They swept over holdfasts and cities and kingdoms, felled heroes and armies by the score, riding their pale dead horses and leading hosts of the slain. Arya heard sadness in his voice; he did not often speak of his father, or of the brother and sister who had died before she was born. Race you to the bridge? Done, Jon said, kicking his horse forward. Call it what you will, my lord.
And you as well, Ned replied. Even then, it took three grown men to drag him off me. Joffrey said nothing, but a man strange to Arya, a tall knight with black hair and burn scars on his face, pushed forward in front of the prince. There were deep gouges where he'd raked the wood.
Join the newsletter to receive news, updates, new products and freebies in your inbox.