A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

lose, be it longship or leviathan.”
    â€œAnd what
have
we grasped, Nuncle? The north? What is that, but leagues and leagues of leagues and leagues, far from the sound of the sea? We have taken Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen’s Square, even
Winterfell.
What do we have to show for it?” She beckoned, and her
Black Wind
men pushed forward, chests of oak and iron on their shoulders. “I give you the wealth of the Stony Shore,” Asha said as the first was upended. An avalanche of pebbles clattered forth, cascading down the steps; pebbles grey and black and white, worn smooth by the sea. “I give you the riches of Deepwood,” she said, as the second chest was opened. Pinecones came pouring out, to roll and bounce down into the crowd. “And last, the gold of Winterfell.” From the third chest came yellow turnips, round and hard and big as a man’s head. They landed amidst the pebbles and the pinecones. Asha stabbed one with her dirk. “Harmund Sharp,” she shouted, “your son Harrag died at Winterfell, for this.” She pulled the turnip off her blade and tossed it to him. “You have other sons, I think. If you’d trade their lives for turnips, shout my nuncle’s name!”
    â€œAnd if I shout
your
name?” Harmund demanded. “What then?”
    â€œPeace,” said Asha. “Land. Victory. I’ll give you Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore, black earth and tall trees and stones enough for every younger son to build a hall. We’ll have the northmen too . . . as friends, to stand with us against the Iron Throne. Your choice is simple. Crown me, for peace and victory. Or crown my nuncle, for more war and more defeat.” She sheathed her dirk again. “What will you have, ironmen?”
    â€œVICTORY!”
shouted Rodrik the Reader, his hands cupped about his mouth.
“Victory, and Asha!”
    â€œASHA!”
Lord Baelor Blacktyde echoed.
“ASHA QUEEN!”
    Asha’s own crew took up the cry.
“ASHA! ASHA! ASHA QUEEN!”
They stamped their feet and shook their fists and yelled, as the Damphair listened in disbelief.
She would leave her father’s work undone!
Yet Tristifer Botley was shouting for her, with many Harlaws, some Goodbrothers, red-faced Lord Merlyn, more men than the priest would ever have believed . . . for a
woman!
    But others were holding their tongues, or muttering asides to their neighbors.
“No craven’s peace!”
Ralf the Limper roared. Red Ralf Stonehouse swirled the Greyjoy banner and bellowed,
“Victarion! VICTARION! VICTARION!”
Men began to shove at one another. Someone flung a pinecone at Asha’s head. When she ducked, her makeshift crown fell off. For a moment it seemed to the priest as if he stood atop a giant anthill, with a thousand ants in a boil at his feet. Shouts of
“Asha!”
and
“Victarion!”
surged back and forth, and it seemed as though some savage storm was about to engulf them all.
The Storm God is amongst us,
the priest thought,
sowing fury and discord.
    Sharp as a swordthrust, the sound of a horn split the air.
    Bright and baneful was its voice, a shivering hot scream that made a man’s bones seem to
thrum
within him. The cry lingered in the damp sea air:
aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
    All eyes turned toward the sound. It was one of Euron’s mongrels winding the call, a monstrous man with a shaved head. Rings of gold and jade and jet glistened on his arms, and on his broad chest was tattooed some bird of prey, talons dripping blood.
    aaaaRRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
    The horn he blew was shiny black and twisted, and taller than a man as he held it with both hands. It was bound about with bands of red gold and dark steel, incised with ancient Valyrian glyphs that seemed to glow redly as the sound swelled.
    aaaaaaaRRREEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
    It was a terrible sound, a wail of pain and fury that seemed to burn the ears. Aeron Damphair covered his, and prayed for the Drowned God to raise a mighty wave and smash the horn to silence, yet still the shriek went on and on.
It is the horn of hell,
he wanted to scream, though no man would have heard him. The cheeks of the tattooed man were so puffed out they looked about to burst, and the muscles in his chest twitched in a way that it made it seem as if the bird were about to rip free of his flesh and take wing. And now the glyphs were