Jhogo looked terrified as he struggled with the stallion's weight, afraid to touch the dead flesh, yet afraid to let go as well. The blade was engraved with a delicate silver tracery of a mountain sky; its pommel was a falcon's head, its crossguard fashioned into the shape of wings. The door to the yard flew open. Khaleesi, Jhiqui said, he fell from his horse.
Lord Beric rides beneath the king's own banner. I'm sorry, Father. It's just over that ridge. The victor was the red priest, Thoros of Myr, a madman who shaved his head and fought with a flaming sword.
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