A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

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 saw his father’s 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.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œMe 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 you 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.
    â€œYou 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 brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man’s arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?”
    â€œYes, Father,” Bran said.
    â€œYes,” Robb agreed.
    â€œThe pups may die anyway, despite all you do.”
    â€œThey won’t die,” Robb said. “We won’t
let
them die.”
    â€œKeep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It’s 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.
    â€œWhat is it, Jon?” their lord father asked.
    â€œCan’t 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.
    â€œThere,” 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.
    â€œHe must have crawled away from the others,” Jon said.
    â€œOr 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.
    â€œAn albino,” Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. “This one will die even faster than the others.”
    Jon Snow gave his father’s ward a long, chilling look. “I think not, Greyjoy,” he said. “This one belongs to me.”

CATELYN
    C atelyn had never liked this godswood.
    She had been born a Tully, at Riverrun far to the south, on the Red Fork of the Trident. The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers.
    The gods of Winterfell kept a different sort of wood. It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No redwoods grew here. This was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees armored in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the realm itself. Here thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshapen roots wrestled beneath the soil. This was a