A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

ludicrously fat fool Butterbumps, and the lords and ladies sampled roast herons and cheese-and-onion pies. A troupe of Pentoshi tumblers performed cartwheels and handstands, balanced platters on their bare feet, and stood upon each other’s shoulders to form a pyramid. Their feats were accompanied by crabs boiled in fiery eastern spices, trenchers filled with chunks of chopped mutton stewed in almond milk with carrots, raisins, and onions, and fish tarts fresh from the ovens, served so hot they burned the fingers.
    Then the heralds summoned another singer; Collio Quaynis of Tyrosh, who had a vermilion beard and an accent as ludicrous as Symon had promised. Collio began with his version of “The Dance of the Dragons,” which was more properly a song for two singers, male and female. Tyrion suffered through it with a double helping of honey-ginger partridge and several cups of wine. A haunting ballad of two dying lovers amidst the Doom of Valyria might have pleased the hall more if Collio had not sung it in High Valyrian, which most of the guests could not speak. But “Bessa the Barmaid” won them back with its ribald lyrics. Peacocks were served in their plumage, roasted whole and stuffed with dates, while Collio summoned a drummer, bowed low before Lord Tywin, and launched into “The Rains of Castamere.”
    If I have to hear seven versions of that, I may go down to Flea Bottom and apologize to the stew
. Tyrion turned to his wife. “So which did you prefer?”
    Sansa blinked at him. “My lord?”
    â€œThe singers. Which did you prefer?”
    â€œI . . . I’m sorry, my lord. I was not listening.”
    She was not eating, either. “Sansa, is aught amiss?” He spoke without thinking, and instantly felt the fool.
All her kin are slaughtered and she’s wed to me, and I wonder what’s amiss
.
    â€œNo, my lord.” She looked away from him, and feigned an unconvincing interest in Moon Boy pelting Ser Dontos with dates.
    Four master pyromancers conjured up beasts of living flame to tear at each other with fiery claws whilst the serving men ladeled out bowls of blandissory, a mixture of beef broth and boiled wine sweetened with honey and dotted with blanched almonds and chunks of capon. Then came some strolling pipers and clever dogs and sword swallowers, with buttered pease, chopped nuts, and slivers of swan poached in a sauce of saffron and peaches. (“Not swan again,” Tyrion muttered, remembering his supper with his sister on the eve of battle.) A juggler kept a half-dozen swords and axes whirling through the air as skewers of blood sausage were brought sizzling to the tables, a juxtaposition that Tyrion thought passing clever, though not perhaps in the best of taste.
    The heralds blew their trumpets. “To sing for the golden lute,” one cried, “we give you Galyeon of Cuy.”
    Galyeon was a big barrel-chested man with a black beard, a bald head, and a thunderous voice that filled every corner of the throne room. He brought no fewer than six musicians to play for him. “Noble lords and ladies fair, I sing but one song for you this night,” he announced. “It is the song of the Blackwater, and how a realm was saved.” The drummer began a slow ominous beat.
    â€œ
The dark lord brooded high in his tower
,” Galyeon began, “
in a castle as black as the night
.”
    â€œ
Black was his hair and black was his soul
,” the musicians chanted in unison. A flute came in.
    â€œ
He feasted on bloodlust and envy, and filled his cup full up with spite
,” sang Galyeon.
“My brother once ruled seven kingdoms, he said to his harridan wife. I’ll take what was his and make it all mine. Let his son feel the point of my knife.”
    â€œ
A brave young boy with hair of gold
,” his players chanted, as a woodharp and a fiddle began to play.
    â€œIf I am ever Hand again, the first thing I’ll do is hang all the singers,” said Tyrion, too loudly.
    Lady Leonette laughed lightly beside him, and Ser Garlan leaned over to say, “A valiant deed unsung is no less valiant.”
    â€œThe dark lord assembled his legions, they gathered around him like crows. And thirsty for blood they boarded their ships . . .”
    â€œ. . . and cut off poor Tyrion’s nose,” Tyrion finished.
    Lady Leonette giggled. “Perhaps you should be a singer, my lord. You rhyme as well as this