A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1)

by George R.R. Martin

it was not the children Tyrion was watching. The glance that passed between Jaime and Cersei lasted no more than a second, but he did not miss it.

“That is no mercy. These northern gods are cruel to let the child linger in such pain.”

“He thinks that if the boy were going to die, he would have done so already. It has been four days with no change.”

She had all of her mother’s beauty, and none of her nature.

“His back is broken, little one,” Tyrion told her. “The fall shattered his legs as well. They keep him alive with honey and water, or he would starve to death. Perhaps, if he wakes, he will be ...

“I would swear that wolf of his is keeping the boy alive. The creature is outside his window day and night, howling. Every time they chase it away, it returns. The maester said they closed the window once, to shut out the noise, and Bran seemed to weaken. When they opened it again, his heart beat stronger.”

The queen shuddered. “There is something unnatural about those animals,” she said. “They are dangerous. I will not have any of them coming south with us.”

“Are we leaving?” she echoed. “What about you? Gods, don’t tell me you are staying here?”

sweet brother.”

Tyrion laughed. “What, me, celibate? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world.”

sweet brother,”

the twist of his shoulders.

“Speaking for the grotesques,” he said, “I beg to differ. Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities.”

His brother’s smile curdled like sour milk. “Tyrion, my sweet brother,” he said darkly, “there are times when you give me cause to wonder whose side you are on.” Tyrion’s mouth was full of bread and fish. He took a swallow of strong black beer to wash it all down, and grinned up wolfishly at Jaime. “Why, Jaime, my sweet brother,” he said, “you wound me. You know how much I love my family.”

He reached the landing and stood for a long moment, afraid.

Lady Stark was there beside his bed. She had been there, day and night, for close on a fortnight.

Not once did she leave the room. So Jon had stayed away.

But now there was no more time.

Below, a wolf howled.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a voice strangely flat and emotionless. “I came to see Bran,” Jon said. “To say good-bye.” Her face did not change. Her long auburn hair was dull and tangled. She looked as though she had aged twenty years. “You’ve said it. Now go away.” Part of him wanted only to flee, but he knew that if he did he might never see Bran again. He took a nervous step into the room. “Please,” he said. Something cold moved in her eyes. “I told you to leave,” she said. “We don’t want you here.” Once that would have sent him running. Once that might even have made him cry. Now it only made him angry. He would be a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch soon, and face worse dangers than Catelyn Tully Stark. “He’s my brother,” he said. “Shall I call the guards?” “Call them,” Jon said, defiant. “You can’t stop me from seeing him.” He crossed the room, keeping the bed between them, and looked down on Bran where he lay.

She was holding one of his hands. It looked like a claw. This was not the Bran he remembered. The flesh had all gone from him. His skin stretched tight over bones like sticks. Under the blanket, his legs bent in ways that made Jon sick. His eyes were sunken deep into black pits; open, but they saw nothing. The fall had shrunken him somehow. He looked half a leaf, as if the first strong wind would carry him off to his grave. Yet under the frail cage of those shattered ribs, his chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

Outside the window, the direwolf howled again.

“I wanted him to stay here with me,” Lady Stark said softly. Jon watched her, wary. She was not even looking at him. She was talking to him, but for a part of her, it was as though he were not even in the room. “I prayed for it,” she said dully. “He was my special boy. I went to the sept and prayed seven times to the seven faces of god that Ned would change his mind and leave him here with me. Sometimes prayers are answered.”

Her eyes found him. They were full of poison. “I need none of your absolution, bastard.”

She was cradling one of Bran’s hands. He took the other, squeezed it. Fingers like the bones of birds. “Good-bye,” he said.

“Jon,” she said. He should have kept going, but she had never called him by his name before. He turned to find her looking at his face, as if she were seeing it for the first time. “Yes?” he said. “It should have been you,” she told him. Then she turned b...

It was a long walk down t...

“Leaving is harder than I thought.” “For me too,” Robb said. He had snow in his hair, melting from the heat of his body. “Did you see him?” Jon nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“You Starks are hard to kill,” Jon agreed. His voice was flat and tired. The visit had taken all the strength from him. Robb knew something was wrong. “My mother …” “She was … very kind,” Jon told him. Robb looked relieved. “Good.” He smiled. “The next time I see you, you’ll be all in black.” Jon forced himself to smile back. “It was always my color. How long do you think it will be?” “Soon enough,” Robb promised. He pulled Jon to him and embraced him fiercely. “Farewell, Snow.” Jon hugged him back. “And you, Stark. Take care of Bran.” “I will.” They broke apart and looked at each other awkwardly. “Uncle Benjen said to send you to the stables if I saw you,” Robb finally said. “I have one more farewell to make,” Jon told him. “Then I haven’t seen you,” Robb replied. Jon left him standing there in the snow, surrounded by wagons and wolves and horses.

Arya glanced behind her, saw Jon, and jumped to her feet. She threw her skinny arms tight around his neck. “I was afraid you were gone,” she said, her breath catching in her throat. “They wouldn’t let me out to say good-bye.”

Arya’s eyes went wide. Dark eyes, like his.

The scabbard was soft grey leather, supple as sin. Jon drew out the blade slowly, so she could see the deep blue sheen of the steel. “This is no toy,” he told her. “Be careful you don’t cut yourself. The edges are sharp enough to shave with.”

“I had Mikken make this special. The bravos use swords like this in Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won’t hack a man’s head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re fast enough.”

“You’ll have to work at it every day.” He put the sword in her hands, showed her how to hold it, and stepped back.

“First lesson,” Jon said. “Stick them with the pointy end.”

“Who will I practice with?” “You’ll find someone,” Jon promised her. “King’s Landing is a true city, a thousand times the size of Winterfell. Until you find a partner, watch how they fight in the yard. Run, and ride, make yourself strong. And whatever you do …” Arya knew what was coming next. They said it together. “… don’t … tell … Sansa!”

Jon messed up her hair. “I will miss you, little sister.”

“Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Who knows?”

Arya ran to him for a last hug. “Put down the sword first,” Jon warned her, laughing. She set it aside almost shyly and showered him with kisses.

The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north.

Daenerys Targaryen wed Khal Drogo with fear and barbaric splendor in a field beyond the walls of Pentos, for the Dothraki believed that all things of importance in a man’s life must be done beneath the open sky.

“My fellow magisters have doubled the size of the city guard,”

Illyrio told them over platters of honey duck and orange snap peppers

Ser Jorah Mormont jested. The exile had offered her brother his sword the night Dany had been sold to Khal Drogo; Viserys had accepted eagerly. Mormont had been their constant companion ever since.

“He can have her tomorrow, if he likes,” her brother said. He glanced over at Dany, and she lowered her eyes. “So long as he pays the price.” Illyrio waved a languid hand in the air, rings glittering on his fat fingers. “I have told you, all is settled. Trust me. The khal has promised you a crown, and you shall have it.” “Yes, but when?” “When the khal chooses,” Illyrio said. “He will have the girl first, and after they are wed he must make his procession across the plains and present her to the dosh khaleen at Vaes Dothrak. After that, perhaps. If the omens favor war.” Viserys seethed with impatience. “I piss on Dothraki omens. The Usurper sits on my father’s throne. How long must I wait?” Illyrio gave a massive shrug. “You have waited most of your life, great king. What is another few months, another few years?” Ser Jorah, who had traveled as far east as Vaes Dothrak, nodded in agreement. “I counsel you to be patient, Your Grace. The Dothraki are true to their word, but they do things in their own time. A lesser man may beg a favor from the khal, but must never presume to berate him.” Viserys bristled. “Guard your tongue, Mormont, or I’ll have it out. I am no lesser man, I am the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. The dragon does not beg.” Ser Jorah lowered his eyes respectfully. Illyrio smiled enigmatically

and tore a wing from the duck. Honey and grease ran over his fingers and dripped down into his beard as he nibbled at the tender meat.

Yet that night she dreamt of one. Viserys was hitting her, hurting her. She was naked, clumsy with fear. She ran from him, but her body seemed thick and ungainly. He struck her again. She stumbled and fell. “You woke the dragon,” he screamed as he kicked her. “You woke the dragon, you woke the dragon.” Her thighs were slick with blood. She closed her eyes and whimpered. As if in answer, there was a hideous ripping sound and the crackling of some great fire. When she looked again, Viserys was gone, great columns of flame rose all around, and in the midst of them was the dragon. It turned its great head slowly. When its molten eyes found hers, she woke, shaking and covered with a fine sheen of sweat. She had never been so afraid … … until the day of her wedding came at last.

The horselords might put on rich fabrics and sweet perfumes when they visited the Free Cities, but out under the open sky they kept the old ways. Men and women alike wore painted leather vests over bare chests and horsehair leggings cinched by bronze medallion belts, and the warriors greased their long braids with fat from the rendering pits. They gorged themselves on horseflesh roasted with honey and peppers, drank themselves blind on fermented mare’s milk and Illyrio’s fine wines, and spat jests at each other across the fires, their voices harsh and alien in Dany’s ears.

Viserys was seated just below her, splendid in a new black wool tunic with a scarlet dragon on the chest.

Food was brought to her, steaming joints of meat and thick black sausages and Dothraki blood pies, and later fruits and sweetgrass stews and delicate pastries from the kitchens of Pentos, but she waved it all away. Her stomach was a roil, and she knew she could keep none of it down.