Jon knew Alliser Thorne's voice, but there was a curious note in it that he had not heard before. The Western Market was a great square of beaten earth surrounded by warrens of mud-baked brick, animal pens, whitewashed drinking halls. A face swam up at him out of the grey mist, shining with light, golden. The battlements bristled with spears and swords and scorpions, there was an archer at every crenel and arrow slit, the drawbridge was up, the portcullis down, the gates closed and barred.
Stiv gave a choked gasp as a half foot of razor-tipped broadhead suddenly exploded out of his chest. Inside, he knelt to light a candle. He cleared his throat and spat a thick glob of phelm onto the rushes. Catelyn edged her foot backward, the most timid of steps, but the mule was behind her, and she could not retreat.
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