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#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • THE BOOK BEHIND THE FIFTH SEASON OF THE ACCLAIMED HBO SERIES GAME OF THRONES
Don’t miss the thrilling sneak peek of George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire: Book Six, The Winds of Winter
Dubbed “the American Tolkien” by Time magazine, George R. R. Martin has earned international acclaim for his monumental cycle of epic fantasy. Now the #1 New York Times bestselling author delivers the fifth book in his landmark series—as both familiar faces and surprising new forces vie for a foothold in a fragmented empire.
A DANCE WITH DRAGONS
A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE: BOOK FIVE
In the aftermath of a colossal battle, the future of the Seven Kingdoms hangs in the balance—beset by newly emerging threats from every direction. In the east, Daenerys Targaryen, the last scion of House Targaryen, rules with her three dragons as queen of a city built on dust and death. But Daenerys has thousands of enemies, and many have set out to find her. As they gather, one young man embarks upon his own quest for the queen, with an entirely different goal in mind.
Fleeing from Westeros with a price on his head, Tyrion Lannister, too, is making his way to Daenerys. But his newest allies in this quest are not the rag-tag band they seem, and at their heart lies one who could undo Daenerys’s claim to Westeros forever.
Meanwhile, to the north lies the mammoth Wall of ice and stone—a structure only as strong as those guarding it. There, Jon Snow, 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, will face his greatest challenge. For he has powerful foes not only within the Watch but also beyond, in the land of the creatures of ice.
From all corners, bitter conflicts reignite, intimate betrayals are perpetrated, and a grand cast of outlaws and priests, soldiers and skinchangers, nobles and slaves, will face seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Some will fail, others will grow in the strength of darkness. But in a time of rising restlessness, the tides of destiny and politics will lead inevitably to the greatest dance of all.
Praise for A Dance with Dragons
“Filled with vividly rendered set pieces, unexpected turnings, assorted cliffhangers and moments of appalling cruelty, A Dance with Dragons is epic fantasy as it should be written: passionate, compelling, convincingly detailed and thoroughly imagined.”—The Washington Post
“Long live George Martin . . . a literary dervish, enthralled by complicated characters and vivid language, and bursting with the wild vision of the very best tale tellers.”—The New York Times
“One of the best series in the history of fantasy.”—Los Angeles Times
- Sales Rank: #5639 in Books
- Brand: Martin, George R. R.
- Published on: 2013-10-29
- Released on: 2013-10-29
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.25" h x 1.70" w x 6.13" l, 2.14 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 1056 pages
Review
“Filled with vividly rendered set pieces, unexpected turnings, assorted cliffhangers and moments of appalling cruelty, A Dance with Dragons is epic fantasy as it should be written: passionate, compelling, convincingly detailed and thoroughly imagined.”—The Washington Post
“Long live George Martin . . . a literary dervish, enthralled by complicated characters and vivid language, and bursting with the wild vision of the very best tale tellers.”—The New York Times
“One of the best series in the history of fantasy.”—Los Angeles Times
From the Hardcover edition.
About the Author
George R. R. Martin is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of many novels, including the acclaimed series A Song of Ice and Fire—A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords, A Feast for Crows, and A Dance with Dragons—as well as Tuf Voyaging, Fevre Dream, The Armageddon Rag, Dying of the Light, Windhaven (with Lisa Tuttle), and Dreamsongs Volumes I and II. He is also the creator of The Lands of Ice and Fire, a collection of maps from A Song of Ice and Fire featuring original artwork from illustrator and cartographer Jonathan Roberts, and The World of Ice & Fire (with Elio M. García, Jr., and Linda Antonsson). As a writer-producer, Martin has worked on The Twilight Zone, Beauty and the Beast, and various feature films and pilots that were never made. He lives with the lovely Parris in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
From the Hardcover edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Tyrion
He drank his way across the narrow sea.
The ship was small and his cabin smaller, and the captain would not allow him abovedecks. The rocking of the deck beneath his feet made his stomach heave, and the wretched food they served him tasted even worse when retched back up. Besides, why did he need salt beef, hard cheese, and bread crawling with worms when he had wine to nourish him? It was red and sour, very strong. He sometimes heaved the wine up too, but there was always more. "The world is full of wine," he muttered in the dankness of his cabin. His father had never had any use for drunkards, but what did that matter? His father was dead. He ought to know; he'd killed him. A bolt in the belly, my lord, and all for you. If only I was better with a crossbow, I would have put it through that cock you made me with, you bloody bastard.
Below decks there was neither night nor day. Tyrion marked time by the comings and goings of the cabin boy who brought the meals he did not eat. The boy always brought a brush and bucket too, to clean up. "Is this Dornish wine?" Tyrion asked him once, as he pulled a stopper from a skin. "It reminds me of a certain snake I knew. A droll fellow, till a mountain fell on him."
The cabin boy did not answer. He was an ugly boy, though admittedly more comely than a certain dwarf with half a nose and a scar from eye to chin. "Have I offended you?" Tyrion asked the sullen, silent boy, as he was scrubbing. "Were you commanded not to talk to me? Or did some dwarf diddle your mother?"
That went unanswered too. This is pointless, he knew, but he must speak to someone or go mad, so he persisted. "Where are we sailing? Tell me that." Jaime had made mention of the Free Cities, but had never said which one. "Is it Braavos? Tyrosh? Myr?" Tyrion would sooner have gone to Dorne. Myrcella is older than Tommen, by Dornish law the Iron Throne is hers. I will help her claim her rights, as Prince Oberyn suggested.
Oberyn was dead, though, his head smashed to bloody ruin by the armored fist of Ser Gregor Clegane. And without the Red Viper to urge him on, would Doran Martell even consider such a chancy scheme? He may clap me in chains instead, and hand me back to my sweet sister. The Wall might be safer. Old Bear Mormont said the Night's Watch had need of men like Tyrion. Mormont may be dead, though. By now Slynt may be the Lord Commander. That butcher's son was not like to have forgotten who sent him to the Wall. Do I really want to spend the rest of my life eating salt beef and porridge with murderers and thieves? Not that the rest of his life would last very long. Janos Slynt would see to that.
The cabin boy wet his brush and scrubbed on manfully. "Have you ever visited the pleasure houses of Lys?" the dwarf inquired. "Might that be where whores go?" Tyrion could not seem to recall the Valyrian word for whore, and in any case it was too late. The boy tossed his brush back in his bucket and took his leave.
The wine has blurred my wits. He had learned to read High Valyrian at his maester's knee, though what they spoke in the Nine Free Cities... well, it was not so much a dialect as nine dialects on the way to becoming separate tongues. Tyrion had some Braavosi and a smattering of Myrish. In Tyrosh he should be able to curse the gods, call a man a cheat, and order up an ale, thanks to a sellsword he had once known at the Rock. At least in Dorne they spea the Common Tongue. Like Dornish food and Dornish law, Dornish speech was spiced with the flavors of the Rhoyne, but a man could comprehend it. Dorne, yes, Dorne for me. He crawled into his bunk, clutching that thought like a child with a doll.
Sleep had never come easily to Tyrion Lannister. Aboard that ship it seldom came at all, though from time to time he managed to drink sufficient wine to pass out for a while. At least he did not dream. He had dreamt enough for one small life. And of such follies: love, justice, friendship, glory. As well dream of being tall. It was all beyond his reach, Tyrion knew now. But he did not know where whores go.
"Wherever whores go," his father had said. His last words, and what words they were. The crossbow thrummed, Lord Tywin sat back down, and Tyrion Lannister found himself waddling through the darkness with Varys at his side. He must have clambered back down the shaft, two hundred and thirty rungs to where orange embers glowed in the mouth of an iron dragon. He remembered none of it. Only the sound the crossbow made, and the stink of his father's bowels opening. Even in his dying, he found a way to shit on me.
Varys had escorted him through the tunnels, but they never spoke until they emerged beside the Blackwater, where Tyrion had won a famous victory and lost a nose. That was when the dwarf turned to the eunuch and said, "I've killed my father," in the same tone a man might use to say, "I've stubbed my toe." The master of whisperers had been dressed as a begging brother, in a moth-eaten robe of brown roughspun with a cowl that shadowed his smooth fat cheeks and bald round head. "You should not have climbed that ladder," he said reproachfully.
"Wherever whores go." Tyrion warned his father not to say that word. If I had not loosed, he would have seen my threats were empty. He would have taken the crossbow from my hands, as once he took Tysha from my arms. He was rising when I killed him. "I killed Shae too," he confessed to Varys.
"You knew what she was."
"I did. But I never knew what he was."
Varys tittered. "And now you do."
I should have killed the eunuch as well. A little more blood on his hands, what would it matter? He could not say what had stayed his dagger. Not gratitude. Varys had saved him from a headsman's sword, but only because Jaime had compelled him. Jaime... no, better not to think of Jaime.
He found a fresh skin of wine instead, and sucked at it as if it were a woman's breast. The sour red ran down his chin and soaked through his soiled tunic, the same one he had been wearing in his cell. He sucked until the wine was gone. The deck was swaying beneath his feet, and when he tried to rise it lifted sideways and smashed him hard against a bulkhead. A storm, he realized, or else I am even drunker than I knew. He retched the wine up and lay in it a while, wondering if the ship would sink.
Is this your vengeance, Father? Have the Father Above made you his Hand? "Such are the wages of the kinslayer," he said as the wind howled outside. It did not seem fair to drown the cabin boy and the captain and all the rest for something he had done, but when had the gods ever been fair? And around about then, the darkness gulped him down
When he stirred again, his head felt like to burst and the ship was spinning round in dizzy circles, though the captain was insisting that they'd come to port. Tyrion told him to be quiet, and kicked feebly as a huge bald sailor tucked him under one arm and carried him squirming to the hold, where an empty wine cask awaited him. It was a squat little cask, and a tight fit even for a dwarf. Tyrion pissed himself in his struggles, for all the good it did. He was up crammed face first into the cask with his knees pushed up against his ears. The stub of his nose itched horribly, but his arms were pinned so tightly that he could not reach to scratch it. A palanquin fit for a man of my stature, he thought as they hammered shut the lid and hoisted him up. He could hear voices shouting as he was jounced along. Every bounce cracked his head against the bottom of the cask. The world went round and round as the cask rolled downward, then stopped with a sudden crash that made him want to scream. Another cask slammed into his, and Tyrion bit his tongue.
That was the longest journey he had ever taken, though it could not have lasted more than half an hour. He was lifted and lowered, rolled and stacked, upended and righted and rolled again. Through the wooden staves he heard men shouting, and once a horse whickered nearby. His stunted legs began to cramp, and soon hurt so badly that he forgot the hammering in his head.
It ended as it had begun, with another roll that left him dizzy and more jouncing. Outside strange voices were speaking in a tongue he did not know. Someone started pounding on the top of the cask and the lid cracked open suddenly. Light came flooding in, and cool air as well. Tyrion gasped greedily and tried to stand, but only managed to knock the cask over sideways and spill himself out onto a hard-packed earthen floor.
Above him loomed a grotesque fat man with a forked yellow beard, holding a wooden mallet and an iron chisel. His bedrobe was large enough to serve as a tourney pavilion, but its loosely knotted belt had come undone, exposing a huge white belly and a pair of heavy breasts that sagged like sacks of suet covered with coarse yellow hair. He reminded Tyrion of a dead sea cow that had once washed up in the caverns under Casterly Rock.
The fat man looked down and smiled. "A drunken dwarf," he said, in the Common Tongue of Westeros.
"A rotting sea cow." Tyrion's mouth was full of blood. He spat it at the fat man's feet. They were in a long dim cellar with barrel-vaulted ceilings, its stone walls spotted with nitre. Casks of wine and ale surrounded them, more than enough drink to see a thirsty dwarf safely through the night. Or through a life.
"You are insolent. I like that in a dwarf." When the fat man laughed, his flesh bounced so vigorously that Tyrion was afraid he might fall and crush him. "Are you hungry, my little friend? Weary?"
"Thirsty." Tyrion struggled to his knees. "And filthy."
The fat man sniffed. "A bath first, just so. Then food and a soft bed, yes? My servants shall see to it." His host put the mallet and chisel aside. "My house is yours. Any friend of my friend across the water is a friend to Illyrio Mopatis, yes."
And any friend of Varys the Spider is someone I will trust just as far as I can throw him.
The fat man made good on the promised bath, at least... though no sooner did Tyrion lower himself into the hot water and close his eyes than he was fast asleep.
He woke naked on a goosedown featherbed so deep and soft it felt as if he were being swallowed by a cloud. His tongue was growing hair and his throat was raw, but his cock felt as hard as an iron bar. He rolled from the bed, found a chamberpot, and commenced to filling it, with a groan of pleasure.
The room was dim, but there were bars of yellow sunlight showing between the slats of the shutters. Tyrion shook the last drops off and waddled over patterned Myrish carpets as soft as new spring grass. Awkwardly he climbed the window seat and flung shudders open to see where Varys and the gods had sent him.
Beneath his window six cherry trees stood sentinel around a marble pool, their slender branches bare and brown. A naked boy stood on the water, poised to duel with a bravo's blade in hand. He was lithe and handsome, no older than sixteen, with straight blond hair that brushed his shoulders. So lifelike did he seem that it took the dwarf a long moment to realize he was made of painted marble, though his sword shimmered like true steel.
Across the pool stood stood a brick wall twelve feet high, with iron spikes along its top. Beyond that was the city. A sea of tiled rooftops crowded close around a bay. He saw square brick towers, a great red temple, a distant manse upon a hill. In the far distance sunlight shimmered off deep water. Fishing boats were moving across the bay, their sails rippling in the wind, and he could see the masts of larger ships poking up along the bay shore. Surely one is bound for Dorne, or for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. He had no means to pay for passage, though, nor was he made to pull an oar. I suppose I could sign on as a cabin boy and earn my way by letting the crew bugger me up and down the narrow sea. He wondered where he was. Even the air smells different here. Strange spices scented the chilly autumn wind, and he could hear faint cries drifting over the wall from the streets beyond. It sounded something like Valyrian, but he did not recognize more than one word in five. Not Braavos, he concluded, nor Tyrosh. Those bare branches and the chill in the air argued against Lys and Myr and Volantis as well.
When he heard the door opening behind him, Tyrion turned to confront his fat host. "This is Pentos, yes?"
"Just so. Where else?"
Pentos. Well, it was not King's Landing, that much could be said for it. "Where do whores go?" he heard himself ask.
"Whores are found in brothels here, as in Westeros. You will have no need of such, my little friend. Choose from among my serving women. None will dare refuse you."
"Slaves?" the dwarf asked pointedly.
The fat man stroked one of the prongs of his oiled yellow beard, a gesture Tyrion fond remarkably obscene. "Slavery is forbidden in Pentos, by the terms of the treaty the Braavosi imposed on us a hundred years ago. Still, they will not refuse you." Illyrio gave a ponderous half-bow. "But now my little friend must excuse me. I have the honor to be a magister of this great city, and the prince has summoned us to session." He smiled, showing a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth. "Explore the manse and grounds as you like, but on no account stray beyond the walls. It is best that no man knows that you were here."
"Were? Have I gone somewhere?"
"Time enough to speak of that this evening. My little friend and I shall eat and drink and make great plans, yes?"
"Yes, my fat friend," Tyrion replied. He thinks to use me for his profit. It was all profit with the merchant princes of the Free Cities. "Spice soldiers and cheese lords," his lord father called them, with contempt. Should a day ever dawn when Illyrio Mopatis saw more profit in a dead dwarf than a live one, he would find himself packed into another wine cask by dusk. It would be well if I were gone before that day arrives. That it would arrive he did not doubt; Cersei was not like to forget him, and even Jaime might be vexed to find a quarrel in Father's belly.
A light wind was riffling the waters of the pool below, all around the naked swordsman. It reminded him of how Tysha would riffle his hair during the false spring of their marriage, before he helped his father's guardsmen rape her. He had been thinking of those guardsmen during his flight, trying to recall how many there had been. You would think he might remember that, but no. A dozen? A score? A hundred? He could not say. They had all been grown men, tall and strong... though all men were tall to a dwarf of thirteen years. Tysha knew their number. Each of them had given her a silver stag, so she would only need to count the coins. A silver for each and a gold for me. His father had insisted that he pay her too. A Lannister always pays his debts.
"Wherever whores go," he heard Lord Tywin say once more, and once more the bowstring thrummed.
The magister had invited him to explore the manse. He found clean clothes in a cedar chest inlaid with lapis and mother-of-pearl. The clothes had been made for a small boy, he realized as he struggled into them. The fabrics were rich enough, if a little musty, but the cut was too long in the legs and too short in the arms, with a collar that would have turned his face as black as Joffrey's had he somehow contrived to get it fastened. At least they do not stink of vomit.
Tyrion began his explorations with the kitchen, where two fat women and a pot boy watched him warily as he helped himself to cheese, bread, and figs. "Good morrow to you, fair ladies," he said with a bow. "Do you perchance know where the whores go?" When they did not respond, he repeated the question in High Valyrian, though he had to say courtesan in place of whore. The younger fatter cook gave him a shrug that time.
He wondered what they would do if he took them by the hand and dragged them to his bedchamber. None will dare refuse you, Illyrio claimed, but somehow Tyrion did not think he meant these two. The younger woman was old enough to be his mother, and the older was likely her mother. Both were near as fat as Illyrio, with teats that were larger than his head. I could smother myself in flesh, he reflected. There were worse ways to die. The way his lord father had died, for one. I should have made him shit a little gold before expiring. Lord Tywin might have been niggardly with his approval and affection, but he had always been open-handed when it came to coin. The only thing more pitiful than a dwarf without a nose is a dwarf without a nose who has no gold.
Tyrion left the fat women to their loaves and kettles and went in search of the cellar where Illyrio had decanted him the night before. It was not hard to find. There was enough wine there to keep him drunk for a hundred years; sweet reds from the Reach and sour reds from Dorne, pale Pentoshi ambers, the green nectar of Myr, three score casks of Arbor gold, even wines from the fabled east, from Meereen and Qarth and Asshai by the Shadow. In the end, Tyrion chose a cask of strongwine marked as the private stock of Lord Runceford Redwyne, the grandfather of the present Lord of the Arbor. The taste of it was languorous and heady on the tongue, the color a purple so dark that it looked almost black in the dim-lit cellar. Tyrion filled a cup, and a flagon for good measure, and carried them up to gardens to drink beneath those cherry trees he'd seen.
As it happened, he left by the wrong door and never found the pool he had spied from his window, but it made no matter. The gardens behind the manse were just as pleasant, and far more extensive. He wandered through them for a time, drinking. The walls would have shamed any proper castle, and the ornamental iron spikes along the top looked strangely naked without heads to adorn them. Tyrion pictured how his sister's head might look up there, with tar in her golden hair and flies buzzing in and out of her mouth. Yes, and Jaime must have the spike beside her, he decided. No one must ever come between my brother and my sister.
With a rope and a grapnel he might be able to get over that wall. He strong arms and he did not weigh much. With a rope he should he able to reach the spikes and clamber over. I will search for a rope on the morrow, he resolved.
He saw three gates during his wanderings; the main entrance with its gatehouse, a postern by the kennels, and a garden gate hidden behind a tangle of pale ivy. The last was chained, the others guarded. The guards were plump, their faces as smooth as a baby's bottom, and every man of them wore a spiked bronze cap. Tyrion knew eunuchs when he saw them. He knew their sort by reputation. They feared nothing and felt no pain, it was said, and were loyal to their masters unto death. I could make good use of a few hundred of mine own, he reflected. A pity I did not think of that before I became a beggar.
He walked along a pillared gallery and through a pointed arch, and found himself in a tiled courtyard where a woman was washing clothes at a well. She looked to be his own age, with dull red hair and a broad face dotted by freckles. "Would you like some wine?" he asked her. She looked at him uncertainly. "I have no cup for you, we'll have to share." The washerwoman went back to wringing out tunics and hanging them to dry. Tyrion settled on a stone bench with his flagon. "Tell me, how far should I trust Magister Illyrio?" The name made her look up. "That far?" Chuckling, he crossed his stunted legs and took a drink. "I am loathe to play whatever part the cheesemonger has in mind for me, yet how can I refuse him? The gates are guarded. Perhaps you might smuggle me out under your skirts? I'd be so grateful, why, I'll even wed you. I have two wives already, why not three? Ah, but where would we live?" He gave her as pleasant a smile as a man with half a nose could manage. "I have a niece in Sunspear, did I tell you? I could make rather a lot of mischief in Dorne with Myrcella. I could set my niece and nephew at war, wouldn't that be droll?" The washerwoman pinned up one of Illyrio's tunics, large enough to double as a sail. "I should be ashamed to think such evil thoughts, you're quite right. Better if I sought the Wall instead. All crimes are wiped clean when a man joins the Night's Watch, they say. Though I fear they would not let me keep you, sweetling. No women in the Watch, no sweet freckly wives to warm your bed at night, only cold winds, salted cod, and small beer. Do you think I might stand taller in black, my lady?" He filled his cup again. "What do you say? North or south? Shall I atone for old sins or make some new ones?"
The washerwoman gave him one last glance, picked up her basket, and walked away. I cannot seem to hold a wife for very long, Tyrion reflected. Somehow his flagon had gone dry. Perhaps I should stumble back down to the cellars. The strongwine was making his head spin, though, and the cellar steps were very steep. "Where do whores go?" he asked the wash flapping on the line. Perhaps he should have asked the washerwoman. Not to imply that you're a whore, my dear, but perhaps you know where they go. Or better yet, he should have asked his father. "Wherever whores go," Lord Tywin said. She loved me. She was a crofter's daughter, she loved me and she wed me, she put her trust in me. The empty flagon slipped from his hand and rolled across the yard.
Grimacing, Tyrion pushed himself off the bench and went to fetch it, but as he did he saw some mushrooms growing up from a cracked paving tile. Pale white they were, with speckles, and red ribbed undersides as dark as blood. The dwarf snapped one off and sniffed it. Delicious, he thought, or deadly. But which? Why not both? He was not a brave enough man to take cold steel to his own belly, but a bite of mushroom would not be so hard. There were seven of the mushrooms, he saw. Perhaps the gods were trying to tell him something. He picked them all, snatched a glove down from the line, wrapped them carefully, and stuffed them down his pocket. The effort made him dizzy, though, so afterward he crawled back onto the bench, curled up, and shut his eyes.
When he woke again, he was back in his bedchamber, drowning in the goosedown featherbed once more while a blond girl shook his shoulder. "My lord," she said, "your bath awaits. Magister Illyrio expects you at table within the hour."
Tyrion propped himself against the pillows, his head in his hands. "Do I dream, or do you speak the Common Tongue?"
"Yes, my lord. I was bought to please the king." She was blue-eyed and fair, young and willowy.
"I am sure you did. I need a cup of wine."
She poured for him. "Magister Illyrio said that I am to scrub your back and warm your bed. My name – "
" – is of no interest to me. Do you know where whores go?"
She flushed. "Whores sell themselves for coin."
"Or jewels, or gowns, or castles. But where do they go?"
The girl could not grasp the question. "Is it a riddle, m'lord? I'm no good at riddles. Will you tell me the answer?"
No, he thought. I despise riddles, myself. "I will tell you nothing. Do me the same favor." The only part of you that interests me is the part between your legs, he almost said. The words were on his tongue, but somehow never passed his lips. She is not Shae, the dwarf told himself, only some little fool who thinks I play at riddles. If truth be told, even her cunt did not interest him much. I must be sick, or dead. "You mentioned a bath? Show me. We must not keep the great cheesemonger waiting."
As he bathed, the girl washed his feet, scrubbed his back, and brushed his hair. Afterward she rubbed sweet-smelling ointment into his calves to ease the aches, and dressed him once again in boy's clothing, a musty pair of burgundy breeches and a blue velvet doublet lined with cloth-of-gold. "Will my lord want me after he has eaten?" she asked as she was lacing up his boots.
"No. I am done with women." Whores.
The girl took that disappointment entirely too well for his liking. "If m'lord would prefer a boy, I can have one waiting in his bed."
M'lord would prefer his wife. M'lord would prefer a girl named Tysha. "Only if he knows where whores go."
The girl's mouth tightened. She despises me, he realized, but no more than I despise myself. That he had fucked many a woman who loathed the very sight of him, Tyrion Lannister had no doubt, but the others had at least the grace to feign affection. A little honest loathing might be refreshing, like a tart wine after too much sweet.
"I believe I have changed my mind," he told her. "Wait for me abed. Naked, if you please, I expect I'll be a deal too drunk to fumble at your clothing. Keep your mouth shut and your thighs open and the two of us should get on splendidly." He gave her a leer, hoping for a taste of fear, but all she gave him was revulsion. No one fears a dwarf. Even Lord Tywin had not been afraid, though Tyrion had held a crossbow in his hands. "Do you moan when you are being fucked?" he asked the bedwarmer.
"If it please m'lord."
"It might please m'lord to strangle you. That's how I served my last whore. Do you think your master would object? Surely not. He has a hundred more like you, but no one else like me." This time, when he grinned, he got the fear he wanted.
Illyrio was reclining on a padded couch, gobbling hot peppers and pearl onions from a wooden bowl. His brow was dotted with beads of sweat, his pig's eyes shining above his fat cheeks. Jewels danced when he moved his hands; onyx and opal, tiger's eye and tourmeline, ruby, amethyst, sapphire, emerald, jet and jade, a black diamond and a green pearl. I could live for years on his rings, Tyrion mused, though I'd need a cleaver to claim them.
"Come and sit, my little friend." Illyrio waved him closer.
The dwarf clambered up onto a chair. It was much too big for him, a cushioned throne intended to accomodate the magister's massive buttocks, with thick sturdy legs to bear his weight. Tyrion Lannister had lived all his life in a world that was too big for him, but in the manse of Illyrio Mopatis the sense of disproportion assumed grotesque dimensions. I am a mouse in a mammoth's lair, he mused, though at least the mammoth keeps a good cellar. The thought made him thirsty. He called for wine.
"Did you enjoy the girl I sent you?" Illyrio asked.
"If I had wanted a girl I would have asked for one. I lack a nose, not a tongue."
"If she failed to please... "
"She did all that was required of her."
"I would hope so. She was trained in Lys, where they make an art of love. And she speaks your Common Tongue. The king enjoyed her greatly."
"I kill kings, hadn't you heard?" Tyrion smiled evilly over his wine cup. "I want no royal leavings."
"As you wish. Let us eat." Illyrio clapped his hands together, and serving men came running.
They began with a broth of crab and monkfish, and cold egg lime soup as well. Then came quails in honey, a saddle of lamb, goose livers drowned in wine, buttered parsnips, and suckling pig. The sight of it all made Tyrion feel queasy, but he forced himself to try a spoon of soup for the sake of politeness, and once he had tasted he was lost. The cooks might be old and fat, but they knew their business. He had never eaten so well, even at court.
As he was sucking the meat off the bones of his quail, he asked Illyrio about the morning's summons. The fat man shrugged. "There are troubles in the east. Astapor has fallen, and Meereen. Ghiscari slave cities that were old when the world was young." The suckling pig was carved. Illyrio reached for a piece of the crackling, dipped it in a plum sauce, and ate it with his fingers.
"Slaver's Bay is a long way from Pentos," said Tyrion, as he speared a goose liver on the point of his knife. No man is as cursed as the kinslayer, he reminded himself, smiling.
"This is so," Illyrio agreed, "but the world is one great web, and a man dare not touch a single strand lest all the others tremble." He clapped his hands again. "Come, eat."
The serving men brough out a heron stuffed with figs, veal cutlets blanched with almond milk, creamed herring, candied onions, foul-smelling cheeses, plates of snails and sweetbreads, and a black swan in her plumage. Tyrion refused the swan, which reminded him of a supper with his sister. He helped himself to heron and herring, though, and a few of the sweet onions. And the serving men filled his wine cup anew each time he emptied it.
"You drink a deal of wine for such a little man."
"Kinslaying is dry work. It gives a man a thirst."
The fat man's eyes glittered like the gemstones on his fingers. "There are those in Westeros who would say that killing Lord Lannister was merely a good beginning."
"They had best not say it in my sister's hearing, or they will find themselves short a tongue." The dwarf tore a loaf of bread in half. "And you had best be careful what you say of my family, magister. Kinslayer or no, I am a lion still."
That seemed to amuse the lord of cheese no end. He slapped a meaty thigh and said, "You Westerosi are all the same. You sew some beast upon a scrap of silk, and suddenly you are all lions or dragons or eagles. I can bring you to a real lion, my little friend. The prince keeps a pride in his menagerie. Would you like to share a cage with them?"
The lords of the Seven Kingdoms did make rather much of their sigils, Tyrion had to admit. "Very well," he conceded. "A Lannister is not a lion. Yet I am still my father's son, and Jaime and Cersei are mine to kill."
"How odd that you should mention your fair sister," said Illyrio, between snails. "The queen has offered a lordship to the man who brings her your head, no matter how humble his birth."
It was no more than Tyrion had expected. "If you mean to take her up on it, make her spread her legs for you as well. The best part of me for the best part of her, that's a fair trade."
"I would sooner have mine own weight in gold." The cheesemonger laughed so hard that Tyrion feared he was about to rupture and drown his guest in a gout of half-digested eels and sweetmeats. "All the gold in Casterly Rock, why not?"
"The gold I grant you," he said, "but the Rock is mine."
"Just so." The magister covered his mouth and belched a mighty belch. "Do you think King Stannis will give it to you? I am told he is a great one for the law. He may well grant you Casterly Rock, is that not so? Your brother wears the white cloak, so you are your father's heir by all the laws of Westeros."
"Stannis might grant me the Rock," Tyrion admitted, "but there is also the small matter of regicide and kinslaying. For those he would shorten me by a head, and I am short enough as I stand. But why would you think I mean to join Lord Stannis?"
"Why else would you go the Wall?"
"Stannis is at the Wall?" Tyrion rubbed at his nose. "What in seven bloody hells is Stannis doing at the Wall?"
"Shivering, I would think. It is warmer down in Dorne. Perhaps he should have sailed that way."
Tyrion was beginning to suspect that a certain freckled washerwoman knew more of the Common Speech than she pretended. "My niece Myrcella is in Dorne, as it happens. And I have half a mind to make her a queen."
Illyrio smiled, as his serving men spooned out bowls of black cherries in sweetcream for them both. "What has this poor child done to you, that you would wish her dead?"
"Even a kinslayer is not required to slay all his kin," said Tyrion, wounded. "Queen her, I said. Not kill her."
The cheesemonger spooned up cherries. "In Volantis they use a coin with a crown on one face and a death's head on the other. Yet it is the same coin. To queen her is to kill her. Dorne might rise for Myrcella, but Dorne alone is not enough. If you are as clever as our friend insists, you know this."
Tyrion looked at the fat man with new interest. He is right on both counts. To queen her is to kill her. And I knew that. "Futile gestures are all that remain to me. This one would make my sister weep bitter tears, at least."
Magister Illyrio wiped sweetcream from his mouth with the back of a fat hand. "The road to Casterly Rock does not go through Dorne, my little friend. Nor does it run beside the Wall. Yet there is such a road, I tell you."
"I am an attainted traitor, a regicide and kinslayer." This talk of roads annoyed him. Does he think this is a game? "What one king does another may undo. In Pentos we have a prince, my friend. He presides at ball and feast and rides about the city in a palanquin of ivory and gold. Three heralds go before him with the golden scales of trade, the iron sword of war, and the silver scourge of justice. On the first day of each new year he must deflower the maid of the fields and the maid of the seas." Illyrio leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Yet should a crop fail or a war be lost, we cut his throat to appease the gods, and choose a new prince from amongst the forty families."
Tyrion snorted through the stump of his nose. "Remind me never to become the Prince of Pentos."
"Are your Seven Kingdoms so different? There is no peace in Westeros, no justice, no faith... and soon enough no food. When men are starving and sick of fear, they look for a savior."
"They may look, but if all they find is Stannis – "
"Not Stannis. Nor Myrcella. Another." The yellow smile widened. "Another. Stronger than Tommen, gentler than Stannis, with a better claim than the girl Myrcella. A savior come from across the sea to bind up the wounds of bleeding Westeros."
"Fine words." Tyrion was unimpressed. "Words are wind. Who is this bloody savior?"
"A dragon." The cheesemonger saw the look on his face at that, and laughed. "A dragon with three heads."
From the Hardcover edition.
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3470 of 3723 people found the following review helpful.
Honest review from a fan and a customer
By Lucas Diego
Edited: 3/20/2013 (I re-read the book, wanting to give it another chance after watching the very well done television series, but my feelings generally remain the same with some new insights)
Warning: I do not give specific story spoilers, but some of my comments can be considered spoilers to the structure of the story.
So, to lighten the blow a little first, I will make it clear that I am a fan of the Song of Ice and Fire series. Like many others, I think the first three books were some of the best fantasy books in recent history. They held my interest like few others, took directions many other writers would not dare to take and had me itching to read the next. I'm a fan who checked on the status of this book at least a couple dozen times through each year to see how the progress was coming and I'm a fan who also believes in a writer taking the time he or she needs to do it properly. While I honestly was a little impatient to read the next book (which is a good thing, unless you're attacking the author over it), I could not fault someone for wanting to do other things with their lives.
As far as the positives for A Dance with Dragons specifically, Martin continues to show a strong and addicting narrative style with a great attention to detail without going too overboard most of the time. His use of language remains strong with some good character insights and quotes derived from it, and there are a number of moments in the book that were intriguing. These are the reasons why I gave it three stars and if a lesser writer had authored the book, I probably would have never finished it.
And before I go into my criticisms of the book, there is something I would like to note. While I often take the side of artists in artistic work, we have to be honest in realizing that the book series is also a commodity. It is not something just written for artistic purposes. When something is put on the market for sale, it is subject to the scrutiny of its consumers.
That said, A Dance with Dragons (and A Feast for Crows) bored me in comparison to the first three books, and while I would like to read how the story ends, I am hesitant to invest more time and money into the book series. I may just be a customer, reader, and fan, so what would I know about editing, story-building, etc., and GRRM may be the professional writer and it went through professional editors, but they still made a cardinal writing error that I so often hear you should not make:
They did not keep the story moving. By the end of the book, I felt almost nothing happened.
I believe at this point in a book series' life, the story needs to be picking up faster and faster. You need down times of course, and a little exposition in each book to get everyone up to speed again is a good thing...but not through the majority of the book. Things need to happen and you need to have control of the story.
I'll give an example. Say you saw a fight at work and you are telling someone about it. You would probably give them a lead up and let them know it was at work between two employees who were not getting along recently, you would probably give them background information like the significant other of one of the employees was cheating with the other employee. You may talk about how another employee that was friends with both revealed that information and hence, betrayed one of those friends. Then, you would describe the fight and its aftermath.
What you would probably not talk about is how you stubbed your toe on the way to the car to get to work, the more scenic route that you happened to take that morning, or what you ate at breakfast, lunch, or dinner, or describe in exhausting detail your work duties leading up to the point of the fight. No one cares about these details and you are slowing the story down to a crawl. And say you do all this, even talk about the events related to the actual fight, then you do not actually get to the fight and say, "I'll tell you about the fight next time."
Now, imagine that fight being told by seventeen other people, including people who are near irrelevant to the story. This is what A Dance with Dragons felt like to me. The drawn out version of a story with a poorly handled cliffhanger.
I really feel that Feast for Crows and Dance with Dragons are books that maybe shouldn't have been written or at the very least, heavily edited. I could even say that they could have been condensed into one book between 500-700 pages axed between the two of them (and still have time to put in events that could have made them better). I understand that the author originally planned a time skip by five years after Storm of Swords and honestly, I felt that would have been better. Between the two books, I just felt very little moved forward in terms of the actual story and they could have easily been left out without hurting the overall story.
Of course, there will be many people (probably the majority) disagreeing with me and that is their full right to do so. We're all entitled to our opinions. If you loved Feast for Crows and Dance with Dragons or just love to soak up everything you can from the story's world, then that's awesome. If you felt you got your money's and time's worth, then that is great. I wish I could have enjoyed them as much as you. I really do.
But I didn't.
On that note, I hope that The Winds of Winter will be a return to form for Martin's writing. However, after the last two books, I know better than to purchase it on day one, and depending on the feedback it gets, I may opt to not purchase it at all and check it out from a library, instead. And I am not entirely sure I will even do that, I'm sad to say.
5203 of 5586 people found the following review helpful.
Twentyfour Characters in Search of a Story
By Macaroni
SPOILERS AHEAD
I'm Varamyr Sixskins. I'm here for the prologue to set us all up for the impending horrors of the North and all the excitement to come...
I'm Tyrion Lannister, the most popular character in all of Westeros! I spend this book meandering down a really slow river, ruminating bitterly about my life, misplacing my former charm, eroding all the goodwill I built up in the other books, and wondering where the whores go. Though perhaps I should have been wondering where the plot went. I also observe turtles and women, play board games, mouth off to all and sundry, and coincidentally run into various characters like some wandering monster in a D&D campaign. Maybe I'll make it to Daenarys in the next book, but at least I ditched that pig.
I'm Asha Greyjoy. I don't have much to do, so I'll be the POV character keeping track of Stannis and his forces. At the beginning of Dance with Dragons, he's working his way towards Winterfell to take it back from the Boltons. At the end of Dance with Dragons, he's...working his way towards Winterfell to take it back from the Boltons. Hope that helps.
I'm Ser Davon Seaworth, the Onion Knight. I'm still running errands for Stannis and getting captured frequently. It's a living.
I'm Bran Stark. I am a tree.
I'm Daenarys Targaryen. I'm only a young girl, and I know little in the ways of war, governance, what have you. I used to think I said these things to misdirect people, but as of DoD it seems to be true. I spend my time taking baths, fretting, being wishy-washy, and mooning over this hot mercenary dude. In the end I learn that "you have to go back to go forward." I would have thought that going backwards would be the last thing that this book needs, but I am only a young girl and know little of the ways of story advancement.
I'm Aegon Targaryen. I appear for the first time in book five as the long thought dead son of Prince Rhaegar and the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. I know, right? What a surprise! It's like I was just pulled from thin air! I spend much of the book traveling to Daenarys, but then I change my mind and go and invade Westeros without her. Sort of. No one important has noticed yet. See you in the next book!
I'm Griff, aka Jon Connington. I'm here to get Aegon Targaryen on the Iron Throne. I tried to tell that kid not to wait until the fifth book to show up if he wants to be king. Now nobody's invested in us. We're like, peripheral characters or something. Nobody cares. I (*sniff*) just want someone to care, you know?
I'm Theon Greyjoy. Turns out I'm not dead, though I rather wish I were. It's been rough. On the bright side, my chapters were some of the only highlights of this bloated beast of a book. I even got to be almost a hero at the end! Can't wait for the next book. Redemption arc ahoy! People like me now!
Tyrion: Settle down sailor. You're not really a major character, and people still don't like you.
I'm Jaime Lannister. I snuck in to steal a chapter just like I would steal a kiss from my sweet sister. Oh look, there's Brienne! She's not dead after all. Whatever could have happened? Oops, we gotta go now, so I'll guess we'll never know. Blink and you'll miss us!
I'm Ser Robert *cough*Gregor*cough* Strong *cough*not dead*cough*. Gregor SMASH!
I'm the Hound. You know, I strongly suspect that I might not be dead either.
Tyrion: Quiet, you. No one even mentions you in this book.
I'm Wyman Manderly. I'm a minor character, but I bring a bit of awesome anyway. I was last seen bleeding from a neck wound. I wonder if I'll die. Your guess is as good as the author's.
I'm John Snow. I command the wall and defend Westeros from the horrors of the North. I count sides of beef and sausages, receive messages, meet with my staff, greet newcomers, and find bedrooms for all the wildings. Seriously, am I a commander or a butler? It's the end of the book already, we need some action! I'll march on Winterfell and retake it from the cursed Boltons! Away we go! Oh, dang it. Stabbed from all sides. There goes that plan. It sure does seem like I'll die now...
I'm Quentyn Martell. I'm kind of a side plot that has no impact at all on the main story. Then I die. But the good news is that I really am dead for sure!
I'm Melisandre. I get a chapter where I play with fire and see things and act all cryptic with people. Well, I have to amuse myself somehow. It's booorrring at the wall.
I'm Victarion Grayjoy.
Sailing, sailing, over the bounding main!
This book will end
Before I meet
Daenarys Targaryen!
I'm Aero Hota. Don't worry, I don't really remember who I am either. Not much to see here, anyway.
I'm Cersei Lannister. I get two chapters of humiliation. I can has some of Theon's reader sympathy now? No? Well then. I won't forget this. A Lannister always pays his debts...maybe in the next book.
I'm Ayra Stark. I'm in two chapters, too, and I kill someone, like I always do. But this time it's different; this time someone told me to. That's progress. Maybe someday I'll kill someone who has something to do with the main story.
I'm Barriston Selmy. I putter around Meereen, trying in some small way to advance the plot. Alas, to little avail. I'm too old for this.
I'm Kevan Lannister. I waited a thousand pages for a POV and all I got was this lousy epilogue and a quarrel in the chest. Oh well. At least I'm well and truly done with this mess.
Varys: Maybe.
We're the Others. We are the horror of the North and theoretically the real Big Bad Threat in this series. It's five books in, and we still haven't really gotten to do anything yet. To be honest, we're too bored to bother any more. We're going to invade Canada instead and subdue them to our icy will. Apologies everyone!
Hugs and kisses!
313 of 336 people found the following review helpful.
How can this even end?
By Peterpunn
I really liked the earlier books! Really! In fact, the two stars are primarily as a "Lifetime Achievement Award" (5 for the first 3 books, minus 1 for book 4, minus 2 for book 5). GRRM has either gotten senile or greedy (in a Peter Jackson - "Hey, lets make THREE movies out of the Hobbit" - kind of way). Anyway, as others have pointed out, almost nothing actually happens in this book. And there is no convergence either - in fact, instead of threads being pulled together, more threads are randomly added. There are now so many open threads that it is practically impossible for the series to end in two more books, without the introduction of a space-time warp that will magically land every character in the middle King's Landing with their swords, direwolves and dragons.
To list the open threads that I can think of (SPOILER ALERT!!!):
1. Daenerys - After proving her child-like incompetence at actually ruling (paraphrasing Che Guevara - "Blowing up trains is easy. It's a lot more difficult to make them run on time"), she has now met up with a new khalasar and has her favorite dragon in tow. She will now use her new army to attack Meereen (again) and screw things up (again). Or she will lay waste to Qarth. Or she will march on Westeros (finally), although why she didn't do that with her army of Unsullied is anyone's guess.
2. Jon Snow - In keeping with GRRM's "Screw Ned Stark and his family" approach to writing, Jon has been knifed, Caesar-like, by his comrades. However, since he has not been definitively declared dead, he will probably be brought back to life by Melisandre (a la Beric Dondarrion and Catelyn) and then go off to fight the Others as the harbinger of Light.
3. Tyrion - Having thrown in with Ben Plumm he will now wait for Dany's next move. If she marches back to Meereen they may finally meet (hooray). If she marches on Westeros, he will spend another 1000 pages looking for where the whores go.
4. Bran - He has now become an honorary child of the forest and a full-fledged warg. What he can or will do with these powers is anyone's guess - since all he has done till now is spook Theon in the Winterfell weirwood.
5. Stannis - Last seen gnashing his teeth in the snow. Since he has spent all of book 5 in that state, it is probable that he is permanently frozen and will eventually show up in Madame Tussaud's. The Bolton's claim to have killed him, but since that would be blessed relief for all concerned, it's probably a ruse.
6. Theon Greyjoy - Last seen with the fake Arya in Stannis' camp, missing sundry toes, fingers and teeth. If there is any closure or justice in this fictional world, he will kill Ramsay Bolton. But there isn't, so he won't.
7. Asha Greyjoy - Reunited with Theon. Life sucks if you are a Greyjoy. In fact, if you are ironborn you should probably consider killing yourself.
8. Arya - By the time she finally becomes a Faceless Woman, everyone else in the story will be dead of natural causes. Since she is no one, she won't care. She will be kick-ass in the next Assassin's Creed game, though.
9. Rickon - No one knows where he is. He will go on a quest in book 7. He will meet no other primary character till book 10, and since he had the misfortune to be born a Stark, GRRM will promptly kill him.
10. Sansa - I so totally don't care about Sansa. Hopefully one of the dragons will eventually cook and eat her.
11. Littlefinger - We know he is plotting, scheming and plotting some more. We have no clue about what. He and Varys will be the ones left standing when all else is gone. They will duke it out man-to-ahem for total control of Westeros. Littlefinger will lose, overcome by grief when Sansa gets cooked and eaten. He will retire to the woods and spend the rest of his days with the re-animated Catelyn.
12. Loras Tyrell - Spends books 4 and 5 in a grievously wounded state. Shows no signs of either recovering or dying. He will probably come back as a man-machine (see below: The Mountain).
13. Margery Tyrell - She shows all the signs of growing up into what Cersei would have been had Robert loved her.
14. Cersei - The small percentage of King's Landing's population that hadn't had sex with her already gets to at least see her naked. She continues to plot the destruction of all of her enemies, which list includes everyone in the world.
15. Tommen - Plays with small animals and Margery. Will probably die soon.
16. Jaime - Secures the Riverlands while showing off his newfound negotiating skills. Sets off on a quest to find the Stark kids with Brienne. The two of them will almost certainly hook up eventually and have beautiful sons and ugly daughters.
17. Brienne - Continues her miserable existence and fails at pretty much everything she tries (I will protect Renly - oops. I will now protect Catelyn Stark - oops. I will get Jaime to King's Landing - sorry about the hand. I will find Sansa and Arya - please don't hang me, damn!). Apparently still alive - may just be to make babies with Jaime.
18. Varys - Turns out he was a Targaryen sympathizer all along. All that talk about serving the realm without caring about who was on the throne was all hogwash - dragons rule, man! See Littlefinger, above - Varys will eventually rule the world as a composite King/Queen.
19. Sam - Has reached the Citadel (was that in book 4?). Has set some things in motion. Doesn't know what. Does he become a Maester or do he and Gilly hook up? Does anyone care?
20. Catelyn - Was dead but is now undead. Killed a Frey or two, and then sentenced Brienne to death. In an ironic twist of fate, she and Jon Snow will live on together as apostles of the light. She will so totally hate him for it.
21. Doran Martell - His gout keeps getting worse, as will his ulcers when he finds out what happened to his son. He had one plan, which has now been burnt to a crisp. Looks like he may have to let the viper's daughters loose after all.
21a. Quentyn Martell - Winner of a Darwin award. Tried to break in to the dragon's lair and ride off with one. Burnt to a crisp. Thankfully this is one thread that is really closed. Unless it isn't.
22. The Hound - Supposedly died of an infected wound. But his spirit (and helm) live on - this may eventually have some significance, though I suspect not.
23. The Mountain - Supposedly died of poisoning, but in the most obvious literary build-up of all time, has been reconstituted into some sort of man-machine-monster (aka RoboCop). He and Loras Tyrell's reconstituted man-machine (see above) will have an epic death match when Cersei and Margery choose them as their champions at their respective trials. This will be a recreation of their duel in the tourney in book 1 - at least something will come full circle.
24. Aegon Targaryen - GRRM's afterthought (How can I make this book even bigger? Hmm, what if I make another Targaryen live?). Has attacked Westeros to impress Dany. Neither Dany nor anyone else has noticed or cares.
25. Jon Connington - Aegon's protector/advisor/general/hand. Trying to make up for his abject failure as Aerys' Hand. Leading the attack on Westeros, but bad PR has failed him.
26. Ser Barristan Selmy - Has successfully overthrown Hizdahr in Meereen, and will now lead a dumb-ass attack on the siege armies. Man knows not when to hang up his boots. Will serve Dany till Aegon comes along.
27. Victarion Greyjoy - Sailing, sailing to find (and marry) Dany and the dragons. We all know how that ends.
28. Euron Greyjoy - Waiting, waiting for Victarion to return with Dany and the dragons (whom he will then marry). We all know how that ends. The ironborn should seriously just drown themselves.
29. Davos Seaworth - The travelling salesman, has visited many a Lord to win them over to Stannis. Keeps losing his ships everywhere he goes - not quite what you would expect from a sailor/smuggler.
30. Mance Rayder - Helps Theon escape. May or may not be a captive of the Boltons at Winterfell. Will eventually lead the wildlings against everyone.
31. Roose and Ramsay Bolton, the Frey clan - Mean little bitches. Will get their just desserts from somebody, but who? Catelyn, Theon, Jon, Stannis?
32. Gendry - You would think there would be a point to bringing Arya Stark and King Robert's bastard son together in books 1 and 2, but since then he has been stuck with the Dondarrion rebels, doing jack.
Whew! That's all I can think of at the moment, though I'm sure I've missed quite a few. If you guys think this is all coming together in the near future, you've been smoking something strong. HBO has a "Days of Our Lives" on their hands.
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A Dance with Dragons: A Song of Ice and Fire: Book Five, by George R. R. Martin PDF
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~ PDF Ebook A Dance with Dragons: A Song of Ice and Fire: Book Five, by George R. R. Martin Doc
~ PDF Ebook A Dance with Dragons: A Song of Ice and Fire: Book Five, by George R. R. Martin Doc
~ PDF Ebook A Dance with Dragons: A Song of Ice and Fire: Book Five, by George R. R. Martin Doc
