A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

had sixteen years before.
The tunnel opened on a cavern under the castle, where the storm lords of old
had built their landing.
    The passage was navigable only during high tide, and was never less than
treacherous, but his smuggler’s skills had not deserted him. Davos threaded
their way deftly between the jagged rocks until the cave mouth loomed up before
them. He let the waves carry them inside. They crashed around him, slamming the
boat this way and that and soaking them to the skin. A half-seen finger of rock
came rushing up out of the gloom, snarling foam, and Davos barely kept them off
it with an oar.
    Then they were past, engulfed in darkness, and the waters smoothed. The little
boat slowed and swirled. The sound of their breathing echoed until it seemed to
surround them. Davos had not expected the blackness. The last time, torches had
burned all along the tunnel, and the eyes of starving men had peered down
through the murder holes in the ceiling. The portcullis was somewhere ahead, he
knew. Davos used the oars to slow them, and they drifted against it almost
gently.
    â€œThis is as far as we go, unless you have a man inside to lift the gate for
us.” His whispers scurried across the lapping water like a line of mice on
soft pink feet.
    â€œHave we passed within the walls?”
    â€œYes. Beneath. But we can go no farther. The portcullis goes all the way to
the bottom. And the bars are too closely spaced for even a child to squeeze
through.”
    There was no answer but a soft rustling. And then a light bloomed amidst the
darkness.
    Davos raised a hand to shield his eyes, and his breath caught in his throat.
Melisandre had thrown back her cowl and shrugged out of the smothering robe.
Beneath, she was naked, and huge with child. Swollen breasts hung heavy against
her chest, and her belly bulged as if near to bursting.
“Gods preserve
us,”
he whispered, and heard her answering laugh, deep and throaty. Her
eyes were hot coals, and the sweat that dappled her skin seemed to glow with a
light of its own. Melisandre
shone.
    Panting, she squatted and spread her legs. Blood ran down her thighs, black as
ink. Her cry might have been agony or ecstasy or both. And Davos saw the crown
of the child’s head push its way out of her. Two arms wriggled free, grasping,
black fingers coiling around Melisandre’s straining thighs, pushing, until the
whole of the shadow slid out into the world and rose taller than Davos, tall as
the tunnel, towering above the boat. He had only an instant to look at it
before it was gone, twisting between the bars of the portcullis and racing
across the surface of the water, but that instant was long enough.
    He knew that shadow. As he knew the man who’d cast it.

JON
    T he call came drifting through the black of night. Jon pushed himself onto
an elbow, his hand reaching for Longclaw by force of habit as the camp began to
stir.
The horn that wakes the sleepers,
he thought.
    The long low note lingered at the edge of hearing. The sentries at the ringwall
stood still in their footsteps, breath frosting and heads turned toward the
west. As the sound of the horn faded, even the wind ceased to blow. Men rolled
from their blankets and reached for spears and swordbelts, moving quietly,
listening. A horse whickered and was hushed. For a heartbeat it seemed as if
the whole forest were holding its breath. The brothers of the Night’s Watch
waited for a second blast, praying they should not hear it, fearing that they
would.
    When the silence had stretched unbearably long and the men knew at last
that the horn would not wind again, they grinned at one another sheepishly, as
if to deny that they had been anxious. Jon Snow fed a few sticks to the fire,
buckled on his swordbelt, pulled on his boots, shook the dirt and dew from the
cloak, and fastened it around his shoulders. The flames blazed up beside him,
welcome heat beating against his face as he dressed. He could hear the Lord
Commander moving inside the tent. After a moment Mormont lifted the flap. “One
blast?” On his shoulder,

his raven sat fluffed and silent, looking miserable.
    â€œOne, my lord,” Jon agreed. “Brothers returning.”
    Mormont moved to the fire. “The Halfhand. And past time.” He had grown more
restive every day they waited; much longer and he would have been fit to whelp
cubs. “See that there’s hot food for