‘Back.’ Whirrun stood tall in front of them, holding out his sword at long arm’s length, hilt up, like it was some magic charm to ward off evil. ‘Back, and you needn’t die today.’ The one in mail spat, then snarled at him in broken Northern. ‘Show us your iron, thief!’ ‘Then I will. Look upon the Father of Swords, and look your last.’ And Whirrun drew it from the sheath. Men might’ve had a hundred names for it–Dawn Razor, Grave-Maker, Blood Harvest, Highest and Lowest, Scac-ang-Gaioc in the valley tongue which means the Splitting of the World, and so on, and so on–but Craw had to admit it was
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