Edmure's look was somber. Bran had never seen Maester Luwin took so uncertain before. Tyrion stood in that dank cellar for a long time, staring at Balerion's huge, empty-eyed skull until his torch burned low, trying to grasp the the Princess Daeryssa from the giants, or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight championing Queen Naerys's honor against evil Ser Morgil's slanders.
The sweet, fruity taste of surnmerwine filled his mouth and brought a smile to his lips. His hand curled around the smooth dragonbone hilt, and he slammed the blade into the table, felt it bite into the wood. This is Lord Stark, the new Hand of the King, he told him as the boy looked at Ned through sullen blue eyes and pushed back sweat-soaked hair with his fingers. You die now! he promised, arakh shivering through the red twilight.
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