Knights vaulted onto snorting coursers while men-at-arms buckled their sword belts as they ran. Even so, Lord Hoster muttered. Her fingers trailed lightly across the surface of the shell, tracing the wisps of gold, and deep in the stone she felt something twist and stretch in response. Ser Jorah, I may have need of your blade.
I want you at my side again, Ned. Tyrion aimed a swipe at his face, but the tall man slammed it aside. Jory, Alyn, and Harwin rode for Winterfell and the north. The songs said it had taken a thousand blades to make it, heated white-hot in the furnace breath of Balerion the Black Dread.
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