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Not Theon Greyjoy, but a device made to mimic his sweet words. If you're soliciting goods, I've got no interest, unless you're a lady and they're yours by birth. If you're from Westeros you'll have better luck trying to send a raven. Bar the obvious exceptions. But this message is long enough — time for yours. |
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I dream of feasting... with your headless father, Robert Baratheon's gutted body. Jory Cassel and Benfred Tallhart. Men I have known all my life, seated at the tables of Winterfill, moldy and worm-eaten. Men and women that I killed and men and women that died far from me or long ago and men and women who are still living and breathing.
And in you stride through those great double doors, bringing winter howling with you, your wolf beside you, and both you and Grey Wind bleed from a thousand wounds and your eyes burn with twin fires.
[ His last words tremble, and he throws them at Robb, furious that he cannot deny him. ]
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It appears you saw it true. I shall join them, sooner than I'd anticipated.
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I shall meet you at the tavern of your choosing.
[ because this is so obviously a good life choice. ]
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It just so happens I'm on your side of the ocean. Duncan's.
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Very well. We shan't speak of it when I meet you.