A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

Ugly, but it served. Dolorous Edd
opined that glass knives were about as useful as nipples on a knight’s
breastplate, but Jon was not so certain. The dragonglass blade was sharper than
steel, albeit far more brittle.
    It must have been buried for a reason.
    He had made a dagger for Grenn as well, and another for the Lord
Commander. The warhorn he had given to Sam. On closer examination the horn had
proved cracked, and even after he had cleaned all the dirt out, Jon had been
unable to get any sound from it. The rim was chipped as well, but Sam liked old
things, even worthless old things. “Make a drinking horn out of it,” Jon told
him, “and every time you take a drink you’ll remember how you ranged beyond
the Wall, all the way to the Fist of the First Men.” He gave Sam a spearhead
and a dozen arrowheads as well, and passed the rest out among his other friends
for luck.
    The Old Bear had seemed pleased by the dagger, but he preferred a steel knife
at his belt, Jon had noticed. Mormont could offer no answers as to who might
have buried the cloak or what it might mean.
Perhaps Qhorin will
know.
The Halfhand had ventured deeper into the wild than any other living
man.
    â€œYou want to serve, or shall I?”
    Jon sheathed the dagger. “I’ll do it.” He wanted to hear what they were
saying.
    Edd cut three thick slices off a stale round of oat bread, stacked them on a
wooden platter, covered them with bacon and bacon drippings, and filled a bowl
with hard-cooked eggs. Jon took the bowl in one hand and the platter in the
other and backed into the Lord Commander’s tent.
    Qhorin was seated cross-legged on the floor, his spine as straight as a spear.
Candlelight flickered against the hard flat planes of his cheeks as he spoke.
“. . . Rattleshirt, the Weeping

Man, and every other chief great and small,” he was saying. “They have wargs
as well, and mammoths, and more strength than we would have dreamed. Or so he
claimed. I will not swear as to the truth of it. Ebben believes the man was
telling us tales to make his life last a little longer.”
    â€œTrue or false, the Wall must be warned,” the Old Bear said as Jon placed the
platter between them. “And the king.”
    â€œWhich king?”
    â€œAll of them. The true and the false alike. If they would claim the realm, let
them defend it.”
    The Halfhand helped himself to an egg and cracked it on the edge of the bowl.
“These kings will do what they will,” he said, peeling away the shell.
“Likely it will be little enough. The best hope is Winterfell. The Starks must
rally the north.”
    â€œYes. To be sure.” The Old Bear unrolled a map, frowned at it, tossed it
aside, opened another. He was pondering where the hammer would fall, Jon could
see it. The Watch had once manned seventeen castles along the hundred leagues
of the Wall, but they had been abandoned one by one as the brotherhood
dwindled. Only three were now garrisoned, a fact that Mance Rayder knew as well
as they did. “Ser Alliser Thorne will bring back fresh levies from King’s
Landing, we can hope. If we man Greyguard from the Shadow Tower and the Long
Barrow from Eastwatch . . .”
    â€œGreyguard has largely collapsed. Stonedoor would serve better, if the men
could be found. Icemark and Deep Lake as well, mayhaps. With daily patrols
along the battlements between.”
    â€œPatrols, aye. Twice a day, if we can. The Wall itself is a formidable
obstacle. Undefended, it cannot stop them, yet it will delay them. The larger
the host, the longer they’ll require. From the emptiness they’ve left behind,
they must mean to bring their women with them. Their young as well, and
beasts . . . have you ever seen a goat climb a ladder? A rope?
They will need to build a stair, or a great ramp . . . it will
take a moon’s turn at the least, perhaps longer. Mance will know his best
chance is to pass
beneath
the Wall. Through a gate,
or . . .”
    â€œA breach.”
    Mormont’s head came up sharply. “What?”
    â€œThey do not plan to climb the Wall nor to burrow beneath it, my lord. They
plan to break it.”
    â€œThe Wall is seven hundred feet high, and so thick at the base that it would
take a hundred men a year to cut through it with picks and axes.”
    â€œEven so.”
    Mormont