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

shorter.
“He’s fifty-two days older than me,” Little Walder explained, “so he was
bigger at first, but I grew faster.”
    “We’re cousins, not brothers,” added Big Walder, the little one. “I’m Walder
son of Jammos. My father was Lord Walder’s son by his fourth wife. He’s Walder
son of Merrett. His grandmother was Lord Walder’s third wife, the Crakehall.
He’s ahead of me in

the line of succession even though I’m older.”
    “Only by fifty-two days,” Little Walder objected. “And neither of us will
ever hold the Twins, stupid.”
    “I will,” Big Walder declared. “We’re not the only Walders either. Ser
Stevron has a grandson, Black Walder, he’s fourth in line of succession, and
there’s Red Walder, Ser Emmon’s son, and Bastard Walder, who isn’t in the line
at all. He’s called Walder Rivers not Walder Frey. Plus there’s girls named
Walda.”
    “And Tyr. You always forget Tyr.”
    “He’s Wal
tyr,
not Walder,” Big Walder said airily. “And he’s after
us, so he doesn’t matter. Anyhow, I never liked him.”
    Ser Rodrik decreed that they would share Jon Snow’s old bedchamber, since Jon
was in the Night’s Watch and never coming back. Bran hated that; it made him
feel as if the Freys were trying to steal Jon’s place.
    He had watched wistfully while the Walders contested with Turnip the cook’s boy
and Joseth’s girls Bandy and Shyra. The Walders had decreed that Bran should be
the judge and decide whether or not people had said “Mayhaps,” but as soon as
they started playing they forgot all about him.
    The shouts and splashes soon drew others: Palla the kennel girl, Cayn’s boy
Calon, TomToo whose father Fat Tom had died with Bran’s father at King’s
Landing. Before very long, every one of them was soaked and muddy. Palla was
brown from head to heel, with moss in her hair, breathless from laughter. Bran
had not heard so much laughing since the night the bloody raven came.
If

I had my legs, I’d knock all of them into the water,
he thought bitterly.
No one would ever be lord of the crossing but me.
    Finally Rickon came running into the godswood, Shaggydog at his heels. He
watched Turnip and Little Walder struggle for the stick until Turnip lost his
footing and went in with a huge splash, arms waving. Rickon yelled, “Me! Me
now! I want to play!” Little Walder beckoned him on, and Shaggydog started to
follow. “No, Shaggy,” his brother commanded. “Wolves can’t play. You stay
with Bran.” And he did . . .
    . . . until Little Walder had smacked Rickon with the stick, square
across his belly. Before Bran could blink, the black wolf was flying over the
plank, there was blood in the water, the Walders were shrieking red murder,
Rickon sat in the mud laughing, and Hodor came lumbering in shouting “Hodor!
Hodor! Hodor!”
    After that, oddly, Rickon decided he
liked
the Walders. They never
played lord of the crossing again, but they played other games—monsters
and maidens, rats and cats, come-into-my-castle, all sorts of things. With
Rickon by their side, the Walders plundered the kitchens for pies and
honeycombs, raced round the walls, tossed bones to the pups in the kennels, and
trained with wooden swords under Ser Rodrik’s sharp eye. Rickon even showed
them the deep vaults under the earth where the stonemason was carving father’s
tomb. “You had no right!” Bran screamed at his brother when he heard. “That
was our place, a
Stark
place!” But Rickon never cared.
    The door to his bedchamber opened. Maester Luwin was

carrying a green jar, and this time Osha and Hayhead came with him. “I’ve made
you a sleeping draught, Bran.”
    Osha scooped him up in her bony arms. She was very tall for a woman, and wiry
strong. She bore him effortlessly to his bed.
    “This will give you dreamless sleep,” Maester Luwin said as he pulled the
stopper from the jar. “Sweet, dreamless sleep.”
    “It will?” Bran