A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

Winterfell dream again. He was wandering the empty castle, searching for his father, descending into the crypts. Only this time the dream had gone further than before. In the dark he’d heard the scrape of stone on stone. When he turned he saw that the vaults were opening, one after the other. As the dead kings came stumbling from their cold black graves, Jon had woken in pitch-dark, his heart hammering. Even when Ghost leapt up on the bed to nuzzle at his face, he could not shake his deep sense of terror. He dared not go back to sleep. Instead he had climbed the Wall and walked, restless, until he saw the light of the dawn off to the east.
It was only a dream. I am a brother of the Night’s Watch now, not a frightened boy
.
    Samwell Tarly huddled beneath the trees, half-hidden behind the horses. His round fat face was the color of curdled milk. So far he had not lurched off to the woods to retch, but he had not so much as glanced at the dead men either. “I can’t look,” he whispered miserably.
    â€œYou have to look,” Jon told him, keeping his voice low so the others would not hear. “Maester Aemon sent you to be his eyes, didn’t he? What good are eyes if they’re shut?”
    â€œYes, but … I’m such a coward, Jon.”
    Jon put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “We have a dozen rangers with us, and the dogs, even Ghost. No one will hurt you, Sam. Go ahead and look. The first look is the hardest.”
    Sam gave a tremulous nod, working up his courage with a visible effort. Slowly he swiveled his head. His eyes widened, but Jon held his arm so he could not turn away.
    â€œSer Jaremy,” the Old Bear asked gruffly, “Ben Stark had six men with him when he rode from the Wall. Where are the others?”
    Ser Jaremy shook his head. “Would that I knew.”
    Plainly Mormont was not pleased with that answer. “Two of our brothers butchered almost within sight of the Wall, yet your rangers heard nothing, saw nothing. Is this what the Night’s Watch has fallen to? Do we still sweep these woods?”
    â€œYes, my lord, but—”
    â€œDo we still mount watches?”
    â€œWe do, but—”
    â€œThis man wears a hunting horn.” Mormont pointed at Othor. “Must I suppose that he died without sounding it? Or have your rangers all gone deaf as well as blind?”
    Ser Jaremy bristled, his face taut with anger. “No horn was blown, my lord, or my rangers would have heard it. I do not have sufficient men to mount as many patrols as I should like … and since Benjen was lost, we have stayed closer to the Wall than we were wont to do before, by your own command.”
    The Old Bear grunted. “Yes. Well. Be that as it may.” He made an impatient gesture. “Tell me how they died.”
    Squatting beside the dead man he had named Jafer Flowers, Ser Jaremy grasped his head by the scalp. The hair came out between his fingers, brittle as straw. The knight cursed and shoved at the face with the heel of his hand. A great gash in the side of the corpse’s neck opened like a mouth, crusted with dried blood. Only a few ropes of pale tendon still attached the head to the neck. “This was done with an axe.”
    â€œAye,” muttered Dywen, the old forester. “Belike the axe that Othor carried, m’lord.”
    Jon could feel his breakfast churning in his belly, but he pressed his lips together and made himself look at the second body. Othor had been a big ugly man, and he made a big ugly corpse. No axe was in evidence. Jon remembered Othor; he had been the one bellowing the bawdy song as the rangers rode out. His singing days were done. His flesh was blanched white as milk, everywhere but his hands. His hands were black like Jafer’s. Blossoms of hard cracked blood decorated the mortal wounds that covered him like a rash, breast and groin and throat. Yet his eyeswere still open. They stared up at the sky, blue as sapphires.
    Ser Jaremy stood. “The Wildlings have axes too.”
    Mormont rounded on him. “So you believe this is Mance Rayder’s work? This close to the Wall?”
    â€œWho else, my lord?”
    Jon could have told him. He knew, they all knew, yet no man of them would say the words.
The Others are only a story, a tale to make children shiver. If they ever lived at all, they are gone eight thousand years
. Even the thought made him feel foolish; he was a