Eight flayed men were strung up in the forest, their bodies equidistant in a circle clearing. At their centre, a great pile of bloody flesh and was carefully laid out in spiral. The sight was hideous but what truly stuck out was the smell, the smell of death so cruel lingered in Ser Don's nose as a unsettlingly familiar guest. The sooner they moved on from Stormberg's vicious forests the better, even war in the south was favourable to whatever horror this was. The Cornayan Fa

Silver stained the knights lips and tongue as he spoke, flecks of liquid starlight escaping from the gaps in his teeth and the corners of his mouth. Both Ser Maynard and his stallion were barded in pink and purple, chequey fabrics with long, trailing dags that were cut to resemble moons in crescent - more mummer than mercenary in every way. When he spoke it was high pitched but stern, it seemed to Ser Cledwyn to be a failing battle to sound serious with an outfit like that. H