Perchance later you'll tell me how a nine-year-old girl the size of a wet rat managed to disarm you with a broom handle and throw your sword in the river. Nymeria watched her approach warily. He found a wounded clansman and left him dead, helping himself to the man's halfhelm. That wife of mine will give me a son before this time next year, I'll wager.
You are a sword, that is all. It frightened Bran more than he could say. Morrec had a fire burning in his room, he noted with approval, but the Lord Commander's tower was dark. Beside him stood Maester Colemon, thin and nervous, with too little hair and too much neck.
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