Bran could not take his eyes off the blood. The snows around the stump drank it eagerly, reddening as he watched

Blood sprayed out across the snow, as red as summerwine. One of the horses reared and had to be restrained to keep from bolting.

Bran kept his pony well in hand, and did not look away.
His father took off the man's head with a single sure stroke.

Bran's bastard brother Jon Snow moved closer. "Keep the pony well in hand," he whispered. "And don't look away. Father will know if you do."

by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."

He took hold of Ice with both hands and said, "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,...

The broken sword fell from nerveless fingers. Will closed his eyes to pray. Long, elegant hands brushed his cheek, then tightened around his throat. They were gloved in the finest moleskin and sticky with blood, yet the touch was icy cold.

His fine clothes were a tatter, his face a ruin. A shard from his sword transfixed the blind white pupil of his left eye.
The right eye was open. The pupil burned blue. It saw.

The pale blades sliced through ringmail as if it were silk. Will closed his eyes. Far beneath him, he heard their voices and laughter sharp as icicles.

The watchers moved forward together, as if some signal had been given. Swords rose and fell, all in a deathly silence. It was cold butchery.

Royce went to his knees, shrieking, and covered his eyes. Blood welled between his fingers.