The Lord Commander reached up to pinch its beak shut, but the raven hopped up on his head, fluttered its wings, and flew across the chamber to light above a window. Our outriders had been vanishing. His father had let him handle Ice often enough; he knew the look, the feel. Silver for the silver of your hair, the khal says.
Is Robert still abed? Tyrion asked as he seated himself, uninvited, at the table. Khaleesi, he said hesitantly, this is not done. The man was too clever by half, a mocking smile never far from his lips. Littlefinger's blade, won by Tyrion Lannister in a tourney wager, sent to slay Bran in his sleep.
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