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. . the king's voice and twenty swords. Jon Arryn had told them that a commander needs a good battlefield voice, and Robert had proved the truth of that on the Trident.
I have long wanted to meet you.' Spurring his mount forward, he held out his hand. Red stallion and iron grey snaked arched necks, thrusting forth clacking teeth, wide-gaped jaws emitting squeals to go with flattened ears and rolling eyes.
Robb came back to her on a different horse, riding a piebald gelding in the place of the grey stallion he had taken down into the valley. The wolf's head on his shield was slashed half to pieces, raw wood showing where deep gouges had been hacked in the oak, but Robb himself seemed unhurt.
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It was an advanced weapon the perforated cylinder that was the silencer was pneumatically snapped on, reducing the decibel count of a gunshot to a loud spit - but no more than a spit - the accuracy unaffected at close range.
In the background was a village, beige roofs. Bamboo on both sides of the road. Where's this? Harmon said. Casey shrugged. Looks like China.
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He blew a cloud of dusty blue smoke, and watched the gladiators through a blur of drink. What do you want? Find the pilgrim's gun. Why? For our visitor.
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'Some of our scouts concealed themselves in the high grass to watch the Trolls. Cyrgon is exhorting the man-beasts, and there are several Styrics with him.
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There was nothing. He went back to the pub, where Slater had bought him a pint. As Graham sat down Slater started to shake and his face went red tears appeared in his eyes, and finally he had to splutter, 'Fucking Norwegian bastards!