Water ran down her legs and trickled from her hair. No one could think so, said Pycelle. she thought, but not so dark as in the Maidenvault, or on Dragon-stone where Loras Tyrell lies burned and bleeding, or down in the black cells beneath the castle. That cannot be helped, the wench is dead.
I smell the crypts where the stone kings sit. like a pair of matched greyhounds stalking at their master's heels. When he saw all the green and purple beards he hailed them in the tongue of Tyrosh. Although the maester was much the taller of the two men.
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