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- Джордж Мартин
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- Игра престолов
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- Стр. 68/751
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He
smiled
.
"
Come
here
,
then
.
"
Arya
climbed
up
on
the
window
and
sat
beside
him
,
to
a
chorus
of
thuds
and
grunts
from
the
yard
below
.
To
her
disappointment
,
it
was
the
younger
boys
drilling
.
Bran
was
so
heavily
padded
he
looked
as
though
he
had
belted
on
a
featherbed
,
and
Prince
Tommen
,
who
was
plump
to
begin
with
,
seemed
positively
round
.
They
were
huffing
and
puffing
and
hitting
at
each
other
with
padded
wooden
swords
under
the
watchful
eye
of
old
Ser
Rodrik
Cassel
,
the
master-at-arms
,
a
great
stout
keg
of
a
man
with
magnificent
white
cheek
whiskers
.
A
dozen
spectators
,
man
and
boy
,
were
calling
out
encouragement
,
Robb
's
voice
the
loudest
among
them
.
She
spotted
Theon
Greyjoy
beside
him
,
his
black
doublet
emblazoned
with
the
golden
kraken
of
his
House
,
a
look
of
wry
contempt
on
his
face
.
Both
of
the
combatants
were
staggering
.
Arya
judged
that
they
had
been
at
it
awhile
.
"
A
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
been
Jon
she
had
gone
to
in
her
fear
,
and
Jon
who
had
reassured
her
.
"
Why
are
n'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
.
"
