A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

them?”
    â€œYes.” That fast, she was all queen again. “How do
you
come to
have them? They should have come to me.”
    â€œWhat else is a Hand for, if not to hand you things?” Tyrion handed her the
letter. His cheek still throbbed where Cersei’s hand had left its mark.
Let her flay half my face, it will be a small price to pay for her consent
to the Dornish marriage.
He would have that now, he could sense
it.
    And
certain knowledge of an informer too . . . well,
that was the plum in his pudding.

BRAN
    D ancer was draped in bardings of snowy white wool emblazoned with the grey
direwolf of House Stark, while Bran wore grey breeches and white doublet, his
sleeves and collar trimmed with vair. Over his heart was his wolf’s-head brooch
of silver and polished jet. He would sooner have had Summer than a silver wolf
on his breast, but Ser Rodrik had been unyielding.
    The low stone steps balked Dancer only for a moment. When Bran urged her
on, she
took them easily. Beyond the wide oak-and-iron doors, eight long rows of
trestle tables filled Winterfell’s Great Hall, four on each side of the center
aisle. Men crowded shoulder to shoulder on the benches. “Stark!” they called
as Bran trotted past, rising to their feet. “Winterfell!
Winterfell!
”
    He was old enough to know that it was not truly
him
they shouted
for—it was the harvest they cheered, it was Robb and his victories, it
was his lord father and his grandfather and all the Starks going back eight
thousand years. Still, it made him swell with pride. For so long as it took him
to ride the length of that hall he forgot that he was broken. Yet when he
reached the dais, with every eye upon him, Osha and Hodor undid his straps and
buckles, lifted him off Dancer’s back, and carried him to the high seat of his
fathers.
    Ser Rodrik was seated to Bran’s left, his daughter Beth

beside him. Rickon was to his right, his mop of shaggy auburn hair grown so
long that it brushed his ermine mantle. He had refused to let anyone cut it
since their mother had gone. The last girl to try had been bitten for her
efforts. “I wanted to ride too,” he said as Hodor led Dancer away. “I ride
better than you.”
    â€œYou don’t, so hush up,” he told his brother. Ser Rodrik bellowed for quiet.
Bran raised his voice. He bid them welcome in the name of his brother, the King
in the North, and asked them to thank the gods old and new for Robb’s victories
and the bounty of the harvest. “May there be a hundred more,” he finished,
raising his father’s silver goblet.
    â€œA hundred more!”
Pewter tankards, clay cups, and iron-banded
drinking horns clashed together. Bran’s wine was sweetened with honey and
fragrant with cinnamon and cloves, but stronger than he was used to. He could
feel its hot snaky fingers wriggling through his chest as he swallowed. By the
time he set down the goblet, his head was swimming.
    â€œYou did well, Bran,” Ser Rodrik told him. “Lord Eddard would have been most
proud.” Down the table, Maester Luwin nodded his agreement as the servers
began to carry in the food.
    Such food Bran had never seen; course after course after course, so much that
he could not manage more than a bite or two of each dish. There were great
joints of aurochs roasted with leeks, venison pies chunky with carrots, bacon,
and mushrooms, mutton chops sauced in honey and cloves, savory duck, peppered

boar, goose, skewers of pigeon and capon, beef-and-barley stew, cold fruit
soup. Lord Wyman had brought twenty casks of fish from White Harbor packed in
salt and seaweed; whitefish and winkles, crabs and mussels, clams, herring,
cod, salmon, lobster and lampreys. There was black bread and honeycakes and
oaten biscuits; there were turnips and pease and beets, beans and squash and
huge red onions; there were baked apples and berry tarts and pears poached in
strongwine. Wheels of white cheese were set at every table, above and below the
salt, and flagons of hot spice wine and chilled autumn ale were passed up and
down the tables.
    Lord Wyman’s musicians played bravely and well, but harp and fiddle and horn
were soon drowned beneath a tide of talk and laughter, the clash of cup and
plate, and the snarling of hounds fighting for table scraps. The singer sang
good songs, “Iron Lances” and “The Burning