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Donnell cast his gaze around the room furtively, clearing his throat a couple of times in the hush that ensued. He met Corryn's eyes briefly, and mouthed 'now?', before sneaking a couple more glances at the Boltons. He might have gone on in this fashion for some time had Lady Celia not made a peremptory little sound and given him a sharp glare.

"Well," he began, unedifyingly, "he - Evan here - killed the man yer talking about. Yesterday he comes into the inn, says there's a man needs killing. Then he makes me go and pretend to be a pickpocket, to lead him off into the woods. He made all of us go with him - he's not a man you say no to, if ya get my drift."

Volf looked startled at this. "Not me, Ser. I didn't go with them. I never even seen 'em before last night," he said to Godfrey, his voice bordering on desperation.

Displaying something less than fearsomeness, Evan continued to stare at the ground, and gave no indication that he was listening. Donnell continued. "I did what I was told - didn't want to end up dead meself, cause I'm sure there wouldn't be anywhere near this fuss over me. When the Bolton feller got there, Evan here knifed him once, then made us bury him off in the woods. After that, we went on back to the inn, and he went off to bed while we had dinner. And that's it, really."

Godwyn nodded as he listened to Donnell's testimony, a satisfied look on his face.

Syndra continued to watch the procedings vigilantly, on full alert. She scanned not only the faces of the defendants, but also those of the observers - the Boltons, Lady Celia and Ser Anders in particular. She knew who the Hardys' allies were. It was their potential enemies she was worried about.

Ser Godfrey sat back in his chair, his face set and unreadable.

"We will discuss this," he said. "The time has come for us to reach our verdict. Sister ... " He looked at Lady Hardy for a moment, and then away. "Ser Kenrith, Godwyn. Attend us, please."

He rose to his feet, and moved towards the door, passing close to Corryn.

"Syndra," he said quietly. "Look after her for me, old friend. I don't trust those Boltons - trueborn or base."

Kenrith nodded to his uncle, then rose to his feet. He sketched a bow to Syndra and Edlyn, then turned to follow the rest out of the room.

Ser Anders had turned to Rhys.

"They may be a little while," he said. "I'd welcome a glass of wine, myself ... and I understand your Dornish cousin keeps you well supplied."

Something in his tone suggested that he wanted more than a glass of wine.

"Back to the barracks, gents," said the senior guard to the three prisoners: Evan, Donnell and Volf.

Evan, however, shook off the hand the guard put on his arm, clearly frustrated. "Why drag it out?" he cried, gesturing angrily towards the high table. "We know what the verdict will be. No need to pretend to consult further - have it done with. I for one am tired of dragging this farce out any longer." He shook his chains at Donnell and Volf. "Release these two for whatever reason - I no longer care. Pronounce your verdict and have it be done - and let me claim my right to trial by combat."

"This is no farce, though a trial by combat is your right, if you prefer the justice of the gods to our own. Do you propose to fight for yourself, Donnell, or all three?" Kenrith asked slowly.

"I will claim trial by combat for anyone you feel necessary to find guilty in this ridiculous charade," he answered, pulling at his chains ineffectually, more out of frustration than anything else. "Your verdict is already decided - just say it and let's get on with it."

Syndra's eyes went wide with worry. She looked to her father and shook her head almost imperceptibly, silently pleading, though she knew in her heart it would do no good.

Ser Godfrey turned.

"Your challenge for yourself," he said, "is accepted."

Syndra's eyes closed in resignation and she bit her lip to remain calm. Her heart, however, had suddenly grown cold.

Ser Godfrey continued, "I think you might find your two comrades in arms less willing to accept your championship. They might prefer the justice of the Hardies ... which is ours to give - not yours to demand."

He looked at Donnell and Volf. "Well? Will you accept our judgement? Or will you fight? Or will you let this man - whatever his true name is - fight on your behalf?"

"Oh no, milord," Donnell said, bowing clumsily a couple of times in quick succession. "He's the guilty one here. I'm happy with whatever your lordship says." He grinned, showing filthy teeth.

Volf drew himself up formally. "I shall accept your judgment, Ser Godfrey." He glanced over at Evan and added, "Gladly."

"Then we shall withdraw," said Ser Godfrey, "to consider our verdict."

He nodded to Corryn and to Sewell, and then offered his arm once again to Lady Celia. There were lines around his eyes though, and a tension to his lips as he led her from the room. Kenrith and Godwyn followed not far behind.

"I'm even more in need of that drink now," said Anders to Rhys. "Shall we go?"

The guard coughed.

"Back to the barracks then."

"Wait! Wait!" An urgent voice, pushing through the crowd. Suddenly, like a eel wriggling through the water, Garryn wriggled through the crowd to appear close to Evan Tamm.

"You'll need a squire for your challenge," he said breathlessly. "Choose me!"

Rhys looked at Garryn gravely. "I'll second you in that drink," he said quietly to Anders. He looked to make sure Syndra and Edlyn were taken care of, then started out of the hall.

The look Evan gave him froze him in his tracks. "I thought," Evan said altogether too quietly, "I told you to go home." Garyn looked like he was about to stammer a response, but Evan turned away dismissively. "Condemned criminals do not get seconds, or squires, boy. They fight and win, or they die, one way or another. You've read too many stories."

"The Hardys told me I might be needed here," Garyn whispered, now completely unsure of himself.

"Then ask them what you should do next if you must. And don't be surprised if they don't want you either." Evan shrugged the guard's hand off his shoulder. "Now go on home."

"To the barracks, then," the guard repeated diffidently.

"I'll wait here," Evan said, unmoved. "I'm tired of waiting around. This verdict won't take long. Take these two off - they're obviously going to live."

Donnell nodded his head almost condescendingly as they led him away. "Well, so long, Evan Tamm or whoever you are," he said. "You have a nice life now."

One of the guards coughed. "Well, h'excuse me, your 'ighness. They might do things differently in the South, but up here in the North, when we say to a prisoner 'walk this way', he walks - and no messing neither."

"Leave him," said a new voice - the older Maester, Sewell. "Leave him, and a guard. I would like to speak with Evan Tamm myself."

The guard, clearly not too keen on this, bowed and departed with Volf and Donnell.

Evan sighed, almost theatrically. "You wanted something, Maester?"

The old man smiled at Evan, not a friendly smile.

"I thought it might be you who wanted something," he said.

"Can't think of anything, I'm afraid, Maester," Evan answered, after a moment's consideration. With that, he evidently considered the conversation over, and settled back against the dock to await a verdict.

"I thought," said Sewell quietly, "that you might want to hear what your brother told me. I was with him when he died."

Evan took a long time in replying, so long he seemed not to have heard. But eventually he turned a frosty gaze on the old Maester, his eyes unblinking and lifeless. "Really," he said, almost menacingly. "Is that so." There was a long pause, during which neither of them spoke, nor looked away. "Do go on, Maester. Unless you just intend to come up and taunt me with this."

"No taunt," said Sewell, "but an honest offer. Yet I would rather not share my knowledge with any who would not value it. He spoke of his brother at the last, you say. He spoke of two brothers, in fact, one he loved and one that he appeared to distrust. Until them, his conversation had mostly been of his father, his fears of offending him."

"What do you want me to say, old man?" Evan folded his arms, the manacles clinking, and the expression on his face could have wilted the first bloom of spring. "That I value what you have to tell me? You know I do. Did you want me to beg? Humiliate myself a little before I die?"

"No," said Sewell. "I was wondering if the words might give you more pain than not. He was very weak by then, you see, and, I think, knew what his end would be. He begged ... that his brother should look after Sweetbriar. His favourite hound, perhaps?"

Just like that, the fight went out of Evan momentarily, and he sagged back against the table with a sigh. "No, not his hound," he whispered, and there was a long silence after that. "Thank you, Maester Sewell," he went on, at length. "Your small kindness is unexpected." With that, he turned away and looked off in the direction of the judgement table, though his gaze went further than that.

Sewell looked at him keenly for a moment longer and then, without speaking again, turned and made his way through the hall. Noticing Rhys, he nodded in acknowledgement.