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George R. R. Martin - A Storm of Swords

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George R. R. Martin A Storm of Swords

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GAME OF THRONES: A NEW ORIGINAL SERIES, NOW ON HBO.Rarely has there been a tale as gripping, or one as likely to seize the minds and hearts of a generation, as George R. R. Martins epic high fantasy series. In A Game of Thrones, an ancient kingdom was torn by the ambitions of ruthless men and women; in A Clash of Kings, war, sorcery, and madness swept over the kingdom like a voracious beast of prey. Now, as the brutal struggle for power nears its tumultuous climax, the battered and divided kingdom faces its most terrifying invasionone that is being spearheaded from beyond the grave. . . .A STORM OF SWORDSOf the five contenders for power, one is dead, another in disfavor, and still the wars rage as violently as ever, as alliances are made and broken. Joffrey, of House Lannister, sits on the Iron Throne, the uneasy ruler of the land of the Seven Kingdoms. His most bitter rival, Lord Stannis, stands defeated and disgraced, the victim of the jealous sorceress who holds him in her evil thrall. But young Robb, of House Stark, still rules the North from the fortress of Riverrun. Robb plots against his despised Lannister enemies, even as they hold his sister hostage at Kings Landing, the seat of the Iron Throne. Meanwhile, making her way across a blood-drenched continent is the exiled queen, Daenerys, mistress of the only three dragons still left in the world. Filled with the stench of death and decay from the destructive dynastic war, Daenerys is gathering allies and strength for an assault on Kings Landing, hoping to win back the crown she believes is rightfully hers. But as opposing forces maneuver for the final titanic showdown, an army of barbaric wildlings bent on overwhelming the Seven Kingdoms arrives from the outermost line of civilization. In their vanguard is a horde of mythical Othersa supernatural army of the living dead whose animated corpses are unstoppable. And as the future of the land hangs in the balance, no one will rest in the quest for victory until the Seven Kingdoms have exploded in a veritable storm of swords. . . . Brilliantly conceived and grand in scope, A Storm of Swords is the incredible tale of a world of harsh beauty and powerful magic, torn by treachery, ravaged by brutality, and consumed by greed and ambition. It portrays a war-torn landscape in which nobles and commoners, heroes and villains, the freeborn and the enslaved, all struggle to survive and to find their destinies...along with the dazzling bounty and wondrous enchantment that was once their birthright in the Seven Kingdoms.

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A Storm of Swords
A Song of Ice and Fire
Book III
George R.R. Martin
for Phyllis
who made me put the dragons in
A Note On Chronology

A Song of Ice and Fire is told through the eyes of characters who are sometimes hundreds or even thousands of miles apart from one another. Some chapters cover a day, some only an hour; others might span a fortnight, a month, half a year. With such a structure, the narrative cannot be strictly sequential; sometimes important things are happening simultaneously, a thousand leagues apart.

In the case of the volume now in hand, the reader should realize that the opening chapters of A Storm of Swords do not follow the closing chapters of A Clash of Kings so much as overlap them. I open with a look at some of the things that were happening on the Fist of the First Men, at Riverrun, Harrenhal, and on the Trident while the Battle of the Blackwater was being fought at Kings Landing, and during its aftermath

GEORGE R. R. MARTIN

Prologue The day was grey and bitter cold and the dogs would not take the - photo 1

Prologue The day was grey and bitter cold and the dogs would not take the - photo 2

Prologue The day was grey and bitter cold and the dogs would not take the - photo 3

Prologue The day was grey and bitter cold and the dogs would not take the - photo 4

Prologue

The day was grey and bitter cold, and the dogs would not take the scent.

The big black bitch had taken one sniff at the bear tracks, backed off, and skulked back to the pack with her tail between her legs. The dogs huddled together miserably on the riverbank as the wind snapped at them. Chett felt it too, biting through his layers of black wool and boiled leather. It was too bloody cold for man or beast, but here they were. His mouth twisted, and he could almost feel the boils that covered his cheeks and neck growing red and angry. I should be safe back at the Wall, tending the bloody ravens and making fires for old Maester Aemon. It was the bastard Jon Snow who had taken that from him, him and his fat friend Sam Tarly. It was their fault he was here, freezing his bloody balls off with a pack of hounds deep in the haunted forest.

Seven hells. He gave the leashes a hard yank to get the dogs attention. Track, you bastards. Thats a bear print. You want some meat or no? Find! But the hounds only huddled closer, whining. Chett snapped his short lash above their heads, and the black bitch snarled at him. Dog meat would taste as good as bear, he warned her, his breath frosting with every word.

Lark the Sisterman stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his hands tucked up into his armpits. He wore black wool gloves, but he was always complaining how his fingers were frozen. Its too bloody cold to hunt, he said. Bugger this bear, hes not worth freezing over.

We cant go back emptyhand, Lark, rumbled Small Paul through the brown whiskers that covered most of his face. The Lord Commander wouldnt like that. There was ice under the big mans squashed pug nose, where his snot had frozen. A huge hand in a thick fur glove clenched tight around the shaft of a spear.

Bugger that Old Bear too, said the Sisterman, a thin man with sharp features and nervous eyes. Mormont will be dead before daybreak, remember? Who cares what he likes?

Small Paul blinked his black little eyes. Maybe he had forgotten, Chett thought; he was stupid enough to forget most anything. Why do we have to kill the Old Bear? Why dont we just go off and let him be?

You think hell let us be? said Lark. Hell hunt us down. You want to be hunted, you great muttonhead?

No, said Small Paul. I dont want that. I dont.

So youll kill him? said Lark.

Yes. The huge man stamped the butt of his spear on the frozen riverbank. I will. He shouldnt hunt us.

The Sisterman took his hands from his armpits and turned to Chett. We need to kill all the officers, I say.

Chett was sick of hearing it. We been over this. The Old Bear dies, and Blane from the Shadow Tower. Grubbs and Aethan as well, their ill luck for drawing the watch, Dywen and Barmen for their tracking, and Ser Piggy for the ravens. Thats all. We kill them quiet, while they sleep. One scream and were wormfood, every one of us. His boils were red with rage. Just do your bit and see that your cousins do theirs. And Paul, try and remember, its third watch, not second.

Third watch, the big man said, through hair and frozen snot. Me and Softfoot. I remember, Chett.

The moon would be black tonight, and they had jiggered the watches so as to have eight of their own standing sentry, with two more guarding the horses. It wasnt going to get much riper than that. Besides, the wildlings could be upon them any day now. Chett meant to be well away from here before that happened. He meant to live.

Three hundred sworn brothers of the Nights Watch had ridden north, two hundred from Castle Black and another hundred from the Shadow Tower. It was the biggest ranging in living memory, near a third of the Watchs strength. They meant to find Ben Stark, Ser Waymar Royce, and the other rangers whod gone missing, and discover why the wildlings were leaving their villages. Well, they were no closer to Stark and Royce than when theyd left the Wall, but theyd learned where all the wildlings had goneup into the icy heights of the godsforsaken Frostfangs. They could squat up there till the end of time and it wouldnt prick Chetts boils none.

But no. They were coming down. Down the Milkwater.

Chett raised his eyes and there it was. The rivers stony banks were bearded by ice, its pale milky waters flowing endlessly down out of the Frostfangs. And now Mance Rayder and his wildlings were flowing down the same way. Thoren Smallwood had returned in a lather three days past. While he was telling the Old Bear what his scouts had seen, his man Kedge Whiteye told the rest of them. Theyre still well up the foothills, but theyre coming, Kedge said, warming his hands over the fire. Harma the Dogshead has the van, the poxy bitch. Goady crept up on her camp and saw her plain by the fire. That fool Tumberjon wanted to pick her off with an arrow, but Smallwood had better sense.

Chett spat. How many were there, could you tell?

Many and more. Twenty, thirty thousand, we didnt stay to count. Harma had five hundred in the van, every one ahorse.

The men around the fire exchanged uneasy looks. It was a rare thing to find even a dozen mounted wildlings, and five hundred

Smallwood sent Bannen and me wide around the van to catch a peek at the main body, Kedge went on. There was no end of them. Theyre moving slow as a frozen river, four, five miles a day, but they dont look like they mean to go back to their villages neither. Moren half were women and children, and they were driving their animals before them, goats, sheep, even aurochs dragging sledges. Theyd loaded up with bales of fur and sides of meat, cages of chickens, butter churns and spinning wheels, every damn thing they own. The mules and garrons was so heavy laden youd think their backs would break. The women as well.

And they follow the Milkwater? Lark the Sisterman asked.

I said so, didnt I?

The Milkwater would take them past the Fist of the First Men, the ancient ringfort where the Nights Watch had made its camp. Any man with a thimble of sense could see that it was time to pull up stakes and fall back on the Wall. The Old Bear had strengthened the Fist with spikes and pits and caltrops, but against such a host all that was pointless. If they stayed here, they would be engulfed and overwhelmed.

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