A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

Tarth had been seated at the far end of the high table. She did not
gown herself as a lady, but chose a knight’s finery instead, a velvet doublet
quartered rose-and-azure, breeches and boots and a fine-tooled swordbelt, her
new rainbow cloak flowing down her back. No garb could disguise her plainness,
though; the huge freckled hands, the wide flat face, the thrust of her teeth.
Out of armor, her body seemed ungainly, broad of hip and thick of limb, with
hunched muscular
shoulders but no bosom to speak of. And it was clear from her
every action that Brienne knew it, and suffered for it. She spoke only in
answer, and seldom lifted her gaze from her food.
    Of food there was plenty. The war had not touched the fabled bounty of
Highgarden. While singers sang and tumblers tumbled, they began with pears
poached in wine, and went on to tiny savory fish rolled in salt and cooked
crisp, and capons stuffed with onions and mushrooms. There were great loaves of

brown bread, mounds of turnips and sweetcorn and pease, immense hams and roast
geese and trenchers dripping full of venison stewed with beer and barley. For
the sweet, Lord Caswell’s servants brought down trays of pastries from his
castle kitchens, cream swans and spun-sugar unicorns, lemon cakes in the shape
of roses, spiced honey biscuits and blackberry tarts, apple crisps and wheels
of buttery cheese.
    The rich foods made Catelyn queasy, but it would never do to show frailty when
so much depended on her strength. She ate sparingly, while she watched this man
who would be king. Renly sat with his young bride on his left hand and her
brother on the right. Apart from the white linen bandage around his brow, Ser
Loras seemed none the worse for the day’s misadventures. He was indeed as
comely as Catelyn had suspected he might be. When not glazed, his eyes were
lively and intelligent, his hair an artless tumble of brown locks that many a
maid might have envied. He had replaced his tattered tourney cloak with a new
one; the same brilliantly striped silk of Renly’s Rainbow Guard, clasped with
the golden rose of Highgarden.
    From time to time, King Renly would feed Margaery some choice morsel off the
point of his dagger, or lean over to plant the lightest of kisses on her cheek,
but it was Ser Loras who shared most of his jests and confidences. The king
enjoyed his food and drink, that was plain to see, yet he seemed neither
glutton nor drunkard. He laughed often, and well, and spoke amiably to highborn
lords and lowly serving wenches alike.
    Some of his guests were less moderate. They drank too much and boasted
too loudly, to her mind. Lord Willum’s sons Josua and Elyas disputed heatedly
about who would be first over the walls of King’s Landing. Lord Varner dandled
a serving girl on his lap, nuzzling at her neck while one hand went exploring
down her bodice. Guyard the Green, who fancied himself a singer, diddled a harp
and gave them a verse about tying lions’ tails in knots, parts of which rhymed.
Ser Mark Mullendore brought a black-and-white monkey and fed him morsels from
his own plate, while Ser Tanton of the red-apple Fossoways climbed on the table
and swore to slay Sandor Clegane in single combat. The vow might have been
taken more solemnly if Ser Tanton had not had one foot in a gravy boat when he
made it.
    The height of folly was reached when a plump fool came capering out in
gold-painted tin with a cloth lion’s head, and chased a dwarf around the
tables, whacking him over the head with a bladder. Finally King Renly demanded
to know why he was beating his brother. “Why, Your Grace, I’m the Kinslayer,”
the fool said.
    â€œIt’s
King
slayer, fool of a fool,” Renly said, and the hall rang
with laughter.
    Lord Rowan beside her did not join the merriment. “They are all so young,” he
said.
    It was true. The Knight of Flowers could not have reached his second name day
when Robert slew Prince Rhaegar on the Trident. Few of the others were very
much older. They had been babes during the Sack of King’s Landing, and no more
than boys

when Balon Greyjoy raised the Iron Islands in rebellion.
They are still
unblooded,
Catelyn thought as she watched Lord Bryce goad Ser Robar into
juggling a brace of daggers.
It is all a game to them still, a tourney
writ large, and all they see is the chance for glory and honor and spoils. They
are boys drunk on song