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A Game Of Thrones

Book One of A Song of Ice and Fire

By George R. R. Martin

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.

Page 1

"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 sup

pressed 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 perilous 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

Page 2

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, halfhid 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. Frostfallen 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."

Page 3

"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 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.