Jaime must have been mad. He had broken rule 34 of handling his hellion of a wife:

'Never oppose Arya Stark in any competition that includes the use of projectiles.'

Not five minutes in, and already he had been pelted by twelve balls of compacted snow whereas Arya had gotten off scot-free so far.

-bwack-

Thirteen. Thirteen snowballs, the last one straight to his face.

"I got you."

And there she was, suddenly in front him, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Jaime just needed to throw the ball now.

"Yeah," Jaime smiled back instead, lowering his hand, "you got me."


"Jaime, dear, I'm sorry," Arya chimed, "but it's official: You suck at snowball fights."

Arya was in the lead, 107 to 8. Yes, she'd counted.

"Alright. I graciously concede defeat."

Arya had to snort at Jaime's gall. She took the proffered hand, nonetheless.

Which was a mistake, as her husband pulled her in and started tickling her mercilessly.

"You have no honor!" Arya managed to gasp out.

"Your father's been saying that ever since we eloped," Jaime shot back, showing that smug smile Arya hated to love. "So, still want to fight?"

"No," Arya could only reply, "you got me."