A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

with his honor.
    Afterward she stretched out on the bed as best she could. For all its width it was not long enough, so Brienne lay across it sideways. She could hear the clatter of tankards from below, and voices drifting up the steps. The fleas that Longbough had spoken of put in their appearance. Scratching helped keep her awake.
    She heard Hibald mount the stairs, and sometime later the knights as well. “. . . I never knew his name,” Ser Creighton was saying as he went by, “but upon his shield he bore a blood-red chicken, and his blade was dripping gore . . .” His voice faded, and somewhere up above, a door opened and closed.
    Her candle burned out. Darkness settled over the Old Stone Bridge, and the inn grew so still that she could hear the murmur of the river. Only then did Brienne rise to gather up her things. She eased the door open, listened, made her way barefoot down the steps. Outside she donned her boots and hurried to the stables to saddle her bay mare, asking a silent pardon of Ser Creighton and Ser Illifer as she mounted. One of Hibald’s serving men woke when she rode past him, but made no move to stop her. Her mare’s hooves rang upon the old stone bridge. Then the trees closed in around her, black as pitch and full of ghosts and memories.
I am coming for you, Lady Sansa,
she thought as she rode into the darkness.
Be not afraid. I shall not rest until I’ve found you.

SAMWELL
    S am was reading about the Others when he saw the mouse.
    His eyes were red and raw.
I ought not rub them so much,
he always told himself as he rubbed them. The dust made them itch and water, and the dust was everywhere down here. Little puffs of it filled the air every time a page was turned, and it rose in grey clouds whenever he shifted a stack of books to see what might be hiding on the bottom.
    Sam did not know how long it had been since last he’d slept, but scarce an inch remained of the fat tallow candle he’d lit when starting on the ragged bundle of loose pages that he’d found tied up in twine. He was beastly tired, but it was hard to stop.
One more book,
he had told himself,
then I’ll stop. One more folio, just one more. One more page, then I’ll go up and rest and get a bite to eat.
But there was always another page after that one, and another after that, and another book waiting underneath the pile.
I’ll just take a quick peek to see what this one is about,
he’d think, and before he knew he would be halfway through it. He had not eaten since that bowl of bean-and-bacon soup with Pyp and Grenn.
Well, except for the bread and cheese, but that was only a nibble,
he thought. That was when he took a quick glance at the empty platter, and spied the mouse feasting on the bread crumbs.
    The mouse was half as long as his pinky finger, with black eyes and soft grey fur. Sam knew he ought to kill it. Mice might prefer bread and cheese, but they ate paper too. He had found plenty of mouse droppings amongst the shelves and stacks, and some of the leather covers on the books showed signs of being gnawed.
    It is such a little thing, though. And hungry.
How could he begrudge it a few crumbs?
It’s eating books, though . . .
    After hours in the chair Sam’s back was stiff as a board, and his legs were half-asleep. He knew he was not quick enough to catch the mouse, but it might be he could squash it. By his elbow rested a massive leather-bound copy of
Annals of the Black Centaur,
Septon Jorquen’s exhaustively detailed account of the nine years that Orbert Caswell had served as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. There was a page for each day of his term, every one of which seemed to begin, “Lord Orbert rose at dawn and moved his bowels,” except for the last, which said, “Lord Orbert was found to have died during the night.”
    No mouse is a match for Septon Jorquen.
Very slowly, Sam took hold of the book with his left hand. It was thick and heavy, and when he tried to lift it one-handed, it slipped from his plump fingers and thumped back down. The mouse was gone in half a heartbeat, skittery-quick. Sam was relieved. Squishing the poor little thing would have given him nightmares. “You shouldn’t eat the books, though,” he said aloud. Maybe he should bring more cheese the next time he came down here.
    He was surprised at how low the candle had burned. Had the bean-and-bacon soup been today or yesterday?
Yesterday. It