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

for days.
    A column of riders emerged from beneath the portcullis with a clink of steel
and a clatter of hooves. Clegane stepped close to the king, one hand on the
hilt of his longsword. The visitors were dinted and haggard and dusty, yet the
standard they carried was the lion of Lannister, golden on its crimson field. A
few wore the red cloaks and mail of Lannister men-at-arms, but more were
freeriders and sellswords, armored in oddments and bristling with sharp
steel . . . and there were others, monstrous savages out of one
of Old Nan’s tales, the scary ones Bran used to love. They were clad in shabby
skins and boiled leather, with long hair and

fierce beards. Some wore bloodstained bandages over their brows or wrapped
around their hands, and others were missing eyes, ears, and fingers.
    In their midst, riding on a tall red horse in a strange high saddle that
cradled him back and front, was the queen’s dwarf brother Tyrion Lannister, the
one they called the Imp. He had let his beard grow to cover his pushed-in face,
until it was a bristly tangle of 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