Chapter 168

Along an unnamed river they passed through woodland, fields of poppies, and a tall wooden windmill whose sails turned with the creaking of an old man’s bones. The sun sank toward the west.

A company of well-armed horsemen rode at an easy pace along the farm tracks north of the Mountains of the Moon. They were tall men of steady gaze, riding two by two, their full plate bearing the flayed man of House Bolton upon a field of pink. Such a procession could belong only to a great lord, and the farmers labouring in the fields bowed low as they passed.

Domeric rode at the head of the column in armour black as ink, a cloak of black satin strewn with stars about his shoulders. He turned to Varys beside him, a note of puzzlement in his voice.