“One day on a ranging we brought down a fine big elk. We were skinning it when the smell of blood drew a shadowcat out of its lair. I drove it off, but not before it shredded my cloak to ribbons. Do you see? Here, here, and here?” He chuckled. “It shredded my arm and back as well, and I bled worse than the elk. My brothers feared I might die before they got me back to Maester Mullin at the Shadow Tower, so they carried me to a wildling village where we knew an old wisewoman did some healing. She was dead, as it happened, but her daughter saw to me. Cleaned my wounds, sewed me up, and fed me porridge and potions until I was strong enough to ride again. And she sewed up the rents in my cloak as well, with some scarlet silk from Asshai that her grandmother had pulled from the wreck of a cog washed up on the Frozen Shore. It was the greatest treasure she had, and her gift to me.” He swept the cloak back over his shoulders. “But at the Shadow Tower, I was given a new wool cloak from stores, black and black, and trimmed with black, to go with my black breeches and black boots, my black doublet and black mail. The new cloak had no frays nor rips nor tears … and most of all, no red. The men of the Night’s Watch dressed in black, Ser Denys Mallister reminded me sternly, as if I had forgotten. My old cloak was fit for burning now, he said. “I left the next morning … for a place where a kiss was not a crime, and a man could wear any cloak he chose.”

“I lifted the latch, and there he stood, dark and tall, the scholar's gown falling from his shoulders like the cloak of the Black Knight in the old tale. His arms were laden with boughs of apple blossom. He lifted a branch, high over my head, and shook it, so that the petals showered me, releasing a heady scent that promised spring.”

“I left the next morning... for a place where a kiss was not a crime and a man could wear any cloak he chose.' - Mance Rayder”

“Why did you?” Clary asked.“Why did I what?”“Help me back there.”“You’re my sister.”She swallowed. In the morning light, Sebastian’s face had some color in it. There were faint burns along his neck where demon ichor had splashed him.“You never cared that I was your sister before.”“Didn’t I?” His black eyes flicked up and down her. “Our father’s dead,” he said. “There are no other relatives. You and I, we are the last. The last of the Morgensterns. You are the only one left whose blood runs in my veins, too. You are my last chance.”

“Large men in black plate mail with red cloaks and plumes don't sneak worth a damn.”

“MacRieve, you're on my cloak. Let up -. Give it back!""It was slowing you - and therefore me - down.""If you had gone first - ""I dinna. If you want it, why no' use magick to take it from me?""You really do not want me to do that.""You really must no' want your cloak back. Come then, witchling, just take it from me.""Keep the cloak. It'll be worth money one day.""Doona fret, witch. You're no' so unbecoming from my angle. Bit scrawny where it counts, but no' too bad.""Scrawny where it counts, MacRieve? Funny, I'd heard the same about you.""No' likely. Maybe you're just too young to have heard the rumors about Lykae males. Tender wee ears and such.”