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 below the Golden Tooth. It had only been a matter of time until the blood began to flow. The sole question that remained was how best to stanch the wound.
Sad-eyed Ser Karyl Vance, who would have been handsome but for the winestain birthmark that discolored his face, gestured at the kneeling villagers. "This is all the remains of the holdfast of Sherrer, Lord Eddard. The rest are dead, along with the people of Wendish Town and the Mummer’s Ford."
"Rise," Ned commanded the villagers. He never trusted what a man told him from his knees. "All of you, up."
In ones and twos, the holdfast of Sherrer struggled to its feet. One ancient needed to be helped, and a young girl in a bloody dress stayed on her knees, staring blankly at Ser Arys Oakheart, who stood by the foot of thethrone in the white armor of the Kingsguard, ready to protect and defend the king...?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 what happened at Sherrer."
Joss nodded. "If it please His Grace..."