'Get . . .' The air rasped and clicked, but no sound would come. It wasn't his voice any longer.
He reached out, with his last strength, and he put his palm against Tul's chest, and he tried to push him away, but the big man only caught the hand and pressed it with his own.
'It's alright,' he growled. 'I've got you.'
'Aye,' whispered Logen, and the smile spread out across his bloody mouth.
He gripped that great hand with a sudden, terrible strength, and with his other fist he found the handle of a knife, tucked down warm against his skin.
The good blade darted out, swift as the snake and just as deadly, and sank into the big man's thick neck to the hilt.
He looked surprised, as the hot blood poured from his open throat, drooled from his open mouth, soaked in his heavy beared, dribbled from his nose and down his chest, but he shouldn't have.
To touch the Bloody-Nine was to touch death, and death has no favourites, and makes no exceptions.
- Last Argument of Kings, Part I, The Seventh Day