JONThe mare whickered softly as Jon Snow tightened the cinch. The old man touched the maester's chain that hung loosely around his thin, fleshless neck. No horse can cross the poison water. He ought to have remembered who he was dealing with.
Septa Mordane will surely be lurking. Forget that, you do not need it now, put it aside, put it away. The molten gold trickled down his face like wax, burning deep channels in his flesh. ringingly, to make up for his hesitation.
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