The harvest wasn't burned south o'the river. He tried to think back on the madness at the inn, but allhe could remember was the beast, gaunt and grey and terrible. She wanted to cry. Ser Dontos disappeared.
You killed him, he croaked. Viserion roared,and smoke rose grey from his snout. There is no crime so foul as for a guestto bring murder into a man's hall. Something was moving through thedarkness, he could not quite make it out .
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