The Red Keep's stone steps were long and cold, their chill piercing up through the soles into the marrow. Jon Connington walked at the front, his stride steady.
More than twenty people followed behind him, their steps heavy and hesitant.
They were minor lords and landed knights of the Stormlands. Heads bowed and faces filled with terror, they looked like lambs being herded toward the slaughterhouse.
The sight at the entrance atop the stairs seized every heart.
Three corpses.
Their bodies lay fresh and not yet cold on the icy floor. The thick stench of blood mingled with the dampness of the stone steps and assaulted their nostrils.
The one in the middle drew the eye most.
Even with its head severed, the sumptuous robe embroidered with a roaring lion and a crowned stag still proclaimed its wearer's former exalted status.
Now dark red blood had dulled the gold thread, and the severed neck was a gruesome sight...
That was Joffrey Baratheon, the king who had sat upon the Iron Throne not long ago, the scion the Lannisters had cherished. Now he was no different from slaughtered livestock, his head nowhere to be seen, his mutilated body discarded outside the doors for anyone to trample.
The two beside him were equally terrifying.
The maester's robes and the Gold Cloaks' armor made their identities clear at a glance: Grand Maester Pycelle and Janos Slynt, commander of the City Watch, both high officials of the former regime who had just been executed.
Even the king, the Grand Maester, and the commander of the City Watch had met such an end, cast aside like refuse...
The chill no longer came from the stone steps. It surged wildly from deep within their hearts, freezing their blood in an instant.
They kept their heads resolutely