A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

black on the right side and white on the left. Beneath the cowl was a gaunt and bony face, hollow cheeks, and dark eyes that looked as big as saucers. “Don’t grab me,” Arya warned the waif. “I killed the boy who grabbed me last.”
    The girl said some words that Arya did not know.
    She shook her head. “Don’t you know the Common Tongue?”
    A voice behind her said, “I do.”
    Arya did not like the way they kept surprising her. The hooded man was tall, enveloped in a larger version of the black-and-white robe the girl was wearing. Beneath his cowl all she could see was the faint red glitter of candlelight reflecting off his eyes. “What place is this?” she asked him.
    â€œA place of peace.” His voice was gentle. “You are safe here. This is the House of Black and White, my child. Though you are young to seek the favor of the Many-Faced God.”
    â€œIs he like the southron god, the one with seven faces?”
    â€œSeven? No. He has faces beyond count, little one, as many faces as there are stars in the sky. In Braavos, men worship as they will . . . but at the end of every road stands Him of Many Faces, waiting. He will be there for you one day, do not fear. You need not rush to his embrace.”
    â€œI only came to find Jaqen H’ghar.”
    â€œI do not know this name.”
    Her heart sank. “He was from Lorath. His hair was white on one side and red on the other. He said he’d teach me secrets, and gave me this.” The iron coin was clutched in her fist. When she opened her fingers, it clung to her sweaty palm.
    The priest studied the coin, though he made no move to touch it. The waif with the big eyes was looking at it too. Finally, the cowled man said, “Tell me your name, child.”
    â€œSalty. I come from Saltpans, by the Trident.”
    Though she could not see his face, somehow she could feel him smiling. “No,” he said. “Tell me your name.”
    â€œSquab,” she answered this time.
    â€œYour true name, child.”
    â€œMy mother named me Nan, but they call me Weasel—”
    â€œYour name.”
    She swallowed. “Arry. I’m
Arry.
”
    â€œCloser. And now the truth?”
    Fear cuts deeper than swords,
she told herself. “Arya.” She whispered the word the first time. The second time she threw it at him. “I am
Arya,
of House Stark.”
    â€œYou are,” he said, “but the House of Black and White is no place for Arya, of House Stark.”
    â€œPlease,” she said. “I have no place to go.”
    â€œDo you fear death?”
    She bit her lip. “No.”
    â€œLet us see.” The priest lowered his cowl. Beneath he had no face; only a yellowed skull with a few scraps of skin still clinging to the cheeks, and a white worm wriggling from one empty eye socket. “Kiss me, child,” he croaked, in a voice as dry and husky as a death rattle.
    Does he think to scare me?
Arya kissed him where his nose should be and plucked the grave worm from his eye to eat it, but it melted like a shadow in her hand.
    The yellow skull was melting too, and the kindliest old man that she had ever seen was smiling down at her. “No one has ever tried to eat my worm before,” he said. “Are you hungry, child?”
    Yes,
she thought,
but not for food.

CERSEI
    A cold rain was falling, turning the walls and ramparts of the Red Keep dark as blood. The queen held the king’s hand and led him firmly across the muddy yard to where her litter waited with its escort. “Uncle Jaime said I could ride my horse and throw pennies to the smallfolk,” the boy objected.
    â€œDo you want to catch a chill?” She would not risk it; Tommen had never been as robust as Joffrey. “Your grandfather would want you to look a proper king at his wake. We will not appear at the Great Sept wet and bedraggled.”
Bad enough I must wear mourning again.
Black had never been a happy color on her. With her fair skin, it made her look half a corpse herself. Cersei had risen an hour before dawn to bathe and fix her hair, and she did not intend to let the rain destroy her efforts.
    Inside the litter, Tommen settled back against his pillows and peered out at the falling rain. “The gods are weeping for grandfather. Lady Jocelyn says the raindrops are their tears.”
    â€œJocelyn Swyft is a fool. If the gods could weep, they would have wept