“Unbound, unbent, unbroken,” she said, looking out into the sunlit forest. “Is that the right order?”
The old maester smiled gently, watched the shining wisps of dandelions drift in the wind. “It is, child.”
“Do you think he’ll ever come back?”
He sighed. “Summer has come and gone my lady.”
She picked up a crayon from the table. It was black. It was very, very black in her small, pale hand as she put its blunt, oily point to paper. “Winter is coming,” she whispered.
He fought a shiver though the autumn day was warm and sunny, bright as sweet dreams. “Yes…yes it is.”
History repeats.