Your lord husband alone counts forty thousand mounted warriors in his khalasar. A skirt of lobstered metal covered him from waist to midthigh, while a solid gorget encircled his throat. On Braavos there is a society called the Faceless Men, Grand Maester Pycelle offered. A sickening crunch, and he was falling.
The children of the forest hunted with that, thousands of years ago. When his lips opened, no words escaped them, only a moan. A thousand thousand dragons poured forth, and drank the fire of the sun. and will, if you know what's good for you.
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