46.
EXT. WINTERFELL - COURTYARD - DAY
Bran and Prince Tommen drill in the yard with padded wooden swords. The children are so heavily padded themselves that they look like they’ve been wrapped in featherbeds. Huffing and puffing, they thump each other under the watchful eye of SER RODRIK CASSEL (60), the master-at-arms, a stout keg of a man with thick white sideburns. A dozen (male) spectators call out encouragements, Robb the loudest among them. Theon Greyjoy watches with his characteristic wry contempt. Twenty yards from the others, Jon Snow watches as well, seated alone on a rough wooden bench. Absorbed in the action, he is unaware of Arya’s approach until she jumps on his back.
JON Shouldn’t you be working on your stitches?
Arya makes a face at him.
ARYA I wanted to see them fight. Why aren’t you with them? JON Bastards aren’t allowed to damage young princes.
Arya watches her little brother Bran whack at Tommen, almost toppling over himself in the process.
ARYA I could do better than Bran. I’d knock the prince’s fat head off.
Jon looks at her with mock shock. Then he takes her arm and examines it, feeling her muscle. He shakes his head.
JON
Too skinny.
She snatches back her arm and glares at him. He messes up her hair. A cheer goes up from the drilling field.
Bran has managed to knock Tommen over; the prince is rolling in the dust, trying to get up and failing, like a padded turtle. Bran stands at the ready with upraised wooden sword, ready to whack him again once he regains his feet.
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