A Game of Thrones: The Story Continues Books 1-4: A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords, A Feast for Crows. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

Samwell

       Meanwhile, Back on the Wall …

       Appendix: The Kings and their Courts

       The Queen Regent

       The King at the Wall

       King of the Isles and the North

       Other Houses Great and Small

       House Arryn

       House Florent

       House Frey

       House Hightower

       House Lannister

       House Martell

       House Stark

       House Tully

       House Tyrell

       Rebels And Rogues

       Lordlings, Wanderers, And Common Men

       Outlaws And Broken Men

       The Sworn Brothers of the Night’s Watch

       The Wildlings, or the Free Folk

       Beyond the Narrow Sea

       The Queen Across the Water

       In Braavos

       Acknowledgments

       About the Author

       By George R.R. Martin

       About the Publisher

Maps

      Book One

A GAME OF THRONES

DEDICATION

       this one is for Melinda

      PROLOGUE

      “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 in.

      “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 is falling.”

      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 perilously 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.

      His cloak was his crowning glory; sable, thick and black and soft as sin. “Bet he killed them