon,” said Armen doggedly. “That is well known.”


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