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Started reading
June 11, 2025
Tyrion was a little drunk, and very tired. “Tell me, Bronn. If I told you to kill a babe … an infant girl, say, still at her mother’s breast … would you do it? Without question?” “Without question? No.” The sellsword rubbed thumb and forefinger together. “I’d ask how much.”
“The men of Westeros are ever rushing,” complained Salladhor Saan. “What good is this, I ask you? He who hurries through life hurries to his grave.”
This world is twisted beyond hope, when lowborn smugglers must vouch for the honor of kings.
Great was his woe and great was his sorrow then, for he knew what he must do.
Littlefinger looked like a boy who had just taken a furtive bite from a honeycomb. He was trying to watch for bees, but the honey was so sweet.