A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

falling when Catelyn left the pavilion. Ser Robar Royce fell in beside
her. She knew him slightly—one of Bronze Yohn’s sons, comely in a
rough-hewn way, a tourney warrior of some renown. Renly had gifted him with a
rainbow cloak and a suit of blood red armor, and named him one of his seven.
“You are a long way from the Vale, ser,” she told him.
    â€œAnd you far from Winterfell, my lady.”
    â€œI know what brought me here, but why have you come? This is not your battle,
no more than it is mine.”
    â€œI made it my battle when I made Renly my king.”
    â€œThe Royces are bannermen to House Arryn.”
    â€œMy lord father owes Lady Lysa fealty, as does his heir. A second son
must find glory where he can.” Ser Robar shrugged. “A man grows weary of
tourneys.”
    He could not be older than one-and-twenty, Catelyn thought, of an age with his
king . . . but
her
king, her Robb, had more wisdom at
fifteen than this youth had ever learned. Or so she prayed.
    In Catelyn’s small corner of the camp, Shadd was slicing carrots into a kettle,
Hal Mollen was dicing with three of his Winterfell men, and Lucas Blackwood sat
sharpening his dagger. “Lady Stark,” Lucas said when he saw her, “Mollen
says it is to be battle at dawn.”
    â€œHal has the truth of it,” she answered.
And a loose tongue as well, it
would seem.
    â€œDo we fight or flee?”
    â€œWe pray, Lucas,” she answered him. “We pray.”

SANSA
    T he longer you keep him waiting, the worse it will go for you,” Sandor
Clegane warned her.
    Sansa tried to hurry, but her fingers fumbled at buttons and knots. The Hound
was always rough-tongued, but something in the way he had looked at her filled
her with dread. Had Joffrey found out about her meetings with Ser Dontos?
Please no,
she thought as she brushed out her hair. Ser Dontos was
her only hope.
I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he’s
always liked me in this gown, this color.
She smoothed the cloth down. The
fabric was tight across her chest.
    When she emerged, Sansa walked on the Hound’s left, away from the burned
side of his face. “Tell me what I’ve done.”
    â€œNot you. Your kingly brother.”
    â€œRobb’s a traitor.” Sansa knew the words by rote. “I had no part in whatever
he did.”
Gods be good, don’t let it be the Kingslayer.
If Robb had
harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and
how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked
face.
    The Hound snorted. “They trained you well, little bird.” He conducted her to
the lower bailey, where a crowd had gathered around the archery butts. Men
moved aside to let them through. She could hear Lord Gyles coughing. Loitering
stablehands eyed

her insolently, but Ser Horas Redwyne averted his gaze as she passed, and his
brother Hobber pretended not to see her. A yellow cat was dying on the ground,
mewling piteously, a crossbow quarrel through its ribs. Sansa stepped around
it, feeling ill.
    Ser Dontos approached on his broomstick horse; since he’d been too drunk to
mount his destrier at the tourney, the king had decreed that henceforth he must
always go horsed. “Be brave,” he whispered, squeezing her arm.
    Joffrey stood in the center of the throng, winding an ornate crossbow. Ser
Boros and Ser Meryn were with him. The sight of them was enough to tie her
insides in knots.
    â€œYour Grace.” She fell to her knees.
    â€œKneeling won’t save you now,” the king said. “Stand up. You’re here to
answer for your brother’s latest treasons.”
    â€œYour Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part. You know
that, I beg you, please—”
    â€œGet her up!”
    The Hound pulled her to her feet, not ungently.
    â€œSer Lancel,” Joff said, “tell her of this outrage.”
    Sansa had always thought Lancel Lannister comely and well spoken, but there was
neither pity nor kindness in the look he gave her. “Using some vile sorcery,
your brother fell upon Ser Stafford Lannister with an army of wargs, not three
days ride from Lannisport. Thousands of good men were butchered as they slept,
without the chance to lift sword. After the slaughter, the northmen feasted on
the flesh of the slain.”
    Horror coiled cold hands