Lendo A dance with dragons, do George R. R. Martin

“Haggon was weak, afraid of his own power. He died weeping and alone when I ripped his second life from him.” Varamyr had devoured his heart himself. “He taught me much and more, and the last thing I learned from him was the taste of human flesh.” (p. 4)

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The elk went where he would, regardless of the wishes of Meera and Jojen on his back. Mostly he stayed beneath the trees, but where the shore curved away westward he would take the more direct path across the frozen lake, shouldering through snowdrifts taller than Bran as the ice cracked underneath his hooves. Out there the wind was stronger, a cold north wind that howled across the lake, knifed through their layers of wool and leather, and set them all to shivering. When it blew into their faces, it would drive the snow into their eyes and leave them as good as blind.

Hours passed in silence. Ahead, shadows began to steal between the trees, the long fingers of dusk. Dark came early this far north. Bran had come to dread that. Each day seemed shorter than the last, and where the days were cold the nights were bitter cruel. (p. 70)

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