A Storm of Swords (A Song of Ice and Fire, #3)

by George R.R. Martin

He had seen old Maester Cressen slip poison into her wine, with his own eyes he had seen it, but when they both drank from the poisoned cup it was the maester who died, not the red priestess.

“I am Edric Storm,” he announced. “King Robert’s son.”

“My father taught me to fight,” the boy said proudly. “He came to see me almost every year, and sometimes we trained together. On my last name day he sent me a warhammer just like his, only smaller.

Robert was a different man than Stannis, true enough. The boy is like him. Aye, and like Renly as well.

“I have come to take you to the dungeon.” Ser Axell waved his men forward. “Seize him, and take his dirk. He means to use it on our lady.”

Then I’d show Stannis where to sheathe his magic sword.

She took the plow horse for herself and assigned the palfrey to Ser Cleos. As threatened, Jaime drew the one-eyed gelding, which put an end to any thoughts he might have had of giving his horse a kick and leaving the wench in his dust.

Brienne considered them briefly, and then swung her horse onto the southern road. Jaime was pleasantly surprised; it was the same choice he would have made.

“The man took too great an interest in our choice of route, and those woods … such places are notorious haunts of outlaws. He may have been urging us into a trap.” “Clever wench.” Jaime smiled at his cousin.

Well, she may be ugly but she’s not entirely stupid. Jaime gave her a grudging smile.

“I was a boy. Fifteen. It was a great honor for one so young.”

Their father had summoned Cersei to court when she was twelve, hoping to make her a royal marriage. He refused every offer for her hand, preferring to keep her with him in the Tower of the Hand while she grew older and more womanly and ever more beautiful. No doubt he was waiting for Prince Viserys to mature, or perhaps for Rhaegar’s wife to die in childbed. Elia of Dorne was never the healthiest of women.

“But,” Jaime said, “there’s Casterly Rock …” “Is it a rock you want? Or me?”

He gave his consent, and Cersei promised to do the rest.

He was commanded to present himself to the king during the great tourney at Harrenhal to say his vows and don his cloak.

His father had never been more furious. He could not object openly—Cersei had judged that correctly—but he resigned the Handship on some thin pretext and returned to Casterly Rock, taking his daughter with him.

She would not hear it. “Aerys was mad and cruel, no one has ever denied that. He was still king, crowned and anointed. And you had sworn to protect him.” “I know what I swore.”

“Your wits are quicker than mine, I confess it. When they found me standing over my dead king, I never thought to say, ‘No, no, it wasn’t me, it was a shadow, a terrible cold shadow.’

At fifteen, I rode with Ser Arthur Dayne against the Kingswood Brotherhood, and he knighted me on the battlefield. It was that white cloak that soiled me, not the other way around. So spare me your envy.

Aerys Targaryen he saw, pacing alone in his throne room, picking at his scabbed and bleeding hands. The fool was always cutting himself on the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne.

The golden armor, not the white, but no one ever remembers that. Would that I had taken off that damned cloak as well.

A single slash across his throat was all it took to end it. So easy, he remembered thinking. A king should die harder than this. Rossart at least had tried to make a fight of it, though if truth be told he fought like an alchemist. Queer that they never ask who killed Rossart …

and Ned Stark was leading his northmen through the King’s Gate even then,

“Proclaim who you bloody well like,” he told Crakehall. Then he climbed the Iron Throne and seated himself with his sword across his knees, to see who would come to claim the kingdom. As it happened, it had been Eddard Stark.

You had no right to judge me either, Stark.

“Singing is stupid,” said Arya. “Singing makes noise. We heard you a long way off. We could have killed you.”

“Sometimes a man knows more than he says.”

The painted sign above the door showed a picture of some old king on his knees.

“A big woman, dressed like a man. And the one in chains … I didn’t fancy the look of his eyes.”

His eyes went wide, “Gods be good,” he said in a choked voice. “Arya Underfoot? Lem, let go of her.” “She broke my nose.” Lem dumped her unceremoniously to the floor. “Who in seven hells is she supposed to be?” “The Hand’s daughter.” Harwin went to one knee before her. “Arya Stark, of Winterfell.”

Tytos Blackwood in his magnificent raven-feather cloak …

Jonos Bracken

Robb looked uncomfortable.

Westerling, yes, Catelyn thought. Their banner is six seashells, white on sand. A minor house sworn to the Lannisters.

Can Robb have won the Crag’s allegiance? If so, it was no wonder the Westerlings were with him. Casterly Rock did not suffer such betrayals gently. Not since Tywin Lannister had been old enough to go to war …

Tywin put the westerlings up to this

Lady Jeyne Westerling. Lord Gawen’s elder daughter, and my … ah … my lady wife.”

The first thought that flew across Catelyn’s mind was, No, that cannot be, you are only a child. The second was, And besides, you have pledged another. The third was, Mother have mercy, Robb, what have you done?

“And you,” she said softly, “have lost the Freys.”

“Dare I ask how many swords come with your bride, Robb?” “Fifty. A dozen knights.” His voice was glum, as well it might be.

ROBB YOU MORON

When the marriage contract had been made at the Twins, old Lord Walder Frey had sent Robb off with a thousand mounted knights and near three thousand foot.

It is swords you need, not gentle hearts. How could you do this, Robb? How could you be so heedless, so stupid? How could you be so … so very … young.

Jeyne had me taken to her own bed, and she nursed me until the fever passed. And she was with me when the Greatjon brought me the news of … of Winterfell. Bran and Rickon.” He seemed to have trouble saying his brothers’ names. “That night, she … she comforted me, Mother.”

Not only have you broken your oath, but you’ve slighted the honor of the Twins by choosing a bride from a lesser house.”

Jeyne’s anxious around him, and he terrifies her mother.” And there’s the heart of it, Catelyn thought. “He is part of you, Robb. To fear him is to fear you.” “I am not a wolf, no matter what they call me.” Robb sounded cross. “Grey Wind killed a man at the Crag, another at Ashemark, and six or seven at Oxcross. If you had seen—” “I saw Bran’s wolf tear out a man’s throat at Winterfell,” she said sharply, “and loved him for it.”

Grey Wind doesn’t like her uncle either. He bares his teeth every time Ser Rolph comes near him.”

“Any man Grey Wind mislikes is a man I do not want close to you. These wolves are more than wolves, Robb. You must know that. I think perhaps the gods sent them to us. Your father’s gods, the old gods of the north. Five wolf pups, Robb, five for five Stark children.”

Theon had murdered Bran and Rickon. Small good their wolves did them.

“When you stopped Lord Tywin on the Red Fork,” said the Blackfish, “you delayed him just long enough for riders out of Bitterbridge to reach him with word of what was happening to the east. Lord Tywin turned his host at once, joined up with Matthis Rowan and Randyll Tarly near the headwaters of the Blackwater, and made a forced march to Tumbler’s Falls, where he found Mace Tyrell and two of his sons waiting with a huge host and a fleet of barges. They floated down the river, disembarked half a day’s ride from the city, and took Stannis in the rear.”

If you had to fall into a woman’s arms, my son, why couldn’t they have been Margaery Tyrell’s?

And perhaps Grey Wind would have liked the smell of her as well.