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    Summary

    Quen felt peculiar up on the dais, flanked by stags and lions and wolves.

    The Usurper had once been a formidable man, with blazing eyes and a massive war hammer. Now, he was just a red-faced fat man, a pathetic drunk who ate as gracefully as a half-starved hog.

    His Queen seemed to be a perpetually unhappy woman. Cersei Lannister was as beautiful as the singers said, though the woman had all the warmth of a dead fish.

    She might have done well in the north, Quen thought, almost pitying.

    (Or: The gods in their blind malice give Theon the feeble body of a woman.)

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