The steps here had been worn smooth by the iron-shod hooves of all the mules who'd passed this way. last seen feverish and dying beside the Trident. No doubt the prince could smell them too, as he sat beneath the trees in the rolling chair Maester Caleotte had made for him, with its goose-down cushions and rumbling wheels of ebonv and iron. In there she was Arya of Winterfell.
said Lancel, but my folly is behind me, ser. I am weary, Tyene. When he reached the rolling chair he thumped its butt down hard to announce his presence, but the prince had eyes only for the children. A fire was burning in the hearth, beneath a copper kettle.
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