Within the woods it seemed like dusk. The ancient trees blocked the sun's rays but the rain slipped through the leaves, still falling in heavy drops. Three men lay sprawled on the ground and two horses, the second screaming in its death thows.
On the far side of the chaos, a trio of men stood. Outlaws by their dress, yet their swords were bright as their eyes were cold. One wore the armor of the Free Cities, and another wore the helm of a Highgarden guard, though his tunic bore the sigil of House Bracken. All wore the gray-green cloaks of the Brotherhood and the greeted the royal party with mocking bows. A forth had bent and drew his knife across the throat of the dying horse, silencing its noise.
"What an honor! It is the king, and Lord Tyrell! Two dead men, come again to plague our shores," the first laughed. His accent spoke more of Old Town than the Free Cities. "We thank you for the new armor. For that you may return the city with your bodies intact."