Free The Song Of Ice and Fire by George R. R. Martin Page B

to go.
    “Boy,” a voice called out to him. Jon turned.
    Tyrion Lannister was sitting on the ledge above the door to the Great Hall, looking for all the world like a gargoyle. The dwarf grinned down at him. “Is that animal a wolf?”
    “A direwolf,” Jon said. “His name is Ghost.” He stared up at the little man, his disappointment suddenly forgotten.“What are you doing up there? Why aren’t you at the feast?”
    “Too hot, too noisy, and I’d drunk too much wine,” the dwarf told him. “I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother. Might I have a closer look at your wolf?”
    Jon hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Can you climb down, or shall I bring a ladder?”
    “Oh, bleed that,” the little man said. He pushed himself off the ledge into empty air. Jon gasped, then watched with awe as Tyrion Lannister spun around in a tight ball, landed lightly on his hands, then vaulted backward onto his legs.
    Ghost backed away from him uncertainly.
    The dwarf dusted himself off and laughed. “I believe I’ve frightened your wolf. My apologies.”
    “He’s not scared,” Jon said. He knelt and called out. “Ghost, come here. Come on. That’s it.”
    The wolf pup padded closer and nuzzled at Jon’s face, but he kept a wary eye on Tyrion Lannister, and when the dwarf reached out to pet him, he drew back and bared his fangs in a silent snarl. “Shy, isn’t he?” Lannister observed.
    “Sit, Ghost,” Jon commanded. “That’s it. Keep still.” He looked up at the dwarf. “You can touch him now. He won’t move until I tell him to. I’ve been training him.”
    “I see,” Lannister said. He ruffled the snow-white fur between Ghost’s ears and said, “Nice wolf.”
    “If I wasn’t here, he’d tear out your throat,” Jon said. It wasn’t actually true yet, but it would be.
    “In that case, you had best stay close,” the dwarf said. He cocked his oversized head to one side and looked Jon over with his mismatched eyes. “I am Tyrion Lannister.”
    “I know,” Jon said. He rose. Standing, he was taller than the dwarf. It made him feel strange.
    “You’re Ned Stark’s bastard, aren’t you?”
    Jon felt a coldness pass right through him. He pressed his lips together and said nothing.
    “Did I offend you?” Lannister said. “Sorry. Dwarfs don’t have to be tactful. Generations of capering fools in motley have won me the right to dress badly and say any damn thing that comes into my head.” He grinned. “You are the bastard, though.”
    “Lord Eddard Stark is my father,” Jon admitted stiffly.
    Lannister studied his face. “Yes,” he said. “I can see it. You have more of the north in you than your brothers.”
    “Half brothers,” Jon corrected. He was pleased by the dwarf’s comment, but he tried not to let it show.
    “Let me give you some counsel, bastard,” Lannister said. “Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”
    Jon was in no mood for anyone’s counsel. “What do you know about being a bastard?”
    “All dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes.”
    “You are your mother’s trueborn son of Lannister.”
    “Am I?” the dwarf replied, sardonic. “Do tell my lord father. My mother died birthing me, and he’s never been sure.”
    “I don’t even know who my mother was,” Jon said.
    “Some woman, no doubt. Most of them are.” He favored Jon with a rueful grin. “Remember this, boy. All dwarfs may be bastards, yet not all bastards need be dwarfs.” And with that he turned and sauntered back into the feast, whistling a tune. When he opened the door, the light from within threw his shadow clear across the yard, and for just a moment Tyrion Lannister stood tall as a king.



CATELYN
    O f all the rooms in Winterfell’s Great Keep, Catelyn’s bedchambers were the hottest. She seldom had to light a fire.