Heward lurched to his feet, hurriedly gathering up his things. Crouching, the direwolf crept backward, white fur rising on the back of his neck. You are mine. Syrio says a water dancer never falls.
That inn was full o' them, and I saw them take the scent. He honors you by asking. The leather parted with a sigh. A spell would heal my arm less painfully, and they could talk to Shaggydog and tell him not to bite.
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