A small army of slaves had gone ahead to prepare for Khal Drogo's arrival. He set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions. As he tried to get up, his back spasmed painfully. Oh, the Stark woman had been clever, no doubt of it.
As his sons and grandsons and daughters and bastards and nieces and nephews streamed from the hall, he leaned close to Catelyn and confessed, They're all waiting for me to die. She tried for four hours, until every muscle in her body was sore and aching, while Syrio Forel clicked his teeth together and told her what to do. The fat boy struggled to rise, slipped, and fell heavily again. Was it poison, my lady? Catelyn frowned, vaguely uneasy.
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