{"product_id":"a-song-of-ice-and-fireisbn-9780739375976","title":"A Song of Ice and Fire","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e#1 \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE BOOK BEHIND THE FIFTH SEASON OF THE ACCLAIMED HBO SERIES \u003ci\u003eGAME OF THRONES\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNAMED ONE OF \u003ci\u003ePASTE\u003c\/i\u003e’S BEST FANTASY BOOKS OF THE DECADE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDubbed “the American Tolkien” by \u003ci\u003eTime\u003c\/i\u003e magazine, George R. R. Martin has earned international acclaim for his monumental cycle of epic fantasy. Now the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e 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. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA DANCE WITH DRAGONS\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA SONG OF ICE AND FIRE: BOOK FIVE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIn 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFleeing 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeanwhile, 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eA Dance with Dragons\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Filled with vividly rendered set pieces, unexpected turnings, assorted cliffhangers and moments of appalling cruelty, \u003ci\u003eA Dance with Dragons\u003c\/i\u003e is epic fantasy as it should be written: passionate, compelling, convincingly detailed and thoroughly imagined.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “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.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “One of the best series in the history of fantasy.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Los Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e“Epic fantasy as it should be written: passionate, compelling, convincingly detailed and thoroughly imagined.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of the best series in the history of fantasy.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Martin has produced—is producing, since the series isn’t over—the great fantasy epic of our era . . . His skill as a crafter of narrative exceeds that of almost any literary novelist writing today.”\u003cb\u003e—Lev Grossman, \u003ci\u003eTime\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“By turns thrilling, funny, scary, emotionally devastating, oddly inspirational, and just plain grand . . . Grade: A”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A taut and relentless masterpiece that reaffirms the reader’s obsession with the panoply of unforgettable characters that Martin has created, and the brutal, glittering, terrible world in which these novels are set . . . Machiavelli, you have met your match in Martin.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Daily Beast\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eGeorge R.R. Martin\u003c\/b\u003e sold his first story in 1971 and has been writing professionally since then. He spent ten years in Hollywood as a writer-producer, working on \u003ci\u003eThe Twilight Zone, Beauty and the Beast\u003c\/i\u003e, and various feature films and television pilots that were never made. In the mid '90s he returned to prose, his first love, and began work on his epic fantasy series, A Song of Ice and Fire. He has been in the Seven Kingdoms ever since. Whenever he's allowed to leave, he returns to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he lives with the lovely Parris, a big white dog called Mischa, and two cats named Augustus and Caligula, who think they run the place.\u003ci\u003eTyrion\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He drank his way across the narrow sea.\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You knew what she was.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I did. But I never knew what he was.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Varys tittered. \"And now you do.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The fat man looked down and smiled. \"A drunken dwarf,\" he said, in the Common Tongue  of Westeros.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Thirsty.\" Tyrion struggled to his knees.  \"And filthy.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And any friend of Varys the Spider is someone I will trust just  as far as I can throw him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When he heard the door opening  behind him, Tyrion turned to confront his fat host. \"This is Pentos, yes?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Just so. Where else?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pentos. Well, it was not King's Landing, that much could  be said for it. \"Where do whores go?\" he heard himself ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Slaves?\" the  dwarf asked pointedly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Were?  Have I gone somewhere?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Time enough to speak of that this evening. My little  friend and I shall eat and drink and make great plans, yes?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Wherever whores go,\" he heard  Lord Tywin say once more, and once more the bowstring thrummed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tyrion propped himself against the pillows, his head in his hands.  \"Do I dream, or do you speak the Common Tongue?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, my lord. I was bought  to please the king.\" She was blue-eyed and fair, young and willowy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I am sure  you did. I need a cup of wine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She poured for him. \"Magister Illyrio said  that I am to scrub your back and warm your bed. My name – \"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \" – is of no interest  to me. Do you know where whores go?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She flushed. \"Whores sell themselves for  coin.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Or jewels, or gowns, or castles. But where do they go?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No. I am done with women.\" Whores.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e M'lord would prefer his wife. M'lord would prefer a girl named Tysha.  \"Only if he knows where whores go.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"If it please m'lord.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Come and sit, my little friend.\" Illyrio waved him closer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Did you enjoy the girl I sent you?\" Illyrio asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"If I had wanted  a girl I would have asked for one. I lack a nose, not a tongue.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"If she failed  to please... \"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"She did all that was required of her.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I kill kings, hadn't you heard?\" Tyrion  smiled evilly over his wine cup. \"I want no royal leavings.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"As you wish.  Let us eat.\" Illyrio clapped his hands together, and serving men came running.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They began with a broth of crab","brand":"Random House Audio","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303427985637,"sku":"NP9780739375976","price":70.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780739375976.jpg?v=1730754267","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/a-song-of-ice-and-fireisbn-9780739375976","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}