A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

“Isn’t there something you can give her?” he asked Maester Aemon very softly, when he saw that the old man was awake. “Some herb or potion, so she won’t be so afraid?”
    â€œIt is not fear you hear,” the old man told him. “That is the sound of grief, and there is no potion for that. Let her tears run their course, Sam. You cannot stem the flow.”
    Sam had not understood. “She’s going to a safe place. A
warm
place. Why should she be grieving?”
    â€œSam,” the old man whispered, “you have two good eyes, and yet you do not see. She is a mother grieving for her child.”
    â€œHe’s greensick, that’s all. We’re all greensick. Once we make port in Braavos . . .”
    â€œ. . . the babe will still be Dalla’s son, and not the child of her body.”
    It took Sam a moment to grasp what Aemon was suggesting. “That couldn’t . . . she wouldn’t . . . of course he’s hers. Gilly would never have left the Wall without her
son
. She loves him.”
    â€œShe nursed them both and loved them both,” said Aemon, “but not alike. No mother loves all her children the same, not even the Mother Above. Gilly did not leave the child willingly, I am certain. What threats the Lord Commander made, what promises, I can only guess . . . but threats and promises there surely were.”
    â€œNo. No, that’s wrong. Jon would never . . .”
    â€œJon would never. Lord Snow did. Sometimes there is no happy choice, Sam, only one less grievous than the others.”
    No happy choice.
Sam thought of all the trials that he and Gilly suffered, Craster’s Keep and the death of the Old Bear, snow and ice and freezing winds, days and days and days of walking, the wights at Whitetree, Coldhands and the tree of ravens, the Wall, the Wall, the Wall, the Black Gate beneath the earth. What had it all been for?
No happy choices and no happy endings.
    He wanted to scream. He wanted to howl and sob and shake and curl up in a little ball and whimper.
He switched the babes,
he told himself.
He switched the babes to protect the little prince, to keep him away from Lady Melisandre’s fires, away from her red god. If she burns Gilly’s boy, who will care? No one but Gilly. He was only Craster’s whelp, an abomination born of incest, not the son of the King-beyond-the-Wall. He’s no good for a hostage, no good for a sacrifice, no good for anything, he doesn’t even have a name.
    Wordless, Sam staggered up onto the deck to retch, but there was nothing in his belly to bring up. Night had come upon them, a strange still night such as they had not seen for many days. The sea was black as glass. At the oars, the rowers rested. One or two were sleeping where they sat. The wind was in the sails, and to the north Sam could even see a scattering of stars, and the red wanderer the free folk called the Thief.
That ought to be my star,
Sam thought miserably.
I helped to make Jon Lord Commander, and I brought him Gilly and the babe. There are no happy endings.
    â€œSlayer.” Dareon appeared beside him, oblivious to Sam’s pain. “A sweet night, for once. Look, the stars are coming out. We might even get a bit of moon. Might be the worst is done.”
    â€œNo.” Sam wiped his nose, and pointed south with a fat finger, toward the gathering darkness. “There,” he said. No sooner had he spoken than lightning flashed, sudden and silent and blinding bright. The distant clouds glowed for half a heartbeat, mountains heaped on mountains, purple and red and yellow, taller than the world. “The worst isn’t done. The worst is just beginning, and there are no happy endings.”
    â€œGods be good,” said Dareon, laughing. “Slayer, you are
such
a craven.”

JAIME
    L ord Tywin Lannister had entered the city on a stallion, his enameled crimson armor polished and gleaming, bright with gems and goldwork. He left it in a tall wagon draped with crimson banners, with six silent sisters riding attendance on his bones.
    The funeral procession departed King’s Landing through the Gate of the Gods, wider and more splendid than the Lion Gate. The choice felt wrong to Jaime. His father had been a lion, that no one could deny, but even Lord Tywin never claimed to be a god.
    An honor guard of fifty knights surrounded Lord Tywin’s wagon, crimson pennons fluttering from their lances. The lords