Read A Dance of Dragons: Series Starter Bundle for Free Online Page A

are not the only one who has tried to run, but you are
the first to be so well prepared, to have men's clothes also packed
for the journey."
    Still Leena remained silent, refusing to
give anything away, to give him any information he did not have.
Defiance was not something the king was used to. Leena tried to
picture any of her older sisters trying to run, but she knew them,
in her position they would have already fallen at his feet,
groveling to be forgiven.
    The image only gave her more strength to
fight.
    "Is that all?" She asked, voice as cold as
she could make it, hard like an Ourthuri.
    In a flash, her father was next to her.
Before Leena could anticipate the impact, she was hit. His hand
slammed into her cheek, and she could not help but cry out as she
fell, landing cushioned by the clothes he had destroyed. Her veil
was ripped from her head by the blow, and it landed beside her with
a deafening ring.
    "Who is he?" The king demanded.
    Gripping her cheek, Leena looked up from the
floor, fearless. Mikza was the one thing the king could never have.
Love could not be slapped away, torn out of her heart by soldiers.
Her love would burn no matter what he did.
    "I will never tell you."
    With a roar, the king leaned down, gripping
her throat. "You will tell me now. Do not think I won't harm you.
There are worse fates than marriage, girl, far worse."
    "I welcome them," Leena choked out the
words, coughing as his grip tightened and her airway seemed to
close.
    "When I scar your pretty face, maim you,
make you unfit for the public so you must live in the shadows. What
will your love do then?"
    "He—"
    "It was me," a soft voice interrupted.
    Leena gasped. "No!"
    But Mikza walked into the doorway, head
bowed in surrender. He knelt down, removed his sword from his
waist, letting it drop to the ground with a resounding clang, and
placed his hands behind his head. All the while, he refused to meet
her eyes.
    Leena fell back to the ground as the king
dropped her, turning his attention to a new conquest.
    "Mikza," she murmured, voice cracking as her
chest burned, as her eyes blurred. Why? Why didn't he let her
fight? It was her father, her battle. He had no right to take that
away, to save her when she wanted to be the one to save him.
    But it was too late. The king had a hunger
in his eyes, a feral gleam. There would be no escaping him now.
    "A soldier in our own household," the king
said, his tone sadistically light. Leena closed her eyes, trying to
erase the pictures zipping to the front of her mind. Her father was
going to enjoy this. "Take him away."
    At those three words, words she had heard
over and over again in her nightmares, Leena snapped. Invaded by
some animalistic spirit, she sprang from the ground, jumping on her
father, ripping the crown from his head and using her arms to
strangle him. She screamed, cried, fought with everything she
had.
    Like a fly, he swatted her away.
    It took no effort at all to throw her back
to the floor, where one guard came to hold her down. Try as she
might to break his grip—pulling, biting, scratching,
pinching—nothing would loosen his grasp. For the first time, she
realized how much strength Mikza had to control, how gentle he had
truly been with her.
    And that thought broke her in a different
way.
    It stilled her.
    Slowed her.
    Made her eyes rise, watching as he was led
through the door, slowly out of her room, disappearing in the night
never to be seen again. Her body shook, a tremble that grew more
violent with each passing second. A wave of cold splashed over her,
stealing her thoughts, vanishing her strength, and she collapsed in
a ball.
    Sobs wracked her body. Sobs that sounded
less than human, as though her soul was being ripped from her
chest. Sobs that even a soldier could not bear to hear.
    "Princess," a warm hand landed on her arm,
caressing her, trying to soothe her. Through blurred eyes, Leena
looked up toward the sound, barely recognizing the figure as a man,
let alone a