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.Twilight deepened. The cloudless sky turned a deep purple, the color of an old bruise, then faded to black.The stars began to come out. A half-moon rose. Will was grateful for the light.We can make a better pace than this, surely, Royce said when the moon was full risen.Not with this horse, Will said. Fear had made him insolent. Perhaps my lord would care to take the lead?Ser Waymar Royce did not deign to reply.Somewhere off in the wood a wolf howled.Will pulled his garron over beneath an ancient gnarled ironwood and dismounted.Why are you stopping? Ser Waymar asked.Best go the rest of the way on foot, m'lord. It's just over that ridge.Royce paused a moment, staring off into the distance, his face reflective. A cold wind whispered through the trees.
