A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1)

by George R.R. Martin

Sansa would shine in the south, Catelyn thought to herself, and the gods knew that Arya needed refinement. Reluctantly, she let go of them in her heart. But not Bran. Never Bran. “Yes,” she said, “but please, Ned, for the love you bear me, let Bran remain here at Winterfell. He is only seven.”

“I was eight when my father sent me to foster at the Eyrie,” Ned said.

“Ser Rodrik tells me there is bad feeling between Robb a...

“What of Jon Snow, my lord?” Maester Luwin asked. Catelyn tensed at the mention of the name. Ned felt the anger in her, and pulled away.

Ned off at war in the south while she remained safe in her father’s castle at Riverrun. Her thoughts were more of Robb, the infant at her breast,

The Starks were not like other men. Ned brought his bastard home with him, and called him “son” for all the north to see. When the wars were over at last, and Catelyn rode to Winterfell, Jon and his wet nurse had already taken up residence. That cut deep. Ned would not speak of the mother, not so much as a word, but a castle has no secrets, and Catelyn heard her maids repeating tales they heard from the lips of her husband’s soldiers. They whispered of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, deadliest of the seven knights of Aerys’s Kingsguard, and of how their young lord had slain him in single combat. And they told how afterward Ned had carried Ser Arthur’s sword back to the beautiful young sister who awaited him in a castle called Starfall on the shores of the Summer Sea. The Lady Ashara Dayne, tall and fair, with haunting violet eyes. It had taken her a fortnight to marshal her courage, but finally, in bed one night, Catelyn had asked her husband the truth of it, asked him to his face.

Whoever Jon’s mother had been, Ned must have loved her fiercely, for nothing Catelyn said would persuade him to send the boy away. It was the one thing she could never forgive him. She had come to love her husband with all her heart, but she had never found it in her to love Jon. She might have overlooked a dozen bastards for Ned’s sake, so long as they were out of sight. Jon was never out of sight, and as he grew, he looked more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons she bore him. Somehow that made it worse.

How can you be so damnably cruel, Catelyn? He is only a boy. He—” His fury was on him. He might have said more, and worse,

Ned looked shocked. “He asked to join the Night’s Watch?”

Ned reflected. Still, his voice was troubled. “Jon is so young. If he asked this when he was a man grown, that would be one thing, but a boy of fourteen …”

his long face silent

It will be a fortnight before we are ready to depart. I would sooner let Jon enjoy these last few days. Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well. When the time comes, I will tell him myself.”

Arya’s stitches were crooked again.

Sansa’s needlework was exquisite. Everyone said so.

fine, delicate hands.”

“Arya has the hands of a blacksmith.”

when the queen brought Myrcella to join them.

Sansa was chatting away happily as she worked. Beth Cassel, Ser Rodrik’s little girl, was sitting by her feet, listening to every word she said, and Jeyne Poole was leaning over to whisper something in her ear.

Joffrey, of course. The tall, handsome one. Sansa got to sit with him at the feast. Arya had to sit with the little fat one. Naturally.

Jeyne whispered, proud as if she had something to do with it. She was the daughter of Winterfell’s steward and Sansa’s dearest friend. “He told her she was very beautiful.”

Sansa had the grace to blush. She blushed prettily. She did everything prettily, Arya thought with dull resentment.

Septa Mordane raised her eyes. She had a bony face, sharp eyes, and a thin lipless mouth made for frowning.

Sansa had everything. Sansa was two years older; maybe by the time Arya had been born, there had been nothing left. Often it felt that way. Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells. Worse, she was beautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother’s fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys.

Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long and solemn. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface, and neigh whenever she came near. It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household. Sansa had never had much of a head for figures. If she did marry Prince Joff, Arya hoped for his sake that he had a good steward.

Nymeria was waiting for her in the guardroom at the b...

They went everywhere together,

She had yellow eyes.

Arya had named her after the warrior queen of the Rhoyne, who had led her people across the narrow sea. That had been a great scandal too.

There was a window in the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep where you had a view of the whole yard.

old Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms, a great stout keg of a man with magnificent white cheek whiskers.

Robb’s voice the loudest among them. She spotted Theon Greyjoy beside 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 smil...

“Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes,” he said.

Jon messed up her hair again.

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.

His hair shone like spun gold. He looked bored.

“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.”

the burned man wanted to know. He was muscled like a bull.

The burned man looked at Robb. “How old are you, boy?” “Fourteen,” Robb said. “I killed a man at twelve.

Theon Greyjoy seized Robb’s arm to keep him away from the prince.

Theon kept Robb locked in an iron grip until the princes and their party were safely away.

When the spring thaw comes, they will find your body with a needle still locked tight between your frozen fingers.”

He messed up her hair again

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.

Jon seemed to be angry at everyone these days.

Bran did not know why. He was going with Uncle Ben to the Wall, to join the Night’s Watch. That was almost as good as going south with the king. Robb was the one they were leaving behind, not Jon.

He was going to ride the kingsroad on a horse of his own, not a p...

they were going to live in the red castle at King’s Landing, the castle the Dragonlords had built. Old Nan said there were ghosts there, and dungeons where terrible thing...