Song Of Ice And Fire

Version History:
2.0 - Reedited 4/25/10 by maelstrom385
1.0 - Scanned 3/5/02 by sliph
*missing appendix section

Book One: A Song of Ice and Fire
George R.R. Martin

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 tothe 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
ratherthan 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 WaymarRoyce 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 hundredrangings 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 dayhad
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 hell-bent for the safety of the Wall, but
thatwas 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 woolenpants, 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. “Bethe killed them all
himself, he did,” Gared told the barracks over wine, “twisted their little heads off, our mighty
warrior.” They had all shared the laugh.
It is hard to take orders from a man you laughed at in your cups, Will reflected as he sat
shivering atop his garron. Gared must have felt the same.
“Mormont said as we should track them, and we did,” Gared said.
“They’re dead. They...