Up the tree. Hodor lifted Bran as easy as if he were a bale of hay, and cradled him against his massive chest. All that way, Ned affirmed. Suddenly her eyes opened, and she was staring right at him.
There were deep red marks on her skin. You are what, twelve? Fourteen, the boy said. He could feel a fluttering in his bowels, a queasy liquid feeling; he hoped he was not going to die sick. The girl, a scrawny thing in soiled leathers, was dodging and managing to get her stick in the way of most of the boy's blows, but not all.
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