Queen Hannah sat astride her horse on a high hillock overlooking the inn, where rumors were said to be growing faster than ivy in summer. She watched as a lone man dressed all in black exited the door. His cape flared out behind him with a sudden gust of wind. The man turned and scanned the woods as if something or someone sought him then strode off toward the stable.
Keeping within the thick pines, the queen forewent the worn path down the hill. At the bottom, she waited until the man had saddled his massive war horse, climbed up and set off at a brisk pace. She kicked her smaller mare to a trot, keeping pace with the man, a spy for House Lannister she did not doubt.
Some leagues later, Hannah drew her mount up at the edge of a clearing and peered at the queerest sight: the man slipped from his horse with practiced ease, bowing low before three grey-haired women.
They were not old. They were ancient. Their skin cracked and weathered as centuries-old leather. When one stepped forward, Hannah heard a strange language but saw no movement of the old hag's lips.
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