A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

Kingslayer is hundreds of leagues from here,” snapped Lysa Arryn.
    â€œSend a bird for him. I will gladly await his arrival.”
    â€œYou will face Ser Vardis on the morrow.”
    â€œSinger,” Tyrion said, turning to Marillion, “when you make a ballad of this, be certain you tell them how Lady Arryn denied the dwarf the right to a champion, and senthim forth lame and bruised and hobbling to face her finest knight.”
    â€œI deny you
nothing!”
Lysa Arryn said, her voice peeved and shrill with irritation. “Name your champion, Imp … if you think you can find a man to die for you.”
    â€œIf it is all the same to you, I’d sooner find one to kill for me.” Tyrion looked over the long hall. No one moved. For a long moment he wondered if it had all been a colossal blunder.
    Then there was a stirring in the rear of the chamber. “I’ll stand for the dwarf,” Bronn called out.

EDDARD
    H e dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood.
    In the dream his friends rode with him, as they had in life. Proud Martyn Cassel, Jory’s father; faithful Theo Wull; Ethan Glover, who had been Brandon’s squire; Ser Mark Ryswell, soft of speech and gentle of heart; the crannogman, Howland Reed; Lord Dustin on his great red stallion. Ned had known their faces as well as he knew his own once, but the years leech at a man’s memories, even those he has vowed never to forget. In the dream they were only shadows, grey wraiths on horses made of mist.
    They were seven, facing three. In the dream as it had been in life. Yet these were no ordinary three. They waited before the round tower, the red mountains of Dorne at their backs, their white cloaks blowing in the wind. And these were no shadows; their faces burned clear, even now. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had a sad smile on his lips. The hilt of the greatsword Dawn poked up over his right shoulder. Ser Oswell Whent was on one knee, sharpening his blade with a whetstone. Across his white-enameled helm, the blackbat of his House spread its wings. Between them stood fierce old Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
    â€œI looked for you on the Trident,” Ned said to them.
    â€œWe were not there,” Ser Gerold answered.
    â€œWoe to the Usurper if we had been,” said Ser Oswell.
    â€œWhen King’s Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were.”
    â€œFar away,” Ser Gerold said, “or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells.”
    â€œI came down on Storm’s End to lift the siege,” Ned told them, “and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them.”
    â€œOur knees do not bend easily,” said Ser Arthur Dayne.
    â€œSer Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him.”
    â€œSer Willem is a good man and true,” said Ser Oswell.
    â€œBut not of the Kingsguard,” Ser Gerold pointed out. “The Kingsguard does not flee.”
    â€œThen or now,” said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.
    â€œWe swore a vow,” explained old Ser Gerold.
    Ned’s wraiths moved up beside him, with shadow swords in hand. They were seven against three.
    â€œAnd now it begins,” said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.
    â€œNo,” Ned said with sadness in his voice. “Now it ends.” As they came together in a rush of steel and shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming.
“Eddard!”
she called. A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death.
    â€œLord Eddard,” Lyanna called again.
    â€œI promise,” he whispered. “Lya, I promise …”
    â€œLord Eddard,” a man echoed from the dark.
    Groaning, Eddard Stark opened his eyes. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows of the Tower of the Hand.
    â€œLord Eddard?” A shadow stood over the bed.
    â€œHow … how long?” The sheets were tangled, his leg splinted and plastered. A dull throb of pain shot up his side.
    â€œSix