A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

warships. No one asked him, but he
thought Lord Wyman’s notion a splendid one. In his mind’s eye he could see them
already. He wondered if a cripple had ever commanded a warship. But Ser Rodrik
promised only to send the proposal on to Robb for his consideration, while
Maester Luwin scratched at the parchment.
    Midday came and went. Maester Luwin sent Poxy Tym down to the kitchens, and
they dined in the solar on cheese, capons, and brown oatbread. While tearing
apart a bird with fat fingers, Lord

Wyman made polite inquiry after Lady Hornwood, who was a cousin of his. “She
was born a Manderly, you know. Perhaps, when her grief has run its course, she
would like to be a Manderly again, eh?” He took a bite from a wing, and smiled
broadly. “As it happens, I am a widower these past eight years. Past time I
took another wife, don’t you agree, my lords? A man does get lonely.” Tossing
the bones aside, he reached for a leg. “Or if the lady fancies a younger lad,
well, my son Wendel is unwed as well. He is off south guarding Lady Catelyn,
but no doubt he will wish to take a bride on his return. A valiant boy, and
jolly. Just the man to teach her to laugh again, eh?” He wiped a bit of grease
off his chin with the sleeve of his tunic.
    Bran could hear the distant clash of arms through the windows. He cared nothing
about marriages.
I wish I was down in the yard.
    His lordship waited until the table had been cleared before he raised the
matter of a letter he had received from Lord Tywin Lannister, who held his
elder son, Ser Wylis, taken captive on the Green Fork. “He offers him back to
me without ransom, provided I withdraw my levies from His Grace and vow to
fight no more.”
    â€œYou will refuse him, of course,” said Ser Rodrik.
    â€œHave no fear on that count,” the lord assured them. “King Robb has no more
loyal servant than Wyman Manderly. I would be loath to see my son languish at
Harrenhal any longer than he must, however. That is an ill place. Cursed, they
say. Not that I am the sort to swallow such tales, but still, there it is. Look

at what’s befallen this Janos Slynt. Raised up to Lord of Harrenhal by the
queen, and cast down by her brother. Shipped off to the Wall, they say. I pray
some equitable exchange of captives can be arranged before too very long. I
know Wylis would not want to sit out the rest of the war. Gallant, that son of
mine, and fierce as a mastiff.”
    Bran’s shoulders were stiff from sitting in the same chair by the time the
audience drew to a close. And that night, as he sat to supper, a horn sounded
to herald the arrival of another guest. Lady Donella Hornwood brought no tail
of knights and retainers; only herself, and six tired men-at-arms with a
moosehead badge on their dusty orange livery. “We are very sorry for all you
have suffered, my lady,” Bran said when she came before him to speak her words
of greetings. Lord Hornwood had been killed in the battle on the Green Fork,
their only son cut down in the Whispering Wood. “Winterfell will
remember.”
    â€œThat is good to know.” She was a pale husk of a woman, every line of her
face etched with grief. “I am very weary, my lord. If I might have leave to
rest, I should be thankful.”
    â€œTo be sure,” Ser Rodrik said. “There is time enough for talk on the
morrow.”
    When the morrow came, most of the morning was given over to talk of grains and
greens and salting meat. Once the maesters in their Citadel had proclaimed the
first of autumn, wise men put away a portion of each
harvest . . . though how large a portion was a matter that
seemed to require much talk. Lady Hornwood was

storing a fifth of her harvest. At Maester Luwin’s suggestion, she vowed to
increase that to a quarter.
    â€œBolton’s bastard is massing men at the Dreadfort,” she warned them. “I hope
he means to take them south to join his father at the Twins, but when I sent to
ask his intent, he told me that no Bolton would be questioned by a woman. As if
he were trueborn and had a right to that name.”
    â€œLord Bolton has never acknowledged the boy, so far as I know,” Ser Rodrik
said. “I confess, I do not know him.”
    â€œFew do,” she replied. “He lived with his mother until two years past, when
young Domeric died and left Bolton without an heir.