His voice trailed off awkwardly as he realized what he had almost said. All of them were bannermen to the Tullys, their swords sworn to the service of Riverrun. The galley skimmed the water like a dragonfly, her oars rising and falling in perfect time. This was not the Bran he remembered.
The weirwood's bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. Somehow, the fear had gone away. I daresay he will outgrow the disappointment. A dead man is beyond fear.
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