His sword helped taint the throne you sit on, Ned thought, but he did not permit the words to pass his lips.
The flint hills rose higher and wilder with each passing miles, until by fifth day they had turned into mountains, could blue-grey giants with jagged promontories snow on their shoulders.
When the wind blew from the north, long plumes of ice crystals flew from the high peaks like banners.
He found a comfortable spot just beyond the noise of the camp, beside a swift-running stream with waters clear and clod as ice.
He had expected to find them impressive, perhaps even frightening. He had not thought to find them beautiful. Yet they were.
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