The sound of hooves coming up behind him made him whirl, though he could scarcely lift the sword he held for the agony in his elbow. Tyrion hawked up a glob of blood and phlegm and spat it out into the sky. You are the blood of the dragon, little one, she whispered as her litter swayed along, curtains drawn tight. You're no ranger, Jon, only a green boy with the smell of summer still on you.
Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. So he will. Your lord father took the cream of his guard to King's Landing, and your brother took the rest, along with all the likely lads for leagues around. He drew his sword.
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