A Song Of Ice And Fire - Omnibus by George R. R. Martin

A Song Of Ice And Fire - Omnibus by George R. R. Martin

Author:George R. R. Martin
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fantasy - Epic, Fantasy Fiction, Fiction - Fantasy, Fiction, Fantasy, American, General, Fantasy - Series, Martin, Epic, George R. R. - Prose & Criticism, Kings and Rulers, Imaginary Places, Alchemy, Imaginary Wars and Battles, Civil War, Unknown

Chapter Fifty Five


They woke to the smoke of Mole’s Town burning.

Atop the King’s Tower, Jon Snow leaned on the padded crutch that Maester Aemon had given him and watched the grey plume rise. Styr had lost all hope of taking Castle Black unawares when Jon escaped him, yet even so, he need not have warned of his approach so bluntly. You may kill us, he reflected, but no one will be butchered in their beds. That much I did, at least.

His leg still hurt like blazes when he put his weight on it. He’d needed Clydas to help him don his fresh-washed blacks and lace up his boots that morning, and by the time they were done he’d wanted to drown himself in the milk of the poppy. Instead he had settled for half a cup of dreamwine, a chew of willow bark, and the crutch. The beacon was burning on Weatherback Ridge, and the Night’s Watch had need of every man.

“I can fight,” he insisted when they tried to stop him.

“Your leg’s healed, is it?” Noye snorted. “You won’t mind me giving it a little kick, then?”

“I’d sooner you didn’t. It’s stiff, but I can hobble around well enough, and stand and fight if you have need of me.”

“I have need of every man who knows which end of the spear to stab into the wildlings.”

“The pointy end.” Jon had told his little sister something like that once, he remembered.

Noye rubbed the bristle on his chin. “Might be you’ll do. We’ll put you on a tower with a longbow, but if you bloody well fall off don’t come crying to me.”

He could see the kingsroad wending its way south through stony brown fields and over windswept hills. The Magnar would be coming up that road before the day was done, his Thenns marching behind him with axes and spears in their hands and their bronze-and-leather shields on their backs. Grigg the Goat, Quort, Big Boil, and the rest will be coming as well. And Ygritte. The wildlings had never been his friends, he had not allowed them to be his friends, but her . . .

He could feel the throb of pain where her arrow had gone through the meat and muscle of his thigh. He remembered the old man’s eyes too, and the black blood rushing from his throat as the storm cracked overhead. But he remembered the grotto best of all, the look of her naked in the torchlight, the taste of her mouth when it opened under his. Ygritte, stay away. Go south and raid, go hide in one of those roundtowers you liked so well. You’ll find nothing here but death.

Across the yard, one of the bowmen on the roof of the old Flint Barracks had unlaced his breeches and was pissing through a crenel. Mully, he knew from the man’s greasy orange hair. Men in black cloaks were visible on other roofs and tower tops as well, though nine of every ten happened to be made of straw.


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