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ASOIAF: A Game of Thrones chapters by first sentence
A Song of Ice and Fire
Can you pick the POV character for each chapter of A Game of Thrones, given its first sentence?
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SPOILER WARNING for Book I. A few chapters' opening sentences get cut off because they're too long, but it's still possible to get the gist.
ASOIAF: A Clash of Kings chapters by first sentence
“We should start back,” Gared urged as the woods began to grow dark around them.
The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer.
[Character] had never liked this godswood.
Her brother held the gown up for her inspection.
The visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred strong, a pride of bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and freerider
There were times—not many, but a few—when [character] was glad he was a bastard.
Of all the rooms in Winterfell’s Great Keep, [character]’s bedchambers were the hottest.
[Character]’s stitches were crooked again.
The hunt left at dawn.
Somewhere in the great stone maze of Winterfell, a wolf howled.
[Character] climbed the steps slowly, trying not to think that this might be the last time ever.
[Character] wed Khal Drogo with fear and barbaric splendor in a field beyond the walls of Pentos, for the Dothraki believed that all things of importance in a man’s life must be
The summons came in the hour before the dawn, when the world was still and grey.
The north went on forever.
Ned and the girls were eight days gone when Maester Luwin came to her one night in Bran’s sickroom, carrying a reading lamp and the books of account.
Eddard Stark had left before dawn, Septa Mordane informed [character] as they broke their fast.
“They’ve found her, my lord.”
It seemed as though he had been falling for years.
“We will make King’s Landing within the hour.”
The courtyard rang to the song of swords.
[Character] rode through the towering bronze doors of the Red Keep sore, tired, hungry, and irritable.
“Are you certain that you must leave us so soon?” the Lord Commander asked him.
Her father had been fighting with the council again.
“The Dothraki sea,” Ser Jorah Mormont said as he reined to a halt beside her on the top of the ridge.
In the yard below, Rickon ran with the wolves.
“Lord Arryn’s death was a great sadness for all of us, my lord,” Grand Maester Pycelle said.
[Character] was showing Dareon how best to deliver a sidestroke when the new recruit entered the practice yard.
“It’s the Hand’s tourney that’s the cause of all the trouble, my lords,” the Commander of the City Watch complained to the king’s council.
“My lady, you ought cover your head,” Ser Rodrik told her as their horses plodded north.
[Character] rode to the Hand’s tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them.
“I stood last vigil for him myself,” Ser Barristan Selmy said as they looked down at the body in the back of the cart.
As he stood in the predawn chill watching Chiggen butcher his horse, [character] chalked up one more debt owed the Starks.
The one-eared black tom arched his back and hissed at her.
“Robert, I beg of you,” [character] pleaded, “hear what you are saying.
“My lady, you should have sent word of your coming,” Ser Donnel Waynwood told her as their horses climbed the pass.
He found Littlefinger in the brothel’s common room, chatting amiably with a tall, elegant woman who wore a feathered gown over skin as black as ink.
The Horse Gate of Vaes Dothrak was made of two gigantic bronze stallions, rearing, their hooves meeting a hundred feet above the roadway to form a pointed arch.
A light snow was falling.
“You want eat?” Mord asked, glowering.
He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood.
The eastern sky was rose and gold as the sun broke over the Vale of Arryn.
“You are as hopeless as any boys I have ever trained,” Ser Alliser Thorne announced when they had all assembled in the yard.
They had taken shelter beneath a copse of aspens just off the high road.
Through the high narrow windows of the Red Keep’s cavernous throne room, the light of sunset spilled across the floor, laying dark red stripes upon the walls where the heads of d
“He wouldn’t send Ser Loras,” [character] told Jeyne Poole that night as they shared a cold supper by lamplight.
“Pain is a gift from the gods, Lord [character],” Grand Maester Pycelle told him.
The heart was steaming in the cool evening air when Khal Drogo set it before her, raw and bloody.
He was walking through the crypts beneath Winterfell, as he had walked a thousand times before.
[Character] was breaking his fast on applecakes and blood sausage when Samwell Tarly plopped himself down on the bench.
The grey light of dawn was streaming through his window when the thunder of hoofbeats awoke [character] from his brief, exhausted sleep.
“High,” Syrio Forel called out, slashing at her head.
They came for [character] on the third day.
“Othor,” announced Ser Jaremy Rykker, “beyond a doubt.
The Karstarks came in on a cold windy morning, bringing three hundred horsemen and near two thousand foot from their castle at Karhold.
When he had taken his pleasure, Khal Drogo rose from their sleeping mats to tower above her.
It was too far to make out the banners clearly, but even through the drifting fog she could see that they were white, with a dark smudge in their center that could only be the dire
Chella daughter of Cheyk of the Black Ears had gone ahead to scout, and it was she who brought back word of the army at the crossroads.
The walls of the throne room had been stripped bare, the hunting tapestries that King Robert loved taken down and stacked in the corner in an untidy heap.
The straw on the floor stank of urine.
As the host trooped down the causeway through the black bogs of the Neck and spilled out into the riverlands beyond, [character]’s apprehensions grew.
“Are you well, [character]?” Lord Mormont asked, scowling.
When the battle was done, [character] rode her silver through the fields of the dead.
On a hill overlooking the kingsroad, a long trestle table of rough-hewn pine had been erected beneath an elm tree and covered with a golden cloth.
The woods were full of whispers.
The flies circled Khal Drogo slowly, their wings buzzing, a low thrum at the edge of hearing that filled [character] with dread.
The scent of hot bread drifting from the shops along the Street of Flour was sweeter than any perfume [character] had ever smelled.
The oldest were men grown, seventeen and eighteen years from the day of their naming.
In the tower room at the heart of Maegor’s Holdfast, [character] gave herself to the darkness.
Wings shadowed her fever dreams.
“They have my son,” Tywin Lannister said.
The mare whickered softly as [character] tightened the cinch.
It seemed a thousand years ago that [character] had carried her infant son out of Riverrun, crossing the Tumblestone in a small boat to begin their journey north to Winterfell.
The land was red and dead and parched, and good wood was hard to come by.
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