She could hear the laughing, and then she saw the fire.
Within the towerhouse from whose walls hung the brindled boar, Rylene spoke to the smallfolk huddled within, gave orders to the half-dozen men at arms gripping blunted swords wearing dented armor, and the four crossbowmen, one who shook to load his bolt.
On the bed which was now hers, lay Ser Roger Hogg.
The lions were outside, she knew. Ser Amory pointed and grinned. The bleating of sheep was put to an end, and goats warbled no more.
Such a waste. And it all falls to me.
She wanted to rock back and forth, but she forced her back straight. She wanted to busy her hands with sewing, but she kept her hands in her lap.
They looked to her, this small rabble, as they had done since she had returned only last night, and found her brother dead.
Roger should have declared for Stannis, when my Andrew did. At least his red woman would keep us safe…
The laughing grew louder. The smallfolk clutched closer. She could smell burning.