'Woe to the Usurper if we had been,' said Ser Oswell. 'We were not there,' Ser Gerold answered. 'I looked for you on the Trident,' Ned said to them. Between them stood fierce old Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Across his white-enameled helm, the black bat of his House spread its wings.

Ser Oswell Whent was on one knee, sharpening his blade with a whetstone. The hilt of the greatsword Dawn poked up over his right shoulder. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had a sad smile on his lips. And these were no shadows their faces burned clear, even now. They waited before the round tower, the red mountains of Dorne at their backs, their white cloaks blowing in the wind. In the dream they were only shadows, grey wraiths on horses made of mist. Ned had known their faces as well as he knew his own once, but the years leech at a man's memories, even those he has vowed never to forget. Proud Martyn Cassel, Jory's father faithful Theo Wull Ethan Glover, who had been Brandon's squire Ser Mark Ryswell, soft of speech and gentle of heart the crannogman, Howland Reed Lord Dustin on his great red stallion.

In the dream his friends rode with him, as they had in life. He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood.