He dared not go back to sleep. He wheeled his courser around and trotted away. You would do well to listen, my lady. The milk of the poppy, Your Grace, he said.
In gloved hands were clutched all manner of weapons: longswords and lances and sharpened scythes, spiked clubs and daggers and heavy iron mauls. What would my lord father do? he asked her. Jaime Lannister regarded his brother thoughtfully with those cool green eyes. They fought with blunted weapons in a chaos of mud and blood, small troops fighting together and then turning on each other as alliances formed and fractured, until only one man was left standing.
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