A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

them stories of the Titan back in Winterfell. He was a giant as tall as a mountain, and whenever Braavos stood in danger he would wake with fire in his eyes, his rocky limbs grinding and groaning as he waded out into the sea to smash the enemies. “The Braavosi feed him on the juicy pink flesh of little highborn girls,” Nan would end, and Sansa would give a stupid squeak. But Maester Luwin said the Titan was only a statue, and Old Nan’s stories were only stories.
    Winterfell is burned and fallen,
Arya reminded herself. Old Nan and Maester Luwin were both dead, most like, and Sansa too. It did no good to think of them.
All men must die.
That was what the words meant, the words that Jaqen H’ghar had taught her when he gave her the worn iron coin. She had learned more Braavosi words since they left Saltpans, the words for
please
and
thank you
and
sea
and
star
and
fire wine,
but she came to them knowing that
all men must die.
Most of the
Daughter
’s crew had a smattering of the Common Tongue from nights ashore in Oldtown and King’s Landing and Maidenpool, though only the captain and his sons spoke it well enough to talk to her. Denyo was the youngest of those sons, a plump, cheerful boy of twelve who kept his father’s cabin and helped his eldest brother do his sums.
    â€œI hope your Titan isn’t hungry,” Arya told him.
    â€œHungry?” Denyo said, confused.
    â€œIt takes no matter.” Even if the Titan
did
eat juicy pink girl flesh, Arya would not fear him. She was a scrawny thing, no proper meal for a giant, and almost eleven, practically a woman grown.
And Salty isn’t highborn, either.
“Is the Titan the god of Braavos?” she asked. “Or do you have the Seven?”
    â€œAll gods are honored in Braavos.” The captain’s son loved to talk about his city almost as much as he loved to talk about his father’s ship. “Your Seven have a sept here, the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea, but only Westerosi sailors worship there.”
    They are not my Seven. They were my mother’s gods, and they let the Freys murder her at the Twins.
She wondered whether she would find a godswood in Braavos, with a weirwood at its heart. Denyo might know, but she could not ask him. Salty was from Saltpans, and what would a girl from Saltpans know about the old gods of the north?
The old gods are dead,
she told herself,
with Mother and Father and Robb and Bran and Rickon, all dead.
A long time ago, she remembered her father saying that when the cold winds blow the lone wolf dies and the pack survives.
He had it all backwards.
Arya, the lone wolf, still lived, but the wolves of the pack had been taken and slain and skinned.
    â€œThe Moonsingers led us to this place of refuge, where the dragons of Valyria could not find us,” Denyo said. “Theirs is the greatest temple. We esteem the Father of Waters as well, but his house is built anew whenever he takes his bride. The rest of the gods dwell together on an isle in the center of the city. That is where you will find the . . . the Many-Faced God.”
    The Titan’s eyes seemed brighter now, and farther apart. Arya did not know any Many-Faced God, but if he answered prayers, he might be the god she sought.
Ser Gregor,
she thought,
Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei. Only six now.
Joffrey was dead, the Hound had slain Polliver, and she’d stabbed the Tickler herself, and that stupid squire with the pimple.
I wouldn’t have killed him if he hadn’t grabbed me.
The Hound had been dying when she left him on the banks of the Trident, burning up with fever from his wound.
I should have given him the gift of mercy and put a knife into his heart.
    â€œSalty, look!” Denyo took her by the arm and turned her. “Can you see?
There.
” He pointed.
    The mists gave way before them, ragged grey curtains parted by their prow. The
Titan’s Daughter
cleaved through the grey-green waters on billowing purple wings. Arya could hear the cries of seabirds overhead. There, where Denyo pointed, a line of stony ridges rose sudden from the sea, their steep slopes covered with soldier pines and black spruce. But dead ahead the sea had broken through, and there above the open water the Titan towered, with his eyes blazing and his long green hair blowing in the wind.
    His legs bestrode the gap, one foot planted on each mountain, his shoulders looming tall above the jagged crests.