No, begging your forgiveness, my lady, but it was Lord Jon who- A bell tolled loudly below them. He had found over the years that silence sometimes yielded more than questions. The Other said something in a language that Will did not know; his voice was like the cracking of ice on a winter lake, and the words were mocking. She rolled onto her side and got an elbow under her, fighting the blanket tangled about her legs.
The pale sword bit through the ringmail beneath his arm. But Lord Eddard was a thousand leagues away, a captive in some dungeon, a hunted fugitive running for his life, or even dead. It's made of glass. She took her son's limp hand, sliding his fingers through her own.
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