Through the high narrow windows of the Red Keep’s cavernous throne room, the light of sunsetspilled across the floor, laying dark red stripes upon the walls where the heads of dragons had oncehung. Now the stone was covered with hunting tapestries, vivid with greens and browns and blues,and yet still it seemed to Ned Stark that the only color in the hall was the red of blood.

He sat high upon the immense ancient seat of Aegon the Conqueror, an ironwork monstrosity ofspikes and jagged edges and grotesquely twisted metal. It was, as Robert had warned him, a hellishlyuncomfortable chair, and never more so than now, with his shattered leg throbbing more sharplyevery minute. The metal beneath him had grown harder by the hour, and the fanged steel behind madeit impossible to lean back. A king should never sit easy, Aegon the Conqueror had said, when hecommanded his armorers to forge a great seat from the swords laid down by his enemies. DamnAegon for his arrogance, Ned thought sullenly, and damn Robert and his hunting as well.

“You are quite certain these were more than brigands?” Varys asked softly from the council tablebeneath the throne. Grand Maester Pycelle stirred uneasily beside him, while Littlefinger toyed with apen. They were the only councillors in attendance. A white hart had been sighted in the kingswood,and Lord Renly and Ser Barristan had joined the king to hunt it, along with Prince Joffrey, SandorClegane, Balon Swann, and half the court. So Ned must needs sit the Iron Throne in his absence.

At least he could sit. Save the council, the rest must stand respectfully, or kneel. The petitionersclustered near the tall doors, the knights and high lords and ladies beneath the tapestries, the smallfolkin the gallery, the mailed guards in their cloaks, gold or grey: all stood.

The villagers were kneeling: men, women, and children, alike tattered and bloody, their facesdrawn by fear. The three knights who had brought them here to bear witness stood behind them.

“Brigands, Lord Varys?” Ser Raymun Darry’s voice dripped scorn. “Oh, they were brigands,beyond a doubt. Lannister brigands.”

Ned could feel the unease in the hall, as high lords and servants alike strained to listen. He couldnot pretend to surprise. The west had been a tinderbox since Catelyn had seized Tyrion Lannister.

Both Riverrun and Casterly Rock had called their banners, and armies were massing in the pass belowthe Golden Tooth. It had only been a matter of time until the blood began to flow. The sole questionthat remained was how best to stanch the wound.

Sad-eyed Ser Karyl Vance, who would have been handsome but for the winestain birthmark thatdiscolored his face, gestured at the kneeling villagers. “This is all the remains of the holdfast ofSherrer, Lord Eddard. The rest are dead, along with the people of Wendish Town and the Mummer’sFord.”

“Rise,” Ned commanded the villagers. He never trusted what a man told him from his knees. “Allof you, up.”

In ones and twos, the holdfast of Sherrer struggled to its feet. One ancient needed to be helped, anda young girl in a bloody dress stayed on her knees, staring blankly at Ser Arys Oakheart, who stoodby the foot of the throne in the white armor of the Kingsguard, ready to protect and defend theking … or, Ned supposed, the King’s Hand.

“Joss,” Ser Raymun Darry said to a plump balding man in a brewer’s apron. “Tell the Hand whathappened at Sherrer.”

Joss nodded. “If it please His Grace—”

“His Grace is hunting across the Blackwater,” Ned said, wondering how a man could live hiswhole life a few days ride from the Red Keep and still have no notion what his king looked like. Nedwas clad in a white linen doublet with the direwolf of Stark on the breast; his black wool cloak wasfastened at the collar by his silver hand of office. Black and white and grey, all the shades of truth. “Iam Lord Eddard Stark, the King’s Hand. Tell me who you are and what you know of these raiders.”

dwas clad in a white linen doublet with the direwolf of Stark on the breast; his black wool cloak wasfastened at the collar by his silver hand of office. Black and white and grey, all the shades of truth. “Iam Lord Eddard Stark, the King’s Hand. Tell me who you are and what you know of these raiders.”

“I keep … I kept … I kept an alehouse, m’lord, in Sherrer, by the stone bridge. The finest alesouth of the Neck, everyone said so, begging your pardons, m’lord. It’s gone now like all the rest,m’lord. They come and drank their fill and spilled the rest before they fired my roof, and they wouldof spilled my blood too, if they’d caught me. M’lord.”

“They burnt us out,” a farmer beside him said. “Come riding in the dark, up from the south, andfired the fields and the houses alike, killing them as tried to stop them. They weren’t no raiders,though, m’lord. They had no mind to steal our stock, not these, they butchered my milk cow whereshe stood and left her for the flies and the crows.”

“They rode down my ’prentice boy,” said a squat man with a smith’s muscles and a bandagearound his head. He had put on his finest clothes to come to court, but his breeches were patched, hiscloak travel-stained and dusty. “Chased him back and forth across the fields on their horses, poking athim with their lances like it was a game, them laughing and the boy stumbling and screaming till thebig one pierced him clean through.”

The girl on her knees craned her head up at Ned, high above her on the throne. “They killed mymother too, Your Grace. And they … they …” Her voice trailed off, as if she had forgotten what shewas about to say. She began to sob.

Ser Raymun Darry took up the tale. “At Wendish Town, the people sought shelter in their holdfast,but the walls were timbered. The raiders piled straw against the wood and burnt them all alive. Whenthe Wendish folk opened their gates to flee the fire, they shot them down with arrows as they camerunning out, even women with suckling babes.”

“Oh, dreadful,” murmured Varys. “How cruel can men be?”

“They would of done the same for us, but the Sherrer holdfast’s made of stone,” Joss said. “Somewanted to smoke us out, but the big one said there was riper fruit up river, and they made for theMummer’s Ford.”

Ned could feel cold steel against his fingers as he leaned forward. Between each finger was a blade,the points of twisted swords fanning out like talons from arms of the throne. Even after threecenturies, some were still sharp enough to cut. The Iron Throne was full of traps for the unwary. Thesongs said it had taken a thousand blades to make it, heated white-hot in the furnace breath ofBalerion the Black Dread. The hammering had taken fifty-nine days. The end of it was this hunchedblack beast made of razor edges and barbs and ribbons of sharp metal; a chair that could kill a man,and had, if the stories could be believed.

What Eddard Stark was doing sitting there he would never comprehend, yet there he sat, and thesepeople looked to him for justice. “What proof do you have that these were Lannisters?” he asked,trying to keep his fury under control. “Did they wear crimson cloaks or fly a lion banner?”

“Even Lannisters are not so blind stupid as that,” Ser Marq Piper snapped. He was a swaggeringbantam rooster of a youth, too young and too hot-blooded for Ned’s taste, though a fast friend ofCatelyn’s brother, Edmure Tully.

“Every man among them was mounted and mailed, my lord,” Ser Karyl answered calmly. “Theywere armed with steel-tipped lances and longswords, with battle-axes for the butchering.” He gesturedtoward one of the ragged survivors. “You. Yes, you, no one’s going to hurt you. Tell the Hand whatyou told me.”

The old man bobbed his head. “Concerning their horses,” he said, “it were warhorses they rode.

Many a year I worked in old Ser Willum’s stables, so I knows the difference. Not a one of these everpulled a plow, gods bear witness if I’m wrong.”

“Well-mounted brigands,” observed Littlefinger. “Perhaps they stole the horses from the lastplace they raided.”

“How many men were there in this raiding party?” Ned asked.

“A hundred, at the least,” Joss answered, in the same instant as the bandaged smith said, “Fifty,”

and the grandmother behind him, “Hunnerds and hunnerds, m’lord, an army they was.”

“You are more right than you know, goodwoman,” Lord Eddard told her. “You say they flew nobanners. What of the armor they wore? Did any of you note ornaments or decorations, devices onshield or helm?”

anners. What of the armor they wore? Did any of you note ornaments or decorations, devices onshield or helm?”

The brewer, Joss, shook his head. “It grieves me, m’lord, but no, the armor they showed us wasplain, only … the one who led them, he was armored like the rest, but there was no mistaking him allthe same. It was the size of him, m’lord. Those as say the giants are all dead never saw this one, Iswear. Big as an ox he was, and a voice like stone breaking.”

“The Mountain!” Ser Marq said loudly. “Can any man doubt it? This was Gregor Clegane’swork.”

Ned heard muttering from beneath the windows and the far end of the hall. Even in the galley,nervous whispers were exchanged. High lords and smallfolk alike knew what it could mean if SerMarq was proved right. Ser Gregor Clegane stood bannerman to Lord Tywin Lannister.

He studied the frightened faces of the villagers. Small wonder they had been so fearful; they hadthought they were being dragged here to name Lord Tywin a red-handed butcher before a king whowas his son by marriage. He wondered if the knights had given them a choice.

Grand Maester Pycelle rose ponderously from the council table, his chain of office clinking. “SerMarq, with respect, you cannot know that this outlaw was Ser Gregor. There are many large men inthe realm.”

“As large as the Mountain That Rides?” Ser Karyl said. “I have never met one.”

“Nor has any man here,” Ser Raymun added hotly. “Even his brother is a pup beside him. Mylords, open your eyes. Do you need to see his seal on the cor............