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His breathing was very shallow now, his voice a whisper. “Tell my son. Jorah. Tell him, take the black. My wish. Dying wish.” “Wish?” The raven cocked its head, beady black eyes shining.” Corn? the bird asked. “No corn,” said Mormont feebly. “Tell Jorah. Forgive him. My son. Please. Go.”

Jeor Mormont , The Old Bear ; A Storm of Swords

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