Every afternoon a few more collapsed along the way. He liked the birds: the crows in the broken tower, the tiny little sparrows that nested in cracks between the stones, the ancient owl that slept in the dusty loft above the old armory. Gods, he whispered. His mouth had gotten him into this cell; it could damn well get him out.
He was King Robert's friend and he loved him, you all know he loved him. So the fishwives say, Grand Maester Pycelle agreed, but we know it is not always so. Why? What will we do outside? Talk, Jon said. Bronn caught them.
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