File1, 2, & 3 for asaavedra:

File1, 2, & 3 for asaavedra:



The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the
end of summer. They set forth at daybreak to see a man beheaded, twenty in
all, and Bran rode among them, nervous with excitement. This was the first
time he had been deemed old enough to go with his lord father and his
brothers to see the king's justice done. It was the ninth year of summer
and the seventh of Bran's life.
The man had been taken outside a small holdfast in the hills. Robb thought
he was a wildling, his sword sworn to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-
Wall. It made Bran's skin prickle to think of it. He remembered the hearth
tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers
and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girl
children in the dead of night, and drank blood from polished horns. And
their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-
human children.
But the man they found bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall awaiting
the king's justice was old and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He had
lost both ears and a finger to frostbite, and he dressed all in black, the
same as a brother of the Night's Watch, except that his furs were ragged
and greasy.


The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air as
his lord father had the man cut down from the wall and dragged before
them. Robb and Jon sat tall and sitll on their horses, with Bran between
them on his pony, trying to seem older than seven, trying to pretend he'd
seen this all before. A faint wind blew through the holdfast gate. Over
their heads flapped the banner of the Starks of Winterfell: a grey
direwolf racing across an ice-white field.
Bran's father sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the
wind. His closely trimmed beard was shot with white, making him look older
than his thirty-five years. He had a grim cast to his grey eyes this day,
and he seemed not at all the man who would sit before the fire in the
evening and talk softly of the age of heroes and the children of the
forest. He had taken off Father's face, Bran thought, and donned the face
of Lord Stark of Winterfell.


There were questions asked and answeres given there in the chill of the
morning, but afterward Bran could not recall much of what had been said.
Finally his lrd father gave a command, and two of his guardsmen dragged
the ragged ma to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. They
forced his head down onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark
dismounted and called his ward Theon Greyjoy brought forth the sword.
"Ice," that sword was called. It was as wide across as a man's hand, and
taller even than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark
as smoke. Nothing held an edge like Valyrian steel.
His father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the
captain of his household guard. He took hold of Ice with both hands and
said, "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his
Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the
Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of House
Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to
die." He lifted the great sword high above his head.
-- A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin

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