Game of Thrones Read Online Book 1

Chapter 1

  Bran

  The morning had dawned clear and common cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. They set up forth at daybreak to see a man beheaded, twenty in all, and Bran rode amidst them, nervous with excitement. This was the first time he had been deemed one-time enough to go with his lord father and his brothers to see the king's justice done. It was the ninth year of summertime, and the seventh of Bran's life.

  The man had been taken outside a pocket-sized holdfast in the hills. Robb idea he was a wildling, his sword sworn to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall. It made Bran's skin prickle to think of information technology. He remembered the hearth tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole daughter children in the expressionless of nighttime, and drank blood from polished horns. And their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-human children.

  But the human they found jump manus and foot to the holdfast wall pending the king's justice was old and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He had lost both ears and a finger to frostbite, and he dressed all in black, the aforementioned equally a brother of the Night'south Spotter, except that his furs were ragged and greasy.

  The breath of man and equus caballus mingled, steaming, in the common cold morn air as his lord father had the homo cutting down from the wall and dragged before them. Robb and Jon sabbatum tall and nonetheless on their horses, with Bran between them on his pony, trying to seem older than vii, trying to pretend that he'd seen all this earlier. A faint current of air blew through the holdfast gate. Over their heads flapped the banner of the Starks of Winterfell: a grey direwolf racing across an ice-white field.

  Bran's father saturday solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard was shot with white, making him await older than his thirty-five years. He had a grim cast to his grey optics this day, and he seemed non at all the human being who would sit before the fire in the evening and talk softly of the age of heroes and the children of the woods. He had taken off Father's face, Bran thought, and donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell.

  At that place were questions asked and answers given in that location in the chill of morning, but afterward Bran could not recall much of what had been said. Finally his lord begetter gave a command, and two of his guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the foursquare. They forced his head down onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark dismounted and his ward Theon Greyjoy brought forth the sword. "Water ice," that sword was called. Information technology was as wide beyond every bit a man'due south hand, and taller fifty-fifty than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as fume. Nothing held an edge like Valyrian steel.

  His father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard. He took hold of Ice with both hands and said, "In the name of Robert of the Business firm Baratheon, the First of his Proper name, Male monarch of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the Showtime Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the N, I do sentence you to die. " He lifted the greatsword high above his caput.

  Bran's bounder brother Jon Snow moved closer. "Keep the pony well in hand," he whispered. "And don't expect away. Father will know if you do. "

  Bran kept his pony well in hand, and did not look away.

  His father took off the human being'southward caput with a single certain stroke. Claret sprayed out beyond the snow, as reddish as surnmerwine. One of the horses reared and had to exist restrained to proceed from bolting. Bran could non take his eyes off the blood. The snows around the stump drank information technology eagerly, reddening as he watched.

  The caput bounced off a thick root and rolled. It came up near Greyjoy's feet. Theon was a lean, dark youth of xix who found everything agreeable. He laughed, put his boot on the head, and kicked it away.

  "Ass," Jon muttered, low enough so Greyjoy did non hear. He put a mitt on Bran's shoulder, and Bran looked over at his bastard brother. "You did well," Jon told him solemnly. Jon was 14, an onetime manus at justice.

  It seemed colder on the long ride back to Winterfell, though the wind had died past then and the dominicus was college in the sky. Bran rode with his brothers, well alee of the primary political party, his pony struggling hard to keep up with their horses.

  "The deserter died bravely," Robb said. He was big and broad and growing every day, with his mother'due south coloring, the fair pare, ruby-red-brown pilus, and blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun. "He had courage, at the least. "

  "No," Jon Snow said quietly. "It was non courage. This 1 was dead of fear. You lot could see information technology in his eyes, Stark. " Jon'due south eyes were a grey so night they seemed about black, but there was footling they did not run into. He was of an age with Robb, but they did non look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, night where Robb was off-white, graceful and quick where his one-half brother was stiff and fast.

  Robb was not impressed. "The Others take his eyes," he swore. "He died well. Race you to the bridge?"

  "Washed," Jon said, kicking his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed, and they galloped off downwardly the trail, Robb laughing and hooting, Jon silent and intent. The hooves of their horses kicked upward showers of snow as they went.

  Bran did not attempt to follow. His pony could not go along upwardly. He had seen the ragged man's eyes, and he was thinking of them now. After a while, the audio of Robb'due south laughter receded, and the woods grew silent again.

  So deep in thought was he that he never heard the rest of the political party until his father moved upwards to ride beside him. "Are you well, Bran?" he asked, not unkindly.

  "Yes, Male parent," Bran told him. He looked up. Wrapped in his furs and leathers, mounted on his bang-up warhorse, his lord male parent loomed over him like a giant. "Robb says the man died bravely, simply Jon says he was agape. "

"What do you call back?" his father asked.

  Bran thought nearly information technology. "Can a human being nonetheless be brave if he'south afraid?"

  "That is the only time a human being tin be brave," his father told him. "Do you understand why I did it?"

  "He was a wildling," Bran said. "They carry off women and sell them to the Others. "

  His lord begetter smiled. "Sometime Nan has been telling you stories again. In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night's Watch. No human being is more dangerous. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not blanch from any law-breaking, no matter how vile. But you mistake me. The question was not why the man had to die, just why I must do it. "

  Bran had no reply for that. "King Robert has a headsman," he said, uncertainly.

  "He does," his father admitted. "Equally did the Targaryen kings earlier him. All the same our way is the older fashion. The blood of the First Men however flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the judgement should swing the sword. If you would accept a man's life, you owe information technology to him to look into his optics and hear his final words. And if y'all cannot deport to exercise that, so mayhap the man does non deserve to dice.

  "I day, Bran, you lot volition be Robb's bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice volition fall to you lot. When that day comes, you must have no pleasure in the job, merely neither must you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is. "

  That was

when Jon reappeared on the crest of the hill before them. He waved and shouted down at them. "Begetter, Bran, come speedily, see what Robb has found!" Then he was gone again.

  Jory rode upwardly beside them. "Trouble, my lord?"

  "Across a doubt," his lord father said. "Come up, let us see what mischief my sons have rooted out at present. " He sent his horse into a trot. Jory and Bran and the remainder came after.

  They found Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, with Jon still mounted beside him. The belatedly summer snows had been heavy this moonturn. Robb stood knee-deep in white, his hood pulled back and so the sun shone in his hair. He was cradling something in his arm, while the boys talked in hushed, excited voices.

  The riders picked their way carefully through the drifts, groping for solid ground on the hidden, uneven ground. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the showtime to achieve the boys. Greyjoy was laughing and joking every bit he rode. Bran heard the breath become out of him. "Gods!" he exclaimed, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword.

  Jory's sword was already out. "Robb, get abroad from it!" he called as his horse reared nether him.

  Robb grinned and looked up from the bundle in his artillery. "She can't hurt you," he said. "She'due south dead, Jory. "

  Bran was afire with curiosity by so. He would accept spurred the pony faster, but his male parent made them dismount beside the bridge and approach on human foot. Bran jumped off and ran.

  By then Jon, Jory, and Theon Greyjoy had all dismounted as well. "What in the seven hells is information technology?" Greyjoy was proverb.

  "A wolf," Robb told him.

  "A freak," Greyjoy said. "Await at the size of information technology. "

  Bran's heart was thumping in his breast as he pushed through a waist-high drift to his brothers' side.

  One-half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in decease. Water ice had formed in its shaggy grayness fur, and the faint smell of corruption clung to it similar a woman's perfume. Bran glimpsed blind eyes crawling with maggots, a broad mouth total of yellowed teeth. But it was the size of information technology that made him gasp. Information technology was bigger than his pony, twice the size of the largest hound in his father'southward kennel.

  "It'south no freak," Jon said calmly. "That's a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind. "

  Theon Greyjoy said, "There's non been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in 2 hundred years. "

  "I come across ane at present," Jon replied.

  Bran tore his eyes away from the monster. That was when he noticed the bundle in Robb'southward arms. He gave a weep of please and moved closer. The pup was a tiny ball of greyness-black fur, its eyes nonetheless closed. It nuzzled blindly against Robb's chest as he cradled information technology, searching for milk among his leathers, making a sorry petty whimpery sound. Bran reached out hesitantly. "Go on," Robb told him. "You lot tin can bear upon him. "

  Bran gave the pup a quick nervous stroke, then turned as Jon said, "Hither yous go. " His half brother put a second pup into his arms. "There are five of them. " Bran sabbatum down in the snow and hugged the wolf pup to his face. Its fur was soft and warm against his cheek.

  "Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years," muttered Hullen, the master of horse. "I like it non. "

  "Information technology is a sign," Jory said.

  Male parent frowned. "This is only a dead animal, Jory," he said. Yet he seemed troubled. Snowfall crunched nether his boots as he moved effectually the body. "Do we know what killed her?"

  "There'southward something in the throat," Robb told him, proud to have constitute the respond before his father fifty-fifty asked. "In that location, just under the jaw. "

  His father knelt and groped under the beast'south head with his mitt. He gave a yank and held it up for all to see. A foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood.

  A sudden silence descended over the political party. The men looked at the antler uneasily, and no one dared to speak. Fifty-fifty Bran could sense their fear, though he did not empathise.

  His father tossed the antler to the side and cleansed his hands in the snow. "I'm surprised she lived long enough to whelp," he said. His vox broke the spell.

  "Perchance she didn't," Jory said. "I've heard tales . . . maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came. "

  "Born with the dead," another man put in. "Worse luck. "

  "No matter," said Hullen. "They be dead soon enough too. "

  Bran gave a wordless cry of dismay.

  "The sooner the ameliorate," Theon Greyjoy agreed. He drew his sword. "Give the beast here, Bran. "

  The little affair squirmed against him, equally if it heard and understood. "No!" Bran cried out fiercely. "It'southward mine. "

  "Put away your sword, Greyjoy," Robb said. For a moment he sounded equally commanding as their father, similar the lord he would someday be. "We will keep these pups. "

  "You cannot practise that, boy," said Harwin, who was Hullen's son.

  "It be a mercy to kill them," Hullen said.

  Bran looked to his lord male parent for rescue, but got only a frown, a furrowed brow. "Hullen speaks truly, son. Better a swift expiry than a hard one from cold and starvation. "

  "No!" He could feel tears welling in his eyes, and he looked away. He did not want to weep in front of his father.

  Robb resisted stubbornly. "Ser Rodrik'due south red bitch whelped over again last week," he said. "It was a small litter, just two live pups. She'll have milk enough. "

  "She'll rip them autonomously when they effort to nurse. "

  "Lord Stark," Jon said. It was strange to hear him telephone call Father that, so formal. Bran looked at him with desperate promise. "There are 5 pups," he told Male parent. "Three male, two female. "

  "What of it, Jon?"

  "You have five trueborn children," Jon said. "Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to accept these pups, my lord. "

  Bran saw his father's face change, saw the other men substitution glances. He loved Jon with all his heart at that moment. Even at seven, Bran understood what his blood brother had done. The count had come right only because Jon had omitted himself. He had included the girls, included even Rickon, the baby, but not the bounder who bore the surname Snow, the name that custom decreed exist given to all those in the north unlucky plenty to be born with no name of their own.

  Their father understood likewise. "You want no pup for yourself, Jon?" he asked softly.

  "The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark," Jon pointed out. "I am no Stark, Father. "

  Their lord father regarded Jon thoughtfully. Robb rushed into the silence he left. "I will nurse him myself, Father," he promised. "I will soak a towel with warm milk, and give him suck from that. "

  "Me too!" Bran echoed.

  The lord weighed his sons long and carefully with his eyes. "Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants' time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?"

  Bran nodded eagerly. The pup squirmed in his grasp, licked at his face with a warm tongue.

  "You must train them as well," their male parent said. "You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to exercise with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you

if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them desperately. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a human being's arm off his shoulder as easily as a domestic dog volition kill a rat. Are you sure you desire this?"

  "Yes, Father," Bran said.

  "Yes," Robb agreed.

  "The pups may dice anyway, despite all you do. "

  "They won't dice," Robb said. "We won't let them dice. "

  "Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, assemble up the other pups. It's time we were dorsum to Winterfell. "

  It was not until they were mounted and on their way that Bran allowed himself to taste the sweet air of victory. By then, his pup was snuggled inside his leathers, warm against him, prophylactic for the long ride domicile. Bran was wondering what to name him.

  Halfway across the bridge, Jon pulled upwardly all of a sudden.

  "What is information technology, Jon?" their lord male parent asked.

  "Tin't y'all hear it?"

  Bran could hear the air current in the copse, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else.

  "There," Jon said. He swung his equus caballus around and galloped back across the bridge. They watched him dismount where the direwolf lay dead in the snow, watched him kneel. A moment later he was riding back to them, smiling.

  "He must have crawled abroad from the others," Jon said.

  "Or been driven abroad," their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the balance of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged human being who had died that morning. Bran idea information technology curious that this pup lone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.

  "An albino," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "This 1 will dice even faster than the others. "

  Jon Snowfall gave his father's ward a long, spooky look. "I think not, Greyjoy," he said. "This one belongs to me. "

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