It had been four days since the horrific events at the Twins. Four days of mud, silence, and the smell of smoke still clinging to their cloaks. They had stayed off the roads, sleeping beneath fallen trees and ruined barns, too afraid of banners—any banners. The rain had stopped that morning, but the ground was still soft and cruel.

Raya pushed through the bracken and into the small clearing they’d made their camp. The other man who had escaped the betrayal, sat by the guttering fire, turning a whetstone over in his hands.

She dropped the rabbit beside him, the small thing limp and grey.

“Not much,” she muttered, rubbing her arms for warmth, “but it’ll fill the worst of the holes.”

Raya crouched to gut the catch, the knife flashing dully in the dim light. “If we keep west another day, we’ll hit the causeway. The Crannogmen are our best bet, the freys wont try to chase us too deep in there.”