The stench of the man filled his nose; he smelled of fear. Say only the word, and I will send for one for your dear Bran. until Tyrion's destrier bit, quick as a snake, laying his cheek bare to the bone. A thick tangle of blond curls dripped down past his golden choker and high velvet collar.
The undergrowth parted, low-hanging branches giving up their accumulation of snow, and Grey Wind and Summer emerged from the green. No, she shouted, you mustn't. It's not no sword, it's only a stick. Jhogo's arakh flashed, and the man's head went tumbling from his shoulders.
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