A Clash of Kings by George R.R. Martin Page A

Dancer, but Alebelly wouldn’t
let me past the gate.”
    “And rightly so. The wolfswood is full of danger; your last ride should have
taught you that. Would you want some outlaw to take you captive and sell you to
the Lannisters?”
    “Summer would save me,” Bran insisted stubbornly. “Princes should be allowed
to sail the sea and hunt boar in the wolfswood and joust with
lances.”
    “Bran, child, why do you torment yourself so? One day you may do some of these
things, but now you are only a boy of eight.”
    “I’d sooner be a wolf. Then I could live in the wood and sleep when I wanted,
and I could find Arya and Sansa. I’d
smell
where they were and go
save them, and when Robb went to battle I’d fight beside him like Grey Wind.
I’d tear out the Kingslayer’s throat with my teeth,
rip,
and then the
war would be over and everyone would come back to Winterfell. If I was a
wolf . . .” He howled.
“Ooo-ooo-oooooooooooo.”
    Luwin raised his voice. “A true prince would
welcome—”
    “AAHOOOOOOO,”
Bran howled, louder.
“OOOO-OOOO-OOOO.”
    The maester surrendered. “As you will, child.” With a look

that was part grief and part disgust, he left the bedchamber.
    Howling lost its savor once Bran was alone. After a time he quieted.
I did
welcome them,
he told himself, resentful.
I was the lord in
Winterfell, a true lord, he can’t say I wasn’t.
When the Walders had
arrived from the Twins, it had been Rickon who wanted them gone. A baby of
four, he had screamed that he wanted Mother and Father and Robb, not these
strangers. It had been up to Bran to soothe him and bid the Freys welcome. He
had offered them meat and mead and a seat by the fire, and even Maester Luwin
had said afterward that he’d done well.
    Only that was before the game.
    The game was played with a log, a staff, a body of water, and a great deal of
shouting. The water was the most important, Walder and Walder assured Bran. You
could use a plank or even a series of stones, and a branch could be your staff.
You didn’t
have
to shout. But without water, there was no game. As
Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik were not about to let the children go wandering
off into the wolfswood in search of a stream, they made do with one of the
murky pools in the godswood. Walder and Walder had never seen hot water
bubbling from the ground before, but they both allowed how it would make the
game even better.
    Both of them were called Walder Frey. Big Walder said there were bunches of
Walders at the Twins, all named after the boys’ grandfather, Lord Walder Frey.
“We have our
own
names at Winterfell,” Rickon told them haughtily
when he heard that.
    The way their game was played, you laid the log across the

water, and one player stood in the middle with the stick. He was the lord of
the crossing, and when one of
the other players came up, he had to say, “I am the
lord of the crossing, who goes there?” And the other player had to make up a
speech about who they were and why they should be allowed to cross. The lord
could make them swear oaths and answer questions. They didn’t have to tell the
truth, but the oaths were binding unless they said “Mayhaps,” so the trick
was to say “Mayhaps” so the lord of the crossing didn’t notice. Then you
could try and knock the lord into the water and
you
got to be lord of
the crossing, but only if you’d said “Mayhaps.” Otherwise you were out of the
game. The lord got to knock anyone in the water anytime he pleased, and he was
the only one who got to use a stick.
    In practice, the game seemed to come down to mostly shoving, hitting, and
falling into the water, along with a lot of loud arguments about whether or not
someone had said “Mayhaps.” Little Walder was lord of the crossing more often
than not.
    He was Little Walder even though he was tall and stout, with a red face and a
big round belly. Big Walder was sharp-faced and skinny and half a foot