A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

this was
something else. He pushed against the fabric and felt small, hard shapes
beneath, unyielding. There was no smell, no sign of graveworms. Ghost backed
off and sat on his haunches, watching.
    Jon brushed the loose soil away to reveal a rounded bundle

perhaps two feet across. He jammed his fingers down around the edges and worked
it loose. When he pulled it free, whatever was inside shifted and clinked.
Treasure,
he thought, but the shapes were wrong to be coins, and the
sound
was wrong for metal.
    A length of frayed rope bound the bundle together. Jon unsheathed his dagger
and cut it, groped for the edges of the cloth, and pulled. The bundle turned,
and its contents spilled out onto the ground, glittering dark and bright. He
saw a dozen knives, leaf-shaped spearheads, numerous arrowheads. Jon picked up
a dagger blade, featherlight and shiny black, hiltless. Torchlight ran along
its edge, a thin orange line that spoke of razor sharpness.
Dragonglass.
What the maesters call obsidian.
Had Ghost uncovered some ancient cache of
the children of the forest, buried here for thousands of years? The Fist of the
First Men was an old place, only . . .
    Beneath the dragonglass was an old warhorn, made from an auroch’s horn and
banded in bronze. Jon shook the dirt from inside it, and a stream of arrowheads
fell out. He let them fall, and pulled up a corner of the cloth the weapons had
been wrapped in, rubbing it between his fingers.
Good wool, thick, a
double weave, damp but not rotted.
It could not have been long in the
ground. And it was
dark.
He seized a handful and pulled it close to
the torch.
Not dark. Black.
    Even before Jon stood and shook it out, he knew what he had: the black cloak of
a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch.

BRAN
    A lebelly found him in the forge, working the bellows for Mikken. “Maester
wants you in the turret, m’lord prince. There’s been a bird from the
king.”
    â€œFrom Robb?” Excited, Bran did not wait for Hodor, but let Alebelly carry him
up the steps. He was a big man, though not so big as Hodor and nowhere near as
strong. By the time they reached the maester’s turret he was red-faced and
puffing. Rickon was there before them, and both Walder Freys as well.
    Maester Luwin sent Alebelly away and closed his door. “My lords,” he
said gravely, “we have had a message from His Grace, with both good news and
ill. He has won a great victory in the west, shattering a Lannister army at a
place named Oxcross, and has taken several castles as well. He writes us from
Ashemark, formerly the stronghold of House Marbrand.”
    Rickon tugged at the maester’s robe. “Is Robb coming home?”
    â€œNot just yet, I fear. There are battles yet to fight.”
    â€œWas it Lord Tywin he defeated?” asked Bran.
    â€œNo,” said the maester. “Ser Stafford Lannister commanded the enemy host. He
was slain in the battle.”
    Bran had never even heard of Ser Stafford Lannister. He found himself agreeing
with Big Walder when he said, “Lord Tywin is the only one who matters.”
    â€œTell Robb I want him to come home,” said Rickon. “He can bring his
wolf home too, and Mother and Father.” Though he knew Lord Eddard was dead,
sometimes Rickon forgot . . . willfully, Bran suspected. His
little brother was stubborn as only a boy of four can be.
    Bran was glad for Robb’s victory, but disquieted as well. He remembered what
Osha had said the day that his brother had led his army out of Winterfell.
He’s marching the wrong way,
the wildling woman had
insisted.
    â€œSadly, no victory is without cost.” Maester Luwin turned to the Walders.
“My lords, your uncle Ser Stevron Frey was among those who lost their lives at
Oxcross. He took a wound in the battle, Robb writes. It was not thought to be
serious, but three days later he died in his tent, asleep.”
    Big Walder shrugged. “He was very old. Five-and-sixty, I think. Too old for
battles. He was always saying he was tired.”
    Little Walder hooted. “Tired of waiting for our grandfather to die, you mean.
Does this mean Ser Emmon’s the heir now?”
    â€œDon’t be stupid,” his cousin said. “The sons of the first son come before
the second son. Ser Ryman is next in line, and then Edwyn and Black Walder and
Petyr Pimple. And then Aegon and