A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

again, and whole. He looked up at the trees and dreamed of climbing them, right up to the very top, with the whole forest spread out beneath him.
    They were on the far side when they heard the howl, a long rising wail that moved through the trees like a cold wind. Bran raised his head to listen. “Summer,” he said. No sooner had he spoken than a second voice joined the first.
    â€œThey’ve made a kill,” Robb said as he remounted, “I’d best go and bring them back. Wait here, Theon and the others should be along shortly.”
    â€œI want to go with you,” Bran said.
    â€œI’ll find them faster by myself.” Robb spurred his gelding and vanished into the trees.
    Once he was gone, the woods seemed to close in around Bran. The snow was falling more heavily now. Where it touched the ground it melted, but all about him rock and root and branch wore a thin blanket of white. As he waited, he was conscious of how uncomfortable he felt. He could not feel his legs, hanging useless in the stirrups, but the strap around his chest was tight and chafing, and the melting snow had soaked through his gloves to chill his hands. He wondered what was keeping Theon and Maester Luwin and Joseth and the rest.
    When he heard the rustle of leaves, Bran used the reins to make Dancer turn, expecting to see his friends, but the ragged men who stepped out onto the bank of the stream were strangers.
    â€œGood day to you,” he said nervously. One look, and Bran knew they were neither foresters nor farmers. He was suddenly conscious of how richly he was dressed. His surcoat was new, dark grey wool with silver buttons, and a heavy silver pin fastened his fur-trimmed cloak at the shoulders. His boots and gloves were lined with fur as well.
    â€œAll alone, are you?” said the biggest of them, a bald man with a raw windburnt face. “Lost in the wolfswood, poor lad.”
    â€œI’m not lost.” Bran did not like the way the strangers were looking at him. He counted four, but when he turned his head, he saw two others behind him. “Mybrother rode off just a moment ago, and my guard will be here shortly.”
    â€œYour guard, is it?” a second man said. Grey stubble covered his gaunt face. “And what would they be guarding, my little lord? Is that a silver pin I see there on your cloak?”
    â€œPretty,” said a woman’s voice. She scarcely looked like a woman; tall and lean, with the same hard face as the others, her hair hidden beneath a bowl-shaped halfhelm. The spear she held was eight feet of black oak, tipped in rusted steel.
    â€œLet’s have a look,” said the big bald man.
    Bran watched him anxiously. The man’s clothes were filthy, fallen almost to pieces, patched here with brown and here with blue and there with a dark green, and faded everywhere to grey, but once that cloak might have been black. The grey stubbly man wore black rags too, he saw with a sudden start. Suddenly Bran remembered the oathbreaker his father had beheaded, the day they had found the wolf pups; that man had worn black as well, and Father said he had been a deserter from the Night’s Watch.
No man is more dangerous
, he remembered Lord Eddard saying.
The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile or cruel
.
    â€œThe pin, lad,” the big man said. He held out his hand.
    â€œWe’ll take the horse too,” said another of them, a woman shorter than Robb, with a broad flat face and lank yellow hair. “Get down, and be quick about it.” A knife slid from her sleeve into her hand, its edge jagged as a saw.
    â€œNo,” Bran blurted. “I can’t …”
    The big man grabbed his reins before Bran could think to wheel Dancer around and gallop off. “You can, lordling … and will, if you know what’s good for you.”
    â€œStiv, look how he’s strapped on.” The tall woman pointed with her spear. “Might be it’s the truth he’s telling.”
    â€œStraps, is it?” Stiv said. He drew a dagger from a sheath at his belt. “There’s ways to deal with straps.”
    â€œYou some kind of cripple?” asked the short woman.
    Bran flared. “I’m Brandon Stark of Winterfell, and you better let go of my horse, or I’ll see you all dead.”
    The gaunt man with the grey stubbled face laughed. “The