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Bran

           YetMikkenhadhishanddownsomewoman’sbodice,andsheseemednottomind.BranwatchedFarlenmakehisredbitchbegforbonesandsmiledatOldNanpluckingatthecrustofahotpiewithwrinkledfingers.Onthedais,LordWymanattackedasteamingplateoflampreysasiftheywereanenemyhost.HewassofatthatSerRodrikhadcommandedthataspecialwidechairbebuiltforhimtositin,buthelaughedloudandoften,andBranthoughthelikedhim.PoorwanLadyHornwoodsatbesidehim,herfaceastonymaskasshepickedlistlesslyatherfood.Attheoppositeendofthehightable,HotherandMorswereplayingadrinkinggame,slammingtheirhornstogetherashardasknightsmeetinginjoust.

           Itistoohothere,andtoonoisy,andtheyareallgettingdrunk.Branitchedunderhisgrey-and-whitewoolens,andsuddenlyhewishedhewereanywherebuthere.Itiscoolinthegodswoodnow.Steamisrisingoffthehotpools,andtheredleavesoftheweirwoodarerustling.Thesmellsarericherthanhere,andbeforelongthemoonwillriseandmybrotherwillsingtoit.

           "Bran?"SerRodriksaid."Youdonoteat."

           Thewakingdreamhadbeensovivid,foramomentBranhadnotknownwherehewas."I’llhavemorelater,"hesaid."Mybelly’sfulltobursting."

           Theoldknight’swhitemustachewaspinkwithwine."Youhavedonewell,Bran.Here,andattheaudiences.Youwillbeanespecialfinelordoneday,Ithink."

           Iwanttobeaknight.

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