«I don’t want bloodshed» Ned told the queen. «Let your people lay down their swords, and no one...»

A blow from one of the golden cloaks pierced Tomard's back. Fat Tom's blade fell out of his weakened fingers, and the wet, bloody tip stuck out between the ribs, piercing the skin and carapace. He died before his sword hit the floor.

Ned's warning cry came too late. Janos Slynt himself cut open Varley's throat. Kane turned, steel flashed, a stream of blows forced the nearest spearmen to retreat. For a moment it seemed that he would be able to break free. But the Dog reached him, and with the first blow Sandor Clegane cut off Kane's wrist. The second blow threw the northerner to his knees, cutting him open from shoulder to chest.

His people were dying around him, and Littlefinger pulled Ned's dagger from his sheath and pointed it under his chin. An apologetic smile appeared on his face.

«I warned you not to trust me.»