The metal beneath him had grown harder by the hour, and the fanged steel behind made it impossible to lean back. Summer stayed where he was, his eyes on Bran and the man beside him. The senior among them would have been no older than Bran when she went north. Get out before I kill you.
Hours turned to days, or so it seemed. Tiny flames went darting up the wood like swift red mice, skating over the oil and leaping from bark to branch to leaf. Samwell, to the stewards. Jon, I'm sorry.
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