Look at me, Ned. None of these others have ever had a master-at-arms until Ser Alliser. I'm Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard, of Winterfell. Sansa had put on a lovely pale green damask gown and a look of remorse, but her sister was still wearing the ratty leathers and roughspun she'd worn at breakfast.
Weak, desperate, yet alive. Bran could not tell whether she was alive or dead. That last haunch was grey. The men traded unhappy glances.
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