The RedeemerHarry Hole investigates a mistaken assassination
George R.R. Martin
Few American fantasy book authors are ever compared to the all-time master of fantasy fiction, J.R.R. Tolkien. George R.R. Martin has earned that distinction. Widely hailed for his tight plotting, expert pacing, deeply nuanced characterizations and beautifully constructed prose, Martin was dubbed “the American Tolkien” by TIME magazine. George R.R. Martin books are richly rewarding reading experiences that leave fans wanting more. No wonder he’s become one of the field’s leading fantasy book authors, with his #1 New York Times bestselling A Song of Ice and Fire series becoming one of the classics of modern fantasy fiction. Born in 1948, George Raymond Richard Martin discovered his love of writing as a youngster in Bayonne, New Jersey, and made his first sale to Galaxy magazine in 1970. Later, he spent 10 years in Hollywood working as writer-producer on The TwilightZone, Beauty and the Beast and various unreleased feature films and television pilots. In the mid ’90s, Martin returned to what he loved best, writing fantasy fiction. He began work on A Game of Thrones, the first novel in his #1 New York Times bestselling Ice and Fire epic, a monumental saga that includes A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords and A Feast for Crows. Though he is best known for that phenomenal series, a keeper’s shelf of George R.R. Martin books should include his shared-world Wild Card series, the many short story anthologies he’s edited and fantasy novels Dying of the Light, Fevre Dream and The Armageddon Rag—all short-listed for prestigious awards. For the upcoming HBO production of Ice and Fire—an event we’ve all been waiting for—Martin is slated to script one episode per season. George R.R. Martin makes his home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with his wife and a menagerie of pets.
A Dance with Dragons
He drank his way across the narrow sea. The ship was small and his cabin smaller, and the captain would not allow him abovedecks. The rocking of the deck beneath his feet made his stomach heave, and the wretched food they served him tasted even worse when retched back up. Besides, why did he need salt beef, hard cheese, and bread crawling with worms when he had wine to nourish him? It was red and sour, very strong. He sometimes heaved the wine up too, but there was always more. "The world is full of wine," he muttered in the dankness of his cabin. His father had never had any use for drunkards, but what did that matter? His father was dead. He ought to know; he'd killed him. A bolt in the belly, my lord, and all for you. If only I was better with a crossbow, I would have put it through that cock you made me with, you bloody bastard.
Below decks there was neither night nor day. Tyrion marked time by the comings and goings of the cabin boy who brought the meals he did not eat. The boy always brought a brush and bucket too, to clean up. "Is this Dornish wine?" Tyrion asked him once, as he pulled a stopper from a skin. "It reminds me of a certain snake I knew. A droll fellow, till a mountain fell on him."
The cabin boy did not answer. He was an ugly boy, though admittedly more comely than a certain dwarf with half a nose and a scar from eye to chin. "Have I offended you?" Tyrion asked the sullen, silent boy, as he was scrubbing. "Were you commanded not to talk to me? Or did some dwarf diddle your mother?"
That went unanswered too. This is pointless, he knew, but he must speak to someone or go mad, so he persisted. "Where are we sailing? Tell me that." Jaime had made mention of the Free Cities, but had never said which one. "Is it Braavos? Tyrosh? Myr?" Tyrion would sooner have gone to Dorne. Myrcella is older than Tommen, by Dornish law the Iron Throne is hers. I will help her claim her rights, as Prince Oberyn suggested.
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