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The first time I came to Dragonstone, the army of grotesque stone figures made him uncomfortable, but as the years passed he had grown accustomed to them. Now he thought of them as old friends. The three looked at the sky with apprehension. The master did not believe in omens. And yet. . . old as he, Cress had never seen half as bright comet, nor that color, that color terrible, the color of blood and fire and sunsets. He wondered if he had seen his like gargoyles. They had been here much longer than I had, and still be here long after his death. If the tongue stones could speak ... Such madness. He leaned against the wall, the sea crashing below him, the rough black stone beneath his fingers. Talking gargoyles and the prophecies in the sky. I am an old man made, grown giddy like a kid again. Her hard-won wisdom of a lifetime he fled with his health and strength? He was a teacher, coach and chained in the great citadel of Oldtown. What had arrived, when superstition full head like a pawn ignorant? And yet ... And yet ... The comet burned to the day today, with pale gray mist rose from the thermal vents of Dragonmont behind the castle, and a white crow yestermorn had brought the news of the citadel itself, the word as expected but no less frightening for all that word in late summer. Omens, everyone. Many deny. What does this mean? want to mourn. "Master Cress, we have visitors." Pylos spoke softly, as if reluctant to disturb the solemn meditations Cress. If I knew what filled his head nonsense would have screamed. "The princess must see the white crow." Always correct, Pylos, called her princess now, because your father was a king. King of rock to smoke in the great salt sea, however, a king, though. "Their foolishness is with her." The old man turned away in the morning, keeping one hand on the wyvern to maintain balance. "Help me in my chair and show" Taking his arm, took him in Pylos. In his youth he had Cresser walked quickly, but it was far from his eightieth birthday now, and his legs were weak and unstable. Last two years, had fallen and broke her hip, and never repaired. Last year, when he became ill, the Citadel Pylos had sent out the old town, a few days before Lord Stannis had closed the island ... To help in his work, he said, but Cresser knew the truth. Pylos had to replace him when he died. He did not care. Someone should take place, and sooner than we would like ... He let the young settle him behind his books and papers. "Go bring. It is bad to keep a lady waiting." He waved a hand, a weak gesture of a man in a hurry can not accelerate. His flesh was wrinkled and stained, the skin so paper thin you could see the network of veins and shape of bones beneath. And how were shaking, these hands of him who had been so safe and fast ... When the girl came back Pylos to him, shy as ever. Behind her, shuffling and jumping on that road to the sides of his strange, came to an idiot. On his head was a helmet made of a model old tin bucket, with a rack of deer antlers attached to the crown and decorated with bells. With all its faltering steps, rang the bells, each with a different voice, clang-a-dang-dong bong-a-ling ring CLONG CLONG CLONG. "Who comes to see us so soon, Pylos?" Said Cress. "I am and patches, Master." Innocent blue eyes blinked at him. His was not a pretty face, unfortunately. The boy had his father stand square jaw and lord of the unfortunate ears of his mother, along with a very personal disfigurement, the legacy of the fight grayscale almost had claimed in his crib. In half a cheek and his neck, his flesh was hard and the Dead, cracking and peeling, stains and gray and black touchstone. "Pylos said we could see the white crow." "It's actually possible," said Cress. As if he ever denied it. She was often denied at the time. His name was Shireen. That would be ten on the day of his name next to it, and she was the saddest child Cresser Master had known. Your sadness is my shame, thought the old man, another mark of my failure. "Master Pylos, do me a favor and bring the bird below the colony for the Lady Shireen." "It would be a pleasure." Pylos was a polite young man, no more than five and twenty, however, solemn as a man of sixty. If more humor, more life in him, that was what was needed here. Shady Needless to say, no, Dragonstone was grim solemnity and without doubt, a lonely fortress surrounded wet waste by the storm and salt, smoking in the shadow of the mountain behind them. A teacher must go where it has been sent and Cresser had come here with some twelve years before, sir, and he served there, and well served. However, he had never loved Dragonstone, nor ever felt at home here. In recent times, when she awoke from a restless sleep in which the calculated red woman worrying that often did not know where. The fool turned his head to see Pylos picazo patched up the iron steps to the colony strong. Bells with movement. "Under the sea, the birds have feathers, scales," he said, clang-a-Lanqing. "I know, I know, oh, oh, oh." Even a fool, Patchface was regrettable. Perhaps it could lead to bursts of laughter at a joke, but the sea had taken power from him, along with half of his intelligence and all his memory. He was soft, obese, subjected to shaking and tremors, incoherent, as often as not. She was the only one who laughed at him now, he cared whether he lived or died.