Hoster will be chiding me about the Redwyne girl even as we light his funeral pyre, damn his bones. I was afraid it would never end. Well enough for a man of my years, my lord, he replied, yet I do tire easily, I fear. The boy's the lordling here, as I recall.
His cheeks were red, and he was wrapped in a heavy fur cloak that made him look ready for hibernation. Nothing burns like the cold. The kitchen scraps are gone, and we'll have no begging after dark. Sansa dried her own tears as she struggled to comfort her friend.
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