A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

Jon Snow’s old bedchamber, since Jon
was in the Night’s Watch and never coming back. Bran hated that; it made him
feel as if the Freys were trying to steal Jon’s place.
    He had watched wistfully while the Walders contested with Turnip the cook’s boy
and Joseth’s girls Bandy and Shyra. The Walders had decreed that Bran should be
the judge and decide whether or not people had said “Mayhaps,” but as soon as
they started playing they forgot all about him.
    The shouts and splashes soon drew others: Palla the kennel girl, Cayn’s boy
Calon, TomToo whose father Fat Tom had died with Bran’s father at King’s
Landing. Before very long, every one of them was soaked and muddy. Palla was
brown from head to heel, with moss in her hair, breathless from laughter. Bran
had not heard so much laughing since the night the bloody raven came.
If

I had my legs, I’d knock all of them into the water,
he thought bitterly.
No one would ever be lord of the crossing but me.
    Finally Rickon came running into the godswood, Shaggydog at his heels. He
watched Turnip and Little Walder struggle for the stick until Turnip lost his
footing and went in with a huge splash, arms waving. Rickon yelled, “Me! Me
now! I want to play!” Little Walder beckoned him on, and Shaggydog started to
follow. “No, Shaggy,” his brother commanded. “Wolves can’t play. You stay
with Bran.” And he did . . .
    . . . until Little Walder had smacked Rickon with the stick, square
across his belly. Before Bran could blink, the black wolf was flying over the
plank, there was blood in the water, the Walders were shrieking red murder,
Rickon sat in the mud laughing, and Hodor came lumbering in shouting “Hodor!
Hodor! Hodor!”
    After that, oddly, Rickon decided he
liked
the Walders. They never
played lord of the crossing again, but they played other games—monsters
and maidens, rats and cats, come-into-my-castle, all sorts of things. With
Rickon by their side, the Walders plundered the kitchens for pies and
honeycombs, raced round the walls, tossed bones to the pups in the kennels, and
trained with wooden swords under Ser Rodrik’s sharp eye. Rickon even showed
them the deep vaults under the earth where the stonemason was carving father’s
tomb. “You had no right!” Bran screamed at his brother when he heard. “That
was our place, a
Stark
place!” But Rickon never cared.
    The door to his bedchamber opened. Maester Luwin was

carrying a green jar, and this time Osha and Hayhead came with him. “I’ve made
you a sleeping draught, Bran.”
    Osha scooped him up in her bony arms. She was very tall for a woman, and wiry
strong. She bore him effortlessly to his bed.
    â€œThis will give you dreamless sleep,” Maester Luwin said as he pulled the
stopper from the jar. “Sweet, dreamless sleep.”
    â€œIt will?” Bran said, wanting to believe.
    â€œYes. Drink.”
    Bran drank. The potion was thick and chalky, but there was honey in it, so it
went down easy.
    â€œCome the morn, you’ll feel better.” Luwin gave Bran a smile and a pat as he
took his leave.
    Osha lingered behind. “Is it the wolf dreams again?”
    Bran nodded.
    â€œYou should not fight so hard, boy. I see you talking to the heart tree. Might
be the gods are trying to talk back.”
    â€œThe gods?” he murmured, drowsy already. Osha’s face grew blurry and grey.
Sweet, dreamless sleep,
Bran thought.
    Yet when the darkness closed over him, he found himself in the godswood, moving
silently beneath green-grey sentinels and gnarled oaks as old as time.
I
am walking,
he thought, exulting. Part of him knew that it was only a
dream, but even the dream of walking was better than the truth of his
bedchamber, walls and ceiling and door.
    It was dark amongst the trees, but the comet lit his way, and his feet were sure.
He was moving on four
good
legs, strong

and swift, and he could feel the ground underfoot, the soft crackling of fallen
leaves, thick roots and hard stones, the deep layers of humus. It was a good
feeling.
    The smells filled his head, alive and intoxicating; the green muddy stink of
the hot pools, the perfume of rich rotting earth beneath his paws, the
squirrels in the oaks. The scent of squirrel made him remember the taste of hot
blood and the way the bones would crack between his