Will went in front, his shaggy little garron picking the way carefully through the undergrowth. 

A light snow had fallen the night before, and there were stones and roots and hidden sinks lying just under its crust, waiting for the careless and the unwary. 

Ser Waymar Royce came next, his great black destrier snorting impatiently. 

The warhorse was the wrong mount for ranging, but try and tell that to the lordling. Gared brought up the rear. The old man-at-arms muttered to himself as he rode. 

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. 

The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. They set forth at daybreak to see a man beheaded, twenty in all, and Bran rode among them, nervous with excitement. This was the first time he had been deemed old enough to go with his lord father and his brothers to see the king’s justice done. It was the ninth year of summer, and the seventh of Bran’s life.