The wildfire was cleansing her. Greybeards and grasping fools and Garth the Gross. She must look a wretched creature. He could, she echoed, when she saw what was happening.
It is past time Tommen had some young men about him in place of all these wrinkled greybeards. Brienne walked her horse past mail shirts still caked with brown blood, dinted helms, notched longswords. Yesterday. We have put fresh rushes on the floor.
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