By George R. R. Martin
HBO’s hit sequence A online game OF THRONES is predicated on George R. R. Martin’s the world over bestselling sequence A music OF ICE AND fireplace, the best myth epic of the trendy age. A conflict OF KINGS is the second one quantity within the series.
Throughout Westeros, the chilly winds are rising.
From the traditional castle of Dragonstone to the forbidding lands of Winterfell, chaos reigns as pretenders to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms stake their claims via tempest, turmoil and war.
As a prophecy of doom cuts around the sky - a comet the color of blood and flame - 5 factions fight for keep an eye on of a divided land. Brother plots opposed to brother and the lifeless upward push to stroll within the night.
Against a backdrop of incest, fratricide, alchemy and homicide, the cost of glory is measured in blood.
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Additional info for A Clash of Kings (A Song of Ice and Fire, Book 2)
You want something better than your hand. You shall have it. Go into any woman’s house and tell her what she must do. ” “Says you! Big Red Margotty has three holes. She will refuse none of them to you. Enter them in whatever order you wish. Do what you like with her tits. Tell her to look glad when she sees you. Tell her to wag her tail and bark like a dog. As long as she has a daughter, she has no choice but to obey. ” “They hate you,” Will said. “And thou as well, my love and my delight. ” A long silence.
It was like being a small coracle carried helplessly along by a raging current. The river of emotion had its own logic; it knew where it was going. ” he cried. ” The greenshirties scattered like pigeons. Not half an hour later, No-name was brought, beaten and struggling, into the square. His former disciples had tied his hands behind his back, and gagged him with a red bandanna. He had been beaten—not so badly as Will had been, but well and thoroughly. Will walked up and down before him. Those leaf-green eyes glared up out of that siltblack face with a pure and holy hatred.
For the very good reason that the Army feeds me well. It feeds me, and clothes me, and all but wipes me arse when I asks it to. And am I grateful? Am I grateful? I am not. No, sirs and maidens, so far from grateful am I that I require that the Army pay me for the privilege! And how much, do you ask? How much am I paid? Keeping in mind that my shoes, my food, my breeches, my snot-rag—” he pulled a lace handkerchief from one sleeve and waved it daintily in the air—“are all free as the air we breathe and the dirt we rub in our hair at Candlemas eve.