“Dead? No. Bugger that. I don’t want him dead.” He cast the empty flagon aside. “I want him burned. If the gods are good, they’ll burn him, but I won’t be here to see. I’m going.”  “Going?” She tried to wriggle¹ free, but his grasp was iron.  “The little bird repeats whatever she hears. Going, yes.”  “Where will you go?”  “Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere.”  “You won’t get out,” Sansa said. “The queen’s closed up Maegor’s, and the city gates are shut as well.”  “Not to me. I have the white cloak. And I have this.” He patted the pommel of his sword. “The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he’s on fire.” He laughed bitterly.   “Why did you come here?”  “You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?”  She didn’t know what he meant. She couldn’t sing for him now, here, with the sky aswirl with fire and men dying in their hundreds and their thousands. “I can’t,” she said. “Let me go, you’re scaring me.”  “Everything scares you. Look at me. Look at me.”  The blood masked the worst of his scars, but his eyes were white and wide and terrifying. The burnt corner of his mouth twitched² and twitched again. Sansa could smell him; a stink³ of sweat and sour wine and stale vomit⁴, and over it all the reek⁵ of blood, blood, blood.  “I could keep you safe,” he rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.” He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. “Still can’t bear to look, can you?” she heard him say. He gave her arm a hard wrench⁶, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. “I’ll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said.” His

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