All the weariness of the past four days had returned to him. The knight drew out a folded parchment. Arya would only have to point, and the wolf would bound across the room, snatch up some wisp of silk in her jaws, and fetch it back. He was no Jon Arryn, to curb the wildness of his king and teach him wisdom.
They were seated around the embers of a small cookfire. You mentioned that the king was at Lord Arryn's bedside when he died. I shall think of you whenever I wear it. And then Mirri Maz Duur was there, the maegi, tipping a cup against her lips.
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