A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

slid from shadow to shadow. She pretended she was chasing cats … except she was the cat now, and if they caught her, they would kill her.
    Moving between buildings and over walls, keeping stone to her back wherever possible so no one could surprise her, Arya reached the stables almost without incident. A dozen gold cloaks in mail and plate ran past as she was edging across the inner bailey, but without knowing whose side they were on, she hunched down low in the shadows and let them pass.
    Hullen, who had been master of horse at Winterfell as long as Arya could remember, was slumped on the ground by the stable door. He had been stabbed so many times it looked as if his tunic was patterned with scarlet flowers. Arya was certain he was dead, but when she crept closer, his eyes opened. “Arya Underfoot,” he whispered. “You must … warn your … your lord father …” Frothyred spittle bubbled from his mouth. The master of horse closed his eyes again and said no more.
    Inside were more bodies; a groom she had played with, and three of her father’s household guard. A wagon, laden with crates and chests, stood abandoned near the door of the stable. The dead men must have been loading it for the trip to the docks when they were attacked. Arya snuck closer. One of the corpses was Desmond, who’d shown her his longsword and promised to protect her father. He lay on his back, staring blindly at the ceiling as flies crawled across his eyes. Close to him was a dead man in the red cloak and lion-crest helm of the Lannisters. Only one, though.
Every northerner is worth ten of these southron swords
, Desmond had told her. “You
liar
!” she said, kicking his body in a sudden fury.
    The animals were restless in their stalls, whickering and snorting at the scent of blood. Arya’s only plan was to saddle a horse and flee, away from the castle and the city. All she had to do was stay on the kingsroad and it would take her back to Winterfell. She took a bridle and harness off the wall.
    As she crossed in back of the wagon, a fallen chest caught her eye. It must have been knocked down in the fight or dropped as it was being loaded. The wood had split, the lid opening to spill the chest’s contents across the ground. Arya recognized silks and satins and velvets she never wore. She might need warm clothes on the kingsroad, though … and besides …
    Arya knelt in the dirt among the scattered clothes. She found a heavy woolen cloak, a velvet skirt and a silk tunic and some smallclothes, a dress her mother had embroidered for her, a silver baby bracelet she might sell. Shoving the broken lid out of the way, she groped inside the chest for Needle. She had hidden it way down at the bottom, under everything, but her stuff had all been jumbled around when the chest was dropped. For a moment Arya was afraid someone had found the sword and stolen it. Then her fingers felt the hardness of metal under a satin gown.
    â€œThere
she is,” a voice hissed close behind her.
    Startled, Arya whirled. A stableboy stood behind her, a smirk on his face, his filthy white undertunic peeking out from beneath a soiled jerkin. His boots were covered withmanure, and he had a pitchfork in one hand. “Who are you?” she asked.
    â€œShe don’t know me,” he said, “but I knows her, oh, yes. The wolf girl.”
    â€œHelp me saddle a horse,” Arya pleaded, reaching back into the chest, groping for Needle. “My father’s the Hand of the King, he’ll reward you.”
    â€œFather’s
dead,”
the boy said. He shuffled toward her. “It’s the queen who’ll be rewarding me. Come here, girl.”
    â€œStay away!”
Her fingers closed around Needle’s hilt.
    â€œI says,
come.”
He grabbed her arm, hard.
    Everything Syrio Forel had ever taught her vanished in a heartbeat. In that instant of sudden terror, the only lesson Arya could remember was the one Jon Snow had given her, the very first.
    She stuck him with the pointy end, driving the blade upward with a wild, hysterical strength.
    Needle went through his leather jerkin and the white flesh of his belly and came out between his shoulder blades. The boy dropped the pitchfork and made a soft noise, something between a gasp and a sigh. His hands closed around the blade. “Oh, gods,” he moaned, as his undertunic began to redden. “Take it