The sun baked overhead as it had for seemingly endless days, burning the sweat out of her in rivers. Not Mat Cauthon. Questioners were the nastiest of the Whitecloaks. Birgitte Silverbow.
A cloudless sky made the moonlight bright, dappling the tents and wagons with shadows. Morgase focused on her breathing, almost like the exercises she had done during her' months in the Tower. Young men and fools, Nandera said suddenly to no one in particular, sometimes bear pain they do not have to as a badge of their pride. You, Flinn or whoever you are.
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