George R. R. Martin's a Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

by George R. R. Martin

  They had four of the big oak barrels lined up above the gate by the time Pyp shouted, “There’s a turtle at our door!” Jon braced his injured leg and leaned out for a look. Hoardings, Marsh should have built hoardings. So many things they should have done. The wildlings were dragging the dead giants away from the gate. Horse and Mully were dropping rocks down on them, and Jon thought he saw one man go down, but the stones were too small to have any effect on the turtle itself. He wondered what the free folk would do about the dead mammoth in the path, but then he saw. The turtle was almost as wide as a longhall, so they simply pushed it over the carcass. His leg twitched, but Horse caught his arm and drew him back to safety. “You shouldn’t lean out like that,” the boy said.

  “We should have built hoardings.” Jon thought he could hear the crash of axes on wood, but that was probably just fear ringing in his ears. He looked to Grenn. “Do it.”

  Grenn got behind a barrel, put his shoulder against it, grunted, and began to push. Owen and Mully moved to help him. They shoved the barrel out a foot, and then another. And suddenly it was gone.

  They heard the thump as it struck the Wall on the way down, and then, much louder, the crash and crack of splintering wood, followed by shouts and screams. Satin whooped and Owen the Oaf danced in circles, while Pyp leaned out and called, “The turtle was stuffed full of rabbits! Look at them hop away!”

  “Again,” Jon barked, and Grenn and Kegs slammed their shoulders against the next barrel, and sent it tottering out into empty air.

  By the time they were done, the front of Mance’s turtle was a crushed and splintered ruin, and wildlings were spilling out the other end and scrambling for their camp. Satin scooped up his crossbow and sent a few quarrels after them as they ran, to see them off the faster. Grenn was grinning through his beard, Pyp was making japes, and none of them would die today.

  On the morrow, though . . . Jon glanced toward the shed. Eight barrels of gravel remained where twelve had stood a few moments before. He realized how tired he was then, and how much his wound was hurting. I need to sleep. A few hours, at least. He could go to Maester Aemon for some dreamwine, that would help. “I am going down to the King’s Tower,” he told them. “Call me if Mance gets up to anything. Pyp, you have the Wall.”

  “Me?” said Pyp.

  “Him?” said Grenn.

  Smiling, he left them to it and rode down in the cage.

  A cup of dreamwine did help, as it happened. No sooner had he stretched out on the narrow bed in his cell than sleep took him. His dreams were strange and formless, full of strange voices, shouts and cries, and the sound of a warhorn, blowing low and loud, a single deep booming note that lingered in the air.

  When he awoke the sky was black outside the arrow slit that served him for a window, and four men he did not know were standing over him. One held a lantern. “Jon Snow,” the tallest of them said brusquely, “pull on your boots and come with us.”

  His first groggy thought was that somehow the Wall had fallen whilst he slept, that Mance Rayder had sent more giants or another turtle and broken through the gate. But when he rubbed his eyes he saw that the strangers were all in black. They’re men of the Night’s Watch, Jon realized. “Come where? Who are you?”

  The tall man gestured, and two of the others pulled Jon from the bed. With the lantern leading the way they marched him from his cell and up a half turn of stair, to the Old Bear’s solar. He saw Maester Aemon standing by the fire, his hands folded around the head of a blackthorn cane. Septon Cellador was half drunk as usual, and Ser Wynton Stout was asleep in a window seat. The other brothers were strangers to him. All but one.

  Immaculate in his fur-trimmed cloak and polished boots, Ser Alliser Thorne turned to say, “Here’s the turncloak now, my lord. Ned Stark’s bastard, of Winterfell.”

  “I’m no turncloak, Thorne,” Jon said coldly.

  “We shall see.” In the leather chair behind the table where the Old Bear wrote his letters sat a big, broad, jowly man Jon did not know. “Yes, we shall see,” he said again. “You will not deny that you are Jon Snow, I hope? Stark’s bastard?”

  “Lord Snow, he likes to call himself.” Ser Alliser was a spare, slim man, compact and sinewy, and just now his flinty eyes were dark with amusement.

  “You’re the one who named me Lord Snow,” said Jon. Ser Alliser had been fond of naming the boys he trained, during his time as Castle Black’s master-at-arms. The Old Bear had sent Thorne to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. These others must be Eastwatch men. The bird reached Cotter Pyke and he’s sent us help. “How many men have you brought?” he asked the man behind the table.

  “It’s me who’ll ask the questions,” the jowly man replied. “You’ve been charged with oathbreaking, cowardice, and desertion, Jon Snow. Do you deny that you abandoned your brothers to die on the Fist of the First Men and joined the wildling Mance Rayder, this self-styled King-beyond-the-Wall?”

  “Abandoned . . . ?” Jon almost choked on the word.

  Maester Aemon spoke up then. “My lord, Donal Noye and I discussed these issues when Jon Snow first returned to us, and were satisfied by Jon’s explanations.”

  “Well, I am not satisfied, Maester,” said the jowly man. “I will hear these explanations for myself. Yes I will!”

  Jon swallowed his anger. “I abandoned no one. I left the Fist with Qhorin Halfhand to scout the Skirling Pass. I joined the wildlings under orders. The Halfhand feared that Mance might have found the Horn of Winter . . .”

  “The Horn of Winter?” Ser Alliser chuckled. “Were you commanded to count their snarks as well, Lord Snow?”

  “No, but I counted their giants as best I could.”

  “Ser,” snapped the jowly man. “You will address Ser Alliser as ser, and myself as m’lord. I am Janos Slynt, Lord of Harrenhal, and commander here at Castle Black until such time as Bowen Marsh returns with his garrison. You will grant us our courtesies, yes. I will not suffer to hear an anointed knight like the good Ser Alliser mocked by a traitor’s bastard.” He raised a hand and pointed a meaty finger at Jon’s face. “Do you deny that you took a wildling woman into your bed?”

  “No.” Jon’s grief over Ygritte was too fresh for him to deny her now. “No, my lord.”

  “I suppose it was also the Halfhand who commanded you to fuck this unwashed whore?” Ser Alliser asked with a smirk.

  “Ser. She was no whore, ser. The Halfhand told me not to balk, whatever the wildlings asked of me, but . . . I will not deny that I went beyond what I had to do, that I . . . cared for her.”

  “You admit to being an oathbreaker, then,” said Janos Slynt.

  Half the men at Castle Black visited Mole’s Town from time to time to dig for buried treasures in the brothel, Jon knew, but he would not dishonor Ygritte by equating her with the Mole’s Town whores. “I broke my vows with a woman. I admit that. Yes.”

  “Yes, m’lord!” When Slynt scowled, his jowls quivered. He was as broad as the Old Bear had been, and no doubt would be as bald if he lived to Mormont’s age. Half his hair was gone already, though he could not have been more than forty.

  “Yes, my lord,” Jon said. “I rode with the wildlings and ate with them, as the Halfhand commanded me, and I shared my furs with Ygritte. But I swear to you, I never turned my cloak. I escaped the Magnar as soon as I could, and never took up arms against my brothers or the realm.”

  Lord Slynt’s small eyes studied him. “Ser Glendon,” he commanded, “bring in the other prisoner.”

  Ser Glendon was the tall man who had dragged Jon from his bed. Four other men went with him when he left the room, but they were back soon enough with a captive, a small, sallow, battered man fettered hand and foot. He had a single eyebrow, a widow’s peak, and a mustache that looked like a smear of dirt on his upper lip, but his face was swollen and mottled with bruises, and most of his front teeth had been knocked out.

  The Eastwatch men threw the captive roughly to the floor. Lord Slynt frowned down at him. “Is this th
e one you spoke of?”

  The captive blinked yellow eyes. “Aye.” Not until that instant did Jon recognize Rattleshirt. He is a different man without his armor, he thought. “Aye,” the wildling repeated, “he’s the craven killed the Halfhand. Up in the Frostfangs, it were, after we hunted down t’other crows and killed them, every one. We would have done for this one too, only he begged f’ his worthless life, offered t’ join us if we’d have him. The Halfhand swore he’d see the craven dead first, but the wolf ripped Qhorin half t’ pieces and this one opened his throat.” He gave Jon a cracktooth smile then, and spat blood on his foot.

  “Well?” Janos Slynt demanded of Jon harshly. “Do you deny it? Or will you claim Qhorin commanded you to kill him?”

  “He told me . . .” The words came hard. “He told me to do whatever they asked of me.”

  Slynt looked about the solar, at the other Eastwatch men. “Does this boy think I fell off a turnip wagon onto my head?”

  “Your lies won’t save you now, Lord Snow,” warned Ser Alliser Thorne. “We’ll have the truth from you, bastard.”

  “I’ve told you the truth. Our garrons were failing, and Rattleshirt was close behind us. Qhorin told me to pretend to join the wildlings. ‘You must not balk, whatever is asked of you,’ he said. He knew they would make me kill him. Rattleshirt was going to kill him anyway, he knew that too.”

  “So now you claim the great Qhorin Halfhand feared this creature?” Slynt looked at Rattleshirt, and snorted.

  “All men fear the Lord o’ Bones,” the wildling grumbled. Ser Glendon kicked him, and he lapsed back into silence.

  “I never said that,” Jon insisted.

  Slynt slammed a fist on the table. “I heard you! Ser Alliser had your measure true enough, it seems. You lie through your bastard’s teeth. Well, I will not suffer it. I will not! You might have fooled this crippled blacksmith, but not Janos Slynt! Oh, no. Janos Slynt does not swallow lies so easily. Did you think my skull was stuffed with cabbage?”

  “I don’t know what your skull is stuffed with. My lord.”

  “Lord Snow is nothing if not arrogant,” said Ser Alliser. “He murdered Qhorin just as his fellow turncloaks did Lord Mormont. It would not surprise me to learn that it was all part of the same fell plot. Benjen Stark may well have a hand in all this as well. For all we know, he is sitting in Mance Rayder’s tent even now. You know these Starks, my lord.”

  “I do,” said Janos Slynt. “I know them too well.”

  Jon peeled off his glove and showed them his burned hand. “I burned my hand defending Lord Mormont from a wight. And my uncle was a man of honor. He would never have betrayed his vows.”

  “No more than you?” mocked Ser Alliser.

  Septon Cellador cleared his throat. “Lord Slynt,” he said, “this boy refused to swear his vows properly in the sept, but went beyond the Wall to say his words before a heart tree. His father’s gods, he said, but they are wildling gods as well.”

  “They are the gods of the north, Septon.” Maester Aemon was courteous, but firm. “My lords, when Donal Noye was slain, it was this young man Jon Snow who took the Wall and held it, against all the fury of the north. He has proved himself valiant, loyal, and resourceful. Were it not for him, you would have found Mance Rayder sitting here when you arrived, Lord Slynt. You are doing him a great wrong. Jon Snow was Lord Mormont’s own steward and squire. He was chosen for that duty because the Lord Commander saw much promise in him. As do I.”

  “Promise?” said Slynt. “Well, promise may turn false. Qhorin Halfhand’s blood is on his hands. Mormont trusted him, you say, but what of that? I know what it is to be betrayed by men you trusted. Oh, yes. And I know the ways of wolves as well.” He pointed at Jon’s face. “Your father died a traitor.”

  “My father was murdered.” Jon was past caring what they did to him, but he would not suffer any more lies about his father.

  Slynt purpled. “Murder? You insolent pup. King Robert was not even cold when Lord Eddard moved against his son.” He rose to his feet; a shorter man than Mormont, but thick about the chest and arms, with a gut to match. A small gold spear tipped with red enamel pinned his cloak at the shoulder. “Your father died by the sword, but he was highborn, a King’s Hand. For you, a noose will serve. Ser Alliser, take this turncloak to an ice cell.”

  “My lord is wise.” Ser Alliser seized Jon by the arm.

  Jon yanked away and grabbed the knight by the throat with such ferocity that he lifted him off the floor. He would have throttled him if the Eastwatch men had not pulled him off. Thorne staggered back, rubbing the marks Jon’s fingers had left on his neck. “You see for yourselves, brothers. The boy is a wildling.”

  TYRION

  When dawn broke, he found he could not face the thought of food. By evenfall I may stand condemned. His belly was acid with bile, and his nose itched. Tyrion scratched at it with the point of his knife. One last witness to endure, then my turn. But what to do? Deny everything? Accuse Sansa and Ser Dontos? Confess, in the hope of spending the rest of his days on the Wall? Let the dice fly and pray the Red Viper could defeat Ser Gregor Clegane?

  Tyrion stabbed listlessly at a greasy grey sausage, wishing it were his sister. It is bloody cold on the Wall, but at least I would be shut of Cersei. He did not think he would make much of a ranger, but the Night’s Watch needed clever men as well as strong ones. Lord Commander Mormont had said as much, when Tyrion had visited Castle Black. There are those inconvenient vows, though. It would mean the end of his marriage and whatever claim he might ever have made for Casterly Rock, but he did not seem destined to enjoy either in any case. And he seemed to recall that there was a brothel in a nearby village.

  It was not a life he’d ever dreamed of, but it was life. And all he had to do to earn it was trust in his father, stand up on his little stunted legs, and say, “Yes, I did it, I confess.” That was the part that tied his bowels in knots. He almost wished he had done it, since it seemed he must suffer for it anyway.

  “My lord?” said Podrick Payne. “They’re here, my lord. Ser Addam. And the gold cloaks. They wait without.”

  “Pod, tell me true . . . do you think I did it?”

  The boy hesitated. When he tried to speak, all he managed to produce was a weak sputter.

  I am doomed. Tyrion sighed. “No need to answer. You’ve been a good squire to me. Better than I deserved. Whatever happens, I thank you for your leal service.”

  Ser Addam Marbrand waited at the door with six gold cloaks. He had nothing to say this morning, it seemed. Another good man who thinks me a kinslayer. Tyrion summoned all the dignity he could find and waddled down the steps. He could feel them all watching him as he crossed the yard; the guards on the walls, the grooms by the stables, the scullions and washerwomen and serving girls. Inside the throne room, knights and lordlings moved aside to let them through, and whispered to their ladies.

  No sooner had Tyrion taken his place before the judges than another group of gold cloaks led in Shae.

  A cold hand tightened round his heart. Varys betrayed her, he thought. Then he remembered. No. I betrayed her myself. I should have left her with Lollys. Of course they’d question Sansa’s maids, I’d do the same. Tyrion rubbed at the slick scar where his nose had been, wondering why Cersei had bothered. Shae knows nothing that can hurt me.

  “They plotted it together,” she said, this girl he’d loved. “The Imp and Lady Sansa plotted it after the Young Wolf died. Sansa wanted revenge for her brother and Tyrion meant to have the throne. He was going to kill his sister next, and then his own lord father, so he could be Hand for Prince Tommen. But after a year or so, before Tommen got too old, he would have killed him too, so as to take the crown for his own head.”

  “How could you know all this?” demanded Prince Oberyn. “Why would the Imp divulge such plans to his wife’s maid?”

  “I overheard some, m’lord,” said Shae, “and m’lady let things slip too. But most I had from his own lips. I wasn’t only
Lady Sansa’s maid. I was his whore, all the time he was here in King’s Landing. On the morning of the wedding, he dragged me down where they keep the dragon skulls and fucked me there with the monsters all around. And when I cried, he said I ought to be more grateful, that it wasn’t every girl who got to be the king’s whore. That was when he told me how he meant to be king. He said that poor boy Joffrey would never know his bride the way he was knowing me.” She started sobbing then. “I never meant to be a whore, m’lords. I was to be married. A squire, he was, and a good brave boy, gentle born. But the Imp saw me at the Green Fork and put the boy I meant to marry in the front rank of the van, and after he was killed he sent his wildlings to bring me to his tent. Shagga, the big one, and Timett with the burned eye. He said if I didn’t pleasure him, he’d give me to them, so I did. Then he brought me to the city, so I’d be close when he wanted me. He made me do such shameful things . . .”

  Prince Oberyn looked curious. “What sorts of things?”

  “Unspeakable things.” As the tears rolled slowly down that pretty face, no doubt every man in the hall wanted to take Shae in his arms and comfort her. “With my mouth and . . . other parts, m’lord. All my parts. He used me every way there was, and . . . he used to make me tell him how big he was. My giant, I had to call him, my giant of Lannister.”

  Oswald Kettleblack was the first to laugh. Boros and Meryn joined in, then Cersei, Ser Loras, and more lords and ladies than he could count. The sudden gale of mirth made the rafters ring and shook the Iron Throne. “It’s true,” Shae protested. “My giant of Lannister.” The laughter swelled twice as loud. Their mouths were twisted in merriment, their bellies shook. Some laughed so hard that snot flew from their nostrils.

  I saved you all, Tyrion thought. I saved this vile city and all your worthless lives. There were hundreds in the throne room, every one of them laughing but his father. Or so it seemed. Even the Red Viper chortled, and Mace Tyrell looked like to bust a gut, but Lord Tywin Lannister sat between them as if made of stone, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.