A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle
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“The archmaesters are cravens at heart. The grey sheep, Marwyn calls them. I was as skilled a healer as Ebrose, but aspired to surpass him. For hundreds of years the men of the Citadel have opened the bodies of the dead, to study the nature of life. I wished to understand the nature of death, so I opened the bodies of the living. For that crime the grey sheep shamed me and forced me into exile . . . but even now I know more of life and death than any man in Oldtown.”
“Do you?” She smiled. “Very well. The Mountain is yours. Do what you will with him, but confine your studies to the black cells. When he dies, bring me his head. My father promised it to Dorne. Prince Doran would no doubt prefer to kill Gregor himself, but we all must suffer disappointments in this life.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Qyburn cleared his throat. “I am am not so well provided as Pycelle, however. I must needs equip myself with certain . . .”
“I shall instruct Lord Gyles to provide you with gold sufficient for your needs. Buy yourself some new robes as well. You look as though you’ve wandered up from Flea Bottom. Now go.”
He bowed, and went.
Her uncle arrived promptly at sunset, wearing a quilted doublet of charcoal-colored wool as somber as his face. Like all the Lannisters, Ser Kevan was fair-skinned and blond, though at five-and-fifty he had lost most of his hair. No one would ever call him comely. Thick of waist, round of shoulder, with a square jutting chin that his close-cropped yellow beard did little to conceal, he reminded her of some old mastiff . . . but a faithful old mastiff was the very thing that she required.
They ate a simple supper of beets and bread and bloody beef with a flagon of Dornish red to wash it all down. Ser Kevan ate slowly and said little, and scarcely touched his wine cup. He broods too much on Father, the queen decided. He needs to be put to work to get beyond his grief.
She said as much, when the last of the food had been cleared away and the servants had departed. “I know how much my father relied on you, Uncle. Now I must do the same.”
“You need a Hand,” he said, “and Jaime has refused you.”
He is blunt. Very well. She glanced away. “Jaime . . . I felt so lost with Father dead, I scarce knew what I was saying. Jaime is gallant, but a bit of a fool, let us be frank. Tommen needs a more seasoned man. Someone older . . .”
“Mace Tyrell is older.”
Her nostrils flared. “Never.” Cersei pushed a lock of hair off her brow. “The Tyrells overreach themselves.”
“You would be a fool to make Mace Tyrell your Hand,” Ser Kevan warned, “but a bigger fool to make him your foe. I’ve heard what happened in the Hall of Lamps. Mace should have known better than to broach such matters in public, but even so, you were unwise to shame him in front of half the Reach.”
“It was that, or kiss his hand and welcome another Tyrell to the small council.” His reproach annoyed her. “Rosby will be more than adequate as master of coin. You’ve seen his horses, and that litter of his. A man that rich should have no problem finding gold. As for the Hand . . . who better to finish my father’s work than the brother who shared his counsels?”
“Every man needs someone he can trust. Tywin had me, and once your mother.”
“He loved her very much.” Cersei refused to think about the dead whore in his bed. “I know they are together now.”
“So I pray.” Ser Kevan studied her face for a long moment before he replied. “You ask much of me, Cersei.”
“No more than my father did.”
“I am tired.” Her uncle reached for his wine cup and took a swallow. “I have a wife I have not seen in two years, a dead son whose tomb I have yet to visit, another son who might have died as well. And Lancel must needs establish himself in Darry. There are outlaws stabling their horses in his great hall. Castle Darry must be made strong again, its lands protected, its burned fields ploughed and planted anew. He needs my help.”
“As does Tommen.” Cersei had not expected Kevan to require coaxing. He never played coy with Father. “The realm needs you.”
“The realm. Aye. And House Lannister.” He sipped his wine again. “Very well. I will remain and serve His Grace . . .”
“Very good,” she started to say, but Ser Kevan raised his voice and bulled right over her.
“. . . so long as you name me regent as well as Hand, and take yourself back to Casterly Rock.”
For half a heartbeat Cersei could only stare at him. What did he say? “I am the regent,” she reminded him.
“You were. Your father did not intend that you continue in that role. He told me of his plans to send you back to the Rock and find a new husband for you.”
Cersei could feel her anger rising. “He spoke of such, yes. And I told him it was not my wish to wed again.”
Her uncle was unmoved. “There are good reasons why you should, but if you are resolved against another marriage I will not force it on you. As to the other, though . . . you are the Lady of Casterly Rock now. Your place is there.”
How dare you? she wanted to scream. Instead she said, “I am also the Queen Regent. My place is with my son.”
“Your father thought not.”
“My father is dead.”
“To my grief, and the woe of all the realm. Open your eyes and look about you, Cersei. The kingdom is in ruins. Tywin might have been able to set matters aright, but . . .”
“I shall set matters aright!” That sounded shrill. Cersei softened her tone. “With your help, Uncle. If you will serve me as faithfully as you served my father—”
“You are not your father.” His voice was hard. “Tywin regarded Jaime as his rightful heir.”
“Jaime . . . Jaime has taken vows. The Kingsguard serve for life. Jaime never thinks, he laughs at everything and everyone and says whatever comes into his head. Jaime is a handsome fool.”
“And yet he was your first choice to be the King’s Hand. What does that make you, Cersei?”
“I told you, I was sick with grief, I did not think—”
“No,” Ser Kevan agreed, “which is why you should return to Casterly Rock, and leave the king with those who do.”
“The king is my son!” Cersei rose to her feet.
“Aye,” her uncle said, “and from what I saw of Joffrey, you are as unfit as a mother as you are as a ruler.”
She threw the contents of her wine cup full in his face.
Ser Kevan rose with a ponderous dignity. “Your Grace.” Wine trickled down his cheeks and dripped from his close-cropped beard. “With your leave, might I withdraw?”
“By what right do you presume to give me terms? You are no more than one of my father’s household knights.”
“I hold no lands, that is true. But I have certain incomes, and chests of coin set aside. My own father forgot none of his children when he died, and Tywin knew how to reward good service. I feed two hundred knights and can double that number if need be. There are freeriders who will follow my banner, and I have the gold to hire sellswords. You would be wise not to take me lightly, Your Grace . . . and wiser still not to make of me a foe.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Say rather than I am counseling you.”
“I should throw you in a black cell.”
“No. You should yield the regency to me. As you will not, however, then name me your castellan for Casterly Rock, and make either Mathis Rowan or Randyll Tarly the Hand of the King.”
Tyrell bannermen, both of them. The suggestion left her speechless. Is he bought? she wondered. Has he taken Tyrell gold to betray House Lannister?
“Mathis Rowan is sensible, prudent, well-liked,” her uncle went on, oblivious. “Randyll Tarly is the finest soldier in the realm. A poor Hand for peacetime, but with Tywin dead there’s no better man to finish this war. Lord Tyrell cannot openly take offense if you choose one of his own bannermen as Hand. Both Tarly and Towan are able men . . . and loyal. Name either one, and you make him yours. You will strengthen yourself and weaken Highgarden at the sa
me time, yet Mace will likely thank you for it.” He gave a shrug. “That is my counsel, take it or no. You may make Moon Boy your Hand for all I care. My brother is dead, woman. I am going to take him home.”
Traitor, she thought. Turncloak. She wondered how much Mace Tyrell had given him. “You would abandon your king when he needs you most,” she told him. “You would abandon Tommen.”
“Tommen has his mother.” Ser Kevan’s green eyes met her own, unblinking. A last drop of wine trembled wet and red beneath his chin, and finally fell. “Aye,” he added softly, after a pause, “and his father too, I think.”
A STORM OF SWORDS
A Bantam Spectra Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam Spectra hardcover edition published November 2000
Bantam Spectra trade paperback edition published June 2002
Bantam Spectra mass market edition / March 2003
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2000 by George R. R. Martin
Maps by James Sinclair
Heraldic crests by Virginia Norey
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-60827
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher except where permitted by law. For information address: Bantam Books, New York, New York.
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Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-553-89787-6
v3.0
CONTENTS
Master - Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
APPENDIX I: THE KINGS AND THEIR COURTS
THE QUEEN REGENT
THE KING AT THE WALL
KING OF THE ISLES AND THE NORTH
APPENDIX II: OTHER HOUSES GREAT AND SMALL
HOUSE ARRYN
HOUSE FLORENT
HOUSE FREY
HOUSE HIGHTOWER
HOUSE LANNISTER
HOUSE MARTELL
HOUSE STARK
HOUSE TULLY
HOUSE TYRELL
APPENDIX III: REBELS AND ROGUES SMALLFOLK AND SWORN BROTHERS
LORDLINGS, WANDERERS, AND COMMON MEN
OUTLAWS AND BROKEN MEN
THE SWORN BROTHERS OF THE NIGHT’S WATCH
THE WILDLINGS, OR THE FREE FOLK
APPENDIX IV: BEYOND THE NARROW SEA
THE QUEEN ACROSS THE WATER
IN BRAAVOS
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by George R.R. Martin
Preview of A Dance with Dragons
Copyright
for Stephen Boucher
wizard of Windows, dragon of DOS
without whom this book would have
been written in crayon
Praise for
GEORGE R. R. MARTIN
and
A Song of Ice and Fire
“Mainstream readers . . . have a great treat ahead of them in Martin. A Feast for Crows is a fast-paced, emotionally complex, masterfully written adventure . . . Martin’s writing is as good as ever: his imaginary places are as vivid and thoroughly imagined, his characters as consistent and believable, his blood as wet and red.” —Newsday
“George R. R. Martin has created the unlikely genre of the realpolitik fantasy novel. Complete with warring kings, noble heroes and backroom dealings, it’s addictive reading and reflects our current world a lot better than The Lord of the Rings.” —Rolling Stone
“What’s “A Song of Ice and Fire”? It’s the only fantasy series I’d put on a level with J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. It’s way better than the Harry Potter books and definitely not for children. It’s a fantasy series for hip, smart people, even those who don’t read fantasy.” —Chicago Tribune
“For a succinct summation of Martin’s medieval fantasy series, imagine a mix of the literary quality of T. H. White’s The Once and Future King, the in-your-face, you-are-there grittiness of a movie like Braveheart and the sort of intricate character development found in a quality television show like Lost . . . Vast, complex and undeniably entertaining . . . Once in a while, there are books and writers that manage to elevate an entire genre. Stephen King did so with horror. George R. R. Martin’s “A Song of Ice and Fire” series has taken fantasy out of the two-dimensional, black and white realm where it once happily existed and dragged it kicking and screaming into a land of believable characters, ambiguous situations, and bloody, sometimes uncertain denouements.” —Denver Post
“‘A Song of Ice and Fire’ is firmly at the top of the bestseller lists, probably because it’s the best fantasy series out there.” —Detroit Free Press
Click here to view the maps in greater detail: http://atrandom.com/ffcmaps
PROLOGUE
Dragons,” said Mollander. He snatched a withered apple off the ground and tossed it hand to hand.
“Throw the apple,” urged Alleras the Sphinx. He slipped an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bowstring.
“I should like to see a dragon.” Roone was the youngest of them, a chunky boy still two years shy of manhood. “I should like that very much.”
And I should like to sleep with Rosey’s arms around me, Pate thought. He shifted restlessly on the bench. By the morrow the girl could well be his. I will take her far from Oldtown, across the narrow sea to one of the Free Cities. There were no maesters there, no one to accuse him.
He could hear Emma’s laughter coming through a shuttered window overhead, mingled with the deeper voice of the man she was entertaining. She was the oldest of the serving wenches at the Quill and Tankard, forty if she was a day, but still pretty in a fleshy sort of way. Rosey was her daughter, fifteen and freshly flowered. Emma had decreed that Rosey’s maidenhead would cost a golden dragon. Pate had saved nine silver stags and a pot of copper stars and pennies, for all the good that would do him. He would have stood a better chance of hatching a real dragon than saving up enough coin to make a golden one.
“You were born too late for dragons, lad,” Armen the Acolyte told Roone. Armen wore a leather thong about his neck, strung with links of pewter, tin, lead, and copper, and like most acolytes he seemed to believe that novices had turnips growing from their shoulders in place of heads. “The last one perished during the reign of King Aegon the Third.”
“The last dragon in W
esteros,” insisted Mollander.
“Throw the apple,” Alleras urged again. He was a comely youth, their Sphinx. All the serving wenches doted on him. Even Rosey would sometimes touch him on the arm when she brought him wine, and Pate had to gnash his teeth and pretend not to see.
“The last dragon in Westeros was the last dragon,” said Armen doggedly. “That is well known.”
“The apple,” Alleras said. “Unless you mean to eat it.”
“Here.” Dragging his clubfoot, Mollander took a short hop, whirled, and whipped the apple sidearm into the mists that hung above the Honeywine. If not for his foot, he would have been a knight like his father. He had the strength for it in those thick arms and broad shoulders. Far and fast the apple flew . . .
. . . but not as fast as the arrow that whistled after it, a yard-long shaft of golden wood fletched with scarlet feathers. Pate did not see the arrow catch the apple, but he heard it. A soft chunk echoed back across the river, followed by a splash.
Mollander whistled. “You cored it. Sweet.”
Not half as sweet as Rosey. Pate loved her hazel eyes and budding breasts, and the way she smiled every time she saw him. He loved the dimples in her cheeks. Sometimes she went barefoot as she served, to feel the grass beneath her feet. He loved that too. He loved the clean fresh smell of her, the way her hair curled behind her ears. He even loved her toes. One night she’d let him rub her feet and play with them, and he’d made up a funny tale for every toe to keep her giggling.
Perhaps he would do better to remain on this side of the narrow sea. He could buy a donkey with the coin he’d saved, and he and Rosey could take turns riding it as they wandered Westeros. Ebrose might not think him worthy of the silver, but Pate knew how to set a bone and leech a fever. The smallfolk would be grateful for his help. If he could learn to cut hair and shave beards, he might even be a barber. That would be enough, he told himself, so long as I had Rosey. Rosey was all that he wanted in the world.
That had not always been so. Once he had dreamed of being a maester in a castle, in service to some open-handed lord who would honor him for his wisdom and bestow a fine white horse on him to thank him for his service. How high he’d ride, how nobly, smiling down at the smallfolk when he passed them on the road . . .