The dagger was still clutched tightly in his right hand, slick with blood. Lady, she whispered. A roll of crisp white parchment sealed with golden wax, a few short words and a smear of blood. The king's melancholy melted away with the morning mist, and before long Robert was eating an orange and waxing fond about a morning at the Eyrie when they had been boys.
Crows nested in the timbers of its lofty ceiling. It's not a very comfortable seat, I'm afraid. She saw the ashes of a fire, a few score horses milling listlessly and searching for a bite of grass, a scattering of tents and bedrolls. He took courage from that.
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