Ned scowled. What are you reading about? he asked. He would have collapsed, but the men of her khas held him up. Magister Illyrio growled something to him in the rough Dothraki tongue; the guardsman replied in the same voice and waved them through the gates.
He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife. He was so heavy and so ungainly, it would be just like him to break a wrist or twist his ankle getting out of the way. Everyone says so. Ser Rodrik, Ser Willis, to horse, she shouted.
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