A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

spirited red courser whose mane
was the same copper color as the long hair that streamed past Ser Addam’s
shoulders. The horse was barded in bronze-colored trappings dyed to match the
rider’s cloak and emblazoned with the burning tree. Some of the castle women
sobbed to see him go. Weese said he was a great horseman and sword fighter,
Lord Tywin’s most daring commander.
    I hope he dies,
Arya thought as she watched him ride out the
gate, his men streaming after him in a double column.
I hope they all
die.
They were going to fight Robb, she knew. Listening to the talk as she
went about her work, Arya had learned that Robb had won some great victory in
the west. He’d burned Lannisport, some said, or else he meant to burn it. He’d
captured Casterly Rock and put everyone to the sword, or he was besieging the
Golden Tooth . . . but
something
had happened, that
much was certain.
    Weese had her running messages from dawn to dusk. Some of them even took her
beyond the castle walls, out into the mud and madness of the camp.
I could
flee,
she thought as a wagon rumbled past her.
I could hop on the
back of a wagon and hide, or fall in with the camp followers, no one would stop
me.
She might have done it if not for Weese. He’d told them more than once
what he’d do to anyone who tried to run off on him. “It won’t be no beating,
oh, no. I won’t lay a finger on you. I’ll just save you for the Qohorik, yes I
will, I’ll save you for the Crippler. Vargo Hoat his name is, and when he gets
back he’ll cut off your feet.”
Maybe if Weese were dead,
Arya
thought . . . but not when she was with him. He could look at
you and smell what you were thinking, he always said so.
    Weese never imagined she could read, though, so he never bothered to seal the
messages he gave her. Arya peeked at them all, but they were never anything
good, just stupid stuff sending this cart to the granary and that one to the
armory. One was a demand for payment on a gambling debt, but the knight she
gave it

to couldn’t read. When she told him what it said he tried to hit her, but Arya
ducked under the blow, snatched a silver-banded drinking horn off his saddle,
and darted away. The knight roared and came after her, but she slid between two
wayns, wove through a crowd of archers, and jumped a latrine trench. In his
mail he couldn’t keep up. When she gave the horn to Weese, he told her that a
smart little Weasel like her deserved a reward. “I’ve got my eye on a plump
crisp capon to sup on tonight. We’ll share it, me and you. You’ll like
that.”
    Everywhere she went, Arya searched for Jaqen H’ghar, wanting to whisper another
name to him before those she hated were all gone out of her reach, but amidst the
chaos and confusion the Lorathi sellsword was not to be found. He still owed
her two deaths, and she was worried she would never get them if he rode off to
battle with the rest. Finally she worked up the courage to ask one of the gate
guards if he’d gone. “One of Lorch’s men, is he?” the man said. “He won’t be
going, then. His lordship’s named Ser Amory castellan of
Harrenhal. That whole
lot’s staying right here, to hold the castle. The Bloody Mummers will be left
as well, to do the foraging. That goat Vargo Hoat is like to spit, him and
Lorch have always hated each other.”
    The Mountain would be leaving with Lord Tywin, though. He would command the van
in battle, which meant that Dunsen, Polliver, and Raff would all slip between
her fingers unless she could find Jaqen and have him kill one of them before
they left.
    â€œWeasel,” Weese said that afternoon. “Get to the armory and

tell Lucan that Ser Lyonel notched his sword in practice and needs a new one.
Here’s his mark.” He handed her a square of paper. “Be quick about it now,
he’s to ride with Ser Kevan Lannister.”
    Arya took the paper and ran. The armory adjoined the castle smithy, a long
high-roofed tunnel of a building with twenty forges built into its walls and
long stone water troughs for tempering the steel. Half of the forges were at
work when she entered. The walls rang with the sound of hammers, and burly men
in leather aprons stood sweating in the sullen heat as they bent over bellows
and anvils. When she spied Gendry, his bare chest was slick with sweat,