[The man who fears losing has already lost. Viserys made his way to the deck with his broom in tow. His left hand was wrapped in strips of cloth he had torn from a ragged silk shirt. Fear cuts deeper than swords. There was a bruise under his left eye, and several more older bruises on his arms, hidden under the sleeves of his shirt. He pretended ( Read more... )

{Voice transmission, shrill and incensed.}

SOMEONE IS IN MY ROOM.

{Written, some time later. The handwriting is a scrawl, almost unreadable, as opposed to his usual elegant script.}

Jon Snow, I demand two brooms.