As Lorne spoke, he tossed the two snow hares in his hands onto the ground. The grass rope came completely loose, and the hares rolled beside the fire, their fur flecked with snow.
"My lord, my lady, I was originally a hunter from the Dreadfort. It's been almost twenty years since I started hunting for the Boltons." Seeing that his words had failed to move Viserys or Daenerys, Lorne suddenly crouched down and adopted a sorrowful tone, appealing to their sympathy.
"Every year around this time, the Boltons send a steward to the village to collect game-venison, boar meat, or pelts. As long as we meet the quota, whatever's left belongs to us. That's been the rule since I was a child. It's never changed."
"Those of us who can only make a living by hunting have long since grown used to living this way on House Bolton's lands. We never imagined things could be any different."
He looked up at Viserys, then glanced at Daenerys before continuing. "But the weather's been very strange this year. A summer that lasted decades suddenly ended, and the autumn that followed seemed terribly short. It's only been a few months, but the North is already almost as cold as the winter I lived through decades ago, when I was young."
"Once the cold set in, more than half the game disappeared. In the patches of forest we hunters usually visit, we could barely find even a few rabbits. The hunters in the village were discussing going farther north, but the forests there are mostly Mountain Clan territory."
"There's plenty of game in those woods, but everyone knows it's easy to go in and hard to get back out. Those wild folk won't show anyone any kindness except House Stark."
"Some wanted to try