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... den head had vanished. The prickle of unease at the back of his neck wasn’t from the cold; it was the realization that he had been looking for the wrong kind of blade.
Cersei didn’t do anything without a purpose, and Jaime didn’t threaten common wards unless they were already in his sights. Her mention of the "fever"—the way she let the word hang in the air like a foul scent—made his stomach turn.
It hit him then, a cold realization that made his blood feel like slush. She wasn’t ...
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