Amitesh007/got · Datasets at Hugging Face

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"Answer me! Why is it so cold?"
It was cold. Shivering, Will clung more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the
sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek.
A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and
hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was
white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the
trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took.
Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss.
"Come no farther," the lordling warned. His voice cracked like a boy's. He threw the long sable cloak
back over his shoulders, to free his arms for battle, and took his sword in both hands. The wind had
stopped. It was very cold.
The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No
human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of
crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the
thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.
Ser Waymar met him bravely. "Dance with me then." He lifted his sword high over his head, defiant. His
hands trembled from the weight of it, or perhaps from the cold. Yet in that moment, Will thought, he was
a boy no longer, but a man of the Night's Watch.
The Other halted. Will saw its eyes; blue, deeper and bluer than any human eyes, a blue that burned like
ice. They fixed on the longsword trembling on high, watched the moonlight running cold along the metal.
For a heartbeat he dared to hope.
They emerged silently from the shadows, twins to the first. Three of them . . . four . . . five . . . Ser
Waymar may have felt the cold that came with them, but he never saw them, never heard them. Will had
to call out. It was his duty. And his death, if he did. He shivered, and hugged the tree, and kept the
silence.
The pale sword came shivering through the air.
Ser Waymar met it with steel. When the blades met, there was no ring of metal on metal; only a high,
thin sound at the edge of hearing, like an animal screaming in pain. Royce checked a second blow, and a
third, then fell back a step. Another flurry of blows, and he fell back again.
Behind him, to right, to left, all around him, the watchers stood patient, faceless, silent, the shifting
patterns of their delicate armor making them all but invisible in the wood. Yet they made no move to
interfere.
Again and again the swords met, until Will wanted to cover his ears against the strange anguished
keening of their clash. Ser Waymar was panting from the effort now, his breath steaming in the moonlight.
His blade was white with frost; the Other's danced with pale blue light.
Then Royce's parry came a beat too late. The pale sword bit through the ringmail beneath his arm. The
young lord cried out in pain. Blood welled between the rings. It steamed in the cold, and the droplets
seemed red as fire where they touched the snow. Ser
Page 7

Waymar's fingers brushed his side. His moleskin glove came away soaked with red.
The Other said something in a language that Will did not know; his voice was like the cracking of ice on
a winter lake, and the words were mocking.
Ser Waymar Royce found his fury. "For Robert!" he shouted, and he came up snarling, lifting the
frost-covered longsword with both hands and swinging it around in a flat sidearm slash with all his weight
behind it. The Other's parry was almost lazy.
When the blades touched, the steel shattered.
A scream echoed through the forest night, and the longsword shivered into a hundred brittle pieces, the
shards scattering like a rain of needles. Royce went to his knees, shrieking, and covered his eyes. Blood
welled between his fingers.
The watchers moved forward together, as if some signal had been given. Swords rose and fell, all in a
deathly silence. It was cold butchery. The pale blades sliced through ringmail as if it were silk. Will closed
his eyes. Far beneath him, he heard their voices and laughter sharp as icicles.
When he found the courage to look again, a long time had passed, and the ridge below was empty.
He stayed in the tree, scarce daring to breathe, while the moon crept slowly across the black sky.
Finally, his muscles cramping and his fingers numb with cold, he climbed down.
Royce's body lay facedown in the snow, one arm outflung. The thick sable cloak had been slashed in a
dozen places. Lying dead like that, you saw how young he was. A boy.
He found what was left of the sword a few feet away, the end splintered and twisted like a tree struck
by lightning. Will knelt, looked around warily, and snatched it up. The broken sword would be his proof.
Gared would know what to make of it, and if not him, then surely that old bear Mormont or Maester
Aemon. Would Gared still be waiting with the horses? He had to hurry.
Will rose. Ser Waymar Royce stood over him.
His fine clothes were a tatter, his face a ruin. A shard from his sword transfixed the blind white pupil of
his left eye.
The right eye was open. The pupil burned blue. It saw.
The broken sword fell from nerveless fingers. Will closed his eyes to pray. Long, elegant hands brushed
his cheek, then tightened around his throat. They were gloved in the finest moleskin and sticky with
blood, yet the touch was icy cold.
BRAN
The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. They set
forth at daybreak to see a man beheaded, twenty in all, and Bran rode among them, nervous with
excitement. This was the first time he had been deemed old enough to go with his lord father and his
Page 8

brothers to see the king's justice done. It was the ninth year of summer, and the seventh of Bran's life.
The man had been taken outside a small holdfast in the hills. Robb thought he was a wildling, his sword
sworn to Mance Rayder, the Kingbeyond-the-Wall. It made Bran's skin prickle to think of it. 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 girl children in the dead of night, 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 man they found bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall awaiting 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 same as a brother of the Night's Watch, except that his furs were ragged and greasy.
The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air as his lord father had the man cut
down from the wall and
dragged before them. Robb and Jon sat tall and still on their horses, with Bran between them on his
pony, trying to seem older than seven, trying to pretend that he'd seen all this before. A faint wind 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 sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard
was shot with white, making him look older than his thirty-five years. He had a grim cast to his grey eyes
this day, and he seemed not at all the man who would sit before the fire in the evening and talk softly of
the age of heroes and the children of the forest. He had taken off Father's face, Bran thought, and
donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell.
There were questions asked and answers given there in the chill of morning, but afterward Bran could
not recall much of what had been said. Finally his lord father gave a command, and two of his guardsmen
dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. They forced his head down
onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark dismounted and his ward Theon Greyjoy brought forth

"Answer me! Why is it so cold?"

It was cold. Shivering, Will clung more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the

sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek.

A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and

hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was

white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the

trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took.

Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss.

"Come no farther," the lordling warned. His voice cracked like a boy's. He threw the long sable cloak

back over his shoulders, to free his arms for battle, and took his sword in both hands. The wind had

stopped. It was very cold.

The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No

human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of

crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the

thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.

Ser Waymar met him bravely. "Dance with me then." He lifted his sword high over his head, defiant. His

hands trembled from the weight of it, or perhaps from the cold. Yet in that moment, Will thought, he was

a boy no longer, but a man of the Night's Watch.

The Other halted. Will saw its eyes; blue, deeper and bluer than any human eyes, a blue that burned like

ice. They fixed on the longsword trembling on high, watched the moonlight running cold along the metal.

For a heartbeat he dared to hope.

They emerged silently from the shadows, twins to the first. Three of them . . . four . . . five . . . Ser

Waymar may have felt the cold that came with them, but he never saw them, never heard them. Will had

to call out. It was his duty. And his death, if he did. He shivered, and hugged the tree, and kept the

silence.

The pale sword came shivering through the air.

Ser Waymar met it with steel. When the blades met, there was no ring of metal on metal; only a high,

thin sound at the edge of hearing, like an animal screaming in pain. Royce checked a second blow, and a

third, then fell back a step. Another flurry of blows, and he fell back again.

Behind him, to right, to left, all around him, the watchers stood patient, faceless, silent, the shifting

patterns of their delicate armor making them all but invisible in the wood. Yet they made no move to

interfere.

Again and again the swords met, until Will wanted to cover his ears against the strange anguished

keening of their clash. Ser Waymar was panting from the effort now, his breath steaming in the moonlight.

His blade was white with frost; the Other's danced with pale blue light.

Then Royce's parry came a beat too late. The pale sword bit through the ringmail beneath his arm. The

young lord cried out in pain. Blood welled between the rings. It steamed in the cold, and the droplets

seemed red as fire where they touched the snow. Ser

Page 7

Waymar's fingers brushed his side. His moleskin glove came away soaked with red.

The Other said something in a language that Will did not know; his voice was like the cracking of ice on

a winter lake, and the words were mocking.

Ser Waymar Royce found his fury. "For Robert!" he shouted, and he came up snarling, lifting the

frost-covered longsword with both hands and swinging it around in a flat sidearm slash with all his weight

behind it. The Other's parry was almost lazy.

When the blades touched, the steel shattered.

A scream echoed through the forest night, and the longsword shivered into a hundred brittle pieces, the

shards scattering like a rain of needles. Royce went to his knees, shrieking, and covered his eyes. Blood

welled between his fingers.

The watchers moved forward together, as if some signal had been given. Swords rose and fell, all in a

deathly silence. It was cold butchery. The pale blades sliced through ringmail as if it were silk. Will closed

his eyes. Far beneath him, he heard their voices and laughter sharp as icicles.

When he found the courage to look again, a long time had passed, and the ridge below was empty.

He stayed in the tree, scarce daring to breathe, while the moon crept slowly across the black sky.

Finally, his muscles cramping and his fingers numb with cold, he climbed down.

Royce's body lay facedown in the snow, one arm outflung. The thick sable cloak had been slashed in a

dozen places. Lying dead like that, you saw how young he was. A boy.

He found what was left of the sword a few feet away, the end splintered and twisted like a tree struck

by lightning. Will knelt, looked around warily, and snatched it up. The broken sword would be his proof.

Gared would know what to make of it, and if not him, then surely that old bear Mormont or Maester

Aemon. Would Gared still be waiting with the horses? He had to hurry.

Will rose. Ser Waymar Royce stood over him.

His fine clothes were a tatter, his face a ruin. A shard from his sword transfixed the blind white pupil of

his left eye.

The right eye was open. The pupil burned blue. It saw.

The broken sword fell from nerveless fingers. Will closed his eyes to pray. Long, elegant hands brushed

his cheek, then tightened around his throat. They were gloved in the finest moleskin and sticky with

blood, yet the touch was icy cold.

BRAN

The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. They set

forth at daybreak to see a man beheaded, twenty in all, and Bran rode among them, nervous with

excitement. This was the first time he had been deemed old enough to go with his lord father and his

Page 8

brothers to see the king's justice done. It was the ninth year of summer, and the seventh of Bran's life.

The man had been taken outside a small holdfast in the hills. Robb thought he was a wildling, his sword

sworn to Mance Rayder, the Kingbeyond-the-Wall. It made Bran's skin prickle to think of it. 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 girl children in the dead of night, 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 man they found bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall awaiting 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 same as a brother of the Night's Watch, except that his furs were ragged and greasy.

The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air as his lord father had the man cut

down from the wall and

dragged before them. Robb and Jon sat tall and still on their horses, with Bran between them on his

pony, trying to seem older than seven, trying to pretend that he'd seen all this before. A faint wind 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 sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard

was shot with white, making him look older than his thirty-five years. He had a grim cast to his grey eyes

this day, and he seemed not at all the man who would sit before the fire in the evening and talk softly of

the age of heroes and the children of the forest. He had taken off Father's face, Bran thought, and

donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell.

There were questions asked and answers given there in the chill of morning, but afterward Bran could

not recall much of what had been said. Finally his lord father gave a command, and two of his guardsmen

dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. They forced his head down

onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark dismounted and his ward Theon Greyjoy brought forth