The bells again, gods ha'mercy, wailed an old woman. Not you, Ned. His eyes follow the sun, though he does not see it. He pulled a glove off with his teeth and clasped Snow by the hand, flesh against flesh.
Nine cases out of ten seemed to bore him; those he allowed his council to handle, squirming restlessly while Lord Baelish, Grand Maester Pycelle, or Queen Cersei resolved the matter. Food would settle his stomach and give Ghost the chance to catch up. And of late he had often found himself dreaming of snow, of the deep quiet of the wolfswood at night. By the time dusk fell, her handmaids would need to help her down from her mount.
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