Read Online A Clash of Kings by George R.R. Martin - Free Book Online Page A

yellow and black hair, coarse as wire. Down his back flowed a shadowskin cloak, black fur striped with white. He held the reins in his left hand and carried his right arm in a white silk sling, but otherwise looked as grotesque as Sansa remembered from when he had visited Winterfell. With his bulging brow and mismatched eyes, he was still the ugliest man she had ever chanced to look upon.
    Yet Tommen put his spurs into his pony and galloped headlong across the yard, shouting with glee. One of the savages, a huge shambling man so hairy that his face was all but lost beneath his whiskers, scooped the boy out of his saddle, armor and all, and deposited him on the ground beside his uncle. Tommen’s breathless laughter echoed off the walls as Tyrion clapped him on the backplate, and Sansa was startled to see that the two were of a height. Myrcella came running after her brother, and the dwarf picked her up by the waist and spun her in a circle, squealing.
    When he lowered her back to the ground, the little man kissed her lightly on the brow and came waddling across the yard toward Joffrey. Two of his men followed close behind him; a black-haired black-eyed sellsword who moved like a stalking cat, and a gaunt youth with an empty socket where one eye should have been. Tommen and Myrcella trailed after them.
    The dwarf went to one knee before the king. “Your Grace.”
    “You,” Joffrey said.
    “Me,” the Imp agreed, “although a more courteous greeting might be in order, for an uncle and an elder.”
    “They said you were dead,” the Hound said.
    The little man gave the big one a look. One of his eyes was green, one was black, and both were cool. “I was speaking to the king, not to his cur.”
    “
I’m
glad you’re not dead,” said Princess Myrcella.
    “We share that view, sweet child.” Tyrion turned to Sansa. “My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods are cruel.”
    Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. How could he be sorry for her losses? Was he mocking her? It wasn’t the gods who’d been cruel, it was Joffrey.
    “I am sorry for your loss as well, Joffrey,” the dwarf said.
    “What loss?”
    “Your royal father? A large fierce man with a black beard; you’ll recall him if you try. He was king before you.”
    “Oh,
him.
Yes, it was very sad, a boar killed him.”
    “Is that what ‘they’ say, Your Grace?”
    Joffrey frowned. Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her?
A lady’s armor is courtesy,
that was it. She donned her armor and said, “I’m sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord.”
    “A great many people are sorry for that,” Tyrion replied, “and before I am done, some may be a deal sorrier . . . yet I thank you for the sentiment. Joffrey, where might I find your mother?”
    “She’s with my council,” the king answered. “Your brother Jaime keeps losing battles.” He gave Sansa an angry look, as if it were
her
fault. “He’s been taken by the Starks and we’ve lost Riverrun and now her stupid brother is calling himself a king.”
    The dwarf smiled crookedly. “All sorts of people are calling themselves kings these days.”
    Joff did not know what to make of that, though he looked suspicious and out of sorts. “Yes. Well. I am pleased you’re not dead, Uncle. Did you bring me a gift for my name day?”
    “I did. My wits.”
    “I’d sooner have Robb Stark’s head,” Joff said with a sly glance at Sansa. “Tommen, Myrcella, come.”
    Sandor Clegane lingered behind a moment. “I’d guard that tongue of yours, little man,” he warned, before he strode off after his liege.
    Sansa was left with the dwarf and his monsters. She tried to think of what else she might say. “You hurt your arm,” she managed at last.
    “One of your northmen hit me with a morningstar during the battle on the Green Fork. I escaped him by falling off my horse.” His grin turned into something softer as he studied