“There are few men with more blood on their hands than me. He looked down at his hands, pink and clean on the stone. I’ve no doubt the world would be a better place if I’d been killed years ago, but I haven’t been, and I don’t know why.” I’ve been wounded, often, and badly, and screamed and cried like a baby whose mother took her tit away. I’ve stabbed men in the back, burned them, drowned them, crushed them with rocks, killed them asleep, unarmed, or running away. I’ve been ruthless, and brutal, and a coward. “I’ve fought ten single combats and I won them all, but I fought on the wrong side and for all the wrong reasons. A woman tried to stab me once for killing her husband, and I threw her down a well. I’ve seen men killed for a word, for a look, for nothing at all. I’ve been fighting all my life, one enemy or another, one friend or another. I’ve fought in the driving snow, the blasting wind, the middle of the night. In countless raids and skirmishes and desperate defences, and bloody actions of every kind. “I’ve fought in three campaigns,” he began.
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