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the spirit stepped out of the open tomb, pale white and moaning for blood, [...] it was only jon, covered with flour. “you stupid,” she told him, [...] but jon and robb just laughed and laughed, and pretty soon bran and arya were laughing too.
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"you have my thanks, lord snow. for the half-blind horse, the salt cod, the free air. for hope."
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“jory brought us here once, to fish for trout. you and me and jon. do you remember?”
“i remember,” robb said, his voice quiet and sad.
“i didn’t catch anything,” bran said, “but jon gave me his fish on the way back to winterfell."
qhorin lifted his maimed, two-fingered hand. “the old gods are still strong beyond the wall. the gods of the first men… and the starks.”
mormont looked at jon. “what is your will in this?”
“to go,” he said at once.
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silent as shadow, the pale direwolf moved closer and began to lick the warm tears off samwell tarly’s face. the fat boy cried out, startled… and somehow, in a heartbeat, his sobs turned to laughter. jon snow laughed with him.
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“i am seeing skulls. and you. i see your face every time i look into the flames. the danger that i warned you of grows very close now.”
“daggers in the dark. i know.”
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jon picked up a dagger blade, featherlight and shiny black, hiltless. torchlight ran along its edge, a thin orange line that spoke of razor sharpness. dragonglass. what the maesters call obsidian.
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your brother robb has been crowned king in the north. you and aemon have that in common. a king for a brother.
"and this too," said jon. "a vow."
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