A Game of Thrones Chapter One

BranThe morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. They set frontward at daybreak to realize a gay 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 original military chaplain and his brothers to see the kings justice done. It was the ninth year of summer, and the s nonethelessth of Brans life.The opus had been taken outside a baseborn holdfast in the hills. Robb thought he was a wildling, his sword sworn to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall. It made Brans 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 bou nd hand and ass to the holdfast wall awaiting the kings justice was old and scrawny, non 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 Nights Watch, except that his furs were ragged and greasy.The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning gloriole as his master get down had the man cut down from the wall and dragged before them. Robb and Jon sat tall and assuage on their horses, with Bran between them on his pony, trying to seem senior(a) than seven, trying to pretend that hed seen all this before. A faint undulate blew through the holdfast gate. Over their heads flapped the banner of the Starks of Winterfell a grey direwolf racing crossways an ice-white field.Brans breed sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard was shot with white, making him look aged(a) than his thirty-five years. He had a grim cast to his grey eyes this day, and he seemed non at all the man who would sit before the turn on in the evening and talk softly of the age of heroes and the children of the forest. He had taken take out Fathers face, Bran thought, and donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell.There were questions asked and coiffures addicted there in the chill of morning, but afterward Bran could not recall much of what had been said. Finally his lord draw gave a command, and two of his guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood puzzle in the center of the squ ar. They forced his head down onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark dismount and his ward Theon Greyjoy brought forth the sword. crackpot, that sword was called. It was as wide crossways as a mans hand, and taller even than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke. Nothing held an edge ilk Valyrian steel.His father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his habitation guard. He took h old of Ice with both hands and said, In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First 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 North, I do sendence you to die. He lifted the greatsword high above his head.Brans bastard brother Jon Snow moved closer. intimidate the pony well in hand, he whispered. And dont look past. Father will know if you do.Bran kept his pony well in hand, and did not look away.His father took off the mans head with a single sure stroke. Blood sprayed out across the snow, as red as surnmerwine. One of the horses reared and had to be restrained to bind from bolting. Bran could not take his eyes off the blood. The snows around the stump drank it eagerly, reddening as he watched.The head bounced off a thick root and rolled. It came up ripe Greyjoys feet. Theon was a lean, dark youth of nineteen who found everything amusing. He laughed, bewilder his boot on the head, and kicked it away.Ass, Jon muttered, low enough so Greyjoy did not hear. He upchuck a hand on Brans shoulder, and Bran looked over at his bastard brother. You did well, Jon told him solemnly. Jon was fourteen, an old hand at justice.It seemed colder on the long ride back to Winterfell, though the wind had died by because and the sun was higher in the sky. Bran rode with his brothers, well ahead of the main party, his pony struggling hard to abide by up with their horses.The deserter died bravely, Robb said. He was big and broad and growing every day, with his mothers coloring, the fair skin, red-brown hair, and blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun. He had courage, at the least.No, Jon Snow said quietly. It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark. Jons eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast.Robb was not impressed. The Others take his eyes, he swore. He died well. Race you to the bridge?Done, Jon said, thrill his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed, and they galloped off down the trail, Robb laughing and hooting, Jon silent and intent. The hooves of their horses kicked up showers of snow as they went.Bran did not try to follow. His pony could not keep up. He had seen the ragged mans eyes, and he was thinking of them now. After a while, the sound of Robbs laughter receded, and the woods grew silent again.So deep in thought was he that he never heard the rest of the party until his father moved up to ride beside him. Are you well, Bran? he asked, not unkindly.Yes, Father, Bran told him. He looked up. Wrapped in his furs and leathers, mounted on his great warhorse, his lord father loomed over him like a giant. Robb s ays the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid.What do you think? his father asked.Bran thought more or less it. Can a man still be brave if hes afraid?That is the yet time a man can 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 father smiled. Old Nan has been telling you stories again. In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Nights Watch. No man is more dangerous. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from whatsoever crime, no matter how vile. But you mistake me. The question was not why the man had to die, but why I moldiness do it.Bran had no answer for that. King Robert has a headsman, he said, uncertainly.He does, his father admitted. As did the Targaryen kings before him. Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a mans life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.One day, Bran, you will be Robbs bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice will give ear to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners in brief forgets what death is.That was when Jon reappeared on the crest of the hill before them. He waved and shouted down at them. Father, Bran, come quickly, see what Robb has found Then he was kaput(p) again.Jory rode up beside them. Trouble, my lord?Beyond a doubt, his lord father said. Come, let us see what mischief my sons have rooted out now. He sent his horse into a trot. Jory and Bran and the rest came after.They found Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, with Jon still mounted be side him. The late summer snows had been heavy this moonturn. Robb stood knee-deep in white, his crownwork pulled back 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 pay on the hidden, uneven ground. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the first to reach the boys. Greyjoy was laughing and joking as he rode. Bran heard the breath go out of him. Gods he exclaimed, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword.Jorys sword was already out. Robb, get away from it he called as his horse reared under him.Robb grinned and looked up from the bundle in his arms. She cant hurt you, he said. Shes dead, Jory.Bran was afire with curiosity by then. He would have spurred the pony faster, but his father made them dismount beside the bridge and approach on foot. Bran jumped off and ran.By then Jon, Jory, and Theon Greyjoy had all dismo unted as well. What in the seven hells is it? Greyjoy was saying.A wolf, Robb told him.A freak, Greyjoy said. Look at the size of it.Brans heart was thumping in his chest as he pushed through a waist-high drift to his brothers side.Half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption clung to it like a womans perfume. Bran glimpsed blind eyes crawling with maggots, a wide emit full of yellowed teeth. But it was the size of it that made him gasp. It was bigger than his pony, twice the size of the largest hound in his fathers kennel.Its no freak, Jon said calmly. Thats a direwolf. They grow large than the other kind.Theon Greyjoy said, Theres not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years.I see one now, Jon replied.Bran tore his eyes away from the monster. That was when he noticed the bundle in Robbs arms. He gave a cry of delight and moved closer. The give birth was a tiny ball of grey-black fur, its eyes still closed. It nuzzled blindly against Robbs chest as he cradled it, searching for milk among his leathers, making a sad little whimpery sound. Bran reached out hesitantly. Go on, Robb told him. You can touch him.Bran gave the whelp a quick nervous stroke, then turned as Jon said, Here you go. His half brother put a second pup into his arms. There are five of them. Bran sat 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 galore(postnominal) years, muttered Hullen, the master of horse. I like it not.It is a sign, Jory said.Father frowned. This is only a dead animal, Jory, he said. Yet he seemed troubled. Snow crunched under his boots as he moved around the body. Do we know what killed her?Theres something in the throat, Robb told him, proud to have found the answer before his father even asked. There, just under the jaw.His father knelt and groped under the faunas head with his hand. 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 ease descended over the party. The men looked at the antler uneasily, and no one dared to speak. Even Bran could sense their fear, though he did not understand.His father tossed the antler to the side and cleansed his hands in the snow. Im surprise she lived long enough to whelp, he said. His voice broke the spell.Maybe she didnt, Jory said. Ive 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 better, Theon Greyjoy agreed. He drew his sword. Give the beast here, Bran.The little thing squirmed against him, as if it heard and understood. No Bran cried out fiercely. Its mine.Put away your sword, Greyjoy, Robb said. For a moment he sounded as commanding as their fathe r, like the lord he would someday be. We will keep these pups.You cannot do that, boy, said Harwin, who was Hullens son.It be a mercy to kill them, Hullen said.Bran looked to his lord father for rescue, but got only a frown, a furrowed brow. Hullen speaks truly, son. Better a swift death than a hard one from cold and starvation.No He could feel divide welling in his eyes, and he looked away. He did not want to cry in front of his father.Robb resisted stubbornly. Ser Rodriks red bitch whelped again last week, he said. It was a small litter, only two live pups. Shell have milk enough.Shell rip them apart when they try to nurse.Lord Stark, Jon said. It was strange to hear him call Father that, so formal. Bran looked at him with desperate hope. There are five pups, he told Father. 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 have these pups, my lord.Bran proverb his fathers face change, saw the other men exchange glances. He loved Jon with all his heart at that moment. Even at seven, Bran understood what his 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 bastard who bore the surname Snow, the name that custom decreed be given to all those in the north unlucky enough to be born with no name of their own.Their father understood as well. 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 y ou 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 father said. You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglect them, or animalise them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a mans arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?Yes, Father, Bran said.Yes, Robb agreed.The pups may die anyway, in spite of all you do.They wont die, Robb said. We wont let them die.Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. Its time we were back 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, safe for the long ride home. Bran was wondering what to name him.Halfway across the bridge, Jon pulled up suddenly.What is it, Jon? their lord father asked.Cant you hear it?Bran could hear the wind in the trees, 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 horse 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 away from the others, Jon said.Or been driven away, their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.An albino, Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. This one will die even faster than the others.Jon Snow gave his fathers ward a long, chilling look. I think not, Greyjoy, he said. This one belongs to me.