It was white weirwood, and there was a face on it.

A glow came from the wood, like milk and moonlight, so faint it scarcely seemed to touch
anything beyond the door itself, not even Sam standing right before it. The face was old and pale,
wrinkled and shrunken. It looks dead. Its mouth was closed, and its eyes; its cheeks were sunken,
its brow withered, its chin sagging. If a man could live for a thousand years and never die but just
grow older, his face might come to look like that.
The door opened its eyes.
They were white too, and blind. Who are you? the door asked, and the well whispered,
Who-who-who-who-whowhowho.
I am the sword in the darkness,Samwell Tarly said. I am the watcher on the walls. I am
the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the hom that wakes the
sleepers. I am the shield that guards the realms of men.
Then pass, the door said. its lips opened, wide and wider and wider still, until nothing at
all remained but a great gaping mouth in a ring of wrinkles. Sam stepped aside and waved Jojen
through ahead of him. Summer followed, sniffing as he went, and then it was Brans turn. Hodor
ducked, but not low enough. The doors upper lip brushed softly against the top of Brans head,
and a drop of water fell on him and ran slowly down his nose. It was strangely warm, and salty as
a tear.
CHAPTER 57
DAENERYS
Meereen was as large as Astapor and Yunkai combined. Like her sister cities she was built of
brick, but where Astapor had been red and Yunkai yellow, Meereen was made with bricks of
many colors. Her walls were higher than Yunkais and in better repair, studded with bastions and
anchored by great defensive towers at every angle. Behind them, huge against the sky, could be
seen the top of the Great Pyramid, a monstrous thing eight hundred feet tall with a towering
bronze harpy at its top.
The harpy is a craven thing, Daario Naharis said when he saw it. She has a woman
s heart and a chickens legs. Small wonder her sons hide behind their walls.
But the hero did not hide. He rode out the city gates, armored in scales of copper and jet
and mounted upon a white charger whose striped pink-and-white barding matched the silk cloak
flowing from the heros shoulders. The lance he bore was fourteen feet long, swirled in pink and
white, and his hair was shaped and teased and lacquered into two great curling rams horns. Back
and forth he rode beneath the walls of multicolored bricks, challenging the besiegers to send a
champion forth to meet him in single combat.
Her bloodriders were in such a fever to go meet him that they almost came to blows.
Blood of my blood, Dany told them, your place is here by me. This man is a buzzing fly, no
more. Ignore him, he will soon be gone. Aggo, Jhogo, and Rakharo were brave warriors, but
they were young, and too valuable to risk. They kept her khalasar together, and were her best
scouts too.
That was wisely done,Ser Jorah said as they watched from the front of her pavilion. Let
the fool ride back and forth and shout until his horse goes lame. He does us no harm.
He does,Arstan Whitebeard insisted. Wars are not won with swords and spears alone,
ser. Two hosts of equal strength may come together, but one will break and run whilst the other
stands. This hero builds courage in the hearts of his own men and plants the seeds of doubt in
ours.
Ser Jorah snorted. And if our champion were to lose, what sort of seed would that plant?
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