It was a cold and lonely sound, full of melancholy and despair. A few had swords and knives; others brandished pitchforks and scythes and wooden spears. Not for the first time, he wondered what he was doing here and why he had come. What had she expected? A thousand thousand years ago they had been alive, but now they were only pretty rocks.
Not impregnable, he said, merely inconvenient. He cut his head off trying to shave. Tyrion Lannister sighed. My father will wonder what has become of me, he added, catching the eye of the swordsman who'd offered to yield up his room.
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