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He poured the rest of his ale onto the stone. It hissed.

The image was garbage: half the frame was pixelated green, the audio a watery, distorted scream. But he saw it—the massive chain rising from the Blackwater, wildfire blooming like a diseased flower, and Stannis’s fleet burning in a crooked, stuttering loop. The sound was wrong. Someone off-screen coughed. A subtitle flickered: [Tyrion smirks]

The Ragged Scream

“A DTHrip,” the stranger whispered. “Season Two. The Battle of the Blackwater.”

The stranger smiled. “That’s Season Three. You’ll want to pre-order.”

The vision shuddered to life.

Bronn ripped the stone away. His hands were shaking.