—LORD LYMOND LYCHESTER, an old man of wandering wit, who once held Ser Maynard at the bridge,
—his young caretaker, MAESTER ROONE,
—the ghost of High Heart,
—the Lady of the Leaves,
—the septon at Sallydance.
the WILDLINGS, or
the FREE FOLK
MANCE RAYDER, King-beyond-the-Wall,
—DALLA, his pregnant wife,
—VAL, her younger sister,
—his chiefs and captains:
—HARMA, called DOGSHEAD, commanding his van,
—THE LORD OF BONES, mocked as RATTLESHIRT, leader of a war band,
—YGRITTE, a young spearwife, a member of his band,
—RYK, called LONGSPEAR, a member of his band,
—RAGWYLE, LENYL, members of his band,
—his captive, JON SNOW, the crow-come-over,
—GHOST, Jon’s direwolf, white and silent,
—STYR, Magnar of Thenn,
—JARL, a young raider, Val’s lover,
—GRIGG THE GOAT, ERROK, QUORT, BODGER, DEL, BIG BOIL, HEMPEN DAN, HENK THE HELM, LENN, TOEFINGER, STONE THUMBS, raiders,
—TORMUND, Mead-King of Ruddy Hall, called GIANTS-BANE, TALL-TALKER, HORN-BLOWER, and BREAKER OF ICE, also THUNDERFIST, HUSBAND TO BEARS, SPEAKER TO GODS, and FATHER OF HOSTS, leader of a war band,
—his sons, TOREGG THE TALL, TORWYRD THE TAME, DORMUND, and DRYN, his daughter MUNDA,
—{ORELL, called ORELL THE EAGLE}, a skinchanger slain by Jon Snow in the Skirling Pass,
—MAG MAR TUN DOH WEG, called MAG THE MIGHTY, of the giants,
—VARMYR called SIXSKINS, a skinchanger, master of three wolves, a shadowcat, and a snow bear,
—THE WEEPER, a raider and leader of a war band,
—{ALFYN CROWKILLER}, a raider, slain by Qhorin Halfhand of the Night’s Watch,
CRASTER, of Craster’s Keep, who kneels to none,
—GILLY, his daughter and wife, great with child,
—DYAH, FERNY, NELLA, three of his nineteen wives.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If bricks aren’t well made, the wall falls down.
This is an awfully big wall I’m building here, so I need a lot of bricks. Fortunately, I know a lot of brickmakers, and all sorts of other useful folk as well.
Thanks and appreciation, once more, to those good friends who so kindly lent me their expertise (and in some cases, even their books) so my bricks would be nice and solid—to my Archmaester Sage Walker, to First Builder Carl Keim, to Melinda Snodgrass my master of horse.
And as ever, to Parris.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GEORGE R. R. MARTIN is the award-winning author of five novels, including Fevre Dream and The Armageddon Rag. For the last ten years, he has been a screenwriter for feature films and television and was the producer of the TV series Beauty and the Beast as well as a story editor for The Twilight Zone. After a ten-year hiatus, he has now returned to writing novels full-time and is presently at work on A Feast of Crows, the fourth book of his series.
ALSO BY GEORGE R. R. MARTIN
A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE
Book One: A Game of Thrones
Book Two: A Clash of Kings
Dying of the Light
Windhaven (with Lisa Tuttle)
Fevre Dream
The Armageddon Rag
Dead Man’s Hand (with John J. Miller)
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
A Song for Lya and Other Stories
Songs of Stars and Shadows
Sandkings
Songs the Dead Men Sing
Nightflyers
Tuf Voyaging
Portraits of His Children
Edited by George R. R. Martin
New Voices in Science Fiction, Volumes 1–4
The Science Fiction Weight-Loss Book
(with Isaac Asimov and Martin Harry Greenberg)
The John W. Campbell Awards, Volume 5
Night Visions 3
Wild Cards I–XV
PRAISE FOR
A GAME OF THRONES
“Reminiscent of T. H. White’s The Once and Future King, this novel is an absorbing combination of the mythic, the sweeping historical, and the intensely personal.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“I always expect the best from George R. R. Martin, and he always delivers. A Game of Thrones grabs hold and won’t let go. It’s brilliant.”
—Robert Jordan
“Such a splendid tale and such a fantistorical! I read my eyes out.”
—Anne McCaffrey
“Martin makes a triumphant return to high fantasy . . . [his] trophy case is already stuffed with major prizes, including Hugos, Nebulas, Locus Awards and a Bram Stoker. He’s probably going to have to add another shelf, at least.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A vast, rich saga, with splendid characters and an intricate plot flawlessly articulated against a backdrop of real depth and texture.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The keen and complex human characters and the convincing force of their surroundings operate as magic . . . setting George R. R. Martin’s first fantasy epic well above the norms of the genre.”
—Locus Magazine
“It is perhaps the best of the epic fantasies—readable and realistic.”
—Marion Zimmer Bradley
“The major fantasy of the decade . . . compulsively readable.”
—The Denver Post
“George R. R. Martin is one of our very best science fiction writers, and this is one of his very best books.”
—Raymond E. Feist
“We have been invited to a grand feast and pageant: George R. R. Martin has unveiled for us an intensely realized, romantic but realistic world . . . if the next two volumes are as good as this one, it will be a wonderful feast indeed.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“I would be very surprised if this is not the major fantasy publishing event of 1996, and I’m already impatient for the next installment.”
—Science Fiction Chronicle
“A colorful, majestic tapestry of characters, action and plot that deserves a spot on any reader’s wall . . . the pages seem to pass in a blur as you read.”
—Albuquerque Journal
“George Martin is assuredly a new master craftsman in the guild of heroic fantasy.”
—Katharine Kerr
“A Game of Thrones offers the rich tapestry that the very best fantasy demands: iron and steel within the silk, grandeur within the wonder, and characters torn between deep love and loyalty. Few created worlds are as imaginative and diverse. George R. R. Martin is to be applauded.”
—Janny Wurts
“A dazzling fantasy adventure . . . with a great cast of characters that weave a tapestry of court intrigue, skullduggery, vicious betrayal and greathearted sacrifice.”
—Julian May
“Terrific, incredibly powerful, with phenomenal characterizations and exquisite writing.”
—Teresa Medeiros
“The characterization was superb, the story vivid and heartbreaking . . . when is the next one coming out?”
—Linda Howard
A CLASH OF KINGS
“A truly epic fantasy set in a world bedecked with 8,000 years of history, beset by an imminent winter that will last ten years and bedazzled by swords and spells wielded to devastating effect . . . here he provides a banquet for fantasy lovers with large appetites.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Martin amply fulfills the first volume’s promise and continues what seems destined to be one of the best fantasy series ever written.”
—The Denver Post
“High fantasy with a vengeance.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“Rivals T. H. White’s The Once and Future King.”
—The Des Moines Register
“So complex, fascinating and well-rendered, readers will almost certain
ly be hooked by the whole series.”
—The Oregonian
A STORM OF SWORDS
“One of the more rewarding examples of gigantism in contemporary fantasy . . . richly imagined.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“George R. R. Martin continues to take epic fantasy to new levels of insight and sophistication, resonant with the turmoils and stress of the world we call our own.”
—Locus Magazine
“Martin creates a gorgeously and intricately textured world, peopled with absolutely believable and fascinating characters.”
—The Plain Dealer (Cleveland)
“High fantasy doesn’t get any better than this.”
—The Oregonian
“A riveting continuation of a series whose brilliance continues to dazzle.”
—The Patriot News
“Enough grit and action to please even the most macho . . . a page-turner.”
—The Dallas Morning News
“The latest and the best in a powerful . . . cycle that delivers real people and a page-turning plot.”
—Contra Costa Times
“Martin’s epic advances his series with gritty characterizations, bold plot moves and plenty of action.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
There is never a
dull moment with
GEORGE R. R. MARTIN
The epic tales set into motion
in his landmark saga
A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE
continue in the
next exciting installment
A FEAST FOR CROWS
Only, this time, with new viewpoints
And all new surprises . . .
Here is a special preview
CERSEI
A cold rain fell from a slate grey sky, turning the walls and ramparts of the Red Keep dark as blood. The queen held the king’s hand and led him firmly across the muddy yard to where her litter waited with its escort. “Uncle Jaime said I could ride my horse and throw pennies to the smallfolk,” the boy objected.
“Do you want to catch a chill?” Tommen had never been as robust as Joffrey. “Your lord grandfather would want you to look a proper king at his wake. We cannot appear at the Great Sept wet and bedraggled.” Bad enough I must wear mourning again. Black had never been a happy color on her. With her fair skin, it made her look half a corpse herself. Cersei had risen an hour before dawn to bathe and fix her hair, and she did not intend to let the rain destroy her efforts.
Inside the litter, Tommen settled back against his pillows and peered out at the falling rain. “The gods are weeping for grandfather. Lady Jocelyn says the raindrops are their tears.”
“Jocelyn Swyft is a fool. If the gods could weep, they would have wept for your brother. Rain is rain. Close the curtain before you let any more in. That mantle is sable, would you have it soaked?”
Tommen did as he was bid. She was glad of that, yet his meekness troubled her as well. A king had to be strong. Joffrey would have argued with me. He was never easy to cow. “You should not slump so,” she told Tommen, just to see. “Sit like a king. Put your shoulders back, and straighten your crown. Would you have it falling off of your head in front of all your lords?”
“No, Mother.” The boy sat straight and reached up to fix the crown. Joff’s crown was too big for him. Tommen had always been inclined to plumpness, but his face seemed thinner now. Is he eating well? She must remember to ask the steward. She could not risk Tommen growing ill, not with Myrcella in the hands of the Dornishmen. He will grow into Joff’s crown in time. But until he did, a smaller one might be needed, one that did not threaten to swallow his head. She would take it up with the goldsmiths.
The litter made its slow way down Aegon’s High Hill. Two Kingsguard went before them, white knights on white horses with their cloaks hanging sodden from their shoulders. Behind came fifty Lannister guardsmen in gold and crimson.
Tommen peered through the drapes at the empty streets. “I thought there would be more people. When Father died all the people came out and watched us go by.”
“This rain has driven them inside.” The Kingslanders had never loved Lord Tywin, not even before the Sack. He never wanted love, though. Only respect, and all the honors due him. ‘You cannot eat love, nor buy a horse with it, nor warm your halls on a cold night,’ she heard him tell Jaime once, when her brother had been as young as Tommen.
At the Great Sept of Baelor, that magnificence in marble atop Visenya’s Hill, the little knot of mourners were outnumbered by the gold cloaks that Ser Addam Marbrand had drawn up across the plaza. More will turn out later, the queen told herself as Ser Meryn Trant helped her from the litter. Only the highborn and their retinues were to be admitted to the morning service; there would be another in the afternoon for the commons, and the evening prayers were open to all. Cersei would need to return for that, so that the smallfolk might see her mourn. Certain things were expected of her. The mob must have its show. It was a nuisance, though. She had offices to fill, letters to write, a war to win, a realm to rule.
The High Septon met them at the top of the steps. A bent old man with a wispy grey beard, he was so stooped by the weight of his ornate embroidered robes that his eyes were on a level with the queen’s breasts . . . though his crown, an airy confection of cut crystal and spun gold, added a good foot and a half to his height. Lord Tywin had given him that crown to replace the one that was lost when the mob killed the previous High Septon. They had pulled the fat fool from his litter and torn him apart, the day Myrcella sailed for Dorne. That one was a great glutton, and biddable. This one . . . This High Septon was of Tyrion’s making, Cersei recalled suddenly. It was a disquieting thought.
The old man’s spotted hand looked like a chicken claw as it poked from a sleeve encrusted with golden scrollwork and small crystals. Cersei knelt on the wet marble and kissed his fingers, and bid Tommen to do the same. What does he know of me? How much did the dwarf tell him? The High Septon smiled as he helped her back to her feet and escorted her inside, but was it a threatening smile full of unspoken knowledge, or just some vacuous twitch of an old man’s wrinkled lips? She found it impossible to tell.
She held Tommen’s hand as they made their way through the Hall of Lamps beneath globes of leaded glass. Trant and Kettleblack flanked them, water dripping from their wet cloaks to puddle on the floor. The High Septon walked slowly, leaning on a weirwood staff topped by an crystal orb. Seven of the Most Devout attended him, shimmering in cloth-of-silver. Tommen followed, dressed in cloth-of-gold beneath his sable mantle. The queen wore an old gown of black velvet lined with ermine. There’d been no time to have a new one made, and she could not wear the same dress she had worn for Joffrey, nor the one she’d buried Robert in.
At least I will not be expected to don mourning for Tyrion. I shall dress in crimson silk and cloth-of-gold for that, and wear rubies in my hair. The man who brought her the dwarf’s head would be raised to lordship, no matter how mean and low his birth or station. Pycelle’s ravens were carrying her promise to every part of the Seven Kingdoms even now, and soon enough word would cross the narrow sea to the Nine Free Cities and the lands beyond. Let the Imp run to the ends of the earth, he will not escape me.
They stepped through the inner doors together, into the cavernous heart of the Great Sept, and began their slow progress down a wide aisle, one of seven that met beneath the dome. To right and left, highborn mourners sank at their passing. Many of her father’s bannermen were here, and knights who had fought beside Lord Tywin in half a hundred battles. The sight of them made her feel more confident. I am not without friends.
Under the lofty dome of glass and gold and crystal, Lord Tywin Lannister’s body rested upon a stepped marble bier. At its head Jaime stood at vigil, his one good hand curled about the hilt of a tall golden greatsword whose point rested on the floor. The hooded cloak he wore was as white as freshly fallen snow, and the scales of his long hauberk were mother-of-pearl
chased with gold. Lord Tywin would have wanted him in Lannister gold and crimson, she thought when she saw his garb. It always angered him to see Jaime all in white. Her brother was growing his beard again as well. The stubble covered his jaw and cheeks, and gave him a rough, uncouth look. He might at least have waited till Father’s bones were interred beneath the Rock.
Cersei led the king up three short steps to kneel beside the body. Tommen’s eyes were filled with tears. “Weep quietly,” she told him, leaning close. “You are a king, not a squalling child. Your lords are watching you.” The boy swiped the tears away with the back of his hand. He had her eyes, emerald green, as large and bright as Jaime’s eyes had been when he was Tommen’s age. Her brother had been such a pretty boy . . . but fierce as Joffrey, a lion cub in truth. The queen put her arm around Tommen and kissed his golden curls. He will need me to teach him how to rule, and keep him safe from his enemies. Some of them stood around them even now, pretending to be friends.
The silent sisters had armored Lord Tywin as if to fight some final battle. He wore his finest plate, heavy steel enameled a deep, dark crimson, with gold inlay on his gauntlets, greaves, and breastplate. His rondels were golden sunbursts; a golden lioness crouched upon each shoulder; a maned lion crested the greathelm beside his head. Upon his chest lay a longsword in a gilded scabbard studded with rubies, his hands folded about its hilt in gloves of gilded mail. Even in death his face is noble, she thought, although the mouth . . . The corners of her father’s lips curved upward ever so slightly, giving him a look of vague bemusement. That should not be. She blamed Pycelle; she should have told the silent sisters that Lord Tywin Lannister never smiled. The man is as useless as nipples on a breastplate. Cersei resolved once more to demand a replacement of the Citadel.
That odd half-smile made Lord Tywin seem less fearful, somehow. That, and the fact that his eyes were closed. Her father’s eyes had always been unsettling; pale green, almost luminous, and flecked with gold. His eyes could see inside you, could see how weak and worthless and ugly you were down deep. When he looked at you, you knew.
Unbidden, a memory came back to her, of the feast King Aerys had thrown to welcome her when first she’d come to court, a girl as green as summer grass. When old Merryweather the master of coin said something about raising the duty on wine, Lord Rykker boomed out, “If the crown wants for gold, His Grace can keep Lord Tywin on his chamberpot.” The king and his lickspittles laughed loudly, whilst Father stared at Rykker over his wine cup. Long after the merriment had died that gaze lingered. Rykker turned away, turned back, met Father’s eyes and then ignored them, drank a tankard of ale, and finally bolted to his feet and stalked off red-faced, defeated by a pair of unflinching eyes.
A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle Page 316
