Author: George R. R. Martin
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“My mother told me that dead men sing no songs,” he put in. “My wet nurse said the same thing, Will,” Royce replied. “Never believe anything you hear at a woman’s tit. There are things to be learned even from the dead.”
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Ser Waymar had been a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch for less than half a year, but no one could say he had not prepared for his vocation. At least insofar as his wardrobe was concerned.
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His cloak was his crowning glory; sable, thick and black and soft as
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His cloak was his crowning glory; sable, thick and black and soft as sin.
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Everyone talks about snows forty foot deep, and how the ice wind comes howling out of the north, but the real enemy is the cold. It steals up on you quieter than Will, and at first you shiver and your teeth chatter and you stamp your feet and dream of mulled wine and nice hot fires. It burns, it does. Nothing burns like the cold.
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Twilight deepened. The cloudless sky turned a deep purple, the color of an old bruise, then faded to black.
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Fear filled his gut like a meal he could not digest.
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Bran could not take his eyes off the blood. The snows around the stump drank it eagerly, reddening as he watched.