A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

and he was sick of salt cod, salt beef, and hard cheese.
    Up ahead a hunting horn sounded a quavering note, half drowned beneath the
constant patter of the rain. “Buckwell’s horn,” the Old Bear announced. “The
gods are good; Craster’s still there.” His raven gave a single flap of his big
wings,

croaked
“Corn,”
and ruffled his feathers up again.
    Jon had often heard the black brothers tell tales of Craster and his keep. Now
he would see it with his own eyes. After seven empty villages, they had all
come to dread finding Craster’s as dead and desolate as the rest, but it seemed
they would be spared that.
Perhaps the Old Bear will finally get some
answers,
he thought.
Anyway, we’ll be out of the rain.
    Thoren Smallwood swore that Craster was a friend to the Watch, despite his
unsavory reputation. “The man’s half-mad, I won’t deny it,” he’d told the Old
Bear, “but you’d be the same if you’d spent your life in this cursed wood.
Even so, he’s never turned a ranger away from his fire, nor does he love Mance
Rayder. He’ll give us good counsel.”
    So long as he gives us a hot meal and a chance to dry our clothes, I’ll be
happy.
Dywen said Craster was a kinslayer, liar, raper, and craven, and
hinted that he trafficked with slavers and demons. “And worse,” the old
forester would add, clacking his wooden teeth. “There’s a
cold
smell
to that one, there is.”
    â€œJon,” Lord Mormont commanded, “ride back along the column and spread the
word. And remind the officers that I want no trouble about Craster’s wives. The
men are to mind their hands and speak to these women as little as need
be.”
    â€œAye, my lord.” Jon turned his horse back the way they’d come. It was
pleasant to have the rain out of his face, if only for a little while. Everyone
he passed seemed to be weeping. The march was strung out through
half a mile of woods.
    In the midst of the baggage train, Jon passed Samwell Tarly, slumped in
his saddle under a wide floppy hat. He was riding one dray horse and leading
the others. The drumming of the rain against the hoods of their cages had the
ravens squawking and fluttering. “You put a fox in with them?” Jon called
out.
    Water ran off the brim of Sam’s hat as he lifted his head. “Oh, hullo, Jon.
No, they just hate the rain, the same as us.”
    â€œHow are you faring, Sam?”
    â€œWetly.” The fat boy managed a smile. “Nothing has killed me yet,
though.”
    â€œGood. Craster’s Keep is just ahead. If the gods are good, he’ll let us sleep
by his fire.”
    Sam looked dubious. “Dolorous Edd says Craster’s a terrible savage. He marries
his daughters and obeys no laws but those he makes himself. And Dywen told
Grenn he’s got black blood in his veins. His mother was a wildling woman who
lay with a ranger, so he’s a bas . . .” Suddenly he realized what
he was about to say.
    â€œA bastard,” Jon said with a laugh. “You can say it, Sam. I’ve heard the
word before.” He put the spurs to his surefooted little garron. “I need to
hunt down Ser Ottyn. Be careful around Craster’s women.” As if Samwell Tarly
needed warning on that score. “We’ll talk later, after we’ve made
camp.”
    Jon carried the word back to Ser Ottyn Wythers, plodding along with the rear
guard. A small prune-faced man of an age with Mormont, Ser Ottyn always looked
tired, even at Castle Black, and the rain had beaten him down unmercifully.
“Welcome tidings,” he

said. “This wet has soaked my bones, and even my saddle sores complain of
saddle sores.”
    On his way back, Jon swung wide of the column’s line of march and took a
shorter path through the thick of the wood. The sounds of man and horse
diminished, swallowed up by the wet green wild, and soon enough he could hear
only the steady wash of rain against leaf and tree and rock. It was
midafternoon, yet the forest seemed as dark as dusk. Jon wove a path between
rocks and puddles, past great oaks, grey-green sentinels, and black-barked
ironwoods. In places the branches wove a canopy overhead and he was given a
moment’s respite from the drumming of the rain against his head. As he rode
past a lightning-blasted chestnut tree overgrown with