Robert – my brother Robert, that is – asked if I could save some of the merchant chunks from the Neck so he could try out a new menu item. He was joking.
I hope.
Gross bastard either way.
I think the king should change the name of the castle to BloodyChunks or something like that. It would be fitting, since so many people have died on the Neck in the last twenty-four hours. I can’t even begin to count the number of bodies, partially because they look like paste when they come out of the traps, but I’d imagine it’s about equal to the number of times I’ve had to vomit over the side of the barbican.
Really. There’s a pile of puke staining the west side. Animals keep going there. I always look away, ‘cause I don’t wanna see what they’re doing.
That’s not all the puke I’ve had to deal with, either, diary. Libby’s taken a leave of absence from her carpentry job for the week. Her belly’s too big. She can’t reach around it to get at her tools anymore, and she throws up so often that she just sticks by a toilet most of the time.
This is a really disgusting entry. Sorry, diary. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
On the upside, there have been rumours floating around that the king’s planning on starting some big, new project. Considering King Jeffrey’s love of changing what he wants every ten minutes that could mean very little, but the strength of the rumours kinda speaks for itself – I first learned about it all from Philip, and he’s a ghost. Strong indeed.
I’ll keep you posted, diary. I’m still looking for a new place to hide you.
Sincerely,
Dragomir the Guard
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