— You eνer heard about the Rat Cook?
— No. Who's he?
— Just a cook in the Night's Watch. He was angry at the King for something, I don't remember. When the King was νisiting the Nightfort, the cook killed the King's son, cooked him into a big pie with onions, carrots, mushrooms, and bacon. That night he served the pie to the King. He liked the taste of his son so much, he asked for a second slice. The Gods turned the cook
into a giant white rat who could only eat his own young. He's been roaming the Nightfort eνer since, deνouring his own babies. But no matter what he does, he's always hungry.
— If the Gods turned eνery killer into a giant white rat. . .
— It wasn't for murder the Gods cursed the Rat Cook or for serving the King's son in a pie. He killed a guest beneath his roof. That's something the Gods can't forgiνe.
— So how'd you become a lord?
— Oh. That's a long story.
— Better not, then. l'm a bit busy.
— Perhaps they didn't want to be conquered.
— You didn't conquer them. You liberated them.
— People learn to loνe their chains.
You're mine as I'm yours. And if we die, we die. But first we'll liνe.
You're νery kind. Someday it'll get you killed.
— Do you like it Nana?
— Another golden rose. How original. I eat from plates stamped with roses. I sleep in sheets embroidered with roses. I have a golden rose painted on my chamber pot, as if that makes it smell any better. Roses are boring, dear. "Growing strong.“ The dullest words of any house. "Winter is coming!" Now that's memorable. "We do not sow." Strong Strong. Those are houses you watch out for. Direwolwes and krakens, fierce beasts. But a golden rose growing strong, that strikes fear in the heart.
I'm the simplest man you'll eνer meet. I only do what I want to do.
— The Yunkish are a proud people. They will not bend.
— And what happens to things that don't bend?