A Game of Thrones. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

shade more exhausting than needlework,” Jon observed.

      “A shade more fun than needlework,” Arya gave back at him. Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father’s face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It had been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her.

      “Why aren’t you down in the yard?” Arya asked him.

      He gave her a half-smile. “Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes,” he said. “Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords.”

      “Oh.” Arya felt abashed. She should have realized. For the second time today, Arya reflected that life was not fair.

      She watched her little brother whack at Tommen. “I could do just as good as Bran,” she said. “He’s only seven. I’m nine.”

      Jon looked her over with all his fourteen-year-old wisdom. “You’re too skinny,” he said. He took her arm to feel her muscle. Then he sighed and shook his head. “I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind swing one.”

      Arya snatched back her arm and glared at him. Jon messed up her hair again. They watched Bran and Tommen circle each other.

      “You see Prince Joffrey?” Jon asked.

      She hadn’t, not at first glance, but when she looked again she found him to the back, under the shade of the high stone wall. He was surrounded by men she did not recognize, young squires in the livery of Lannister and Baratheon, strangers all. There were a few older men among them; knights, she surmised.

      “Look at the arms on his surcoat,” Jon suggested.

      Arya looked. An ornate shield had been embroidered on the prince’s padded surcoat. No doubt the needlework was exquisite. The arms were divided down the middle; on one side was the crowned stag of the royal House, on the other the lion of Lannister.

      “The Lannisters are proud,” Jon observed. “You’d think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother’s House equal in honor to the king’s.”

      “The woman is important too!” Arya protested.

      Jon chuckled. “Perhaps you should do the same thing, little sister. Wed Tully to Stark in your arms.”

      “A wolf with a fish in its mouth?” It made her laugh. “That would look silly. Besides, if a girl can’t fight, why should she have a coat of arms?”

      Jon shrugged. “Girls get the arms but not the swords. Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, little sister.”

      There was a shout from the courtyard below. Prince Tommen was rolling in the dust, trying to get up and failing. All the padding made him look like a turtle on its back. Bran was standing over him with upraised wooden sword, ready to whack him again once he regained his feet. The men began to laugh.

      “Enough!” Ser Rodrik called out. He gave the prince a hand and yanked him back to his feet. “Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor.” He looked around. “Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round?”

      Robb, already sweaty from a previous bout, moved forward eagerly. “Gladly.”

      Joffrey moved into the sunlight in response to Rodrik’s summons. His hair shone like spun gold. He looked bored. “This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik.”

      Theon Greyjoy gave a sudden bark of laughter. “You are children,” he said derisively.

      “Robb may be a child,” Joffrey said. “I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword.”

      “You got more swats than you gave, Joff,” Robb said. “Are you afraid?”

      Prince Joffrey looked at him. “Oh, terrified,” he said. “You’re so much older.” Some of the Lannister men laughed.

      Jon looked down on the scene with a frown. “Joffrey is truly a little shit,” he told Arya.

      Ser Rodrik tugged thoughtfully at his white whiskers. “What are you suggesting?” he asked the prince.

      “Live steel.”

      “Done,” Robb shot back. “You’ll be sorry!”

      The master-at-arms put a hand on Robb’s shoulder to quiet him. “Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges.”

      Joffrey said nothing, but a man strange to Arya, a tall knight with black hair and burn scars on his face, pushed forward in front of the prince. “This is your prince. Who are you to tell him he may not have an edge on his sword, ser?”

      “Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it.”

      “Are you training women here?” the burned man wanted to know. He was muscled like a bull.

      “I am training knights,” Ser Rodrik said pointedly. “They will have steel when they are ready. When they are of an age.”

      The burned man looked at Robb. “How old are you, boy?”

      “Fourteen,” Robb said.

      “I killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword.”

      Arya could see Robb bristle. His pride was wounded. He turned on Ser Rodrik. “Let me do it. I can beat him.”

      “Beat him with a tourney blade, then,” Ser Rodrik said.

      Joffrey shrugged. “Come and see me when you’re older, Stark. If you’re not too old.” There was laughter from the Lannister men.

      Robb’s curses rang through the yard. Arya covered her mouth in shock. Theon Greyjoy seized Robb’s arm to keep him away from the prince. Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers in dismay.

      Joffrey feigned a yawn and turned to his younger brother. “Come, Tommen,” he said. “The hour of play is done. Leave the children to their frolics.”

      That brought more laughter from the Lannisters, more curses from Robb. Ser Rodrik’s face was beet-red with fury under the white of his whiskers. Theon kept Robb locked in an iron grip until the princes and their party were safely away.

      Jon watched them leave, and Arya watched Jon. His face had grown as still as the pool at the heart of the godswood. Finally, he climbed down off the window. “The show is done,” he said. He bent to scratch Ghost behind the ears. The white wolf rose and rubbed against him. “You had best run back to your room, little sister. Septa Mordane will surely be lurking. The longer you hide, the sterner the penance. You’ll be sewing all through winter. When the spring thaw comes, they will find your body with a needle still locked tight between your frozen fingers.”

      Arya didn’t think it was funny. “I hate needlework!” she said with passion. “It’s not fair!”

      “Nothing is fair,” Jon said. He messed up her hair again and walked away from her, Ghost moving silently beside him. Nymeria started to follow too, then stopped and came back when she saw that Arya was not coming.

      Reluctantly, she turned in the other direction.

      It was worse than Jon had thought. It wasn’t Septa Mordane waiting in her room. It was Septa Mordane and her mother.

      BRAN

      The hunt left at dawn. The king wanted wild boar at the feast tonight. Prince Joffrey rode with his father, so Robb had been allowed to join the hunters as well. Uncle Benjen, Jory, Theon Greyjoy, Ser Rodrik, and even the queen’s funny little brother had all ridden out with them. It was the last hunt, after all. On the morrow they left for the south.

      Bran had been left behind with Jon and the girls and Rickon. But Rickon was only a baby and the girls were only girls and Jon and his wolf were