Life is not a song, sweetling, he'd told her. Staggering to his feet, he kicked the arm away and snatched the lamp from the Old Bear's fingers. cythes and their fathers' rusted swords, half-trained boys from the stews of Lannisport and Tyrion and his mountain clansmen. He can do sums, and he knows how to read and write.
Soon he was lost in the tall grass. horses snorting and whinnying, the golden glow of sunrise slanting through the bars of the portcullis as it jerked upward. Let's have a look, said the big bald man. I must know how things stand.
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