Morning came late in the mountains.
Even when the sun had long risen above the horizon, the Lag'ranna Peaks held to their shadows, the light breaking only in thin, cold shafts through the veil of mist. The Winters' Army...proud banners of blue and silver once bright and bold...now seemed muted beneath the gray.
Their march had slowed to a crawl.
What had once been a proud column of a thousand strong, moving with music and chatter, now resembled a line of ants creeping warily through the unknown land. Every step was measured, every sound too loud.
At the head of the vanguard rode the Blue Countess, her clean cloak drawn close around her shoulders, her silver circlet dull in the filtered light.
Her expression was calm...regal even...but her eyes betrayed unease. They were sharp, restless, scanning every slope and ridge.
Beside her rode Sir Rhaegar Vance, his armor polished but dusty, his face tight with fatigue.
