Dusk was drawing near.
The setting sun stained the square before the sept of the Seven in Lannisport a dark red, as though the sky itself were bleeding.
Crowds packed the edges of the square.
Nearly every resident who had survived the Ironborn raids and was able to come had gathered there.
They stood behind the cordon the soldiers had formed, watching the wooden platform hastily erected in the center of the square.
More than a dozen rough wooden blocks stood on the platform. Beside each stood a bare-chested soldier, both hands resting on a broad-bladed execution sword whose edge gleamed coldly in the sunset.
Two soldiers escorted a golden-haired young man onto the platform. His legs were too weak to support him, and they all but dragged him up.
The soldiers forced him to his knees before a block. A large patch of his trousers was already soaked, and the stench of urine carried several paces away.
"Let go of me! Let go!" Lance struggled desperately, his voice rising into a distorted shriek. "I haven't done anything! I'm innocent! I'm a Lannister! You can't do this! I'm a noble!"
No one paid him any heed.
A soldier stepped forward, faced the commoners in the square, and shouted, "Will anyone testify to his crimes?"
A deathly silence fell over the square.
The commoners looked at one another, but no one dared step forward.
Whatever else he was, Lance belonged to a cadet branch of the family. He had long thrown his weight around under his cousin's protection, and the fear he inspired still lingered.
Who knew whether the Targaryens might leave someday? Anyone who stepped forward to accuse him would surely suffer for it then.
After a long while, a young girl finally stepped forward.
She had brown hair and