“That is a longsword, not an old man’s cane,” Ser Alliser said sharply. “Are your legs hurting,Lord Snow?”
Jon hated that name, a mockery that Ser Alliser had hung on him the first day he came to practice.
The boys had picked it up, and now he heard it everywhere. He slid the longsword back into its scabbard. “No,” he replied.
Thorne strode toward him, crisp black leathers whispering faintly as he moved. He was a compact man of fifty years, spare and hard, with grey in his black hair and eyes like chips of onyx. “The truth now,” he commanded.
“I’m tired,” Jon admitted. His arm burned from the weight of the longsword, and he was starting to feel his bruises now that the fight was done.
“What you are is weak.”
“I won.”
“No. The Aurochs lost.”
One of the other boys sniggered. Jon knew better than to reply. He had beaten everyone that Ser Alliser had sent against him, yet it gained him nothing. The master-at-arms served up only derision.
Thorne hated him, Jon had decided; of course, he hated the other boys even worse.
Mockery 嘲弄
Compact 坚实的
Aurochs 欧洲野牛
Derision 嘲笑
"那是剑，不是老人的柺杖。"艾里沙爵士尖锐地说，"雪诺大人，您可是脚痛？"
琼恩恨透了这个绰号，打从他练剑的第一天起，艾里沙爵士便这么叫他。其他男孩子有样学样，现在人人都这么称呼他了。他将长剑回鞘。"不是。"
索恩大跨步朝他走来，脆硬的黑皮革发出悉悉窣窣的声响。他约莫五十岁，体格结实，精瘦而严峻，一头黑发已有些灰白，而那双眼睛却如玛瑙般炯炯有神。"那是怎么回事？"他质问。
"我累了。"琼恩承认。他的臂膀因为不断挥剑而感酸麻，如今打斗结束，刚留的擦伤也开始痛了起来。
"这叫软弱。"
"可我赢了。"
"不。是笨牛他输了。"
一个旁观的男孩在偷偷窃笑。琼恩很清楚自己绝不能顶嘴。虽然他击败了每一个艾里沙爵士派来对付他的对手，却还是得不到应有的待遇。教头的嘴边只有嘲笑和讥讽。索恩一定是讨厌他，琼恩暗自认为；不过话说回来，索恩更讨厌其他男孩。
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