but in the winesinks and pot shops of this city, there are those who suggest that the crown might have been somehow complicit in Lord Walder's crime. They won't. The farm folk gave her curious glances, but no one spoke to her. A small one.
Sometimes he cut it short, and sometimes he let it fall loose to his shoulders, or tied it back behind his head with a golden ribbon, but it was never tangled or matted with sweat. He was thinking not only of Myrcella, but of her mother and his own. She was about to shout for Ser Osmund to defend her when the Knight of Flowers sank to one knee. We are seven.
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