By then the others were dismounting as well, and grooms were coming forward for their mounts. Tyrion struck the flint against his dagger, trying for a spark. Dogs, he said, listening. He'd been drinking it heavily these past three days; when it was not poppy wine, it was fermented mare's milk or pepper beer.
for Robb, and for Jaime Lannister, the gilded knight who men said had never learned to wait at all. The king dies, Ned Stark thought, and the Hand is buried. It was, as Robert had warned him, a hellishly uncomfortable chair, and never more so than now, with his shattered leg throbbing more sharply every minute. If Robert Arryn will not do, name one of your brothers.
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