Ser Gregor perished of his wounds, just as Grand Maester Pycelle foretold. No one cares, no one remembers. Something about the ruins filled her with unease. Drink, m'lady.
— MYRIELLE LANNISTER. JAIMEThe brooch that fastened Ser Brynden Tully's cloak was a black fish, wrought in jet and gold. but he is not my dog. Kneeling between the bed and wall, she held the blade and said a silent prayer to the Crone, whose golden lamp showed men the way through life.
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