A GAME OF THRONES
Book One of A Song of Ice and Fire
By George R. R. Martin
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
“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
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 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.