A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

but every one thinks he’s another young wolf. When I told them they were
only young rabbits, they laughed at me. Now they call themselves the Wild Hares
and gallop about the country with rabbitskins tied to the ends of their lances,
singing songs of chivalry.”
    Bran thought that sounded grand. He remembered Benfred Tallhart, a big bluff
loud boy who had often visited Winterfell with his father, Ser Helman, and had
been friendly with Robb and with Theon Greyjoy. But Ser Rodrik was clearly
displeased by what

he heard. “If the king were in need of more men, he would send for them,” he
said. “Instruct your nephew that he is to
remain at Torrhen’s Square, as his
lord father commanded.”
    â€œI will, ser,” said Leobald, and only then raised the matter of Lady
Hornwood. Poor thing, with no husband to defend her lands nor son to inherit.
His own lady wife was a Hornwood, sister to the late Lord Halys, doubtless they
recalled. “An empty hall is a sad one. I had a thought to send my younger son
to Lady Donella to foster as her own. Beren is near ten, a likely lad, and her
own nephew. He would cheer her, I am certain, and perhaps he would even take
the name Hornwood . . .”
    â€œIf he were named heir?” suggested Maester Luwin.
    â€œ. . . so the House might continue,” finished Leobald.
    Bran knew what to say. “Thank you for the notion, my lord,” he blurted out
before Ser Rodrik could speak. “We will bring the matter to my brother Robb.
Oh, and Lady Hornwood.”
    Leobald seemed surprised that he had spoken. “I’m grateful, my prince,” he
said, but Bran saw pity in his pale blue eyes, mingled perhaps with a little
gladness that the cripple was, after all, not
his
son. For a moment
he hated the man.
    Maester Luwin liked him better, though. “Beren Tallhart may well be our best
answer,” he told them when Leobald had gone. “By blood he is half Hornwood.
If he takes his uncle’s name . . .”
    â€œ. . . he will still be a boy,” said Ser Rodrik, “and
hard-pressed to hold his lands against the likes of Mors Umber or this bastard
of Roose Bolton’s. We must think on this carefully. Robb

should have our best counsel before he makes his decision.”
    â€œIt may come down to practicalities,” said Maester Luwin. “Which lord he
most needs to court. The riverlands are part of his realm, he may wish to
cement the alliance by wedding Lady Hornwood to one of the lords of the
Trident. A Blackwood, perhaps, or a Frey—”
    â€œLady Hornwood can have one of our Freys,” said Bran. “She can have both of
them if she likes.”
    â€œYou are not kind, my prince,” Ser Rodrik chided gently.
    Neither are the Walders.
Scowling, Bran stared down at the table and
said nothing.
    In the days that followed, ravens arrived from other lordly houses, bearing
regrets. The bastard of the Dreadfort would not be joining them, the Mormonts
and Karstarks had all gone south with Robb, Lord Locke was too old to dare the
journey, Lady Flint was heavy with child, there was sickness at Widow’s Watch.
Finally all of the principal vassals of House Stark had been heard from save
for Howland Reed the crannogman, who had not set foot outside his swamps for
many a year, and the Cerwyns whose castle lay a half day’s ride from
Winterfell. Lord Cerwyn was a captive of the Lannisters, but his son, a lad of
fourteen, arrived one bright, blustery morning at the head of two dozen lances.
Bran was riding Dancer around the yard when they came through the gate. He
trotted over to greet them. Cley Cerwyn had always been a friend to Bran and
his brothers.
    â€œGood morrow, Bran,” Cley called out cheerfully. “Or must I

call you Prince Bran now?”
    â€œOnly if you want.”
    Cley laughed. “Why not? Everyone else is a king or prince these days. Did
Stannis write Winterfell as well?”
    â€œStannis? I don’t know.”
    â€œHe’s a king now too,” Cley confided. “He says Queen Cersei bedded her
brother, so Joffrey is a bastard.”
    â€œJoffrey the Illborn,” one of the Cerwyn knights growled. “Small wonder he’s
faithless, with the Kingslayer for a father.”
    â€œAye,” said another, “the gods hate incest. Look how they brought down the
Targaryens.”
    For