A running man is like a wounded animal to a soldier. He sipped hippocras in preference to wine ormead, and ate but little. The butcher's boyattacked a prince of the blood. Arya edged farther into the room.
One more arrow, and I'll rest, he told himself, half ahundred times. They bore the same arms, three black dogs on ayellow field. And the stone kings were growling at him with granite tongues. No longer.
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