A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

noise of them.
Grasping his bars he pulled
himself from the bed and over

to the window seat. On their banner was a giant in shattered chains that told
him that these were Umber men, down from the northlands beyond the Last
River.
    The next day two of them came together to audience; the Greatjon’s uncles,
blustery men in the winter of their days with beards as white as the bearskin
cloaks they wore. A crow had once taken Mors for dead and pecked out his eye,
so he wore a chunk of dragonglass in its stead. As Old Nan told the tale, he’d
grabbed the crow in his fist and bitten its head off, so they named him
Crowfood. She would never tell Bran why his gaunt brother Hother was called
Whoresbane.
    No sooner had they been seated than Mors asked for leave to wed Lady Hornwood.
“The Greatjon’s the Young Wolf’s strong right hand, all know that to be true.
Who better to protect the widow’s lands than an Umber, and what Umber better
than me?”
    â€œLady Donella is still grieving,” Maester Luwin said.
    â€œI have a cure for grief under my furs.” Mors laughed. Ser Rodrik thanked him
courteously and promised to bring the matter before the lady and the
king.
    Hother wanted ships. “There’s wildlings stealing down from the north, more
than I’ve ever seen before. They cross the Bay of Seals in little boats and
wash up on our shores. The crows in Eastwatch are too few to stop them, and
they go to ground quick as weasels. It’s longships we need, aye, and strong men
to sail them. The Greatjon took too many. Half our harvest is gone to seed for
want of arms to swing the scythes.”
    Ser Rodrik pulled at his whiskers. “You have forests of tall pine and
old oak. Lord Manderly has shipwrights and sailors in plenty. Together you
ought to be able to float enough longships to guard both your
coasts.”
    â€œManderly?” Mors Umber snorted. “That great waddling sack of suet? His own
people mock him as Lord Lamprey, I’ve heard. The man can scarce walk. If you
stuck a sword in his belly, ten thousand eels would wriggle out.”
    â€œHe is fat,” Ser Rodrik admitted, “but he is not stupid. You will work with
him, or the king will know the reason why.” And to Bran’s astonishment, the
truculent Umbers agreed to do as he commanded, though not without
grumbling.
    While they were sitting at audience, the Glover men arrived from Deepwood
Motte, and a large party of Tallharts from Torrhen’s Square. Galbart and Robett
Glover had left Deepwood in the hands of Robett’s wife, but it was their
steward who came to Winterfell. “My lady begs that you excuse her absence. Her
babes are still too young for such a journey, and she was loath to leave
them.” Bran soon realized that it was the steward, not Lady Glover, who truly
ruled at Deepwood Motte. The man allowed that he was at present setting aside
only a tenth of his harvest. A hedge wizard had told him there would be a
bountiful spirit summer before the cold set in, he claimed. Maester Luwin had a
number of choice things to say about hedge wizards. Ser Rodrik commanded the
man to set aside a fifth, and questioned the steward closely about Lord
Hornwood’s bastard, the boy Larence Snow. In the

north, all highborn bastards took the surname
Snow.
This lad was near
twelve, and the steward praised his wits and courage.
    â€œYour notion about the bastard may have merit, Bran,” Maester Luwin said
after. “One day you will be a good lord for Winterfell, I think.”
    â€œNo I won’t.” Bran knew he would never be a lord, no more than he could be a
knight. “Robb’s to marry some Frey girl, you told me so yourself, and the
Walders say the same. He’ll have sons, and they’ll be the lords of Winterfell
after him, not me.”
    â€œIt may be so, Bran,” Ser Rodrik said, “but I was wed three times and my
wives gave me daughters. Now only Beth remains to me. My brother Martyn
fathered four strong sons, yet only Jory lived to be a man. When he was slain,
Martyn’s line died with him. When we speak of the morrow nothing is ever
certain.”
    Leobald Tallhart had his turn the following day. He spoke of weather portents
and the slack wits of smallfolk, and told how his nephew itched for battle.
“Benfred has raised his own company of lances. Boys, none older than nineteen
years,