“War is food and drink and disease and patience and anger and hate and cold and stealth and terror as well as sweet silver and bitter iron and the glitter of arms in the sun or under the moon.”

“Ser Tomaso,” she said. “It is very likely we will all die.” “Or worse,” said Brown, the first words he’d said in days. Ser Tomaso made a brave face. “Perhaps,” he said. “But we will eat well.”

“War is food and drink and disease and patience and anger and hate and cold and stealth and terror as well as sweet silver and bitter iron and the glitter of arms in the sun or under the moon.”