He could feel a fluttering in his bowels, a queasy liquid feeling; he hoped he was not going to die sick. Of Royce, there is no word. And the Imp has only himself to blame. Varys shuffled over to listen.
There was a row of windows beneath him, and the voice was drifting out of the last window on this side. Are you hearing? Arya thought about it. It will be a hard journey, make no mistake. It fell away slowly beneath them as they rode past smoky peat fires, lines of horses, and wagons heavy-laden with hardbread and salt beef.
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