A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

must weep.”
    Rorge, the noseless one, flung his drinking cup at her with

a curse. His manacles made him clumsy, yet even so he would have sent the heavy
pewter tankard crashing into her head if Arya hadn’t leapt aside. “You get us
some beer, pimple.
Now!
”
    â€œYou shut your mouth!” Arya tried to think what Syrio would have done. She
drew her wooden practice sword.
    â€œCome closer,” Rorge said, “and I’ll shove that stick up your bunghole and
fuck you bloody.”
    Fear cuts deeper than swords.
Arya made herself approach the wagon.
Every step was harder than the one before.
Fierce as a wolverine, calm as
still water.
The words sang in her head. Syrio would not have been afraid.
She was almost close enough to touch the wheel when Biter lurched to his feet
and grabbed for her, his irons clanking and rattling. The manacles brought
his hands up short, half a foot from her face. He
hissed.
    She hit him. Hard, right between his little eyes.
    Screaming, Biter reeled back, and then threw all his weight against his chains.
The links slithered and turned and grew taut, and Arya heard the creak of old
dry wood as the great iron rings strained against the floorboards of the wagon.
Huge pale hands groped for her while veins bulged along Biter’s arms, but the
bonds held, and finally the man collapsed backward. Blood ran from the weeping
sores on his cheeks.
    â€œA boy has more courage than sense,” the one who had named himself Jaqen
H’ghar observed.
    Arya edged backward away from the wagon. When she felt the hand on her
shoulder, she whirled, bringing up her stick sword

again, but it was only the Bull. “What are you doing?”
    He raised his hands defensively. “Yoren said none of us should go near those
three.”
    â€œThey don’t scare me,” Arya said.
    â€œThen you’re stupid. They scare
me.
” The Bull’s hand fell to the
hilt of his sword, and Rorge began to laugh. “Let’s get away from
them.”
    Arya scuffed at the ground with her foot, but she let the Bull lead her around
to the front of the inn. Rorge’s laughter and Biter’s hissing followed them.
“Want to fight?” she asked the Bull. She wanted to hit something.
    He blinked at her, startled. Strands of thick black hair, still wet from the
bathhouse, fell across his deep blue eyes. “I’d hurt you.”
    â€œYou would not.”
    â€œYou don’t know how strong I am.”
    â€œYou don’t know how quick I am.”
    â€œYou’re asking for it, Arry.” He drew Praed’s longsword. “This is cheap
steel, but it’s a real sword.”
    Arya unsheathed Needle. “This is good steel, so it’s realer than
yours.”
    The Bull shook his head. “Promise not to cry if I cut you?”
    â€œI’ll promise if you will.” She turned sideways, into her water dancer’s
stance, but the Bull did not move. He was looking at something behind her.
“What’s wrong?”
    â€œGold cloaks.” His face closed up tight.
    It couldn’t be,
Arya thought, but when she glanced back, they
were riding up the kingsroad, six in the black ringmail and golden cloaks of
the City Watch. One was an officer; he wore a black enamel breastplate
ornamented with four golden disks. They drew up in front of the inn.
Look
with your eyes,
Syrio’s voice seemed to whisper. Her eyes saw white lather
under their saddles; the horses had been ridden long and hard. Calm as still
water, she took the Bull by the arm and drew him back behind a tall flowering
hedge.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asked. “What are you doing? Let go.”
    â€œQuiet as a shadow,”
she whispered, pulling him down.
    Some of Yoren’s other charges were sitting in front of the bathhouse, waiting
their turn at a tub. “You men,” one of the gold cloaks shouted. “You the
ones left to take the black?”
    â€œWe might be,” came the cautious answer.
    â€œWe’d rather join you boys,” old Reysen said. “We hear it’s
cold
on that Wall.”
    The gold cloak officer dismounted. “I have a warrant for a certain
boy—”
    Yoren stepped out of the inn, fingering his tangled black beard. “Who is it
wants this boy?”
    The other gold cloaks were dismounting to stand beside their horses. “Why are
we hiding?” the Bull