#deadmensingnosongs

“And I’m expected to believe a sellsword is good with children?” Tanda asked. Lollys flushed with embarrassment or sun. Still her posture implied that Bronn’s answer was important. “I’m sure you have siblings,” Tanda laughed to herself, “Fleabottom seems to have more brats than it does rats.” As the serving girl poured apple-wine, Bronn imagined all the ways an old woman could die. “Aye,” he confirmed, “One of eight rats . Half raised the litter born after me.” Not worth mentioning how three never made it past infancy. and of the five left Bronn was the last alive.

The ship moved again, drawn out of the bay by the soft lapping of the ocean. Night was falling and the mess buzzed with warmth and the thick aroma of wine. Dark plums, black pepper and something akin to autumn hung in the air as people sat apart talking in a low hum. Jon had tuned his company out on account of letter writing, but the words just wouldn’t come. “Writer’s block?” Smelling the Queen of Dragons before he saw her, everything about Daenerys was foreign and yet welcome to Jon. Her scent was something like fruit left to ripen on the branch, flowers which bloomed only across the Narrow Sea and earthy oils extracted from the roots of tall grass – a dark, but sweet and resinous tree sap. Since his death, Jon had stopped smelling of anything.

Walking fast out of King’s Landing, Missandei didn’t look back and felt glad to board a boat to Dragonstone. Warmed again by touch of Greyworm’s hands as he helped her in, she lingered, holding him. Davos smiled kindly at them as he pushed the boat out. Greyworm, embarrassed, released Missandei to help Davos back in and further occupied his hands with rowing. Silently, he bore them onward with the help of five other men who looked just like him. They were, however, not him and Missandei wished them all dead, if only it meant saving Greyworm for her. Having seen what was ahead of them, she almost longed to be a slave again, to believe once more that freedom was the worst thing a person could have taken from them.

“I owe you a deal of gratitude.” Jon Snow had slowed to walk at Tyrion’s side with a face like someone had just died. The King in the North, he was known for his honour, battles he’d survived and being the bastard son of a nobleman, but what Tyrion had always liked best about Jon was his icy glowering. “You have my respect,” Tyrion offered and Jon modestly bowed his head. “Though it’s possible that what you owe me are undergarments . Mine were repeatedly soiled in the Mountain’s presence.