AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter is dedicated to my nan, who passed away on Friday. She was always a great one for stories.
SANTAGAR – THE BROKEN ARM
The crowd of desert dwelling merchants covered their heads, turning away from the sudden thrash of hot wind on their faces. It had begun over the waves as two shadows diving near the scattering of islands off the Dornish coast. Then, when morning dragged on and the sea fog burned away, the dragons turned their noses in the direction of Dorne. They came at the land with wings stretched and tails rippling behind them as though they were serpents of the air.
After days spent submerged in the sea they smelled of fish. Drogon's black scales were encrusted with salt and the wounds from Bear Island had closed over neatly. Some left pale grey scars cross-hatching the softer parts of his flesh. They blended into the rune-like markings that he was born with. Rhaegal had grown again with his green colouring dividing into shards of emerald and ochre. Horns edged his spine, black like his teeth except for the two above his eyes which seemed to be cast from gold. If anything, he was a child of the sea and forest that made his home in the sky.
Together, they tilted backwards when they neared the ground, flapping their wings in furious gasps as their feet touched the sand in front of the Prince's army. Sand whipped into a frenzy then spiralled through the air dozens of feet above their heads before raining down over the line of shields and spears in a storm that lasted several minutes.
The DornishPrince was the first to lower his shield. A sheet of sand slid off, revealing his insignia of two leopards joined in fight. Instead of fear, his eyes were lustful. By the gods, such sublime terror had not graced their shores in more than a hundred years. The Prince longed for their return. He kept dragon bones in his palace laid out in reverence of the fire-lizards, plucked from the sands near the river where several had fallen in the Dance of Dragons. Who would not worship such violence? It is why he answered Quentyn's ravens. The Prince wanted nothing more than to stand beside a dragon in the terror of war and feel their fire on the air.
Drogon dwarfed the largest war ship – nearly twice Rhaegal's size. As he stalked across the sand, the Dornish felt vibrations in the bedrock. Together, the army knelt before the pair of playful dragons, tilting their shields away from the sun so as not to startle them. The Dornish had fought with dragons for a thousand years. It stirred something in them to see the creatures again.
The Prince raised his hand. His army acted as one great instrument, twisting their shields in the coarse sand to make a hissing sound. The dragons rose up on their hind legs, flapping their wings again. Then they opened their throats, caught in some ancient ritual and began to sing. It echoed over the sands – the song of dragons.
Invigorated, the Dothraki hollered in unison and the desert came alive.
Daenerys watched impassively. Jorah was coming up the dirt track by the water, head down against the sand with the glare of the freshly risen sun beating his pale Northern flesh. He startled at the dragons then paused for a moment, watching them sing. Was that pride? Daenerys thought quietly. She often wondered at the soft way he watched her dragons.
"Khaleesi..." he said, after they had spoken for some time. "I could – search again, if you wish..."
Jorah followed Daenerys anxiously when she wandered along the road beside her fleet. The eyes of the Unsullied commanders hung on every breath between them.
Their preparations for departure were nearly complete. Behind, the last troop of Unsullied returned from the city with empty looks. They bore no further news of Grey Worm.
"Grey Worm has vanished with the snap of the gods' fingers." Jorah added, softly. One way or another, he was dead. They all knew it. Jorah could see it in the eyes of his men lining the decks of the Queen's fleet. They were restless, clutching at ropes or cleaning their weapons. Varys was speaking with a group of their commanders now. Nodding and muttering. Jorah guessed that they were agreeing to instate the next general.
"What is that?" The Prince asked, kicking his horse until it fell in step beside his cousin's.
The armies were marching, taking the fastest road to The Sunspear. It was three day's ride but their way was dotted with outposts and feed for the horses who desperately needed a run after their voyage. The Dothraki broke formation, surging up into the dunes that lined the road, chasing each other in manic frenzies until one horse lost its footing and the whole mess tumbled back to the road – unharmed. Cheers erupted. The Dornish army watched the savages, keeping their perfect configuration.
"A khalasaar," replied Quentyn. "Don't be fooled by their manner. When they ride to war, make sure that you're behind them. These are the creatures that pushed the filthy half-men from the Dothraki Sea into the Bone Mountains and held the Eastern free cities to ransom for nearly a thousand years. The Westerosi practice rules of engagement – these people will tear their limbs and scatter Andal gizzards in the mud while they rape whatever remains breathing."
"If the dragons don't get their first," the Prince added. "I thought you said there were three."
"There are," Quentyn replied. "Her third flies with another of her commanders though she refuses to say when he will arrive."
"Let her hoard her secrets. A woman must have them, even a queen. Keep in mind what we're after, Quentyn. We're not here to play at soldiering."
"I know exactly why we're here," he assured his cousin. "Are you certain you can buy the other cities out?"
"The gold your dragon queen surrendered to us will suffice. We've cut supplies to them for months. They'd fight for a scrap of meat."
Quentyn nodded and then rode on ahead, preferring the company of the queen's hoard to his brooding cousin. Varys was half right. He was not a trustworthy man by nature however, if properly motivated, he was a valuable warrior.
By the water, Daenerys and Jorah climbed aboard one of the ships to join Varys and the other Unsullied commanders.
"We must prepare to leave," she said, to which Varys nodded.
"Everything is arranged, Your Grace. May I present the new leader of the Unsullied army." As Varys spoke one of the soldiers stepped forward. He was a tall man, half a head above both Varys and Jorah and twice as thick as Grey Worm. His eyes were made of amber, unusual for an Unsullied warrior.
"This one is 'Black Scale'," the Unsullied introduced himself.
Varys leaned in. "He has styled himself after your dragon."
Daenerys nodded. "Black Scale, this fleet is under your command. Sail them South to the Sunspear. The harbour man has orders to allow you to dock. Fly the Dornish banners. No one leaves the ships until we arrive. We are guests in this land and we will practice peace – even if provoked."
"Yes, Your Grace." Then Black Scale turned and yelled directions to the ships. Men were thrown into a frenzy. A moment later, the great red sail unfurled and inflated with the wind.
She left Varys and Tyrion on board as the fleet's guardians. They had requested to sail. The Westerosi preferred to travel by water. It was softer on their bodies which were too used to the comfortable living of palace life. Besides, it worked in her favour. If Doran Martell tried to make contact she trusted Varys to manage negotiations.
"Thank you," Daenerys whispered, as she took Jorah's hand and stepped back onto the sand. Their fingers locked together briefly, as though the Queen were looking for something to hold on to.
Jorah prepared their horses. The Queen mounted her pale mare, stroking its braided mane as it shivered under her touch and pawed at the ground. Jorah was beside her on a black stallion with shells woven into its hair. They were beautiful creatures, gifts from the Prince. She admired their horsemanship. The beasts were well trained and full of spirit if not slightly leaner than the Dothraki beasts.
"Your dragons are singing."
"They appear to have a fondness for war," she replied.
"Fire and blood, Khaleesi," he reminded her. "This is what they were born for."
"And Viserion?" She looked over to her knight. He was half ruined from the morning spent searching for Grey Worm. "Where is he, Jorah? He is my child too. I know that he is alive, somewhere in the world. Has he abandoned me and turned wild? I hear, sometimes, that dragons disappear."
He shook his head. "No. He's making his way back to you. Dragons are smart," he promised. "They're not beasts like horses. Viserion will return when it is time and not before. Have you seen him in your dreams?"
"No. I never see my dragons in my dreams." They were both quiet. "I worry," she continued, "what if they never live to see the North? I know that we take the Iron Throne but what if the cost is..." Daenerys couldn't even say it.
"There may be other reasons the dragons aren't in your visions. We don't know how they work. There have been so few true dreamers in the world. Even amongst your own kind, you are rare."
"You would tell me, wouldn't you..."
"Tell you what?"
"If you'd found something of Grey Worm... There is no need to protect me from the truth."
"I would never dare hide the truth from you again," he assured her.
"Is your leg healed enough to ride?"
Jorah nodded. There was a scar where the poisoned arrow had entered. Even that was nearly faded. The poison remained in his blood, latching onto his sanity when the heat rose. It was a tide with a restless moon. He was learning to accept that it was part of him now.
As the caravan marched toward the capital of Dorne, the two dragons tired of walking and took to the sky, circling them high above in the thermals.
THE GIFT – THE NORTH 280 AC
"The kingdom is in a state of collapse."
Jeor, not long seated in his role as Lord Commander, transferred the three dragon eggs into a chest they'd dragged out of the library. He wrapped them in old robes and carefully shuffled them in, side by side before placing his palm over one of them. Its surface was warm, unlike the stone walls of Castle Black. They were enthralling – neither living nor dead.
"The two children of the king are being raised in Pentos." Jeor continued, closing the lid on the trunk. He still loved them as if they were his own. Sometimes Jeor saw the siblings in his dreams, running through the half-sunken streets of Braavos when they'd lived together in the Sealord's home, holding hands and thieving lemons. Those years in the sun were too brief and he remembered them with tenderness. His watch had passed to Illyrio. "They are safe enough but I dare not trust a man who makes his money out of trading valuables with relics such as these."
"Then what are we to do with them?" Dacey asked. She had changed into a Night's Watch uniform and sat at the table with Jeor and Aemon picking at a dry cleave of bread. "They cannot stay here either. I know that all your men swear allegiance to The Watch but half of them are thieves. If word slips by that there are dragon eggs in your room, you'll see what their oaths are worth."
"I agree..." Aemon nodded. "Men's honour is stronger in the face of death than the vanity of temptation. The eggs must go South."
"No..." Dacey set her glass of mead down when all eyes, blind and clear, fell on her. "I'm not taking them back through all that snow. Where would I go? I belong in the North. I am coming home."
"My dear," Maester Aemon continued. "The Wall is no place to raise a child. You must head South once it is born, whether you wish it or not."
Jeor looked away. It was not unusual for the Mormont women to branch out into the world and return with child. The diversity of their blood kept the tiny island strong. Scholars in Old Town were fascinated by their habits. They were the only culture South of The Wall to casually raise children from various, unofficial partners – a lingering tribute to their ancient roots.
"Mance Rayder's child..." Jeor guessed. He stared at Dacey until finally she met his eyes and nodded with a strained dip of her head. "Then that is worse. The child is Wildling royalty. They will come for it – whisk it into the North and you'll never see it again."
"I could go the island." Her reply was wistful. She missed the silence of Bear Island, the smoky halls and forests of pine. It was the only place in the realm where she found herself at rest.
"You cannot do that either. If anyone finds out the child is part Wildling they'll kill it."
Her head fell into her hands. She was so tired. Under the weight of it all, she felt the unexpected creep of affection for Mance. In their weeks together there had been something more than lust between them. As with so many treasures in the North, their time was brief. They both knew as they parted outside the walls of Winterfell that they'd never see each other again. He'd given her the eggs, held her against the bleeding trunk of the Weirwood and kissed her until neither of them could breathe. When she had opened her eyes, Mance was gone.
"There is only one place in the realm that you can hide a treasure," Aemon continued, speaking of the eggs. "Dorne." The Dornish and the Targaryens shared history to the conquest. They were a wealthy nation who'd protect rather than flog away the valuable items. Aemon himself was the child of a Dayne. "You can raise the child in the mountains, away from any curious eyes. I know the Martell prince. He is, above all else, a patient man."
That is what they agreed. Jeor sent the ravens and Dacey settled in for her confinement at The Wall. There she sat for months, staring through the constant snowfalls at the barrier of ice that divided their worlds. Near her window, the threads of a rose tangled in the crumbling stone. A bud was forming, laid against the cold with petals blue as the water beneath the snow drifts.
THE SUNSET SEA
"Obviously, we cannot steal the sword from Starfall."
"Obviously." Varys agreed wholeheartedly with Tyrion. "To do so is madness. Dorne would turn on the Queen and we'd never make it to King's Landing."
Tyrion drew an imaginary line with his hands across the table. "A flat no."
"Agreed."
"Well, that's settled then. We advise the Queen against her order and continue preparations for war on King's Landing with the Dornish princes."
"I'm afraid you misunderstand," Varys lowered his voice and shuffled, if possible, closer to the Lannister. "How well do you understand our Queen's visions?"
"A little. I was always fascinated by the Targaryens. I spent a lot of time confined to my rooms when I was younger so I've read and most of the histories. The dreams are prophetic. Their are books on them in the citadel."
"There are very few true dreamers in history and I mean all of history, through to Valyria itself. It is entirely plausible that Daenerys is the most gifted dreamer that has ever lived, even more than Daenys. And we all know how those dreams ended."
"Let us hope that hers don't end with the 'Doom of Westeros'."
"That is the point..." Varys proceeded darkly. "This conversation was intended for a later date but it appears that we must have it now."
"Varys, you are worrying me."
"I am worrying myself." Before continuing, Varys closed the door and porthole windows. He struck a match and they sat in relative darkness with one candle shared between them despite the blaring sun outside the ship.
The noise of the sea was killed and now Tyrion was left with the beat of his own heart loudly in his chest cavity. Most of the time, Varys was an innocuous mentor but sometimes, very rarely, Tyrion glimpsed the terrifying creature beneath his placid exterior. The Spider in its lair of webs, waiting for the world to find his threads. Perhaps he shared company with the most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms.
"We are sailing for war," he assured Tyrion. "And I have no doubt that a great deal of blood will be spilled on the pink stone of King's Landing. Wretched place. Built on bones." He paused. Varys had delved too deep into King's Landing's secrets. "I also know that Daenerys will be queen of the Seven Kingdoms at the close. Even without the prophecy, these things are set. I've seen the board and her hand is firm. Your sister might hold against the weight of the army but with three dragons in tow..." King's Landing would burn. "But Daenerys' dreams are not about the Iron Throne, Tyrion. Her attention wandered from that long ago. She looks ever further North."
"Has Mormont been whispering things in her ear at-"
"She has seen the war to come," Varys cut him short. "The only war that matters. I know that you have stood at The Wall. What did you feel when you looked up on the ice? I am curious. I've not had the pleasure."
"What did I feel?" Tyrion rolled the curious question. "That I wish it were taller."
"Height won't matter when the seas begin to freeze. The Bay of Ice will be first."
When Varys was done, Tyrion felt too ill to drink. Everyone heard the whispers from the North one way or another but they were disregarded as superstitious fantasists.
"That is why she had dragons..." Tyrion realised. "Targaryens and sorcerers have been trying to hatch dragon eggs for more than a hundred years. I should have guessed that there was a purpose for their sudden return beyond a chair made of fallen men's swords. Incredible, how pitiable our dreams are when we see the rest of the story laid out."
Varys' thin lips were tightened further. "That is her burden," he replied. "Now you see why she stands on deck, staring at the water. The East changed her forever. She is a Queen of war. Daenerys will never rule the Seven Kingdoms. Her dynasty is made of ghosts."
"I was so sure..." he murmured absently. "The day I watched a silver-haired girl take a dragon to the skies I thought, 'there is our queen'. I wanted – still want – to see her sit that nightmare throne." She was a better queen than the outskirts of his family, clinging to power at the expense of the realm. Cersei knew nothing of ruling and her boy was too young to grasp the terrible weight of the crown. "Who will rule if not Daenerys?" He kept his voice low.
"Ah..." Breathed Varys, reaching forward to play with the dancing flame. He let his fingertips linger in the light before the heat caught his skin. Then he'd pull them free, causing the light to bend and dance. "That is the only card we hold. After Daenerys takes the throne she will have the legal right to name her successor. With no possibility of children and no kin, two nobles houses will be chosen." There was a pause. "That is, assuming, there is anything left to rule."
"But we need that promise to win the throne in the first instance."
"Correct..." Varys nodded. "A dangerous game – one built on smoke. None of our pieces are real until we win."
"I would not go so far as to say that," Tyrion replied. It was his turn to linger on the flame. "Those fire-breathing nightmares are flesh. Real enough for most. You have spent too long with your whispers, Varys and forgotten what is real. You say that these dreams of hers are fate and in them is the milkglass sword. That does not mean we have to steal it."
"What other choice do we have? The Dornish are not going to hand over the most valuable relic in their kingdom to a marauding dragon queen. Even amongst their own people, only a knight bearing the Dayne name may wield it. They'd rather it gather dust for a thousand years than allow an unworthy hand to touch the hilt."
"Precisely." Tyrion whispered. "Daenerys is a Dayne by blood. Her great-great-grandmother was Dyanna Dayne."
Varys was embarrassed to have missed what Tyrion saw easily. "That may not be enough. Only a knight and a swordsman of impeccable reputation may claim the title, 'Sword of the Morning'."
"They may make an exception for the future queen of the realm. Even so, she has a knight who might wield it in her stead."
The Spider laughed aloud. "A North man, carry a Dornish blade? Prince Martell would rather slit his own throat."
"We'll see," Tyrion replied. "The Southern Queen rides with a Lannister, Mormont and half the Eastern realm. The old rules fall at the first sight of night."
Missandei, also aboard the Queen's ships, kept to her room. The Stark girl crept around the boat, chasing rats or climbing into the rigging where the Unsullied had to fish her out of the ropes. She was a wild creature who could never be returned to privileged life.
In private, Missandei untied her dress, picking apart the layers until it fell to the floor. Inside near the hem, a stain of blood sullied the trim. She bent down, gathering it up before submerging it in a bucket of freezing water. She left it there, watching the stain fade into the water, removing the final trace of Grey Worm from the world.
Their first night in the desert reminded Dany of the restless world beyond Meereen. The stars were littered above them, interrupted by fireflies which lived in limestone caves, dotted through the dunes. When the temperature cooled and night approached, they detached from the walls and scattered overhead.
Daenerys preferred to sleep directly on the sand without a tent. Her fire had been hushed long ago and she had only to look down over the rest of the camp. The Dothraki ravaged along the edge with enormous bonfires. Behind them, the Dornish smoked special pipes and drank with their whores and finally, the Unsullied kept the peace. They were holding a memorial for Grey Worm, laying palms as prayer mats where they took turns kneeling. It was their custom to prayer to the gods the deceased worshipped. Tonight, those prayers were to Daenerys. Grey Worm had no god but the queen.
"You must attempt to ride him," Jorah said, as he lowered himself beside her in the sand. He was drinking tea made by the Dothraki.
She shifted her attention to the slumbering dragon. Rhaegal had his nose tucked under his wing, sound asleep unlike his brother who was rolling on his back in the sand, legs kicking at the night air.
"I don't know how," she admitted.
"You're afraid that he will throw you off," Jorah replied. "He will not. You are his mother."
"Would you come with me?"
Together, they approached Rhaegal. His large eye opened, watching calmly. "He is larger than I remember," Daenerys admitted in a whisper.
"Travelling has made him strong," he replied. "He'll grow larger still, now that we have reached Westeros. Dragons thrive in conditions such as these."
It was Jorah who stepped forward and knelt in the sand beside Rhaegal's head. The knight reached up, placing his hand on the bridge of bone between his eyes. "There..." he cooed at the creature. "Been a long time, hasn't it?"
Rhaegal was the most distant of the three. Unlike Viserion who spent most of his hatch-ling days perched on Jorah's shoulder, Rhaegal had been the first to launch himself into the air bolstered by foolish hope. He'd landed awkwardly on his head but Jorah scooped him up and placed him back on the edge of the cage so that he could try again.
"See if he'll let you lay on his back."
Daenerys approached, tentatively moving to climb his wing. She could hear Drogon shift behind, watching. Rhaegal remained steady, chirping softly as Jorah sang to him. He was an entirely different creature and Daenerys fumbled, searching for her footing. Eventually she found a smooth segment on his back where she could lie, holding onto several of his black spines to stop herself from sliding off. She lay there, rising and falling with each of the dragon's breaths.
"He's warm..." she whispered.
Jorah curled the edge of his lip in a smile. This is where Daenerys belonged – on the back of her dragons. "We should do this every night until you feel that you can fly him." Then, he left the front of the dragon and wandered around to the wing. He slipped off his boots leaving the leather in the sand and then climbed Rhaegal's wing barefoot. Rhaegal helped, lifting slightly so that Jorah neared his Queen.
"You know, I did not realised..." she murmured, sliding her hand down to Jorah's face. Her fingertips brushed his jaw, edging him closer. "...how much time you spent raising them."
"We all raised them, Khaleesi," he replied. "It was most unconventional if the Valyrian writings are to be believed."
"Everything about my life is unconventional," she replied. Before she could prevent it, a tear slid from her eye and fell onto Jorah's arm. "Sorry..."
"Sh..." It was his turn to reach to her, placing his palm against her cheek. "You miss him."
"I don't know what happened to him – that is the worst of it. Promise..." She insisted. "Promise I'll never wake to find you gone."
"I'll be with you until the end, Daenerys, wherever that may be."
It was rare that he used her name. She dipped further still, pressing her forehead against his. Her silver hair flared over them like a veil of ice. His hands shifted, laying on her back. She cried for a while, hidden against him. There was no one out here to see them except the stars.
"What are they doing?" Tyrion leaned over the edge of the trap door that led directly into the heart of the ship. Inside, Dothraki sat beside lamps and piles of dragon glass that the dragon had deposited when it first landed on their boat.
"Fashioning fresh holds for the weapons," Varys replied. "The Queen's orders. All dragon glass spears and blades must be re-made. It will take them months."
"There is more than our army can wield."
"Indeed. The overflow are to be given to the Dornish after King's Landing is taken."
"Is that it, then?" Tyrion nodded at the glimmer on the edge of the shore. It was a long way off but every now and then a flare of light erupted from the edge of the desert.
Varys nodded. "The heart of Dorne."
"My brother spoke of it as the most beautiful city created."
"That honour, I'm afraid, goes to the ruins of Chroyane. Even as a pile of rubble it's still the most beautiful thing we've ever accomplished. Still, the Sunspear is not without its charm."
"You're a hard one to please, Varys."
"If you mean to suggest that my standards are impeccable then I will take the compliment."
WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH
"Magic."
"What of it?"
Brienne sat opposite Podrick in the snow, nudging their camp fire with a long stick. It caught alight so she lifted it up to the freezing air, watching the flame tremble at its tip for a moment before dying in a bed of pine smoke. "What do you make of it?"
Podrick shrugged. "Don't know." He replied, shuffling closer to the flames. He was draped in several layers of fur but not even that was enough to stop his limbs vibrating with the cold. They had taken watch over the ruins, perched on a rise near the edge of the forest. From here they could see all the snow flats toward the North and the mountains that banked them. Another pair of watcher sat directly opposite, looking the other way. He could see their fire as a speck in the dark. "I mean, it's just there, ain't it?"
"We've never been much for it where I come from," she admitted. "My father beat a maester once for teaching me that it was real."
Podrick reeled at that. "Thought that wasn't allowed – hitting a maester."
"It's not but lords have done worse. The Boltons killed the Stark's maester when they took Winterfell. I hear he was one of the best in the land. I saw Snow laying flowers where his corpse was last seen. Strange creature – the bastard... Once I found him sitting with his eyes rolled back, twitching."
"Understandable. He's been dead and come back. That'd mess with your head. Some of the men, they reckon he's a bit mad but the rest are convinced that he's some kind of god."
"I think it was what he saw while he was between the living and dead that ruined him," she countered. "Snow won't say what's down there. He'll give grand speeches all day long about the terrible things coming to kill us from the North but not a word about what waits us on the other side."
"You're thinking about Renly..." Podrick realised quietly. He wasn't sure what to do. Brienne would likely chop his hand off if he raised it to her shoulder in comfort. She'd been built differently to most. "Is it revenge you're after?"
She shook her head. "I've tasted that." The Red Witch lived but there was nothing that she could do about that. At the moment, that hideous creature was the only thing keeping their fires alive in the night. Without her filthy words they'd all freeze. "I – I want to know where he is..."
It took Podrick several minutes to realise that Brienne wasn't speaking of Renly after all. Of course. One way or another, Brienne was always thinking of him. "On his way to King's Landing," he finally answered, startling the knight. "I know. Everyone knows," he added. "Plain as day, you two. I mean..." Podrick nodded at the Valyrian sword beside them. "You're carrying his family heirloom. How many times have you both defied family honour for the sake of the other? Exactly."
"Magic is suffocating the world, Podrick," she refused to comment on her feelings, switching the subject. "I think it's always been there, lurking at the edges. The people of Tarth keep excellent records. I've seen them myself, whole buildings resting at the centre of the island, lined with scrolls as though they were seagull nests burrowed into the cliffs. Their tales of winter are measured in the trade logs to the point where all imports ceased. Cold tides took over the kingdom and the world starved.
"For my people, it was an accounting fact, not a fable. My father believed that it was a cycle. When I was small, he briefly flirted with the idea that I might become a scholar rather than a warrior. He showed me the numbers sliding down, following the inevitable pattern. If we've noticed, the citadel has."
"These people don't need paperwork to tell them that Winter is on its way," Podrick assured her.
"No but the rest of the realm might."
"It's not what I imagined in the great songs..."
"The truth is never what we imagine, Podrick."
