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HBO's hit series A GAME OF THRONES is based on George R R Martin's internationally bestselling series A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE, the greatest fantasy epic. Download [PDF] Books A Storm of Swords Part 2 Blood and Gold A Song of Ice and Fire Book 3 [PDF, Kindle] by George R.R. Martin Read Online Full Free. READ [PDF] A Storm of Swords, Part 2: Blood and Gold (A Song of Ice and Fire, Book 3) FOR ANY DEVICE. Book details Author: George R.R. AUDIOBOOK DOWNLOAD Command Decision (Vatta s War) (PDF,EPUB,TXT).
With an OverDrive account, you can save your favorite libraries for at-a-glance information about availability. Find out more about OverDrive accounts. George R. Martin is the author of fifteen novels and novellas, including five volumes of A Song of Ice and Fire, several collections of short stories, as well as screenplays for television and feature films. Dubbed 'the American Tolkien', George We want your feedback! Click here.
Tyrion is again condemned to death but is freed by Jaime and Varys. Jaime reveals that Tyrion's first wife Tysha, who Tywin had gang-raped by his garrison and forced Tyrion to participate, was not a prostitute as Tywin told him, and genuinely loved Tyrion.
During Tyrion's escape, he strangles Shae and kills Tywin in his privy before fleeing Westeros. At the Eyrie, Littlefinger and Lysa are married, and Sansa remains hidden by pretending to be an illegitimate daughter of Littlefinger's, named Alayne Stone. Lysa reveals that Littlefinger had convinced her to poison Jon Arryn , her late husband, to prevent her son from being fostered to Stannis Baratheon, and to write to Catelyn that Arryn had been poisoned by the Lannisters, which was the catalyst for the events of A Game of Thrones.
Lysa threatens to kill Sansa, thinking she is trying to seduce Littlefinger, but Littlefinger intervenes and, after revealing that he had only ever loved Catelyn, pushes Lysa to her death. The Watch are attacked by undead wights and the Others, suffering heavy casualties; but Samwell Tarly kills one of the Others with a blade of dragonglass.
At Craster's Keep, some of the Watch mutiny and kill Mormont and Craster, but Sam escapes with the help of one of Craster's daughter-wives, Gilly, and they and the girl's newborn child approach the Wall, assisted by a strange figure riding an elk , whom Sam calls Coldhands. Among the dead are most of the Watch's senior leadership.
Jon convinces Mance that he is a deserter from the Night's Watch and learns that the Others are driving the wildlings south towards the Wall. Jon and his captor Ygritte also begin a sexual relationship. Mance seeks the legendary Horn of Winter to shatter the Wall. After climbing the Wall, the wildlings press Jon to murder a homeless man. When Jon refuses, the wildlings turn on him but Jon, with the assistance of Bran's direwolf Summer Bran and company are hiding in a nearby abandoned tower , kills many of the wildlings and escapes to Castle Black.
The approaching wildling army reaches Castle Black and assaults the Wall; but Jon takes command of the defenses and repels several assaults, during which Ygritte is slain.
After that, Janos Slynt and Alliser Thorne imprison Jon for treachery and subsequently send him north of the Wall to kill Mance under a pretense of parley. As Jon is talking with Mance in the wildling camp, the army of King Stannis arrives, routing the Wildlings, and Mance is imprisoned.
Melisandre believes the wildling invasion to portend the return of the Great Other, the sworn foe of her god R'hllor. Stannis offers to legitimize Jon and make him Lord of Winterfell in exchange for his support, but when his direwolf Ghost unexpectedly returns, Jon decides to decline Stannis' offer.
Across the Narrow Sea[ edit ] Heading for Pentos by sea, Daenerys Targaryen learns that large slave armies can be bought in the cities of Slaver's Bay , and exchanges one of her infant dragons for the entire host of the warrior-eunuch Unsullied. Upon payment, which includes Drogon the largest and strongest of her dragons , Daenerys orders the Unsullied to turn on their former masters and sack the city. With the help of her maturing dragons, she frees all the slaves of Astapor. Daenerys' horde then conquers the slaver city of Yunkai ; but the lords of neighbouring Meereen antagonize Daenerys by killing child slaves and burning the land to deny her resources.
Consequently, Daenerys besieges the city to no avail. Daenerys discovers two traitors in her camp: Ser Jorah Mormont , who had spied on her for Varys, informant to the late King Robert Baratheon, in exchange for a royal pardon; and Arstan Whitebeard, an alias of Ser Barristan Selmy , the humiliated former Lord Commander of Robert Baratheon's Kingsguard. Daenerys offers both men the chance to make amends by sneaking into Meereen to free the slaves and start an uprising. Meereen soon falls and, in retaliation for the murdered child slaves, Daenerys has the city's rulers put to death.
Selmy asks for Daenerys' forgiveness and becomes Lord Commander of her Queensguard while Jorah, who refuses to admit any wrong, is banished. When Daenerys learns that the council she left in Astapor has been overthrown, she decides to rule Meereen to practice for the rule of Westeros.
Characters[ edit ] The tale is told through the eyes of ten main characters, plus a one-off prologue POV and a one-off epilogue POV character, for a total of 12 narrators. Catelyn saw a second bolt pierce his leg, saw him fall. Up in the gallery, half the musicians had crossbows in their hands instead of drums or lutes. She ran toward her son, until something punched in the small of the back and the hard stone floor came up to slap her.
She saw Smalljon Umber wrestle a table off its trestles. Crossbow bolts thudded into the wood, one two three, as he flung it down on top of his king.
Robin Flint was ringed by Freys, their daggers rising and falling. Ser Wendel Manderly rose ponderously to his feet, holding his leg of lamb.
A quarrel went in his open mouth and came out the back of his neck. Ser Wendel crashed forward, knocking the table off its trestles and sending cups, flagons, trenchers, platters, turnips, beets, and wine bouncing, spilling, and sliding across the floor. I have to reach him. The Smalljon bludgeoned Ser Raymund Frey across the face with a leg of mutton. But when he reached for his sword belt a crossbow bolt drove him to his knees. In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws.
And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours. The crossbows took Donnel Locke, Owen Norrey, and half a dozen more. Young Ser Benfrey had seized Dacey Mormont by the arm, but Catelyn saw her grab up a flagon of wine with her other hand, smash it full in his face, and run for the door.
It flew open before she reached it. Ser Ryman Frey pushed into the hall, clad in steel from helm to heel. A dozen Frey men-at-arms packed the door behind him. They were armed with heavy long axes. By then men were pouring in the other doors as well, mailed men in shaggy fur cloaks with steel in their hands.
Hope blew out like a candle in a storm. In the midst of slaughter, the Lord of the Crossing sat on his carved oaken throne, watching greedily. There was a dagger on the floor a few feet away. Perhaps it had skittered there when the Smalljon knocked the table off its trestles, or perhaps it had fallen from the hand of some dying man.
Catelyn crawled toward it. Her limbs were leaden, and the taste of blood was in her mouth. I will kill Walder Frey, she told herself. Jinglebell was closer to the knife, hiding under a table, but he only cringed away as she snatched up the blade.
I will kill the old man, I can do that much at least. Then the tabletop that the Smalljon had flung over Robb shifted, and her son struggled to his knees. He had an arrow in his side, a second in his leg, a third through his chest. Lord Walder raised a hand, and the music stopped, all but one drum. Chett felt it too, biting through his layers of black wool and boiled leather.
It was too bloody cold for man or beast, but here they were. His mouth twisted, and he could almost feel the boils that covered his cheeks and neck growing red and angry.
I should be safe back at the Wall, tending the bloody ravens and making fires for old Maester Aemon. It was the bastard Jon Snow who had taken that from him, him and his fat friend Sam Tarly. It was their fault he was here, freezing his bloody balls off with a pack of hounds deep in the haunted forest.
You want some meat or no? Chett snapped his short lash above their heads, and the black bitch snarled at him.
Lark the Sisterman stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his hands tucked up into his armpits. He wore black wool gloves, but he was always complaining how his fingers were frozen. A huge hand in a thick fur glove clenched tight around the shaft of a spear. Who cares what he likes? Maybe he had forgotten, Chett thought; he was stupid enough to forget most anything. You want to be hunted, you great muttonhead? Grubbs and Aethan as well, their ill luck for drawing the watch, Dywen and Barmen for their tracking, and Ser Piggy for the ravens.
We kill them quiet, while they sleep. I remember, Chett. Besides, the wildlings could be upon them any day now. Chett meant to be well away from here before that happened. He meant to live. But no. They were coming down. Down the Milkwater. Chett raised his eyes and there it was. And now Mance Rayder and his wildlings were flowing down the same way. Thoren Smallwood had returned in a lather three days past. While he was telling the Old Bear what his scouts had seen, his man Kedge Whiteye told the rest of them.
Goady crept up on her camp and saw her plain by the fire. That fool Tumberjon wanted to pick her off with an arrow, but Smallwood had better sense. Harma had five hundred in the van, every one ahorse. It was a rare thing to find even a dozen mounted wildlings, and five hundred The women as well. Any man with a thimble of sense could see that it was time to pull up stakes and fall back on the Wall.
The Old Bear had strengthened the Fist with spikes and pits and caltrops, but against such a host all that was pointless. If they stayed here, they would be engulfed and overwhelmed. And Thoren Smallwood wanted to attack.
Ser Mallador had been of the same mind as old Ser Ottyn Wythers, urging a retreat on the Wall, but Smallwood wanted to convince him otherwise. One blow will take all the fight out of them and send them howling back to their hovels for another fifty years. Chett called that rank madness, and what was madder still was that Ser Mallador had been persuaded, and the two of them together were on the point of persuading the Old Bear. Buckwell and the Halfhand were late in returning, though.
Dead, most like. The thought made him smile. I hope they killed his bloody wolf as well. Back to the Fist.
Maybe they thought they were going to get fed. Chett had to laugh. With all the confusion, it might be hours before anyone noticed that fourteen brothers were missing. Lark had wanted to bring in twice that number, but what could you expect from some stupid fishbreath Sisterman?
Chett had recruited most of them himself. Small Paul was one of his; the strongest man on the Wall, even if he was slower than a dead snail. One touch of the knife and that craven would piss his pants and start blubbering for his life. Softfoot and Small Paul would kill the Old Bear, Dirk would do Blane, and Lark and his cousins would silence Bannen and old Dywen, to keep them from sniffing after their trail.
With Mormont dead, command would pass to Ser Ottyn Wythers, an old done man, and failing. The dogs pulled at him as they made their way through the trees. Chett could see the Fist punching its way up through the green. The day was so dark that the Old Bear had the torches lit, a great circle of them burning all along the ringwall that crowned the top of the steep stony hill.
The three of them waded across a brook. The water was icy cold, and patches of ice were spreading across its surface. And what could he do in Tyrosh? Sometimes he made Chett help pull the leeches off. His father beat him bloody for that. The maesters bought the leeches at twelve-for-apenny. Lark could go home if he liked, and the damn Tyroshi too, but not Chett.
That would be a laugh. His banner could be a dozen leeches on a field of pink. But why stop at lord? Maybe he should be a king. Mance Rayder started out a crow. I could be a king same as him, and have me some wives.
The old ones Chett could put to work cooking and cleaning for him, pulling carrots and slopping pigs, while the young ones warmed his bed and bore his children.
The worst was that slattern Bessa. She stopped laughing when he put his knife in her. That was sweet, the look on her face, so he pulled the knife out and put it in her again. To pay for his one sweet moment, they took his whole life. That twisted old wildling has the right of it. It would work, he promised himself for the hundredth time. So long as we get away clean.
Ser Ottyn would strike south for the Shadow Tower, the shortest way to the Wall. What do we care? That was a new thought, and for a moment it tempted him. But they would need to kill Ser Ottyn and Ser Mallador Locke as well to give Smallwood the command, and both of them were well-attended day and night Kill the bird too if you like.
What if it tells what we did? I like that bird. Small Paul clouded up again. Best not. Near the edge of the forest a dozen men were taking archery practice. They had carved outlines on the trunks of trees, and were loosing shafts at them. Just the sight of Samwell Tarly filled him with anger. The old blind man was undemanding, and Clydas had taken care of most of his wants anyway. Thinks he can just walk in and shove me out, on account of being highborn and knowing how to read.
Might be I ask him to read my knife before I open his throat with it. Chett kicked the bitch with the toe of his boot, and that settled them down some. He watched from the trees as the fat boy wrestled with a longbow as tall as he was, his red moon face screwed up with concentration. Three arrows stood in the ground before him.
Tarly nocked and drew, held the draw a long moment as he tried to aim, and let fly. The shaft vanished into the greenery. Chett laughed loudly, a snort of sweet disgust. As if that could be helped. He was white and it was snowing, what did they expect? This one went high, sailing through the branches ten feet above the target. Gods, but I am cold. Shoot the last arrow, Samwell, I believe my tongue is freezing to the roof of my mouth.
He did it quickly, without squinting along the shaft painstakingly as he had the first two times. The arrow struck the charcoal outline low in the chest and hung quivering. Edd, look, I hit him! Tollett shrugged. Aye, and made a few. But when he saw Chett and the dogs, his smile curled up and died squeaking. Dolorous Edd put a hand on his shoulder. Is it true that half your wits leaked out on the ground and your dogs ate them?
Chett kicked the nearest dog, yanked on their leashes, and started up the hill. Smile all you want, Ser Piggy. He only wished he had time to kill Tollett as well. The climb was steep, even on this side of the Fist, which had the gentlest slope. He gave them a taste of his boot instead, and a crack of the whip for the big ugly one that snapped at him. Once they were tied up, he went to report. The dogs huddled together miserably in the hard frozen mud, and Chett was half tempted to crawl in with them.
It was warmer if he kept moving, he found, so he made a slow circuit of the perimeter with a wad of sourleaf, sharing a chew or two with the black brothers on guard and hearing what they had to say. None of the men on the day watch were part of his scheme; even so, he figured it was good to have some sense of what they were thinking. Mostly what they were thinking was that it was bloody cold. The wind was rising as the shadows lengthened. It seemed to Chett that they needed the big man more than they needed Lark.
Cold as it was, any fool that touched steel with a bare hand was going to lose a patch of skin. The dogs whimpered when the sun went down. He gave them water and curses. Dywen was holding forth at the cookfire as Chett got his heel of hardbread and a bowl of bean and bacon soup from Hake the cook. I never heard no deader wood than this. Dywen clacked his wooden teeth. There was, before, but no more.
Of the dozen odd brothers who sat by the fire, four were his. He gave each one a hard squinty look as he ate, to see if any showed signs of breaking. Dirk seemed calm enough, sitting silent and sharpening his blade, the way he did every night. And Sweet Donnel Hill was all easy japes. He had white teeth and fat red lips and yellow locks that he wore in an artful tumble about his shoulders, and he claimed to be the bastard of some Lannister.
Maybe he was at that. Chett had no use for pretty boys, nor for bastards neither, but Sweet Donnel seemed like to hold his own. He was less certain about the forester the brothers called Sawwood, more for his snoring than for anything to do with trees. And Maslyn was worse. Chett could see sweat trickling down his face, despite the frigid wind. The beads of moisture sparkled in the firelight, like so many little wet jewels. Assemble at the central fire! Mormont wore a cloak of thick black fur, and his raven perched upon his shoulder, preening its black feathers.
Chett squeezed between Brown Bemarr and some Shadow Tower men. When everyone was gathered, save for the watchers in the woods and the guards on the ringwall, Mormont cleared his throat and spat. The spittle was frozen before it hit the ground. Thoren believes their van will be upon us ten days hence. Their most seasoned raiders will be with Harma Dogshead in that van.
The rest will likely form a rearguard, or ride in close company with Mance Rayder himself. Elsewhere their fighters will be spread thin along the line of march.
They have oxen, mules, horses Most will be afoot, and illarmed and untrained. Such weapons as they carry are more like to be stone and bone than steel. They are burdened with women, children, herds of sheep and goats, and all their worldly goods besides. In short, though they are numerous, they are vulnerable Or so we must pray.
You bloody old pus bag, they know, certain as sunrise. Nor Jarman Buckwell. If any of them got caught, you know damned well the wildlings will have wrung a song or two out of them by now Smallwood stepped forward. The foothills of the Frostfangs are full of narrow winding valleys made for ambush. Their line of march will stretch for many miles. We shall fall on them in several places at once, and make them swear we were three thousand, not three hundred.
Mance Rayder himself, if we find him. But as another Lord Commander said a thousand years ago, that is why they dress us in black. Remember your words, brothers. For we are the swords in the darkness, the watchers on the walls The shield that guards the realms of men! The air was misty with their breath, and firelight glinted off the steel. He was pleased to see Lark and Softfoot and Sweet Donnel Hill joining in, as if they were as big fools as the rest.
That was good. No sense to draw attention, when their hour was so close. When the shouting died away, once more he heard the sound of the wind picking at the ringwall.
Chett crawled under his furs near the dogs, his head full of things that could go wrong.
What if that bloody oath gave one of his a change of heart? Or Small Paul forgot and tried to kill Mormont during the second watch in place of the third? Or Maslyn lost his courage, or someone turned informer, or He found himself listening to the night. But nothing else. So quiet.
I picked you flowers, wild roses and tansy and goldencups, it took me all morning. His heart was thumping like a drum, so loud he feared it might wake the camp. Ice caked his beard all around his mouth. Where did that come from, with Bessa? What was wrong with him?
He could hardly breathe. Had he gone to sleep? He got to his knees, and something wet and cold touched his nose. Chett looked up. Snow was falling. He could feel tears freezing to his cheeks. It was a heavy fall, thick white flakes coming down all about him. How would they find their food caches in the snow, or the game trail they meant to follow east? A horse could stumble over a root, break a leg on a stone. Done before we began. Snow had ruined him once before.
Snow and his pet pig. Chett got to his feet. His legs were stiff, and the falling snowflakes turned the distant torches to vague orange glows. He felt as though he were being attacked by a cloud of pale cold bugs. They settled on his shoulders, on his head, they flew at his nose and his eyes. Cursing, he brushed them off. Samwell Tarly, he remembered. I can still deal with Ser Piggy. He wrapped his scarf around his face, pulled up his hood, and went striding through the camp to where the coward slept.
The snow was falling so heavily that he got lost among the tents, but finally he spotted the snug little windbreak the fat boy had made for himself between a rock and the raven cages. Tarly was buried beneath a mound of black wool blankets and shaggy furs. The snow was drifting in to cover him. He looked like some kind of soft round mountain.
Steel whispered on leather faint as hope as Chett eased his dagger from its sheath. One of the ravens quorked.