A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

said.“Your cruel gods and the Knight of Flowers altogether did me in.”
    â€œNo doubt that was a lesson for you,” Ser Rodrik said.
    â€œIt was. This time my coin will champion Ser Loras.”
    Ser Rodrik tried to tug at whiskers that were not there, but before he could frame a rebuke the serving boy came scurrying up. He laid trenchers of bread before them and filled them with chunks of browned meat off a skewer, dripping with hot juice. Another skewer held tiny onions, fire peppers, and fat mushrooms. Ser Rodrik set to lustily as the lad ran back to fetch them beer.
    â€œMy name is Marillion,” the singer said, plucking a string on his woodharp. “Doubtless you’ve heard me play somewhere?”
    His manner made Catelyn smile. Few wandering singers ever ventured as far north as Winterfell, but she knew his like from her girlhood in Riverrun. “I fear not,” she told him.
    He drew a plaintive chord from the woodharp. “That is your loss,” he said. “Who was the finest singer you’ve ever heard?”
    â€œAlia of Braavos,” Ser Rodrik answered at once.
    â€œOh, I’m
much
better than that old stick,” Marillion said. “If you have the silver for a song, I’ll gladly show you.”
    â€œI might have a copper or two, but I’d sooner toss it down a well than pay for your howling,” Ser Rodrik groused. His opinion of singers was well known; music was a lovely thing for girls, but he could not comprehend why any healthy boy would fill his hand with a harp when he might have had a sword.
    â€œYour grandfather has a sour nature,” Marillion said to Catelyn. “I meant to do you honor. An homage to your beauty. In truth, I was made to sing for kings and high lords.”
    â€œOh, I can see that,” Catelyn said. “Lord Tully is fond of song, I hear. No doubt you’ve been to Riverrun.”
    â€œA hundred times,” the singer said airily. “They keep a chamber for me, and the young lord is like a brother.”
    Catelyn smiled, wondering what Edmure would think of that. Another singer had once bedded a girl her brother fancied; he had hated the breed ever since. “And Winterfell?” she asked him. “Have you traveled north?”
    â€œWhy would I?” Marillion asked. “It’s all blizzards and bearskins up there, and the Starks know no music but the howling of wolves.” Distantly, she was aware of the door banging open at the far end of the room.
    â€œInnkeep,” a servant’s voice called out behind her, “we have horses that want stabling, and my lord of Lannister requires a room and a hot bath.”
    â€œOh, gods,” Ser Rodrik said before Catelyn reached out to silence him, her fingers tightening hard around his forearm.
    Masha Heddle was bowing and smiling her hideous red smile. “I’m sorry, m’lord, truly, we’re full up, every room.”
    There were four of them, Catelyn saw. An old man in the black of the Night’s Watch, two servants … and him, standing there small and bold as life. “My men will sleep in your stable, and as for myself, well, I do not require a
large
room, as you can plainly see.” He flashed a mocking grin. “So long as the fire’s warm and the straw reasonably free of fleas, I am a happy man.”
    Masha Heddle was beside herself. “M’lord, there’s nothing, it’s the tourney, there’s no help for it, oh …”
    Tyrion Lannister pulled a coin from his purse and flicked it up over his head, caught it, tossed it again. Even across the room, where Catelyn sat, the wink of gold was unmistakable.
    A freerider in a faded blue cloak lurched to his feet. “You’re welcome to my room, m’lord.”
    â€œNow there’s a clever man,” Lannister said as he sent the coin spinning across the room. The freerider snatched it from the air. “And a nimble one to boot.” The dwarf turned back to Masha Heddle. “You will be able to manage food, I trust?”
    â€œAnything you like, m’lord, anything at all,” the innkeep promised.
And may he choke on it
, Catelyn thought, but it was Bran she saw choking, drowning on his own blood.
    Lannister glanced at the nearest tables. “My men will have whatever you’re serving these people. Double portions, we’ve had a long hard ride. I’ll take a roast fowl—chicken,