And there – standing in a copse of thorns – was a white stag. Celaena’s breath hitched. She clenched the bars of the small window as the creature looked at them. His towering antlers seemed to glow in the moonlight, crowning him in wreaths of ivory. “Gods above,” one of the guards whispered. The stag’s enormous head turned slightly – toward the wagon, toward the small window. The Lord of the North.