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A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE
Books 1-4
George R.R. Martin
Copyright
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpervoyagerbooks.com
Copyright © George R.R. Martin 2012
Cover illustration © Larry Rostant
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
George R.R. Martin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Source ISBN: 9780007448050
Ebook edition © May 2011 ISBN: 9780007446322
Version: 2019-05-02
Praise for A Song of Ice and Fire:
‘This is one of those rare and effortless reads.’
ROBIN HOBB
‘George R.R. Martin is one of our very best writers, and this is one of his very best books.’
RAYMOND E. FEIST
‘Such a splendid tale. I read my eyes out—I couldn’t stop till I’d finished and it was dawn.’
ANNE MCCAFFREY
‘George R.R. Martin is assuredly a new master craftsman in the guild of heroic fantasy.’
KATHARINE KERR
‘Few created worlds are as imaginative and diverse.’
JANNY WURTS
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for A Song of Ice and Fire
Maps
Book One: A Game of Thrones
Dedication
Prologue
Bran
Catelyn
Daenerys
Eddard
Jon
Catelyn
Arya
Bran
Tyrion
Jon
Daenerys
Eddard
Tyrion
Catelyn
Sansa
Eddard
Bran
Catelyn
Jon
Eddard
Tyrion
Arya
Daenerys
Bran
Eddard
Jon
Eddard
Catelyn
Sansa
Eddard
Tyrion
Arya
Eddard
Catelyn
Eddard
Daenerys
Bran
Tyrion
Eddard
Catelyn
Jon
Tyrion
Eddard
Sansa
Eddard
Daenerys
Eddard
Jon
Eddard
Arya
Sansa
Jon
Bran
Daenerys
Catelyn
Tyrion
Sansa
Eddard
Catelyn
Jon
Daenerys
Tyrion
Catelyn
Daenerys
Arya
Bran
Sansa
Daenerys
Tyrion
Jon
Catelyn
Daenerys
Appendix
House Baratheon
House Stark
House Lannister
House Arryn
House Tully
House Tyrell
House Greyjoy
House Martell
The Old Dynasty: House Targaryen
Acknowledgments
Book Two: A Clash of Kings
Dedication
Prologue
Arya
Sansa
Tyrion
Bran
Arya
Jon
Catelyn
Tyrion
Arya
Davos
Theon
Daenerys
Jon
Arya
Tyrion
Bran
Tyrion
Sansa
Arya
Tyrion
Bran
Catelyn
Jon
Theon
Tyrion
Arya
Daenerys
Bran
Tyrion
Arya
Catelyn
Sansa
Catelyn
Jon
Bran
Tyrion
Theon
Arya
Catelyn
Daenerys
Tyrion
Davos
Jon
Tyrion
Catelyn
Bran
Arya
Daenerys
Tyrion
Theon
Jon
Sansa
Jon
Tyrion
Catelyn
Theon
Sansa
Davos
Tyrion
Sansa
Tyrion
Sansa
Daenerys
Arya
Sansa
Theon
Tyrion
Jon
Bran
Appendix: The Kings and their Courts
The King on the Iron Throne
The King in Highgarden
The King in the Narrow Sea
The King in the North
The Queen Across the Water
Other Houses Great and Small
House Lannister
House Tyrell
House Martell
House Florent
House Greyjoy
House Arryn
House Frey
The Men of the Night’s Watch
Acknowledgments
Book Three: A Storm of Swords: Part One: Steel and Snow
Dedication
A Note on Chronology
Prologue
Jaime
Catelyn
Arya
Tyrion
Davos
Sansa
Jon
Daenerys
Bran
Davos
Jaime
Tyrion
Arya
Catelyn
Jon
Sansa
Arya
Samwell
Tyrion
Catelyn
Jaime
Arya
Daenerys
Bran
Davos
Jon
Daenerys
Sansa
Arya
Jon
Jaime
Tyrion
Samwell
Arya
Catelyn
Davos
Jaime
Tyrion
Arya
Bran
Jon
Book Three: A Storm of Swords: Part Two: Blood and Gold
Daenerys
Arya
Jaime
Catelyn
Samwell
Arya
Jon
Catelyn
Arya
Catelyn
Arya
Tyrion
Davos
Jon
Bran
Daenerys
Tyrion
Sansa
Tyrion
Sansa
Jaime
Davos
Jon
Arya
Tyrion
Jaime
Sansa
Jon
Tyrion
Daenerys
Jaime
Jon
Arya
Samwell
Jon
Tyrion
Samwell
Jon
Sansa
Epilogue
Appendix: The Kings and their Courts
The King on the Iron Throne
The King in the North the King of the Trident
The King in the Narrow Sea
The Queen Across the Water
King of the Isles and the North
Other Houses Great and Small
House Arryn
House Florent
House Frey
House Lannister
House Martell
House Tully
House Tyrell
Rebels, Rogues, and Sworn Brothers
The Sworn Brothers of the Night’s Watch
The Brotherhood Without Banners an Outlaw Fellowship
The Wildlings, or the Free Folk
Acknowledgments
Book Four: A Feast for Crows
Dedication
Prologue
The Prophet
The Captain of Guards
Cersei
Brienne
Samwell
Arya
Cersei
Jaime
Brienne
Sansa
The Kraken’s Daughter
Cersei
The Soiled Knight
Brienne
Samwell
Jaime
Cersei
The Iron Captain
The Drowned Man
Brienne
The Queenmaker
Arya
Alayne
Cersei
Brienne
Samwell
Jaime
Cersei
The Reaver
Jaime
Brienne
Cersei
Jaime
Cat of the Canals
Samwell
Cersei
Brienne
Jaime
Cersei
The Princess in the Tower
Alayne
Brienne
Cersei
Jaime
Samwell
Meanwhile, Back on the Wall …
Appendix: The Kings and their Courts
The Queen Regent
The King at the Wall
King of the Isles and the North
Other Houses Great and Small
House Arryn
House Florent
House Frey
House Hightower
House Lannister
House Martell
House Stark
House Tully
House Tyrell
Rebels And Rogues
Lordlings, Wanderers, And Common Men
Outlaws And Broken Men
The Sworn Brothers of the Night’s Watch
The Wildlings, or the Free Folk
Beyond the Narrow Sea
The Queen Across the Water
In Braavos
Acknowledgments
About the Author
By George R.R. Martin
About the Publisher
Maps
Book One
DEDICATION
this one is for Melinda
PROLOGUE
“We should start back,” Gared urged as the woods began to grow dark around them. “The wildlings are dead.”
“Do the dead frighten you?” Ser Waymar Royce asked with just the hint of a smile.
Gared did not rise to the bait. He was an old man, past fifty, and he had seen the lordlings come and go. “Dead is dead,” he said. “We have no business with the dead.”
“Are they dead?” Royce asked softly. “What proof have we?”
“Will saw them,” Gared said. “If he says they are dead, that’s proof enough for me.”
Will had known they would drag him into the quarrel sooner or later. He wished it had been later rather than sooner. “My mother told me that dead men sing no songs,” he put in.
“My wet nurse said the same thing, Will,” Royce replied. “Never believe anything you hear at a woman’s tit. There are things to be learned even from the dead.” His voice echoed, too loud in the twilit forest.
“We have a long ride before us,” Gared pointed out. “Eight days, maybe nine. And night is falling.”
Ser Waymar Royce glanced at the sky with disinterest. “It does that every day about this time. Are you unmanned by the dark, Gared?”
Will could see the tightness around Gared’s mouth, the barely suppressed anger in his eyes under the thick black hood of his cloak. Gared had spent forty years in the Night’s Watch, man and boy, and he was not accustomed to being made light of. Yet it was more than that. Under the wounded pride, Will could sense something else in the older man. You could taste it; a nervous tension that came perilously close to fear.
Will shared his unease. He had been four years on the Wall. The first time he had been sent beyond, all the old stories had come rushing back, and his bowels had turned to water. He had laughed about it afterward. He was a veteran of a hundred rangings by now, and the endless dark wilderness that the southron called the haunted forest had no more terrors for him.
Until tonight. Something was different tonight. There was an edge to this darkness that made his hackles rise. Nine days they had been riding, north and northwest and then north again, farther and farther from the Wall, hard on the track of a band of wildling raiders. Each day had been worse than the day that had come before it. Today was the worst of all. A cold wind was blowing out of the north, and it made the trees rustle like living things. All day, Will had felt as though something were watching him, something cold and implacable that loved him not. Gared had felt it too. Will wanted nothing so much as to ride hellbent for the safety of the Wall, but that was not a feeling to share with your commander.
Especially not a commander like this one.
Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife. Mounted on his huge black destrier, the knight towered above Will and Gared on their smaller garrons. He wore black leather boots, black woolen pants, black moleskin gloves, and a fine supple coat of gleaming black ringmail over layers of black wool and boiled leather. Ser Waymar had been a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch for less than half a year, but no one could say he had not prepared for his vocation. At least insofar as his wardrobe was concerned.
His cloak was his crowning glory; sable, thick and black and soft as sin. “Bet he killed them all himself, he did,” Gared told the barracks over wine, “twisted their little heads off, our mighty warrior.” They had all shared the laugh.
It is hard to take orders from a man you laughed at in your cups, Will reflected as he sat shivering atop his garron. Gared must have felt the same.
“Mormont said as we should track them, and we did,” Gared said. “They’re dead. They shan’t trouble us no more. There’s hard riding before us. I don’t like this weather. If it snows, we could be a fortnight getting back, and snow’s the best we can hope for. Ever seen an ice storm, my lord?”
The lordling seemed not to hear him. He studied the deepening twilight in that half-bored, half-distracted way he had. Will had ridden with the knight long enough to understand that it was best not to interrupt him when he looked like that. “Tell me again what you saw, Will. All the details. Leave nothing out.”
Will had been a hunter before he joined the Night’s Watch. Well, a poacher in truth. Mallister freeriders had caught him red-handed in the Mallisters’ own woods, skinning one of the Mallisters’ own bucks, and it had been a choice of putting on the black or losing a hand. No one could move through the woods as silent as Will, and it had not taken the black brothers long to discover his talent.
“The camp is two miles farther on, over that ridge, hard beside a stream,” Will said. “I got close as I dared. There’s eight of them, men and women both. No children I could see. They put up a lean-to against the rock. The snow’s pretty well covered it now, but I could still make it out. No fire burning, but the firepit was still plain as day. No one moving. I watched a long time. No living man ever lay so still.”
“Did you see any blood?”
“Well, no,” Will admitted.
“Did you see any weapons?”
“Some swords, a few bows. One man had an axe. Heavy-looking, double-bladed, a cruel piece of iron. It was on the ground beside him, right by his hand.”
“Did you make note of the position of the bodies?”
Will shrugged. “A couple are sitting up against the rock. Most of them on the ground. Fallen, like.”
“Or sleeping,” Royce suggested.
“Fallen,” Will insisted. “There’s one woman up an ironwood, half-hid in the branches. A far-eyes.” He smiled thinly. “I took care she never saw me. When I got closer, I saw that she wasn’t moving neither.” Despite himself, he shivered.
“You have a chill?” Royce asked.
“Some,” Will muttered. “The wind, m’lord.”
The young knight turned back to his grizzled man-at-arms. Frost-fallen leaves whispered past them, and Royce’s destrier moved restlessly. “What do you think might have killed these men, Gared?” Ser Waymar asked casually. He adjusted the drape of his long sable cloak.
“It was the cold,” Gared said with iron certainty. “I saw men freeze last winter, and the one before, when I was half a boy. Everyone talks about snows forty foot deep, and how the ice wind comes howling out of the north, but the real enemy is the cold. It steals up on you quieter than Will, and at first you shiver and your teeth chatter and you stamp your feet and dream of mulled wine and nice hot fires. It burns, it does. Nothing burns like the cold. But only for a while. Then it gets inside you and starts to fill you up, and after a while you don’t have the strength to fight it. It’s easier just to sit down or go to sleep. They say you don’t feel any pain toward the end. First you go weak and drowsy, and everything starts to fade, and then it’s like sinking into a sea of warm milk. Peaceful, like.”
“Such eloquence, Gared,” Ser Waymar observed. “I never suspected you had it in you.”
“I’ve had the cold in me too, lordling.” Gared pulled back his hood, giving Ser Waymar a good long look at the stumps where his ears had been. “Two ears, three toes, and the little finger off my left hand. I got off light. We found my brother frozen at his watch, with a smile on his face.”
Ser Waymar shrugged. “You ought to dress more warmly, Gared.”
Gared glared at the lordling, the scars around his ear holes flushed red with anger where Maester Aemon had cut the ears away. “We’ll see how warm you can dress when the winter comes.” He pulled up his hood and hunched over his garron, silent and sullen.
“If Gared said it was the cold …” Will began.
“Have you drawn any watches this past week, Will?”
“Yes, m’lord.” There never was a week when he did not draw a dozen bloody watches. What was the man driving at?
“And how did you find the Wall?”
“Weeping,” Will said, frowning. He saw it clear enough, now that the lordling had pointed it out. “They couldn’t have froze. Not if the Wall was weeping. It wasn’t cold enough.”
Royce nodded. “Bright lad. We’ve had a few light frosts this past week, and a quick flurry of snow now and then, but surely no cold fierce enough to kill eight grown men. Men clad in fur and leather, let me remind you, with shelter near at hand, and the means of making fire.” The knight’s smile was cocksure. “Will, lead us there. I would see these dead men for myself.”
And then there was nothing to be done for it. The order had been given, and honor bound them to obey.
Will went in front, his shaggy little garron picking the way carefully through the undergrowth. A light snow had fallen the night before, and there were stones and roots and hidden sinks lying just under its crust, waiting for the careless and the unwary. Ser Waymar Royce came next, his great black destrier snorting impatiently. The warhorse was the wrong mount for ranging, but try and tell that to the lordling. Gared brought up the rear. The old man-at-arms muttered to himself as he rode.
Twilight deepened. The cloudless sky turned a deep purple, the color of an old bruise, then faded to black. The stars began to come out. A half-moon rose. Will was grateful for the light.
“We can make a better pace than this, surely,” Royce said when the moon was full risen.
“Not with this horse,” Will said. Fear had made him insolent. “Perhaps my lord would care to take the lead?”
Ser Waymar Royce did not deign to reply.
Somewhere off in the wood a wolf howled.
Will pulled his garron over beneath an ancient gnarled ironwood and dismounted.
“Why are you stopping?” Ser Waymar asked.
