“What is it?” he said, holding his brother all the harder.
“You know what it is, boy,” Osha said, not unkindly. She put her hand on his head. Maester Luwin looked up at them numbly, a small grey man with blood on the sleeve of his grey wool robe and tears in his bright grey eyes.
“My lords,” he said to the sons, in a voice gone hoarse and shrunken, “we... we shall need to find a stonecarver who knew his likeness well ...”
Rickon, Bran, Osha and Luwin...