“No armour.” Yon was helping Brack into his mail, shaking his head as he frowned over at Whirrun. “What kind of a bloody hero don’t wear bloody armour?” “Armour…” mused Whirrun, licking a finger and scrubbing some speck of dirt from the pommel of his sword, “is part of a state of mind… in which you admit the possibility… of being hit.” “What the fuck?”
