"There is no doubt about it, my lords," Varys' voice tremors slightly as he presents to the Small Council. "Lord Tywin's armies are marching on the Riverlands. And I believe it is safe to assume he marches with them, and not to the capital to answer Lord Stark's summons."

"Damn them!" Renly slams his fist on the table. "This means war!"

"I trust that Lord Tully has fortified his lands?" Ser Barristan Selmy grimaces in his seat at the head of the table. His nightly training sessions with Ser Arys have seen his skills with the sword improve, but leave him tired and bruised by day.

"Lord Tully will be dead soon, within the fortnight, perhaps," Varys answers. "His son Edmure has summoned his banners. But the Tully lands are already at war. Lord Stark has of yet failed to stop Ser Gregor and his brigands."

"Then Lord Tywin and all who take up arms beside him must be declared enemies of the crown!" Renly rises, and in that moment, Barristan thinks that he looks very much a king. Or, at least, like one who thinks himself a king. "All loyal lords must summon their banners at once to put down this rebellion."

"Surely I needn't remind you of the great debt the crown owes to House Lannister?" Petyr Baelish finally speaks.

"What of it, Littlefinger, if they call our debt?" Renly laughs. "We'll already be at war! Perhaps the first war that will save the crown money. Yes, I think a forgiveness of the royal debt is a small price to pay when the golden lion is brought to answer for his crimes."

"Good lords!" Pycelle raises his voice, apparently a strenuous effort for the old man, sending him into a violent fit of hacking. Barristan notes Renly rolling his eyes and Littlefinger suppressing a smirk at the Grand Maester's difficulties. "This is a grave matter. We cannot act rashly. His grace King Robert is not with us. And this is his wife's father, grandsire to his heirs that has taken up arms."

"Who has broken the king's peace!" Renly shouts him back down but, surprisingly, Pycelle for once does not shy away.

"Did not Catelyn Stark break the king's peace by kidnapping the son of a Great Lord?"

"Who's side are you on, Grand Maester?" Renly asks, angrily. The young lord has begun to pace, like a cornered stag. "Tywin Lannister's men have committed abominable crimes. Rather than answer the Hand's decree and come to us, he has taken up arms. He must be brought to justice. But you make a good point. The queen is a Lannister. Half the armed men in this city are Lannisters. The Tyrell forces should be here within a week's time, but we must take action now. His grace, my brother, oft warned that King's Landing had become a lion's den. We could all be at risk." He stops and turns to Barristan. "Let me take a dozen loyal men to hold Cersei in her chambers. Her men will not dare move against us so long as she is in custody."

"The queen is still the queen, Lord Renly," Barristan stands, with more confidence than he has been able to muster in some time. One hand falls to rest atop his sheathed sword. "You will not lay a hand upon her."

Renly is unarmed, but for a moment, he seems ready to attack the Lord Commander with only his bare hands. His face turns red with fury, as a storm brews in his dark blue eyes. Finally, he turns, and storms from the room.

"Do not come crying to me if you awake in the dead of night with lion's claws at your throats!" he shouts as he storms out, nearly trampling a terrified, grey-robed acolyte who hurriedly scampers to Pycelle's seat before the doors slam shut behind the Lord of Storm's End. No further sound is made, the chamber remains quiet save the stamping of Renly's footsteps in the hall beyond and Pycelle's vague mumblings as he examines the newly delivered missive.

"There is word from Castle Wendwater," Pycelle raises one wavering hand. "An accident involving a boar, while his grace was on the hunt. He has broken his leg and is on his way home at last. Wait only a few days more, and he will set this all to rights."

The royal hunting party makes a swift if cautious pace trundling down the Kingsroad, the Kingswood now long since left in the distance. Ser Urrigon Hightower rides at the head, behind them a team of four strong horses pulls a sturdy wooden wagon draped in Baratheon banners. Within it, propped up on a bed of pillows and blankets, lies King Robert Baratheon, growing evermore agitated with each wayward rock that send the wagon lurching.

Leaving Castle Wendwater behind had been a miserable affair. They had feasted on roasted white stag and boar their final evening. Seemingly endless toasts to Prince Joffrey for slaying the white stag and to Lyman Darry for saving the king from the boar. And Ser Urrigon had heaped praise on Robert himself, but in the end, the king had gotten violently sick, from the venison he swore, though no others were taken ill. The kingsguard had helped him to his chambers, had the banquet only went downhill from there.

Joffrey had become outrageously drunk and had to be carried off to his room by Peremore and the Hound. Lyman had disappeared with Lord Wendwater's daughter and Urrigon had brawled with Wendwater's son until they both past out on the floor of the hall, with poor Alyn Ambrose left to clean up the messes of the entire royal party. Now, two days hence, Robert was still facing wretched stomach pains and a miserable headache that no herbs could soothe.

"I swear, I'll never go back to that forest again if I had to stay in that damn castle," Robert grumbles to himself, arms crosses angrily in the back of his wagon, scowling at the timid young maester who had been brought along from the Keep with their party. He cannot manage to remember the man's name, nor can Lyman or anyone else in the party, for that matter. Thankfully, yelling 'maester!' seemed to suffice. "Everywhere you go, all you can here is that bloody waterfall. If that were my keep, I'd have dammed it up years ago just to get some peace and quiet!"

In the past, Lyman would have had to stifle a chuckle at the king's complaints. But now, as he nervously watches Robert, riding close behind the wagon, his thoughts are only on the accident. After sharing his suspicions about Tyrek and the wine, the king had scarce said a word to him, only an order to tell no one else. Perhaps that was why he had been so upset at the feast. But ever since leaving Castle Wendwater, he seemed to be back to his usual self, only now more agitated by his lack of mobility.

"Fair weather for our return. I like that!" Prince Joffrey disturbs Lyman's musing as he rides up along beside him. Peremore Hightower appears, matching pace to Lyman's right. "How are you feeling, Father?"

"Same as yesterday. Like I've been dragged through all seven hells!" Robert snarls and takes a swill of ale. "Hear, have some of this, boy, then go to the front and see what Urrigon thinks of it. They say it's the way the First Men brewed it." He hurls the horn at Joffrey. It is a horrid throw. The prince nearly falls from his horse to catch it, and Lyman reaches out to snag it from the air. He looks down at Joffrey, twisted sideways in his saddle, and hands it to him. He at first seems agitated, but his face softens as he accepts the horn.

"You saved my father, plowboy. Thank you for that. You should be well-rewarded." Joff takes a long swallow from the horn, nearly gags, but forces it down. With a nod, he clicks his heels and rides off, with Peremore close behind.

"Rancid stuff," Robert chuckles. "But it'll put some hair on him. 'Bout time the boy started to grow a beard. Aye, a golden beard." He pauses, stroking his own thick, black beard, and grimacing as the wagon hits another bump. "He's growing up at last. He'll be following you to the whorehouse soon enough, I wager. He was a cruel, whining child, I'll tell you that. But that stag… a good omen it was. Urrigon knocked some sense into him. Tell me, Lyman, one day that son of mine will be your king. What do you think of him?"

"Your grace, I…" Lyman hesitates, unsure what to say, and instead sends a grateful prayer to the gods when the caravan comes to a sudden, crashing halt.

"Why have we stopped?" Robert bellows, craning his neck to try and see ahead. "Lyman! Ride on and see what nonsense is meddling with us now!"

Lyman reaches the crest of the hill where Urrigon sits atop his horse. Now he can hear it – the thundering of hundreds of hooves and hundreds more feet. Looking ahead, to the village where the Roseroad joins the Kingsroad, he spies a massive army on the march.

"What in the seven hells?" Urrigon lifts his visor to take a better look.

"What is it?" Joffrey asks. "Who are they?"

"Them's Tyrell banners," Urrigon answers, dumbfounded. "Near half of Lord Mace's force, marching on King Landing. What did we miss?"

In the Black Cells, beneath the Red Keep, Queen Cersei walks furtively, a dark hood obscuring her face, two crimson-cloaked Lannister guards close behind her. She needs no guide. She has made this journey scarce times since her brother's imprisonment, but enough to find her way to his damp, ugly prison.

The first guard carries a torch to light their way. She motions for him to hold it to the small, barred window to the door behind which she knows her brother waits. As daggers of light writhe across the pitch dark cell beyond, she peers closer.

"Jaime!" she hisses, and he suddenly pops into view. He does not look too horribly worse than when they last spoke, but still Cersei near faints to see him. He seems to have aged a decade in those shadows, his blonde hair long, dirty and matted, and ugly beard growing off of his face. She swears to herself once again that she will have the heads of Ned Stark, Barristan and Robert himself for locking her love away here. And despite it all, Jaime has the gall to smile.

"I'm sorry, I was speaking with my new friend. A mouse, I believe, or a runt of a rat. I've knighted him myself, you see. Ser Squeaks of the Black Cells."

"Have you already gone mad?" Cersei shudder. "You should be in the Traitor's Tower. These cells are no place for noble born."

"I cannot blame his Boldness," Jaime smirks. "I wouldn't keep me there either. I have too many friends, I would have been let out through some rear window by the third night."

"I swear, they will all die for this. Everyone, starting with Ned Stark."

"Stark still lives? Has he not yet found the Mountain?"

"No. And now he says that his bitch wife took Tyrion to the Eyrie, not to Riverrun."

"Then this was all for nothing," Jaime steps back into the dark. "The Mountain burned Tully's fields to avenge a prisoner who was never there."

"Nothing? Catelyn Stark kidnapped our brother! Their family declared war on ours the minute Tyrion was plucked from that Inn. It matters not where she took him, and she is a Tully nonetheless. Such an affront must be punished. And it shall be. Father's armies are marching now. Soon we will have nothing left to fear from the Starks."

"Father is marching?" Jaime lurches back to the bars. Cersei recoils from the stench and dirt. "While I am still prisoner here?"

"What of it? Father will wipe out the Starks and then we can move on to Robert."

"Robert? No, no, Barristan is going to free me. And I'll retrieve Tyrion myself, in Trial by Combat if I must. I'd like to see Catelyn Stark's face when I cut down her champion. Who do you think she'd choose? That old Ser Rodrik?"

"Not now!" Cersei laughs, cruelly. "They'll never let you go now! You're a hostage!"

"A poor hostage if Father is marching to war anyway."

"That's not what I came here to talk to you about!" Cersei silences him. "Word came this morning from the Kingswood. There was an accident."

"Is he dead?"

"No," Cersei answers, with venom in her tone. "Tyrek got him drunk and the gods gifted us a mad board, but that awful Darry by got in the way. Now Tyrek is missing, Robert's leg is broken and he is returning in a fury."

"What if he suspects? You should never have brought Tyrek into this, he's just a child."

"You were scarce older than him when you put on that cloak."

"Aye, and what a wise decision that proved for King Aerys," Jaime laughs, but it is devoid of mirth. A sad quip that echoes down the lonely halls."

"Robert is a fool. He will suspect nothing. And a broken leg has killed stronger men than he." Girding her nostrils to suffer the smell, she draws close, close enough to feel Jaime's breath through the bars. "I can feel it. It's only a matter of time. Soon, all our foes will be dead, and I will love you over their biers."

"I want to love you now," Jaime hisses, trying to force his hands through the bars, but Cersei swats them away and steps back.

"No. But soon, soon I swear."

Jaime retreats into his cell but, just as his sister turns to leave he calls her back. The sadness has returned to his eyes, stronger now in the flame. Cersei does not like the look on him. It is soft. "How's Edward?" he asks.

"That worthless squire of yours?" Cersei scoffs. "Arys has him now, and he's still no better with the sword, I wager. Put away your thoughts of him. He's being shipped off to Oldtown, and I dearly hope he never returns."

On a small hill looking down into into the Red Keep's godswood, Sansa sits with Jeyne Poole and Septa Mordane, needle in hand, stitching a collar out of the brown feathers from the grouse she had killed the day she fell into the river. The day she learned she was a far as she knew, no one else knew – only Edward and Maris. She knows she can trust Edward, but Maris… Every time a crow circles overhead, she fears it is the grim Hightower girl watching.

Sansa has not picked up a bow since the accident. She found herself missing it. Father would be proud to know she had shot a grouse on her first hunt, she knows. But that brief feeling of freedom was overshadowed by the queen's disapproval and the small scar her fall had left. It fell mostly beneath her hair, barely noticeable, but she still worried what Joff would think when he saw it. She had seen Ser Aron and Diggery in their yard the day before. They had called in greeting, but she had only curtsied politely and moved on. She had spoken to neither of them, save a reassuring word to the Dornish Master at Arms, who had been planning to flee the city before Jory had assured him he would not be punished.

"Your stitches are slipping, Sansa," the septa notes. "Does something trouble you?"

"No, septa," Sansa shakes her head. Would she protect me, if she knew I was a warg? She never did in the dreams.

The sound of young laughter crests over the hill behind them. Prince Tommen comes clumsily dashing along, followed by Rosamund and several other girls of the court, Maris standing tall over them. A ways behind, the queen approaches, accompanied by two of the Kingsguard. Tommen nearly crashes into Mordane on her stool and, deciding to run is too much effort, begins to roll the rest of the way down the hill.

"Tommen, stop that at once!" Cersei shouts after him. "You'll ruin your clothes!"

"We're going to play games with Heleana in Myrcella's garden!" Rosamund stops to catch her breath. "Do you want to come?"

"May I?" Jeyne looks up eagerly to the septa, who nods approvingly. But Sansa doesn't move.

"Won't you come?" Maris lingers back as Jeyne runs off with the other girls after Tommen. She smiles, but Sansa shivers silently. She's done her hair differently, she thinks. More like a lady. But smiles look wrong on her. "It will be so much fun. Hela knows so many games."

"I'm sorry, I must finish this collar," she insists. "But I hope you have a splendid day." She locks eyes with Maris, expecting to see some kind of anger, but none comes. Giving up, the taller girl curtsies and turns away down the hill. With a sudden prick of pain, Sansa misses the line and stabs her finger. Hiding a flinch, she returns to work.

"Good septa, may I have a moment alone with the young lady Stark?" Cersei slips down onto Jeyne's empty stool. Mordane silently rises to give them space as the queen reaches over to examine the collar. Sansa hides her left hand beneath her sleeve to conceal the small spot of blood. The queen mustn't think her a poor stitcher.

"This is very good work. Joff will wear it proudly." Cersei smiles, but Sansa can tell she's barely looked at it. "Tell me, what do you think of the Hightowers?"

"I…" Sansa is taken aback. "I think they're lovely, of course, but I do not know them very well."

"Sansa, you mustn't lie to me, remember?" Cersei's cold green gaze examines her, but she does not flinch. "If you want to know them better, you should run along and join them with the other girls. After all, before too long, young Helaena will be your good sister."

"Of course," Sansa nods submissively. "I have just been so busy."

"Oh, of course. But now look," Cersei hands the collar back. "It's almost done. And you are almost done with stitching, I think. It is servant's work. Septas only make young ladies do it to distract them."

"But I like stitching!"

"I suppose. But stitching will get you no closer to the Hightowers." The queen suddenly grabs Sansa's wrist and pulls her close. "I want to know everything about them, my dear. What they want, what they dream of, who they fear. There are more arriving every day, and I do not like it. We have enough enemies as it is, and the last time the Hightowers set their eyes on the throne, the realm burned."

"Enemies?" Sansa at first does not believe what she has heard. "I don't understand. Do you want me to be a spy?"

"Of course not," Cersei laughs. "But you mustn't forget, when you marry Joff, I will be your mother, too. And a good daughter tells her mother all the new things she learns."

The shop of Tobho Mott is alive with the sounds of metallurgy. Through the clamor walk Ser Gunthor Hightower, leaving his armor behind for a dark orange doublet and black trousers, and his sister Alysanne, in a plain, loose-flowing yellow gown crossed by a sash embroidered with the red ants of her husband's sigil. Spying his noble guests from across the yard between the shop and the work barn, the Qohorik master makes haste to great them.

"Good ser, good lady, I am sorry to keep you waiting," he urges the duo to turn back around. "Here, come back into the shop where it's cool. It gets scorching by these fires, even in these late summer days."

"Tell me, master, do you know who I am?" Gunthor asks.

"Your pin marks ye a Hightower, but I fear I don't ser," Tobho leads them into his shop and waves at his waiting girl to fetch drinks. "Though I swear I know most all noble knights in King's Landing. They all come to me. Are you new to our city?"

"I am, in fact," Gunthor yawns, aimlessly perusing the armorer's wears. "And not long of it, either. But I am in search of a new helm and, as you said, all the nobles do speak so highly of you."

"A new helm?" Tobho's eyes light up. "I can certainly help with that. We have many, many fine pieces here in the shop."

"I was hoping for something more… personal," Gunthor muses, graciously taking a cup of wine as the serving girl returns. Alysanne declines.

"But of course. A custom piece for one from such famed a line."

"You are too kind, master. But I had heard from Lord Stark's men of one apprentice in your care who made some of the finest helms they had ever seen. A strapping lad, who made an exquisite bull's head."

"Oh," Tobho hesitates. "I am afraid the boy is no longer in my service."

"Well, who's service is he in?" Gunthor waits for a moment, but it is clear the smith is reluctant to respond. "I plan to return to Oldtown before my nephew turns ten-and-six. He'll be a man grown and I shall by him his first suit of man's armor from you, but only if you tell me where I may find this lad with the lovely helm."

Finally, Tobho relents. "His name's Gendry. He's in Lord Renly's service for the moment, but he's pledged to the Night's Watch."

"Intriguing. I didn't think they needed helms on the wall. Rather earmuffs." Gunthor laughs and returns to examining the displayed swords. But before Tobho can follow, Alysanne steps in his path, staring up with sternly inquisitive eyes.

"Tell me, this Gendry. Was he black of hair?"

"Aye, m'lady. And blue of eyes."

Solemn bells ring out from atop Visenya's Hill. Upon the steps, through the gardens and in the white marble plaza at the feet of the great statue of Baelor the Blessed, a growing crowd is gathering. Syrio Forel, Yorren and Jory Cassel look plainly out of place as they follow the Stark children and Septa Mordane to the entrance of the Great Sept.

"I think we'd best stay out here," Jory murmurs before crossing the threshold. "These halls aren't kind to our gods."

"Very well," Mordane nods and ushers the children inside.

"I pray to the old gods too!" Arya whines. "I want to stay out with Syrio!" Mordane hushes her sternly and Sansa pulls away, embarrassed. Edward picks up his pace to stay close to her.

"I don't understand, why are we here?" he whispers. The septa had been waiting with Ser Arys when he returned from his lessons, and had brought him straight along.

"The realm is at war," Sansa answers with a shudder. "Lord Tywin is invading the Riverlands. He's going to try and kill Father."

"He can't," Edward shouts, jaw dropping. His cry echoes up off the walls of the great dome. He clasps his hands over his mouth, as several disapproving septas and septons cast their gaze towards him. He looks up to Sansa, hoping for some correction. Father was supposed to be bringing one outlaw to justice, not fighting a war!

"I'm sorry, Ed," Sansa pulls him close, holding one hand tight and wrapping her other arm around his shoulder. "It's true. But the king will be home soon, and Joffrey too, and they will put it all to right."

Joffrey won't, Edward thinks. He'll make it all worse. What if this was all his plan? But he says nothing, and hugs tighter to his sister as she guides him through the crowd beneath the huge gilded statues of the Seven. And, as fear for his father begins to creep in, he remembers Sansa's warnings. Is this where they would burn wargs, he wonders? Father would never let anyone hurt them. But Father isn't here…

He can hear the hushed whispers of the devout nobles around them. He tries to remember the prayers that Mother had taught them in the sept at home in Winterfell, but Arya had always distracted him. He knows that he can follow Sansa's words, though. She always knew her prayers. And after, he would pray to the old gods, too. To anyone who would protect Father.

The Hightowers are clustered together at the feet of the Crone – Alysanne, Leyla and Gunthor; Maris and Helaena; Patrice and her youngest, Ellyn; and the captain of their guard, Ser Runcel Cupps. Alysanne beckons them over, and the Starks follow. For a moment, Sansa locks eyes with Cersei across the room, where she kneels before the Mother with Myrcella and Tommen. The queen is watching. Sansa quickly looks away.

"What was that?" Edward asks quietly.

"Nothing at all," she pushes him along in front of her.

"Little ones, come here," Leyla bends down to embrace the children. "We all wept when we heard. But do not fear. The king's men will prevail."

"Your lord father is a great warrior," Ser Runcel concurs solemnly. "He will bring these outlaws to justice, and Lord Tywin will have no choice but to relent once the king returns." But as Edward watches the others' faces, he can see they are not so confident. And then the tears begin to come forth.

"Don't cry, child," Leyla pulls him tight to her round stomach, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of her violet gown. "Come now, we've lit a candle to the Crone to guide the realm to peace. Will you join us?"

"Yes, I'll pray with you," Heleana gently, cautiously takes his hand and guides him to the alter. He sniffles as he kneels. Sansa and Maris kneel beside them as he clumsily reaches for an unlit candle and holds it, shaking, to the flame of another until it catches light.

"Wondering Crone, grant your wisdom, may your lantern guide our way," Sansa begins. Edward stares into the flame and, in the distance, thinks he hears the howling of wolves, muffled beneath the bells. I'm a wolf, he tells himself. Wolves don't cry. They're fighters.

But as he joins her in prayer, all the wolfblood in the world cannot stop his voice from melting away into the chorus of thousands of desperate souls, praying for peace, just one tiny pebble on a dam about to break.

The booming ringing of the sept's bells echoes clearly across the city, where Loras Tyrell and Renly Baratheon wait by a small, rarely used gate in the castle walls. A fog has fallen over the castle with the night, and Loras sniffles as the cold haze plays cruel tricks upon his nose. They wait, until they here the latch shift open. Rising up from the mist appears a shrouded figure, dark cloak clasped with a golden rose. The hood lowers, revealing the off-center face and twitching, patchy mustache of Garrett Flowers.

"Tell me, m'lord, how do you make a stone float?" he asks.

Renly grins. "You put it on a boat."

"And when is a storm tethered to the ground?"

"When it's a bloody bastard," Loras interrupts, irritably. "It takes one to find one, it seems, Garrett. No riddles, none of this will be any good if we catch our deaths of cold."

"Of course," Garrett waves behind him and a small crowd of shadowy figures step into view. The first, Renly knows well. Hidden beneath a dark hood is Edric Storm, the strapping young lad. The boy was born of a Florent mother, and had lived near all his life at Storm's End. Behind him looms the massive, ominous form of Ser Balerion Horpe, the most formidable of Renly's sworn swords, looking very much a ghost in his raggedy white cloak.

Next are four strangers – a stooped old man and two tall, dark-haired men with hooked noses. But the features of the broad-shouldered woman they guide is unmistakable.

"You must be Mya Stone," Renly nods at her, and she kneels.

"That is I, my lord." Renly steps forward to examine her more closely. The black hair, the bright blue eyes, the muscles he can see lie beneath her rough-hewn shirt. No doubt Robert's daughter.

"Uncle Renly," Edric steps forward. "Why are we here?" Renly slides off the boy's hood and tilts his head up to look in his matching blue eyes.

"To help your father. There are very bad men in this city who have lied to him. But together, we'll put an end to it." The Lannisters may have fooled Robert, he thinks. But not me. They've already lost. They just don't know it yet."

The madness ends today. What a cruel jape that had been turned into, Ned Stark thinks bitterly. Ser Gladden Wylde had left his squire behind with one of his scouts to keep watch on the movement of the Mountain's men. They never found the squire, but they did find the scout – stripped to his smallclothes, belly cut open and hanged from a tree.

In the days since, they had grown increasingly desperate in their search to pick up the trail once again. And each day it grew harder to hold the party in order. Karyl Vance and Marq Piper had wanted to leave. They had crossed the path of men-at-arms from the forces of House Mooton making haste to Riverrun. Edmure Tully had called his banners in the name of his father, it seemed. And Lannister armies were on the march, with the young knight's fathers leading the first line of defense.

Ned certainly understood their urge to join that fight. But with Catelyn's brother summoning his men, there would be even less defenses to guard the local villages and keeps, including Stone Hedge, where Ser Gregor's men had been marching – at least until they lost the trail. He could spare no one. Lord Darry, Ned notes, did not share the knights' enthusiasm to answer Riverrun's call to arms. Raymun Darry is no fighter, that much Ned can tell. His three older brothers had been, and all had died on the Trident. But he was no craven, and for that, Ned is relieved. The lord is loyal, and follows orders well. Had the same been said for the rest of his command, perhaps the Mountain would already be there's.

But there was no use dwelling on past mistakes. At last, they've found the trail again, just a day's ride out from Stone Hedge. Now, Ned waits atop a ridge, Alyn and Harwyn at his side. Edric Dayne sits above them in a tree, watching the long, ragged line of brigands as they come to a halt. Lord Mallery has blocked their path with a handful of men, asking to speak to their leader. And ambush was not honorable, such a plan gave Ned pause. But these were not honorable men they fought, and they could not be allowed to escape again.

"Can you see the Mountain?" Alyn hisses up to Edric.

"I don't know," the squire whispers back down. "There are some very large men."

"You'd know the Mountain if you saw him," Alyn shakes his head and begins to push aside the pine branches blocking their view. "What's taking so long?"

"Something's wrong," Ned raises his hand. He can feel it. "Edric, come down."

Then, the sound of a sickening crunch from the ditch below – the sound of a spear finding its mark. Shouts of chaos explode the silence of the forest as Edric comes crashing down from his perch in a panic.

"What's happening?" Ned shouts.

"Lord Mallery…" Edric yells, eyes wide in horror, but before he can finish, Alyn comes crashing back out of the trees. Harwyn rushes to his side but red-headed guard falls to the ground dead, an arrow protruding through his mouth in a final, deadly scream. But Ned already knows the words that had died on his man's tongue. This is no trap for The Mountain. The trap is for them.