Not that I’m complaining. It was better than my old dream, where Harma Dogshead was feeding me to her pigs.”
“Harma’s dead.” Jon said.
“But not the pigs. They look at me the way Slayer used to look at ham. Not to say that the wildlings mean us harm. Aye, we hacked their gods apart and made them burn the pieces, but we gave them onion soup. What’s a god compared to a nice bowl of onion soup? I could do with mine myself.

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