Aemon of Dragonstone

[aiwonder]

The first blade left its sheath beneath the Tower of Joy before Eddard Stark knew whether Lyanna still drew breath. Steel whispered all along the shelf of red stone. Willam Dustin raised his shield. Theo Wull brought his long axe across his chest, the edge scarred from the Trident, while Ethan Glover and Martyn Cassel spread apart to give one another room. Their horses edged back as the men crowded the narrow approach. Howland Reed waited a horse-length behind Eddard, peering past the three white cloaks towards the tower door.

The tower stood white against the blue sky, its long shadow reaching across the red stones. Nothing grew around it save thorn, yellow grass and one twisted tree with a lizard sleeping upon its bark. Three tired destriers waited in the tower's shadow. Foam had dried grey upon their bridles. The men before the door looked no fresher.

Ser Gerold Hightower had streaks of rust at the joints of his enamelled plate and a new white scar along his chin. Ser Oswell Whent's bat-winged helm threw crooked shadows across his face. Between them stood Ser Arthur Dayne, black hair damp at his temples, both hands upon Dawn. The pale greatsword did not shine. It seemed to gather the light and hold it cold within the blade.

Eddard swung down from his horse. Every bone in him protested. He had ridden from a murdered city to a starving castle, and from Storm's End into mountains where each path forked twice before it descended once. Dust had worked beneath his mail until his shoulders were raw. He pushed sweat-dark brown hair from his eyes with the back of his wrist and looked past the swords again. He was too tired for courtesy and far too frightened for patience.

Eddard said, "I thought to meet you beside the Trident."

"We were not there," Ser Gerold replied.

"Rhaegar was. I watched Robert break his breastplate and the river carry away his rubies. Aerys is dead as well. So are Princess Elia and her children. What king remains for you to guard here?"

The White Bull's broad face did not change. "A king is dead. Our vows are not."

"My sister is behind that door."

"Your sister is under our protection."

Willam gave a harsh laugh. He and Lyanna had ridden together often when his father brought him to Winterfell, and she had once broken his nose with the pommel of a blunted sword. He had boasted of it for half a year. "If this is protection, Hightower, I should like to see what you call captivity."

Oswell's sword slid free. "Come and see."

"Gladly."

Willam strode forward. Mark Ryswell caught the rim of his shield, but Willam tore it from his grasp and made another step. Oswell shifted his weight onto his rear foot. Eddard saw the cut before it came: a short blow over the shield, point turning for the throat. He began to call Willam's name. Mark moved faster.

He drove his shoulder into Willam's back and thrust himself between the two men. Oswell checked the stroke so close that the edge opened Mark's cheek. A red seam appeared beneath his left eye. Willam crashed into him from behind. Mark fell to one knee, one arm hanging, and Arthur lowered Dawn.

Eddard drew Ice. "Hold!"

Theo Wull roared the same word in the Old Tongue. Martyn caught Willam around the chest. Ethan seized Mark by the belt and dragged him clear of Oswell's point. Gerold drew his own sword. Ten men stood one breath from killing one another for kings who were dead and a woman none of them could see. Then a scream came through the tower wall. It was thin at first, almost lost beneath the horses and the harsh breathing of armed men. It rose until it seemed to tear itself upon the stones. At the end came a name.

"Ned!" Ice grew heavy in Eddard's hand.

Howland was beside him. The crannogman's little bronze scales clicked softly as he dismounted. "She knew you had come." Another cry sounded above them. This one ended in a woman's hurried pleading and the faint, angry wail of a newborn child.

Willam stopped struggling against Martyn. His shield sank. "Gods preserve us."

Mark wiped the blood from his cheek. "You heard her. Let her brother through."

"Alone," Gerold said.

Eddard lowered Ice. "Howland comes with me."

"Alone."

"He knows herbs and healing," Eddard said. "Let him help her."

Gerold's stare remained fixed upon him. Oswell glanced at Arthur. Of the three, only Arthur looked towards the shuttered window. "Let Lord Reed enter," the Sword of the Morning said. "Lady Lyanna asked for her brother, not another slaughter beneath her window."

For a moment Eddard thought the White Bull would refuse his sworn brother. Then Gerold returned his sword to its sheath and stood aside. Eddard gave Ice to Martyn and hurried through the door. The tower swallowed light. The inner air was thick with smoke, hot stone and the copper stink of blood. On the first turn of the stair a brown-skinned woman named Sarra met them carrying a basin red to its hammered rim. She wore a faded blue dress dark with sweat between her breasts. When she saw Eddard's grey cloak, she began to weep without stopping her feet.

"Hurry," she said. "She has waited for you."

The stair curved tightly. Eddard struck one shoulder against the wall and hardly felt it. Howland followed close enough that his breath touched Eddard's neck. Above them a baby cried, paused, then cried again with a stubbornness that sounded too fierce for so small a body.

Lyanna lay in the upper chamber beneath linen that had once been white. Sunset poured through the western window, colouring the walls like old gold and the blood like black wine. A brazier burned though the room was stifling. Bundles of yarrow and shepherd's purse hung from a cord. At the bed's foot Wylla bent over the newborn, rubbing his back with a square of rough wool. Eddard knew his sister by her eyes.

Everything else had been changed. Her face was narrow and grey. Sweat had pasted her dark hair to her temples, and pain had bitten the colour from her lips. Lyanna, who had never crossed a yard when she could run it, lay so still that the small movement of her fingers seemed terrible. Those fingers found his when he knelt.

"You took your time," she whispered.

He pressed her hand between both of his. It was colder than the stone outside. "The roads were bad."

"You were always slow on a horse."

"Only when you cheated."

"Only when you saw me cheat."

For the smallest instant her crooked smile returned. Eddard tried to answer it and failed. The sound that came from him shamed him less than all the tears he had refused since King's Landing.

"We need a maester," he said. "I have men below. We can carry you—"

"No." Wylla did not soften the word. Her sleeves were rolled above strong brown forearms striped with blood. "Move her and she will be dead before you reach the door. The babe came wrong-way round. She has lost too much."

"There was a maester," Arthur said from the threshold. He had sheathed Dawn before entering. "A summer fever took him. We sent to Starfall three days ago."

Eddard rounded upon him. "Three days?"

"Ned." Lyanna squeezed his fingers. "Not now."

Wylla brought the child. He was wrapped in undyed wool, dark-haired and furious, with one tiny fist pressed against his mouth. Two fine threads of silver ran through the wet black hair above his brow. His face had the pinched, unfinished look of all new babes, yet the eyes that opened beneath it were not Stark grey. They were a deep, clouded purple. Lyanna saw Eddard see them.

"Aemon," she said.

Wylla laid the babe against her, but Lyanna could not lift her arms. Eddard supported the small head with one hand and his sister's shoulder with the other. The child's warmth seeped through blood-wet linen.

"Rhaegar wanted a conqueror's name," Lyanna said. Her breath caught. She waited for it to ease. "I wanted Aemon. The maester at the Wall. He could have been king, Ned, and chose to serve instead."

"Rhaegar was his father."

"Yes." The simple answer hurt more than any defence could have done. Eddard looked at Arthur, who had gone to one knee on the far side of the bed.

"Robert says he stole you."

Lyanna's eyes sharpened. "Robert says many things loudly."

"Did Rhaegar take you against your will?"

"No. Not as Robert means it." Pain moved across her face. "The king learned who wore the laughing-tree helm. I do not know how. His men came upon us north of Harrenhal. They killed one horse and scattered the men with me. Rhaegar reached me before they did."

Eddard remembered the little mystery knight who had humbled three squires' masters, and Aerys shouting from his dais that the tree upon the shield mocked him. He remembered Lyanna's torn hands the following morning and her mare lathered beneath a blanket.

"Why did you never tell me?"

"You were in the Vale. Brandon would have ridden at the king with a sword in each hand. Father would have followed." A bitter breath escaped her. "They did so anyway."

"You might have sent word after."

"We sent word. I do not know why it never reached you." She shut her eyes until the pain eased. "I chose him, Ned. Do not let Robert say I did not."

Eddard wanted to know why they had stayed hidden while Brandon and Rickard died. He could not bring himself to ask it with Lyanna struggling for each breath. The child shifted against his palm. Lyanna made a small sound and turned her face towards him. Arthur lifted a narrow packet from beneath his surcoat. Oilskin covered a roll of parchment no thicker than two fingers. A black key hung upon a cord at his throat.

"Their vows," he said. "Rhaegar's account and the marks of those who stood witness on the Isle of Faces."

"He was wed to Elia," Eddard said.

"He did not cast Princess Elia aside," Lyanna answered. "He said his forebears had taken two wives." She looked towards Arthur, then back to Ned. "I believed him."

"A hidden parchment will not make this boy safe."

"No," she said. "You will."

The fear in her face made him cold. It was not fear of pain or death. It was the fear of a mother who knew what had been done to Elia's children.

"Robert saw them laid beneath Lannister cloaks," Eddard said. "He did not order their deaths."

"He smiled at their killer."

Eddard had no answer. Robert had not smiled, but he had turned his face from the bodies and accepted Tywin's bloody gift. To Lyanna there would be little difference. "Promise me," she said.

"I will take him north."

"Promise me as Ned. Not as Lord Stark, not as the friend who loved him before he wore a crown." He bent until his brow touched hers. She smelled of salt, fever and the lavender water Sarra had used upon her hair.

"I promise. No man will kill your son while I have breath to stand between them."

"Do not teach him shame for being mine."

"Never."

She turned her eyes towards Arthur. "You promised Rhaegar."

"Before the heart tree and before the Seven," Arthur said.

"Then promise me."

Arthur laid one hand over the child's feet. "My sword, my honour and every day left to me are Aemon's."

Lyanna's breath left her slowly. Her fingers eased in Eddard's grasp. "He has your frown," she whispered.

"He has no frown."

"You cannot see it from there."

Those were the last clear words she spoke. Soon her breathing became a wet rattle. Wylla changed the cloths and Sarra brought hot water that could do nothing. Eddard held his sister as the red sun touched the mountains. Arthur held the child against her breast. Howland stood at the window with his head bowed, giving them what little privacy a room full of death allowed. When Lyanna died, the babe began to cry.

Eddard took him because someone must. He had never held Robb, the son born to a wife Eddard scarcely knew. He had expected a newborn to weigh more. The babe opened his mouth against Eddard's throat, hunting warmth, and his tiny fingers caught in the links of Eddard's mail.

"Aemon," Arthur said.

Eddard looked down at the silver threads in the black hair. "That name will kill him."

* * *
​

They ate after dark because Wylla made them. Sarra found a heel of goat cheese, six onions and flatbread hard enough to break upon a pommel. Theo Wull cut strips from a kid slaughtered two days before and held them above the fire on his dagger. Grease hissed into the coals. No one had appetite for it, but Wylla went from man to man with the same command.

"Eat a little."

She had washed the child and wrapped him in clean wool. Lyanna lay above them beneath a grey sheet. The ten men sat or stood around the tower well, still keeping apart as they ate. Arthur carried the babe into the firelight. Gerold and Oswell rose. The seven northmen did not.

"This is Prince Aemon Targaryen," Arthur said. "Rhaegar's son by Lyanna Stark, born of vows they made before the old gods."

Five faces altered. Willam shut his eyes. Mark touched the cut Oswell had given him. Ethan Glover stared at the infant, while Martyn Cassel looked first to Eddard. Theo spat a shred of gristle into the fire. Howland alone showed no surprise among Eddard's companions; he had heard Lyanna.

"Do not call him prince again," Eddard said.

Arthur turned. "He is Rhaegar's son, Ned."

"His mother asked us to keep him alive. Robert called Elia's children dragonspawn after seeing what Clegane and Lorch had done. Would he spare this one because you call him prince?"

"I will hold my tongue before strangers. That does not mean he has no right to the name."

Gerold held out both hands. Arthur hesitated, then placed the child in the White Bull's arms. The old knight handled him with unexpected care, broad gauntleted hands cupping the wool without touching the face. He lowered his great shoulders over the bundle, shielding it from the wind as instinctively as he had barred the tower door.

"Queen Rhaella lives," Gerold said. "Prince Viserys lives upon Dragonstone. The queen must hear of Rhaegar's death and the child's birth."

"You mean to leave?" Oswell asked.

"Our king's surviving household is besieged."

Arthur's expression hardened. "Our prince is here."

"The queen has children who need our swords as well."

"Rhaegar's son needs a sword here."

Oswell removed his bat helm. Sweat had flattened his black hair, and Mark's blood still marked the edge of his blade. "Then we divide. Arthur stays with the boy. You and I go to Dragonstone."

Gerold returned the child. "Choose, then."

Arthur did not look towards the road. "I have."

Oswell gripped his forearm. Their quarrels had been sharp during the journey south, yet grief made no room for one now. "Keep him breathing until we find you."

"Find the queen," Arthur answered. "If she has received Rhaegar's letter, listen before you judge."

Gerold took one sealed page from the oilskin packet and put it beneath his breastplate. The rest he returned to Arthur. "I will listen. I promise nothing beyond that."

Willam Dustin stood. "Before white cloaks ride away and leave us holding half the realm's treason, I should like to hear what Lord Stark intends."

"The boy goes north as my son," Eddard said.

Willam studied him. "By what mother?" Eddard had no answer ready.

"My wife will ask why seven men returned from three white swords," Willam said. "She will know I lie before I open my mouth."

"Tell her Mark saved us from behaving like singers' fools," Martyn said.

"That is no lie," Mark replied. "Though I would prefer the song to leave out the part where Willam struck me from behind."

Willam looked at his sagging arm. "Can you lift it?"

"Enough to strike you when it mends." The laughter was brief and ragged, but it was laughter.

Theo crouched nearer the fire. "The clans remember Lyanna. Give me a word to keep and I will keep it. Ask me to forget her son and I will call you craven."

"No forgetting," Eddard said. "No crowns either."

Ethan Glover rubbed the two crooked fingers Aerys's gaolers had left him. "And if Robert questions us apart?"

"We tell one tale," Mark said. "Lyanna died in the mountains. The three knights yielded her. No man drew more blood than this." He tapped the cut on his cheek. "The child needs a tale as well."

"Starfall," Arthur said. "Ashara was with child."

Eddard looked at him. Arthur's face had gone very still. "Was?"

"Her daughter was born without breath twelve days ago. Ashara is dead."

The fire cracked. Eddard heard again the music at Harrenhal and Brandon urging him towards a woman with laughing violet eyes. "How?"

"She fell from the Palestone Sword."

Arthur spoke as a man might report a mortal wound before battle ended. Only his hand betrayed him. It closed around the oilskin packet until the parchment bent. Eddard rose. "Arthur—"

"Please, Ned." Arthur looked down at the bent packet. "The realm already puts your name beside hers. Let them believe the boy was hers too."

"You would give your sister's honour to this?"

"I would give all that remains of mine."

Wylla came to stand beside Arthur. "Ashara loved children. She would not begrudge a living babe her empty cradle. Do not make the lie fouler than it must be."

Howland held out his small leather salve chest. "Put the papers here. I can keep them safe at Greywater. Arthur, take the key."

Eddard disliked how readily the choice presented itself. He disliked more that no better choice existed. "No man here is sworn to put this child upon a throne," he said. "You are sworn only to silence and to his life. Willam?"

"For Lyanna."

"Mark?"

"For Lyanna," Mark said. His wounded arm rested awkwardly across his knees. "And for the boy."

"Ethan?"

"You brought me out of King's Landing alive. I can carry one more burden."

Martyn rested his hand upon Eddard's shoulder. "He will have a place at Winterfell."

Theo grunted. "And in the mountains, if the south comes hunting."

Howland closed the packet inside his chest. "The Neck has many roads that are not roads."

The promise passed around the mean little fire with bread, meat and a skin of sour wine. Ten men who had come to kill one another watched Wylla put Lyanna's son to her breast.

Before dawn Gerold Hightower and Oswell Whent rode south. Oswell carried his white cloak rolled beneath his saddle straps. Gerold wore his, grey with dust, until the road bent from sight. They meant to find a ship and reach Dragonstone. The others turned towards Starfall with Lyanna between them and the child hidden in Wylla's arms.

* * *
​

Lord Ulrick Dayne, Ashara's elder brother, heard them in a solar above the Torrentine. He had not changed the black robe worn for Ashara. Purple shadows lay beneath his eyes, and her silver-and-amethyst hair net remained upon the table beside an untouched cup of lemon water. Arthur told him the truth without ornament. Eddard watched grief strike a man already hollowed by it.

"You would name Lyanna's boy as the child Ashara bore," Ulrick said at last.

"Yes," Eddard answered. "We would say her child survived. I would acknowledge the boy as my son and take him north."

"Men will call her whore."

"Men already do," Arthur said.

Ulrick's look could have cut mail. "Do not tell me what men say of my sister."

Arthur accepted the anger. "I know what they say of her. I would not ask this for myself."

From the balcony came the unceasing rush of the Torrentine. Below, pale towers caught the evening sun. Wylla waited in the adjoining chamber with the child, while Sarra helped the silent sisters prepare Lyanna for the north.

"Why should I spend Ashara's name on a northern lord's lie?" Ulrick asked.

Eddard could have spoken of kings and armies. Instead he put Lyanna's last words before him. "Because his mother begged me not to let him die."

Ulrick closed his eyes. When he opened them, he touched the hair net with one finger. "Ashara's girl is buried beneath the dawn wall. No singer knows she was a daughter. My household book says only that a child came before its time. One line can be mended. No more. I will not have a chest of false seals and paid tongues beneath my roof."

"One line," Eddard agreed.

"Wylla had milk because she lost her own babe. She will be seen nursing yours. Arthur will say his sister asked him to guard her child. I will say it as well. The rest will be done by Harrenhal gossip and the malice of bored men. Those require no coin."

"And the women who attended Ashara?" Arthur asked.

"They loved her. I shall tell them a living child will die if they speak of the dead one. If love and my word cannot hold them, silver will not."

He poured the lemon water at last and drank, grimacing at its warmth. "Snow? A babe born in Dorne would commonly be called Sand."

"He will be reared in the North and acknowledged as mine," Eddard said. "Snow is the name he must answer to there."

"Then choose him a good given name. He will hear the other often enough."

Eddard looked through the open door. Wylla had lifted the infant to her shoulder. Arthur followed his gaze. "Jon," Eddard said. Jon Arryn had given him a second father and a home when Aerys demanded his head. It was a name that carried love without awakening any dead dragon. Arthur said nothing until Lord Ulrick had altered the single line and pressed the sword-and-star beneath it. In the passage he caught Eddard by the arm.

"You will tell him his true name when he is old enough."

"When it is safe. Until then, he must be Jon to everyone."

"Do not come to love the lie more than the boy."

Eddard pulled free. "Do not mistake a sword oath for the knowledge of how to raise a child."

Wylla stood ten paces away, the child asleep against her shoulder. She looked from one man to the other. "If either of you wakes him after I have fed him," she said, "the Sword of the Morning may walk him until dawn, and the Lord of Winterfell may clean what comes out the other end."

Eddard went to take the boy. "Give him here."

"Wash your hands first," Wylla said.

* * *
​

By the time Eddard's tents were pitched outside King's Landing, summer rain had turned the fields to brown paste. Five armies had eaten the orchards bare. Their cookfires smoked from dawn until moonrise, fed with green wood stripped from fences and roof beams. Men in crimson cloaks queued beside men in river-blue for water that tasted of horse piss. The red walls beyond the camps looked clean at a distance. When the wind shifted, the city breathed out char, opened drains and the sweet rot of shallow graves.

Lyanna's coffin stood in the rear of Eddard's pavilion upon two trestles. It was black pine from the rainwood, rubbed with beeswax and bound in iron. The silent sisters had packed her body with salt, myrrh and bitter herbs for the long road home. No craft could return movement to her face. Death had made Lyanna solemn, and solemnity had never belonged to her.

Arthur sat beside the cradle with Jon in the crook of one arm and a cup of goat's milk in the other hand. A twist of boiled linen served as a teat. Most of the milk wet the boy's chin.

"You hold him too flat," Eddard said.

"Wylla says I hold him too stiffly."

"Wylla is right."

"Wylla has informed me she is always right where babes are concerned."

"She will inform you of the same thing where men are concerned."

Arthur shifted the child against his chest. The boy coughed, swallowed and fixed those dark eyes upon the milk as if offended by its poor service. Without white cloak and bright armour, Arthur looked younger. His red wool surcoat was plain, his mail patched at one shoulder, but Dawn rested within reach against the tent pole. He could settle the greatsword without a glance; settling one small head in the crook of his arm took all his attention.

Eddard sat opposite with a wooden bowl of barley stew cooling between his hands. Wylla had sent it with an order to finish every spoonful. Bits of carrot, leek and salt mutton floated beneath a skin of fat. He had taken three mouthfuls in half an hour.

Jon began to fret. Arthur put down the cup and walked him between the table and the entrance, stopping each time the little face screwed up against his shoulder.

"Have you tried the other shoulder?" Eddard asked.

Arthur shifted him. Jon burped milk onto the red wool.

"There," Eddard said.

"You might have warned me."

"I did not know either."

Arthur found a cloth. When he looked up again, the moment's ease had gone. "Will Lady Catelyn let him remain?"

"She knows he is coming."

"That is not what I asked."

Eddard rubbed a hand over his face. He had written four lines to a wife he scarcely knew, asking more generosity than he had any right to expect. "She will have a place prepared. Beyond that, I cannot tell you. Nor can you judge her before you have met her."

Arthur wiped the boy's chin. "I would not have him grow up unwanted."

"Neither would I." Eddard held out his arms, but Jon had settled against Arthur's shoulder at last. He let his hands fall. "Keep walking. He likes that."

Arthur made another slow circuit. Outside the pavilion someone dropped a bucket and swore. Both men looked towards the entrance.

A guard spoke, and Howland Reed entered without waiting for leave. Water shone upon his hood. His mud-coloured cloak made him seem part of the wet day until he lowered it.

"Robert is coming," he said. "Jon Arryn sent word ahead. The king has dismissed his guard at the northern lines, but Barristan walks twenty paces behind him."

Arthur reached for Dawn. Eddard held the rear hanging aside. "Take the boy out that way."

"Robert should see Lyanna first. Martyn will meet you beyond the horse lines."

Howland held the hanging aside. Arthur tucked the child beneath his cloak, leaving space for him to breathe. "If he demands to see the babe?"

"That question comes later, before Arryn and witnesses. Go."

Arthur paused beside the coffin. His free hand touched the black lid, then he vanished through the rear of the tent. Howland went out the front to meet the king. Eddard set aside the uneaten stew and opened the coffin. Robert arrived like weather.

He brushed past the guard at the entrance with rain on his black velvet shoulders and mud to the tops of his boots. The crowned stag at his throat was yellow gold, too bright for mourning. War made him enormous: broad chest, arms that strained his sleeves, black hair plastered against a brow still flushed from the ride. Rain ran over his clean-shaven jaw. His blue eyes went past Eddard towards the coffin. Rhaegar's wound still stiffened one leg, though he would rather limp than accept a cane.

"Ned Stark." He caught Eddard by both shoulders and drew him into an embrace hard enough to hurt. "Gods, I thought Dorne had swallowed you."

"It tried."

"Dorne has poor taste."

Robert laughed. Eddard could not, and the laughter died between them. "You found her," Robert said.

"I found her."

His gaze went to the rear hanging. "Let me see."

"Robert—"

"Do not bar me from her now."

The king had gone out of his voice. Eddard led him behind the hanging. Robert stood above Lyanna for a long while. Outside, a mule brayed and a captain cursed men hauling a wagon from the mud. Water dripped steadily from the pavilion ropes. None of it seemed to reach the small dark chamber around the coffin.

"They made her look old," Robert said.

"She was tired."

"Of him?"

Eddard looked down at his sister's hands, folded over grey wool. "Of all of us, perhaps."

Robert reached towards her cheek. His fingers stopped before touching it. "I kill him every night," he said. "The Trident changes, but he is always there. Sometimes the water is blood. Sometimes it is black, and every ruby on his breast turns into an eye. I strike him until there is nothing left, and still I hear him saying her name."

"Rhaegar is dead."

"Not enough."

Eddard said nothing. He looked at the bloodless hands folded over Lyanna's breast.

Robert's hand closed. "He stole this from me."

Eddard felt Lyanna's cold fingers around his own and heard her say that she had chosen. The truth rose towards his mouth. He swallowed it with the taste of betrayal. "She was never a thing to be stolen," he said.

Robert turned his head. "You sound like her."

"Someone should."

Anger flashed, quick and familiar. For a heartbeat they were boys at the Eyrie again, ready to strike and forgive in the same hour. Then Robert looked back at Lyanna and the anger emptied out.

"Leave her here," he said. "I will build a tomb above the bay. White marble, seven lamps, singers on her nameday. She would have sun."

"She will go home."

"I am asking, Ned."

"And I am answering. Brandon waits in the crypt. Father waits. Her place is beneath Winterfell with the kings of winter, not on a hill strangers choose because the view is fair."

"There is me."

"You are not her home."

Robert flinched. Eddard regretted the cruelty, not the answer. "She was to be my queen."

"She was my sister."

The king bent his head. When he spoke again the words were rough. "Take her north, then. I will send an escort."

"My own men will bear her."

"Stubborn, frozen fool."

"Drunken stormlander." A breath of their old affection passed through Robert's face. He put one hand upon the coffin lid.

"I would have made her happy."

Eddard could not grant him that comfort. He gave the only one he could. "You would have tried."

Robert stood with her until the rain slackened. He left without asking where Ashara's child slept.

* * *
​

Arthur's judgement was held that afternoon beneath the cloth-of-gold roof of the royal pavilion. Jon Arryn sat at Robert's right, his broad shoulders square beneath plain blue wool. Ser Barristan Selmy stood behind him in a new white cloak. His pale blue eyes rested upon Arthur a moment longer than courtesy required before he brought them back to the king. Stannis Baratheon remained near the map table, rain-dark leather creaking when he moved. Three lords from the rebel host and two septons had been brought to witness whatever oath Robert chose to accept.

Arthur entered carrying Dawn at his side and the infant in his arms. Wylla followed with a satchel of clean linen, a horn spoon and the expression of a woman prepared to rebuke kings if they handled the babe badly.

Robert looked from the sword to the child. "You bring a shield to your own judgement."

"I bring my sister's son," Arthur said. "He requires feeding."

"Everything requires feeding. Armies, priests, bastards." Robert crooked a finger. "Let me see him."

Eddard's heart beat against his ribs. He stood close enough to intervene and knew how useless intervention would be if Robert understood. Wylla took Jon from Arthur and placed him in the king's arms before hesitation could become suspicion. Robert held the child as he might hold a helm of unfamiliar make.

"His head, Your Grace." Wylla slipped her hand beneath the small neck until Robert adjusted his hold. Jon's eyes opened. In the strong afternoon light their purple was clear. Robert grunted.

"Dayne eyes," Robert said.

"My sister's eyes and Lord Stark's dark hair," Arthur said, giving the rehearsed answer without haste.

"Ashara was a beauty." Robert glanced towards Eddard. "You hid that fire from me, Ned. All those years in the Vale, blushing at every ankle, and you were only saving yourself for the finest maid in Dorne."

No one laughed until Jon Arryn did, softly. Eddard managed a grimace that Robert mistook for embarrassment. Robert bent his head to look at Jon again. The babe caught a lock of black hair above the king's ear and pulled. The king swore, then roared with laughter.

"Strong enough to make war upon a king's head. What do you call him?" Robert asked.

"Jon Snow," Eddard said, and kept his gaze upon Robert rather than the purple eyes.

"Snow? He was born in Dorne."

"I have acknowledged him as my son. He will be raised in the North."

"Jon for our old falcon?" Robert passed the child back to Wylla. "A solemn name for a solemn little face."

Jon Arryn let affection show, but only for a moment. "Ser Arthur. Your white cloak was given for life."

"The king whose guard I served is dead. His named heir is dead. I surrendered the cloak at Starfall and came here to submit my sword to judgement."

"You call this submission while Dawn remains belted at your hip?" Robert asked, all laughter gone from his voice.

Arthur drew the pale blade. Ser Barristan's hand moved towards his own hilt. Arthur turned Dawn flat across his palms and knelt. "Dawn belongs to my house. My life is mine to yield. I acknowledge you as king and will keep your peace. I ask leave to serve my sister's son as his uncle and sworn shield."

"You ask leave to choose your own service," Stannis said.

"Let him answer," Robert said. "What if I require you at court?"

"I would ask to remain with the boy. I have no other service to offer willingly."

Robert leaned back in his chair. "Aerys filled his guard with proud men. One stabbed my enemy in the back, one died well at the Trident, and three hid in Dorne while others fought. Why should I suffer another careful oath?"

Arthur's gaze did not leave him. "Because killing me gains you a song and an enemy in House Dayne. Letting me guard an infant gains you peace from both."

"And because he yielded when he might have fought," Eddard said. "No northman died at the tower."

Ser Barristan spoke at last. "I have crossed swords with him, Your Grace. If Ser Arthur had meant rebellion, men would have died before he came beneath your roof."

Robert rubbed the place above his ear where Jon had pulled his hair. "Very well. Keep your dawn sword and your bastard prince." Jon Arryn's gaze flicked to Eddard. Stannis went still, and Barristan's hand remained near his hilt.

Then Robert grinned. "Every babe is a prince to the fool who must wipe his arse. Rise, Dayne. Break the king's peace and I will finish what judgement spared."

Arthur rose and sheathed Dawn. "I will keep your peace, Your Grace."

The king watched him cross the pavilion but let him pass the guards. Wylla followed with Jon.

* * *
​

The council that followed began with grain and ended with Dragonstone. Jon Arryn spread a chart of Blackwater Bay beneath four cups. Tywin Lannister chose the light for his gold-threaded crimson sleeves; his green eyes moved while his hands remained still. Beside him Hoster Tully, in river-blue wool, pushed back his brown hair and watched Robert, wary of what royal favour might cost his daughter. Stannis stood near the chart. Mark Ryswell stood behind Eddard's chair.

"The royal fleet is broken," Jon Arryn said. "Dragonstone still flies the dragon banner. Velaryon offers submission if his lands and titles are confirmed. Celtigar will follow whichever choice costs him less."

"Stannis will take the island," Robert said.

"When I have ships and crews," Stannis answered. "My men are buying seasoned timber from the yards and felling new oak to replace it. They need rope, sailcloth and money."

"Then see that my master of coin pays them. Take what remains of Aerys's fleet when the garrison yields."

Jon Arryn moved a cup towards the black island. "Once taken, Dragonstone must be held by a hand the narrow-sea lords cannot bend."

"Yours, Ned," Robert said, looking across the painted bay. "A hard seat for the one man here I trust not to sell it."

"No. Whatever gift you mean to offer, I have Winterfell and a realm's width of road between it and this table," Eddard replied.

"The war is won. The North can endure one season without you while Dragonstone cannot," Robert argued.

"The war being won is why I mean to go home. My bannermen followed me south; they should not be ruled by ravens because victory found me another castle," Eddard said.

Robert's cup struck the table. "I offer you the seat of dragon princes and you answer as if I proposed a damp cellar."

"It is an unconquered fortress in a hostile sea. Give it to Stannis." Stannis's face revealed nothing, but his eyes moved once towards his brother.

"Stannis will have Storm's End," Robert said. "Renly is six and sleeps through councils. I will not make my brother wait on a child for his father's seat."

Stannis looked directly at his brother. "Storm's End?"

"Must I say a gift twice before a Baratheon hears it?"

"You will not regret it," Stannis said.

Robert turned back to Eddard, still angry. "If you are too good for Dragonstone, your bastard may have it."

Hoster Tully shoved back his chair. "Your Grace, a jest at Lord Eddard's expense need not become a grant that troubles his lawful heir." Tywin only lifted one pale brow.

Robert saw their faces and warmed to the spite of it. "Aye. Jon Snow, Lord of Dragonstone. Rhaegar's old seat bestowed upon the natural son of the man whose sister he stole. Even the dullest singer can make a verse from that."

"The babe cannot hold it," Hoster said. "Whose men will? My daughter's lawful son is heir to Winterfell. Ambitious men will count the boys against one another."

"Robb remains my only heir," Eddard said.

"This other boy has Arthur Dayne and now a princely seat."

"Then put it in the grant. Jon receives no claim to Winterfell."

Robert slapped the table. "Plain enough. One boy receives the North, the other a smoking rock. Ned can name men to hold it until he is grown."

"The rock commands the mouth of the Blackwater," Tywin said. "A child there may be seized by men still loyal to House Targaryen."

Stannis put one finger upon the chart. "Velaryon and Celtigar would each resent the other above him. A Stark castellan stands outside their quarrels. Crackclaw men still boast of First Men blood; a northern lord may win a hearing where another court favourite would not."

Eddard studied the black shape beneath Stannis's finger. "What will holding it cost?"

"The island has fish, stone, sheep and harbour dues," Stannis said. "Not enough if thieves keep the accounts. Enough if they do not. Pay the garrison's arrears, mend the cisterns and leave coin for roofs and hulls. Do not bury a prince's ransom there."

Robert laughed. "Hear that, Tywin? My brother has found thrift. Give the boy three stout chests when the gates open and enough grain that his new men need not eat him. The rest he may wring from his smoking rock."

"You have not asked me to accept," Eddard said.

"I am asking now, before half this table finds a different reason to dislike the answer," Robert said.

Every man at the table watched him. Hoster's mouth tightened at the insult to Catelyn and Robb. Tywin waited for his answer. Stannis kept one finger beside the island at the end of its sea lane. Robert was still grinning. Did he truly expect thanks for this? Eddard saw violet eyes beneath black hair.

"Give me until tomorrow," Eddard said. "I will answer before we ride north."

Robert opened his mouth. Jon Arryn raised a hand. "Dragonstone is not yet ours to give. Lord Eddard may have one night."

"One," Robert said. "On the next I mean to be drunk."

"How shall we tell the difference?" Stannis asked. His dry answer caught Robert first; the king threw back his head and laughed until even Jon Arryn's solemn mouth bent.

* * *
​

Eddard's last supper in the camp was cold mutton, oatcakes gone soft with damp and onions roasted black in their skins. Mark Ryswell sat across from him, his cheek healing into a red crescent. Howland ate slowly at the table's end. Martyn Cassel guarded the door. Arthur stood by the cradle until Wylla shoved a bowl into his hands and told him that sworn swords died of hunger as readily as other fools.

"Accept the island for him," Arthur said after his first mouthful. "Robert will not offer such walls twice."

"You did not hear the spite in which he made the grant," Eddard said.

"Mark told me."

Mark peeled an onion. "I told him what was said, not what answer to give."

"No army reaches the island without ships," Arthur said.

"Every man who wants it will ask why a northern bastard received a dragon's seat."

"Every man who sees his eyes wonders already."

Howland tore an oatcake in half. "He will not be forgotten while the Sword of the Morning carries him."

Eddard cut the mutton and found it pink beside the bone. "If I accept, Jon remains at Winterfell. I will not send him to a castellan while he is still at the breast."

"No one asks it," Mark said. "Let Ethan inspect the place when the gates open. He knows stores, and he has spent too long having other men decide what use remains in him."

"He would take the post?"

"Ask him." Mark laid down his knife. "Willam has Barrowton. Theo has the valleys. Martyn is already at your door. None of us left Lyanna's son behind at the tower. There are men to send if Ethan needs them."

Arthur looked at Eddard over the cradle. "And when you die?"

Eddard's knife stopped.

"Robert can summon him whether he has a castle or not. But without one, what refuge will he have if you are gone? Your heir will have a mother who fears him. Give him Dragonstone and he has his own household, men sworn to him, a place to go."

"Catelyn will not murder a child."

"I did not say she would. I said she would not protect his rights as she would Robb's. Why should she?"

That was harder to answer. Eddard looked towards Martyn's shadow beyond the canvas. After the long journey north he would bring Jon into his wife's hall and expect her to make room for him.

Wylla came from behind the hanging, rubbing the child's back. She had been listening. "Take him, my lord. I have had him all through your supper."

Eddard put down the knife. Jon settled badly in his arms, kicked, and caught his thumb. A milk bubble shone at one nostril. Eddard adjusted the wool until the small face was clear.

"I will accept for Jon," he said. "Ethan goes to White Harbor to await the surrender. Once he has inspected the island, we will know what men and stores to send. Jon stays north until he is old enough to understand what he has been given. And Arthur—there will be no court of exiles gathering there. No preparations for another war."

Arthur's face closed. "I will not raise men for an infant."

"Nor teach him that his first duty is to avenge his father."

"I will teach him about his father."

"When he can keep the truth to himself."

Arthur looked at the sleeping child. "You will have to tell him someday, Ned."

Eddard stroked the little fist around his thumb. "I know."

Howland reached for the chest beside his chair. He checked its fastening and drew his cloak over it. Mark resumed cutting his onion; after a moment, he pushed half onto Arthur's untouched trencher.

* * *
​

The boy understood the name before he understood the hands that held him. Aemon. It reached through hunger, cold and the crushing weariness of a body that could not turn itself. Sounds came blurred, faces swam close and vanished, light stabbed even through shut lids. He had died an old man. Before that there had been naval service, years of civil engineering, and the farm work his father had taught him long before either. He had studied Rome until he could argue over a road traced across a fragment of ancient map. He had buried his wife, raised a son and a daughter, and lived to hold their children. Much of it drifted like smoke when he tried to look back. A steel deck rolled beneath remembered boots; his daughter bent over his chair to tell him something he had pretended not to hear. Then hunger cramped his belly and he cried, furious that crying was all this body could manage.

Then there had been heat, and the woman's voice giving him a name between failing breaths. He wanted to mourn her. Instead his mouth opened, searching for milk, and he cried until someone brought him to a breast. Later Eddard lifted him. Jon tried to turn towards the sound of his name, but the man had to support his head. He lay against the warm hand, exhausted by the effort.

He listened for names whenever the men came near. Eddard Stark. Arthur Dayne. Robert Baratheon. Dragonstone. He knew them from books, but Arthur lived, seven northmen lived, and Lyanna had named him Aemon. None of the accounts he remembered gave Jon Snow this beginning. Before trusting them, he needed to hear more. His earlier life was his alone; he would give no one here that secret. Leaves whispered where no leaves grew. A pale face watched from the bole of a red tree, not near, not whole. For a heartbeat one red eye opened in darkness.

Why can I not follow your thread? Perhaps the words were a dream. He listened for them again, frightened that someone might have heard the thoughts he could not yet speak. Eddard's thumb lay against his palm. He closed his hand upon it and tried to stay awake, but the heartbeat beneath his ear grew faint as sleep took him.


Inspired by the GREAT WORK https://archiveofourown.org/works/24071350/chapters/57930625

 

[aiwonder]

Three riders came to the Water Gardens in the black hour before dawn, when the tiled pools reflected the stars and every child under Prince Doran's roof ought to have been asleep. The gate captain challenged them twice. The first rider gave his name and showed the sun and spear beneath his cloak. The second was a poleboat woman from the Greenblood, her face wrapped in green linen. The man between them gave no answer at all. He sagged over the pommel, one boot hanging loose from the stirrup. Something small moved beneath his patched sailcloth cloak.

Oberyn was halfway across the moonlit court before the bars had been lifted. He had come from bed in a red silk robe and soft boots, with a dagger naked in his hand. Loose black hair swept his lean face as he turned towards the gate; his dark eyes searched the riders as the bars came free. Doran followed more slowly, leaning upon Areo Hotah's arm. His loose sand-coloured night robe trailed over the damp tiles. Mellario came behind him with a lamp and Arianne wrapped in a blue coverlet at her side.

"Clear the galleries," Doran told the captain. "Say we have a sick man here."

A washerwoman had appeared above them. Two kitchen boys peered through an arch with flour on their forearms. Areo did not shout. He merely looked up, his scarred face lifted above the broad shoulders, and rested one hand upon the long axe across his back. Doors closed one by one. The wounded rider tried to dismount.

"Joss," Oberyn said. "Wait."

The man's right leg found the ground. His left folded beneath him. Oberyn caught his shoulders, and the sailcloth bundle between them cried out. A child's dark head emerged first. One narrow lock above her temple shone gold-silver in Mellario's lamplight. Her skin had Elia's warm olive cast, her eyes dark purple. Rhaegar lived in those eyes, the fineness of her brow and the straight little nose. Elia lived everywhere else. Four scratches marked the back of her hand. Then a black kitten forced its head through the cloak and hissed at Oberyn.

For a moment he could smell Elia's orange-blossom oil and hear her laughing beside this very pool, holding up a grave-eyed babe while he swore no child of hers would remain solemn after meeting him.

"Rhaenys," he breathed, so softly only the child could have heard. The girl shrank against Joss.

Doran reached them. "Inside, Oberyn. Quickly."

"She is alive."

"And I mean to keep her so."

Joss's face had gone grey beneath the road dust. "My prince, I brought her home."

"You did," Doran said. "Now let us keep you here as well."

They carried him to the blue chamber off Mellario's private court and laid him on the bed. The room smelled of limewashed walls, cedar chests and the rosemary Maester Caleotte cast into the brazier. Joss would not release the child until Oberyn put his dagger away and swore she could sit where he could see her.

"He stays where I can see him," Rhaenys said. "No one carries him away while I sleep." Her voice was hoarse, the voice of a child who had cried too long and afterwards learned not to.

"He stays," Oberyn said.

"Here." She pointed to the bed, refusing to loosen her arms.

Doran drew the quilt back himself. "Here. You can sit beside him while Caleotte works."

Only then did her arms loosen. Mellario took her with the sailcloth still wrapped around her shoulders. Rhaenys went rigid but did not struggle. The kitten climbed onto Mellario's sleeve, buried its claws in the purple silk and clung there.

"Mind those claws," Mellario murmured, easing the silk out of his grip.

"He does not like you."

"Then I shall have to bribe him. Does he take fish?"

That answer pleased the child enough to let Mellario carry her to the bed. Caleotte cut Joss's doublet from hip to ribs. A knife wound had closed around broken black stitches. Pus rimmed the lower edge, and red lines ran into the groin. Joss gripped the bed rail while the maester washed it with cooled, boiled wine. His knuckles whitened.

"Who stitched this?" Caleotte asked. "Those threads should have come out days ago."

"A sailor. There was no one else." Joss caught the maester's sleeve. "Let me tell them first. Before you open it."

Caleotte freed his sleeve and offered him a strip of leather to bite. Joss shook his head.

"Tell us while he works," Doran said. "Stop when you need to."

Rhaenys drew the sailcloth over her head. Mellario sat beside her and kept one arm around the hidden shape. "Must it be now?"

"Men will already be hunting the road they used," Doran said. "Before sunrise I must know which road that was."

Oberyn wanted to tell him to wait. He saw the blood gathering beneath Caleotte's knife and said, "Tell us, Joss. Leave out what a child should not hear."

"She was there." Joss stared at the rafters. "Princess Elia heard the outer gate break. She had one hand on Prince Aegon's cradle and the other on Rhaenys. A boy came through the panel behind the painted wardrobe. Brown hood, bare feet, no badge. He said the lions were inside the walls. He knew a stair beneath Maegor's Holdfast."

"One of Varys's birds," Oberyn said.

"Did he give you a name?" Doran asked.

"No. He knew which wall opened and which gate still had men taking coin." Caleotte touched the wound. Joss took the leather then, and they waited until he could speak again.

"Elia put the princess in my arms," he continued when he could breathe. "She ordered me down the stair. I asked about the little prince. The boy said the cart could hide only one child. I had no time to see whether he spoke true. She would not leave Aegon." The sailcloth trembled.

"And you left Elia?" Oberyn asked.

"She ordered me to go." Joss's voice failed. He swallowed and tried again. "I went back three steps. She told me to take Rhaenys and run."

Mellario spoke from the bed. "He crossed a burning city with her beneath his cloak. Hate the men who put the choice before him."

"How did you get through the gate?" Doran asked.

"The boy gave me a fishwife's shawl and told me which cart. A purse was sewn inside Princess Elia's belt. Gold opened the Mud Gate and bought a place on a wine cog. After that it bought less each day."

"Which cog? Who was her master?"

"Sweet Ceryse. She flew Arbor colours, but the men spoke like Dornishmen. The master called himself Collo. I doubt it was his name."

From beneath the sailcloth came Rhaenys's muffled voice. "Balerion scratched him."

"Did he?" Oberyn leaned towards the bed. "Show me."

A little hand appeared. Thumb and forefinger were held the width of a barley grain apart. "This much."

"Then he will bear that dreadful scar with honour," Oberyn said, matching the solemn measure between her fingers.

The cloth lowered enough to reveal her eyes. Joss told them of wine jars emptied and restacked to hide a man and child, of two nights without lanterns in the Stepstones, of the sailor who reached beneath Rhaenys's hood and the knife that followed. They changed ships in the Stepstones. Their new captain had meant to sail east, but a squall forced him to seek shelter on the Dornish coast. At Planky Town the Greenblood woman claimed Joss as a fevered brother and Rhaenys as her sister's orphan. Three watchmen believed the dull tale and did not look beneath the hood.

"And the body in King's Landing?" Doran asked.

Joss shook his head. "I saw no other girl. The boy knew a cart would wait. He may have known more."

"A child died in Rhaenys's bed," Mellario said. "Someone put her there."

Rhaenys came out from beneath the cloth. "Where is her mama?"

"We do not know," Doran said.

"She will look for her."

Oberyn looked away. Caleotte drew out the last rotten thread and dropped it into a copper bowl. Doran watched the child tuck her scratched hand back beneath the sailcloth. "We will try to find her," he said.

When the wound had been cleaned and packed with honeyed linen, Joss fainted. Rhaenys climbed off the bed and stood beside him until she had seen his chest rise ten times. Mellario washed the salt from her face with warm water. Ysilla brought a saffron-yellow shift of Arianne's and pinned it at the shoulders. Balerion received the belly of a mullet upon a silver plate and dragged it beneath the bed, snarling at anyone who came near.

Rhaenys refused hot milk until Arianne drank from the cup first. "There," Arianne said, leaving a white moustache on her upper lip. Milk shone upon her round chin, and one thick black ringlet had fallen against the cup. She pushed it back before offering the milk again. "See? I drank it."

"You only had a little," Rhaenys said.

Arianne took another swallow. "There."

"Leave some for her," Oberyn said.

Mellario gave him a look. "Bring your daughters this afternoon. They should meet her before they hear the servants talking."

Doran watched Arianne offer the cup again. "You are right."

Oberyn glanced between them. "That sounded painful, brother."

"Less painful than saying it to you."

* * *
​

Dawn found Doran and Oberyn beneath the eastern arcade, neither having slept. Servants laid out flatbread, mint-rolled goat cheese, chickpeas, crisp river trout and blood oranges. Doran tore his bread into pieces and ate three. Oberyn peeled an orange so savagely that juice ran to his wrist. Mellario dismissed the servants and left the brothers to their talk; Areo closed the lattice gates and stood beyond earshot.

"Five thousand horse and fifteen thousand spears before the next moon," Oberyn said. "Yronwood will come when I call. The Greenblood will water us as far as the roads allow."

"And how will you feed them in the passes?" Doran asked.

"Three columns through the Boneway. Stannis's men are still lean from eating rats."

"And the Reach is behind us," Doran said. "Tyrell feasted outside walls. The Reach has grain and Robert's pardon, Redwyne his fleet. Tarly fights for whichever side can win. Our men have come home to dry fields. The Fowlers count every marcher horse across the passes."

"Yronwood's spears make the road possible."

"Yronwood will come because I call. Lord Anders has buried two sons. He will count how many Martells die before he decides what our weakness offers him."

Oberyn pushed away the trout. "They raped Elia. They crushed Aegon's skull and put another girl beneath a lion cloak. Robert looked upon it and took the throne. Name one stroke you would judge worthy of our sister."

Doran's fingers stopped upon the bread. "Do not speak as if you are the only brother Elia had."

Oberyn looked at him properly. The fastening at his collar sat awry. Red flannel wrapped his bad foot beneath the table. He had not touched the trout because Elia had loved it with lime and pepper.

"Her daughter has a better right than the man drinking from her father's cups," Oberyn said.

"She is three. Last night she would not leave a wounded man. March now, and we carry her before us against Arryn, Stark, Tully and Lannister, whether we name her or not." Doran pushed the fish back towards him. "I would keep her alive until there is a chance of recovering what is hers."

Oberyn took the trout. Its skin cracked beneath his fork. "And what becomes of vengeance?"

"Clegane has men who curry his horse. Lorch drinks somewhere and pays someone to clean his mail. Someone carried Tywin's orders; someone heard them. Find those men. Quietly."

"I want Clegane's head."

"So do I. And Tywin exposed with him, not free to blame a dead bannerman."

Oberyn reached for the cheese. "I want the dead girl's name as well. Her mother should know."

Doran broke a blood orange in two. "Begin below Aegon's High Hill. Servants' children, dark-haired girls near Rhaenys's age. Someone washed her and dressed her for that bed."

"If Varys arranged it, he will have cut every thread."

"Ask the servants who escaped who disappeared when the castle fell." Mellario returned with Quentyn on one hip. Their sleepy two-year-old seemed a large burden for so short a woman, but she carried him without breaking stride. His bare toes knocked against her skirts as he reached for Doran's orange.

"You are making war over cold fish," Mellario said. "If neither of you intends to eat, Quentyn and I will rescue the oranges."

"Oberyn wants a war before midday."

"After midday," Oberyn said. "I have agreed to eat first and invade the stormlands only when the trout is finished."

Mellario gave Quentyn half the orange. Juice ran down his small wrist. "Rhaenys has only just fallen asleep. She wakes when sandals pass her door, and the two of you are sitting here fitting a crown to her head. Must I throw you both into the pool to get a little quiet?"

"Your husband cannot swim with that foot," Oberyn said. "You would lose the cautious brother and be left with only me."

"Then you had better catch him," Mellario replied.

"The children come this afternoon," Mellario said, wiping Quentyn's wrist.

"Even Sarella?" Oberyn asked. "She is young enough to tell the pools."

"They will meet her every day. The older ones can help," Mellario said. "We cannot shut her away from her cousins."

Doran glanced towards the blue chamber. "Outside these rooms she will be Deria Sand, Oberyn's daughter by a woman dead of fever."

"No one will strain belief," Mellario said. "Though they may marvel that one of your children arrived with so little noise."

"You wound me before my nephew."

Mellario shook her head and took the orange from Quentyn before he could bite the peel.

* * *
​

The tray fell before the children could be told anything. A servant carrying milk and honey cakes caught one sandal on a lifted tile. Bronze cups rang across the west court. A blue-glazed jug broke against the bench and sent white milk over the orange-and-cream floor. Rhaenys vanished beneath the stone seat. One moment she had been standing beside Arianne in the sun. The next only her yellow hem showed in shadow, her knees drawn against her chest and both hands clamped over her mouth.

The servant stared. "Lady Deria, I—"

"Go," Mellario said. Ysilla gathered him towards the kitchen. Areo moved the watching guard away from the arch. No one approached the bench.

Arianne dropped to her knees. "It was only a jug."

Rhaenys pressed harder over her mouth. "Ari," Mellario said. "Ask what she wants brought."

Arianne looked beneath the bench. "What shall I bring?"

"Joss," Rhaenys said. "With his spear."

"He is sleeping," Oberyn said as he entered the court. He had run from the adjoining gallery and come without his spear.

Rhaenys saw his empty hands. "Where is yours?"

"In the gallery. I will fetch it."

"Do not go."

Oberyn crouched an arm's length from the bench. "I will stay here." He beckoned to Areo and pointed towards the gallery. Doran waited beneath the arch, one hand on the wall.

"She wants her mother," Arianne whispered.

"Do not," Mellario said.

But Rhaenys had heard. "Mama told me to be quiet."

Oberyn set both palms upon the tile. "You were quiet."

"I did not cry in the stair. I did not cry when Balerion scratched. I did not cry on the cart."

"You did well," Oberyn said. "You did what she asked."

"Then she has to come." Rhaenys's chin shook. "I was good." The fountain trickled behind them. Sun warmed the milk into a sour smell.

"Little sun," Oberyn began.

"Do not call me that. Get Mama."

"I cannot."

Rhaenys came out so quickly that she struck the back of her head on the bench. She shoved Oberyn's hands away and ran towards the arch. Doran knelt in her path. Pain whitened his mouth, but he did not reach for her.

"Move. I want Mama," Rhaenys said, planting both bare feet before him.

"Rhaenys." Doran had to brace one hand against the wall to remain kneeling. "The men who hurt her are still there."

"You are the prince. Tell them no."

"I cannot bring her back."

Rhaenys stared at him. Her fists opened and closed at her sides. "Mama knows where I am."

"Mama knows." Doran's hand tightened against his bad knee. Oberyn looked down at the milk between the tiles.

"Aegon needs his blanket," Rhaenys said. "He cannot sleep if the corner is not in his hand."

Oberyn gathered her when her knees folded. She fought him with both fists, then with one, then only clung. He sat on the milk-streaked tiles and held her while she sobbed against his throat. The other children had gathered silently in the gallery.

Obara stood first, eleven years old, long-limbed and already hard through the shoulders from spear work. Her brown hair was tied back clear of her close-set eyes. She looked at the two exits, the roofline and Areo's guard before she looked at the crying child. Nymeria, nine, wore pale lilac and had her black hair bound with copper rings; she kept one hand upon Sarella while her dark eyes followed Obara's glance. Tyene was Arianne's age, fair in cream linen, with golden hair and solemn blue eyes. Three-year-old Sarella had escaped one slipper and held it in her brown hand. Quentyn stood between Mellario's knees with orange stains on his tunic.

"Your cousins are here," Doran said when her crying eased. He waited for Areo to bring the spear, then had the doors shut.

Obara helped close the gallery doors. "Is she Deria or Rhaenys?"

"Deria where others can hear," Doran said.

Oberyn looked down at Elia's daughter. "Rhaenys, here with us."

Tyene repeated it softly. Sarella wriggled free of Nymeria's hand and crawled beneath the bench, where Balerion had taken refuge from the broken jug. "Rhaenys," Arianne said, as though correcting a lesson she had first learned badly. "My cousin."

"Why does she need another name?" Nymeria asked.

Doran sat upon the bench. "Before servants, guards, visiting lords and anyone beyond this family, she is Deria Sand, one of Oberyn's daughters. Her mother died of fever. Inside our own rooms, she is Rhaenys Targaryen, Elia's daughter. Men killed Elia and Aegon. They believe they killed Rhaenys too."

Obara's hand closed around her belt. "Who killed them?"

"Gregor Clegane killed your aunt and Aegon," Oberyn said. "Amory Lorch killed the girl they thought was Rhaenys."

"I would kill him," Obara said.

"You will stay here," Oberyn told her. "Rhaenys needs her cousins."

Nymeria lowered herself beside Oberyn. She did not touch Rhaenys. "Deria is not an ugly name."

"It is not mine," Rhaenys said into Oberyn's robe.

"Within these doors no one will call you Deria."

Tyene folded her hands in her lap. "Is a false name a lie? Septa Lenore says every lie leaves a stain upon the soul."

"It is a lie," Doran said. "I am asking you to tell it so that Rhaenys may stay with us."

Tyene considered that with a gravity beyond her years, then glanced towards the door. "Deria outside. Rhaenys inside."

"Just so. If you forget, correct yourself without making the room stare," Doran told her.

Sarella emerged from beneath the bench with Balerion clutched under his forelegs. He hung long and black, too astonished to scratch her. "He says her name is Rhaenys."

"Then tell him to be quiet," Arianne said.

"He bites guards," Sarella replied.

"Then mind which end you offer them," Nymeria said. Quentyn looked from face to face, then came to Oberyn and held out the crushed half of a honey cake rescued from the floor.

"For girl," Quentyn said, as though no other name were required.

Rhaenys looked at the cake. "It has milk on it."

Quentyn licked the milk from the top with grave care. "Gone. Girl can eat now." She took it. The latch lifted. All seven children turned.

Ysilla put her head through the door. "My princes? The maester says Joss has woken and is demanding his spear."

"May we come too?" Arianne asked. "Deria wants to see him."

Nymeria rose and held out her hand. "Come, Deria."

Rhaenys remained against Oberyn for one heartbeat longer. Then she took Nymeria's hand. As Ysilla turned back to fetch Quentyn, Sarella called, "Rhaenys, Balerion bit me."

"Deria," Tyene whispered, glancing at Ysilla.

Sarella looked at the cat. "He still bit."

Obara snorted. It was the first sound near laughter the court had heard that afternoon.

* * *
​

They ate in Joss's chamber because Rhaenys would not leave him. Wind from the orange court leaned the lamp flames over mullet with lemons, lamb cooked with dates, stuffed peppers and hot flatbread. Quentyn rolled an olive beneath his palm until Mellario took it away. Joss slept, shiny with fever, while Caleotte sat at his feet and claimed to be resting his eyes.

Arianne kept choosing food for Rhaenys. Nymeria peeled a pepper on her other side; Obara carried her stool between the bed and the door.

"The guards are outside," Nymeria said.

"Leave her there, Nym," Oberyn said, passing Obara the bread.

Obara took a heel of bread and bit it without moving from the door. Rhaenys had eaten nothing but Quentyn's crushed cake. She watched the mullet as though it might make a sudden noise.

Mellario put one piece upon her plate. "The cat has had three."

"Four," Sarella corrected from below the table. "He stole the tail while everyone watched Joss breathe."

"Then we shall give you four and see who grows first."

Rhaenys touched the crisp skin with one finger. "Mama took the bones out."

"Then I will do the same. Ask when you want another piece," Mellario told her.

Mellario opened the fish along the spine and drew the fine white bones free. She made no attempt to feed the child. After watching her taste the first piece, Rhaenys ate the second herself.

Arianne pointed out each cousin. "You can call Sarella Sare."

"Sarella," came the correction from beneath the table. She held up a hand slick with fish oil. "He licked it."

Arianne reached for more mullet. Mellario stopped her hand. "Ask her."

"I was helping."

"Then ask."

Arianne offered the dish. Rhaenys shook her head, and this time her cousin took a piece for herself.

Joss moved upon the bed. His eyes opened and searched the chamber before they found the dark-haired child. "Princess," he rasped. Every grown face turned towards the door. It was shut. Obara rose to make certain.

Caleotte woke fully. "Lie still. Let her come to you."

Rhaenys climbed onto the bed and took his hand. "I am here."

"Have you eaten?" Joss asked.

"Fish. She took the bones out." Rhaenys pointed to Mellario.

"Good, my princess," Joss said, finding enough strength for the old formality. The cat appeared from beneath the table with a strip of fish tail in his teeth.

Joss's eyes moved over the children, then returned to Rhaenys. "You have company."

"They all came," she said. "Even him." She pointed at Quentyn, asleep against Mellario with lamb on his face.

Joss managed a smile. His fingers loosened upon the coverlet. Since his arrival, Doran had watched that hand hunt for a knife at every footfall. Now the children crowded between him and the door, quarrelling over which cushion Rhaenys should have. Outside, a guard's sandals passed and kept going.

Ysilla entered with a small bundle stiffened by salt. "This was sewn into the cloak."

Inside lay a strip of red-and-black wool, a little wooden knight missing one arm, and a baby's blanket whose white corner had turned brown with smoke and old blood. Rhaenys took the blanket. She pressed it to her nose and frowned.

"It does not smell like Aegon any longer," Rhaenys said, pressing the scorched wool to her nose a second time. No one told her why.

"He needs this to sleep," she said. "He holds the corner."

Ysilla knelt. "We shall keep it safe in your chest."

"In mine," Rhaenys said. "Not with the dirty things."

Ysilla helped her fold it, hiding the stained corner inside. When the child would not release it, she left it on her lap.

Arianne offered both hands. "I can carry the blanket. Your room is only next door."

Rhaenys let her take one corner but kept hold of the other. Arianne walked slowly beside her towards the adjoining bedchamber. At the open door a serving woman bowed.

"Lady Deria," the woman greeted her, holding the door wide enough for all the children to pass.

Rhaenys hesitated. Nymeria touched two fingers to her own lips, a private reminder, while Tyene said, "Good night, Deria," in a low voice.

"Good night," Rhaenys answered after the smallest pause.

Obara followed them into the passage. Sarella carried Balerion upside down beneath both arms. Quentyn had fallen asleep against Mellario and left a smear of lamb grease upon her sleeve. When the rooms were quiet, Doran poured wine for Oberyn and watered his own.

"The dead girl," Oberyn said. "Joss heard a sailor call her Myria, though he cannot swear the man meant the child."

"Search the servants' lanes for every missing Myria before you decide he did. Find which of Elia's servants dealt with Varys's people. Do not approach the eunuch."

Oberyn turned his cup. "You have more."

"Two armed men took ship east from the Greenblood. One old and broad; the other with a bat upon his sword belt. They asked after Dragonstone."

"Hightower and Whent, if the witnesses saw truly. Was Dayne with them?"

"No one saw him. Find him, but let neither knight know we watched them sail. The harbour traders can follow their inquiries east if they miss Dragonstone. I would know where Rhaella's children land."

"Rhaella may know where Dayne is."

"She holds a besieged island and a frightened household. Joy may make her careless where fear would not. No raven carries Rhaenys's name."

"You have been busy."

"So have you. You peeled that orange into my breakfast."

Oberyn glanced at his orange-stained fingers. "You could have complained."

"I have had other complaints to answer."

* * *
​

The storm reached Dragonstone before the two white knights did. For ten mornings Viserys climbed the Sea Dragon Tower before breaking his fast and searched the eastern water for a sail. A smuggler had told the castellan that two knights out of Dorne meant to join them. On the eleventh morning the horizon disappeared beneath green-black cloud. Gulls abandoned the outer rocks. Men dragged fishing boats above the tide line while royal galleys strained at doubled ropes in the harbour. Queen Rhaella held council over the Painted Table because she would not be seen taking to her bed.

She wore black wool loose over her belly. Silver hair clung damply to one cheek. The chamber floor was warm from the mountain beneath it, yet wind made the shutters jump and sent cold threads of rain through every crack.

"How much sound grain remains, and how long if the harbour stays closed after the storm?" Rhaella asked.

Orryn, the household clerk, bent over his wax tablets. "Near three moons at the present ration. Less if more men come in from the outlying posts."

"And the salt meat?" she asked when Orryn had counted the last outlying post.

"The eastern cellar has greened. Some casks beneath may still be sound, but the stink has entered the hoops," Orryn answered.

"Throw it away before hunger persuades someone to serve it. Move the women from the rooms beneath the broken gutters. Pay only men who stand before their captain."

Ser Olyvar frowned. "Some are on the walls when the pay is called. They will think you mean to cheat them."

"Then muster them by turns," Rhaella said. "I will pay every man we have, but no name the captains cannot put a face to."

Viserys stood beside her chair in a black doublet fastened with Rhaegar's three-headed dragon. A strand of pale silver hair had caught beneath the brooch; he tugged it free with a child's impatient wince before lifting his chin to address the men. "They swore to us."

"And we owe them their pay," Rhaella said. The first pain took her with both hands flat upon the Painted Table. She bent over the carved coast until it passed. No man in the chamber dared move.

When she straightened, her voice remained steady. "Ser Willem, ready the cove boats. Water, biscuit, cheese, blankets. Leave the silver if you need the room."

"We are not leaving our castle," Viserys said, staring at Willem.

"We are preparing in case we must."

Three hammer blows sounded from below, then three again. A guard came up the stair with blood beneath his nose and a folded letter in his hand. The east-wall company had been offered pardon and back wages if they opened the postern to Stannis Baratheon's men. The prince and any newborn child were to be delivered alive. The letter made no promise concerning the queen.

Rhaella read it once. "How many men have heard?"

"Half the east wall," Olyvar said. "Four at the inner gate remain mine."

"Hold it. Ser Willem, take Viserys below. Keep a boat for me."

"I am staying with you," Viserys said.

Another pain broke a cry from her. Willem caught her elbow. She slapped his hand away and walked from the chamber upright, one slow step after another, because the castle was watching. Daenerys was born while lightning ran red along the Dragonmont. The bedchamber smelled of hot iron, smoke and vinegar. Rain hammered the shutters. Rhaella lay among darkened sheets, her face almost colourless beneath the silver hair.

Nella, the Eastcove midwife, placed the swaddled babe in Viserys's arms. "A princess."

Viserys looked at the small red face, the flattened nose and wet silver fuzz. "She is ugly. Was Rhaegar ugly when he was born?"

Rhaella managed the ghost of a smile. "You were worse." Blood kept spreading beneath her.

"Are the boats ready?" she asked Willem.

"Aye, Your Grace."

"You are coming with us," Viserys said. "A king does not flee and leave his mother for Stannis."

Rhaella lifted one hand towards him. He bent so her fingers could reach his cheek. "She will have only you, Viserys. Keep her beside you."

"I am the king. I command you to come."

"Then come close. Let me look at you."

Her hand slipped. Viserys caught it against his face, waiting for her fingers to move. The bell above the inner gate began to ring without pause. Willem wrapped Rhaella in the black cloak she had worn at the Painted Table. Viserys unfastened Rhaegar's dragon from his own doublet and gave it to the knight to pin beneath her throat. He laid her crown at her feet, then lifted his sister. Before following them, Willem wrapped the crown in spare linen and put it in his bag.

Four boats waited below the hidden stair. Rain ran down the steps like a stream. Men passed Daenerys hand to hand where the footing narrowed. Viserys slipped, struck one knee and refused to cry until Willem put the babe back into his arms.

"The gold," he said when a coin chest split against the cove wall. "We cannot buy another ship if the sea takes every dragon." Dragons flashed beneath black water. Two men went to their knees after them.

"Leave it," Willem shouted. "Get aboard, Your Grace. The men cannot wait."

The boats pulled away without lamps. One struck the cliff and broke an oar; another vanished behind a wall of rain before finding them again at dawn. Dragonstone dwindled to a blacker shape against the storm. Somewhere above, Ser Olyvar held four men at an inner gate.

By the next dusk all four vessels had found one another, but two people had not. Rennifer Pyke had gone overboard beside the broken coin chest, and Mara, the younger laundress, had been swept from a fishing boat. Her sister sat beneath wet sailcloth with Mara's shoes in her lap while Orryn opened the household book upon a box and drew four small hulls. He wrote the living beneath them, the dead in the margin, and Rhaella's name above them all because Viserys insisted she had been queen when they fled. At the boy's command, the clerk left two empty lines beneath her name for the white knights who had not come.

* * *
​

Six days after the surrender, a fishing boat put Gerold Hightower and Oswell Whent ashore below Dragonstone's outer village. The white cloaks stayed bundled beneath their plain travelling coats. Stannis's banner flew above the sea wall. Fishermen told them the queen was dead and her children had escaped; none agreed on the ship or its destination. Gerold paid for their passage back to the mainland. From there they would look for a berth east.

* * *
​

Rhaenys mounted her first Dornish pony eight moons after Joss came home. The mare was dun-coloured with a black stripe down her back and a mane clipped short against the heat. Arianne's red saddlecloth lay beneath the saddle. Obara inspected the girth twice, then a third time after Oberyn told her twice was enough.

Sarella had already climbed the mounting block though no horse had been found for her. Quentyn sat on the fence kicking both sandals against the rail.

Rhaenys wore brown riding wool and a yellow scarf over her pale lock. She put one foot into Oberyn's joined hands, gripped the saddle and froze when he lifted. Leather creaked. The pony shifted its hindquarters. Sweat darkened the hair beneath the bridle, and fine court sand clung to the damp fetlocks whenever she stamped.

"Down," Rhaenys said, locking her fingers around the pommel. "Put me down."

Oberyn lowered her at once. "The ship moved," she said.

"I have her," Oberyn said. He kept one hand on the bridle while he steadied Rhaenys.

"She moved," Rhaenys insisted.

"She moved because a fly bit her," Tyene said. "Watch." She brushed the fly from the mare's flank. The skin twitched but the pony stood.

Sarella slid off the block and took Rhaenys's hand. "I will walk. If she eats you, she has to eat me too."

"She does not eat girls," Arianne said.

"Balerion bites," Sarella objected.

"That is because you pull him about." Tyene held a slice of apple for the pony.

Rhaenys looked at Oberyn. "Do not let go."

"Not until you tell me."

The second time she let him lift her. Obara steadied one knee. Nymeria put the reins across the saddle horn where Rhaenys could see them. The mare walked one circuit of the orange court, then another. Hooves clicked on tile and softened upon the sand track. With every step Rhaenys's narrow back loosened.

At the third circuit a courier in dusty lemon-yellow came beneath the arch, his bay gelding crusted with foam. He brought Doran the latest account: Rhaella had been buried, her children had escaped, and two white knights followed them east. Doran asked three questions, then sent the man to eat before his full report. Across the court, Rhaenys reached for the reins.

Oberyn kept hold of the lead. "Where do you want to go?"

"Make her turn towards my cousins," Rhaenys said, pointing towards the mounting block.

"Left rein, gently." Oberyn touched her hand to show her.

The mare's head came around. Rhaenys leaned too far, corrected when Obara barked at her, and brought the pony in a crooked half-circle towards the mounting block. Sarella cheered. Quentyn fell from the fence into Nymeria's skirts. Even Obara smiled before she remembered herself.

A serving man crossed the outer gallery with folded towels. "Well ridden, Lady Deria."

Rhaenys's hands tightened upon the reins. She looked to Arianne, then to Nymeria and Tyene. No one answered for her. "Thank you. She is a patient mare," Rhaenys said, choosing the words the servant could safely carry away.

The man bowed and went on. Obara waited until the door closed and checked the outer arch. Then Sarella ran beside the pony, calling for a turn. Obara kept one hand near the child's ankle, Arianne corrected her seat, and Oberyn walked at the mare's head with the lead slack in his hand while Rhaenys steered.

 

[aiwonder]

The dead came through Winterfell's gate before Eddard Stark did. Four grey horses drew the covered wagon beneath the portcullis. Long travel had roughened their coats and rubbed two shoulders raw beneath the harness. Salt had dried white upon the black leather. Behind them rode two silent sisters with wool veils over their faces, and behind the sisters came Lord Eddard with Howland Reed at his left hand. There should have been five more northmen.

Tales arriving ahead of the travellers had put half Eddard's companions in graves beneath the red mountains. Yet Lord Willam Dustin had turned west at the Fever River, Mark Ryswell towards the Rills, and Theo Wull towards the high valleys. Ethan Glover and Martyn Cassel had taken the east road for White Harbor carrying Eddard's letters. All five had ridden away alive. Lady Catelyn knew because ravens had preceded the wagon, each bearing a different hand and news that contradicted the singers.

No trumpet welcomed those who remained. The gate guard saw the direwolf upon the first rider's cloak and sent a boy running. Stablemen removed their caps. Two kitchen maids stopped in the yard with flour white upon their forearms. Farlen called his hounds away from the covered wagon. Catelyn waited on the inner stair with Robb against her breast, her auburn hair braided carefully beneath a blue veil. One hand supported him while the other smoothed his swaddling each time the wagon jolted nearer. Her son had slept through the first clatter of hooves. Now he woke, red and indignant, and closed one fist upon the silver trout at her throat.

"Gently," she murmured, freeing the chain. "Leave your mother her throat."

Her husband dismounted beside the wagon. The young stranger she had married at Riverrun had worn his dead brother's place uneasily. This man's ragged beard lengthened a face drawn thin by the road; beneath his brown hair, his grey eyes looked older. Dust lay over the mud on his boots, and one shoulder sagged. He looked first at Robb.

"Is he well? Your letter said only that the birth had gone safely," Eddard asked. It was not the greeting Catelyn had imagined through five months of waiting. It was better for being plain.

"He is hungry whenever I am not feeding him, wakeful whenever I wish to sleep, and determined to pull every clasp from every cloak in Winterfell. Maester Luwin calls him very well."

"May I hold him?" Eddard asked.

She descended and placed Robb in his arms. Eddard held the child too carefully at first, one broad hand beneath the swaddled body, the other cupped at the neck. Robb studied the dark beard with blue eyes as clear as his mother's, reached, and seized as much of it as both small fists could hold. Eddard bent to kiss him, and soft auburn hair brushed his chin.

"He has a strong grip," Eddard said, trying to free his beard.

"He has been practising upon my hair since his hands learned to close," Catelyn said.

"I see I have come home too late to escape it."

Robb pulled harder. Eddard laughed, briefly and with surprise. Several people in the yard looked up at it. The rear horse shifted. Arthur Dayne rode beside it, travel-stained mail dull beneath a blue-grey cloak. Dawn crossed his back in a pale leather sheath. The songs called him the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms. He looked less like a song just then than a man who had slept too many nights sitting upright. He carried a second child.

The babe was wrapped in charcoal wool. A little dark hair showed above the fold, with two pale strands fine as spun silver at the left temple. Beside Arthur rode a brown-haired woman upon a placid bay mare, one hand held ready whenever the knight's horse picked its way over a rut. Catelyn had known the babe was coming. Eddard's letter had been short enough to lodge whole in her memory.

I have acknowledged a son born to Lady Ashara Dayne during the war. He is called Jon. He comes north in my keeping. Remember, if you can, that he chose none of this. Robert Baratheon's grant had arrived two days later, fat with yellow wax and royal generosity. Before Catelyn knew whether the boy could keep down milk, she knew that he possessed Dragonstone. A groom helped the woman down from her mare. She was waiting with her arms out when Arthur dismounted with the sleeping child.

"Mind his neck, ser. The road has made you believe every jolt is ordinary," Wylla warned.

"I have him," Arthur answered.

"You are minding your sword, the horse, the wagon, every roofline in the yard and perhaps the clouds. Give him here."

Arthur obeyed. He kept one hand beneath the small head until Wylla had the child settled. Catelyn had prepared herself for the famous knight's pride; this care for Ashara's son troubled her more. Eddard eased one fist from his beard and nodded towards the woman. "Mistress Wylla, my lady. She nursed Jon at Starfall and upon the road."

Wylla bent one knee as far as the infant allowed. Her riding skirt was spattered brown to the thigh, and wind had reddened both cheeks. "Lady Stark."

The child woke. His eyes opened only a little, blue-dark beneath thick lashes. Ashara Dayne's eyes had been purple, the singers said. In this light the babe's might have been grey, violet, or merely the uncertain colour all infants carried before the world chose for them. Men began lifting Lyanna's coffin from the wagon. The small warmth in Eddard's face went out. He returned Robb to Catelyn and turned towards the bearers.

"Ned," she said. "You can eat and wash the road from yourself before we take her below."

"No. Forgive me, but I have kept Lyanna from home through every mile from Dorne. I cannot put her off another hour," he said.

The first word had been sharper than he intended. He looked back at her, the apology remaining in his face. Catelyn looked at the grey wool stretched over the coffin. Rosemary, pine tar and the sweet rot of the long road mingled beneath the cold stone smell of the yard.

"Then do not," she said. "I will come with you."

* * *
​

No stone likeness waited for Lyanna in the crypt. Three masons had prepared a low bed of grey granite beside Brandon's tomb. A plain lid leaned against the passage wall, uncarved save for the Stark name cut along its edge. The block meant for her image still stood in the masons' shed above. Eddard had sent measurements, but Benjen had refused to let a stranger guess his sister's face before her body came home.

"You need not stay when we open it, Ben," Eddard said.

Benjen held the torch. He had grown leaner since Catelyn last saw him. Torchlight hollowed the long Stark face; for all his height, the rawness about his blue-grey eyes made him look painfully young. "She is my sister."

Eddard stepped aside to let him come nearer.

Benjen held the torch higher. "Show me."

The silent sisters looked to Eddard. He nodded, and they drew back the outer cloth.

Salt and oil darkened Lyanna's skin. Her brown hair lay braided over one shoulder, and a dried winter rose rested beside her cheek, blue faded nearly to ash. Eddard reached beneath the wrappings and touched two fingers to the end of the braid.

"Who put the flower there?" Benjen asked.

Arthur stood beyond the ring of torchlight, bareheaded and without Dawn. He had surrendered the sword to Rodrik Cassel at the stair. "I did," he said.

Benjen turned. For a moment Catelyn feared he might fling the torch at him. "You put a winter rose beside her after keeping her from us for a year?" Benjen asked.

"It was among her things."

"Her things." Benjen's voice broke upon the second word. "You had her things. You had her."

Arthur did not answer. Any defence of his dead prince would have been tinder in that place. Eddard stepped between them without seeming to. "Help me lay her down, Ben."

The brothers took the head of the inner bier. Howland and Rodrik took the feet. They lowered Lyanna into the waiting stone while the sisters murmured their prayers. Benjen took the faded rose before the masons brought the plain lid down, hiding her before the carver had learned her smile. When the others withdrew, Eddard set an iron sword across the grey stone. Luwin waited beside Catelyn, his head bowed. Benjen remained long enough to lay the faded rose beneath its hilt. He went up without looking at Arthur.

"Maester," Eddard said, "leave us. Ser Arthur, wait beyond the gate."

Catelyn heard the latch fall after them. The torch spat. Along the dark passage, the old kings sat with stone wolves at their feet and iron across their knees, watching a daughter of their line enter the earth without a face.

"You wrote me four lines," Catelyn said. "One gave me a dead woman's name. One asked mercy for her child. I have given the child a bed. Now you will give me more."

Eddard stared at his sister's uncarved lid. "What would you know?"

"Did Ashara Dayne bear him?"

"Aye." Eddard kept his eyes on the stone.

"Did you love her?"

He shut his eyes for one breath. "Ashara is dead. I will not speak of what passed between us."

"You brought her son home to me. You owe me an answer."

"It is the answer I am able to give."

"Then give it whole. Your letter says you acknowledged the boy. It does not say Ashara placed him in your arms."

Eddard looked at Catelyn then. She had been raised among petitions and bargains; Lord Hoster never taught his daughters to miss the empty space in a man's account. "Ashara died before I reached Starfall," he said. "Her household kept the boy with Wylla. Lord Ulrick told me Ashara had spoken of her brother guarding her child if she could not. Arthur claimed the same duty. I acknowledged Jon before Lord Ulrick and brought him north."

"And you are his father?"

"I am."

"Was there any marriage? Any promise she might have called one?"

"No. Jon has no claim before Robb."

"Yet he has a king's castle, and the Sword of the Morning sleeps across from his cradle."

"Robert gave him Dragonstone in anger."

"Anger does not make the island less real. Robb has Winterfell because you say he does. Men have killed lawful sons when a bastard offered them less than a black castle and a famous sword."

"Jon will never take Robb's place."

"You know that. I know what you tell me. What will men upon Dragonstone know when the boys are grown?"

"The grant excludes him from Winterfell. Robert agreed to that before I accepted."

"Send Jon to Starfall. Let his mother's kin rear him."

"No. I will not send a nursing babe away because his presence wounds us," Eddard said. The answer came from father and lord together. It was the first thing Eddard had said without choosing each word.

"Why here, Ned? Starfall could keep him."

"Because I mean to raise him."

"Then you have decided, and all that remains is to tell me what I must endure."

Eddard looked at her at last. The grief in his face did not excuse him. Catelyn waited for an apology; when none came, she took her hand from Lyanna's stone.

"Do not ask me to love him."

"I will not."

"Do not ask Robb to yield because your guilt has made the other boy precious."

Pain crossed his face. "I will ask no such thing."

"What am I to tell Robb when he asks why his brother's mother is not his own?"

"That I wronged you. Not Jon."

It was the first answer that cost him something she could see. Catelyn folded her hands, one over the other, until the trembling stopped.

"I will not strike at a babe because his father injured me. Do not call that forgiveness."

"I would not."

"Come upstairs, then," Catelyn said. "You have scarcely seen Robb."

Beyond the iron gate Arthur stood with his back against the wall, Dawn once more at his side; Rodrik had returned it at the foot of the stair. He looked at Eddard, then at Catelyn. Whatever question he had, he swallowed it when she passed.

* * *
​

Howland Reed meant to leave at dawn. Eddard found him beneath the heart tree tying an oilskin bundle into a narrow ironwood coffer. Wet red leaves clung to the lid. The crannogman's marsh horse cropped moss near the pool, too small and ill-tempered to interest any thief who valued his fingers. Arthur waited beside the white trunk. The little iron key lay in his palm.

"You could rest another day," Eddard said.

"My wife has waited long enough." Howland pressed the lid down. "I would rather rest at home."

Eddard glanced at the coffer. "Will it stay dry?"

"Greywater has dry places. We do not mark them for visitors."

Inside lay a few sheets of parchment and Lord Ulrick's attested copy of the altered Starfall household entry. What they proved, taken together, could hang three men or crown one child. Howland closed the lock. Arthur kept the key. Eddard kept the names of living witnesses and the promise that bound them.

"Willam is home," Eddard said. "Barbrey threatens to break his legs if he mounts before the moon turns."

Howland smiled. "She will keep him truer than any oath."

"Word from the other four as well. All know where the others have gone. None wrote more than that."

Arthur's fingers closed around the key as the coffer vanished beneath Howland's cloak. "If you have need of me—"

"I know where to find you." Arthur turned towards the keep, listening.

An infant had begun to cry. "That one is Jon," Arthur said. "Robb breaks higher when he is hungry."

"And I have been looking for you both." Wylla came down the covered walk with Jon at her shoulder. She handed him to Eddard while she unfastened her gown beneath her mantle. Jon rooted against the unyielding doublet; Arthur steadied his head when Eddard bounced him too sharply.

Wylla settled beneath the walk and took him back. The crying ceased. While he fed, Eddard checked Howland's girth. Arthur shortened the rear strap a hole, muttering that crannogmen rode saddles fit for sacks of onions.

"Onions complain less," Howland said. "When he is old enough to ask, tell him his mother laughed loudly, rode badly when angry, and wanted him to live. When it is safe to tell him about her, let him know that much."

Eddard rested one hand on the horse's neck. "Ride carefully through the marsh road and send one word when Greywater has you."

"You will hear from me," Howland said.

Howland passed beneath the gate without banner or escort. The coffer looked too mean to carry a dead prince's marriage, a child's birth and words that might begin another war. He vanished among wet pines before the sun climbed over the wall.

Arthur stood at the gate until Howland was gone. Eddard waited beside him. Behind them Wylla hummed to the feeding child, an old Dornish tune neither man knew well enough to join.

* * *
​

Robb's oak cradle, brought from Riverrun, occupied the nursery's warm wall, painted trout swimming through a blue wash above its lavender-scented mattress. Jon's pine one still smelled of sap. Arthur moved it from the loose shutter; Wylla moved it back from the brazier.

"Smoke," she said.

"There is a draught."

"Then mend the shutter. I cannot mend his lungs." She wedged folded leather beneath the short leg until the cradle rocked without knocking the wall.

"She has had more practice, ser," Nan said.

Catelyn stood at the door with Robb. "Poole will send a carpenter. Leave the cradle where Wylla has put it."

Arthur bowed. Wylla gave Catelyn a brief smile.

Later Rodrik brought the guard roster to Eddard in the nursery. "Am I to put Ser Arthur down for a watch?"

"I keep watch upon my nephew," Arthur said.

"And there may be times we need every man in the yard."

Eddard eased linen from Robb's mouth. "Ser Arthur is Jon's uncle and sworn shield by my leave. Here he answers to my law and your command in the yard. Who stays with Jon if he is called away?"

"I will leave a man," Rodrik said. "Tell the serjeant where you are going, ser."

Arthur nodded. Jory took the roster from his uncle.

Catelyn watched the knight move his sword clear of Old Nan's wash basin. Robb began protesting as he was lowered into the bath. Jon woke and joined him. Soon one child shrieked at cold air while the other kicked water over Wylla's sleeves.

"Brothers in misery," Old Nan said. "That is as firm a kinship as most men manage."

Catelyn felt Arthur look towards her. She did not correct the word. She would not bless it yet either. That evening Eddard came to the nursery smelling of rain and horse. He had heard petitions since noon and eaten nothing but a heel of rye bread. Robb slept already. Jon did not. The boy lay furious in Eddard's bent arm while Wylla stirred goat's milk into oat porridge for herself.

"He has fed," she said. "He is dry. He has burped upon me twice. I have reached the edge of mortal wisdom."

"Perhaps he dislikes my singing before I have even begun," Eddard said, shifting Jon higher against his arm.

"Try it. Nothing else has pleased him," Wylla replied.

Eddard hummed the first line of a northern cradle song. His voice was low and badly used. Jon stopped crying to listen, considered what he heard, and began again. Wylla tasted the porridge. "A clear judgement, my lord."

Arthur entered as Eddard tried the second verse. "What have you done to him?"

"Offended his ear with a northern cradle song. He appears to favour silence," Eddard said.

"Try something Dornish," Arthur said.

"I know none. You will have to sing it."

The easy words surprised both men. For a little while, Arthur warmed his hands at the brazier while Eddard walked Jon between the two cradles. The babe's eyes followed the moving firelight. When he finally slept, one fist remained closed around Eddard's forefinger.

Jory entered with a wet cloak. "Wylla, my uncle says this knight has taken his best stool."

"Then your uncle may take it back."

Jory looked at Arthur and the sleeping boy. "I shall tell him it is occupied." He hung up the cloak and tucked the blanket under Robb's feet. "The miller kept you long, my lord?"

"His neighbour. They both claim the same sow, and now she has piglets."

"Then we may have petitions for years," Jory said. Wylla laughed into her spoon. Arthur drew the disputed stool to the door.

Eddard laid Jon in the plain pine cradle. Before leaving, he covered the small fist with his hand until it opened in sleep.

* * *
​

Later that season Dragonstone surrendered during three days of hard rain. The raven reached Winterfell soaked and vicious. Stannis had crossed from the mainland; the gates opened without sack or fire. Rhaella was dead, her children gone before the royal fleet arrived. Eddard read the message twice over cold supper. Robb crushed peas with a wooden spoon while Jon watched.

"You are relieved that the royal children escaped before Stannis crossed the wall," Catelyn said.

Eddard folded the raven sheet. "That Stannis found no children to kill? Aye."

"Robert would not order babes killed after what the Lannisters laid before him," Catelyn began.

"He accepted Tywin's gift after seeing what lay beneath those cloaks. I no longer say what Robert would not do."

Arthur stopped cutting his goose. He said nothing, which was worse than agreement. Luwin laid another letter beside Eddard's hand. It bore Ethan Glover's mailed fist, sent from White Harbor three days earlier.

"Ethan waited at White Harbor as you ordered," Luwin said. "Martyn is riding home."

"Why send him before the castle fell?" Catelyn asked.

"If Rhaella held, he was a wounded man resting near a port. If she yielded, he could sail before a court favourite claimed Jon's island."

Arthur tore his bread. "Six northmen cannot hold it against Rhaella's garrison."

"Nor sixty if the island hates them. You agreed to keep Robert's peace and serve Jon; some of her men may do the same." Eddard drew towards him the clean board Catelyn offered. "Ethan is to take the keys, count the stores and name the men at the gates and armoury. Men who swear stay. The rest may depart with their goods. Theft and murder answer to judgement, not choosing the losing king."

"Question the gate captains apart," Arthur said. "A man who took Stannis's money may sell his gate again."

"I will tell him. Then he must judge them; he is there and we are not." Arthur nodded.

Catelyn dipped bread into the cooling stew. "Those men are owed wages, Ned. Ethan will need coin to pay them, and grain for the stores."

Arthur glanced at her. "You would spend Winterfell's grain upon Dragonstone?"

"I would sell northern grain where the king's silver can buy it. Jon's island pays a fair price, White Harbor takes its due, and the stores do not rot."

"Luwin, put that in the letter," Eddard said. Catelyn took another piece of bread, satisfied to have settled one part of the matter. Robb abandoned the peas and held out a grease-shining hand for goose skin. Jon leaned across Eddard's arm towards the quill.

"Not the point," Eddard said, moving the ink and turning the feather. He laid the clean end across Jon's palm. Jon gripped it and watched Luwin copy the order, his gaze following each journey from inkpot to parchment.

"He wants the quill," Catelyn said.

"He wants whatever the rest of us are using," Eddard replied, though he waited for Jon to release the feather before taking it back.

Ethan sailed four days later. His first full account arrived two moons after he left, with a chip of black basalt wrapped inside. Eddard had the household eat early to hear it before the children slept. Robb refused the onions in brown gravy until Jon took one from his trencher; then he ate, watching whether Jon did the same. Smoked trout, cheese and black bread followed, with honeyed baked apples.

"Begin with the men who yielded the gates," Arthur said.

"Does he say how he fares?" Wylla asked.

"Well," Luwin read. "His roof leaks, but he has found a dry corner for the accounts."

"He would save those first," Eddard said.

Stannis's captain had handed over the keys, leaving most of Rhaella's garrison. The queen had been found dressed in black with her dragon brooch at her throat. Stannis had ordered a Targaryen pyre and sealed her ashes in stone. The ruby dragon remained among the castle goods; he had taken neither jewel nor ships.

Keeping those ships would consume the money Ethan needed for grain. Of ten on the roll, six lay at the quay: one without a mast, another making water faster than the harbour pumps could comfortably master. Four were hauled beyond the tide or stripped of oars and cordage. Sea pay and voyage stores for two crews were beyond him, but dismissal would leave Jon hulls without sailors.

He had already paid half the garrison's arrears. Twenty-three men had left after returning borrowed arms and having their arrears named. Ethan heard the others by company, checking names against pay rolls, village complaints and neighbours' testimony. Captains he questioned separately. Thieves and men who refused the oath were removed. Three hundred remained; eight captains and serjeants swore first, the companies following once paid and promised no punishment for an old banner. They swore to Jon into Ethan's hands under Eddard's sealed authority, to renew the oath before their lord when he came.

"Half their arrears," Arthur said. "We shall see whether the oaths hold once it is spent."

Stolen royal silver had returned to the treasury. A clerk had signed for three barley sacks full of mould and mouse nests, hiding royal coin beneath his bed. Ethan put him in a dry cell to await the witnesses and gave his chamber to a widow whose daughter had died when lightning fired the lower stable. The old cook stayed after exposing bins counted twice. So did Tobin, the quay foreman who had saved green roof timber from soldiers short of firewood. Ethan wrote that he mistrusted northmen, stormlanders, both royal houses and the sea whenever it damaged his work.

"A useful man," Catelyn said.

"Ethan has given him the quay. But he wants a mast cut from the timber he saved. The shipmaster, Denys, says it will twist before it cures. Both have sent their reckonings."

"One sound galley protects the fishing boats," Arthur said. "Keep the other sailors together, or neglect will finish those hulls."

"On shore pay," Catelyn said. "There must be coin left to buy grain."

Eddard turned the basalt chip beneath his thumb. "And Ethan?"

Luwin read, "Send grain and slate. Tobin and Denys will show me the mast again tomorrow. I mean to keep the soundest galley in service; I have offered the other crew shore pay and harbour work until we can fit out their ship."

"Ask whether Denys agrees about the galley," Arthur said. "A captain should choose the hull."

"Put that in the answer. And find the grain." Eddard pushed the basalt towards the letter.

Jon leaned over Eddard's arm towards the basalt. Arthur caught the stone first. "Sharp edge. Here, wait."

Jon's gaze followed the stone rather than the carved horse Robb pushed against his knee. When Arthur moved the chip, Jon reached after it again. Arthur wrapped the basalt in two folds of linen and laid its broad face against Jon's palm, keeping the broken edge within his own grip. Jon ceased struggling. His thumb moved over the pitted stone while Luwin finished the letter.

Robb laid the horse across Jon's legs and kept one hand upon it, unwilling to surrender the gift merely because the black stone had won his brother's notice.

"Robb will want the stone in a moment," Arthur said quietly.

"Let him look," Eddard said.

He put one hand over both small hands, keeping the linen around the sharp edge while Robb leaned closer.

* * *
​

By the time the boys could cross the nursery holding to furniture, Jon knew which floorboard announced a grown man outside. One afternoon Eddard heard it complain and saw him turn before the latch lifted. Robb kept striking wooden cups together on the hearthrug.

Jon stood by Wylla's stool while she mended a stocking. Nan had hidden a wooden horse in one of three boxes fitted with leather-looped lids. Eddard sat beside them.

"Find it."

Jon lifted the right lid. He followed when Nan moved the boxes, and again when she exchanged only the lids.

"Again," he said. Robb put a lid on his head.

Nan hid the horse behind her back. Jon looked from the empty boxes to her elbow; when she showed her empty left hand, he pointed to the other.

"He watches the hands," said a maid who had stopped with fresh rushes. "My sister's little one lifts them all."

"Robb prefers the lids," Eddard said. His son was balancing a second on the first. The maid smiled and bent towards Jon. She began in the bright, coaxing voice she used for the babes, but it faltered as he studied her face. She straightened and carried the rushes to the window. Arthur glanced after her.

When Nan brought out the horse, Jon passed it to Robb and went to Wylla, holding up the foot with the loose stocking.

Wylla set her needle in the cloth and drew him onto her lap. She tried to turn his foot, but he kept pointing at the heel until she pulled the stocking straight.

Catelyn entered with nursery linen and kissed Robb's hair. When Eddard told her about the boxes, she took the lids from under her son's feet.

"Nan has played it with them all week."

"Today she changed it."

"Then he has learned it." She handed Wylla the linen and lifted Robb. "Time for supper."

Eddard reached for Jon. Catelyn stepped aside to let him pass, keeping Robb's dangling foot clear of the other child. Arthur watched the movement, then bent to gather the boxes. He put them upon the shelf before following Eddard out.

At the turn of the passage Eddard heard the rush maid speaking to another woman. She lowered her voice too late.

"He waits for you to finish, as if he knows what comes next."

"He hears you well enough," Wylla said behind her. "Mind what you give him to hear."

The women scattered to their work. Jon had laid his head upon Eddard's shoulder, worn out by the short journey from stool to rug. Eddard felt the damp warmth of his breath through the wool and carried him to supper.

* * *
​

Before the boys were two, Robb discovered that striking the side of his cup made the milk jump. He tried it twice at supper, laughing, and on the third blow the cup fell into his lap.

Wylla rose from the little table. Robb began to cry before she reached him. He clutched his bowl as though she meant to take that away too, pulling it towards the spreading milk.

Jon caught the rim. "Leave it."

Robb pulled harder. Jon let him have the bowl before it broke, moved the fallen cup out of the way and held out his empty hand.

"Dry clothes," he said. "Then eat."

"No." Robb hunched over his supper, wet wool sticking to his belly.

Jon knew that refusal. His grandson had once sat in a puddle of spilled water and fought everyone who tried to lift him out of it. He had wanted his place kept, his food untouched, and someone to understand that the whole unhappy business was not his fault. Jon had been able to carry him then. Now his feet scarcely found the rung beneath his stool.

He pushed his own bowl beside Robb's and patted the empty place where the cup had stood.

"Here. I wait."

Robb looked at the two bowls. When Wylla lifted him, he let her, though he kept watching over her shoulder until she had carried him behind the hanging.

The nursery maid brought a cloth. She began with the milk upon the table, but Jon pointed to the stool.

"That too."

"Aye, young lord." She wiped the seat, then stopped with the cloth in her hand and looked at him. Her glance went to the hanging where Wylla was changing Robb, as though the instruction might have come from there. Jon drew his bowl back and reached for his spoon.

Arthur came in and looked at the untouched supper and the empty stool.

"Have you quarrelled?"

"Spilled," Jon said, pointing at the damp patch.

"I see that. Why are you not eating?"

"Waiting."

The knight glanced towards the hanging. Robb was arguing about which arm belonged in which sleeve. When Arthur looked back, Jon had already moved the fresh cup away from the edge of the table.

Arthur sat down beside them rather than return to the door. Robb came back in a dry tunic, found his supper where he had left it and wanted to show him what the milk had done. Jon laid a hand over the cup before he could begin again.

"Not twice," he said.

Robb laughed at that and struck the table with his spoon instead. Jon finally took a mouthful of his own supper. It was cold, a familiar reward for seeing to a child first.

 

[aiwonder]

Two years after his return from the war, Eddard found Benjen below the earth before dawn. One lamp burned at Lyanna's feet. The masons had not yet carved her face. Eddard had sent the last clay study back and kept putting off the summons to inspect its replacement. Here there was only the plain lid, the iron sword and the grey dust beginning to gather in its letters. Benjen sat beside it with a black cloak over one knee. He was trying to drive a silver wolf clasp through wool too thick for the pin. Each hard shove bent it farther.

"You are bending it," Eddard said.

"It has yet to survive this cloak," Benjen replied. "Perhaps black brothers have no use for silver wolves after all."

Benjen's hands stopped. "Have you come to ask me to stay again?"

"I came to ask you to wait. A moon, at least."

"And then another."

Eddard sat upon the step beside him. Benjen moved the cloak clear of the damp stone, but would not look at him.

"You have scarcely left her tomb these past three days," Eddard said. "Do you think I cannot see why you are going?"

The lamp flame bent in a draught. Benjen watched it until Eddard reached to turn the wick down.

"I helped her," Benjen said. "She asked me to bring her mare, and I did. I could have refused. I could have told someone."

Eddard's hand stopped upon the lamp.

"She trusted me to keep quiet. I was pleased that she had asked me instead of Brandon." Benjen looked at the uncarved stone. "I thought I was helping her."

Eddard had suspected. "You knew she meant to meet Rhaegar?"

"I knew she meant to meet him." Benjen looked up sharply. "Do not give me more knowledge than I had. I thought she would be back by sunrise. Brandon left Winterfell whenever the mood took him. Father cursed, Mother wept, and Brandon always came back laughing. Why should Lyanna not?"

"Aerys was hunting the Knight of the Laughing Tree," Eddard said. "Did you know that?"

"No. Nor what had happened to her escort. She told me none of that." Benjen drew a breath. "Did she curse me?"

"No."

"Did she speak of me?"

Eddard could not give him the answer he wanted. "She was dying, Ben. She asked me to take her home."

Benjen lowered his head. Eddard put a hand upon his shoulder and left it there.

Benjen looked at the black wool. "You still want me to stay."

"Robb knows your step. Jon speaks your name whenever the gate opens. I would keep the brother left to me." Eddard held his shoulder. "You have not sworn at the Wall. There are lands I could give you, a household—"

"I do not want a hall." Benjen bent for his cloak. "If I stay now, we shall have this quarrel every winter."

"The Wall will not mend what happened."

"I know." Benjen fastened the wolf clasp. It hung crooked on his shoulder. "But they need men."

Eddard straightened the clasp for him. Neither spoke while he did it.

Benjen took one last look at the uncarved tomb and walked out beneath the stone gaze of their dead.

* * *
​

Benjen's spare boots hung with the soles outward behind a grey gelding's saddle. A black roll of blankets crossed the cantle. One packhorse carried oats, an oiled cloak and a wicker raven cage that smelled of wet feathers and old droppings. Jon watched the preparations from the nursery window. He had packed for enough departures to recognise which things a man kept within reach and which he hoped not to need. He could find no quarrel with Hullen's work. It was Benjen's reason for going that he could not accept.

Rain silvered the yard. Wylla carried Jon down beneath her green wool mantle, holding the edge closed with her teeth while he worked one arm into his coat. The coat was black because black dye hid mud until it dried; the left cuff had already faded brown. His thumb missed the horn toggle twice. Cold made the cord stiff and his hand stiffer. He held both still for Wylla rather than waste a third attempt.

"There," she said, fastening him in three quick movements and pulling up the hood. "Keep those hands inside until we reach the gallery."

Robb stood beneath the gallery with one mitten in Catelyn's hand and one boot planted proudly in a puddle. Mud marked his cheek. Every horse led past received the same claim.

"Mine," Robb declared, pointing at Benjen's gelding.

Catelyn followed his finger. "That is Benjen's horse, Robb."

"My horse. Benjen can have a turn." Benjen came beneath the gallery and swept him up.

"A generous offer," Benjen said.

"Mind his head," Catelyn said as Benjen swung him round.

Benjen tucked Robb securely against his shoulder. "I have him, my lady."

Benjen kissed Robb's muddy cheek and mittened hand, then gave him back. Jon waited until his uncle crouched before him. The black cloak smelled of horse sweat, hearth smoke and the pine soap used in Winterfell's lower yard. He remembered Benjen Stark riding beyond the Wall and failing to return. He had never known enough about that ranging to name its day or guide men to the place where he vanished. Worse, it lay years beyond the journey being prepared in front of him. He could scarcely explain tomorrow to Robb, much less give Benjen a warning that would remain useful for years.

"You will write?" Jon asked.

"When I reach Castle Black."

"Before that. From the Gift."

Benjen crouched lower, bringing the silver clasp level with Jon's eyes. "From the Gift as well."

Jon touched the bent silver wolf. He had shortened his arguments to what his mouth could reliably say. Eddard had already offered Benjen land and a household; repeating that offer would gain nothing. He would ask for letters, and make the promise specific enough that his uncle might keep it.

"You could stay."

"Your father asked me."

"I am asking."

Benjen drew off his glove. His bare hand enclosed Jon's cold fingers. "I know."

Jon stared at their joined hands. He would not ask again before the whole yard.

"Tell me before you go beyond the Wall."

"If I can send a raven, I will. They must teach me the woods first. I doubt the Lord Commander means to lose me on my first day."

"And if you are hurt, someone else must write."

The faint smile left Benjen's face. "Aye. I will tell them."

Jon had sent men away with promises to write to their families. At sea, a letter might wait weeks for a port, and by the time it reached home the worry had already done its work. He remembered his wife keeping the last one beside the telephone. Benjen had ravens. Jon meant him to use them.

"Remember the ravens," Jon said.

"I will." Benjen squeezed his hand before rising. Arthur gripped his forearm.

"Come back when they can spare you," Arthur said. "The boys will want to show you what they have learnt."

"Keep swords from both boys until I am too far north to hear the noise," Benjen replied.

Benjen mounted, settled his black cloak clear of the saddle and leaned down to check the girth. The gelding shifted from its puddle, scraping iron over wet stone. Hullen checked the packhorse.

Hullen gave the gelding's shoulder a last slap. "Change to the spare if he favours that foot again."

"I heard you the first two times," Benjen said. "You sound like my nephew."

Eddard put one hand upon his brother's boot. "Write. For me as well as the boys."

The gate opened. Three black brothers passed under the arch. Benjen followed and looked back once. Then stone swallowed him.

Jon's body leaned after the vanished horse. Every muscle urged pursuit although the road, four mounted men and his own short legs made pursuit useless. He planted both boots in the mud and kept them there. Breath came wrong. He counted it until the next one came more cleanly.

Robb pulled free of Catelyn and started towards the gate. Jon caught his mitten.

"He is gone," Jon said.

"Benjen back," Robb insisted.

"Not today." The words broke on the last sound. Jon hated that, but repeated them. "Not today."

Arthur knelt in the mud and held out his arms. "Come here, both of you."

Jon's face was wet before he reached him. He kept Robb's mitten in his hand while Jory ordered the gate closed.

At supper the empty chair was worse than the road. Benjen had always come late, smelling of wet leather, to steal crisp skin from the capon and teach Robb to beat a spoon upon the board. That night a servant removed his unused cup. Steam rose from beef broth thick with leeks and barley. Brown loaves were broken, hot enough to sting the fingers. Every opening of the hall door turned Jon's head once. Each time he made himself return to the bowl.

Eddard moved Jon's stool nearer his own chair. "Eat a little."

Jon swallowed, though his throat hurt. "You could have made him stay."

"I could."

"Why did you not?"

Eddard watched the empty place. "Because he asked me to let him go."

Jon disliked the answer. In another life he had given orders men hated and expected them obeyed. Benjen might have hated Eddard for a season; at least he would have been here. He took another spoonful rather than say it.

Under the table Robb pressed his mitten against Jon's knee. He still wore it on the hand Benjen had kissed. Jon held it until the bowl was empty.

That night he woke listening for Benjen's boots in the passage. He knew his uncle was gone, but kept waiting for the step outside the nursery. At last he called Arthur's name. The knight appeared with Dawn in one hand and his belt unlaced.

"Take me to Benjen's chamber," Jon said.

"He is not there."

"I know." Jon pushed the blanket away. "Take me."

Arthur set Dawn aside, wrapped the trailing blanket around him and carried him down one passage. Fresh rushes showed a pale square where Benjen's sea chest had stood. His bed had been stripped, and the hearth was cold. Jon looked from one to the other.

"Will Poole give his room to someone else?"

"When there are guests to house, perhaps."

"There are other rooms."

Arthur settled him higher against his shoulder. "Benjen will not find himself turned away from the gate."

"He should not have to ask."

Eddard came with a lamp and a wolfskin robe flung over his nightshirt. He stopped in the doorway. "There will be a room for him whenever he comes home."

Jon looked up at him. "When?"

"I do not know." Eddard set the lamp down and lifted him. "We shall hear from him."

Against his shoulder Jon caught the smell of sleep, lamp smoke and cold air. He remembered his grown daughter embracing him in a hallway, her grey braid brushing his arm while she complained that he was getting thin. He had been the older one then. Accepting care from Eddard took more getting used to than giving it had, but he held him all the same.

"I have you," Eddard murmured.

Jon held him until the lamplight blurred. Eddard did not ask whether he was crying.

Wylla waited at the nursery door. She took him from Eddard, settled his face against the familiar hollow beneath her throat, and rubbed his back while the men stood uncertainly in the passage.

"Go to bed," she told them softly. "I have him."

She lay beside Jon until his breathing slowed. Her loosened brown braid lay across the coverlet, close enough for him to catch its end. When he woke once more, her hand was still beneath his cheek, the rough seam at the base of her thumb as familiar as the pillow.

* * *
​

A hurried line from the Gift reached them first, as promised. Benjen's longer letter came from Castle Black before Poole cleared his chamber. The drenched bird bit the rookery boy, scattered three cups and yielded its message only for mutton. In the solar Catelyn made room for both boys. Robb wanted the wet feather stuck to the wax; Jon wanted the road accounted for.

Jon leaned over the table as Eddard broke the wax. "Read it."

Arthur turned from the window to listen. Eddard glanced at Luwin, who glanced at Jon. "Benjen reached Castle Black. His gelding went lame near the Gift, so a crofter's son now owns an excellent horse with a doubtful leg."

Robb frowned. "My grey horse? Bring him back."

"Benjen assures you the grey was never yours."

"Mine," Robb insisted.

"He writes that the Wall is greater than songs make it and colder than stone has any right to be in summer. His brothers laughed at the silver clasp, so he traded it for a plain black toggle and two pairs of wool hose."

Eddard went quiet over the next lines. His thumb covered part of a sentence. Jon watched it, but did not ask.

"For Robb," Eddard read at last. "Your horses remain safe, though I make no pledge concerning bears. For Jon: I have not forgotten your face. Do not learn too many words before I return, or I shall have to begin our acquaintance again."

"He wrote that?" Jon asked.

Eddard turned the page so he could see the cramped lines, though he could not yet read them. Jon touched the place his father showed him.

Robb succeeded in stealing the feather. He sniffed it, made a face and offered it to Jon. Two barbs had split in the rain. Jon closed his fist around the black shaft anyway.

After Wylla took the boys, Catelyn asked, "What did Benjen write for you?"

Arthur remained by the window. Eddard folded the page. "He asks whether I am angry with him."

"Are you?" Catelyn asked.

"A little."

"Then tell him that. He will know if you pretend otherwise."

Eddard found a clean sheet. For a while the quill hovered above it. "He should be here."

Catelyn took the sealing wax from beneath his elbow and laid it where he would not knock it to the floor. "Write, Ned."

He wrote that the boys asked for Benjen every day and that Hullen wanted the horse brought back if its leg mended. He went on to ask about the men who had taken his brother north, the food at Castle Black and whether the new boots had held against the cold. At the bottom, before he could find another question to ask, he wrote that he missed him.

* * *
​

Later that year the nursery cups caused more talk than the boxes. Wylla packed three each morning: one for herself and one for each boy. When a kitchen girl returned with two, Jon pointed beside the basket's handle.

"One gone."

"Wylla's is below." He nodded and returned to fitting a wheel upon its peg. The girl looked at Nan. "Does he do that with everything?"

"There were three yesterday," Nan said.

"My brother is four and still takes what he is given," the girl murmured.

Jon heard her. He could have explained the missing cup in fewer words than she had spent wondering at it, but his tongue had trouble with longer sentences when he was tired. He pushed the wheel against the peg. It caught crookedly. A small hand was a maddening tool for a man who remembered repairing a pump in failing light.

Robb wanted the cart. Jon held it away from him until he had turned the wheel straight, then let him drag it across the floor. Robb made the noise of a horse. Jon watched the wheel wobble and wished for a washer.

"He hardly plays," the girl murmured.

"Let them have their game," Nan said.

A woman fetching linen bent close to the girl. "My aunt says those pale hairs—" Jon looked up. She drew the folded linen against her chest and glanced towards the door.

"Your aunt has never washed his hair." Wylla had entered with Arthur. "I have. It tangles like any other boy's."

"You have work elsewhere," Arthur said. Both women straightened and left without looking at Jon. "They might remember whose room this is."

"They will remember what they are meant to be doing in it." Wylla knelt and eased the peg from Jon's reddened fingers. She rubbed the sore place, then put the cart on the table, beyond Robb's reach.

Jon had heard adults discussing clever children before. Usually they forgot the child could hear them. He had disliked it then, standing at the other end of the room with a daughter who wanted to go home. He disliked it more from the floor.

"Want water," he said.

Wylla kissed his temple and fetched it. She did not ask him to count the cups again for Arthur. The knight crouched to examine the wheel instead, turning it slowly while Robb explained where the horse ought to go.

* * *
​

Arthur began with feet. He drew a charcoal line across unused boards in the covered yard and made Jon walk heel to toe. Jon managed five steps, hurried the sixth, and sat down hard.

"Again," Arthur said. "This time shorten the fifth step before your ankle turns beneath you."

Robb, waiting beside the line, flung himself onto a pile of straw and announced, "Better."

"You were not falling until you threw yourself into the straw," Arthur told Robb.

"It did not hurt," Robb said, patting the straw.

Jon smiled and went back to the line. "Can I have a sword now?" Robb asked.

"When you can stop because I call, turn without tangling your own feet and fall without breaking a wrist."

"Tomorrow?" Robb asked.

"Show me that you can stop today," Arthur said.

The first pony came sooner. Hullen led out a shaggy brown gelding called Moth, old enough to distrust every new contrivance and short enough for Catelyn to tolerate. Jon smelled warm hide, hay and the sharp leather oil upon the saddle. He had been looking forward to this since waking. He put two fingers beneath the girth, followed the leather until he found no twist, and looked into Moth's mouth while Hullen showed him the mild iron bit.

"What makes him shy?" Jon asked.

"Blue cloth in wind, pigs beneath a fence and boys who kick," Hullen said.

Jon looked for blue cloth before Arthur lifted him. His knees scarcely reached beneath the saddle flaps. Moth waited while Hullen shortened the leathers, then tried to bite the end of the lead.

Eddard came into the yard. "Already?"

"He has asked every morning for a fortnight," Arthur said. "Hullen has the lead."

Eddard ran a hand over the old pony's neck. "A walk, then."

Jon tried to settle his hips to Moth's rolling gait. His mind knew the motion; his legs gripped against it. Hullen reached up and loosened one knee with two fingers.

"Let him carry you."

Moth stopped to bite at a post. Hullen pulled his head away. "Not the timber."

Wylla, crossing the yard with warm milk, laughed. "Perhaps he is still hungry."

"He is always hungry," Hullen said. "Like the other one." Robb looked up from the apple he had been saving for Moth and took a guilty bite.

By the second circuit Jon's thighs burned. He asked Hullen to stop and found his knees trembling when the groom lifted him down.

"Here," he said, touching the rubbed place beside his knee.

Hullen checked the saddle leather, then the boy's leg. "Tomorrow we see how you walk."

Wylla put warm milk into Jon's hands and tucked her cloak around him. Honey clung to the rim. Eddard sat on the mounting block beside him while Robb begged for his turn.

That afternoon he slept through dinner.

* * *
​

The raven came during a rainstorm near the end of Jon's third year. Water kept the boys from the yard, so after dinner—oat porridge with apples cooked soft in butter—Arthur drew his charcoal line across the nursery boards. Jon crossed it ten times before his right foot began to drag.

"Rest," Arthur said.

Robb examined Jon's knees, then shook both his own until he toppled sideways laughing. "I shake more."

"You fall more," Jon said, and went to sit by the shutter.

Arthur stepped into the passage to fetch a dry cloth for the water creeping beneath the shutter. The raven landed upon the outer sill. It was an ordinary rookery bird, black feathers oily in the wet and one tail quill broken short. It cocked one bright eye at the boys.

"Crow," Robb whispered.

Raven, Jon thought, but did not spend breath upon the correction. A bread crust lay beneath the settle. Hunger struck him. It was not his mild wish for more apple. It narrowed the world to grease soaked into hard bread. Near. Food. Take. The room dropped away. Four black toes opened. Wings caught air. The sill fell beneath him and Winterfell's roofs spread grey and shining under rain. Chimney smoke bent east. In the yard below, a horse became warmth moving under hide; a man became a pale face tipped towards the weather. The broken tail dragged. The bird's body corrected without asking him how. He tried to spread the wings farther and felt the pull along their narrow bones. Air lifted him above the ridge of a roof. He wanted to climb higher.

A bell clanged. The raven banked. For one wild moment Jon forgot the room, the small legs and the brother shouting below him. Then hunger turned the bird back. It squeezed through the shutter gap, dropped beneath the settle and took the crust. Robb held still, delighted by the broken rule. A gust struck the shutter. The gap narrowed. The raven flung itself towards light and met oak. One wing hit first. Pain tore through Jon's shoulder though nothing in the nursery had touched him. He reached for his own body. There was no road. Warm blood ran over his lip. His heel slipped from the settle. The little wooden horse fell from his hand. Through the bird he saw a dark-haired boy strike the floor; through the boy he felt claws scraping stone. Porridge flooded his mouth. Robb screamed. Two terrors existed at once, neither wholly his and both impossible to leave.

Then Arthur called, "Jon!"

* * *
​

Uncle Arthur reached him before the wooden horse stopped rocking. Boots crossed rushes. A scabbard struck the doorpost. Arthur's first order cut through Robb's crying.

"Do not touch him."

The raven hit stone again. Arthur dropped beside Jon. The boy lay slack, eyes closed, with blood trickling from one nostril. Two fingers found the pulse beneath his jaw. Arthur cleared the sour milk from his mouth and turned him so he could breathe. He called his name twice without an answer.

"Jon. Look at me." This time Jon's eyelids fluttered. He tried to focus, but the knight's pale eyes doubled. Behind him the raven dragged one wing across the oak settle.

"Bird," Jon croaked.

Arthur followed his gaze. Wylla ran in with a basin. She saw Jon on the floor and let it fall. Water spread through vomit and carried oat husks into the rushes.

"Seven save us."

"Fetch Luwin."

"What happened?"

"Now, Wylla." She ran. Arthur threw a blanket over the raven. At the first muffled wingbeat, Jon's arms jerked against the floor. Arthur froze.

Robb had backed against the wall, bare feet in dirty water. "Crow hurt Jon."

"Did the bird strike him before he fell, or did Jon touch it?" Arthur asked Robb.

"Both fell," Robb said, pressing his back harder to the wall. "He did not touch it."

Arthur gathered the blanket carefully. His hands knew how to hold a struggling creature without crushing it. For one instant Jon saw through the raven's black eye: the knight bent over wool, the red-haired child pressed to stone, his own small body twisted among the rushes. Then the blanket closed and tore the sights apart. Jon vomited again. Arthur put the bundled bird into the wicker linen basket, tied the slatted lid and returned before the spasm ended. He lifted Jon against his chest, head low. Mail rings pressed cold through the child's tunic.

"Stay with me, Jon. Take my hand. Can you hear me?" Arthur said.

Jon gripped Arthur's fingers. "Trying. Bird still hurts."

Luwin arrived with Wylla, Catelyn and Jory. He knelt in the wet rushes, his chain swinging as he felt Jon's skull. Wylla held a cloth beneath the bleeding nose while he opened the boy's eyelids and brought a lamp close. She answered his questions: porridge, apple and milk, the same as Robb; no physic or anything from her locked cupboard.

Catelyn drew Robb to her. "Tell me. Slowly."

"It ate the bread. Then it hit the wall. Jon fell too."

"Where did the bread come from?"

"I put it there." Shame crumpled his face.

"A crust did not make your brother fall." She kissed his hair. "You did not do this."

Jon tried to sit and sagged against Arthur. The bleeding had stopped. "Bed," Luwin said. "He struck his temple, but he may have swooned first. I will stay."

"His shoulder hurt when I lifted him." Arthur watched Jon's face as Luwin moved the arm and felt along the collarbone. There was no break he could find. The knight had seen Jon's arms jerk with the hidden bird's wings; he would ask about that when the boy could answer without being sick. He kept Jon's head supported until Luwin said he might move him.

Servants were gathering outside. "Close the door, Jory," Catelyn said. "No one makes an omen of a sick child."

Eddard arrived after dark, called from a miller's plea in the winter town with Stark guards riding at his heels. Jon woke beneath his hand.

"Father." He reached until Eddard caught his fingers.

"I am here."

"My head hurts." Jon touched the swelling. "It hurt before I fell."

Eddard eased his hand away. Luwin told him about the swoon, bleeding and blow at the temple while Robb demonstrated with a carved horse. Catelyn stopped him after the second fall.

"Will it happen again?" she asked.

"I cannot say."

"Then the boys are not left alone near that window."

"I went for a cloth," Arthur said.

"Send a servant next time." She spoke without heat. Eddard looked from Arthur to the shutter.

"Mend the catch. Luwin, stay until he sleeps."

Catelyn took Robb upstairs. Wylla straightened the coverlet and left the carved horse beside Jon's reaching hand. He heard Mikken mending the catch and servants scraping the settle away from the window. Luwin checked his eyes again and wiped his lip, leaving only when he slept, with orders to call if the bleeding returned. Arthur remained, Dawn beside his chair. When Jon woke thirsty, the knight held his cup.

"Shut the door," Jon said.

Arthur set down the cup and did so. Jon waited until he returned to the chair.

"I saw through the raven."

Arthur glanced at the covered basket. "When it came through the window?"

"Before. I saw the roofs, then the bread. It wanted that so badly I could hardly think." Jon pressed his palm against the blanket. Skinchanging. He had wondered when the Stark gift would show itself in him. In the books it had come with wolves; his first taste was a raven frantic over a bread crust. He curled his fingers into the blanket.

"You were awake?"

"I felt the settle and the wings together. My shoulder hurt when it hit the shutter. It has stopped now." Jon looked up. "How long before I answered? Was I breathing?"

"Aye. I turned you when you were sick. You opened your eyes, but did not answer for perhaps four breaths. Then your arms jerked each time it beat its wings beneath the blanket."

"You were stopping me seeing."

"I did not know."

"That is why I am telling you. If it happens again, I need you beside me." Jon reached for the cup; Arthur helped him drink. "I tried to come back. I could see myself on the floor, but could not make that body move."

"Do you mean to try again?"

"I did not mean to this time."

"Tell me when you feel it beginning. Sit before your legs give way; I will keep you from falling."

"Call my name. I heard you. You must tell me what happens here. I cannot watch both."

Arthur closed his hand around Jon's. "We shall begin with that."

A step sounded outside. Jon stopped speaking. Arthur looked towards the door, then back at him.

"Not yet," Jon whispered.

Eddard came in with Luwin and Wylla before Arthur could answer. Jon drew the wooden horse onto his lap.

"My throat hurts," he told them. He swallowed for Luwin, followed the maester's fingers with his eyes and answered about the sickness and swelling. He said nothing of the view from beneath the blanket.

"Sleep if you can. I will look in again," Luwin said. "No yard tomorrow."

Jon's objection became a yawn. Eddard covered his feet while Arthur carried the basket carefully into the adjoining room. Wylla brought barley mashed in broth and helped him eat.

"You will be here when I wake?" Jon asked when the bowl was empty.

"Yes." His father drew the chair nearer.

* * *
​

The roots were white.

They crowded the hollow beneath Jon's feet, thick enough in places that he could walk upon them without touching earth. Between two lay a skull with fine roots running through its teeth. He drew his foot away.

Somewhere above him, the raven dragged its injured wing across bark. Pain caught beneath his shoulder.

He could still feel the blanket over his legs. Uncle Arthur's finger rested inside his fist, warm and rough against his palm. Jon held to it as he looked around.

A man sat beyond the roots.

White hair lay across his shoulders and caught among the wood behind his head. His cloak had rotted where it touched the ground. One hand rested palm upwards upon his knee, with a root passing between the fingers. Jon looked at the face and wished he had not. Something pale moved in the empty eye socket.

The other eye watched him.

Jon stepped back. A root curled around his ankle.

"Let go."

"You reached first," the man said.

"I was looking at the bird."

"And when it flew, you went with it."

Jon pulled his foot. The root held.

"Did you bring me here?"

"I found you with the raven." The man studied him. "Who taught you to keep hold of yourself?"

"No one."

Above them, the raven beat its good wing. Winterfell's roofs swept beneath Jon, wet stone shining through the rain. Then he was looking into the nursery. Arthur sat beside the bed. Eddard was farther away, near the hearth.

The child beneath the blanket had his eyes shut.

Jon tried to move that child's hand.

"You know where to look," the old man said. "You knew it while the bird was struggling."

"I could see myself on the floor."

"And you understood what you were seeing."

Jon bent and worked his fingers beneath the root. The bark scraped his skin.

"What do you want?"

"To understand why I cannot follow you." The red eye remained upon him. "I have watched men who have not yet been born. When I look ahead of you, what I see will not hold."

"I do not know why."

That much was true. He knew no more about his arrival in this world than he had when he first opened his eyes in it.

"Then let me look."

"At what?"

The blanket against his legs faded.

He heard rain striking a window.

For a moment the roots were gone. He stood in a kitchen he had known for years, with daylight upon the table and his wife beside him. She was reaching past his shoulder for something in the cupboard. Her sleeve brushed his arm.

She laughed.

Jon turned towards her before he could stop himself.

"Where is that?"

The voice came from inside the kitchen.

White roots pushed between the floor tiles. His wife's hand remained raised beside the cupboard, but he could no longer see her face. Beyond her shoulder, the red eye moved towards the window.

Jon tried to force the memory away. He thought of the nursery, the brazier, Arthur's hand. His wife's laughter came again, and for an instant he wanted to hear the rest of what she had been saying.

The old man leaned forward.

"Who is the woman?"

"Get out."

"Whose memory is this?"

Jon could scarcely feel Arthur now.

He had kept that room through death. He remembered meals eaten there, the cupboard door that would not close properly, her annoyance when he left soil upon the floor. He had never needed to guard it from anyone.

The pale man was waiting for an answer.

"You have no right to it," Jon said.

"Show me the room again."

"No."

He sought the pressure against his palm. For a dreadful moment he found only bark. Then something moved against his fingers, and he felt the familiar roughness of Arthur's skin.

Jon closed his fist.

The kitchen disappeared. Cold struck his bare feet. He was among the roots again, with the old man watching him more closely than before.

Jon braced his free foot against the white coil and pulled. Pain ran up his leg. Beneath it came another hurt, dull and heavy at his temple.

He knew that pain. He had struck his head upon the nursery floor.

"Stay," the old man said.

Jon dragged at his trapped ankle. The blanket caught around his knees. A hand enclosed his fist.

White wood cracked.

He woke trying to wrench his leg free of the bedclothes.

"Jon."

Arthur caught his shoulder. Jon seized the knight's wrist with his other hand and held it. The brazier glowed beside the wall. Eddard was coming towards them from the hearth.

His ankle hurt. When Arthur drew the blanket aside, there was nothing upon it.

"Another fit?" Eddard asked.

"He woke struggling."

His father felt his brow, then went to fetch Luwin. Jon waited for the door to close.

"There was a man," he whispered. "In the dream. He held my leg with a root."

Arthur stayed close enough that Jon did not have to raise his voice.

"What man?"

"White hair. One red eye. He wanted to know why he could not see what would happen to me."

"Did he give you his name?"

"No."

Brynden Rivers. Bloodraven.

Jon kept the names to himself.

"I could feel your hand while I was there," he said. "Then I nearly lost it."

Arthur settled upon the edge of the bed. "I have you."

Jon nodded, still gripping his wrist.

When he closed his eyes, he saw the kitchen window.

He opened them again.

Luwin found no fresh hurt. He asked his questions, changed the cloth against Jon's temple and left Arthur beside the bed. Jon waited until his footsteps had faded along the passage.

Jon had read about Bloodraven in another life: the kinslayer with a thousand eyes and one, one of the Great Bastards. He remembered the old man in the tree teaching Bran to see through ravens and weirwoods, but the books had left much of Brynden's purpose unexplained. Jon had his suspicions. He would be a fool to mistake them for knowledge now, with the man reaching into memories he had thought were his alone.

Bran had not even been born. Whatever Bloodraven intended for him, Jon would keep the boy out of that cave. He would have to learn enough to offer him something better.

The Others were real too. Remembering them brought a coldness quite separate from the ache in his head. Bloodraven might know how to fight them; Jon would need to discover what the old man knew. But wanting the dead stopped did not oblige him to surrender everything that would follow. He had a life to build here. He meant to survive the winter and live it.

His wife's sleeve had brushed his arm. Even now he could almost feel it.

He had never agreed to come to Westeros. Death had put him in this bed with a child's hands and the memories of a man who had already grown old. He could do nothing about that, but he would decide what became of him from here.

The Jon Snow he had read about had tried to save people and ended with his own men's knives in him. Jon lay still, listening to Arthur breathe. He would remember the mistakes as well as the courage. He intended to live long enough to accomplish what the boy had been prevented from doing, and he wanted more besides.

He would be king.

He knew enough history to understand how little a crown could command when its wearer had to beg another man for soldiers. His men would draw their pay from him. When he changed a law, a great lord's displeasure would not decide whether it held beyond the next river. Dragonstone would give him somewhere to begin building that power, and he meant to use it.

They would call some of what he wanted impossible. Others would understand it well enough to resist. He would give them reason to accept the changes; where that failed, he would make them submit. He had no intention of bargaining away his future each time one of the great houses found a different advantage. If he had to drag this world towards the life he meant to make in it, he would.

Arthur shifted beside him. Jon loosened his grip upon the knight's wrist, ashamed to find the marks of his fingers there. Arthur looked down at him and stayed.

* * *
​

By Jon's fourth nameday Luwin had begun giving him letters beside the counting beans. At first he used names the boy heard every day. Jon learned the shapes upon his own strip of parchment while Robb pressed beans into a row and gave each the name of a horse.

The maester covered the strip with his hand. "Again tomorrow."

"You can turn it round," Jon said.

Luwin looked at him. "Why?"

"You want to know whether I remember where it was."

The maester drew a clean scrap towards him. He wrote the same letters in another order and asked Jon to sound them. Jon did so slowly. He knew what the lesson was for, but the Common Tongue's spelling was not the spelling he had learned as a child. The unfamiliar arrangement cost him one sound. He asked for it, repeated it, and read the little word again.

Luwin put his quill down. "Has someone been teaching you when you leave me?"

"I ask when I see a word."

"Whom do you ask?"

"Whoever can read it." Jon pushed the scrap back. "That one is new."

It was an answer Luwin could test, and a true one. Jon had no wish to sit pretending that each lesson took a week, nor to explain why he already knew how learning worked.

Robb leaned across the beans. "Write horse."

Luwin wrote it. Jon left the sound for Robb to find. When his brother lost patience at the middle, Jon uncovered that part with one finger.

"You say it," Robb demanded.

"Try that much."

Robb tried, got it wrong and looked at Luwin. The maester gave him the sound again. Jon kept the rest covered until his brother had joined it to the beginning, then moved his finger.

"There," he said when Robb reached the end.

He had nearly put a hand on his brother's shoulder. He remembered sitting beside his daughter over a page she had decided was too hard, resisting the temptation to read it for her so they could both be finished. Robb only wanted the word for his horse. He seized the scrap, pleased with himself, and began telling Luwin what ought to be written next.

Catelyn came to fetch them with Sansa in her arms. Luwin gave Jon another arrangement of letters. He read it, then asked why different shapes could make the same sound.

"A question for many maesters."

"Do they agree?"

"Seldom." Luwin smiled, drawing a separate sheet close to record what Jon had read.

Catelyn called Robb to wash. He gathered his counting beans. "Jon has finished already."

"Finish your own work. Do not race after him." She waited for him to tie the sack, then turned to Luwin. "I do not want him hurried because another child answers first."

"I will give them what each needs."

Jon held out the scrap Robb had asked for. Catelyn took her son's hand, leaving Jon to place it upon the stool. She thanked the maester and went. Arthur, waiting beyond the door, stepped back so her skirts could pass.

Jon watched the scrap. He knew why she disliked him. It did not make every small exclusion painless, but he had no intention of spending his childhood petitioning her to change her mind. He took another piece of parchment and asked Luwin for the names of the tools in the smithy.

Outside, a servant carrying lamp oil paused beside the red-bearded guard. "Is it true the little black-haired one reads the maester's books?"

"He asked me to read a word yesterday. I could not."

"Making sport of you?"

"No. He waited till I had finished trying, then told me not to trouble myself." The guard glanced towards the doorway. "I found myself explaining why I had never learnt."

"He is four."

"I know."

"Lower your voices," Arthur said. "He is here."

Jon kept his eyes upon his parchment. The man had coloured when he could not read it. Offering to teach him, with his fellows listening, would have made it worse. Jon had asked Luwin instead.

Luwin gave Jon the tool names, then leave to read the book of painted beasts while he put away his herbs. Its green spine was beyond Jon's reach.

"Would you lift that down?" he asked the guard. "Maester Luwin said I might have it."

Luwin nodded. The man propped his spear by the door and carried the book to the window, its wooden covers wider than Jon's chest. Jon climbed onto the stool and pushed back his white lock.

"Call when you have done. Do not try to put it back."

"I will. Thank you." Jon laid his parchment clear of the heavy cover. He thanked the servant trimming the wick too. The man moved the lamp clear of Jon's shadow and paused over the painted horse before taking his jug away.

* * *
​

Catelyn found Septa Mordane in the nursery, mending a gown Sansa had outgrown. Robb went straight to Nan with the word he had learned, eager to have it written again. Catelyn gave his sister to the septa and unfastened her cloak.

"Luwin means to give them different work. Robb has begun counting everything Jon finishes before him."

"He ought not to trouble himself over that, my lady."

"He is a child. He wants to do what his brother does."

Mordane settled Sansa upon her knee. "Bastards grow quicker."

Catelyn glanced at her. Beside the hearth, the linen woman slowed her folding.

"Luwin says he has never taught a child who learns so readily."

"Quickness is not always a grace. The Seven did not bless the bed that brought him into the world. Such children need humility taught to them, not a household praising every word."

Catelyn drew off her gloves. Ned would have called the boy innocent. He always did when she spoke of the hurt his presence caused her, as though the one answered the other.

"He is well mannered."

"He knows whom to please. Even the women who were afraid of him bring him sweetmeats now."

"Would you rather he were insolent?"

"I would rather they remembered whose son will rule here." Mordane caught Sansa's hand before she could pull at the thread. "Your son should not grow up hearing that a bastard does everything better."

Robb was asking Nan to draw the horse beside his word. His first attempt had six legs; she was helping him decide which two to rub away.

"No," Catelyn murmured. "He should not."

Catelyn called the linen woman over and told her there were to be no comparisons between the boys. Mordane added a warning about encouraging pride. Catelyn let her finish.

Wylla returned with Jon after the woman had gone back to her folding. He waited while she moved a sheet from his stool.

"Thank you. Have the guests gone?"

"Not all, my lord." The woman glanced towards Mordane.

Jon moved nearer to watch her fold, but she gathered the linen and took it towards the door. There she stopped for the little gown Mordane held out to her.

Catelyn turned to Robb's drawing. Jon climbed onto the stool beside him and held the parchment while his brother rubbed away a crooked line.

* * *
​

That evening Eddard found Luwin's separate sheet beside the lamp: the words Jon knew and three questions he had asked. Arthur stood by the hearth.

"For part of their lessons," Luwin said when Eddard asked about separate work. "Jon is ready for harder books. I shall keep them together where I can."

"Wylla found the linen woman avoiding him," Arthur said. "Only days ago she was making a fuss of him."

"She asked me whether a child could be sly without knowing it," Luwin said. "She could name nothing he had done. Mordane had warned her against encouraging him, with Lady Catelyn there. When I asked the septa, she spoke of humility and his birth."

Eddard drew up a chair and waited for the rookery boy to carry his bucket outside. "I will speak to my lady. Poole can deal with the talk belowstairs."

"Let them bring me their questions," Luwin said. "They expect to coax a child of four, not find him waiting for an explanation."

"They need not gather outside your door to ask. Keep the lessons here. Give him work that interests him, without waiting for Robb, and stop when he is tired."

Luwin nodded. "I shall keep a record."

The maester gathered the scraps and went up to the rookery. Arthur waited until his steps had faded before closing the door.

"I cannot even tell them whose son they are speaking of."

"You agreed to that silence."

"For his life. Not so he could be taught to expect less respect than every trueborn child who visits."

"He has a lordship to learn to rule. He will have the teaching." Eddard looked towards the nursery passage. Wylla had carried Jon upstairs with charcoal still in his fist. "He does not have to astonish us every morning to keep his place here."

Arthur was quiet. At last he nodded.

"And he may hear petitions?"

"Those I judge fit for him."

On the following morning Luwin put a new page beside Jon's bowl. Arthur kept it folded until he had eaten.

* * *
​

In Luwin's room after breakfast, Arthur waited until the maester had gone to the rookery before drawing a chair beside Jon's.

"Has something happened with the women in the nursery?"

Jon finished the word he was copying. The last letter had crowded against the edge of the scrap.

"The woman who brings the linen?"

"Wylla thought she had upset you."

Jon laid down the quill. "She used to stay and talk. Yesterday she looked to the septa before answering a question."

"Did you ask her why?"

"No. She was quite willing to speak to Mordane when I moved away."

Arthur had drawn the chair close, but sat forward upon it, one hand braced against his knee. Jon turned towards him.

"I was annoyed. I did not mean to bring you into it."

"Your father knows."

"I thought he would by now."

"He will speak to them."

The linen woman had been laughing a few days earlier while she rescued his stocking from Robb. Jon doubted she had taken a sudden dislike to him. He had seen men grow careful in a superior's presence often enough to recognise the same caution here. The difference was that no one expected him to notice it from a nursery stool.

He remembered that household from the books: the affection Jon Snow had received from his father and siblings, and the small exclusions that made him question his place among them. That boy had grown up beside Robb, wanting much the same things, with no other life against which to measure what Winterfell denied him. Jon did not despise him for being hurt by it.

But he could still remember his own son coming to him for advice, a granddaughter falling asleep against his shoulder, his wife disagreeing with him across their kitchen table. He had lived too much of a life to discover his nature in a servant's wary glance.

"You need not be so angry, Uncle."

Arthur looked down at the hand upon his knee and loosened it.

"I came to find out whether you were."

"I know."

"Then do not dismiss it merely to spare me a quarrel."

"I am not." Jon shifted round upon the chair. "Do I seem unsure of my place here?"

"No."

"Then believe me when I tell you it has not troubled me as much as you think."

Arthur studied him for a moment.

"People can hurt you without being right."

"Aye. But I would have to care rather more for her good opinion."

"She has no right to set the women against you."

"Nor will she have more right tomorrow. I cannot spend every day being angry because she has not changed her mind."

From the passage came the scrape of a bucket, followed by a woman telling someone to lift his feet. Arthur waited until they had passed.

"You are entitled to better treatment."

"I am Lord of Dragonstone," Jon replied. "I know what I am entitled to. There is a castle waiting for me, and people Father expects me to learn to rule. I do not need Mordane to find me a place."

"Winterfell is your home as well."

"I have not forgotten it. I shall still eat with Robb and go to my lessons. I am not going to hide whenever she comes into the room."

Arthur sat back at last.

"And if she interferes with those lessons?"

"Then I will speak to Father. That would be something worth settling."

The knight nodded, though reluctantly.

Jon drew the parchment away from his elbow. "Let him speak to Lady Catelyn first. You will only quarrel if you go to her now."

"I have no intention of quarrelling with Lady Stark."

"You had very little to say to her at breakfast."

"I thought silence preferable."

"So did I yesterday."

Arthur lowered his head with a brief, unwilling smile.

"Very well. I shall give your father time."

Jon picked up the quill again. He was fond of the man, but there were days when being worried over proved more trying than whatever had prompted the worry.

"You will tell me when something does trouble you?"

"I will."

The answer seemed to satisfy him more than anything else had. He rose and reached for the book when Jon began gathering the loose scraps beneath it.

"The green one goes above the histories."

Arthur found the place and turned back for the smaller book.

"That one stays. Luwin has lent it until tomorrow."

The knight set it beside Jon's hand.

"Come, then. Robb is waiting."

Jon corked the ink before climbing down. Arthur opened the door, and they went out together.

* * *
​

At supper Eddard asked Catelyn whether she would have more fish. She thanked him and held out her trencher. Neither spoke again until Sansa dropped her spoon.

Robb watched his mother retrieve it. He had begun telling them about Moth, but no one had asked what the pony did next. Across the table Arthur was cutting his bread into pieces smaller than he usually troubled to make.

"Have I done something?" Robb whispered.

"No." Jon moved the gravy within his reach. "What happened to Moth's apple?"

Robb glanced towards Eddard. "I was saving it."

"I saw you eating it."

"Only the bruised part."

"And the rest?"

"He would not take it after it fell." Robb set down his spoon to show how he had held the apple out. "Harwin said to wash it. But Moth eats off the ground."

"Perhaps he wanted you to wash your hands."

"I did wash them." He spread both palms for Jon to inspect. A little dirt remained beside one nail. Jon pointed to it, and Robb hid that hand beneath the table, laughing.

Eddard asked whether the pony had received his apple in the end. Robb assured him that he had, then asked whether Eddard would watch him ride the next day. Catelyn listened while she cut Sansa's fish. When she asked Arthur to pass the salt, he did so at once.

Jon took another piece of bread. Robb had resumed his account of the stable visit, and no one interrupted him.

 

[aiwonder]

Six weeks before Jon's fifth nameday, Ethan Glover's broken seal showed beneath a sheaf of hearth pleas. Jon drew the letter free and climbed into Luwin's chair. His feet hung above the floor.

The maester found him there before breakfast, moving one finger beneath the cramped lines.

"Have the accounts begun reading themselves?" Fine creases gathered beside Luwin's grey eyes as he put down a pot of vinegar and a bundle of clean quills.

"Only badly. Is this a mast or a master?"

Luwin came round the desk. "A mast. Show me the sentence."

Jon began at the heading. Before he reached the third line, the maester had drawn up another chair.

The common letters had returned more easily than speech or walking. Once Luwin showed him their shapes, habits older than his body took hold. Yet Westerosi hands varied from upright Citadel script to cramped scratches that seemed written by a spider being dragged from ink. He missed print more than he had expected. A page of identical letters had once been so ordinary that he scarcely noticed it; now a clerk's flourish could cost him a morning. He turned Ethan's letter towards the window and began again.

Jon followed the first line with his finger. "Eastcove landed less cod than last moon. The Gull's Daughter has split her mast, and her crew is ashore."

"What does the reeve want?" Luwin asked.

"Timber from the castle store. Ethan says it is set aside for roof beams." Jon worked through the next line. "The reeve says cod will cost two pennies more a basket if the boat is not mended."

He looked up. "How much fish is in a shore basket?"

Luwin took the shallow basket they used for counting beans from beneath the desk. "At Eastcove, about this much. At White Harbor a fish basket takes two men to carry. Gulltown sells by weight."

Jon looked from the basket to the letter. "Then ask the clerk for the weight as well as the price. I want to know what the same amount would cost at White Harbor."

Luwin noted it, then wrote four words in different hands. Jon read mole, meal and mill. The fourth defeated him.

"Mule," Luwin said. "A White Harbor copyist wrote it so for thirty years, and his lord praised the hand."

"I would have read mill again."

"The last stroke is the e's tail." Luwin marked it.

"Have Ethan send a page in his clerk's hand. I can learn it while we wait for the next account."

Luwin's quill stopped above the ink. "You mean to read the accounts as they come?"

Jon remembered a stores return that had claimed drinking water nobody had actually checked. The figures had been neat enough. He had learned to ask who had opened the tank. He kept his finger beneath Ethan's line.

"They concern my island."

The maester looked at him over the parchment. "You have read farther than the lessons I set you."

"There were other pages."

"I shall have to find harder ones." Luwin turned the account over and pointed to a crowded line on the back. "Try that."

The door opened hard enough to shake the latch. Robb entered backwards, dragging the wooden horse by one hind leg. Its single mended wheel thumped over the threshold.

"You promised to help with the runnel," Robb said. "Come before it fills."

"It is raining," Jon said. "The runnel has more water than it knows what to do with."

"That is why we need the dam." Robb noticed Ethan's letter. "Have you started without me?"

"Sit beside Jon. We have only begun," Luwin said.

Robb took the stool, horse tucked beneath one arm. He sounded out the heading. "East...cove."

Then he looked at Jon. "You read all of it?"

"Not quite. Luwin helped with this bit." Jon pointed to the crowded line.

"You never said you could read a whole letter," Robb said, holding the wooden horse tight against his ribs. Jon glanced from Ethan's account to the muddy wheel. He had promised to help with the dam, then allowed his own work to make the promise seem less urgent. Robb had no reason to see it that way.

"I should have come to tell you," Jon said. "I only found the letter this morning. Come and look."

"We are meant to learn together."

"Then bring your stool closer," Luwin said.

Robb dragged the stool beside Jon's. "Have you read the Rat Cook?"

"No. Old Nan tells it better."

Robb's shoulders loosened. "Then you do not know everything."

"There is plenty I have not read."

"Then save some for me."

Luwin sent for bread, white cheese, three apples and a sack of counting beans. Rain filled the runnel without its dam.

* * *
​

Eddard's answer to Jon's request for island accounts was a morning on horseback. Moth waited in the lower yard beneath a child's saddle. The shaggy pony had a brown coat everywhere except his muzzle, which age had dusted grey, and a habit of swelling his belly while Hullen tightened the girth.

"He is doing it now," Jon said.

Hullen paused. "Doing what, my lord?"

"Holding his breath. Uncle Arthur says loosen the strap, walk him, and try again." Moth rolled one black eye towards Jon.

"Ser Arthur has been telling stable secrets," Hullen said. He loosened the girth, led the pony six paces and tightened it by another hole. Moth breathed out in disgust. "There. Betrayed by his own lungs."

Robb rode a red pony called Apple, chosen less for colour than for her passion for stolen fruit. Eddard mounted his grey courser beside them. He wore a plain brown cloak with a small silver direwolf at the shoulder; Hullen and three guards followed far enough back to leave father and sons room to speak.

They passed out through the outer gate at a walk. The morning was cold but clear. Rain had polished every roof in the winter town, and puddles held pieces of blue sky. Smoke from turf fires lay low between the houses. Moth's saddle moved beneath Jon with each short stride, warming the inside of his legs and reminding him that understanding a gait did not spare the body from soreness.

"Why are we riding to the mill?" Robb asked.

"Because Luwin says both of you can count carts," Eddard said.

"I can count those," Robb said.

"Then you can help me," Eddard said.

Six wagons stood axle-deep in the mill field: two of barley, one of oats, three of split firewood. The miller called his barley sacks Winterfell measure; Poole's clerk called them light.

"How do we learn which man is right?" Eddard asked. His grey courser stood fetlock-deep while the men waited.

"Open several sacks, some from each barley cart," Jon said. "If your steward chooses only one, he may choose the shortest and call it proof."

Robb shook his head. "Make them put the sacks down first. We can choose the ones at the bottom too."

The miller looked offended. "My lord, I have never—"

Eddard lifted one hand from the reins. He waited until the miller's protest had ceased and Poole's man had lowered his eyes. "My son is not accusing you. He is learning how an accusation might be tested. Continue, Robb."

Robb slid from Apple before Hullen could help and pointed at the lower sacks. "Those as well."

"Did they get wet on the road?" Jon asked. He pressed a hand against a sack near the wheel.

"Does that make them weigh more?" Robb asked.

"Aye, young lord. And spoil, if you leave them." The miller undid a sack and let Jon feel the dry grain beneath its folds. "These travelled covered."

Jon dismounted more carefully. Both thighs protested when his boots met earth. "Weigh them, then. And let us see the weights you both used."

"Against whose measure?" Eddard asked. "They disagree about that already."

Jon looked at the man. Flour sat white in the lines beside his nose. His wool coat had been patched with green cloth at one elbow. He watched Eddard, not the boys.

"Yours. Bring the standard from Winterfell and try both sets against it, here where they can watch."

The miller nodded slowly. "That would show true, my lord."

Eddard had Mikken's standard iron brought from Winterfell. One of the miller's weights proved light, worn smooth along its base through years of use rather than filed for fraud. Three sacks were short. Two were over. The clerk had entered the three short sacks but given no credit for the two that were heavy.

"Who lied?" Eddard asked while men repacked the opened barley and stamped the spilled kernels deeper into the mud.

"He did not count the heavy ones," Robb said, pointing at the clerk. The man's face reddened.

Jon rubbed barley dust between his fingers. "The miller's weight is worn. That need not be theft. But the whole delivery must be counted, not only the short sacks."

"And the difference?" Eddard asked. "Someone must bear it."

Jon considered making the miller replace every short handful, then looked at the worn iron again. The next delivery would be easier to judge with a true weight. Beside them grain was trickling through a torn seam. Robb caught the sack with both hands. "It is spilling."

Eddard called a carter to take the sack. "Winterfell takes this delivery as it stands. The miller will replace the worn weight before the next, and Poole's clerk will enter the whole count. We will use the same measure at both ends."

Mikken's apprentice took the worn weight to check against the standard while the men repacked. By the horses Eddard held Moth's bridle for Jon.

"Did Luwin teach you to ask for the weights?"

"About different measures. Not this quarrel." Jon found his stirrup and settled the reins clear of the pommel. "A worn weight will make the next delivery wrong too. It would have been better to agree before they quarrelled."

Robb was telling Hullen about the hidden sacks. Eddard asked Jon how the same trouble might affect fish baskets, and listened all the way to the road.

"I want to see Ethan's next account," Jon said. "The ships as well as the grain."

"Read it with Luwin. Bring me what you do not understand."

"Does that include me?" Robb asked. "Or may I have the ships without the barley?"

"Ask the sailors," Eddard said. "I doubt they sail far without breakfast."

Jon watched his father's hands upon the reins. Eddard rode without display, hips easy in the saddle, giving the grey horse room to choose firmer ground. He smelled of leather and pine smoke. When Apple stole a withered crabapple from a cart he laughed, then reached down to steady Moth as the pony shied from a flapping blue cloth.

Jon watched the gloved hand return to the reins. He could remember this man kneeling in King's Landing, confessing to save his daughter, and a sword falling while the crowd watched. Ned must have thought he was protecting his family then too.

He urged Moth closer. "If Robert calls you south again, will you go?"

Eddard looked down. "Has someone told you he means to?"

"No. I would rather you stayed here."

Eddard rode a little way without answering. "So would Lady Catelyn. But if the king has need of me, I must hear him."

"Take your own men."

"I always do."

Eddard reached across the narrow space and rested one gloved hand on his hood. "Hold the reins lower. Moth has been carrying himself while you think."

At supper, Luwin placed a heel of bread between the boys and gave Robb twelve white beans, Jon twelve black. Sansa sat upon a blanket near the fire attempting to eat a carved wolf's tail.

"Lord Manderly sends eight barley carts," Luwin said. "Lord Cerwyn sends five. Three Manderly carts are delayed. A Cerwyn wheel breaks and another wagon loses its axle. How many reach Winterfell?"

Jon moved eight beans. Robb moved nine, then returned one. "Eight," Jon said, at the same instant Robb declared nine. "You have only eight beans before you."

Robb took one from Jon's black row and put it beside his eight. "We can mend this one."

"How?" Luwin asked.

"Take a wheel from the cart with the broken axle." Robb put two beans together. "That one still has wheels."

"It must fit the other axle," Jon said.

"They both came from Lord Cerwyn." Robb looked at Luwin. "Do they fit?"

"Let us say they do," Luwin answered. "Move the repaired cart. What remains behind?"

"One cart and its barley." Robb moved the ninth bean. Jon gathered the beans for the delayed wagons into another row. The maester made them count both rows before he allowed the bear into the lesson.

Robb grinned and fed the stolen black bean to the wooden bear he had added to the count. Later, he told Catelyn how he saved the grain, fought three raiders and fed a bear with Jon's army. Sansa chose that moment to fling mashed turnip across the table. It struck Uncle Arthur's black sleeve. Everyone stopped. Arthur studied the pale smear, wiped it up with bread and ate it. Robb added a giant to his battle before anyone could object.

* * *
​

After breakfast the next morning, Luwin brought Ethan's account to the solar. Robb trailed him with the counting beans. He had lost two beneath the table and was trying to make the remaining handful sound like a full sack.

Jon read while Eddard listened. The cramped word that had defeated him the day before came easily now. When he finished, his father asked what Ethan ought to do about the mast.

"Buy one," Jon said. "Ask White Harbor what a sound mast costs. Ethan can lend the boat's owner the money from my rents and take it back a little at a time from the catches."

"And if the fishing stays poor?" Eddard asked.

Jon looked down at the account. He had been quick to spend money he had never seen. "Then we may have to wait. But the boat will earn nothing ashore, and Ethan still needs his roof beams."

"With the cost of carrying it," Catelyn reminded him from her chair by the fire.

Jon met her eyes. She believed Eddard had brought another woman's son home and required her to raise him beside her own. He would not have asked that of his wife. He could spare Robb needless comparisons; he could not make himself less capable to ease her hurt. Ethan still needed an answer.

"With the freight," he agreed, and drew the letter closer.

Eddard looked at Luwin. "Give him the common accounts. I will hear his questions after lessons."

Robb set down his beans. "Both of us."

Catelyn smoothed Robb's red-brown hair, so like the braid over her shoulder. He looked up with her blue eyes. "You have letters of your own. Do not skip them because Jon reads quickly."

"We can read together."

"When yours are finished." She drew him beside her. Jon waited with Ethan's letter while Eddard asked Luwin about another raven.

Arthur touched Jon's shoulder. "Come. Read the ship part to me."

In the gallery Jon opened the sheet again. He wanted to ask whether Ethan had enough ships to protect the fishing boats. Arthur waited while he found the heading, making no attempt to hurry him.

"You know how badly I read those merchants' hands," the knight said.

"You read letters from kings."

"Some. This man appears to have written with a crab."

Jon bent over the page and began. By the time they reached the stair, Robb had escaped the solar and come running after them with the last of the beans.

Within a moon Luwin's low shelf held histories, harbour customs, a bestiary and a household remedy book crossed through wherever it prescribed dung. Ethan's copied accounts joined them. The boys learned the island through cod baskets, roof beams, a quay ladder torn loose by the sea and soldiers asking for arrears. The two hundred Northmen Eddard had given Ethan to guard Jon's island needed beds apart from the old garrison, whose men had already claimed the driest rooms. Robb preferred any page with an armed boat. Jon kept going back to the quay ladder; a fisherman had broken his leg there before the answer from Winterfell arrived.

High Valyrian followed the common accounts in Luwin's lessons. Jon would have Valyrian houses sworn to him; the maester expected him to speak their ancestral tongue and read the old island records himself. That evening the harbour book lay open beneath the lamp.

"Pikībās," Luwin said.

"Pikīptan." Jon had worked through the passage in bed.

"Aloud, Jon."

Jon began again. A few phrases remembered from his old reading had helped at first; the endings still caught him. He sent a ship out of a harbour she was meant to be entering.

"Inwards," Luwin said. "Let the poor crew ashore."

Jon found the missed ending and tried the sentence again. The maester listened with his finger resting beside the next line.

Wylla found them there with the lamp burning low and told Jon he could bring the book back in the morning.

In the latest account, Ethan had also asked what name the island should put upon its lord.

* * *
​

Luwin had five small shield-shaped boards painted for the boys to examine. Three sticks of sealing wax and a piece of black sailcloth lay beside them. Ethan's letter was short. Old store tags bore dragons, crowned stags, direwolves or no mark at all. Men swearing to Jon needed a name that belonged to him and a badge they could cut into wood, stamp in wax and sew upon a cloak without borrowing another house. Robb claimed the painted shields before Luwin finished reading.

"This one," Robb said, holding up a black wolf upon red stone. "Give it blue eyes and no one will mistake it for mine."

Jon pushed it aside. "It still looks like Winterfell. I want arms of my own."

Robb thought about that. "Then take Dawn." The second shield showed a white sword beneath a falling star. Arthur stood beyond the table in a dark blue tunic, hands clasped behind him.

"Would Starfall allow it?" Jon asked.

"Lord Ulrick might allow it," Arthur said.

"Because it makes people look at my mother?"

Arthur's face held still. "People would mistake your men for his. Better that they know you at once."

Jon looked at the white sword. Ashara's name was the one the household gave him, yet everything he remembered of his beginning pointed towards another woman. He had been helpless then, scarcely able to separate a voice from a face. He would not force Arthur to choose between telling him and lying here, with Catelyn sewing beside the fire.

"Not the star," he said. Robb offered a dragon-headed ship next. Eddard and Catelyn refused before Luwin had turned it upright.

"You did not even look," Robb complained. "It has a ship for the island and a dragon because the island is called Dragonstone."

"His Grace might look too closely," Catelyn said.

Robb tried a black stag, Blackfish, Blackstone and Blackwolf in quick succession. Eddard said the stag would amuse Robert only until the wine left him; Catelyn raised one brow for her uncle; Arthur rejected anything that sounded near Blackfyre.

"And no wolf," Jon repeated, before Robb could begin again with Blackdragon.

Robb sighed at a realm that had squandered every good name before he was born. The fifth shield had been quartered into black, red, white and purple, with a crown, a star, a wolf and a little grey castle fighting for room. It looked like a pie dropped face-down upon a painted board. Jon turned it over. Lampblack from the unfinished back stained his thumb.

The bare black asked nothing from Winterfell, Starfall or old Valyria. It was cliff after rain, coal beneath ash, Uncle Arthur's night cloak, Benjen riding through the gate, and the sea around an island Jon had never seen.

"Black," he said. "Jon Black. Nothing after it."

Robb frowned at the empty reverse. "Black what?"

Luwin spoke it aloud. The name did not sing. Jon liked it better for that. "And what arms will this plain name bear when Ethan must stamp a chest or put men beneath a banner?" Eddard asked.

Jon held up the unpainted back. "A plain black field."

"There is nothing on it," Robb said. "Not even a ship?"

"I want it black," Jon said.

Arthur studied the plain board. "Sable, uncharged."

Jon rubbed the lampblack from his thumb onto his apron and nodded.

Catelyn set down her needle. "His Grace must grant the name."

"Then send him this."

"As a suggestion," Catelyn said.

"I will send Black to Robert," Eddard said. "Until his answer comes, you are still Jon Snow."

Jon looked at the empty field once more before handing it to Luwin.

Robb dragged one damp finger through the lampblack and drew a crooked wolf on the plain field. "You may borrow half of mine."

Jon caught his wrist before the beast gained a tail. "No."

Robert's answer came four days before the nameday. His clerk used half a page to make Jon Black without making him lawful, Stark or royal. Beneath the seal, Robert added in his own broad hand: A black name for the black rock. Better than Snow.

"I can scarcely read his hand," Jon said, tracing Robert's broad letters.

"He has clerks to spare us that most days," Luwin said.

Wylla read Robert's line twice before handing it back to Luwin. She sewed a square of plain black wool upon Jon's best tunic and edged it in smoke-grey so it did not vanish into the cloth.

"It will show every speck of flour in the castle," she complained.

"Bakers wear white."

"Bakers begin white. Visit one after dusk."

Before dawn on the fifth nameday, Robb dropped a carved dragon upon Jon's stomach. One wing was black, the other red, and its four legs were too short to let it stand.

"It is also a horse," Robb explained.

Jon turned it over. "It is bad at both."

"You can pretend," Robb said.

That was better than the carving. Jon placed it beside the bed, where its thick head pulled it forward. Breakfast was oatcakes browned in bacon fat, soft eggs, smoked trout and one small honey tart with five hazelnuts pressed into the crust. Sansa stole a nut before anyone counted. Robb accused her of treason. Catelyn made Jon divide his tart with the offender.

"Does a lord lose his breakfast on the day he is named?" Jon asked.

"A lord with a sister does," Eddard said. "It is among the oldest laws."

The household gathered in the small hall beneath Winterfell's ordinary grey walls. Poole stood with his keys before the dais; Rodrik, Jory, Hullen, Mikken and the senior servants beside him. Wylla held Sansa. Behind Jon's right shoulder Arthur wore a deep violet cloak over black wool, Dawn sheathed.

Eddard placed the king's sheet upon the board. "The king gave my son Dragonstone before the boy could hold up his own head. Today the king has given him a name to bear there."

He looked down at Jon. Not at the paper. "Speak it."

Jon's feet did not reach the floor. He braced them upon the chair rung. "Jon Black of House Black, Lord of Dragonstone."

"And what will you do with that name?" Eddard asked.

This was no line Luwin had taught him. Jon looked at the faces below: men and women belonging to Winterfell, not him; people upon a black island known only through letters; children not yet born who might carry the name after him.

"Keep Dragonstone. See that the people there have food and protection."

Eddard's eyes warmed. "A beginning."

Luwin read the grant: House Black confirmed, Jon still natural-born, Dragonstone in Eddard's keeping until he came of age. Poole bowed first.

"Lord Black."

Rodrik, Jory and Hullen followed. Mikken looked as though the title mattered less than returning borrowed tools. Arthur passed the open royal letter and knelt. Before the hall he was Ashara's brother. Eddard and Wylla remembered Lyanna's bed.

"I am Arthur Dayne," he said. "Your mother's brother, and your sword so long as I draw breath. I will guard your life, teach you what I know, and tell you when your courage outruns your sense."

Robb whispered, "Often," and earned Catelyn's look.

Jon met Arthur's pale eyes. The man had held him at Lyanna's deathbed. Whether the words were sworn to Jon or Aemon, Arthur had already kept them for five years. "Rise, Uncle Arthur."

Arthur stood. His hand rested for one heartbeat over his heart rather than Dawn's hilt. Eddard gave Jon a little bronze matrix cut in King's Landing. Letters circled a plain centre. The handle had been made for a grown man's fist. Jon pressed it into warm black wax and rocked, leaving half the name shallow.

"Again," he said.

Mikken stepped forward. "Bear down with both hands, my lord. I will make a wider grip for it."

He steadied the handle while Jon pressed it squarely into fresh wax. Robb asked whether he might use it next.

"When you have borrowed the island too," Jon said.

"Only until dinner."

Eddard examined the sound impression and laid it beside Ethan's letter. "Send this with our answer."

When the witnesses had gone, Eddard took Jon to Moth's stall. Plain black wool lay beneath the saddle.

"Is the pony mine too?" Jon asked, knowing Hullen would object from half the castle away.

"The blanket. Hullen says the pony belongs to Winterfell, whatever Robb claims."

Jon ran his palm over the thick weave. "It looks strange without a wolf."

Eddard knelt beside him in the straw. "Your own arms do not put you outside this house. You remain my son and Robb's brother."

"But I shall leave. Uncle Arthur says a lord must live among his people."

"He is right. Not yet, though, and there will always be a place here."

"Will you come to see me?"

"Of course."

Jon touched the cloth again. "Ride with me now?"

"Twice around the yard. A third if Robb counts loudly enough."

They rode until Moth's breath smoked and Jon's thighs ached. Robb followed on Apple, shouting that lords counted differently on namedays. Eddard let him have the third.

* * *
​

Rain returned the morning after the nameday, swelling oak and darkening roofs. House Black's first summons came from a jammed bell rope. The green hour bell hung under its peaked roof above the east gate, dividing watches, meals and labour. It was not the great bronze voice used for attack. Pate had rung it longer than Jon's body had lived. Robb claimed he began before the Wall. Pate said the Wall's bellman had been his apprentice.

The wet rope stuck in its iron guide. Pate braced one foot against the parapet and hauled. The hemp released all at once. He fell backwards, sent two uneven strokes across the yard and dropped the sandglass hidden beneath his coat. It burst on the stair. Pale sand ran with rainwater between the stones. Jon and Robb heard the second stroke from the covered bridge.

"Dinner," Robb said.

A shout came from the stair. Jon turned towards it.

Two guards ran up and found Pate on the stair. They brought him down with blood over one brow and his left elbow swelling. A scullion hurrying to fetch the maester collided with a porter; his pot survived, but the onions rolled across the yard. Dinner waited while the kitchen boys helped gather them. By the time Luwin had washed Pate's cut, Jon and Robb were standing near the brazier, and the broken glass lay on a cloth beside him.

"A matched pair from Oldtown," Pate mourned. "Seven years I have used them. Now I have one left, and I can scarcely turn it with this arm."

"Your apprentice can do that while your arm mends," Luwin said, settling the sling.

Jon examined the surviving glass. Sand fell through the narrow waist in a pale, steady thread. "Who turns the glass at every emptying, while you eat or sleep or nurse that arm?" Jon asked.

"I turn it when I am here, my lord. The watch sends a man when I am not." Pate shifted his bound arm. "Sometimes they forget, and we ring late."

Robb bit into an onion rescued from the floor. His nose wrinkled, tears sprang to his eyes, and he kept chewing while Jon watched, unwilling to surrender the prize he had rescued.

"A weight could turn a wheel for us," Jon said. "Then the wheel could work the bell."

Pate looked from the glass to the rope. "Would the stone not fall all at once, my lord?"

Robb looked up from his onion. "It would hit him."

"Not if it hangs inside a case," Jon said. "No one should stand beneath it."

"And who hauls it up again?" Pate asked. "The watch will still have to send a man."

"To wind it, aye," Jon said. "But not at every stroke."

Jon could almost see it: a hanging stone turning a toothed wheel, a catch releasing one tooth at a time. He remembered the motion, not the dimensions. Those needed a bench, with allowance for a broken catch or worn tooth. Pate had been hurt by a rope; he must not be given a falling stone as well.

"How do you keep the wheel slow?" Luwin asked.

"Two catches on a rocking bar. One holds while the other lets a tooth pass." Jon traced it in the air. "The teeth push the bar each way. Weights on it resist them. Then the wheel can work the hammer. I need to draw it. A small one first."

Pate eased back against his chair while Luwin tucked the loose end of the bandage.

"Have you seen such a thing at the Citadel?" Jon asked Luwin.

"No. Water clocks and sandglasses, but nothing worked by a weight in that manner."

Jon took a piece of charcoal from beside the brazier.

"Then I shall need Woods and Mikken."

Luwin drew a sheet of parchment towards him. "Show them the drawing. They will tell you what they can make."

In the kitchens Jon stopped beyond the roasting spit's reach. A hanging stone drove it through a cord and wooden drum. Grease shone on the teeth; heat had warped two. Tobben stepped aside.

"The catch is behind the drum, my lord. You can see better when dinner is off."

"Show me how you stop it for winding."

Tobben pointed with his long fork. "It drops into the teeth. We lift it when the weight is hooked back on. Mind the grease."

They found other ways to turn and lift: Mikken's treadle grindstone, the eastern portcullis with its rope and counterweight, the mill wheel working as long as water ran. None governed its motion by time. Back with Luwin, Jon drew while Robb made a fort of writing boards.

Luwin watched the charcoal travel across the parchment. "Is this the bar?"

"Aye. These two pieces catch the teeth." Jon drew them on opposite sides of the wheel.

Robb put the bent tooth Tobben had given him beside the drawing. "Like this?"

"Smaller. And not bent."

Robb tried to straighten it with his thumb until Luwin took it away.

Jon called for Luwin's copper dividers and a straight rule. His hand was too small to hold the hinge steady while opening the legs, so Luwin set the width at Jon's direction. Jon fixed one point in the board, turned the other around it and divided the rim first into quarters, then into twenty-four equal places.

Robb leaned over the board. "It is round. Where are the teeth?"

"Here." Jon darkened a mark, then another. "Master Woods can cut them."

"Will he let me help?" Robb asked.

"Ask him. First move your fingers." Jon held the dividers still while Robb drew his hand back.

Luwin steadied the hinge, and Jon marked the next space with Robb watching.

Outside, Pate's apprentice rang the next hour by hand. One bronze note crossed the rain-dark yard, late enough that the kitchens had already begun serving. Jon counted until the sound died.

 

[aiwonder]

Master Woods laid the first clock wheel on his bench beside Jon's drawing. The pale applewood had been cut cleanly, but the teeth crowded together on one side of the rim. Robb stood on a stool counting them with dried peas from Luwin's lesson basket.

"Twenty-two."

"There is one in your mouth," Jon said.

Robb took the pea from between his teeth and set it on the bench. "Twenty-three. Did Olyver eat the other?"

Olyver looked up from the coffin board he was smoothing. "I had bread, my lord."

Jon turned the wheel against the parchment. Woods was a square, brown-bearded man, pale with sawdust from brow to boots. He had followed the drawing until the last space proved too narrow to cut. His dividers explained why: the worn hinge slipped as soon as Jon lifted them. Jon had seen sound crews spend a day correcting work laid out from one bad level.

"Tighten that," Jon said. "Then we will make a pattern for the teeth. Keep this wheel; I can still use it to try the pinion."

Woods took the dividers to his vice. Jon cleared a place beside Olyver and drew a circle on the parchment. He divided it into quarters, then eighths and twenty-fourths, letting the apprentice make the last few strokes. Olyver bent close enough for his hair to brush Jon's sleeve.

"Leave room at the root," Jon told him. "The tip of the other tooth must pass through here." He drew the mating tooth in its next position and turned the parchment so Olyver could follow it.

The boy traced the gap with a blunt nail. "Then I have been cutting these too narrow, my lord."

"Two of them. Bring the wheel." Jon laid it against the drawing and showed him which. They cut their pattern from a thin scrap of horn, broad enough to rest securely on the wooden rim. Olyver tried it on a fresh blank while Jon watched. When Woods returned, his son was already setting out the teeth.

"There is something else, my lord." Woods brought out his measuring stick and the rule Mikken had sent with the arbor. Laid together, they differed by nearly a finger at the foot.

"Both called a foot," Jon said. "Yet one has given us an arbor too thick for the hole."

Robb bent so low his nose almost touched them. "Mikken's foot is longer."

"Mikken's foot is a great deal longer," Olyver said. "I have seen his boots."

Jon laid the sticks across the drawing. "I will have copies made from Luwin's rod. Use those for the clock parts. Tell Mikken I want him here when he has finished shoeing Father's bay."

Vayon Poole came into the shop with Jon's account beneath his arm. The steward wore dark grey wool, dry above the knees and spattered below them from the street.

"The applewood and tools have taken nearly half your purse, my lord. There are the smith's hours to pay as well."

Jon read the figures. His allowance would have to last another moon; the carpenter's seasoned timber cost far more than the wood stacked by Winterfell's hearths. He put back the larger billet he had been considering. Once he could have ordered a replacement part and had it delivered in a box. Here every failed piece consumed somebody's afternoon.

"Olyver can cut the next blank from that offcut. I will want a price for the frame before you begin it, Master Woods."

Woods inclined his head. "This afternoon, my lord, when I have finished the widow's steps."

Robb offered Poole the wet pea. "You may have this towards the cost."

The steward glanced at the bite in it. "Keep it. You appear to have paid already."

By midmorning the coffin had its lid and the widow's steps stood pegged and clamped while their glue dried. Olyver bored the next wheel blank. Jon held a square beside the bit and stopped him when it began to lean; the apprentice corrected the angle before cutting through the far face.

A man in a patched riding cloak came for the coffin before Mikken arrived. He stood bareheaded inside the door, turning his cap while Woods showed him the handles. Olyver put down the brace and helped carry it to the cart. The man thanked the carpenter twice and went away sitting very straight beside the driver.

Jon moved the wheel blanks onto the shelf to clear the bench. A coffin, a pair of steps, his clock: Woods fitted them all into the same small room. Beneath the bench lay chair legs waiting to be glued and a child's little wooden stool with one foot missing. When Olyver came back, he wiped the rain from his freckled face and reached for the brace without being told.

Robb watched the bow saw with increasing interest. Arthur gave him a loose pine shaving to break instead. When Robb snapped it across his knee with a grunt, the knight handed him another.

Mikken arrived smelling of hot hoof and burnt horn, one corner of his apron scorched stiff against his knee. His rule had come from the armoury, Woods's from the men who built the east granary. Jon set Luwin's brass-capped oak stave beside them.

"Use this for the work you make here. Horseshoes may still be fitted to horses." Woods gave the smallest grunt of laughter.

At Jon's expense, they marked pearwood and iron copies with the foot, halves, quarters and fingers. Poole entered the cost while Luwin waited for his stave. The old measures had served each man well enough until a piece from one shop had to fit a piece from the other.

Woods held his copy edgewise. "This settles length. It does not tell me how loose you want the arbor."

"Fit the bush to a pattern pin. It must turn freely without rocking. Keep the pin for replacements."

Mikken examined the rejected arbor. "I can file this one true and save the iron, my lord."

"Do that. Bring it to me before Woods fits the bush."

The wheel itself still ran unevenly: one side pressed hard against the pinion while the other scarcely touched it. Jon drew a pole lathe, with two iron centres and a treadle beneath a springy ash pole.

"Bore the blank first, then turn its rim about the hole." He showed Olyver how the cord reversed the work when the treadle rose. "Lift the tool then. Cut on the downstroke."

Woods took the charcoal at Jon's nod and thickened an upright. "A brace here would keep it from racking, but the treadle needs room."

Jon moved the treadle pin. "Put the brace behind it. That leaves your foot clear."

They were pricing the timber and iron centres when Wylla arrived with a covered basket, rain dark on the shoulders of her green cloak. She moved the drawing beyond the reach of the pie dish and looked at Jon.

"You have an hour before Ser Rodrik expects you. Eat."

The onion pie was still hot. There were two apples, hard white cheese and brown bread spread with bacon fat. Robb reached for the larger apple; Wylla took it first and cut both into pieces.

"I wanted that one," he said.

"You may still have half."

They ate on overturned buckets while glue warmed beside the brazier. Jon's hands smelled of iron and resin. He gave Woods leave to buy the timber, then sat with the warm pie balanced on his knees and listened to Robb describe what he meant to do when Rodrik finally allowed them to fight one another.

Wylla picked a curl of applewood from Jon's dark hair. It had caught around the pale strands at his left temple. He bent his head for her, still chewing, and she rubbed the sawdust from his cheek with her thumb.

Jon finished the last of the onion pie and let Wylla wipe his hands before he followed Arthur to the yard.

* * *
​

The lathe took four afternoons to build between Winterfell's other orders. Olyver cut the mortises; Woods fitted the bed and braces; Mikken forged the centres from a broken hinge strap. Jon came after lessons to check the work and altered the treadle so a short stroke would still turn the blank well.

On the second evening Jon carried the drawing upstairs with a smear of glue on his cuff. Wylla found him kneeling on his chair, trying to reach the far edge of the parchment without putting his sleeve in the ink. She turned the page for him and brought the lamp closer.

"The bath is ready."

"One line." He drew it, then another to show where the treadle should hang. Wylla waited until he laid down the pen before unfastening his collar.

Later, warm and clean beneath the blankets, he tried the shortened stroke with one foot. His heel nudged the mattress. He could still smell the applewood in his hair. Wylla was sorting his stockings beside the fire when he fell asleep; in the morning the drawing lay flat beneath two books, and she had found the missing button from his cuff.

At the first trial the tool rest crept under Woods's hand. Jon called a halt while the carpenter drove its wedge home; then a long, pale shaving peeled from the blank. Applewood scented the shop. Olyver found a steady pace at the treadle, and the rim ran true between the iron points.

The handle was too long for Jon. Woods shortened a spare, and Jon skimmed the last strokes from the rim with it. Robb picked up a shaving and held it to his upper lip.

"Ser Rodrik," he announced.

"His whiskers are wider," Arthur said from the door.

Robb found a second shaving. Jon and Olyver laid the tooth pattern over the finished circle. Every space fitted.

Woods ran his thumb around the smooth edge, then glanced at the waiting chair legs. "I could finish a pair alike on this, my lord."

"Aye, with a pattern and a longer rest. Try it when we have our wheels."

Woods turned Jon's shortened handle in his large hand.

"Have you watched a turner work, my lord?"

"I knew what I wanted the wheel to do."

Woods glanced towards Arthur, then back at Jon. "At your age my father would only let me work the treadle."

Jon took the little tool from him. "Olyver has a good hand. Let him finish the next."

"Aye, my lord." Woods chose another piece of applewood for his son, leaving the chair leg within reach for later.

The clock train grew from two applewood wheels, a horn pinion and an iron arbor in a softer brass bush. Woods fitted the bush to Mikken's finished pin; Jon turned the assembly under the wheel's weight. It ran freely.

Behind a slatted screen they tried it with a small stone, a sack of shavings and sand beneath to catch the weight. The teeth caught cleanly, but the cord climbed the barrel's bare edge. Jon stopped the trial and turned the frame. One fixing peg moved in its hole.

"Cheeks here to hold the cord, and a brace across the frame. The weight is pulling that joint apart."

Mikken tested the arbor. "Iron collars would stop this shifting sideways."

"Fit them," Jon said. The train would run; now he needed to govern its speed.

Robb put the spare parts in his box of enemies, adding the crooked first wheel with satisfaction. A few days later Pate came with his arm still bound from the fall at the gate and a cracked rope guide in his good hand. He peered through the screen.

"A box of wooden teeth. I shall still be ringing by hand for a while, then."

"For a while," Jon said. "What have you brought?"

They had lifted the bell rope clear of the guide until it could be smoothed. Wet hemp had bitten into its rusted mouth. Jon suggested bronze, which would not rust against it, or a wheel at the turn to spare the rope.

"A wheel needs an axle and a cover against rain," Mikken said. "I can smooth this one today. With grease it should serve."

Jon looked at Pate's bound arm. "Mend the guide now. Round the mouth, and let him have it before the evening bell. We can fit a wheel when the other work allows."

"Before sunset, my lord." Mikken laid it beside his tool roll. Pate thanked Jon and went to his apprentice.

The bell rang by Pate's hand that night. It came a little late, but the old man had no need to wrench at the rope.

* * *
​

While the new clock frame was being fitted, Jon turned to the lower-yard pump. Harwin had to work its worn piston several times before water reached the spout. Jon remembered his father's old hand pump, its leather spread across the kitchen newspaper long after the farm had a powered one. He had no newspaper here, but he could show the saddler the cup that would seal against the bore, the valve below it and the flap that let water through on the downstroke.

Woods made a short elm barrel for the trial. After soaking it, the saddler found a ridge where the two auger holes met; Woods scraped it smooth. They fitted the leather to a wooden backing disc, leaving a narrow lip against the wet bore.

Two days later Robb worked the handle while Jon held the jug and Pate watched. The first pull brought nothing; the second, a hollow gulp; the fourth, a few drops of brown water. Woods stopped a leak with flax and pitch. A thin stream followed, then stopped when Robb heaved harder.

Jon bent to look down the bore just as Robb gave another pull. A spurt struck him across the chin and soaked the front of his tunic.

Robb stared at the dripping tunic, then began to laugh.

"Not another stroke," Jon said, wiping his face.

"I had stopped."

Jon laughed too. He set the jug down and drew out the piston. The unsupported edge of the leather had turned inside out. Woods cut a wider backing disc at Jon's direction, and the saddler trimmed the lip until it flexed without folding.

This time the stream filled the jug and went on flowing.

Jon raised his hand before the jug brimmed over. Robb stopped, and Arthur put a bucket beneath the spout for the next trial.

"That is enough to wash in," Robb said.

"You may begin with the bench." Jon gave him the rag. Pate held his free hand under the little stream while the bucket filled; water ran over his knuckles without his having to lift a full pail. He flexed them, looking from the spout to the handle, then asked Woods how soon he might see it working at the well.

They left the pump standing in the rain barrel overnight. By morning the elm had swollen enough that Robb needed both hands to work the handle.

Woods scraped the swollen bore once more. Jon left the pump working beside the rain barrel so they could see whether it tightened again before making one for the well.

When Poole brought the week's account, Wylla was mending Jon's tunic beside the hearth. The steward put the bill on the bench without comment. Jon crossed the Myrish glass from his own order; the new frame and ironwork had left too little for it.

"Horn will do for the face," he said. "Have it cut when we know the size."

Wylla folded the mended tunic. Robb held up the discarded pump leather and peered through it at his brother. Jon took it away before he could fit it over his head.

The clock still needed its escapement. Jon drew the toothed crown and the upright bar that would rock against it, catching one tooth as it released another. A crosspiece bearing small lead weights would govern the beat. He remembered seeing such movements opened in museums; getting the clearances right with hand-filed iron took much of the next week.

Mikken forged the crown. Olyver cut a wooden pallet bar for the first trials, and Jon fitted it in the frame. At first it locked. He shaved the contact face, adjusted the bar and raised the small weight again.

Tok—tok. Tok—tok.

Robb stopped swinging his legs beneath the stool. The little bar rocked from side to side. For twenty-seven beats the wheel advanced a tooth at a time; then the sound grew uneven and stopped.

"That is the longest yet," Olyver said.

Jon leaned close without touching it. The lower pallet had shifted on the bar; its edge now caught the crown instead of releasing it. He lowered the weight, returned the pallet to the position he had marked and tightened the little wedge.

"Put a pin through this joint," he told Woods. "The pallet must not turn on the bar."

The carpenter fetched his small drill. When the joint was pinned, Jon raised the weight again and let the others listen. The uneven wooden knock was a poor sound beside Pate's bell outside, but it was the sound he had come to the shop to make.

Robb tried to imitate it all the way back to the keep.

That night Jon began a small book with the blank leaves Luwin had given him for drawings. Wylla had stitched them between covers of plain black leather, leaving the back broad enough for more leaves. There was no title upon it. The black book would do; he had no intention of lending it to anyone who needed to ask what it contained.

He wrote in English. The first few lines came slowly, his cramped hand making an ugly job of letters he had once written without looking. He set down the tools needed for another clock, then the forge and waterwheel he would build when he could afford them. Against the forge he wrote the first expense: a smith whose time he could command. Mikken had Winterfell's work to do.

Halfway down the page he stopped to read it. For the first time since waking in this body, there were sentences before him that belonged wholly to his former life. He could almost feel the broad desk beneath his elbows and the weight of the pen he had kept long after cheaper ones worked as well. He had used that pen to check drawings, answer his children's letters and complain to a company that had sent him the wrong pump twice. Now he had to shake the ache from five-year-old fingers before he could finish a page.

He kept even the small notes beside the drawings in English. Anything a craftsman needed would be copied onto a separate sheet in the Common Tongue. Luwin could not read this language, nor Arthur; there was no English speaker here from whom either could learn it. A stranger might still recognise a wheel or puzzle over a name. He would not leave the book lying open merely because its writing was private.

Two leaves went to ships. In the larger hull he marked the space for water casks and worked the framing round it. A second drawing had a finer bow; he left both unfinished, with the sails sketched lightly about the masts.

On a fresh leaf he began setting down the people and events he remembered from the other books, the ones whose names he now heard across a supper table. The first attempt filled less space than he expected. He knew the great disasters far better than the quiet years leading to them. A name might return while he was thinking about something else, then elude him when he wanted it. He would put down what he could now and leave room for the rest.

He let the ink dry, placed the black book in the locked casket beneath his clothes and kept the key himself.

 

[aiwonder]

The practice clock stood under a slatted ash cover at the end of Winterfell's family table. It ticked steadily enough in the warm hall, but had lost nearly a quarter of an hour overnight. Jon had been adjusting it since before dawn. He spread butter on his oatbread while Robb crouched beside the horn dial.

"It is slow again."

"I moved the lead weights too far out."

"Move them back."

"Half as far. Olyver is trying it after breakfast."

Sansa leaned over her stewed apple, the white napkin tucked into the neck of her blue gown. An auburn curl brushed the spoon, and she pushed it impatiently behind her ear. "Does it know when breakfast is finished?"

"It will when I do," Jon said, drawing his plate nearer.

Robb grinned through the gap left by his front tooth.

At the high end, Eddard and Catelyn were smiling. She was cutting Sansa's cheese into smaller pieces and listening to Vayon Poole murmur about the morning's stores. Arthur ate at Jon's right hand. Wylla came from behind Jon with a jug of small beer. She touched the back of two fingers to his neck, then frowned. "You were up before the kitchen fires," she said.

"I wanted to see what the cold did to the oil."

"And now you have seen it." Wylla drew a pale lock back from his eye and filled his cup. "There is more bread if you want it."

Jon took another spoonful of porridge. The oats had grown thick while he watched the clock, but the honey was still warm. Arthur pushed the bread nearer and began peeling his boiled egg.

The little hammer lifted and struck its thin bell with a mournful clink. Robb winced. "It sounds like Tobben's burnt porridge."

"Porridge is quiet," Sansa said.

"You have never heard Tobben swear at it."

Arthur wiped his knife and rose. "The colt will be waiting."

Robb looked up at once. Eddard gave the knight a reproachful glance, then set down his cup.

"I meant to show you after breakfast, Jon. Hullen has brought him into the yard."

Robb was off the bench first. Jon caught up at the door, still fastening his cloak. In the yard a black colt stood at the end of Harwin's lead rope.

He was not beautiful. Not yet. His hindquarters had grown higher than his withers, his knees looked borrowed from a larger horse, and rain had roughened the yearling coat into black-brown whorls. Mud dried grey upon both hocks. A chip marred the outer wall of one rear hoof. He chewed the rope, lost it when Harwin pulled it away, and reached for it again.

The ungainly colt brought back a picture from a book on Alexander: a great dark horse with its head turned towards the sun. Jon had spent a pleasant afternoon arguing that picture's finer points with a fellow enthusiast who knew horses better than painters. He knew perfectly well that the animal before him was a yearling with muddy hocks. He liked the name nevertheless. "Whose is he?" Robb asked.

Eddard stood beside Hullen under the stable arch. His long face was solemn, but the grey eyes had warmed. "Jon's."

The colt found Harwin's sleeve and pulled. "Mine?" Jon said.

"A late nameday gift. Hullen sent back the first three offered."

"Two ponies and a barrel wearing a mane," Hullen said. The master of horse took the wet sleeve from the colt's mouth. "One foundered, one cow-hocked, one stuffed with feed to hide a poor frame. This one is not ruined yet."

"His breeding?" Jon asked.

"The dam carried a Barrowton knight until a cart lamed her. Part garron, with good bone. The dealer named a Ryswell courser as sire." Hullen snorted. "Horse traders know more fathers than septons."

Eddard's gaze remained on Jon. "Do you like him?"

Jon looked at the untidy black colt, the hay in his forelock and the bright eye following every movement in the yard.

"Yes," he said. He stepped closer, smiling despite himself. "Very much."

Eddard crouched beside him, one hand resting on the back of his head. "He will have grown into those legs by the time you can ride him."

"Thank you, Father."

The colt tugged at Harwin's sleeve again. Jon laughed and went to untangle the cloth from his teeth.

Robb hurried towards them with both hands out. Hullen caught his shoulder before he reached the colt's face.

"Slowly, my lord. He is still strange here."

Jon stood beside Harwin and held out the back of his hand. The colt's ears flicked between the boys. His nostrils widened over Jon's fingers, warm breath stirring the cuff, before his whiskered lip brushed the healing cut beside Jon's thumb.

"He likes you," Robb whispered.

"He is looking for food." Jon stroked the dark neck. Under the rough yearling coat he felt warmth and lean muscle. The colt stretched towards his sleeve, and Jon moved it out of reach.

Eddard asked, "Have you a name for him?"

"Bucephalus. It belonged to a king's warhorse in an old eastern tale."

Robb tried the name twice and swallowed a different half each time. "Boose-falus. That is too much name for one horse."

"Bucephalus," Jon corrected. Eddard asked which king, and Jon felt Arthur's pale eyes settle upon him. "The king's name was lost in the telling. The horse was remembered."

Jon hoped no one would ask him to find that eastern tale in Luwin's books. Eddard rubbed the colt's damp forehead. "Bucephalus, then."

Hullen took the rope. "He will answer to the grain scoop sooner than that, my lord. You can begin handling him now, but he will need another two years before you ride him. Perhaps three."

"I will come down tomorrow."

"Harwin will have a brush ready."

"Did you brush your own horse?" Robb asked Eddard.

"When Hullen could catch me."

"He preferred the riding," Hullen said. "Your uncle Brandon was worse."

Eddard laughed and rose from beside Jon. The knees of his grey wool were wet, and a strand of damp hair had fallen across his brow. Jon kept one hand on the colt while his father showed him where the coat would shed first as the weather warmed.

* * *
​

At dawn Jon helped Harwin carry water to the tack-room trough. Even half a bucket slopped over his boot. Harwin showed him the smaller one behind the door for next time, then Hullen put a currycomb into his hand and opened the stall beside Bucephalus's.

"Moonsong. She taught your father." The old grey mare had one clouded eye and a near foreleg that eased as she moved.

"I have Moth."

"Moth walks to the feed bin and back. You are ready to learn more than that."

Jon found no heat in the mare's legs. She stood patiently while he helped Harwin brush and saddle her, much taller than Moth.

Robb came to the fence with half a honey cake. "Can you reach?"

"There is a block."

"Father did not need a block."

"Your father is taller," Hullen said. "He needed one at your age."

Harwin steadied the far stirrup while Jon mounted from the block. The saddle was much higher than Moth's, and he took a moment to settle his feet before gathering the reins.

"Do you need me to lead you?" Robb asked.

"Finish your cake."

At a walk Moonsong answered readily. Jon took her round the yard, finding the longer stride, then brought her back towards Hullen. The master of horse asked for a few strides of trot. Harwin brought Bucephalus out to the fence while Hullen watched the mare.

The change jolted Jon hard against the saddle. He kept his hands low, but one foot slipped from its stirrup and he had to bring the mare back to a walk to find it.

Robb laughed so hard that half his honey cake fell into the mud. Bucephalus, standing beside Harwin at the rail, stretched down and took it before either could move.

Jon looked over his shoulder. "You dropped something."

Robb stared at the colt chewing. There was nothing to be done about it.

On the next circuit Jon managed the trot for longer. Hullen showed him when to rise, and he began to find the rhythm before his legs tired. He walked Moonsong back to the mounting block and let Hullen take her. By then Robb was asking for his turn.

After Luwin's sums Arthur put a wicker shield on Jon's arm and an ash sword in his hand. Across the yard Robb waited with Rodrik, walking stiffly after his own ride. Jon caught Arthur's first cut, stepped in and took a touch on the ribs where his shield had drifted wide.

"Keep it with you as you step."

On the third pass Jon no longer needed the reminder, but he lost the next blow trying to answer before his feet were set.

"Dead," Robb called.

Rodrik promptly tapped Robb's unguarded belly. Jon grinned across the yard, then turned back to Arthur.

By the time the afternoon light reached the armoury doors, two stable lads had stopped at the rail. Jon repeated a turn Arthur had shown him only once, and the elder nudged his companion. Arthur saw. He changed the attack, then changed it again, making Jon think until the wicker rim knocked against a shaking wrist. He called a halt. Jon could see the opening he had missed, but his arm ached too much to try again.

Eddard came down from the gallery as Jon returned the wooden sword to its rack.

"Are you coming to dinner?"

"Aye. Olyver is keeping the clock's count."

His father waited while he unbuckled the shield strap. "How did Moonsong carry you?"

Robb called from behind, "She stopped when I wanted to trot!"

"She has kept the trick all these years," Eddard said.

At dinner, Jon fell asleep with a spoon in his fist. He woke upon Eddard's shoulder halfway up the stair. Torchlight moved across the grey stone. His cheek rested against rough wool that smelled of smoke, rain and horse. "The crown tooth catches," he murmured.

"Tell Olyver in the morning."

Jon meant to answer, but his eyes closed against his father's shoulder.

* * *
​

Voices woke him later. His chamber door stood open a finger's breadth. Firelight crossed the rushes in the outer room. Wylla had undressed him and put him beneath two wool blankets; his riding breeches hung over the chair, one knee streaked with stable dirt.

"Hullen had him trotting today," Arthur said outside.

"I saw how he walked at dinner," Eddard answered.

"He takes a correction faster than boys twice his age." Arthur paused. "And I should have shortened the yard lesson. We will give him an easier day tomorrow."

Jon turned beneath the blanket and the rubbed skin along his thigh burned. He made a small involuntary sound. Wylla opened the door at once.

"Awake?" She set a steaming cup beside him. "I have salve, if you will stop wriggling long enough."

Eddard followed her in. He sat on the bed while she eased the blanket back and examined the raw patch.

"The saddle caught him," she said. "Nothing torn."

Jon caught his father watching Arthur. "I wanted to do both."

"You may want things your legs cannot manage yet." Eddard brushed the hair from his damp forehead. "Mine have given me trouble enough after a long ride."

"You sat a saddle all the way from Dorne."

"And complained every night. We rode hard, with few days' rest," Arthur said.

"Was it worse than this?" Jon asked.

"Your father may prefer not to answer that," Arthur told him. Eddard gave the knight a weary look.

Wylla warmed the salve between her fingers. "Hold still now, love. This will sting."

Jon hissed as the ointment touched the raw skin. Eddard held his hand until it eased.

"Why were you in such a hurry?" Jon asked Arthur.

"We had no wish to be stopped."

"You rode as though the king himself were behind you," Wylla said.

"He might have been." Arthur looked at Eddard, who kept his hand around Jon's.

Jon watched them both. "Did he want you back in King's Landing?"

"He would have liked it," Eddard said. "There was much still to be settled."

"Did you not want to stay?"

"I wanted to bring you home."

Aemon. Jon could still hear the name through the confusion of those first days. He had been called something else before Eddard brought him north. He kept the memory to himself, and his father waited only for an answer about Winterfell.

"I am glad you did." Jon tightened his hold upon Eddard's hand.

Eddard drew him gently against his side. Arthur stood at the foot of the bed, looking at neither of them for a moment. Then he brought the cup within reach.

"Tomorrow," Wylla said, "you can tell me whether Bucephalus has learned to keep his teeth out of Harwin's sleeve."

"No." Jon drank. "He likes Harwin."

"An unfortunate way of showing it." She stayed after the men left, rubbing the remaining salve into her own work-cracked hands. Jon fell asleep with his head against her knee.

* * *
​

Over the next twelve mornings Jon became a familiar presence in the stable. He came with his cloak still fastened against the chill, before sunlight reached the high windows. The horses stood in a warm haze of breath while boys shook out fresh straw and Hullen measured their feed. Harwin kept the soft brush on a shelf low enough for Jon to reach.

Bucephalus learned to stand for it and to follow him to the paddock without snatching at his sleeve. Jon worked down the long black neck, watching an ear turn towards the sound of his voice. Loose hair came away in soft clumps. He had to reach to brush the top of the shoulder; by the time he had finished both sides, his own shoulders were warm beneath the wool.

Harwin remained close when Jon worked about the colt's feet. The young horse could be quiet for half an hour, then fling up his head at a swallow in the rafters. On those mornings Jon waited beside the stall door until the groom brought him round again. Once the colt pressed his nose into Jon's chest and stood there breathing through the cloth. Jon scratched beneath the mane until Hullen called that Moonsong was saddled.

Jon practised the stable hitch on a spare length of rope. He knew the knot, but it was awkward to tie above his own head. When Harwin lifted him to the ring, he caught the groom's shoulder.

"Hold still."

"I am trying, my lord."

"You are laughing."

"Beg pardon." Harwin steadied him until the rope lay right.

Jon could now trot a full circuit on Moonsong without losing his stirrups. Hullen had him alternate the rein hand while Robb copied from the rail until Rodrik called him away. After beef and mustard, Jon went to the clock room. The crown wheel ran through half a small sandglass before slowing; lifting the hammer let it recover. Mikken polished the pivots and tried a thinner arbor while Olyver counted. They would reduce friction before adding weight.

Bucephalus could offer no such steady improvement. One morning he let Jon lift his forefoot, then snatched it away as Harwin handed over the pick. Jon released it before the hoof struck beside his boot and left the cleaning to Harwin, rubbing his wrist.

The following morning Jon felt angry before he reached the stall. He had slept well and eaten hot bread, ham crisp at the edges and soft eggs, yet the swallows rasped above him and Harwin's breathing irritated him beyond reason. Arthur was waiting by the open door, and Hullen was measuring oats in the aisle. Bucephalus flinched beneath the currycomb. A fly settled on the colt's belly, and Jon felt its bite on his own skin.

He put down the comb. "Harwin, stand back. Something is wrong."

The groom reached towards him, meaning to help him through the half-door. Jon recoiled. For a moment he wanted the hand, the walls and the whole low roof gone.

"Do not touch me!"

His shout sent Bucephalus rearing against the half-door. Harwin stumbled over the broom and struck the manger as he moved aside. Arthur caught Jon beneath the arms and carried him out. Hullen took the colt's halter, opened the door wider and brought him into the aisle. "Out, Harwin." The groom crawled clear while Hullen led the horse on towards the yard.

Hullen walked with the colt until the lead slackened and his head dropped. Jon's anger vanished as abruptly as it had come. Harwin stood rubbing blood from one knuckle.

"I frightened him," Jon said.

"You frightened me," Harwin answered. "Then the broom finished it."

Jon looked at the fallen broom, then at the cut hand. "I am sorry."

Harwin nodded. Hullen pointed towards the tack room, and Arthur took Jon there before the colt could hear another raised voice.

Among the saddles Jon told him about the fly's bite and the swallows shrilling inside his skull. Arthur waited until he finished.

"Like the raven?"

"I did not see through him. I felt him."

"Has it happened since the raven?"

"Not like this." Jon rubbed the place where he had felt the fly bite. "I will stay outside the stall until I can touch him without being pulled in."

For the next few days Jon stayed outside the stall, talking to Bucephalus while Hullen handled him. He could still feel the memory of the fly bite, but the anger did not return. Arthur told Hullen that Jon had been troubled by a headache. Hullen accepted that, though he kept a closer eye on both boy and colt.

* * *
​

A moon later, Jon was leading Bucephalus across the yard when the rail holding the washline tore loose behind the tack room. Hullen walked beside him, his hand on the lead above Jon's. Harwin was at the colt's shoulder; Arthur stood near the gate. Beyond the paddock Robb rode Moonsong beneath Catelyn's eye.

The crack came sharp as a branch breaking. Jon did not hear it first. Bucephalus did. The colt's left ear snapped back, and Jon turned with it. For one instant the yard remained stone, cloud, grey mare, black coat. Then the world struck him through nostrils wide enough to drink the wind.

Old straw. Oiled leather. Mud. Mare. Men's salt fear. A white cloth billowed around the wall. It had no head and no living scent, only a great pale belly that leapt and cracked. Run.

Four legs gathered beneath him. The black body hurled itself backward. Jon's heels dug into the stone, his knees folded, and Arthur caught him.

Being lifted made the panic worse. The ground fell away. Jon kicked for hind legs that were not there and struck Arthur's thigh. "Down!"

Arthur dropped to one knee and held him there. Behind the knight, Hullen gave ground with the colt while Harwin caught the loose cloth and dragged it clear.

"Jon. Look at me."

The horse's panic crowded out the voice. Jon felt four feet scrape for purchase; his own knees bruised against the stone. He caught Arthur's collar with both hands and forced his eyes up to the familiar face.

"I have you," Arthur said.

Jon could feel the wool between his fingers. He held it tighter. The yard slowly settled around him: two knees on the ground, Arthur's arm across his back, blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue.

Jon spat blood into the mud. At the paddock Catelyn held Moonsong's rein while Jory reached for Robb. Two grooms stood between them and the colt. "Take him inside," she ordered.

"I want Jon," Robb said, twisting against Jory's arm.

"Go with Jory. I will see to him."

Jon tried to reassure Robb, but the words came thickly around his bitten tongue. His brother saw the blood and began to cry. Jory lifted him from Moonsong and carried him towards the keep.

Catelyn examined Jon's head and the skin behind his ears. Her touch was careful; she did not gather him against her as she had Robb.

"Were you struck?"

"No, my lady. I bit my tongue."

Hullen had held the lead when the colt shied; Harwin had been after the cloth and had not seen Jon fall. Catelyn turned to Arthur. "This has happened before. In the nursery, with the raven. Luwin called it a fit."

"Aye." Arthur wiped Jon's mouth with his sleeve. "He needs to sit."

"And the headache?" Hullen asked. "Was that the same?"

"The beginning of it, perhaps. I should have told you."

Hullen glanced at his son beside the torn washline. "Aye, ser."

Catelyn sent Harwin for Eddard and Luwin. The maester was beside Jon on the mounting block when his father arrived at a near run.

"Robb said the horse had kicked you."

"No. Arthur caught me."

Luwin showed Eddard the bitten tongue and asked if Jon had felt faint before the horse moved. "I cannot tell," Jon said. The mare's smell was still impossibly clear across the yard; he kept that to himself.

Hullen made him promise to surrender the rope if he felt faint again. Eddard left the colt in the horse-master's hands and ordered Robb's riding moved to the other yard.

Wylla arrived with Jon's cloak. At the blood on his collar she stopped so sharply that Harwin had to step aside.

"His tongue," Luwin told her. "He bit it."

She knelt, looked at the torn place and drew the cloak about Jon's shoulders. Her hands shook as she fastened it.

"I am all right," Jon said.

"Let me look." She felt along his ribs until he shook his head, then let out a long breath. He leaned against her, and her arm tightened about his shoulders.

Catelyn went to Robb while Hullen and Harwin took the colt to his stall. Upstairs in the little solar above the tack room, Luwin examined Jon in the window light. His head ached, but the latch stood out clear against the sky, and his legs obeyed when the maester asked him to stand. Eddard kept a hand on his shoulder; Wylla stayed within reach.

"Rest this afternoon," Luwin said. "Soft food until the tongue heals. Call me if he is sick again."

He left for the rookery. From below came Hullen's voice and a scrape of hooves, and Jon turned before he could stop himself.

"The horse is well," Eddard said. "You may leave him to Hullen for an afternoon."

"I will." Jon took the water Wylla offered and swallowed carefully, favouring the bitten side.

A bowl scraped against the door outside. Arthur opened it and found Robb with honey custard in both hands, his head suspiciously close to the wood.

"I was bringing this," he said.

"With your ear?"

"Both hands were full." He gave the custard to Jon, who could scarcely swallow it with his swollen tongue. Robb ate half in brotherly assistance.

Later, when Eddard had taken Robb back to lessons and Wylla went to fetch clean linen, Jon caught Arthur's sleeve.

"I was in the horse," he said quietly. "I could not find my way out."

Arthur sat on the bench beside him. "I thought so."

Arthur looked towards the shutter. "And the man in your dreams?"

"I see him sometimes. He has told me very little since the raven."

"Has he shown you how to leave the horse?"

"No. I shall ask him, if he comes again."

"If he tells you how to come back, I need to hear it too."

"You shall."

Arthur stayed beside him until Wylla returned. She found Jon asleep against his arm, the empty custard bowl still upon the bench.

In sleep, Bucephalus stood among the white roots. His halter hung empty. Jon could feel the horse's unease before he saw the pale man beneath the tree.

"You have a warg's gift and no more sense than the beast you enter," the man said. "You might have broken your neck."

Jon glanced at the empty halter. This man had taught Bran to use the gift. "How do I keep the horse out while I am awake?"

"You carried his fear back with you."

"Yes. And I could not find my own body. Tell me how to leave him."

The red eye narrowed. "You are in a hurry to choose the lesson."

"You know what happened. Give me your name."

"Brynden Rivers."

"Will you help me, Brynden Rivers?"

The roots stirred between them. Jon reached for the arm he could feel beneath his cheek and woke upon the bench.

Arthur was still there. Wylla had taken the bowl away, and the door was shut. Jon told him the name, then repeated what the man had called him.

"Bloodraven," Arthur said. "He vanished beyond the Wall."

"He is there when I sleep." Jon sat up carefully. "He still has not told me how to come back."

Arthur listened until he had repeated every word he could recall.

* * *
​

For three mornings Jon remained outside Bucephalus's stall.

On the third afternoon he went with Eddard to the godswood. His father left his sword belt upon the bank and knelt before the heart tree. Jon sat beside him, drawing his feet clear of the pool.

Moss darkened the cuts beneath the tree's eyes; a beetle crept through one furrow and disappeared. Jon had seen white bark in his dreams, roots closing about a man who knew when he slept. Here the leaves stirred overhead and Eddard prayed with his eyes shut.

Jon had no prayer to offer. He watched a fallen leaf turn upon the water and wondered whether Lyanna had sat in this same place, trailing her fingers in the pool. He knew so little of her beyond the things that had killed her. Whatever else the dreams might be, the gift that troubled him belonged to her side of his blood.

He kept his questions to himself beneath the carved eyes. Bloodraven could be listening; Jon knew no way to tell whether he was.

Eddard opened his eyes at last. He seemed easier here, with the hall and its petitioners beyond the trees. When he rose to buckle on his sword, Jon held out a hand and let his father pull him up.

On the fourth morning Jon returned to the stall, Arthur beside the door and Hullen holding the colt. Warm breath passed over his hair. He listened to the ordinary stable sounds, then brushed the shoulder and withers until the bristles clogged. Nothing drew him away. For all the fright, he remembered the strength of that other body and wanted to understand it. Harwin stood within reach of the hooves. He would make no attempt here.

They led Bucephalus quietly to the paddock. Outside, Eddard waited beside his saddled grey; Robb was already on Apple, with Jory holding the lead.

"The kingsroad is dry enough to the first watchtower. Will you ride?"

Jon glanced at the clock room window and handed Harwin the brush. "Aye, Father."

Hullen lifted him behind Eddard. Arthur mounted his bay, and Wylla called from the steps that they must return before the beef pie went cold. Bucephalus watched them until the turn of the road hid him. Beyond the gate, Eddard's grey kept to the crown between rain-filled wheel ruts. Jon held his father's waist while Robb complained whenever Jory's lead went taut.

"Woods tells me you want another apprentice," Eddard said.

"Two, eventually. Olyver can make the wheels, but he cannot do all the work once people begin buying clocks."

"Do you expect many buyers?"

"If it keeps good time. A lord will want one when his neighbour has it." Jon could picture the orders more easily than the hands needed to fill them. "I will need men I can take to Dragonstone."

"Will Woods part with him?" Arthur asked. His bay drew even along the firmer verge.

"I shall ask them both before I make any promise," Jon said.

Robb twisted in his saddle. "I can teach them to count the teeth."

"Provided they do not eat the peas," Jon said.

"They may use stones."

Eddard laughed. Jon felt it through the wool at his back and rested his cheek there while Robb told Jory about the wheel with one tooth missing.

At the watchtower they dismounted. A guard came down with bread and a jug of ale for his lord, apologising that he had nothing finer. Eddard took a piece, asked after the road and listened while the man described a fallen beech farther north. Robb walked round the tower with Arthur, looking for a stair to the roof. There was none outside. He came back to ask whether the ladder within was as high as it looked.

"Higher when you are coming down," Arthur said.

Jon sat beside his father on the low wall. From here he could see the smoke above Winterfell without seeing the castle itself. A breeze stirred the white hair at his temple, and he tucked it behind his ear to keep it out of his mouth. Eddard broke the bread again and gave him the softer middle.

Robb returned with a pinecone which he maintained had been nibbled by a wolf. Jory suggested a squirrel. Robb appealed to his father, then Arthur, without finding a more satisfactory answer. Jon took it and pointed to the small paired bites. Robb examined them, disappointed for only a moment before deciding there might still be wolves beyond the next ridge.

They rode home with the pinecone in Eddard's saddlebag. Jon was hungry by the time the gates came into sight, and his legs had grown stiff from sitting behind the saddle. Wylla's beef pie still steamed beneath its brown crust. Robb put his find beside his trencher and told Sansa that they had nearly gone looking for wolves.

 

[aiwonder]

That harvest, Robb learned the northern houses by the mud they brought into Winterfell.

The Karstark horses shed black peat under the gate. Pale clay came from the Umbers, along with two long-legged dogs no one had invited and a baggage wagon whose axle shrieked at every turn. The Mormont riders left dark grit and drops of rain beneath sealskin cloaks. Roose Bolton's grooms halted outside to scrape every hoof clean, as if no part of the Dreadfort were to be abandoned on Stark stone.

Above them, the harvest banners made the wet morning bright. White sunburst, chained giant, black bear, flayed man, moose, merman and direwolf snapped from the walls. Robb ran to the covered walk whenever the gate horn sounded. Jon came for the first two arrivals, wearing black wool under a leather work apron and iron dust across one cheek.

When Roose Bolton rode in, Robb crouched behind a rain barrel to watch him.

"What are you hiding for?" Jon asked.

"I wanted to see him first."

Robb had expected long red teeth or skinless hands, something of the man on his banner. Lord Bolton was pale, soft-spoken and clean. His eyes were paler still. When they turned towards the barrel, Robb ducked a little lower.

"Will you come out?" Jon asked. He stayed beside the barrel, his eyes following Bolton across the yard.

"In a moment."

The horn blew again. Jon checked the steel file tucked through his apron cord and went back to put it away.

"You will miss a lord," Arthur said from the doorway.

"He can arrive without me."

Jon returned the file to its leather loop, washed the grey from his fingers, and reached the yard in time to see the Hornwood moose pass beneath the arch. Lord Halys Hornwood rode first, followed by Daryn, his long-legged heir, and Hallan, his little nephew and page. Hallan sat a shaggy pony with his uncle's gloves tucked through his belt. One glove fell beneath a baggage wheel while he waved. "Hallan!" Robb shouted.

Hallan waved back and his pony shied at the loose glove. Hullen caught the bridle until the animal stood, then helped the boy down. Harwin retrieved the glove from the mud.

Hallan was no sooner down than Robb dragged him to the mounting block, where an old slate waited beneath the eaves. They had drawn Winterfell's yards on it during Hallan's last visit: a pine gate, a hot-water stair and a west wall that leaned because Robb had run out of slate. "You kept it," Hallan said.

"I said I would." Robb pointed at the new line. "Jon helped with the west wall."

"The stable turn is still wrong," Hallan said, tracing it with one muddy finger.

"You drew that part." They were arguing over whose mistake should be scraped away before Lord Halys crossed the inner ward.

The court filled the castle faster than Vayon Poole could make room. Grain carts queued from storehouse to gate. Hooded hawks crowded the mews, visiting hounds doubled the kennels, and every gallery smelled of wet wool and drying leather. Willam Dustin arrived with Mark Ryswell late in the afternoon. He swept Robb up before greeting Eddard, then reached for Jon as well.

"Too heavy now?" Willam asked when Jon stiffened.

"You have mud on your gloves."

"And you have iron on your nose." Willam wiped it with his thumb and set him down. Mark handed Eddard a folded petition without interrupting the greeting. His cheek still bore the narrow scar from Dorne.

"Three riders disputing the same pasture," he said. "I brought all three. They have disagreed at every halt."

"You might have left them there," Willam said.

"You offered each of them your judgment. I thought Ned should hear what you promised."

Eddard looked at his old friend. Willam spread his hands, grinning. Martyn came down the stair to take their wet cloaks, and for a moment the men spoke over one another as though the intervening years had only been a long ride. Jon stayed beside them until a groom brought the horses away.

Theo Wull reached them before the horses had left the yard. His cloak had taken more weather than Willam's, and the hem left wet patches on the stair. He gripped Eddard's forearm, pulled Martyn close with his other hand, and asked which of them meant to find him a dry seat.

"Willam has been saving one for you," Mark said.

"Then he has eaten what was beside it." Theo turned as a knot of riders came through the gate on mountain ponies. Two wore pine-clasped cloaks; another had bound his shaggy beard to keep it from the rain. He called them over instead of leaving Eddard to meet them later.

Robb listened from beside his father. These were Flints and Norreys, though none wore the bright surcoats he had been using to learn the houses. One man had brought a cheese wrapped in clean cloth; another a pair of hawks for the mews. Eddard received both as gravely as the Karstark rents. When he asked about the mountain roads, three men answered at once and Theo made them begin again.

"Come to us while the weather holds, Ned. There is a buck above the river that would shame your huntsmen."

"Your neighbours said as much of theirs," Eddard answered.

"Then come and judge." Theo glanced down at Robb. "You too, when your father will spare you."

Robb looked up at once. Eddard rested a hand on his shoulder and said they would speak of it after the harvest court. It was enough to send Robb hunting for Hallan, who had never been farther into the mountains than he had.

Men slept on pallets in the long passages. A Mormont girl found a Bear Island dog in her blankets and claimed him; the kennel boy claimed the blanket instead.

Whole deer went into the kitchen before noon. By evening, the spits shone with grease. The cooks sent out roast venison dusted with salt, onions blackened in their skins, barley bread, turnips mashed with butter, and great pots of mutton stew for the lower tables. A spit boy fell asleep against the scullery wall holding an onion. A cook took the onion, kicked his shoe, and pointed him towards a pallet.

The lords brought rents, petitions and quarrels to Eddard. Their children took the yards.

Greatjon Umber's son was already called Smalljon, though he stood a head above boys older than he. Jorelle Mormont whistled four Winterfell hounds from their keeper and smiled when Farlen made her whistle them back. Eddard Karstark beat Robb twice with practice swords. His brother Torrhen lost a footrace when he tried to leap a cook's basket and landed among the leeks. Hallan carried his uncle's notes and gloves with great seriousness until any game began, whereupon he forgot both.

Jon arrived after dinner, smelling of horse and metal. By then every good contest had sides. Robb made room beside him. "You are with me."

"Against whom?"

Robb looked at Smalljon bending a practice bow, Jorelle upon the kennel rail, the Karstarks arguing over whether leeks counted as a weapon, and Daryn Hornwood pretending not to be pleased that the older pages had admitted him to their line. "All of them."

At supper Robb found that the best place to hear the visiting lords was also the worst place to reach the gravy. A horn of ale, Lord Halys's elbow and a dish of roast onions stood between him and it. He waited until his mother glanced away, then stretched. Jon caught his cup before he tipped it.

Lord Halys was telling Eddard about a boar hunt. Each telling brought the animal a little nearer his horse before the spear struck. Medger Cerwyn had been there; he remembered a fallen branch as well, and Halys obligingly put it back into the story. Robb listened until the boar was dead, then asked whether Daryn had held a spear.

"He held my second horse," Halys said. "A necessary office, though he complained of it afterwards."

Daryn reddened. Hallan whispered that the horse had almost pulled his cousin into a bush. Robb had to drink before he could answer without laughing.

Farther up the table, Theo Wull stood to make room for one of the Norreys. Eddard sent them the new jug. The mountain men drank to his harvest, and Theo asked after Benjen; the question brought quieter talk about the Wall and a man whose sons had both taken the black. Robb heard only pieces once Greatjon began calling across the hall for more mustard.

Lady Donella rescued the gravy from her husband's elbow and sent it down to the children herself. Sansa thanked her with the careful courtesy Septa Mordane had made her practise. She sat very straight in a blue wool gown with seed pearls around the neck, her auburn hair braided as neatly as Mother's. She smoothed her skirts before looking again at Jorelle's sealskin cloak, uncertain whether it was beautiful or smelled too strongly of dog. "It smells of the sea," Jorelle said.

"Seas have no fur," Sansa said. "Dogs do."

"Bear Island's sea has fur enough when the seals come up on the rocks," Jorelle replied. "The bears do not complain of the smell."

Sansa appealed to Robb. He had never seen Bear Island, but would not confess it. "Perhaps it smells better nearer the bears."

Jorelle laughed. Sansa ate her stewed apple in offended silence. After the meat had been cleared, Hallan brought out the slate, and the boys began planning a fort behind the armoury.

Smalljon wanted a wall strong enough to stand on. Daryn wanted horses for the attackers. Robb dismissed that at once; Hullen would never lend them, and Father would send them all back to lessons if anyone tried to charge a pony into the fort.

"There is the old handcart," Jon said. "We can use its body for the wall. The wheels are off already."

"And half-barrels for towers," Robb said.

"Gates. No one is standing on them." Ser Rodrik had heard from the next table. He took the slate, looked at their drawing and promised to inspect the place with Arthur in the morning.

By the following morning sixteen children had joined the game. Olyver came with the boards his father allowed them to borrow. He shook his head at the two loose wheels Robb wanted upright, but helped prop them against the cart. The half-barrels stood at either end for gates, and Rodrik put a carved wooden wolf inside. Robb's attackers were to take it beyond the white stones; Jon's defenders must keep them out.

Jon tied black cord round his side's wrists. Olyver and Hallan guarded the openings, with two shield-bearers behind the cart. Cley, the smallest boy, wore rope-soled shoes and said his father kept Winterfell's drains. Jon sent him round to the back of the cart to watch the runnel.

Ser Rodrik walked the posts, then raised his hand. Robb attacked at the bell.

Smalljon came straight at the cart with an empty half-barrel braced against his chest. Daryn and the Karstarks ran beside him behind practice shields. Jon sent Olyver and two boys to meet them, keeping the others back until he saw where Robb would try to break through.

The barrel struck the crossed shields and stopped. Robb sent both Karstarks round the sides, but Jon had men waiting at each gap. Robb himself came close enough to touch the wooden wolf before Olyver drove him back with his shield.

"Again," Robb said before Jon had caught his breath.

Jon took water from the jug and passed it down the line. Rodrik returned the barrel while Robb whispered to the Karstarks.

Robb changed the second attack. Smalljon and Daryn drove at the right opening while the Karstarks dragged the empty half-barrel towards the left. Jon sent one reserve shield right and kept the other. Hallan seized the wolf, only to surrender it when Robb promised him first choice of honey cakes. "There are no honey cakes," Hallan said afterward.

"If any appear, you choose first."

Hallan considered the bargain and laughed. Jon took the black cord from his wrist. "You can sit with your honey cakes for the next round."

Before the third round Arthur called them off for water. Smalljon protested, but drank more than anyone when the jug reached him.

When they began again, Robb put Daryn and the Karstarks beside Smalljon so they could bring the barrel forward together. Jon moved Olyver behind the cart to meet them. Then Cley called from the rear.

"Lord Jon—the water."

Water was rising around the rear corner of the cart, bubbling through the grass above the old runnel. Hallan left his place outside the game and came to look.

"Stop!" Jon waved Robb back and pulled Hallan away from the bank. Arthur reached them as the cart settled. A slab of wet earth slid into the hollow beneath it.

Rodrik sent everyone beyond the white stones. The cart leaned into the mud, its rear corner lower than before. Robb stood looking at the place where Hallan had been. Nobody asked for another round.

Branch, the ditchmaster, came with three of his men. His green hood dripped on his beard as he tested the ground with a long rod.

"The old drain is blocked below this," he told Arthur. "It has been washing the earth from under the bank."

Jon followed the runnel downhill with his eyes and pointed out the buried outlet. Branch sent his men to open it before they began digging above. Once the bank was safe, the children helped recover the fort: Branch's men hauled the cart clear while the children gathered boards and washed the cords. Water rushed through the cleared channel with leaves, shavings and one of Olyver's pegs tumbling in it.

Jon thanked Cley when they had finished. The ditch boy had lost a shoe in the mud; he held the sodden thing in one hand while Master Branch shook the worst of it out.

"You are on my side next time," Jon said.

"If Father lets me, my lord."

* * *
​

Alone that night, Jon took the casket from beneath his clothes and laid the black book beside the lamp. A little mud remained beneath one fingernail. He worked it free with the corner of a cloth before opening the leaves.

At supper Roose Bolton had passed a dish to Eddard and asked after the roads. Jon had watched his hands longer than courtesy allowed. There had been nothing remarkable about them, nothing to explain why he could scarcely look at the man without remembering a sword driven into Robb.

He wrote Roose Bolton upon a clean page. Beneath it he added Ramsay.

From the gallery came Robb's voice, still trying to persuade someone that his last attack would have taken the fort. Jon could hear the confidence in it. His brother had been muddy, breathless and wholly certain that moving the barrel would settle the contest. Jon had once listened to his own son argue over a game with the same certainty. He had not understood then how dearly he would miss being called away from work to judge whose turn it was.

The voices passed his door. Jon drew the lamp closer and began writing what happened to Robb.

He remembered the wedding and its betrayal clearly. The precise interval between one journey and another was harder to place; some he had never known. He left those spaces empty. A guessed date, written neatly enough, might deceive him when he opened the book again. He wrote what had made the betrayal possible, including the choices made by men who had called themselves Robb's friends.

That took him back to Eddard's arrest, and Eddard's arrest to the reason Robert came north.

Jon Arryn.

He began another page with the Hand's death. Lysa Tully and Petyr Baelish followed beneath it. He worked forward through the letter sent to Winterfell, the royal visit, the discovery about Cersei's children and the king's death. His hand began to cramp before the account reached Eddard kneeling in King's Landing. He put down the quill and waited until he could hold it properly again.

He had information that could save lives. He did not yet have a witness, a letter or a scrap of proof he could put before Eddard. Accusing Jon Arryn's wife would bring questions he could not answer. Calling it a dream would not improve the accusation. Eddard might listen out of affection; that was a poor thing on which to rest a warning of murder.

Beside the account he wrote a question about who served Lord Arryn and which of those men could be reached from the North. That was something he could learn without announcing why he wanted to know it. There would be time to think about the warning once he understood how it might reach a man prepared to hear it.

He turned back to the Boltons. Roose had another son, Domeric. Jon remembered the elder boy dying before Ramsay took his place. He had never met Domeric, and no evidence lay upon this table that Ramsay had yet harmed him. He wrote the name with room beneath it for what he might learn.

Jon could imagine sending men to the Weeping Water. With money and a trustworthy servant, he might eventually arrange more than questions. He sat still for a while, considering how readily the thought had come. He had given orders affecting lives before; he had also spent years believing a man ought to answer for what he had done, not for a future known only to the man judging him.

He would find out where Ramsay lived, who visited him, and what those who knew him had cause to say. He would not leave Domeric unwarned merely to preserve his own comfortable conscience. But he would learn what danger existed now before he decided how to meet it.

He gave the dangers beyond the Wall another leaf. Benjen and Waymar Royce stood among the names he entered there. He remembered the young Royce facing something his sword could not defeat. The trees around him had been vividly described, but no description would put a finger upon the right wood on a map. Jon would need more than that if he meant to help anyone sent north. He left room beside the names.

Farther back, between the early clock drawings and his account of the royal grant, he found the space he had left for changes. Arthur was alive. So were the northmen who should have died at the tower. Dragonstone belonged to him, and men already worked and drew wages because of decisions he had made here in Winterfell.

He added the date of the latest account beneath Dragonstone's name. Some of the events he had written might never happen. That did not make the people harmless or their ambitions different merely because he wished them so. He could watch what they actually did, and he could stop treating every remembered outcome as something that would occur without the choices leading to it.

A knock came at the door.

"Jon?" Wylla called. "Have you finished?"

He rubbed the ache from his fingers. He had meant to write only about Bolton.

"A moment."

He read the last line again, blotted it and put the black book back into its casket. By the time Wylla entered, he had set out his things for the morning. He was still awake when she left, listening to the guests crossing the gallery and considering which ordinary question might tell him most.

* * *
​

Catelyn seated Robb beside her for the last morning of petitions. Jon sat at the other end of Eddard's bench, close enough to hear the witnesses.

The great hall smelled of rushes, damp cloaks and yesterday's smoke. Sun through the high windows laid red and blue bars across the stone. Robb's feet did not reach the floor. He kept them still because every northern lord could see them swinging.

Lord Cerwyn brought the first petition, from a widow whose family held a farm of him. Her eldest son had gone lame beneath a falling tree. Her younger son served at the Dreadfort. She asked leave to put the elder man's daughter in his place upon the holding instead of sending for the younger brother.

Eddard heard the widow and her son. While the steward read out their rents, Catelyn quietly pointed out the Cerwyn badge on the man who had come to speak for them. Robb leaned forward when the girl was called.

She was perhaps twelve, red-handed and nervous, twisting the end of her plait. She had tended the barley and two milk cows since her father's accident, she said. The Cerwyn man confirmed it. Eddard asked about the younger son at the Dreadfort; no one had brought his answer.

"I can send for it," Lord Bolton said.

Until it came, Eddard left the holding in the injured father's name, with his daughter to continue the work. No stock was to be removed. The widow bowed, plainly disappointed not to have the matter settled, but the girl stopped twisting her plait.

Robb watched them go. "Does he have to give up being a soldier?"

"No," Catelyn said. "But your father will hear him before deciding what becomes of the farm."

At the noon meal Cley sat below the salt with Master Branch's ditch gang. His shoes were drying beneath the bench and his feet were wrapped in cloth. As Jon passed, he saw the boy put a heel of bread into his sleeve.

"For my sister, my lord," Cley said quickly. "She could not come."

Jon set the untouched half of his own loaf beside the bowl. "Take that as well."

"Thank you, my lord." Cley looked down at the bread, embarrassed by how swiftly he had reached for it.

Back at the high table, Robb asked what Cley had wanted. Jon told him about the sister.

"Can he take meat as well?" Robb asked.

The kitchen woman bringing the stew heard him. "Tell Pella it is for Branch's girl. There is good meat left on the joint."

Robb was halfway from his seat before Catelyn touched his wrist. She glanced down the table, where the visiting children were still eating. "Wait until the course is finished."

Jon rose. "I will ask." She let him go without the hand she kept upon Robb. Mordane was beside the screen with Sansa's cloak. Her eyes followed him into the kitchen, but she made no remark. Pella stood in a cloud of steam with her sleeves rolled and her spoon tucked through her belt.

"Branch's girl?" She reached for a clean cloth. "Nella. He told me she was sick last moon."

"He is taking her some bread. I would like meat to go with it."

"Crust and something better, my lord." She spread the cloth upon the board.

Jon held a corner while she packed bread, meat from one joint and a small onion. She tied the bundle and gave it to him with a bob of her head.

Jon carried the bundle back to Cley, who took it in both hands. "Thank you, my lord. Nella will be pleased."

Robb watched Cley carry the food to his father. "She can sit with him when she is well."

"Perhaps next court," Catelyn said. She turned to ask Lord Cerwyn about the widow's farm. Jon sat again, listening to the boy at the lower table describe what was inside the cloth.

Before the gathering dispersed, a warning reached Winterfell from White Harbor.

* * *
​

It bore no royal seal. A White Harbor merchant had copied a Seagard factor, who had heard from a Lordsport fisher that Balon Greyjoy was recalling captains and gathering longships off Pyke. Jason Mallister had closed Seagard's gates, though no lord had yet named rebellion.

Eddard read the message in his shuttered solar. Catelyn sat beside him, Ser Rodrik near the hearth. Arthur stood over the western map. Luwin had brought ink and blank parchment; Jon attended because Dragonstone's ten warships would be called if there was war. Robb sat on a stool at his mother's side.

"Mallister has shut his gates," Rodrik said. "He will know more than a merchant's factor."

"We shall ask him," Eddard answered. "And warn the coast." He looked at Jon. "Ethan should hear this."

"I will send today. Denys needs time to recall his crews and inspect the hulls."

Jon knew Balon would crown himself, that the Lannister fleet would burn and Stannis would meet Victarion off Fair Isle. Or that was what he remembered. Arthur Dayne stood alive beside the map, and the ships of Dragonstone bore a banner they had never carried in the books. He had read enough military history to distrust an account that made victory seem inevitable. Even a battle that ended as he remembered might spend different ships and different men to get there.

He drew the last fleet return towards him. Six ships had been crewed when Ethan wrote it; four were still under repair.

"Denys will have to send the present count," he said. "Ethan keeps the men he needs for the castle and harbour. I do not want him stripping the garrison to put another mast before Stannis."

Eddard agreed. "No ship sails west until the king calls, or we send another order. Luwin, add my seal to Jon's."

Jon dictated the warning while the maester wrote. Beyond the shuttered door the waiting petitioners could be heard disputing over seats. There would be time to prepare, if the raven reached Dragonstone promptly.

By noon, the hall had returned to sheep, bride gifts and two neighbours who swore the same boundary stone had walked uphill. Robb called the meeting a war council before the wax cooled. The king's raven arrived three days later while servants were taking down the harvest tables.

Balon Greyjoy had crowned himself with driftwood, burned the Lannister fleet and broken the king's peace. Robert commanded Eddard Stark to bring the strength of the North west. A second parchment named Jon Black and required every seaworthy ship of Dragonstone beneath Stannis Baratheon.

Catelyn had given birth to Arya the previous night. She heard the preparations from a cushioned chair in Eddard's solar with the brown-haired baby against one shoulder. Damp darkened the loose hair at her temples. Eddard wore one riding boot; the other stood beside the table, where Rodrik sorted road tallies, letters and Mikken's count of shoes, nails and wagon rims.

Jon broke the seal on the letter addressed to him. Beneath the clerk's hand, Robert had added one crooked line: Send me ships that keep the sea out, Ned's boy. "Did the king write that himself?" Robb asked.

"He did," Catelyn said. Arya woke against her shoulder and began to wail.

Robb covered one ear. His mother adjusted the blanket and sent him to fetch the nurse from the passage. Eddard pulled on his second boot.

"What have you written, Jon?"

"Ethan keeps enough men to hold the island. Denys takes the sound ships to Stannis."

"Even if fewer than ten can sail?" Rodrik asked.

"Robert asked for seaworthy ships." Jon drew the writing board closer. "I will answer for those."

Eddard nodded. "Seal it."

The castle changed before the wax hardened. Bright awnings came down wet. Men who had argued over rents counted spear bundles beneath the gate. Grain wagons returned from the storehouse loaded with oats, hard bread, salt beef, spare bowstrings and horseshoes. Farriers worked under torchlight. The forge rang through supper. Ravens flew to White Harbor, Deepwood Motte and every northern house that had not sent men to harvest court.

Arthur's saddle remained empty. When two Hornwood men asked why he was not riding with the king, a Stark guard told them that Lord Eddard had left him to guard Jon.

Beneath the covered stair, where rain and creaking wagons hid them, Eddard clasped Arthur's forearm. "If I do not return?"

Arthur touched the small key under his tunic. "Howland keeps the proof shut unless Jon's life requires it. I take him to Greywater first."

"If Winterfell itself is threatened, Catelyn and the children go with you," Eddard said.

Arthur nodded. "I will see them through the Neck."

Eddard held him one breath longer. Then Eddard went to Jon. He knelt despite the mud and tightened the clasp of the boy's cloak himself. "Denys commands the ships," he said.

"I know." Jon looked up from the clasp. "You told me."

"Then forgive me for telling you twice." Eddard rested both hands upon his shoulders. "Look after your brother while I am gone."

Jon wanted to tell him the sea battle was won already in memory. Instead he said, "Come home."

Eddard drew him close. Jon's face pressed into wet grey wool. "I mean to." Robb held his chin high until the last baggage cart passed through the gate. Then his mouth folded. Catelyn drew him against her skirts with one hand while the other held Arya beneath her cloak. The northern column turned south into rain.

* * *
​

Captain Denys found Stone Drum open along her port bow when Jon's warning reached Dragonstone. Carpenters had stripped the planks back to the ribs, exposing a split scarf joint and rot around two treenails. Her captain stood in the repair berth, arguing that she had crossed Blackwater Bay the previous moon.

"She leaked then," the oldest carpenter said. He drove his knife into the softened wood and pulled out a dark chip.

Denys climbed the staging. He was broad at the waist, bald where his leather cap rubbed, and more comfortable on a deck than a ladder. Ethan Glover waited below with the parchment in hand.

"How long to replace it?" Denys asked.

"Three weeks."

"Greyjoy will not wait three weeks," the captain said.

"Then you sail with me. Your mate can stay and oversee the repairs." Denys tested the exposed joint with his own hand before climbing down. "Stone Drum stays here."

Across the harbour, crews returned from fishing grounds and merchant berths. Wives brought rolled blankets. Children carried sea bags larger than their bodies. Coopers knocked bungs from the water casks; sour water ran into the gutter, while clean casks received fresh pitch. The sail loft spread patched canvas over every dry yard inside the curtain. Two goats escaped a merchant pen and ate a bunch of leeks before a boy caught them. Denys went ship by ship with the captains and carpenters. Black Gull needed a mast step. Captain Erryk had the rotten timber out before Denys reached her. "Two days," Erryk said.

"Your mate said one."

"Then he may work tonight. The ship needs two."

Harbert, the squadron's oldest leadsman, sat nearby packing tallow into the hollow of his sounding lead. "His mate has never fitted a mast step by lantern light."

"Then you can hold the lantern for him," Erryk said.

Harbert grinned and bent over his work.

Black Tern leaked around two stern seams. Caulkers worked by torchlight. King's Tooth wanted new steering-oar lashings. Black Eel's foresail had mildewed in its locker and split when men bent it. Denys let no captain hide a flaw beneath pitch or pride. "How many?" Ethan asked on the second evening.

Denys ate salt herring over the muster, oil shining on his fingers. "Seven now. Eight when Tern's seams hold. Nine when Erryk has his mast stepped again. Stone Drum will not leave the berth."

"Stannis will ask about the tenth," Ethan said, tearing a piece of black bread.

"Send him the carpenter's account. If he wants to see her himself, the staging will still be up."

Ethan dipped his bread in the herring oil and nodded. He had no wish to lose a crew before they reached the war.

The king's summons arrived before the last ship was ready. Two mornings later, nine black hulls left Dragonstone. Families watched from the quay until the harbour turn hid the sails. Harbert's two daughters ran along the wall waving strips of white cloth; he answered with his cap until they were lost to sight. At the anchorage in Blackwater Bay, Denys went aboard Stannis's flagship with Ethan's letters. The king's brother stood at the rail, tall and lean in salt-dark leather, his dark blue eyes fixed upon the arriving squadron.

"Nine," he said.

"Stone Drum is open to the keel," Denys said. "Her captain wanted her at sea before the repairs could be finished."

Stannis glanced at the carpenter's account. "She stays under repair. I will send your orders before we sail."

That night the fleet anchored under a low coast. Men ate pease porridge thick with salt pork, checked shield straps by lantern, and slept in damp wool between the benches. Denys made his rounds barefoot to feel any change in the deck beneath him. King's Tooth smelled of tar, onions, bilge and too many men trying not to be afraid.

After rounding Dorne and sailing up the western coast, they met Victarion Greyjoy off Fair Isle in a hard south-west wind.

Before dawn, Stannis's order came by fast boat. The heavier Dragonstone ships would hold the centre between the king's dromonds and the Redwyne wing. Their work was not to chase. They were to keep open water behind the royal van and deny the ironborn a gap through which to turn the king's line.

Denys called the other captains aboard before they took station. "Keep the line. No pursuit without Stannis's signal. Tern on my starboard, Eel to port. If King's Tooth falls out, Tern takes my place."

He made certain each captain knew the horn calls and the fallback flags, then sent them back to their ships. Erryk went last, glancing towards Black Gull's newly stepped mast.

"Still standing?" Denys asked.

"All night."

"So was I," said the carpenter who had come with him. "The captain slept."

Erryk laughed and climbed down into his boat.

Perron leaned beside Denys at the rail. He was called Little, though he stood taller than any man aboard. One boot had split at the toe.

"If we take a prize, I want her captain's boots."

"Find a captain with feet as big as yours."

The laughter died as ironborn sails appeared through the morning murk. Victarion's longships advanced in broken wedges, narrow bows lifting through white water. Horns sounded from the royal dromonds. Oars ran out along King's Tooth in two dark rows; archers crouched behind wet hides along the rail. Harbert cast his lead from the bow.

"Nine fathoms. Sand and shell."

"Call me at seven." Denys turned to watch the approaching wedges.

Perron went among the rowers with strips of salt beef. Oswin One-Ear took one without leaving his shield. The name had outlasted some long-forgotten quarrel; both ears stuck out beneath his cap. He tucked the beef into his cheek and watched the ironborn come on.

The first ram struck a royal dromond two ships east. Its oars broke in a row, sharp cracks carrying over the horns. As one ironborn wedge closed upon it, a second turned towards the opening astern.

"Port oars hold! Starboard, pull!" Denys shouted. "Perron, signal Eel to wait."

King's Tooth turned across the gap. The ironborn galley coming for her side struck her forward quarter instead and scraped along it. Grapnels flew over both rails. Harbert cut the first rope; Perron split the second with his axe. The third hooked high in the shrouds.

"Spears to the rail!"

Arrows thudded into the wet hides. One passed through and caught a rower in the throat. Behind Denys, men dragged him away from the benches while the first ironborn boarders came over with shields raised.

Dragonstone men locked shields along the waist. Short spears thrust between the rims. An ironborn axeman gained the rail and swung at Perron; Perron caught the blow on his shield, drove his axe into the man's shoulder and shoved him back. Oswin struck the next boarder beneath the chin with a boar spear. The enemy backed its oars, tightening the grapnel caught in King's Tooth's shrouds.

"Cut that rope!" Denys called, pointing above them.

Perron climbed the forward ladder. The grappled hulls slewed apart before he reached the rope. The steering oar kicked in its brackets and threw the helmsman down. A third longship appeared from port, its ram hurling white water. "Brace!"

King's Tooth rolled as the ram struck, taking the beak above the waterline. Three planks sprang inward. Men behind them screamed as oak splinters crossed the rowing deck. The longship scraped along her side, tearing four port oars from their locks. High above, the taut grapnel dragged the shrouds sideways. Two parted and the foremast leaned. "Clear the bow!" Denys shouted.

The mast came down across the forward rail. Sailcloth swallowed three men. The yard pinned Harbert at the hips. His sounding line spun overboard. Denys reached him with Perron. Blood filled the old man's beard where he had bitten through his lip. "Lift the yard," Denys ordered.

"I cannot move," Harbert gasped. His hand fastened round Denys's wrist.

A horn sounded from Black Gull. A burning pitch pot had burst against her forward castle. Men beat at the flames beneath the wet hides, but fire had caught behind the planking. It showed through a split board, then climbed a tarred stay to the furled canvas above.

Erryk held Black Gull against the galley grappled to her while his boats went over. Denys saw him on the quarterdeck cutting a trailing boat free before the fire reached its line. Then smoke covered him.

King's Tooth had fallen half a ship's length behind her place. The lost mast pulled the bow down; damaged port oars could not answer. Through the gap came another Greyjoy longship. Perron looked towards Black Gull. "We can reach her boats."

A royal dromond was already turning across the fire, lowering nets and ladders. Denys pointed to the lee boats. "Two boats to the swimmers. The dromond can take them aboard. Axes to our mast! Starboard pull. Port hold what remains."

Perron hesitated, looking towards the smoke that hid Erryk's quarterdeck.

"Cut it free!" Denys shouted.

Axes struck the rigging. Four sailors dragged the yard high enough to pull Harbert clear, and the broken mast rolled over the side. The leadsman screamed as they carried him aft. King's Tooth began to answer her remaining oars.

Black Tern reached the opening before the next ironborn could pass through it. Her ram sheared seven oars and tore away half her own bronze beak. Black Eel closed from the other side, leaving the longship caught between them. Tern's men cast grapnels and hauled her alongside.

Denys brought King's Tooth against the longship's stern quarter. "Across! Take the steering oar!"

Perron went over behind his shield. The ironborn captain met him in a black mail shirt, an axe rising above his shoulder. The blow split the shield rim and laid his forearm open. He drove forward anyway. Oswin scrambled after him and fell beneath a bench with a spear through his belly.

From the rail Denys could see only fragments of the fighting: a bare foot slipping in blood, a shield turned edge-on between two men, the kraken cloth coming down. Perron sank to one knee with an axe in his side. The ironborn captain lay beyond him.

"Yield!" Denys shouted. "Throw down your arms!"

Some obeyed. Others went over the far rail. Denys crossed with the next men and secured the steering oar. The captured galley was Salt Wraith; her damaged mast leaned above two opened seams, but she was still afloat. He left twenty men and a wounded mate aboard her, then returned King's Tooth to the centre. Behind them Black Gull burned while her boats pulled towards the royal dromond.

By noon, Victarion's wedges had broken against Stannis's line. The ironborn who could flee turned west. Stannis's flags held the pursuit until his squadrons had dressed their ranks; only then did selected dromonds give chase.

Denys did not follow. King's Tooth had lost a mast, four oars, and twelve feet of planking above the water. She held her appointed water until the last horn.

Once the prize's seams had been shored and her damaged spar lowered, they laid the wounded on Salt Wraith's scrubbed rowing benches. Sand and seawater made pink streams along the deck. A healer moved between narrow beds with his sleeves red to the elbow.

The healer feared Harbert would never stand a deck again. The yard had broken his hip and one leg. He gripped Denys's wrist while men bound splints from hip to ankle. "My girls."

"I will see to them."

Harbert's fingers tightened. "Tell Mira I am coming home. She will hear about the ship."

"I will send word tonight." Denys stayed until the splints were bound.

Captain Erryk's body had not been found. Forty-one men had come off Black Gull by boat or trailing rope; eighteen were still missing. By evening eighteen more were dead across the squadron. Perron was among them. He died before sunset with the axe cut open beneath his ribs. Oswin lay beside him, his mouth still open as though he had another complaint to make.

Denys sent mates among the living for every name. Beside each dead or missing man he put a wife, mother, sister, brother or village. Three lines remained bare.

Stannis came at dusk with two mailed men, whom he left by the gangplank. He stepped around the wounded laid on the benches and heard Denys's account at the stern.

"Eight of the nine remain," Denys said. "Five need repairs. Black Gull is gone. We took Salt Wraith, but her mast must come out and two seams have opened. Stone Drum is still in the berth at home."

"Who took the prize?"

"Tern rammed her. Eel closed the other side. King's Tooth boarded."

"Those crews receive their shares. Have the ship surveyed before you set a value on her."

Stannis read the names of the dead and the account of Black Gull's loss. He stopped at Erryk's name.

"I saw her boats reach the dromond," he said. "You held the centre."

"Tern closed it for us. We could scarcely turn until the mast was clear."

"Put her captain's part in the report." Stannis folded the sheet. "I want the repair estimates by morning."

Denys waited until he had gone before beginning the letters for home. His hand cramped over the first name. He set down the quill, flexed his fingers, and tried again.

* * *
​

At Winterfell the news came piecemeal. Ironborn burned fishing villages and vanished before northern horse could reach them. Rodrik Greyjoy died beneath Seagard's wall. Redwyne sails entered the straits. Jon moved the nine little black ships across the map only when a report named their position. He laid loops of cord round them to show how far they might have sailed since.

Robb put Black Gull nearer Pyke.

"We have heard nothing since the straits," Jon told him.

"They cannot still be there."

"Perhaps not." Jon moved the ship back and widened the cord. "We shall know when Denys writes."

Sansa placed three painted horses behind the coast. "These wait for Father."

"Horses cannot sail," Robb told her, pointing to the carved coastline.

"They are here." She pointed firmly to the land beneath their hooves.

Jon looked at where she had set them, all beside the prettiest bay. "He will need one by the road." He showed her the track leading north.

She moved them carefully, noses towards the tracks.

After the ships were put away, Jon stayed to mend one of Sansa's broken horses. Its foreleg had parted at the peg. She held the body while he trimmed a splinter from the hole, and Robb searched beneath the table for the missing piece. The room had been quiet since the castle's men rode south. Supper came in smaller dishes; a messenger's hoofbeats could bring half the household to the windows.

Wylla found the leg caught in Sansa's skirt. Jon fitted it with a little glue and laid the horse on its side to dry. Sansa wanted it upright beside the other two. He showed her how it would slip and promised she could set it on the road in the morning.

"Father will want to see them when he comes home," Robb said.

Wylla folded the map along its old creases. "Then help me keep them out of the hearth." She set all three horses on the mantel, where they would be waiting for the next report.

That night, salt water ran among white roots in Jon's sleep. A driftwood crown turned upon the current. A crow watched from the pale tree. When it lowered its head, a third eye opened above its beak. Jon tried to follow its gaze, but the crown turned beneath a root and vanished. No voice came. At dawn he told Arthur while the knight helped him dress. Arthur paused with the clasp in his hand. Neither spoke again until it was fastened. At breakfast Jon looked towards Eddard's empty chair.

Denys's raven came on the fourth morning. The parchment smelled faintly of salt and smoke. Jon read the thirty-six dead and missing aloud in the shuttered solar. Robb sat beside him in an open night robe, bare feet tucked under the chair. Catelyn held Arya near the hearth and listened without interrupting.

Denys had written the men as their shipmates knew them. Captain Erryk had last been seen cutting a boat free. Perron was called Little because he was tall. Oswin One-Ear had possessed both ears. Harbert's note for his daughters stood among the wounded. Most names had kin beside them. Three did not. "What happens to their children?" Robb asked.

"Their battle shares and pay go home," Jon said. "Denys has named the kin he knows beside each name."

Robb studied the list of the dead. "Is that enough for the children?"

Jon remembered sitting across from a widow in a white-painted room, his cap in his hands while she asked the one question the prepared words did not answer. Afterward he had written down what she needed done, because sympathy had not told her how to collect her husband's things. "No," he said. "It is not."

Catelyn shifted Arya to her other shoulder. "Have you told Ethan what you want done?"

"I will write now. The families must hear from a shipmate, if one can go. He can ask after the three Denys could not place."

Robb pointed to Harbert's name. "What about him? He cannot sail."

"His pay continues," Jon said. "There may be work in the harbour store when he is well enough. If he cannot do it, Ethan is to keep paying him."

Catelyn read Harbert's injury again. "His wife will need someone to help lift him. Have Ethan see to that before he sends the man home."

Jon added it to his letter. Wylla brought hot milk and seed cakes and paused behind him to read the names. Her hand rested on his shoulder while he finished Harbert's instructions.

They worked until the morning bell. Catelyn checked the allowances against the pay roll while Jon wrote to Ethan. She passed him a corrected sum without meeting his eye; he used it and slid the next page within her reach. Beside them Robb copied the villages for the messenger, laboriously correcting a name he had begun badly.

Jon read the letter through again before folding it. There was no account of Perron's last words. He wanted to ask, and did not know whom the answer would help.

Stannis's prize award followed two weeks later. He had assigned Salt Wraith to House Black, subject to the crews' shares and the king's confirmation. The cost of taking possession and repairing her had yet to be settled. Eight of the ships that had sailed were returning; Stone Drum remained at Dragonstone under repair. Robb put eight painted hulls upon the sea and a ninth beside the island, then laid the bare wooden prize next to them.

"Will they mend her?"

"Denys will tell us." Jon left the little longship unpainted.

* * *
​

Eddard came home in cold rain with a Greyjoy boy beside him.

The gate horn sounded before dawn. Robb reached the inner yard with one boot unlaced and his cloak over his nightshirt. Catelyn came more slowly, Arya held beneath fur and Sansa at her hand. Jon arrived with Arthur and Wylla; the latter had made him put on stockings before allowing him out.

Northern banners entered dark with weather. Horses came leaner than they had left, their coats rough and dried foam white upon the tack. Mail showed rust at the rings. Men rode with bound arms and empty saddles among them. Eddard's cheeks had hollowed beneath his beard. Mud reached the top of his boots.

Robb ran before Hullen could stop him. Eddard swung down stiffly and caught his son against his chest. For a moment neither spoke. Then Robb began telling him everything at once: Black Gull, Arya's crying, the names he had copied for Jon, and how Sansa would not let anyone move the horses on the map. "One tale at a time," Eddard said into his hair.

"I have been saving them," Robb said.

"So I hear." Eddard kissed his hair and set him down.

He embraced Sansa, kissed Arya's brow, and rested his forehead against Catelyn's. Jon waited until Eddard reached him. His father drew him close with one arm.

"Eight came home," Jon said against the wet cloak.

"I heard." Eddard's hand settled between his shoulders. "Denys wrote to me too."

Jon stayed where he was until Robb moved beside them.

Robb's gaze passed Jon and stopped upon the boy still mounted behind the Stark guards. He was older than any of them, perhaps ten, narrow in the face and black-haired, wearing a salt-stained cloak clasped by a little iron kraken. He sat a grey gelding as if determined not to look tired. No man held his rein, but two Stark riders remained near enough to do so. Eddard followed Robb's gaze. "Theon Greyjoy."

Jon looked towards Robb. Theon would betray him, take Winterfell and murder two boys to make the North believe its young princes dead. That was what Jon had read. Beside him, Arthur moved forward to meet the arriving guards. He had read of Arthur's death as well. Theon dismounted without help. His knees bent when his boots touched stone. He hid it quickly and made a bow that was too fine for the muddy yard. "My lord Stark."

"You are under my protection and answerable to me," Eddard said. "You will be fed, taught and housed with honour. You will keep my peace."

The words did not name the axe behind the wardship. Everyone old enough heard it. "I understand," Theon said.

Robb stepped forward. "I am Robb Stark. You may ride beside me when the rain stops."

The Greyjoy boy looked at Eddard, then back at him. "I had guessed which one you were."

"How could you know? We have never met."

"You look like your mother." Theon glanced at Robb's open boot. "And no one stopped you running past the guards."

Robb looked down, offended and impressed. "This is Jon."

"Lord Black," Theon said. His glance touched Arthur's sword and returned quickly. "The black ships were yours."

"Yes," Jon said.

Theon's mouth hardened. "They killed mine."

Jon held his gaze. "I know."

Rain ticked on the iron rim of a baggage cart. Theon's chin lifted as if he had braced for denial or triumph. Jon offered neither. Catelyn came between the silence and the watching yard. "You have ridden since midnight?"

"Near enough, my lady."

"Jory, take his horse. Robb, show him the family hall."

"I can find it, my lady."

"You do not know Winterfell yet." Catelyn waited until he bowed, then turned to the arriving servants. "Hot water in his chamber, and dry clothes."

The family hall was warm with peat smoke. Pella sent oat porridge, fried ham, brown bread, soft cheese and a dish of stewed pears. Theon ate with the wary slowness of someone determined not to seem starved. Robb talked enough for all three. Upon the map table stood the nine painted black ships and the bare longship lying on its side. Theon saw it between two bites. "That is an ironborn hull."

"Salt Wraith," Jon said. "The yard has not yet judged whether she can replace Black Gull."

The spoon stopped in Theon's hand. "Gelmarr's ship. He commanded her before my father raised his crown."

"You knew him?" Jon asked.

"I sailed with him. He let me take the steering oar when the water was quiet." Theon looked at the bare carving. "She pulled to starboard. I told him it was the ship, but he would never have it."

"Did you sail with him often?" Jon asked.

"Whenever my father allowed it." Theon turned his spoon in the bowl. "He said I could sail farther when I was older."

Jon looked at the unpainted ship. "I am sorry about him."

After a while Robb pushed the bread towards him. Theon took a piece and dipped it into the pear juice.

Eddard entered in a dry tunic, his wet hair combed but not yet tied. A fresh bandage showed above one wrist. Pella followed with beef broth, a wedge of bacon pie and dark ale. "You are hurt," Jon said.

"Only a cut." Eddard sat at the head of the table and glanced at Theon's empty bowl. "Have you had enough?"

"Aye, my lord."

Theon looked at the bacon pie when Pella set it down. She cut it into four and served him with the others.

Robb took the piece with the crispest edge. Jon expected Theon to object, but the older boy broke his portion neatly and ate the softer middle first.

"Did you see Pyke fall?" Robb asked Eddard.

"Part of it. I entered after the breach and saw the king's men take the outer ward."

"Did you fight my father?" Theon's question came too quickly to be idle, and his fingers ceased picking at the crust.

Eddard set down his spoon. "Your father yielded to the king before I entered his hall."

"And my brothers? Did you see either of them before they died?"

"Rodrik died at Seagard before I came west. Maron died upon Pyke when the south tower fell. I saw neither boy alive."

"I know where they died." Theon's fingers pressed crescent moons into the pie crust. "Did you kill either?"

"No. Neither death came by my hand."

"Would you tell me?"

"Yes."

Robb stopped chewing. Jon heard rain at the shutters and spoons in the passage. Theon kept his eyes on Eddard, waiting.

"I fought many men on Pyke," Eddard said. "I took no pleasure in the killing."

Theon's voice grew sharp. "Robert did."

Eddard let the accusation stand. He drew his ale closer, but did not drink.

"Will he kill my father if he rebels again?" Theon asked.

"Yes," Eddard said quietly.

Theon looked down at his food. "My mother said Starks are made of ice and call cruelty duty."

Robb swallowed the last of his pie. "Father cannot be ice. We have hot springs. He would melt."

Theon stared at him, then gave a short laugh. Eddard finally drank. "Your mother has never met Robb."

"She is fortunate," Jon said. Robb kicked him beneath the table and found Eddard's boot instead. The lord of Winterfell raised one eyebrow. Robb withdrew his foot. Theon ate the crisp edge of the pie last. When Pella returned, all four plates were clean, though Eddard's broth had gone cold beside his hand.

 

[aiwonder]

Daenerys remembered Braavos by a red door swollen with rain. On the last morning Ser Willem Darry could still sit upright, six loose jewels lay beside Queen Rhaella's crown. His cough spotted the linen in his fist. He made Viserys count what each stone might buy while Daenerys divided one boiled egg between them. "The sapphire?" Willem asked.

"Passage for two," Viserys said. "Food after, if the captain is honest."

"Keep it somewhere dry." Willem closed the boy's fingers around the stone. "And keep your sister with you."

Viserys looked at the other jewels. "Which lord answered your last letters? Dorne, Ser Barristan, or any man who ate at Father's table?"

"No one has offered to take you," Willem said.

"Then write again."

Willem looked at the linen in his hand. "Bring me the ink."

Daenerys pushed her half egg towards him. "You may have this. I am not hungry now."

Viserys pushed it back. "Eat, Dany. You have had nothing since yesterday." He took a small bite of his own.

By nightfall Willem was dead. At dawn the creditor's men changed the lock. A porter broke the clay pot beneath the lemon tree, spilling black earth across the green tiles. Daenerys saved one hard fruit before they carried the tree away. A woman from the kitchens came in a flour-marked gown and knelt before her. "I have a warm bed for you near the Moon Pool," the woman said. "Your brother may fetch you when he has found a room."

Daenerys gripped Viserys's shortened sleeve. "I sleep where he sleeps."

"You are five, sweetling. One night apart is not forever."

"Men say that when they mean longer," Viserys said. He locked his hand around Daenerys's. "We go together."

The woman looked at Willem's empty bed. "I knew your mother's man. I would not hurt her."

"I said she stays with me." Viserys pulled Daenerys closer, and the woman let her hand fall.

One ruby bought half a cabin on a Myrish grain ship. When the red door disappeared between the wet warehouses, Viserys lifted Daenerys so she could see it longer. "When I have my throne, I will give you a thousand doors like that."

She held the green lemon against her breast. "I want that one." Stone swallowed it. The ship carried them south together.

* * *
​

Theon slept badly after his first supper at Winterfell. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw Jory Cassel's open hand beneath the inner gate. Before the greetings in the yard, the guardsman had taken his gelding's bridle and asked for his knife.

Theon looked past him to Eddard Stark. Since Seagard, the northern lord had ridden at the head of the column beneath a rain-heavy grey direwolf. He had found Theon a dry cloak when the sea wind soaked his own, changed his horse when the first went lame and seated him near the evening fires, close enough that no man could throw Balon's last son among the baggage and call it chance. Eddard had never spoken the word hostage. Every courtesy carried it. "Why does he want my knife?" Theon asked.

"Ser Rodrik decides when the boys may carry their blades," Eddard said. "Give Jory yours."

"Then I am a prisoner," Theon said.

"No." Rain ticked upon the lord's black iron gorget. "You are my ward, and the surety King Robert put into my hands."

There it was, spoken without honey. Theon drew the blade. Good steel ran from a bone kraken whose little tentacles his thumb had worn smooth. His brother Rodrik had praised the balance. Rodrik lay below Seagard's wall now, his helm split, while Jason Mallister ate beneath his own roof. "Do your men yield theirs?"

Jory turned enough to show the bundled sword belts carried by a groom. "Those without leave do."

"When do I have it back?"

"When we have settled you in your chamber," Eddard said. "It stays there unless Ser Rodrik permits you to carry it in the yard, or I send you riding with men of my choosing."

Theon laid the knife across Jory's palm, hilt first. The guardsman wrapped blade and bone in oiled leather and carried it away.

He had said nothing more while the Stark children ran to their father. Now he remembered that as readily as the knife: men embraced in the rain, horses led away, Robb talking through his tears. No one had come searching for Theon.

After the morning meal, Eddard had taken him to his chamber. It stood off the family gallery, across from a stair watched by one Stark man. Clean grey blankets covered the bed; a white fur lay folded at its foot. Brown bread, a wedge of yellow cheese and three red apples waited beside a steaming basin. Iron bars crossed the narrow window. Eddard put the knife parcel upon the chest. "It stays wrapped here unless Ser Rodrik gives you leave to carry it." Theon looked past him. "Does that man guard me?"

"He guards the stair and the family rooms," Eddard said. "He will not shadow you through every passage."

"Does he follow me to the privy, or only stand where I must pass him to leave?"

"Use the outer stair if you wish for solitude. Jory will still know whether you are under my roof."

"And if my father rises again? What happens to me then?"

The question had travelled north beneath Theon's tongue. Here, in a warm chamber smelling of aired wool and apples, it sounded eleven years old. Eddard did not spare him by looking away. "King Robert holds your life against Balon's peace. If your father breaks the oath he swore, the king will name what he demands of me."

"My head," Theon said. "That is what every man in the yard heard beneath your courteous words."

Eddard did not answer at once. Theon watched his face.

"Would you do it yourself?"

"I pray your father never puts either of us in that position."

"That is not no."

"It is not," Eddard said quietly.

Theon turned towards the bars. "My father may not care."

Mercy from the man who might one day kill him was worse than hate. Theon wanted to strike something and found only bread, warm water and a lord refusing to lie. "May I write to Pyke?"

"Aye. Luwin keeps the rookery, but the seal will be yours."

"And go home?"

"When the king, your father and I agree the wardship is ended."

"May I keep the Drowned God?"

"No man here will force the heart tree or the Seven upon you."

"There is no sea here."

"No. But you may pray as you please. If a priest comes north, Luwin will tell you." Eddard moved towards the door. "My steward, Vayon Poole, will replace what the road and rain ruined."

"I need nothing."

Eddard glanced at the bread, then at the boy standing stiffly beside it. "As you say."

Eddard's gaze did not follow the knife when he shut the chest. It stayed upon Theon, steady and grave, until the boy looked away first.

After Eddard left, Theon had locked the knife away and tested the key twice. He ate one apple and hid another beneath a shirt before Poole came with clean clothes. That, too, shamed him in the darkness. He was Balon's heir, not some deck rat hoarding peel.

At supper he had sat between Robb and Ser Rodrik. The beef came pink at the middle, with onions blackened in dripping, mustard sharp enough to sting his nose and little oat loaves broken by hand. The place might be honour or watchfulness; Winterfell had a way of making one look like the other.

Robb asked about rope bridges, sea towers, seals, longships, drowned men and whether Victarion could lift a horse. "You may ask the next question after he swallows," Catelyn said.

Robb pushed half his beef onto Theon's trencher. "Then he should eat more quickly."

Theon cut each piece smaller than needed and chewed until Robb squirmed. Across from them, Jon held bread while Wylla settled Arya in the nurse's lap. Fire caught the pale threads at his temple. "Is that all you have to say about Fair Isle?" Theon asked him. "I know?"

Jon set down the bread. "What would you have me say?"

"Your sailors took coin for it. Mine died for honour and were called rebels afterward."

Jon's fingers tightened around his cup. "The men on Black Gull died too. I have their names. I have written to their families."

"You need not know a man to kill him."

"No," Jon said. He set the cup down untouched.

Eddard looked from one boy to the other. "This will not be settled across my supper table."

"He is Lord of Dragonstone," Theon said. "The ships bore his black cloth, whatever captain shouted the orders."

"Enough," Eddard said.

"My brothers did not begin it." Theon's voice rose on the last word.

"No," Eddard said more gently. "They did not."

Theon looked down. His face burned as though every person at the table could see the key against his chest. Robb left his beef untouched. He looked towards his father, then across at Sansa.

"We still have the little ships," he said at last. "Sansa put them in her fort."

"Arya kicked one," Sansa protested.

The infant woke and thrust one blanket-wrapped foot into the air. "There," Robb said. "She confesses."

"We made Salt Wraith fight three wolves and a crab," Sansa said. "The crab lost one claw beneath the settle."

Theon stared. "You made Gelmarr's ship fight a crab?"

"Sansa brought it," Jon said. "Robb wanted more ships."

Theon could have told them what had happened aboard the real ship. Instead he reached for his cup. "He would have killed the crab first." Robb brightened and began explaining where he had put the wolves.

After supper Robb led him to Luwin's curiosity chest and produced the kraken tooth. It was a whale's. Jon and Sansa followed because Robb had announced a judgement, while Theon suspected he wanted witnesses. "You see?" Theon held the yellowed tooth beneath the lamp. His usual sharp smile had widened; for once he looked at the thing in his hand instead of checking who watched him. "A whale's tooth. Krakens have beaks."

Robb frowned. "Which whale left a tooth shaped like that? Luwin never named its kind."

"I have seen one at Lordsport. Its jaw was longer than you."

"Maester Luwin says this came from Ib," Sansa said. She stood on tiptoe to look.

Robb took the tooth back. "Have you ever seen a living kraken, not one sewn upon a sail?"

"Men at Lordsport claim to have."

"But have you?" Jon asked from beside the chest.

"No. But a fisherman saw a tentacle take a man off Great Wyk."

"Was it one of your father's fishermen who saw the tentacle?" Robb asked.

"Lord Goodbrother's man, and half drunk when he reached Lordsport."

"Did anyone find the man it took?" Robb asked.

"No," Theon said. "The sea was rough."

Robb looked down at it. "Father sends men when someone goes missing."

"My father sent me here."

"After the battle," Sansa said softly.

"After my brothers died."

Robb lowered the tooth. Jon took it from him and laid it in the open chest. For a while no one spoke. Theon could hear Luwin moving papers in the next room.

"I do not want to talk of them," he said.

Jon nodded. He brought out a little horn cup from among the shells. "Do your men carve horn like this?"

Theon took it after a moment. A fish had been scratched into the horn. He turned it towards the lamp.

When Theon returned to his chamber, the hidden apple had rolled from beneath the shirt and bruised itself against the chest wall. He ate it in four bites, brown place and all.

* * *
​

Memory had not given Jon a single Theon Greyjoy.

It gave him a young man smiling too hard at a feast, Winterfell smoking behind him, two small bodies burned past naming, an arrow loosed beneath rain. Then came the other Theon: white hair, broken teeth, fingers gone, frightened to speak his own name. Ramsay had taken him apart until obedience was easier than thought. Jon remembered that too. He could want the children of Winterfell kept safe without wishing such an end upon the boy who now ate beside them.

The images came without all the roads between them. In this life Theon was eleven, trying not to look hungry at supper and furious at every kindness. Balon had raised the crown. His son had been carried north to answer for the next rebellion, should his father choose to begin one. Jon understood why Robert wanted a hostage and why Eddard had accepted the charge. Understanding did not make it just. A child could behave perfectly beneath this roof and still lose his head for something done across the sea.

Jon could not look at Theon and see only a betrayal that had not happened. He could not forget it either. He had raised children through ages when every correction sounded to them like a verdict upon their worth. Theon made the feeling uglier, and had better cause for it than most. He was also capable of being thoroughly irritating. Jon could understand him and still lose patience with his remarks. He certainly did not mean to hand him the keys to anything.

Ser Rodrik put a padded point through Theon's guard twelve times on his first morning. Each correction came with the same planted boots and patient lift of the drooping moustache; Theon was sweating before the old knight breathed harder. "Dagmer says a man who waits has lost," Theon said after the sixth.

"Dagmer Cleftjaw may come tell me so." Rodrik tapped the open place below Theon's right elbow. "Until then, show me how you keep this rib."

"He split a man from collar to breast," Theon said. "No man rises from that cut."

"A dead man may still put steel through that open side before he falls. Close your shield and strike again."

Robb watched from the rail until Arthur sent him back to his own shield work. Jon came from the stable smelling of horse and lye, his practice sword short enough for his reach. Theon glanced at it and then at Arthur. "Do I fight the babe or his uncle?"

"You will use a lighter blade," Ser Rodrik said, handing him one. "And keep the blows below his shoulders."

Theon's first blow jarred Jon to the shoulder. Jon's hands were smaller, his weight scarcely half the ironborn boy's, and the heavier body closing upon him drew an instant flinch from flesh not yet hardened to blows. He yielded before the second stroke, turned the padded edge past his ribs and touched Theon's open side. Robb shouted from the shield rail. Theon swept Jon's legs upon the third pass, ignoring Rodrik's order to keep to their blades. The ground struck between his shoulders, sharp enough to fill his eyes with water. He rolled before Theon could stand over him. "Enough," Rodrik said.

"He can still fight," Theon answered, but he did not raise his sword.

"I said enough." Ser Rodrik lowered Theon's blade.

Jon got to his feet and wiped mud from his mouth. "You look where you mean to strike. I saw both cuts coming."

"You fall where I put you," Theon said, though he shifted his right arm closer to his side.

Jon spat mud out of his mouth and picked up his sword.

Theon stepped forward. Ser Rodrik laid his blunted point between them without raising his voice. "Tomorrow."

Theon's days took on Winterfell's shape. Sword yard before porridge; Luwin's histories before dinner; horse and household work after. Twice each week Ser Rodrik unwrapped the bone-handled knife and let him drill with it. Theon cleaned the steel himself and carried it back, wrapped, to his chamber under Jory's eye. At the stables, Hullen made Theon saddle, bridle and lift every hoof of a patient grey before allowing him beyond the first yard. "I rode before I could walk."

"Then we shall finish before the porridge cools."

Theon set the saddle too near the withers. Pyke ponies were built differently from the long-bodied grey. Hullen shifted it back without comment. Across the passage, Jon swept dung while Bucephalus watched every loose flap of cloth. "Lord Black," Theon called, "has Robert granted you the stall as well?"

"Hullen said I should know how to care for him." Jon pushed the fork beneath another heap of straw.

"Then the horse had the richer gift. You received a name and he received a lord to sweep his dung."

Harwin laughed. Jon tried not to. Theon saw and looked almost pleased. On the sixth day, three pages about Brandon the Burner persuaded Theon that Luwin would never notice one missing pupil.

The workshop door stood beneath a black lintel, secured by a new iron hasp. Woods had hung the key upon the high peg while he fetched timber from the store. Theon fetched a stool, opened the lock and pushed the door inward. Awls, files and hammers hung above the bench. Boxes of spare parts stood beneath the window. Screens enclosed a tall slatted trunk where weights would one day fall.

Above the bench hung Jon's first applewood wheel. One tooth leaned, another narrowed almost to its root, and grease had darkened the grain. Theon took it down. "So this is the wonder of Winterfell."

Jon stood at the door in a clean black tunic. Harwin waited behind him with a rinse bucket. Jon saw the open hasp, the raised cover and the wheel balanced upon Theon's finger. "Put it back and step away from the train."

"Does this clock tell yesterday as well as tomorrow?" Theon asked, leaning over the exposed wheels.

"It tells the hour when it runs properly. Put it back."

Theon's smile thinned when Jon offered no defence. He hung the wheel upon its peg. "If you want men outside, hide the key."

"The key should not have been left there," Jon said. "You still knew the room was locked. Leave the bench."

"No one told me I needed a craftsman's leave to look at a toy."

"You needed mine. Harwin, stay at the door. Send the first passing man for Ser Rodrik and Master Woods."

"Fetch his nurse," Theon said. "I forgot to knock, and he has called half the castle."

Jon did not cross the room. The movement stood uncovered for work, its upper plate held in place by loose wedges: two iron plates held apart by four pillars, a rough train of wheels between them, a weighted crossbar above and two narrow pallets embracing the escape wheel. Every polished tooth represented a mistake already paid in wood or skin. Theon laid his hand on the bar.

"Take your hand away," Jon said. "That is the last warning. Harwin, if he turns it, remove his hand from the bar and keep him clear of the bench."

The old memories rose in Jon without sequence—Theon taking a castle whose gates had opened to him, Theon smiling before a choice, Theon asking to be seen. None could decide what the living hand would do. Theon turned the bar. The pallets rocked. One tooth escaped with a clean iron click. "It moved."

"Harwin, take him away from it."

Harwin set down the bucket and caught Theon's wrist. Theon wrenched once as though Jory's open palm had found him again at the gate. "One turn cannot break a clock worth all this guarding."

Theon pulled away before Harwin could close both hands. His sleeve caught the weighted end of the bar and dragged it hard against the stop. A wedge sprang loose. Harwin hauled him away from the bench towards the door. As they reached Jon, Theon swung his free fist past Harwin's shoulder and clipped Jon's nose. Blood filled Jon's mouth. He stepped back rather than answer the blow. "Leave it now. Woods must see what moved."

Arthur arrived with Ser Rodrik and Robb. Theon stopped straining against Harwin.

"He ordered a stableboy to seize me."

"After I told him twice to leave the clock alone," Jon said through his sleeve.

Harwin confirmed it. Rodrik took charge of Theon while Woods, arriving with timber under his arm, found the tilted plate pinching an arbor and a crack in the wooden stop. Several wheels would have to come out.

"How long?" Robb asked from the doorway.

"I shall know when we have it apart."

Theon looked at the fallen wedge. "I only caught it with my sleeve."

Wylla pressed clean linen beneath Jon's nose. "Lord Stark will hear this after Luwin sees whether the nose is straight."

In Eddard's solar the boys stood on opposite sides of the hearth. Harwin's grip was darkening Theon's wrist; Jon still held the linen. Arthur and Rodrik remained behind their charges, Wylla between them and the door. Woods and Mikken brought the displaced plate and broken stop.

Eddard heard what had happened. "Is any part untrue, Theon?"

"The key hung above the door where any boy with a stool could reach it."

"That is true and does not answer the question."

Theon looked at the hearth. "No part is untrue."

"Woods keeps the key after this," Jon said.

Mikken set the pieces upon Eddard's table. "The iron is sound. It will take time to fit it again and prove the train." Theon looked from the plate to Jon's bloodied linen.

"I want him with us when we open it," Jon said. "Six mornings carrying and cleaning. Woods decides what he may touch."

Both craftsmen nodded. Eddard made it his judgment. Next morning Theon carried charcoal while Jon and Olyver laid the parts on folded cloths. Woods gave him an upright for the new rail to saw. The cut wandered; he had to begin again.

Jon removed the affected arbors, rolled each beneath a straightedge and polished the bearing ends while Olyver held the lamp. On the third morning Theon saw the iron plate rock. "Your bench board is high at that corner."

Jon laid the arbor in its box. "Show me."

Theon pointed beside the warm-water wall. One corner of the old oak block had darkened there. "It rocked when Olyver leaned across for the lamp. Pyke doors do the same. The sea side drinks salt and swells."

"No salt here, but heat and wet stone." Jon held the rule across the block. A rise no thicker than a nail shaving showed beneath it. He sent Theon for the plumb line while Woods felt the sweating wall and the raised, damp grain beneath the support.

The timber had moved. Theon helped Woods and Mikken lift it out and set a dry block clear of the wall. Jon checked the frame against the line before Woods packed the feet square. When Olyver leaned across again, nothing rocked.

"You saved us a deal of work," Jon said. "Thank you."

Theon brushed sawdust from his sleeves. "Try remembering that when you tell Stark about the clock."

"I shall." Jon gave him the last upright. This time Theon's cut ran straight.

* * *
​

On the sixth evening Robb brought a candle into an unused linen room and announced that Winterfell possessed one gate Theon had not yet crossed. Jon was still with Luwin, copying Denys's return of the wounded. "The outer gate?" Theon asked. "Your father has explained that one."

"The crypt gate." Robb put flint, chalk and a little leather sack upon the linen press. "We go below, touch the lowest king we can reach and bring one scale of rust from his sword."

Olyver sat against the door with both hands beneath his thighs. Hallan Hornwood, left at Winterfell while his uncle visited the families of men lost in the war, looked at the candle and tried not to show that he feared the dark. "That is grave robbing," Theon said.

"Rust falls off," Robb replied. "We need only one scale from a king's old sword."

Theon looked at Hallan. "Will you keep hold of the candle, Hallan, or drop it when Robb begins crying?"

"I will not drop it," Hallan said too quickly. "You are the one who refuses to come below."

Robb opened the little sack. "I go beyond the black stone. You three keep the gate."

"I keep your gate while one little boy robs the dead?" Theon said. "I am Balon Greyjoy's heir."

"They are Stark dead, and you said the lowest king would frighten us," Robb answered.

"And Lord Black?" Theon asked. "His name is not carved upon any tomb below."

"Jon would stop us and tell Father," Robb said. "That is why no one sent for him."

They used a servants' stair after the supper lamps were lit. Olyver knew which boards complained; Hallan found each one with his heel. At the bottom, an iron gate stood closed between black stones. "A famous venture," Theon whispered. "Defeated by a key."

Olyver drew a strip of applewood from his sleeve and pointed to a gap beside the latch. "You can lift it through there. I saw when Father repaired the hinge."

"Why did he leave it like that?" Robb asked.

"Mikken has not made the new iron yet."

Robb took the strip and pressed the tongue back. Iron scraped. He handed the wood to Olyver and pulled the gate open. Cold air rolled up the steps carrying old dust, stone and the faint sourness of spent lamp oil. Pillars stood beyond, each row guarded by seated kings with rusted swords across their knees. Stone wolves watched at their feet. The candle reached the newest dead; farther in, men had no faces. Theon moved towards the black threshold. Robb caught his sleeve. "Not beyond that."

Theon looked down at Robb's hand on his sleeve. "I can hold it from inside."

"Only Stark blood crosses the iron gate," Robb said. "That is Father's rule."

"Your father calls me family at table when he wants me fed. At the crypt gate I become Greyjoy again."

"He calls you ward." Robb let go but did not retreat from the rule. "The crypt is different."

"It always is when a Stark wants something kept."

Robb flushed and crossed before anger found another answer. Olyver caught the gate as it swung. Theon took the outer bar because someone had to, though being made useful outside the blood-line felt worse than being mocked within it. Robb's candle went between the first pillars and vanished around the bend.

Jon came down the servants' stair with a taper. At the end of his lesson a kitchen boy had told him where Robb and the others had gone. He saw the open gate and the applewood slip in Olyver's hand. "Where is Robb?"

"Looking for the lowest king," Theon said.

"Hallan, fetch Father." Jon took a second taper from the wall bracket and lit it. "Keep the gate open. I will bring him back."

The task was real. That made the exclusion worse and easier to bear. "Bring him back, Lord Black," Theon said.

Jon passed between the first pillars, keeping the wall on his right. The newest tomb stood near the bend. Lyanna Stark sat in pale stone with a winter rose upon her lap. Her sword bore less rust than the kings'. Taperlight moved across a young face worn smooth at one cheek by the mason's hand. Jon's step faltered for one breath. He touched two fingers to the stone petals without leaving the road after Robb. "Your aunt," Theon said through the bars.

"My father's sister," Jon answered. Then Robb called from below.

"I am here," Jon called back. "Wait for me."

The tapers dwindled between the pillars. Olyver leaned against the gate, listening.

"We found one with half a nose!" Robb shouted.

"Did you take the other half?" Theon called.

A laugh came back, then the scrape of feet. Jon had found him.

A cold breath moved up from the lower crypt. Robb's candle vanished. One of Jon's tapers guttered, recovered, then went out as the draught strengthened. The second followed before he could shelter it. Jon's voice came hard and level through the dark. "Halt. Robb, take my belt. No one takes another step. Theon, strike the gate so we can hear you."

Theon snatched a loose stone from the stair and struck it against the iron bar. The blow rang between the pillars. He struck again, slower, and heard Jon answer.

"Keep doing that."

He kept striking until the rough stone bit his palm. Somewhere beyond the light Robb stumbled and swore; Jon hushed him. Their voices were nearer now.

Lantern light spilled down the stair before the next call. Hallan clung to the wall, weeping and breathless. Eddard arrived first, Arthur and Ser Rodrik behind him. Catelyn followed in a dark robe over her nightshift, copper hair unbound and a face far more alarming than any stone king. "They are close now," Theon said. "They are coming towards the sound."

Eddard took the lantern across the black stone. Arthur stayed at the threshold with Theon and Olyver, though his eyes fixed upon the darkness where Jon's voice travelled. The pale light found Jon with one hand on the wall and Robb gripping the back of his belt. Eddard put Jon's hand upon his own belt and Robb's on Jon's shoulder. He brought them out at the pace of Jon's shorter legs.

Only then did Hallan cry without trying to hide it. Arthur took the two dead tapers from Jon. "Whose plan?" Eddard asked.

Robb raised one hand. "I asked Olyver to show me the latch, but I lifted it."

"I showed him where the iron caught," Olyver said. "I knew Ser Rodrik meant it to remain shut."

"I found them after Robb went in," Jon said. "I sent Hallan for help. Then our lights went out." He looked towards Theon. "We heard his iron all the way back."

Eddard took Theon's hand. The skin below two fingers had split. He turned it towards the lantern, and Theon tried to draw it away.

"It is nothing."

"It needs washing." Eddard released him. "Thank you."

"I dared him to bring the rust," Theon said. The admission came out angrily. He had not meant the thanks to make him confess anything.

Catelyn put a hand on Robb's shoulder and another beneath his chin, turning his face to the light. "You might have fallen."

"We found the king." Robb opened the sack. A single red-brown scale lay inside.

She stared at it until he closed the sack again.

"Upstairs," Eddard said. "We will speak of this in the morning. Harwin fetched us when Hallan came running, or we might still be looking for you."

Wylla met them at the upper door with blankets. She wrapped Jon first, rubbed his arms through the wool and slipped a hand inside his collar. "Cold right through."

"The tapers blew out."

"I heard." She drew the blanket over his dusty hair and kept an arm about him as they climbed.

Robb put the rust into Theon's palm. It broke to powder when his fingers closed. Robb and Olyver were given twelve mornings of cleaning and repair for the venture. Theon was given six for helping them open the gate; the hand he had bloodied bringing them home counted for the other six. Jon was not punished for going after Robb, but he asked to join the work. For six mornings he carried a hooded lantern below with Eddard and helped Robb clean the upper tombs. Theon remained outside. He scoured the gate, washed the stair and carried water. Olyver repaired the latch gap beside Woods and lost every free hour until the work was done. "Harwin betrayed us," Olyver said on the second morning.

"He brought Lord Stark," Ser Rodrik said. "Be thankful he did."

Hallan rode home under a Hornwood guard with a letter for his uncle. He begged Eddard not to tell how frightened he had been. Eddard let him read it: his part in opening the gate came first, then how he had run for help. Hallan folded the letter without asking again.

On the fourth morning Eddard brought two lanterns below. He made Robb wring the washing cloth before it touched old stone and showed Jon how soot gathered beneath a carved wolf's jaw. Theon scoured the iron from outside the black threshold. "You could let me clean a king," he said.

"The custom is older than either of us," Eddard said. "Only Stark blood passes the iron without my leave."

"I kept your sons from getting lost."

"You helped Robb open the gate." Eddard wrung out the cloth. "You know why you are here, Theon."

Theon scrubbed a red patch on the iron. Beyond the bars Jon was cleaning the petals of the stone rose.

"He looked as though he knew her."

"Jon has heard of Lyanna all his life." Eddard went back to his work.

Theon scrubbed until the rust reddened his fingers.

Twice during the punishment Ser Rodrik returned Theon's knife in the practice yard. On the second day he let Theon carry the wrapped blade back to his chamber without Jory beside him. Theon's thumb worried the cord around the hilt all the way upstairs.

Luwin brought parchment and plain grey wax on the seventh afternoon. Theon began Father, scraped it away, and wrote My lord father instead. He told Balon of the barred window, the locked knife and the sea too distant to smell. He wrote that Robb treated every answer as the beginning of another question, and that Jon Black worked like an old man until someone knocked him into the mud.

He did not write of apples, hot mustard, the place kept at table or iron ringing through the dark. Praise would look like surrender. Complaint would show how little cruelty Winterfell had given him. At last he wrote: I have not forgotten Pyke. "When will he answer?" Theon asked as Luwin sanded the sheet.

"Allow a moon," Luwin said. He folded the letter. "I will send for you as soon as there is word."

"And if he asks for me?"

"Lord Stark will have to speak to the king." Luwin pressed the seal into the wax. "This will go before dusk, my lord."

No answer came in the first week. On the eighth evening Robb arrived with a copied drawing of Salt Wraith, a pine board and a pot of charcoal wash. Jon followed with brushes. The Stark man at the stair glanced through the open door and returned to his stool. The copied galley possessed a hull, a mast and a tangle of lines intended as oars. Half pointed the wrong way. Theon stared. "It resembles a fish after a cart has crossed it."

"It resembles the ship," Robb said.

"Salt Wraith has a higher prow. The steering oar belongs here, not wherever this tail is meant to be."

Robb handed him charcoal. "Show me."

Theon nearly refused. Boys asking of Pyke usually wanted tales of drowned men. Grown men wanted to learn how Balon had lost. Robb wanted the place of a steering oar. He redrew it. The long black line made the ship lean, so he corrected the stern and then the sweep of the hull. "The banks are uneven," Jon said, holding down a curling edge.

"The benches are even when the ship sits true," Theon said. "If one side is shorter, she will pull before the steersman touches his oar."

"Robb drew twenty-nine upon this side and only twenty-eight opposite," Jon said.

"Then Robb lost one beneath the parchment or inside his head. Salt Wraith carried the same number to port and starboard."

Robb counted, reached twenty-seven, began again and blamed the fold. "Did a raven come today?" he asked without looking up.

Theon's charcoal stopped. "No."

Robb bent closer to the board and counted the oars again. Jon held the curling corner flat for him.

"You have drawn that one twice," Theon said at last. "Give it here."

Jon copied the corrected hull onto the pine while the other two argued over the height of the prow. The wash spread darkly along the grain; there was room for the mast above it, but he had not drawn that yet.

Sansa came to fetch them for supper. She saw the drawing and leaned over it, blue eyes narrowing at the blank prow. Her finger followed the curve Theon had drawn before she decided the captured galley needed eyes. "A kraken," Robb said.

"Salt Wraith carried a horse skull upon her prow," Theon replied. "Gelmarr said it frightened greenlanders."

Sansa recoiled. "A true skull from a living horse?"

"Not living when they took the skull, no."

She took Jon's brush and painted two white eyes upon the pine board. "Ships should see where they go."

"Braavosi ships paint eyes upon their bows," Jon said. "Sansa's are not stranger than those."

"Ironborn ships have captains to see for them. Wood needs no painted eyes."

"Your captain put a skull there," Robb said. "That cannot see either."

Theon flicked wash at him. Jon ducked; black drops struck Robb's sleeve. Robb stared at the stain with delight and reached for the pot. They arrived at supper with black marks upon all three boys and two clean white eyes upon a board that had no mast. Catelyn sent them to wash. Sansa carried the board to table and claimed Salt Wraith as hers because only she had improved it. "No ironborn crew will sail beneath painted eyes," Theon said.

"Then I shall have Braavosi sailors," Sansa said. She held the board closer.

Theon looked to Jon. "Tell her she cannot steal my ship."

"It is my board," Robb said.

"I painted the eyes." Sansa put one hand over them.

Jon tore his oat loaf in half. "You should have finished the drawing before she found it."

Theon sat between them and reached for the onions. Sansa put the ship against her cup, facing him. He moved it a little farther from the gravy.

* * *
​

The next morning, after weapons practice, Robb and Theon went to wash, still disputing their last bout. Jon stayed behind to ask Arthur to teach the boys he meant to take into his household.

"Twenty-five, if Father gives me leave. I wanted to speak to you first."

Arthur kept one hand upon the sword rack. "You will need another man. When I am away with you, their training cannot stop."

Jon described the running, riding and work he planned between weapons lessons, with time for letters and exercises before heavier arms. Arthur heard him out until he began fitting everything between breakfast and supper.

"Leave room for a boy to catch his breath. And for the man teaching him. Twenty-five will not all learn a turn because you show it once."

"They can work in smaller groups. The drillman keeps the others while you teach."

"That would serve." Arthur knelt to free the shield strap Jon was worrying. "Why twenty-five?"

"Four files of six, and a captain. I could know them all."

"Provided you spend time with them outside the yard."

Arthur drew the stiff strap through its buckle. For years he had fastened such things while Jon talked of what he would do when he was larger. This time he asked about wages. Jon had Poole's prices for boots and cloth, but still needed the food added.

"Have that done before you speak to Ned. He will ask."

"Will you come?"

"Aye. But you make the request." Arthur hung the little sword within Jon's reach. "Tell him what you want from me as well."

* * *
​

That afternoon Robb found Jon ruling a clean page beside Poole's prices. He set a wooden horse upon the unused corner and asked whether this drawing was for the clock too.

"It is an account. I am asking Father for a household of my own."

"Like his guards?"

"Boys to begin with. I want them taught here, so they know me before I take them to Dragonstone. Arthur has agreed to help."

Robb drew his stool beside Jon's to inspect the reckoning when Theon came in. He stopped behind them, reading over their heads.

"Twenty-five boys?"

"If Father agrees," Jon said.

Theon snorted. "Who commands them?"

"I do."

"From a stool?"

Robb laughed before he remembered whose side he was on. "You used one when you wanted the workshop key."

"And reached it, didn't I?" Theon pulled the other chair round and sat astride it. "You may borrow that one, Lord Black. It has proved itself."

Jon smiled despite himself and moved the ink before Theon's sleeve caught it.

"They will have a captain."

"Good. Find a tall one. He can carry you when you inspect them."

"Have you come to help?"

"I thought I was."

Robb leaned across the table. "Olyver might join."

That drew Theon's attention back to the reckoning. "Does his father know?"

"Not yet," Jon said. "There is nothing to offer until Father gives his leave."

"The boy spends half his day at your clock already. When is he meant to learn a sword?"

"His yard work and lessons would come first. Woods would need another pair of hands for the carrying."

Theon studied the figures again. "Another boy to pay, then."

"Yes."

"Lord Stark will enjoy this."

"He will listen," Robb insisted.

"Oh, he always listens." Theon grinned at Jon. "That is how he finds everything you hoped he would miss."

Jon went back to the figures. Robb remained beside him long enough to have three sums explained, then took his horse to the window while Theon asked whether any of the boys would be taught a bow. When Poole came for his prices, Jon had another question for him about a carrying lad's wage.

By the following afternoon the account was ready. Jon washed the ink from his fingers and went to find Arthur before the last petitions were heard.

* * *
​

Eddard had scarcely dismissed the last petitioner when Jon laid his reckoning upon the table.

His father looked from the folded parchment to Arthur, who had followed Jon through the door. Rain darkened the knight's shoulders. He unfastened his cloak and hung it beside the hearth before drawing nearer.

"Another difficulty with the clock?" Eddard asked.

"No, Father. I want leave to gather a household."

"You have a household."

"Wylla and Arthur. I mean guards of my own."

Eddard opened the parchment. Jon had copied it twice to leave room between the sums, and Poole had supplied the prices for wool, boots and bedding. Even so, his father read slowly, returning to the first line after reaching the bottom.

"Twenty-five boys."

"Aged twelve to fourteen."

"No."

Jon had expected objections. He had not expected his father to finish before hearing him.

"Will you hear why?"

Eddard set the parchment down. "I will hear you. But you are not yet six, Jon. Your clock is unfinished, you have lessons with Luwin, and Arthur tells me he sometimes has to fetch you from the workshop for your supper. Now you propose to take responsibility for twenty-five other boys."

"That is why I brought the reckoning."

"The reckoning tells me what their coats cost."

Jon drew the chair nearer and climbed onto it. From there he could see the figures without having to stretch across the table.

Outside, a cart rattled beneath the window. Someone called for the driver to halt, and the sound of its wheels ceased with a long complaint from the axle.

Eddard waited until it was quiet.

"What has made you ask for this now? Has someone threatened you?"

"No."

"Then what are twenty-five boys to do that Arthur and my guards cannot?"

"They are not to replace Arthur."

"Nor could they."

Jon let that pass. "I want men who will go with me when I leave for Dragonstone. Men I have trained and lived with, not an escort chosen the week before I sail."

"Ethan has men waiting for you already. Two hundred of them went south at my command. The islanders who remained gave their oaths into his hands."

"I know. I am not asking him to send them away."

"Then why do you need another company?"

"Because a garrison is not the same as the men who ride beside me."

Eddard's fingers rested upon the parchment. Jon could see that the distinction had reached him, though it had not persuaded him.

"When you leave Winterfell," Jon continued, "you know who goes with you. You know which man you can send ahead, which one you trust with a message, who will take command if Jory is hurt. Ethan knows the men on Dragonstone. I know the names he writes."

"You will learn them."

"Aye. I would rather not begin learning everything on the same day."

Arthur drew up the other chair.

"He has a point, Ned."

"He has several. They do not make him old enough to keep twenty-five dependants."

"He would not be keeping them alone."

Eddard looked at him. "How much of this was your suggestion?"

"The number and the ages were his. So was bringing you the account."

"And the need for his own guards?"

"I have told him a lord ought to know the men who guard him."

"You might have added that there was no need to gather them before his sixth nameday."

Arthur settled his hands upon his knees. "When would you have him begin?"

"When he is older."

"How much older?"

Eddard's expression hardened. "Do not question me as though I have forgotten what Robert granted him."

"I have not forgotten what you accepted for him either."

The room grew quieter. Arthur had spoken without raising his voice, but Jon knew the look passing between them. He had seen it over letters from Dragonstone and whenever Robert's interest in him was mentioned. His father wanted more years. Arthur wanted those years used.

Jon wanted both, though he had little faith that wanting would obtain them.

"I am asking now because there is time to train them," he said, drawing their attention back to him. "Not because I mean to sail tomorrow."

Eddard sat back.

"Why boys, then? Let Rodrik choose six men who have served well. They can accompany you about Winterfell, and when you are older we can speak of more."

"Six men would guard me. That is not all I want."

"What else?"

"I want them taught together. Sword and shield, riding, their letters. I want them accustomed to taking orders from one another as well as from me. When I need more men, some of these should be fit to teach them."

Arthur glanced at Jon. He had heard the proposed exercises, but not all of what Jon meant to build from them.

"You are choosing your captains before you have soldiers?"

"I am giving myself years to find out which ones might become captains."

That earned him a longer look from Eddard.

Jon rested his forearms upon the table. "I do not need every boy to become an officer. Most will not. But I will know them by then. I will have seen them tired, angry, frightened, pleased with themselves. I would rather choose after that than because a man brings me a fine sword and a letter praising his courage."

"Good men can be found with both," Eddard said.

"And I shall want good men too. I need one now to keep the yard when Arthur cannot."

"Then you do acknowledge that experience has some worth."

"Enough that I want these boys to gain it before I depend upon them."

"They will be older than you," his father said. "Every one of them. Some will be twice your size."

"I have noticed that most people are."

"That is not the objection I am making."

"I know." Jon held his gaze. "They must understand whose service they are entering before they give their word. I will hear counsel from the men teaching them. I will not have my orders treated as suggestions because a boy can lift me."

"And when one does?"

"He answers for it."

"To Arthur?"

"To me. Arthur need not settle every quarrel in my name."

Eddard studied him over the open account. The answer had come readily; Jon could see his father wondering how much of that certainty would remain before an angry boy with broad shoulders and a practice sword.

Arthur leaned forward.

"He gives orders to men older than either of us in the workshop. They question him when the work requires it. He answers, or he has them show him what he has missed. They have not found him difficult to hear."

"Timber does not become resentful."

"Mikken does."

Despite himself, Eddard let out a breath of amusement.

Arthur continued before it vanished. "I would not leave him alone with them, Ned. Nor put steel in their hands because he asks it. But I can teach their weapons, and Rodrik will know a man who can keep order among them. Better we discover what Jon must learn while you are here to see it."

His father looked down again.

"Twelve to fourteen," he murmured. "Old enough to think a sword makes a man of them. Young enough to believe you when you say it does."

"I will not tell them that."

Jon's answer was quieter than the others.

For a moment he remembered his own son at twelve, all knees and elbows in a school shirt, indignant over some quarrel that had seemed likely to end the world until supper arrived. The boys he meant to summon would be no less children because they knew how to split wood or carry a sack of barley. Feeding them well and teaching them to fight would not change what he was asking of them.

He disliked that more than either man could know.

But he remembered another Winterfell, emptied of its strength; boys sent south with Robb and boys left behind when the ironborn came. He remembered what had become of the man sitting across from him. Those events were not a fate he intended to accept. They were warnings, and altering a warning's particulars did not make the danger disappear.

He could spend these years preparing, or discover later that he had mistaken his own reluctance for mercy.

Eddard was still watching him.

"They will begin with practice weapons," Jon said. "They will learn to obey a halt as readily as a command to strike. I want them alive and useful when they are grown. There is no purpose in ruining them to make a fine show now."

Arthur nodded. "I can answer for that part."

"And their letters?" Eddard asked. "You have written a tutor's work here as though Luwin has no other duties."

"He has more than enough. I thought someone who helps him with the copying might teach them the beginning. Luwin could judge whether the man is fit."

"What does a guard need with letters?"

"To read an order without finding someone else to read it for him. To keep a watch roll. To count what he is given and tell me what is missing." Jon touched the edge of the parchment. "You send Ethan letters because he can understand more from them than a rider's memory. I want men I can send away with work and expect an account when they return."

"Some will never have held a quill."

"Neither had I."

Arthur looked towards the window. Eddard's gaze remained upon Jon.

"You are not a useful measure of how quickly other children learn."

"No," Jon conceded. "That is another reason to begin early."

His father lifted the account again.

"Why twenty-five?"

"Four files of six, with one captain over them. Small enough that a man teaching them can see what each boy does. Enough to practise together and divide the work."

"You have already chosen this captain?"

"No. I have not chosen any of them."

"Not Woods's boy?"

"Olyver may ask for a place. His father must agree, and Arthur must judge him as he judges the others."

Arthur gave a slight nod at that.

Eddard moved his finger to the figures beneath the proposed wages.

"All of which returns us here. You have not sold a clock."

"Not yet."

"And you mean to feed them with the money from clocks you have not sold."

"I mean to ask you for an advance until I can."

"How long?"

Jon hesitated. A cracked piece of timber could cost another week; so could a tooth that would not fit.

"I cannot give you an honest day."

Eddard lowered the parchment.

"Then do not give me a dishonest one."

"I have not."

"No." His father rubbed a thumb along the fold. "You have not."

The fire shifted in the grate. Arthur rose to move a fallen length of wood back upon the embers, leaving Jon and Eddard facing one another across the table.

"There will be buyers," Jon said. "Once the clock is proved. Lords spend gold upon Myrish glass and hangings because another lord has them. A bell that rings without a man pulling the rope will not pass unnoticed."

"And when those buyers come?"

"First I repay what I owe you. Then I pay for the work needed to make the next."

"And after that?"

Jon saw no purpose in pretending his ambition ended with twenty-five.

"More, when I can afford them and have men fit to teach them."

Eddard glanced towards Arthur, who had returned the fire iron to its stand.

"This is a beginning to you."

"Yes."

His father was silent for a while. Below the window, the cart began moving again, its axle complaining all the way towards the gate.

"At your age," Eddard said at last, "I wanted a horse my father would not let me ride."

"Did he relent?"

"No. Brandon put me on it when Father was away."

Arthur turned from the hearth. "That explains a good deal."

"I fell into a dung heap." Eddard gave him a level look. "Brandon found it more amusing than I did."

Jon smiled, but his father's expression grew serious again.

"I cannot keep you from wanting more than your years ought to allow. I can require you to understand what you are asking. These boys will come because they are hungry, or because their fathers have no land for them, or because they have heard that Arthur Dayne will teach them a sword. Some will come for reasons they cannot explain. Once you receive their service, you cannot lose interest."

"I will not."

"You cannot send them home hungry because a lord delays paying for his clock."

"Then their food comes before another bench or another tool."

Eddard watched him for another moment before drawing the parchment back towards himself.

"Twenty-five at most. Their families hear plainly that the service may take them to Dragonstone. No boy still bound to another master enters your household without his release. Arthur judges whether they can bear the training, and you will not fill the number merely because you have beds prepared."

Jon straightened in the chair.

"And the trainer?"

"Speak to Rodrik. If he finds a man willing to take your service, bring him to me."

Arthur resumed his seat. "I will go with him."

"I rather thought you would." Eddard looked again at the account. "Poole will help you correct this. Food and clothing, Jon, not merely silver. There are things here you have priced once which will need buying twice before the year is out."

"Will you advance the first pay?"

"The first pay." His father folded the parchment and gave it back. "You will repay it from the clocks you sell. Poole will see to it."

Jon took the account with both hands. "Thank you, Father."

Eddard caught his wrist before he could slide from the chair.

"You still come to supper."

"I came yesterday."

"After Wylla went looking for you."

"The wheel was—"

"I know about the wheel."

Arthur was smiling now. Jon gave up the defence and tucked the parchment beneath his arm.

"I will come."

His father released him, but the hand that had held his wrist passed once over his dark hair before he stepped away.

Outside the solar, Arthur waited while Jon shut the door.

"Rodrik will be in the yard."

"Then we should find him."

"He may want to finish his supper before discussing yours."

Jon looked towards the narrow window. The light had faded while they argued. From below came the smell of onions frying in dripping, and the sound of Robb calling for someone to move along the bench.

He turned towards the hall. Arthur followed without another word.

"Did he agree?" Robb asked as Jon took his place.

"Twenty-five at most. We still have to find them."

Robb turned immediately towards Theon. "I told you."

Theon lowered his cup. "All twenty-five?"

"All twenty-five," Jon said.

For a moment Theon looked genuinely surprised, which pleased Robb more than the approval itself.

"You thought he would say no."

"He did say no," Jon told him.

Robb looked back, confused. Theon's grin returned.

"And you kept talking until he changed his mind? Gods help your captain."

"Would you prefer I had stopped?"

"I would prefer to know how you managed it before I next ask for something."

At the head of the table, Eddard set down his knife.

"You might begin by asking for something reasonable, Theon."

Beside Theon, Robb was already asking when they could watch the choosing.

"When Rodrik can spare you," Eddard said. "You will not leave your own work because Jon has found more."

Robb waited until his father had turned to Catelyn before leaning closer. "We shall still practise together?"

"Aye. I have not asked Arthur to stop teaching me."

"With them?"

"Some mornings. Other times with you and Rodrik."

That satisfied him. He began proposing boys Jon had met at the harvest gathering until Theon asked whether all their fathers meant to send their heirs to guard Dragonstone. Robb told him he had only named two. Jon listened over his broth, thankful for a conversation in which he did not have to defend the whole undertaking before taking another mouthful.

* * *
​

Arthur went with Jon to find Rodrik after supper. The following afternoon they met him in the armoury yard, with an old soldier waiting beside him. The man had grey in his beard and carried an ash staff more often than a spear. One knee remained stiff when he walked; half his left ear was gone.

"Heward," Rodrik said. "He served under your grandfather, rode with your father's men before the knee went bad, and has spent the last years making himself useful wherever Winterfell needed an old soldier who could still shout."

Heward looked down at Jon. "Ser Rodrik says you want twenty-five boys made into a household."

"I do."

"Boys of twelve and thirteen."

"Some fourteen."

"That improves matters enormously." Heward's face did not change.

"Arthur will teach the sword," Jon said. "Hullen and the men he names will see to the horses. I want you over the yard."

"Doing what?"

"Teaching them to obey together. A good swordsman who leaves his place when he pleases is a danger to the men beside him. I want twenty-five boys who know where to stand, how to move when they are tired, how to keep their shields, clothes and weapons fit, and how to answer the first order."

Heward gave a slow nod. "That I know."

"There will be running. Wrestling. Stretching before hard work."

"Sensible enough."

"And lifting."

The nod stopped. "Lifting what?"

"Weights."

Heward glanced towards Rodrik. "For what work?"

"For no work but becoming stronger."

That earned Jon a longer stare. "Carrying stone makes a man strong."

"A load of stone may be too much for one boy and too little for another. I want weights we can add to as each grows stronger. They will learn to lift properly, with work for their legs and backs as well as their arms."

Rodrik folded his arms. "You have seen men trained so?"

"I know what I want the body to learn." Jon kept his answer there. "We begin light. No boy proves courage by ruining a joint."

Heward tapped the end of his staff once against the stone. "And when a boy cannot keep pace?"

"Then we find out why. If he is weak, we strengthen him. If he is hurt, we mend him. If he is lazy, you cure him of it."

Heward's eyes narrowed slightly. "And the one who decides he has had enough?"

Jon met his eyes. "You deal with idleness in the yard. If he wants release from my service, he asks me himself."

"I will feed them well, clothe them, pay them and teach them letters as well as arms," Jon said. "In return I expect obedience and work. If you think one of my ideas is foolish, tell me before the yard hears it."

"And if you still want it done?"

"Then do as I command."

Heward planted both hands upon the head of his staff. "When do you want me?"

"Before the boys arrive. I want the yard ready before they are."

"Then show me these weights of yours, Lord Black. I should like to know what foolishness I have agreed to before dawn finds me shouting it."

They brought Heward before Eddard that evening, as his father had required. Eddard lent him for the choosing; he would grant his release from Winterfell's service once Jon and the old soldier had proved they could work together.

Before the call went out, Poole opened the chamber beside the armoury. Twenty beds stood among harness chests; the stores held five more, two needing repair. They marked places for all twenty-five, leaving the passages Wylla required, and had the chests moved out. She could push two fingers through some mattress seams. Those she set aside for mending; the others needed fresh straw.

"Show me what we can use before buying more," Jon told Poole as they counted blankets. "The whole cost goes in my account."

The boys would eat with Winterfell's guards at House Black's expense, wash from the yard pump and use the nearest privy. Poole promised cloak pegs beneath the eaves, clear of the beds. Heward took the room across the passage, within hearing of anyone leaving and nearer the yard than his old lodging.

Wylla held the door while Poole checked the hearth. "Some will come farther than a morning's walk. Where do they sleep while you choose?"

The nearby boys could go home; Poole offered the lower hall, straw and pallets for the others and any kin staying with them.

"See they hear the terms on arrival," Jon said. "Before they spend six days hoping for a place."

That evening Poole entered the temporary bedding and Eddard's advance in the full reckoning, including Heward's keep and the extra help Woods would need if Olyver were chosen. The captain's place still had no name beside it.

Master Hollan came next day carrying copied pages. He wrote letters and fair copies in Winter Town; Luwin had given him work often enough to know his hand. In the maester's room he kept his elbows clear of the drying herbs and asked how many boys knew their letters.

"We have not chosen them yet. Some will. Most may not."

"I must hear them separately. A boy who can read a little learns nothing from the alphabet every evening."

Jon agreed to groups divided by ability, one working with Heward while the other learned. Luwin lent his primers for copying, requiring their return. They settled weekly pay for lessons after the midday meal, leaving Hollan's mornings free. Copies went in the price: reading and common sums for beginners, harder accounts when ready. Hollan would hear candidates during the choosing and bring the accepted boys' work to Luwin after a fortnight.

"Your own lesson remains here," Luwin told Jon. "Their work does not replace it."

Hollan had been studying Jon's figures. He asked him to read a line, then looked at him longer before folding his account. Jon sent it to Poole. While Luwin returned to his herbs, Hollan moved a stool so the boy could help choose which pages to copy.

By the next fortnight Jon's sixth nameday had passed, and the lower yard was crowded before he finished breakfast. The call had gone through the winter town and the nearest villages: Lord Black wanted twenty-five boys, twelve to fourteen, for his household. Men repeated it over smiths' anvils and at the mill. Some boys came with a spare shirt tied inside a blanket; others wore their fathers' coats with the sleeves folded back. Poole's clerk explained the wages and the service on Dragonstone before directing those who needed a pallet to the lower hall. Jon had priced the food and the beds. Now he had to look each family in the face while they decided whether to trust him with a son.

He did not choose them in an afternoon.

For six days Heward, Arthur and Jon worked through them. Wylla kept the names of parents and kin beside Poole's clerk, because she cared less how straight a boy stood than whether anyone knew where to send if he broke an arm. Arthur watched hands, feet and eyes. Heward wanted to see what remained of obedience after breath and patience were spent. Jon wanted boys who could be taught together rather than twenty-five little champions.

Preventing the wars he remembered would not answer every danger. Beyond the Wall was an enemy a quarrel settled in King's Landing would do nothing to stop. He could not be certain when it would come south, or how much his own choices would alter what preceded it. The years he had asked for were useful only if he used them.

The first morning contained very little swordplay. Heward sent them round the yard in groups of six with sacks upon their shoulders. Rain had softened the ground beneath the gallery; each circuit carried them through churned mud and up the shallow armoury slope. By the fourth, the tallest were breathing through their mouths. One boy's sack began slipping from his shoulder; he tried to catch it without slowing and spilled half its sand before Heward called him back.

They carried water next, then held practice shields until shoulders began to sag. Hullen lent them two quiet garrons and watched while the boys led them between barrels and stacked timber. A lad who had boasted of riding since he could walk jerked the reins when a cart rattled behind him; the garron planted its feet and refused him. Another boy who had never owned a horse put one hand against the animal's neck, waited for it to settle and brought it through cleanly.

The second day brought ash swords, but Arthur paired the boys by size before any of them could choose an easy victory. Heward called halt without warning. A boy who followed through too late had to show that he could stop before Arthur let him begin again. Robb and Theon arrived when their own lessons were done, and Rodrik kept them behind the rail with the watching families.

Theon had been leaning against the rail until a broad-shouldered applicant began driving his opponent backwards. Now he straightened, following the exchange while Robb called encouragement to the smaller boy.

"That one can fight," Theon said.

Jon watched Arthur move closer to the pair. "He has been taught."

"Aye. Give him a proper shield and he would trouble some of Rodrik's pages."

The larger boy struck again, caught his opponent's blade and forced it down. Before Arthur could separate them, he looked towards the rail to see who had noticed.

Theon snorted.

"What?" Robb asked.

"He had him beaten. Now he wants everyone to admire it."

Arthur sent them apart and gave the larger boy a correction. The boy began explaining what he had intended.

Theon's mouth crooked. "Oh, teach Ser Arthur. He has been waiting years for you."

Jon pressed his lips together. Arthur had heard; the glance he gave the rail was enough to make Robb stand straight and Theon lower his voice.

When the boy tried again, he kept his eyes upon his opponent.

"Better," Theon murmured.

"You could tell him that," Robb said.

"And spoil him?"

Rodrik called them away before the next pair began. Robb left looking back at the yard. Theon went with him, still following the movement of the taller boy's shield until the armoury door hid it.

The third morning was Jon's doing. There were no bouts at all. The applicants cleaned borrowed shields, sorted pegs, carried kindling, brushed horses and helped stack grain sacks beneath Poole's eye. Boys who had been eager when swords were offered became slower when given rags and buckets. One complained that he had come to become a guardsman, not a stableboy.

Heward looked at Jon. "There is one answer found."

The boy heard him and reddened, but stayed to finish the stall. Jon left his name on the roll. A complaint could be trained out of a boy who still did the work.

At noon Jon had them fed whether they remained in consideration or not. Brown bread, onion broth and cold beef went down the tables. When Heward questioned feeding boys already crossed from the roll, Jon tore his bread in half. "They came because I called. They eat before they go home."

On the fourth day Jon moved among the families, asking where they came from, who depended upon the wages and what they understood of the service. Hearing their prospective lord speak of crossing the sea made Dragonstone less distant than it had sounded in the clerk's announcement.

One mother took her son home. Jon did not argue. Another father asked how often a boy serving on Dragonstone would be allowed north. "I cannot tell you yet how often he can come home," Jon told him. "I can promise he will be paid, fed and given leave when service allows it. If that is not enough, decide now, before he gives me his word." The man looked at his son. The boy remained.

Hollan heard them in the lower hall while the next pairs waited for the yard. He wrote each name for its owner to try, setting a different passage before the few who could already read. Robb sat at the end of the table until Jon asked him to stop supplying the sounds. He flushed, then held his tongue while the boy beside him finished without help.

"Better?" Robb asked Jon afterwards.

"Now Master Hollan knows what the boy can do."

Robb looked back at the table, where the scrivener had covered half a word with his thumb. "Luwin does that with me."

Jon smiled and went to hear the next family.

By the fifth day the yard had begun revealing things no single contest could. Some boys blamed a partner whenever a file lost order. Others quietly tightened another lad's shield strap or shared water without being told. Heward changed an instruction halfway through a drill simply to learn who was listening. Arthur noted who needed one correction and who needed five. Wylla found two boys hiding blisters because they feared being sent home and marched both to Luwin before Heward could shout at them.

The yard confirmed something Jon had learned at sea long before he had ever heard the name Winterfell. A man could look excellent for an hour. It was the wet watch, the fouled line and the fourth repetition of an unpleasant job that told you whether you wanted him beside you when matters went wrong. These were boys rather than sailors, so Jon used what he had: mud, boredom, horses, mistakes and one another.

The sixth morning began in rain. Heward sent the remaining boys round the yard with sacks again, not because Jon cared who came first, but because everyone now knew what the circuit felt like. The smallest lost a shoe near the broken tiles by the wall.

"Two of you, help him," Heward called. "The rest keep moving."

Tomas stopped beside him and took his sack, keeping him on the clear ground while Oren went back for the shoe. The others went on. When Heward called them in, Tomas brought up the rear carrying both burdens, one shoulder dark where the coarse sacking had rubbed rain through his coat.

Heward took the extra sack from him. "Is he hurt?"

"No, master. There are broken tiles by the wall." Tomas glanced at Jon and straightened. "My lord."

Jon sent a stable hand for a basket. "Clear those before the next six go round."

Heward turned the waiting boys towards the other end of the yard.

Jon moved along the line with Arthur. Up close they smelled of wet wool and six days of trying to appear harder than they felt. There was a split seam at one shoulder, an old burn across a wrist, a thin boy trying to keep his teeth from chattering. Olyver stood near the end, holding his recovered shoe. He had scraped most of the mud from it with a stick. Beside him, Oren had mud above both knees.

"You went back too," Jon said to Oren.

"Only for the shoe, my lord. Tomas had him."

"Put it on, Olyver." Jon looked to Heward. "Keep the pairs for the longer runs. I want each boy to know who is falling behind."

Heward nodded and called the next six forward.

Arthur bent over the roll on the window ledge. He had crossed out more names than he had left. Jon rested one hand on the wet stone and went through those that remained with him. Twenty-five would give Heward four files of six and a boy to bring them together. Jon chose Tomas for that place. Heward named Jorren, Olyver, Rylas and Gage for the files; Arthur agreed, though he kept his finger beside Olyver's name until Jon had spoken to Woods.

"He still has work at the bench," the carpenter said when he was brought from the workshop. Sawdust clung to the damp front of his apron. "He knows which pieces are ready for the wheelwright. I cannot put any lad in his place."

Jon called Olyver over from the waiting boys. "Your father needs you. Do you still want a place in the household?"

"Aye, my lord." Olyver looked at Woods. "I can do both."

"You have not yet tried," Woods said.

"The yard comes first," Jon told them. "But he can work with you after lessons. I will pay another lad to do the carrying and rough work, so you have his time for what only he knows."

Woods studied his son's hopeful face. "We will see how much strength you have left after Heward has finished with you." He turned to Jon and touched his brow. "Very well, my lord."

Before the boys were called in to eat, Eddard read Arthur's roll beneath the gallery. Poole had placed the five spare beds; the chamber was ready, with meals beside Winterfell's men until Jon had a kitchen of his own.

"Heward has my release," Eddard said. "He may give you his oath. The boys answer to him and Arthur; both men answer to you. While they live within these walls, they still obey my castellan."

"Yes, Father. I want practice shields from the armoury tonight. Arthur begins at dawn."

"I shall tell Rodrik. There is room at the eastern wall."

When the last names were settled, Heward brought the chosen boys beneath the gallery. Their families crowded closer as Jon took his place before them, with Arthur beside the steps and Eddard remaining by the table. Some of the boys still watched the knight more closely than their prospective lord.

"Your names have been chosen," Jon said. "Before you give me your word, hear what I expect."

The talk beside the steps subsided.

"You will have the food, clothing and silver promised to you. You will learn your weapons, your horses and your letters. Some of you had begun that work before you came here. Others had never held a sword or read a word. I expect all of you to learn."

He looked along the line.

"Tomas will command the household. The men I set over you speak with my authority. You will obey them in the yard, upon the road and when I am not there to hear whether you do."

Tomas straightened beside the others. Jon let him feel the eyes turning towards him before continuing.

"I will train beside you. When you make a mistake, you will be taught to put it right. When you refuse an order, you will answer for it. Do not confuse the two."

One father shifted nearer the gallery, his cap held against his coat.

"This service will not end when you have earned a sword. In time I mean to take my household to Dragonstone. Any of you who cannot accept that must speak before we go to the heart tree."

Jon gave them time. He had no wish to discover later that a boy had mistaken being chosen for having no choice left.

"Those who give me their word will have mine. I will keep what I have promised you. I expect you to keep what you promise me."

No one stepped away. Robb stood beside Theon at the end of the gallery, quiet now; when Heward sent the boys to wash, they moved back to let the new captain lead them past.

By late afternoon the rain had stopped. The boys stood beneath the heart tree with their hair combed and the worst of the mud washed from their faces. Those of their kin who had stayed followed them from the gallery. Woods remained beside the path, turning a shaving between his fingers. Robb and Theon stood together by a root, the older boy with his arms folded. Wylla drew Jon's black collar straight before stepping back. Her thumb brushed the pale lock lying against his left temple.

"Keep your chin up," she murmured. "I stitched it to fit you."

Heward knelt first, awkwardly, upon his sound knee. Jon put his hands around the scarred hands offered to him. The old man pledged his counsel, the order of the yard and what strength remained to him, upon road and sea, until death or release before witnesses. Jon received him into his service and gave the promised protection, board, clothing and silver. Arthur helped Heward rise without making a show of it.

Tomas came next. He knelt on both knees and offered his hands. Up close Jon could see the thread where his mother had mended the cuff. The boy spoke loudly enough for those beside the path to hear.

"I, Tomas, give my service to Lord Jon of House Black. I will keep his peace, obey those he sets above me and stand beside my fellows, on land or sea, until death or lawful release."

"I receive your service," Jon said. "You shall have my protection, your board and clothing, and the silver promised you. Rise, Tomas."

Tomas stepped aside with his face flushed. The next boy had to hear Heward's prompting before he found his voice, but each spoke for himself. Jon answered each in turn. Woods stopped turning the shaving when Olyver knelt. Tomas's mother pressed her lips together and watched her son take his place beneath the tree. By the time Oren offered his hands, Jon's were cold from the boys' damp sleeves.

When the last had risen, Poole read back twenty-five names. Eddard witnessed the roll. Jon watched the ink dry beside his father's seal before he let Poole take it away.

The black cloth waiting in the armoury was plain northern wool. Wylla and two sewing women had cut badges from it while the boys were being tried. Their coats would take longer. Olyver held his collar for Woods to stitch, and Tomas submitted to his mother's needle with the same grave attention he had given the oath. Robb asked if he might learn with them on the morrow.

"You will have to ask Ser Rodrik," Jon said.

"He told me to ask you."

Jon looked across the yard. Rodrik's moustache twitched. "Come before breakfast."

Before bed Jon went to see their room. Heward had lit two candles, and the boys were carrying in the last of the bedding. Twenty-five narrow beds left only the passages Wylla had insisted upon. One blanket was already spread with carved game pieces. A lad at the window was unwrapping a heel of cheese from his spare shirt when Tomas noticed Arthur in the doorway.

They scrambled to their feet. Jon told them to finish settling in and sent Tomas for another basket of wood.

Olyver had put his bed beside Oren's. Woods had sent his son a little chest; most of the others had bundles which fitted beneath a pillow. At the far end, Tomas's mother was folding his cloak. She rose when Jon approached and curtsied awkwardly between the beds. Jon waited while she finished. He had once checked a grown son's bag for things the young man insisted he had packed. Her boy might consider the folded cloak a nuisance; Jon understood why she wanted to do this last thing herself.

"He is placed well here, my lord," she said.

Jon looked at the bed she had made, neater than any of the others. "He has earned the place."

Tomas returned with the wood and found her still there. She touched his cheek before leaving, heedless of the boys trying not to watch. Arthur held the door for her. Behind Jon, someone took the game pieces from the blanket, and the talk slowly began again.

Heward waited across the passage until the last mother had left. His own door stood open, the ash staff leaning within reach of his bed. He told Tomas where to find him if anyone needed help, then sent the boy back to his fellows. Jon could hear them comparing their new places as he and Arthur crossed the yard towards the family rooms.

The next morning, all twenty-five were waiting when Arthur brought Jon down. Heward had arranged their practice shields by size against the wall. Jon took the smallest and stood at the end of Gage's file. Its rim reached too close to his chin; Arthur shifted the grip and made him hold it again while a leatherworker fetched his awl.

The other boys watched. Jon felt the weight pulling at his wrist. He kept the shield up until Arthur told him to lower it, then set it against his knee while the strap was shortened.

"Learn the order," he told Tomas. "You will have them ready before I come down tomorrow."

"Yes, my lord."

Heward began with the distance between one pair of feet and the next. Before the morning ended, Jon's heels were sore and he could hear the old man correcting the same fault three places along the file. The shield fitted better. When he lifted it on the next command, he could see over the rim.

Arthur dismissed them to eat. The boys stacked their shields, more slowly now, and followed Heward towards the hall. Jon stayed with Tomas to call back three whose straps had slipped during the lesson. They tried the shields on their own arms, and Tomas marked the places for the leatherworker.

At breakfast Robb sat opposite Jon, blowing on a spoonful of porridge. He asked when the household would learn to fight with swords.

"Arthur begins with swords tomorrow." Jon reached for the milk. His wrist shook a little with the effort, and he set the jug down before pouring it.

Robb regarded his own reddened palm. "I thought there would be more hitting."

"There will be." Arthur took the bread from the serving boy and passed it between them. "You can tell me afterwards whether you still want more."

Jon ate a second bowl before going to lessons. Beyond the hall door he could hear Heward collecting the twenty-five, learning which names needed to be called twice.

After the midday meal, Hollan arrived with the copied primers and found the shields stacked against the wall outside the boys' chamber. Heward took the first group out to the yard while the others sat with the scrivener. Returning from his own lesson, Jon stopped long enough to hear Olyver finish a passage. Woods would have him back at the bench when Hollan was done; for now the boy kept his finger beneath the words and tried the difficult one again.

 

[aiwonder]

The following year, Bran Stark announced himself to Winterfell with a cry strong enough to reach the covered gallery.

Robb had waited outside the birthing room since dawn. Sansa sat with her sewing in Septa Mordane's lap and asked every half-hour whether babies always required so much time. Theon crossed the passage twice, claimed both times that Luwin had sent him, and lingered until Ser Rodrik came looking. The old knight took one look at the closed door and let him stay. Jon sat with his heels three fingers above the floor and listened to Catelyn labour behind oak.

The sounds brought back the hospital where his daughter had been born: hard light, his wife's fingers crushing his hand, a nurse telling him to breathe as if he were the one doing the work. He had been frightened then too. He looked along the bench at the children waiting with him and made room where the smallest could sit.

Here he was seven years old and could do nothing but wait. When Robb paced past again, Jon caught his sleeve and made room on the bench. Robb sat for a moment, then got up to listen at the door beside Theon.

Arthur sat beside him, drawing a whetstone along a belt knife whose edge was already keen. Jon glanced at the blade. "That will vanish if you sharpen it much more."

"Then I shall have done something while we wait," Arthur said, moving the knife again.

"You could count Sansa's questions," Robb suggested. "She has asked how long babies take eleven times."

Sansa looked up. "Seven. Two were different questions." Robb began counting them on his fingers.

Jon gathered the loose thread before Robb caught it with his heel. Sansa held out her hand for it, but her attention had already returned to the door. A woman spoke within; the words were too low to hear. Sansa moved along the bench until her sleeve touched Jon's.

"Mother said I could hold the baby."

"When Wylla brings us in."

She nodded and began winding the thread. Robb stopped counting. For a little while they sat without speaking, listening to footsteps pass beyond the door. Arthur put the knife away and reached down for the cup of water which no one had touched.

The first infant cry cut through them. Robb sprang up and kicked Sansa's thread box. Bone buttons rolled under the benches. Sansa stooped for one, remembered the child and left the rest to Septa Mordane. Wylla opened the door, sweat darkening her temples. "A son. Your mother is well. Quietly now."

Robb was through before she finished. Sansa followed at a walk that became a run after the threshold. Theon remained outside until Robb came back, seized his sleeve and pulled. "You waited with us."

"I was passing on my way to the stairs," Theon said. "No one called me in."

Arthur smiled and stood aside to let him pass. Jon lingered on the bench until Eddard saw him through the open door and beckoned. He went in with Arthur behind him.

Catelyn lay pale among white bolsters, her copper hair damp and unbraided. Eddard sat at her side with one hand around hers. The midwife washed a small red body before the fire. The child objected to water, linen and the whole cold world. "He is very loud," Sansa said.

"Arya was louder," Robb answered.

The midwife's helper brought Arya from the adjoining room, and Wylla lifted her upon one hip. The little girl beat both fists against the air. Dark wisps clung to her long little face; she had their father's grey-eyed frown when Wylla caught one fist and kept it from the basin.

Theon allowed Robb to draw him closer. "Were all of you that small?"

"You were too," Robb said.

"Mother says he will grow," Sansa declared. Theon moved the basin before Arya could reach it again.

Theon withdrew to the doorway when the midwife needed room. Wylla sat with Arya, and Eddard settled Jon in the chair beside her. The midwife placed Bran in his arms. Mordane moved a pace nearer. Catelyn watched him settle the little head against his shoulder, then lay back against the bolsters. Only the septa kept watching. Milk-warm breath touched Jon's neck.

Memory supplied high stone and a small body falling. Jon drew the blanket closer about Bran's feet. Arthur lived. Black ships had changed a war. He could keep this child off a tower.

Wylla slipped a folded cloth under his elbow. "Support his head, love."

He settled Bran more comfortably. A little auburn down showed above the wrappings. Eddard watched from beside the bed. "Brandon."

Robb tried the name aloud. Sansa chose Bran because it was easier to say. Arya caught at the blanket until Wylla moved her hand away.

"When can he ride?" Robb asked.

Catelyn closed her eyes. "Let him have his milk first."

"I can teach him when he is ready," Robb said, more quietly. Sansa offered to teach him letters. Eddard looked at Arya beating upon Wylla's shoulder and said Bran would learn to shout without anyone's help.

Jon looked down at the small, sleeping face. "I will teach him where not to climb."

Arthur looked at him. Jon kept his eyes on Bran.

Wylla took Bran before Jon's young arms tired enough to betray him. "First I teach all of you to leave the room. Your mother needs sleep."

When Catelyn began coming down to supper again, Bran slept in a cradle beside Catelyn's chair while brown butter ran over carrots and a capon lay ready for carving upon the board. Jon moved the cradle clear of the servants' path and chose the seat from which he could see the child's face. When Bran stirred, Jon touched the rim once, saw the small chest rise and returned to his bread.

The capon tasted of sage and smoke. He had almost finished it when Bran woke and began to cry.

* * *
​

Most mornings Jon began in the yard with the household, and by then Winterfell had learned their sounds. Heward's staff struck stone before the kitchens sent up their first steam; twenty-five pairs of boots answered him along the eastern wall; Arthur's sharper corrections followed once the practice swords came out. Before Heward set the files in motion, Jon led the movements that had first earned him suspicious looks: shoulders turned through their full reach, knees bent and straightened under control, calves and hips stretched before the run. Heward no longer called it southern foolishness. He merely stalked the line and knocked a heel wider or a back straighter with the end of his staff.

The older boys could still outrun Jon. On the first mornings several had finished bent double, one had been sick behind the armoury, and Oren had hidden a blister until Heward found blood in his shoe. Now the files came back together more often than not. After the run came shields, wrestling or the strength work Jon had introduced. Woods made wooden bars for drilled stones; Mikken supplied shorter iron handles. Heward stopped mocking the weights after Tomas learned to carry his shield through a whole drill without letting it sag. He still chose how much each boy lifted. Jon used the lighter set and worked beside them.

One morning the red-bearded guard who had fetched his picture book came out of the armoury as Arthur called the last halt. Jon's left arm shook when he lowered his shield. He laid it in the rack, drank, and waited until his breath came easily before turning to the man.

"Maester Luwin has the book you asked for, my lord."

"About the ships?"

"I could not tell you. Green leather, if that helps."

"The harbour customs." Jon wiped his mouth. "Thank you. I shall come up after breakfast."

"See that you do eat first. You will be there until dinner once you open it."

"Wylla has been speaking to you."

"She has been speaking to half the castle." The guard smiled and moved aside as Jon took his cloak from the peg. He had seen the boy carried from these lessons before his legs could bear him through half so much. Now he stayed to watch Tomas count the practice swords back into their rack.

By breakfast Jon's shirt clung damply between his shoulders, and Wylla had a second bowl ready. Across the table Gage counted his file before taking water for himself. Jon watched the boys settle, pleased by how much they could now do without him. They had learned trust and obedience along with the drill; he would decide where those habits took them. He meant to keep the wars he remembered from their doors, but he was preparing them to fight if he failed.

He ate, saved a little meat in linen and went to the eastern wall before his lesson.

Hugin and Munin came for meat, not friendship. The cock was larger, with three white feathers in his left wing. The hen bore a notch near the end of her upper beak and stole anything that shone. Jon set scraps on one flat stone and stood back. Arthur remained within reach the first morning, two fingers resting against the boy's shoulder. "I am feeding them," Jon said.

"Aye," Arthur said, watching the nearer bird.

Since Bucephalus's terror had dragged Jon halfway into a horse's mind, he had felt other animals at odd moments: a swallow's hunger, a dog's sudden fright. He had learned to draw back. Even so, he was glad Arthur stayed close while the crows fed.

Robb brought honeyed crumbs. The crows ignored them while he stared. "They do not like sweet things," Sansa said.

"They dislike being watched," Arthur replied.

Sansa turned her back with grave care. Munin dropped behind Jon's shoulder, took a piece of mutton and left every crumb. "She waited until I looked away," Robb said.

"Look away again," Sansa told him.

Hugin learned one word from Arthur. The knight used hold at the horse line, in the sword yard and whenever a dog nosed towards the feeding stone. Within a fortnight the cock could rasp enough of the sound to turn heads. "Hold," he croaked while Arya crawled towards a puddle.

Wylla caught the back of the child's green gown. "Thank you," she told the bird, and lifted Arya clear of the water.

Theon tried to teach him kraken. Hugin answered hold until Theon threw a crust at the wall. Munin stole it before the cock moved. "She speaks Greyjoy better," Theon said.

"She steals Greyjoy better," Robb answered. "Munin has taken Theon's breakfast twice."

Theon threw another crust. Munin took that one too.

At first the crows stayed wary. Rain kept them beneath roofs. The butcher's heap beyond the wall could steal them for days. Munin took a brass button from Robb's coat, two red threads from Sansa and a lump of wool grease from Hullen. The button returned in a gutter. The threads appeared woven through a nest above the brew-house. Hullen's grease vanished entirely. "Stop feeding the thief," Hullen told Jon.

Theon stood beside him. "Which one?"

Hullen looked from the crows to the boys. "A fair question."

When Olyver carved eight little black feathers for Robb's searching game, he covered the pieces whenever Munin watched from a roof. On the last afternoon, he forgot. The hen dived upon the open box and escaped with one piece crosswise in her beak. "That took an hour!" Olyver shouted.

Munin landed above the rain gutter and tasted the oiled beech. "Corn," she croaked, in a fair imitation of the poultry boy.

Theon shaded his eyes. "You should have carved something less appetising."

Olyver found a pebble. Ser Rodrik took it from him before he could throw.

The Norrey boys had been watching from the steps while their uncle Torren argued high pasture with the Flint men in Eddard's solar. When Robb began laying out the game, the younger came down to look. He was long-nosed and lost inside a goat-wool tunic cut for an elder brother.

"Can we play?" he asked.

Robb glanced at Ser Rodrik, who nodded. "What are your names?"

"Beren. That is Benfred, my brother." He pointed to the boy following him.

"I can speak for myself," Benfred said. He was thirteen, two years older than Beren, with the same long nose. He stopped beside his brother and looked towards the birds. "Are they tame?"

Jon gave the feeding whistle. Munin looked down with the stolen feather still in her beak.

Beren grinned. "Call her."

Jon whistled again. Munin tipped her head, then flew to the brew-house with the feather still in her beak. Robb laughed.

"She only comes when he has meat."

Cley came from the wash trough, rubbing his hands on his breeches. Branch had kept him helping at a blocked drain; he hurried over when Robb called his name. Ser Rodrik closed Olyver's box upon the seven remaining feathers. "The crow may keep her prize. We have enough to lose without climbing after it."

"No climbing," Catelyn called from the covered walk. Bran slept against her shoulder beneath a blue wool hood. Her gaze passed from the crow to Jon and sharpened. "No roofs, either."

"The game stays between the white stones," Robb said. "No hiding beneath carts, inside stables, or beyond the mint bed."

"Stay where Ser Rodrik can see you," Catelyn said.

Arthur shut the stable gate while Ser Rodrik gathered the players. Jon went with Cley, Theon with Olyver, and the Norrey boys kept together. Robb stood by the mounting block with the sandglass, pleased to be judging his own game.

"Stay inside the white stones," he said. "Bring the feathers here."

Ser Rodrik gave each pair a reed whistle. "If you need help, blow it. Come back when I ring the bell."

Robb turned the glass. Cley watched mud instead of walls. Robb's left boot had a patched heel that showed in three prints beside the channel. Jon followed his glance.

"Robb carried them," Cley said.

They found the first beneath an overturned feed measure. At the rain barrel, water had washed away the prints, but a black shaving lodged in the grate. Jon reached into the cold runnel and recovered the second feather. They carried both back to Robb, where Theon and Olyver were arguing over which of them had touched their prize first.

Five pieces had been found when Jon looked beneath the mounting stone. Robb planted one boot across the opening before Jon could reach inside. "This is the gathering place."

"The stone lies within the boundary," Jon protested. "You cannot move the line after I reach it."

Theon came to watch. "He has put his foot on it. That makes it Stark land."

"It was Stark land already," Robb said, keeping his boot firmly planted.

While they disputed it, Cley reached around the other side and untied the feather from beneath the block. "Pair's point," he said.

Robb stared, lifted his boot and laughed. "Pair's point."

A whistle shrilled beyond the eastern stones. Rodrik rang his bell, and the boys came running. Benfred was alone.

"Where is Beren?" Robb asked.

"The crow dropped the feather. He went after it." Benfred pointed beyond the mint bed. "I could hear him, but I could not find him."

Arthur hurried towards the brew-house with Ser Rodrik. Jon sent Cley after them; he knew the drains and the spaces between the buildings. Theon and Olyver ran for Jory. Robb stayed by the mounting block, calling Beren's name.

Upon the broken bell arch above the brew-house sat a wild crow, heavier than Munin, with no white in its wings and one sore foot held against its breast. From there it could see roofs, alleys and the eastern wall. Jon's tongue dried. The bird's pain touched his own foot, sharp and foreign, before he had reached for anything.

Jon reached for the mounting block as the ache sharpened. "Robb." He caught his brother's hand. "Call Arthur. Stay with me."

Robb shouted for the knight. Jon sat against the stone, fighting to keep the boy's red hair in sight.

The crow raised its head. Jon shut his eyes and tried to withdraw. The black wingbeat came through his closed lids and took him.

Grit pressed beneath hooked claws. The sore foot burned against breast feathers. Hunger turned the yard into beetles beneath bark, kitchen refuse and a dead mouse beside the drain. Human shapes moved below without names. Wind touched every feather separately. Jon's own body sank far away. He drove the crow from the arch.

A northern gust rolled it. Tail and wing corrected with a grace no human memory could supply. Jon wanted east; the bird understood only the force upon its right shoulder. Warm air drew it towards the malt roof. A hawk's shadow crossed the clouds, and terror pulled the wings close.

Grey wool moved beside the wall. Boy, sack or cloth in someone's arms—the height made no distinction. Three whistle notes sounded from inside stone. Jon sought his own hands, but pain opened in the crow's injured foot and the bird folded one wing. He pressed the other wing down to clear the roof, meaning to buy one breath in open air before he broke away.

For a heartbeat the bird answered. The roof swept across its eye. Wind struck uneven feathers. A carved stone lip filled the world. The crow fought his hand upon the wing. Jon released it too late. Feather struck stone. Sky broke into black and pale cloud. The body fell beside the wall, one wing beating and one ruined.

Jon searched for his own hands. There was only stone rising to meet him. Then there was nothing. Arthur's voice reached him from beneath deep water. "Jon. Open your eyes."

There were too many eyes. One stared along the ground from an angle no human neck could bear. Two found wet grass, Arthur's pale face and Robb kneeling beside him, still gripping his hand. Jon's heels hammered stone. He tasted blood where he had bitten his cheek, and his belly clenched. Arthur rolled him before he knew he was going to be sick. "Hear me," the knight said. He eased Robb aside and caught Jon beneath the jaw. "Whose hand is on you?"

"Arthur," Jon gasped. The name felt far away from the black grass filling his sight.

"Where are you?"

"Winterfell." Jon gripped his sleeve. The last sideways glimpse of grass would not leave him. "Make it stop."

Arthur held his face between both hands. "Look at me."

The borrowed sight went dark. Jon shook so hard that his teeth struck. He tried to tell Arthur about the roof, but could not make the words come.

A door banged open beyond the malt room. Cley shouted that he had found Beren. Jon heard the boy answer.

"They have him," he whispered. Arthur drew him closer and called for Luwin.

Ser Rodrik brought Beren back with Cley at his side. Benfred held the back of his brother's tunic in one fist. Theon and Olyver stopped when Rodrik spread his arm.

"Is he hurt?" Theon asked.

"A fit," Arthur said. "He is awake. Give him air."

Robb stood over them, staring at his empty hands. Arthur looked up at him. "Find Wylla. Tell her he is awake."

Beren began talking as soon as he saw Robb. The feather had rolled beneath the malt-room bench. He had followed it, and the door had swung shut.

Benfred struck his shoulder once and kept hold of his sleeve. "You left me."

"I thought you were coming." Beren wiped his face with a muddy hand.

Luwin knelt beside Jon and felt his pulse. "Did he strike his head?" Arthur shook his head. "I had him before he fell."

Robb brought Wylla back, with Catelyn following and Bran against her shoulder. She counted the children before asking anything. When she saw Jon shaking in Arthur's arms, she drew Bran closer. "Take Jon upstairs," she told Wylla. "I will come after the Norrey boys are seen."

Arthur bent to lift him. Wylla wiped Jon's mouth and turned his face clear of the knight's cloak. "Mind his head. He is still sick."

Jon caught Arthur's sleeve and let the knight carry him. Jory had fetched Torren Norrey from the keep. Beneath the brew-house arch the clansman caught Beren by both arms, looked him over, then pulled him against his chest. Benfred stood close enough that Torren caught his shoulder too.

"He went after the feather," Benfred said into his uncle's coat.

"I know." Torren looked over their heads at Ser Rodrik. "That door was meant to be shut."

Rodrik opened the door and showed him the fallen iron catch. It had jammed beneath the swollen lower edge. "We had to lift the door clear of it. It will be mended. Beren, you were told where the game ended."

Beren showed his split whistle. "I blew."

"We heard you," Robb said. His voice caught. "You did not come back."

Beren lowered the whistle. Benfred took it from his shaking hand and tucked it beneath his collar.

Catelyn sent for dry clothes and had a room made ready for the Norreys. Torren began to object that they meant to ride that evening, but stopped when Beren would not let go of his coat. Ser Rodrik gathered the other whistles and sent a carpenter to the malt room.

* * *
​

Wylla put Jon to bed and sent the onlookers back while Luwin examined him. She stripped his damp clothes and washed the blood from his mouth. Once he could swallow without coughing, she brought warm water with honey and a little salt. His hands would not stop trembling around the cup, so she held it. "My mind is clear," he said.

Wylla steadied the cup. "Then take another swallow."

Jon drank. The warmth hurt his throat, but it stayed down.

Arthur stood at the shutter when Eddard entered. Catelyn followed after settling Bran with the midwife; Luwin knelt at the bed and tested Jon's fingers.

"Tell me how it began," Eddard said.

"My foot hurt, then the yard turned." Jon looked at the linen. "I called Arthur and held on to Robb."

"You knew you were going to fall?"

"I thought I might."

Luwin asked him to squeeze two fingers. Jon could scarcely feel them. Wylla set the cup aside and pulled the blanket higher.

"I was across the yard," Arthur said. "Robb called me as soon as he saw him sit down."

Eddard rubbed a hand over his face. "No stairs alone until you are steady again. And no horses. Call someone the moment you feel ill."

"I did call."

"I know." His father's hand settled on the back of Jon's head. "You did."

Catelyn remained by the foot of the bed. Jon looked past Eddard towards her. "Is Bran well?"

"Asleep." She drew a loose thread from her cuff. "Robb thinks he let you go too soon. I would be obliged if you told him otherwise when you are able."

Jon nodded. Catelyn left to find Robb. Arthur turned towards the door, but Wylla caught his sleeve and pointed to the chair beside the bed. He sat.

Eddard went out with Luwin when the examination was finished. Jon waited until the door closed before asking after the crow. Arthur had sent a groom to the brew-house wall. The bird had struck the stones and died there. The last glimpse of grass still lay sideways in Jon's memory. He turned his face away.

Wylla sat on the edge of the bed. She loosened the collar against his throat as she had when he was too small to speak. "Look here, love." Her thumb stroked the damp hair above his ear. "You are in your bed. Arthur's beside you. Give me that hand."

He put it in hers. She held it until the trembling eased. After broth she drew the curtains, then went to find fresh linen for the morning. Jon waited until her footsteps had passed the stair.

"I could feel it after it died," he whispered.

Arthur drew his chair nearer. "Can you feel it now?"

"No. I remember it. The grass was beside my eye, and I could not turn my head." Jon swallowed. "I tried to come back before it fell. I could not find my hands."

Arthur looked down at the small fingers resting on the coverlet. "You said you would not try without me."

"I did not try. Its foot hurt, and then I was in it." Jon stopped, unwilling to make that an excuse for what followed. "Once I was there, I forced it to fly. I thought I could get clear of the roof and let go."

"Could you hear Robb?"

"Not then. I heard you afterwards. That helped."

"It took more than one call." Arthur's hand closed upon the bedpost. "What if I had been farther away?"

Jon had no answer he could bear to give him. Arthur waited, then loosened his grip.

"We stay clear of the birds."

"For now," Jon said. "But it has happened with other creatures. I need to learn to keep them out."

"Rest first. We will speak of it when you can sit up without help." Arthur brought the cup to Jon's lips and waited while he drank. "Sleep. I am staying here."

He slept through the afternoon and woke after dusk with one cheek wet. His fingers had feeling again but little strength. Arthur helped him dress, collected a spade and the wrapped crow, and took Jon beyond the rookery wall. Wylla met them at the stair with a lamp. "Keep him out of the wind," she told Arthur.

While Arthur dug, Jon stood over the wrapped body. "I could feel it trying to turn. I kept forcing the other wing."

"You could not have known how to fly," Arthur said. He laid the spade aside. Jon knelt, lowered the bird and covered it with a handful of earth. The knight helped him stand. By the time they returned, Wylla had warmed a stone for his feet.

The dream came that night. Jon stood beneath a red-leafed tree. Robb knelt among its roots, reaching for someone Jon could not see. His dead crow perched above them, its neck straight and both wings whole. It looked down at him. A third eye opened between the other two, and the voice that came from its beak was thin and old. "You called your guard and still put your will upon the wing." Beyond it, a man's pale face lay half hidden in the bark.

Below them, the search unfolded: Cley kneeling at the malt-room scrape, Benfred following crushed mint, Arthur coming from the wall passage. They were closing upon Beren while Jon still sat against the mounting block. "You saw this?" Jon asked.

"You have brought this much into your sleep." The face in the tree turned towards the moving figures. "You were frightened, yet you tried to command the creature as you command the men below. Even its wings. Where did you learn that certainty?" Jon waited until the last word had died among the branches, then pointed to the crow.

"Did you press the crow into me?"

The crow shifted along the branch. "You had the gift before you heard my voice."

"You came to me after the raven," Jon said. "Now they enter my mind. If you did not cause it, tell me how to stop it."

"A crow has wings. You keep trying to give it hands."

"Then I shall leave the flying to it." Jon stepped across the roots. "But the watching is mine. You saw men looking for Beren. Tell me where he was."

The crow looked beyond Robb towards the walls. The shapes there dissolved before its gaze.

"You do not know," Jon said.

The crow closed its third eye. Grey wool became sack, boy, shadow, then nothing at all. A bell began to hammer in the earth. Jon reached for Robb, but his brother's hands crumbled into pale rootlets. He called Arthur's name. A hand shook his shoulder, and the bed returned around him: lamplight, rumpled wool, his own weak fingers. "Bloodraven came," he said.

"What did he want?"

"He says the gift was mine before he came. That does not tell me whether he forced the joining." Jon swallowed. "He told me to leave the flying to the crow. When I asked where Beren was, he gave me nothing. I think he could not."

"He may have wanted you to think that," Arthur said.

Jon flexed his stiff fingers beneath the blanket. Arthur brought a scrap of parchment from the desk and sat beside him while he wrote what he could remember. Twice Jon stopped, trying to recover a word that had sounded plain in the dream. He left those places empty. Arthur folded the sheet and put it away before Wylla came with breakfast.

* * *
​

Luwin kept Jon from the workshop for three mornings. Before the first, Jon sent Woods orders to finish the frame and leave the movement for his return. Olyver was to bring the drawing book in the morning.

He woke before the hand bell to Woods's saw and Mikken's fitting hammer. A little later Heward's staff cracked against stone below the window and the household answered in ragged unison. Jon could tell from the old soldier's second shout that someone had missed the turn at the wall. Olyver came early with the drawing book beneath his arm and a question about the striking train, still flushed from the run and with his black badge darkened by sweat. Arthur drew a table to the bed while Jon found the right page.

"Woods can finish the timber," Jon said. "We will settle this before they mount the hammer."

Wylla entered with oat porridge, dried cherries and a clean shirt. "Breakfast first. You can keep the drawing beside you."

Jon looked at the tremor in his spoon hand, braced the bowl against his knees and began with the warm centre. "Leave the book here, Olyver. I will finish the drawing after breakfast."

Wylla put the clean shirt beside him and drew the tray nearer.

When the tray was cleared, Jon had Olyver draw the hammer's path on a clean scrap. The apprentice knew where it ought to strike; he hesitated over how far it must lift. Jon turned the sheet and showed him the short travel the pin allowed. They worked with the drawing between them until Olyver could sketch the motion himself.

Wylla sat at the foot of the bed with a sleeve across her lap. She listened to iron pins and bell rims for a while. "How often is it to strike?"

"Once an hour," Jon told her.

"Then I shall know when you have been at it too long." She bit through her thread and laid the mended shirt over the chair. Jon smiled down at the drawing. He could hear Olyver's charcoal clearly in the quiet room; below the window, the household were beginning their drill without him.

Luwin came after Olyver had gone and asked to see the first drawing of the striking work. Jon found it beneath the newer sheets. The maester studied it beside the bed.

"And what did you begin with? A description, perhaps? I should like to read it."

"I have no drawing to show you older than that one."

Luwin looked up. Jon sat against the pillows in the clean shirt Wylla had brought, its collar still loose about his thin neck.

The maester waited, his thumb still holding the first sheet. Jon offered him the next. "This shows it more clearly."

Luwin accepted it, but stayed long after he had finished examining Jon.

On the third morning Luwin permitted the stairs. Woods had set a stool and side table for Jon beyond the rail. "I have left the movement as you ordered, my lord."

Jon sat. "Set the book here, Olyver. I want the drawing of the hammer."

Olyver carried the clasped drawing book inside with both hands and set it where Jon had named.

The workshop smelled of lamp oil, charcoal and old quenching water. Failed wheels hung along the wall, their applewood teeth grey or stained. The movement stood behind the new rail built after Theon's trespass. Beside it waited the bellwork: lifting pins, a hammer and the cracked practice bell Pate had brought from the gatehouse.

The going weight was grounded behind three slatted boards; the heavier striking stone lay unused upon a sledge. A shallow sand-filled box stood beneath the little weight chosen for the trial. Arthur took the chair behind Jon, close enough to hear him without his raising his voice. Jon set his stool clear of Olyver's winding arm.

Woods fitted the last screen while Mikken adjusted its hinges. Jon checked that its inward swing stopped short of the wheels, then had Olyver shut it and try the latch.

Mikken took one hinge to the forge for a final adjustment. Olyver worked the bellows, his brown hair lifting each time the leather breathed. Pate came after the dawn ringing and struck the little bell with one knuckle. It answered like a spoon dropped beneath a pot.

Pate lifted the hammer and let it fall. The cracked bell clanked, and the hammer rested against its lip.

"It must come away after the stroke," Jon said. He pointed to the curved return spring. "Mikken, give this a little more bend."

The smith adjusted it twice while Pate listened. At the third blow the hammer sprang clear, leaving the thin note to fade. They would set the gap again when the larger bell arrived.

Before any weight rose, Woods fitted the long upper pin. It should have crossed front lug, side plate and rear lug, leaving a bright point beyond the timber. The head met the front face. Nothing appeared behind. "Hold," Jon said.

Hugin answered from a roof outside. Olyver grinned, then crouched behind the frame with the lamp. The pin had entered an old shallow boring beside the hole meant for it. Only a thin strip of wood separated them.

"Take that lug out," Jon said. "A plug will not bear the strain here."

Woods cut a replacement from pale ash, planed it and bored the passage. This time the point emerged cleanly at the rear. He turned the pin while Jon watched the fibres around it.

Wylla stopped at the rail with Bran. Luwin came behind her and felt Jon's pulse.

"One run, then upstairs," the maester said.

Jon nodded. "Use the light stone. A handspan will tell us whether the frame bears it."

They fitted every screen. The light striking stone went upon its hook. Slack rope lay coiled away from feet. Olyver came outside the rail and stood beside Jon. Pate waited in the passage, watching his bell. "Lift and hold," Jon said.

Woods wound. The stone rose one handspan. Oak creaked. The long pin held. The rear lug gave a dry click. "Lower," Jon said.

Woods began to lower the stone. The rear lug split along its grain and the upper plate tilted, pinching the winding arbor. The handle jerked in his hands. Then the little stone dropped its handspan into the sand box. A loose end of rope lashed through the open winding slot, knocked a jar of pins from the trestle and struck the screen. "Back!" Jon caught Olyver's sleeve.

Arthur caught Jon by the wrist and drew him back, pushing Olyver clear of the trestle with his free hand. Pain shot up Jon's arm. As the plate shifted, the released striking wheel spun against the hammer.

The cracked bell gave half a dozen ragged blows before the fallen weight left the rope slack. Mikken steadied the tilted plate and drove an oak wedge beneath it.

The noise carried into the yard. Dogs barked, a horse stamped against its stall and Bran began wailing in Wylla's arms. Pate held up a hand to his apprentice at the stair. "Leave the alarm. No fire."

Two guards came to the workshop door. Pate sent one to keep the passage clear while Woods checked that both weights were down. "Olyver?"

"Whole," Olyver said, staring at his scraped palm. "I struck the wall."

"Jon?" Arthur called, one arm still braced across his chest.

"I am here." Jon cradled his wrist against his chest.

"Stay there," Arthur said. "Woods, are the weights down? Luwin, look at his wrist."

Catelyn came from the family room fastening a dark gown. Robb and Theon crowded behind Ser Rodrik, who kept them at the door.

"Olyver's hand as well," Jon said. Then he saw Woods reach for the broken lug. "Keep both pieces. I want to see where it opened."

The carpenter nodded. The weights were down and the loose plate supported. Bran still cried in Wylla's arms.

Jon stood, but his legs began to shake. Arthur steadied him and took him to the chair in the outer room.

Wylla brought Olyver out after him. His scraped palm had begun to swell, and he kept opening and closing the fingers while Luwin fetched water.

Eddard came while Luwin was washing the grit from the scrape. "Woods says the room is safe." He looked from Olyver's hand to Jon's wrist. "What struck you?"

Arthur touched the reddening marks his fingers had left, then withdrew his hand.

"I pulled too hard."

"I was reaching for Olyver when you pulled me back," Jon said. "I can move it." He opened his hand for Luwin.

Olyver hissed as Luwin cleaned his palm. Woods stood behind his son with both hands hanging uselessly at his sides. "The split was inside the ash," he said. "It showed on neither end."

Jon watched Luwin turn Olyver's hand. "How badly is he hurt?"

"He will have a sore palm for a few days. He can still move every finger." Luwin laid it gently upon the cloth. "Keep it clean and let it mend."

Woods let out a breath and rested one hand on his son's shoulder.

"Leave the work until tomorrow," Jon told him. "Keep the split pieces. I need to see how we can enclose the rope as well as the stone."

"I will see to the room," Woods said. He looked at his son. "Tomorrow."

From the passage Theon called, "Is the bell meant to announce every mistake? It will never stop."

Olyver laughed and winced. Wylla opened the door, took Theon by the sleeve and handed him the empty basin. "Since you are here."

Eddard drew a chair beside Jon. Arthur remained on the other side while Luwin finished the dressings. Woods laid the two halves of the lug upon the table and showed them where the split ran beneath the sound surface.

The heavy trial was put off. Woods and Mikken worked with both weights grounded, while Jon drew the enclosures upstairs. Mistress Pella sent bread and stew when the men worked through their meal; Olyver carried Jon's portion up before returning to the bench.

Two days later Luwin let Jon return to the workroom and went down with him to check Olyver's dressing. Pate was already at the bench with the bell's hammer spring laid before him. Woods had opened the lug along the hidden shake. A dark line ran through its heart and stopped before the surfaces they had examined. Mikken turned the halves in the window light. "I saw nothing from outside."

Jon spread a new drawing over the table. Each weight would descend inside its own oak trunk, ending in a pit beneath the floor. If a cord or timber failed, the stone and flying rope would remain enclosed. The sand box had caught the little stone. The enclosure would also contain the rope and the longer fall of the working weight.

Woods studied the trunks. "We shall need more oak."

"You shall have it. These doors need bars, above and below." Jon drew in the catches. "The winding handle must come away before either opens."

Olyver leaned closer. "Could it pass through the door bar, my lord?"

Jon gave him the charcoal. With his sound hand Olyver drew the handle through a pair of keepers. Woods moved one keeper so the bar could not lift while the handle was in place. Jon traced the order with his finger, then nodded.

"Make a wooden one first. We can try it before Mikken forges the catches."

Master Branch came in to examine the floor beneath the proposed pits. He sounded the flags with his hammer and asked for the old drain drawing. There had to be sound masonry between the two drops.

Pate had been turning the hammer spring in his hands. "The new bell must come before I can set this properly."

"Then send for your bellfounder," Jon said.

"Mallon of White Harbor cast this cracked pot," Pate said. "Three grey clumps of beard and no patience. He may come if you pay his road."

Mikken grunted. "Let him insult my iron to my face."

Luwin wrote the name. Branch sounded the floor before anyone lifted a flag. Warm air breathed through a joint beside the old foundation; the drain lay west of its place on the drawing. Jon moved both trunks clear of it and lengthened the shafts to suit.

Poole brought Woods the timber list, but most of Winterfell's seasoned oak was already set aside for repairs. He went to fetch Eddard, who came down to examine the drawing and released two beams from the east-store stack after Woods promised to patch that roof until replacement beams arrived.

"Order replacements now," Jon told Poole. "Put them in my account."

Olyver leaned over the corrected drawing. His bandage left one forefinger free; he put it beside the handle he had devised. "I can make that keeper with the left."

"You can mark it," Woods said. "I shall bore it."

Jon passed him the charcoal. Pate went off to write Mallon, and Mikken began counting the iron eyes and straps. Eddard watched them a moment, then picked up the broken lug and carried it to the shelf of failures himself.

Wylla came for them when the dinner bell rang. Olyver gathered the drawings while Jon searched beneath the table for the charcoal he had dropped.

After the dinner bell, Branch's men lifted the first flagstones while Jon and Olyver ate thick beef-and-barley stew and bread. Robb and Theon watched from the doorway and argued over whether the cracked bell had sounded more like pigs or spoons. Wylla took the children upstairs when the men began carrying rubble through the passage.

 

[aiwonder]

The following year, Bran Stark announced himself to Winterfell with a cry strong enough to reach the covered gallery.

Robb had waited outside the birthing room since dawn. Sansa sat with her sewing in Septa Mordane's lap and asked every half-hour whether babies always required so much time. Theon crossed the passage twice, claimed both times that Luwin had sent him, and lingered until Ser Rodrik came looking. The old knight took one look at the closed door and let him stay. Jon sat with his heels three fingers above the floor and listened to Catelyn labour behind oak.

The sounds brought back the hospital where his daughter had been born: hard light, his wife's fingers crushing his hand, a nurse telling him to breathe as if he were the one doing the work. He had been frightened then too.

Here he was seven years old and could do nothing but wait. When Robb paced past again, Jon caught his sleeve and made room on the bench. Robb sat for a moment, then got up to listen at the door beside Theon.

Arthur sat beside him, drawing a whetstone along a belt knife whose edge was already keen. Jon glanced at the blade. "That will vanish if you sharpen it much more."

"Then I shall have done something while we wait," Arthur said, moving the knife again.

"You could count Sansa's questions," Robb suggested. "She has asked how long babies take eleven times."

Sansa looked up. "Seven. Two were different questions." Robb began counting them on his fingers.

Jon gathered the loose thread before Robb caught it with his heel. Sansa held out her hand for it, but her attention had already returned to the door. A woman spoke within; the words were too low to hear. Sansa moved along the bench until her sleeve touched Jon's.

"Mother said I could hold the baby."

"When Wylla brings us in."

She nodded and began winding the thread. Robb stopped counting. For a little while they sat without speaking, listening to footsteps pass beyond the door. Arthur put the knife away and reached down for the cup of water which no one had touched.

The first infant cry cut through them. Robb sprang up and kicked Sansa's thread box. Bone buttons rolled under the benches. Sansa stooped for one, remembered the child and left the rest to Septa Mordane. Wylla opened the door, sweat darkening her temples. "A son. Your mother is well. Quietly now."

Robb was through before she finished. Sansa followed at a walk that became a run after the threshold. Theon remained outside until Robb came back, seized his sleeve and pulled. "You waited with us."

"I was passing on my way to the stairs," Theon said. "No one called me in."

Arthur smiled and stood aside to let him pass. Jon lingered on the bench until Eddard saw him through the open door and beckoned. He went in with Arthur behind him.

Catelyn lay pale among white bolsters, her copper hair damp and unbraided. Eddard sat at her side with one hand around hers. The midwife washed a small red body before the fire. The child objected to water, linen and the whole cold world. "He is very loud," Sansa said.

"Arya was louder," Robb answered.

The midwife's helper brought Arya from the adjoining room, and Wylla lifted her upon one hip. The little girl beat both fists against the air. Dark wisps clung to her long little face; she had their father's grey-eyed frown when Wylla caught one fist and kept it from the basin.

Theon allowed Robb to draw him closer. "Were all of you that small?"

"You were too," Robb said.

"Mother says he will grow," Sansa declared. Theon moved the basin before Arya could reach it again.

Theon withdrew to the doorway when the midwife needed room. Wylla sat with Arya, and Eddard settled Jon in the chair beside her. The midwife placed Bran in his arms. Mordane moved a pace nearer. Catelyn watched him settle the little head against his shoulder, then lay back against the bolsters. Only the septa kept watching. Milk-warm breath touched Jon's neck.

Memory supplied high stone and a small body falling. Jon drew the blanket closer about Bran's feet. Arthur lived. Black ships had changed a war. He could keep this child off a tower.

Wylla slipped a folded cloth under his elbow. "Support his head, love."

He settled Bran more comfortably. A little auburn down showed above the wrappings. Eddard watched from beside the bed. "Brandon."

Robb tried the name aloud. Sansa chose Bran because it was easier to say. Arya caught at the blanket until Wylla moved her hand away.

"When can he ride?" Robb asked.

Catelyn closed her eyes. "Let him have his milk first."

"I can teach him when he is ready," Robb said, more quietly. Sansa offered to teach him letters. Eddard looked at Arya beating upon Wylla's shoulder and said Bran would learn to shout without anyone's help.

Jon looked down at the small, sleeping face. "I will teach him where not to climb."

Arthur looked at him. Jon kept his eyes on Bran.

Wylla took Bran before Jon's young arms tired enough to betray him. "First I teach all of you to leave the room. Your mother needs sleep."

When Catelyn began coming down to supper again, Bran slept in a cradle beside Catelyn's chair while brown butter ran over carrots and a capon lay ready for carving upon the board. Jon moved the cradle clear of the servants' path and chose the seat from which he could see the child's face. When Bran stirred, Jon touched the rim once, saw the small chest rise and returned to his bread.

The capon tasted of sage and smoke. He had almost finished it when Bran woke and began to cry.

* * *
​

Most mornings Jon began in the yard with the household, and by then Winterfell had learned their sounds. Heward's staff struck stone before the kitchens sent up their first steam; twenty-five pairs of boots answered him along the eastern wall; Arthur's sharper corrections followed once the practice swords came out. Before Heward set the files in motion, Jon led the movements that had first earned him suspicious looks: shoulders turned through their full reach, knees bent and straightened under control, calves and hips stretched before the run. Heward no longer called it southern foolishness. He merely stalked the line and knocked a heel wider or a back straighter with the end of his staff.

The older boys could still outrun Jon. On the first mornings several had finished bent double, one had been sick behind the armoury, and Oren had hidden a blister until Heward found blood in his shoe. Now the files came back together more often than not. After the run came shields, wrestling or the strength work Jon had introduced. Woods made wooden bars for drilled stones; Mikken supplied shorter iron handles. Heward stopped mocking the weights after Tomas learned to carry his shield through a whole drill without letting it sag. He still chose how much each boy lifted. Jon used the lighter set and worked beside them.

One morning the red-bearded guard who had fetched his picture book came out of the armoury as Arthur called the last halt. Jon's left arm shook when he lowered his shield. He laid it in the rack, drank, and waited until his breath came easily before turning to the man.

"Maester Luwin has the book you asked for, my lord."

"About the ships?"

"I could not tell you. Green leather, if that helps."

"The harbour customs." Jon wiped his mouth. "Thank you. I shall come up after breakfast."

"See that you do eat first. You will be there until dinner once you open it."

"Wylla has been speaking to you."

"She has been speaking to half the castle." The guard smiled and moved aside as Jon took his cloak from the peg. He had seen the boy carried from these lessons before his legs could bear him through half so much. Now he stayed to watch Tomas count the practice swords back into their rack.

By breakfast Jon's shirt clung damply between his shoulders, and Wylla had a second bowl ready. Across the table Gage counted his file before taking water for himself. Jon watched the boys settle, pleased by how much they could now do without him. They had learned trust and obedience along with the drill; he would decide where those habits took them. He meant to keep the wars he remembered from their doors, but he was preparing them to fight if he failed.

He ate, saved a little meat in linen and went to the eastern wall before his lesson.

Hugin and Munin came for meat, not friendship. The cock was larger, with three white feathers in his left wing. The hen bore a notch near the end of her upper beak and stole anything that shone. Jon set scraps on one flat stone and stood back. Arthur remained within reach the first morning, two fingers resting against the boy's shoulder. "I am feeding them," Jon said.

"Aye," Arthur said, watching the nearer bird.

Since Bucephalus's terror had dragged Jon halfway into a horse's mind, he had felt other animals at odd moments: a swallow's hunger, a dog's sudden fright. He had learned to draw back. Even so, he was glad Arthur stayed close while the crows fed.

Robb brought honeyed crumbs. The crows ignored them while he stared. "They do not like sweet things," Sansa said.

"They dislike being watched," Arthur replied.

Sansa turned her back with grave care. Munin dropped behind Jon's shoulder, took a piece of mutton and left every crumb. "She waited until I looked away," Robb said.

"Look away again," Sansa told him.

Hugin learned one word from Arthur. The knight used hold at the horse line, in the sword yard and whenever a dog nosed towards the feeding stone. Within a fortnight the cock could rasp enough of the sound to turn heads. "Hold," he croaked while Arya crawled towards a puddle.

Wylla caught the back of the child's green gown. "Thank you," she told the bird, and lifted Arya clear of the water.

Theon tried to teach him kraken. Hugin answered hold until Theon threw a crust at the wall. Munin stole it before the cock moved. "She speaks Greyjoy better," Theon said.

"She steals Greyjoy better," Robb answered. "Munin has taken Theon's breakfast twice."

Theon threw another crust. Munin took that one too.

At first the crows stayed wary. Rain kept them beneath roofs. The butcher's heap beyond the wall could steal them for days. Munin took a brass button from Robb's coat, two red threads from Sansa and a lump of wool grease from Hullen. The button returned in a gutter. The threads appeared woven through a nest above the brew-house. Hullen's grease vanished entirely. "Stop feeding the thief," Hullen told Jon.

Theon stood beside him. "Which one?"

Hullen looked from the crows to the boys. "A fair question."

When Olyver carved eight little black feathers for Robb's searching game, he covered the pieces whenever Munin watched from a roof. On the last afternoon, he forgot. The hen dived upon the open box and escaped with one piece crosswise in her beak. "That took an hour!" Olyver shouted.

Munin landed above the rain gutter and tasted the oiled beech. "Corn," she croaked, in a fair imitation of the poultry boy.

Theon shaded his eyes. "You should have carved something less appetising."

Olyver found a pebble. Ser Rodrik took it from him before he could throw.

The Norrey boys had been watching from the steps while their uncle Torren argued high pasture with the Flint men in Eddard's solar. When Robb began laying out the game, the younger came down to look. He was long-nosed and lost inside a goat-wool tunic cut for an elder brother.

"Can we play?" he asked.

Robb glanced at Ser Rodrik, who nodded. "What are your names?"

"Beren. That is Benfred, my brother." He pointed to the boy following him.

"I can speak for myself," Benfred said. He was thirteen, two years older than Beren, with the same long nose. He stopped beside his brother and looked towards the birds. "Are they tame?"

Jon gave the feeding whistle. Munin looked down with the stolen feather still in her beak.

Beren grinned. "Call her."

Jon whistled again. Munin tipped her head, then flew to the brew-house with the feather still in her beak. Robb laughed.

"She only comes when he has meat."

Cley came from the wash trough, rubbing his hands on his breeches. Branch had kept him helping at a blocked drain; he hurried over when Robb called his name. Ser Rodrik closed Olyver's box upon the seven remaining feathers. "The crow may keep her prize. We have enough to lose without climbing after it."

"No climbing," Catelyn called from the covered walk. Bran slept against her shoulder beneath a blue wool hood. Her gaze passed from the crow to Jon and sharpened. "No roofs, either."

"The game stays between the white stones," Robb said. "No hiding beneath carts, inside stables, or beyond the mint bed."

"Stay where Ser Rodrik can see you," Catelyn said.

Arthur shut the stable gate while Ser Rodrik gathered the players. Jon went with Cley, Theon with Olyver, and the Norrey boys kept together. Robb stood by the mounting block with the sandglass, pleased to be judging his own game.

"Stay inside the white stones," he said. "Bring the feathers here."

Ser Rodrik gave each pair a reed whistle. "If you need help, blow it. Come back when I ring the bell."

Robb turned the glass. Cley watched mud instead of walls. Robb's left boot had a patched heel that showed in three prints beside the channel. Jon followed his glance.

"Robb carried them," Cley said.

They found the first beneath an overturned feed measure. At the rain barrel, water had washed away the prints, but a black shaving lodged in the grate. Jon reached into the cold runnel and recovered the second feather. They carried both back to Robb, where Theon and Olyver were arguing over which of them had touched their prize first.

Five pieces had been found when Jon looked beneath the mounting stone. Robb planted one boot across the opening before Jon could reach inside. "This is the gathering place."

"The stone lies within the boundary," Jon protested. "You cannot move the line after I reach it."

Theon came to watch. "He has put his foot on it. That makes it Stark land."

"It was Stark land already," Robb said, keeping his boot firmly planted.

While they disputed it, Cley reached around the other side and untied the feather from beneath the block. "Pair's point," he said.

Robb stared, lifted his boot and laughed. "Pair's point."

A whistle shrilled beyond the eastern stones. Rodrik rang his bell, and the boys came running. Benfred was alone.

"Where is Beren?" Robb asked.

"The crow dropped the feather. He went after it." Benfred pointed beyond the mint bed. "I could hear him, but I could not find him."

Arthur hurried towards the brew-house with Ser Rodrik. Jon sent Cley after them; he knew the drains and the spaces between the buildings. Theon and Olyver ran for Jory. Robb stayed by the mounting block, calling Beren's name.

Upon the broken bell arch above the brew-house sat a wild crow, heavier than Munin, with no white in its wings and one sore foot held against its breast. From there it could see roofs, alleys and the eastern wall. Jon's tongue dried. The bird's pain touched his own foot, sharp and foreign, before he had reached for anything.

Jon reached for the mounting block as the ache sharpened. "Robb." He caught his brother's hand. "Call Arthur. Stay with me."

Robb shouted for the knight. Jon sat against the stone, fighting to keep the boy's red hair in sight.

The crow raised its head. Jon shut his eyes and tried to withdraw. The black wingbeat came through his closed lids and took him.

Grit pressed beneath hooked claws. The sore foot burned against breast feathers. Hunger turned the yard into beetles beneath bark, kitchen refuse and a dead mouse beside the drain. Human shapes moved below without names. Wind touched every feather separately. Jon's own body sank far away. He drove the crow from the arch.

A northern gust rolled it. Tail and wing corrected with a grace no human memory could supply. Jon wanted east; the bird understood only the force upon its right shoulder. Warm air drew it towards the malt roof. A hawk's shadow crossed the clouds, and terror pulled the wings close.

Grey wool moved beside the wall. Boy, sack or cloth in someone's arms—the height made no distinction. Three whistle notes sounded from inside stone. Jon sought his own hands, but pain opened in the crow's injured foot and the bird folded one wing. He pressed the other wing down to clear the roof, meaning to buy one breath in open air before he broke away.

For a heartbeat the bird answered. The roof swept across its eye. Wind struck uneven feathers. A carved stone lip filled the world. The crow fought his hand upon the wing. Jon released it too late. Feather struck stone. Sky broke into black and pale cloud. The body fell beside the wall, one wing beating and one ruined.

Jon searched for his own hands. There was only stone rising to meet him. Then there was nothing. Arthur's voice reached him from beneath deep water. "Jon. Open your eyes."

There were too many eyes. One stared along the ground from an angle no human neck could bear. Two found wet grass, Arthur's pale face and Robb kneeling beside him, still gripping his hand. Jon's heels hammered stone. He tasted blood where he had bitten his cheek, and his belly clenched. Arthur rolled him before he knew he was going to be sick. "Hear me," the knight said. He eased Robb aside and caught Jon beneath the jaw. "Whose hand is on you?"

"Arthur," Jon gasped. The name felt far away from the black grass filling his sight.

"Where are you?"

"Winterfell." Jon gripped his sleeve. The last sideways glimpse of grass would not leave him. "Make it stop."

Arthur held his face between both hands. "Look at me."

The borrowed sight went dark. Jon shook so hard that his teeth struck. He tried to tell Arthur about the roof, but could not make the words come.

A door banged open beyond the malt room. Cley shouted that he had found Beren. Jon heard the boy answer.

"They have him," he whispered. Arthur drew him closer and called for Luwin.

Ser Rodrik brought Beren back with Cley at his side. Benfred held the back of his brother's tunic in one fist. Theon and Olyver stopped when Rodrik spread his arm.

"Is he hurt?" Theon asked.

"A fit," Arthur said. "He is awake. Give him air."

Robb stood over them, staring at his empty hands. Arthur looked up at him. "Find Wylla. Tell her he is awake."

Beren began talking as soon as he saw Robb. The feather had rolled beneath the malt-room bench. He had followed it, and the door had swung shut.

Benfred struck his shoulder once and kept hold of his sleeve. "You left me."

"I thought you were coming." Beren wiped his face with a muddy hand.

Luwin checked Jon's pulse. Arthur had caught him before his head struck. Robb returned with Wylla and Catelyn, who counted the children before asking anything. At the sight of Jon shaking, she drew Bran closer against her shoulder.

"Take him upstairs. I will come after the Norrey boys are seen."

Wylla wiped Jon's mouth before Arthur lifted him. "Mind his head. He is still sick." Jon caught the knight's sleeve and let himself be carried.

Jory had fetched Torren from the keep. Beneath the brew-house arch Torren caught Beren by both arms, looked him over and pulled him against his chest. Benfred crowded close enough to be caught too.

"He went after the feather," Benfred said into his uncle's coat.

Torren looked over them at Rodrik. "That door was meant to be shut."

Rodrik showed him the fallen iron catch jammed beneath the swollen lower edge. They had lifted the door clear; a carpenter would mend it. "Beren, you were told where the game ended."

Beren held up his split whistle. "I blew."

"We heard." Robb's voice caught. "You did not come back."

Benfred tucked the whistle beneath his brother's collar. Torren abandoned the evening ride when Beren would not release his coat. Catelyn ordered dry clothes and a room for them while Rodrik gathered the other whistles and sent for the carpenter.

* * *
​

Wylla put Jon to bed and sent the onlookers back while Luwin examined him. She stripped his damp clothes and washed the blood from his mouth. Once he could swallow without coughing, she brought warm water with honey and a little salt. His hands would not stop trembling around the cup, so she held it. "My mind is clear," he said.

Wylla steadied the cup. "Then take another swallow."

Jon drank. The warmth hurt his throat, but it stayed down.

Arthur stood at the shutter when Eddard entered. Catelyn followed after settling Bran with the midwife; Luwin knelt at the bed and tested Jon's fingers.

"Tell me how it began," Eddard said.

"My foot hurt, then the yard turned." Jon looked at the linen. "I called Arthur and held on to Robb."

"You knew you were going to fall?"

"I thought I might."

Luwin asked him to squeeze two fingers. Jon could scarcely feel them. Wylla set the cup aside and pulled the blanket higher.

"I was across the yard," Arthur said. "Robb called me as soon as he saw him sit down."

Eddard rubbed a hand over his face. "No stairs alone until you are steady again. And no horses. Call someone the moment you feel ill."

"I did call."

"I know." His father's hand settled on the back of Jon's head. "You did."

Catelyn remained by the foot of the bed. Jon looked past Eddard towards her. "Is Bran well?"

"Asleep." She drew a loose thread from her cuff. "Robb thinks he let you go too soon. I would be obliged if you told him otherwise when you are able."

Jon nodded. Catelyn left to find Robb. Arthur turned towards the door, but Wylla caught his sleeve and pointed to the chair beside the bed. He sat.

Eddard went out with Luwin when the examination was finished. Jon waited until the door closed before asking after the crow. Arthur had sent a groom to the brew-house wall. The bird had struck the stones and died there. The last glimpse of grass still lay sideways in Jon's memory. He turned his face away.

Wylla sat on the edge of the bed. She loosened the collar against his throat as she had when he was too small to speak. "Look here, love." Her thumb stroked the damp hair above his ear. "You are in your bed. Arthur's beside you. Give me that hand."

He put it in hers. She held it until the trembling eased. After broth she drew the curtains, then went to find fresh linen for the morning. Jon waited until her footsteps had passed the stair.

"I could feel it after it died," he whispered.

Arthur drew his chair nearer. "Can you feel it now?"

"No. I remember it. The grass was beside my eye, and I could not turn my head." Jon swallowed. "I tried to come back before it fell. I could not find my hands."

Arthur looked down at the small fingers resting on the coverlet. "You said you would not try without me."

"I did not try. Its foot hurt, and then I was in it." Jon stopped, unwilling to make that an excuse for what followed. "Once I was there, I forced it to fly. I thought I could get clear of the roof and let go."

"Could you hear Robb?"

"Not then. I heard you afterwards. That helped."

"It took more than one call," Arthur said. "What if I had been farther away?"

Jon had no answer he could bear to give him. Arthur waited.

"We stay clear of the birds."

"For now," Jon said. "But it has happened with other creatures. I need to learn to keep them out."

"Rest first. We will speak of it when you can sit up without help." Arthur brought the cup to Jon's lips and waited while he drank. "Sleep. I am staying here."

He slept through the afternoon and woke after dusk with one cheek wet. His fingers had feeling again but little strength. Arthur helped him dress, collected a spade and the wrapped crow, and took Jon beyond the rookery wall. Wylla met them at the stair with a lamp. "Keep him out of the wind," she told Arthur.

While Arthur dug, Jon stood over the wrapped body. "I could feel it trying to turn. I kept forcing the other wing."

"You could not have known how to fly," Arthur said. He laid the spade aside. Jon knelt, lowered the bird and covered it with a handful of earth. The knight helped him stand. By the time they returned, Wylla had warmed a stone for his feet.

The dream came that night. Jon stood beneath a red-leafed tree. Robb knelt among its roots, reaching for someone Jon could not see. His dead crow perched above them, its neck straight and both wings whole. It looked down at him. A third eye opened between the other two, and the voice that came from its beak was thin and old. "You called your guard and still put your will upon the wing." Beyond it, a man's pale face lay half hidden in the bark.

Below them, the search unfolded: Cley kneeling at the malt-room scrape, Benfred following crushed mint, Arthur coming from the wall passage. They were closing upon Beren while Jon still sat against the mounting block. "You saw this?" Jon asked.

"You have brought this much into your sleep." The face in the tree turned towards the moving figures. "You were frightened, yet you tried to command the creature as you command the men below. Even its wings. Where did you learn that certainty?" Jon waited until the last word had died among the branches, then pointed to the crow.

"Did you press the crow into me?"

The crow shifted along the branch. "You had the gift before you heard my voice."

"I asked about this crow," Jon said. "The gift is in my blood. Did you force the joining, or do I have to expect this whenever a bird takes fright?"

"A crow has wings. You keep trying to give it hands."

"Then I shall leave the flying to it." Jon stepped across the roots. "But the watching is mine. You saw men looking for Beren. Tell me where he was."

The crow looked beyond Robb towards the walls. The shapes there dissolved before its gaze.

"You do not know," Jon said.

The crow closed its third eye. Grey wool became sack, boy, shadow, then nothing at all. A bell began to hammer in the earth. Jon reached for Robb, but his brother's hands crumbled into pale rootlets. He called Arthur's name. A hand shook his shoulder, and the bed returned around him: lamplight, rumpled wool, his own weak fingers. "Bloodraven came," he said.

"What did he want?"

"He would not tell me whether he forced the joining." Jon swallowed. "He told me to leave the flying to the crow. When I asked where Beren was, he gave me nothing. I think he could not."

"He may have wanted you to think that," Arthur said.

Jon flexed his stiff fingers beneath the blanket. Arthur brought a scrap of parchment from the desk and sat beside him while he wrote what he could remember. Twice Jon stopped, trying to recover a word that had sounded plain in the dream. He left those places empty. Arthur folded the sheet and put it away before Wylla came with breakfast.

* * *
​

Luwin kept Jon from the workshop for two mornings. Jon sent orders for Woods to finish the frame but leave the movement alone; Olyver was to bring the drawing book. Before the hand bell next morning he woke to saw and fitting hammer, then Heward's staff cracking against stone. A second shout told him someone had missed the turn at the wall.

Olyver came early, flushed from the run, his black badge dark with sweat. Arthur drew a table to the bed, and the apprentice opened the book to his question about the striking train. Before Jon could settle it, Wylla arrived with porridge, dried cherries and a clean shirt.

"Breakfast first. The drawing can stay."

His spoon hand still trembled. Jon braced the bowl against his knees and began with the warm centre. "Leave the book, Olyver. We will finish before they mount the hammer."

When the tray was cleared, Jon had Olyver draw the hammer's path on a clean scrap. The apprentice knew where it ought to strike; he hesitated over how far it must lift. Jon turned the sheet and showed him the short travel the pin allowed. They worked with the drawing between them until Olyver could sketch the motion himself.

Wylla sat at the foot of the bed with a sleeve across her lap. She listened to iron pins and bell rims for a while. "How often is it to strike?"

"Once an hour," Jon told her.

"Then I shall know when you have been at it too long." She bit through her thread and laid the mended shirt over the chair. Jon smiled down at the drawing. He could hear Olyver's charcoal clearly in the quiet room; below the window, the household were beginning their drill without him.

Luwin came after Olyver had gone and asked to see the first drawing of the striking work. Jon found it beneath the newer sheets. The maester studied it beside the bed.

"And what did you begin with? A description, perhaps? I should like to read it."

"I have no drawing to show you older than that one."

Luwin looked up. "Where did you read about it, Jon?"

Jon held out the next sheet. "I cannot send you to another book. Tell me which part you want explained."

"All of it." Luwin drew a chair beside the bed. "Begin with the first wheel." He stayed long after he had finished examining Jon.

On the third morning Luwin permitted the stairs. Woods had set Jon's stool and side table beyond the rail, clear of Olyver's winding arm. The apprentice opened the hammer drawing there; the movement had been left as Jon ordered.

Lamp oil, charcoal and old quenching water greeted him. Failed applewood wheels hung grey or stained along the wall; Jon remembered most of their faults without taking them down. Behind the rail built after Theon's trespass waited the lifting pins, hammer and cracked practice bell Pate had brought from the gatehouse.

Arthur sat close behind him. The going weight was grounded behind three slatted boards, the heavy striking stone unused on a sledge. Beneath the light trial weight stood a shallow sand box. Woods fitted the last screen. Jon made sure it swung clear of the wheels and had Olyver try the latch before Mikken took a hinge for adjustment.

Olyver worked the bellows. His brown hair lifted with each breath of the leather. Pate came after the dawn ringing and struck the bell with a knuckle; it answered like a spoon dropped beneath a pot.

Pate lifted the hammer and let it fall. The cracked bell clanked, and the hammer rested against its lip.

"It must come away after the stroke," Jon said. He pointed to the curved return spring. "Mikken, give this a little more bend."

The smith adjusted it twice while Pate listened. At the third blow the hammer sprang clear, leaving the thin note to fade. They would set the gap again when the larger bell arrived.

Before any weight rose, Woods fitted the long upper pin. It should have crossed front lug, side plate and rear lug, leaving a bright point beyond the timber. The head met the front face. Nothing appeared behind. "Hold," Jon said.

Hugin answered from a roof outside. Olyver grinned, then crouched behind the frame with the lamp. The pin had entered an old shallow boring beside the hole meant for it. Only a thin strip of wood separated them.

"Take that lug out," Jon said. "A plug will not bear the strain here."

Woods cut a replacement from pale ash, planed it and bored the passage. This time the point emerged cleanly at the rear. He turned the pin while Jon watched the fibres around it.

Wylla stopped at the rail with Bran. Luwin came behind her and felt Jon's pulse.

"One run, then upstairs," the maester said.

Jon nodded. "Use the light stone. A handspan will tell us whether the frame bears it."

They fitted every screen. The light striking stone went upon its hook. Slack rope lay coiled away from feet. Olyver came outside the rail and stood beside Jon. Pate waited in the passage, watching his bell. "Lift and hold," Jon said.

Woods wound. The stone rose one handspan. Oak creaked. The long pin held. The rear lug gave a dry click. "Lower," Jon said.

Woods began to lower the stone. The rear lug split along its grain and the upper plate tilted, pinching the winding arbor. The handle jerked in his hands. Then the little stone dropped its handspan into the sand box. A loose end of rope lashed through the open winding slot, knocked a jar of pins from the trestle and struck the screen. "Back!" Jon caught Olyver's sleeve.

Arthur caught Jon by the wrist and drew him back, pushing Olyver clear of the trestle with his free hand. Pain shot up Jon's arm. As the plate shifted, the released striking wheel spun against the hammer.

The cracked bell gave half a dozen ragged blows before the fallen weight left the rope slack. Mikken steadied the tilted plate and drove an oak wedge beneath it.

The noise carried into the yard. Dogs barked, a horse stamped against its stall and Bran began wailing in Wylla's arms. Pate held up a hand to his apprentice at the stair. "Leave the alarm. No fire."

Two guards came to the workshop door. Pate sent one to keep the passage clear while Woods checked that both weights were down. "Olyver?" the carpenter called.

"Whole," Olyver said, staring at his scraped palm. "I struck the wall."

"Jon?" Arthur called, one arm still braced across his chest.

"I am here." Jon cradled his wrist against his chest.

"Stay there," Arthur said. "Woods, are the weights down? Luwin, look at his wrist."

Catelyn came from the family room fastening a dark gown. Robb and Theon crowded behind Ser Rodrik, who kept them at the door.

"Olyver's hand as well," Jon said. Then he saw Woods reach for the broken lug. "Keep both pieces. I want to see where it opened."

The carpenter nodded. The weights were down and the loose plate supported. Bran still cried in Wylla's arms.

Jon stood, but his legs began to shake. Arthur steadied him and took him to the chair in the outer room.

Wylla brought Olyver out after him. His scraped palm had begun to swell, and he kept opening and closing the fingers while Luwin fetched water.

Eddard came while Luwin was washing the grit from the scrape. "Woods says the room is safe." He looked from Olyver's hand to Jon's wrist. "What struck you?"

Arthur touched the reddening marks his fingers had left, then withdrew his hand.

"I pulled too hard."

"I was reaching for Olyver when you pulled me back," Jon said. "I can move it." He opened his hand for Luwin.

Olyver hissed as Luwin cleaned his palm. Woods stood behind his son with both hands hanging uselessly at his sides. "The split was inside the ash," he said. "It showed on neither end."

Jon watched Luwin turn Olyver's hand. "How badly is he hurt?"

"He will have a sore palm for a few days. He can still move every finger." Luwin laid it gently upon the cloth. "Keep it clean and let it mend."

Woods let out a breath and rested one hand on his son's shoulder.

"Leave the work until tomorrow," Jon told him. "Keep the split pieces. I need to see how we can enclose the rope as well as the stone."

"I will see to the room," Woods said. He looked at his son. "Tomorrow."

From the passage Theon called, "Is the bell meant to announce every mistake? It will never stop."

Olyver laughed and winced. Wylla opened the door, took Theon by the sleeve and handed him the empty basin. "Since you are here."

Eddard drew a chair beside Jon while Luwin finished the dressings. Arthur remained on the other side. Woods laid the lug halves before them, the split exposed beneath a sound surface. The heavy trial would wait.

Woods and Mikken worked with both weights grounded while Jon drew upstairs. Pella sent bread and stew when they worked through their meal; Olyver brought Jon's portion before returning to the bench. Two days later Luwin let Jon return and went with him to check Olyver's dressing. Pate waited with the hammer spring, and Mikken turned the split timber towards the window.

Jon spread his new drawing beside it. Each weight would fall inside an oak trunk into a pit beneath the floor. The sand box had caught the little stone; the longer working drop needed an enclosure that would hold flying rope as well.

Woods studied the trunks. "We shall need more oak."

"You shall have it. These doors need bars, above and below." Jon drew in the catches. "The winding handle must come away before either opens."

Olyver leaned closer. "Could it pass through the door bar, my lord?"

Jon gave him the charcoal. With his sound hand Olyver drew the handle through a pair of keepers. Woods moved one keeper so the bar could not lift while the handle was in place. Jon traced the order with his finger, then nodded.

"Make a wooden one first. We can try it before Mikken forges the catches."

Master Branch came in to examine the floor beneath the proposed pits. He sounded the flags with his hammer and asked for the old drain drawing. There had to be sound masonry between the two drops.

Pate had been turning the hammer spring in his hands. "The new bell must come before I can set this properly."

"Then send for your bellfounder," Jon said.

"Mallon of White Harbor cast this cracked pot," Pate said. "Three grey clumps of beard and no patience. He may come if you pay his road."

Mikken grunted. "Let him insult my iron to my face."

Luwin wrote the name. Branch sounded the floor before anyone lifted a flag. Warm air breathed through a joint beside the old foundation; the drain lay west of its place on the drawing. Jon moved both trunks clear of it and lengthened the shafts to suit.

Poole brought Woods the timber list, but most of Winterfell's seasoned oak was already set aside for repairs. He went to fetch Eddard, who came down to examine the drawing and released two beams from the east-store stack after Woods promised to patch that roof until replacement beams arrived.

"Order replacements now," Jon told Poole. "Put them in my account."

Olyver leaned over the corrected drawing. His bandage left one forefinger free; he put it beside the handle he had devised. "I can make that keeper with the left."

"You can mark it," Woods said. "I shall bore it."

Jon passed him the charcoal. Pate went off to write Mallon, and Mikken began counting the iron eyes and straps. Eddard watched them a moment, then picked up the broken lug and carried it to the shelf of failures himself.

Wylla came for them when the dinner bell rang. Olyver gathered the drawings while Jon searched beneath the table for the charcoal he had dropped.

After the dinner bell, Branch's men lifted the first flagstones while Jon and Olyver ate thick beef-and-barley stew and bread. Robb and Theon watched from the doorway and argued over whether the cracked bell had sounded more like pigs or spoons. Wylla took the children upstairs when the men began carrying rubble through the passage.

 

[aiwonder]

For eleven days after the striking frame broke, the clock stood without its weights while the craftsmen fitted the new supports and enclosed the drops. Woods kept the workroom key at night; Luwin held the spare. The new ash came in split, so the carpenter could examine the grain before he shaped it. Mallon's answer took longer. The bellfounder could come from White Harbor, but not before the work already promised there was finished.

While they waited, Jon divided his mornings between the household yard and the workroom. The broken lug lay in a drawer beneath his drawings. Whenever he took it out, he heard the stone hit the sand box and the rope strike the screen. He kept the two halves together.

Mallon reached Winterfell in the second moon after the test. The morning after his arrival, Luwin brought the spare key to Jon. "Woods has finished the trunks. Pate is waiting with your bell."

"Then let us hear it." Jon rose and fetched his cloak.

Jon looked along the passage. Woods waited with Olyver beside him. Mikken's leather apron was dusted with scale. Pate the bellman guarded a padded box, and Mallon of White Harbor stood behind it with three uneven points of grey beard upon his chin. Arthur waited by the door in white wool and mail. He glanced once towards the workroom as Jon fastened his cloak. Robb came running before the lock turned, one boot half fastened and a heel of bread between his teeth. "You said after breakfast."

"And you have brought it with you," Luwin said.

Wylla appeared behind Robb with another heel of bread, spread with butter and honey. She gave it to Jon. He ate while the maester unlocked the door.

The rebuilt clock stood naked upon four black pillars. Two oak trunks dropped through separate pits in the floor, each closed above and below by barred doors. Close-set guards covered the winding barrels. A rail ran before the wheels. The old cracked bell, a split pinion and the false-bored lug had been nailed to the wall, their failures visible beside the work meant to replace them.

Mallon opened the padded box. The new bell caught the morning light, green-gold, no wider than a helm and thick at the crown. At Jon's request Pate hung it in the yard beside the failed casting Mallon had brought in a sack. The same little hammer drew a dead clank from one and a bright note from the other that sent pigeons up from the roof.

"Why did it crack?" Robb asked.

Mallon showed him a dull line in the broken mouth. "The metal cooled before it filled that part of the mould. I heard it crack." He carried both bells inside.

Woods and Mikken tested the doors and iron eyes, wound the going weight behind its guards and removed the handle. Jon sat with Olyver and Robb beyond the rail. When Woods drew the peg, stone descended behind oak and the crown wheel caught beneath the verge. The weighted bar swung, halted and returned. Tick. Tock. Robb stopped eating.

"Is it right?"

"We shall see." Jon watched Pate turn the glasses. As the room warmed, the timber gave a faint creak and the beat softened. Woods felt the movement beneath his fingers. Jon marked the frame's foot against the stone. "Leave it until tomorrow. We need to see how far it settles."

They stopped after the fifth glass. Only when Woods had lowered the weight and Mikken opened the guard did Jon release the rail. The frame stood sound. He checked his mark once more before leaving.

Over the next three weeks the clock lost less time with each adjustment. A cold, wet spell thickened the oil; too much of it gathered dust around the lower pivot. Jon had Olyver clean the cup and refill it sparingly before they tried another full day. At the daily winding Jon let Pate find and tend the oil cups himself. He had handed over enough finished works in his first life to know which questions a visitor never thought to ask. Pate needed to reach every part without Jon beside him.

At noon Jon moved both foliot weights inward by one scored line. Robb watched the bar. "Would three lines make morning come sooner?"

"It would make Pate ring too early and curse us both," Jon said. "Leave them where they are."

The next striking trial counted thirteen. Once the weight was down, Jon took the count wheel from its arbor. "The follower rode over the lip."

"Or its nose is too broad," Mikken said.

They tried the neighbouring hollows before Olyver dressed the lip by less than a nail's thickness. Two trials rang twelve. The clock was moved beside Winterfell's hour bell, its weights and wheels enclosed. The foliot cover still had only a latch while Pate checked its rate. Jon had ordered a lock.

On the twenty-second evening of the trials, Robb offered a honey cake that he could make the morning hour strike early. "No wagers with the clock," Jon told him. "Leave it alone."

Pate shut the little cover after the last correction. Jon watched the latch fall and left with him. Robb followed as far as the stair, claimed he had forgotten a glove and doubled back alone. The gatehouse stair was still open. He lifted the foliot cover and moved both weights three marks inward.

Seven bronze blows woke the keep two turns of the glass before Pate's morning call was due. Luwin reached the gatehouse with one stocking loose. Pate had boots and a nightshirt. Two watch guards had roused their relief; in the bakehouse, fires had been lit before the dough was ready. Catelyn sent word to wait for the baker's judgement rather than the bell. Eddard looked at the moved weights. "Who?"

"I moved them," Robb said. "Jon refused the wager and left with Pate. I came back."

Jon looked at the unbroken latch. The iron lock had seemed a job that could wait while Pate corrected the rate.

"Jon told you to leave it alone," Catelyn said to Robb. He kept his eyes on the floor.

"It will have an iron lock before it runs again," Jon said. "Pate keeps the key. Luwin has the spare."

Eddard sent Robb to the bakehouse and made him carry the extra wood the ovens had consumed. Afterwards Woods set him to planing a cover for the foliot. He pressed the finished board against the bench and showed Robb the raised corner.

"Take that down a little more, my lord."

Robb had blisters by dinner and no wish to hear another clock.

The cover lay true when he had finished. Mikken fitted the lock before nightfall and gave Pate its key, with a spare for Luwin. Jon entered the extra firing in the clock's account. Robb sat opposite, picking a shaving from beneath his nail.

"I will pay it," Robb said.

"With what?"

Robb looked down. He had been ready to risk a honey cake, not a cart of wood. Wylla set onion broth between them and broke a heel from yesterday's loaf. Robb took his piece and went on picking at the shaving beneath his nail.

Six nights passed without another false hour.

At noon on the seventh day, Winterfell gathered beneath the eastern gate. Stableboys invented errands through the yard. A baker stood with flour to her elbows. Sansa watched from the bridge, blue wool bright against old grey stone, with Wylla holding Bran beside her. Eddard, Catelyn, Luwin and Arthur stood behind the rail while Pate wound both stones.

The warning wheel whispered. The bell struck once, then again. Horses raised their heads; hounds answered from the kennels. At the twelfth blow the hammer rested, while the going train continued its steady beat. For a moment no one spoke. Then Robb began to clap.

Woods grinned at his son. Mallon bowed so deeply that Mikken caught his sleeve before he stumbled against the rail. The baker who had been roused before her dough was ready laughed loudest of all. A woman beside her declared she had known Jon would do it. Wylla recognised the nursery linen woman. Mordane, beside Sansa on the bridge, looked down at the shout; the woman had already turned to ask Pate when her little boy could see the wheels. Wylla let the claim pass. Bran was reaching for the bell rope.

Olyver looked first at Jon, then at his father. Woods pulled him close with one arm and thumped his shoulder. The boy tried to smooth his hair afterwards, but the carpenter had left it standing at the crown. Mikken was showing Mallon the little movement still working below the hammer; both men bent to hear it beneath the talk.

The baker rubbed flour from her hands, found more in the creases and gave up. Jon thanked her for the pies sent to the workshop.

"You can repay me by leaving the night quiet, my lord."

"Pate has the key now. Robb will have to ask him."

She went laughing to her ovens. A groom waited to ask whether his boy could learn his letters. Jon told him to speak to the maester and bring the child after dinner, when Pate had promised to show the groom and his wife the works.

At the edge of the crowd, Heward stood with the household fresh from the yard, black badges sewn over damp wool. Tomas held two practice swords; Olyver had left his with him before going to his father at the clock. The boys no longer sprawled wherever there was room as they had in their first weeks. At Heward's glance they opened a path for a groom carrying tack, closed it again without being told, and went on craning to see the wheels. Jon beckoned Tomas closer so he could see through the rail. Heward remained behind them, arms folded, and gave Jon the smallest nod.

Before Tomas reached him, Sansa came down from the bridge and took Jon's free hand.

"It was louder here," she said. "Mother let me count all of them."

Wylla followed with Bran. Her eyes were bright, though she only told Jon to wipe the oil from his fingers before he touched his brother. He did so on the cloth at his belt, and Bran immediately closed a small hand around one finger. Above them Catelyn called Sansa back to the bridge. She had thanked Woods for his work and asked after Pate's elbow. When Jon looked up, she was fastening her daughter's cloak. Arthur watched her a moment before turning to the men still crowding round the frame.

Eddard rested one hand upon the gatehouse pier. "The clock belongs to Winterfell. Pate keeps it and Luwin judges any change."

Jon handed Pate the winding handle. The bellman tucked it through his belt and asked Mikken for the spare pin.

Eddard put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Well done. At supper you can tell me what you mean to send Robert."

* * *
​

The venison pie had gone cold before Jon finished drawing the travelling cases.

Catelyn sat beside the fire with Bran asleep upon her shoulder. Sansa picked onions from her portion and hid them beneath a crust. Robb had eaten everything on his own trencher and begun raiding Jon's. Arthur stood by the door until Wylla drew a stool to his place. "Your supper is getting cold, ser."

Jon had measured the narrowest gate and cart bed before drawing the travelling cases. Poole had recommended Osric, a factor who had carried Winterfell's wool through White Harbor for years. He would obtain the ship's hatch breadth before the cases were closed. Movement, bell and weights would travel apart; the crowned black-oak stag would be pegged above the face after the iron frame was fixed. Sansa leaned over the antler drawing while Catelyn looked at the packing cases. "Robert has bells."

"Men pull them through the night," Jon replied. "This will let one keeper sleep between windings and keep an honest hour until Robb visits."

"I will not do it again," Robb said. Sansa looked at the blister on his hand and believed him.

Eddard turned the drawing board. "Who carries this to King's Landing, and who can answer if the road shakes the works loose?"

"Osric. Woods will send the journeyman who helped fit the frame. Mallon has agreed to go on with them and hang the bell."

"The king may ask for the maker when he sees your name beneath the dial," Poole warned.

Arthur set down his knife. He had welcomed the faces turned towards Jon at the gatehouse; Poole's warning put different faces in their place. "He cannot have the boy."

"That answer is mine," Eddard said. "A gift does not oblige us to send Jon with it."

"Would you send me if he asked as your friend rather than commanded as king?" Jon asked.

Eddard looked across the cold pie. "No. Your work may travel. You remain here. Robert will want you at every feast, answering questions before half the court. I will not put you beneath his eye before I must."

"He gave me Dragonstone."

"He gave a babe a fortress because the jest pleased him. He also remembers holding you. Now he will want to see what else you can do."

Eddard reached past the drawing for Robert's letter. "I shall accept the nameday invitation myself. Stannis's award of Salt Wraith still needs the king's confirmation, and Ethan is waiting upon it. Osric can attend to the clock while I settle the ship."

"And if Robert asks where I am?" Jon asked.

"I shall tell him." Eddard folded the letter. "It is easier to answer him when I am there."

Jon glanced at Arthur. The knight had left his knife upon the table, but the objection went no further. With Eddard there, Robert would have an old friend to occupy him before he thought of summoning the boy who made his gift.

Jon turned the drawing towards his father. "It should be a gift. No gold from the king."

Poole cleared his throat. "A gift costing one hundred and eighty-four dragons is still paid by someone."

"House Black pays Winterfell back from the clocks we sell," Jon said. "Poole has the cost of the timber, iron and work in his book. The household's advance belongs there too. That comes before enlarging the benches or taking more men."

Eddard nodded and passed the account back to Poole.

Robb peered over Jon's shoulder. "Where are the antlers? Robert will think you have sent him a cupboard."

"Fourth case." Jon laid Poole's measured slat across the drawing. "They peg above the face once the movement is fixed." The case cleared the gate measure by two fingers on either side.

Sansa studied the separate carving. "They would be prettier narrower, and the king would still know what they were."

"Show me the curve you mean." Jon gave her the charcoal.

Eddard turned the case drawing towards the fire. "Suppose it reaches King's Landing, keeps good time, and every lord at the feast asks for one. What then?"

"Osric takes their names and the measures we need. He gives no sailing day until we have a place at the bench for the work. Each movement runs here before it leaves. Gold buys a clock, not the patterns."

"Will great lords enjoy that answer?" Catelyn asked.

"No. Osric gives it all the same."

Robb grinned. "Will Osric say no to a Lannister?"

"Aye. I will make that plain before he leaves."

Robb proposed packing Jon in the antler chest, with wool around his ears.

"I am staying here," Jon said, rescuing the drawing.

Wylla filled his cup with watered milk while Poole put away the letters. Eddard held the board towards the light and asked Sansa to show him how she had narrowed the antlers.

* * *
​

The second movement passed its trials. With seven cases on two carts beneath waxed canvas, Eddard set out for Joffrey's nameday. Martyn commanded twenty mounted Stark guards, Jory among them; Stannis's award and Ethan's accounts rode in Eddard's saddlebag. Mallon and Woods's journeyman accompanied Osric to see their work safely fitted.

Osric's shaggy bay took the washouts sideways, jarring his knees. At the first halt he tightened a loose lashing; on the second day, when the rear cart dropped into a rut and bent its axle pin, he stopped the driver reaching for a hammer. They must lift the axle before drawing the pin. The chest had shifted half a hand against its padding, and he would have it jolted no more. Once the pin was replaced and the padding repacked, they went on.

At White Harbor, Captain Hareth stowed the movement on a raised bed in Black Tern's hold, cushioned by eight bales of woollen cloth. Lean and grey at the temples, a scar across his hand, he made the mate tighten the forward lashings before letting Osric below. Osric had promised the cloth's owner payment for any damage.

An easterly gale caught them on the third night. Black Tern shortened sail to keep with the two cogs. Below, Osric found the chest dry, two bales near the hatch soaked with spray, and an iron case working loose. He helped the mate secure it and stayed until the rolling eased.

On the Blackwater quay he opened the wet bales with their owner. Drying, fulling and the cloth beyond saving cost twelve dragons from the road purse, paid before the king's chest was unloaded.

* * *
​

On the climb from the river, a gold cloak halted the Stark escort to let a string of packhorses turn across the street. Lions had been sewn upon their crimson covers. Martyn Cassel drew rein beside Eddard while the last horse balked at a drain and its handler dragged it clear. Above them, the Red Keep rose through the smoke of the city.

Royal guards admitted them at the gate. Within, men in Lannister crimson were unloading the packhorses beside the stables. Martyn sent Jory to see to the baggage and brought the escort into two files before allowing the men to dismount. Eddard had scarcely handed over his reins when Ser Barristan Selmy came down the steps in a white cloak.

"Lord Stark. His Grace has been asking whether every ship on the river was yours."

"I hope we have not kept him waiting too long."

"He has been asking since yesterday." Barristan smiled and led him inside.

They found Robert coming out of his solar, with Jon Arryn a pace behind. The king stopped at the sight of Ned, then broke into a grin. "You took your bloody time."

Ned began to bow. Robert caught him by both shoulders and pulled him into an embrace that drove the breath out of him. He smelt of leather and wine. There was more flesh about his waist than there had been on Pyke, but the arms were as strong as ever.

"Gods, it is good to see you." Robert held him away to look at him. "Still wearing a face fit for a funeral. Did the sea swallow your horse?"

"Only my supper." Ned found himself smiling. "Twice."

Robert laughed loudly enough to turn heads at the far end of the passage. "We shall put that right. Jon, look who has remembered where we live."

Lord Arryn had waited for the king to release him. His hair had thinned, leaving more of his high brow bare, and grey had overtaken the sandy colour Ned remembered. His pale blue eyes were warm. Ned took his offered hand in both of his own.

"My lord."

"Ned." Jon drew him close and clasped his shoulder. "You are very welcome here." He studied his face as he stepped back. "How are Catelyn and the children?"

"Well. Bran has begun following his sisters wherever they go. Sansa objects. Arya puts him to work."

"Then I must hear what work a child of her years has found for him."

"You can have all the nursery tales at supper," Robert said. "First he must meet mine. Barristan, tell the queen Lord Stark has arrived."

They waited in the solar while wine was brought. Robert wanted news of the North, of the men who had fought beside them, of whether Theon Greyjoy was giving trouble. He scarcely left room for an answer before remembering another question. Ned was describing how the boy had taken to Ser Rodrik's lessons when the door opened again.

Cersei entered with Joffrey beside her and a little girl holding her hand. A nurse followed, carrying a sleeping infant. Ser Jaime Lannister followed them as far as the door and stayed there. His white cloak fell from a clasp of gold, and his hair shone as brightly as his sister's. Ned gave him a curt nod before turning to the queen.

"My queen," Robert said, setting down his cup. "Cersei, here is Ned at last."

She offered her hand. Ned bowed over it. Her beauty was as striking as the singers claimed, though her smile was more restrained than Robert's. An emerald at her throat matched her eyes.

Cersei asked after Lady Stark. Ned conveyed her respects; the journey was long for the little ones. The queen brought Joffrey forward.

The prince bowed carefully, golden curls combed from his forehead, one hand upon his little belt. "Father says you were with him when he beat the ironmen."

"I was, my prince."

"Did you bring the clock?"

"It is coming from the quay. The men must put it together before you can hear it."

Joffrey glanced towards the window overlooking the yard. Robert laughed and turned him gently by the shoulder. "You will wear a hole in the glass before your nameday. Let Ned meet your sister."

Myrcella hid half her face against her mother's skirts when Ned bent to greet her. Cersei smoothed a loose curl from the child's cheek and told him her name. The nurse came nearer at Robert's beckoning, drawing back the wrap enough for Ned to see Tommen. The baby slept on through his father's voice.

"That one has the right of it," Robert said. "I have been talking since dawn."

"He had less sleep than you did," Cersei replied. Her smile changed as she looked down at her youngest.

Ned offered his good wishes for the children. He had known Robert as a boy, a warrior and a king; seeing him with his son beneath his hand took a moment's getting used to. Joffrey had begun edging towards the window again. Robert let him go and called Ned over to see whether the carts had reached the yard.

When Tommen woke, Cersei gathered Myrcella and called Joffrey from the glass. Jaime followed them. Robert wanted Ned's children brought next time; Jon Arryn filled Ned's cup while they discussed horses to suit them. A council clerk eventually reclaimed the Hand, leaving Robert to his hunting plans and old companions.

In Ned's chambers, Martyn waited until the servant had left before closing the door. Jory held the stair; eight men were settled here and the rest by the stables, to change at the fourth hour. Ned laid his sword belt on the bed.

"A good many lions between the gate and these rooms," Martyn said. "Fewer stags once you are inside."

"The queen has a household to maintain."

"Aye. Her men were giving the king's porters their orders. I had to ask one of them where our baggage should go."

Ned had seen the same crimson at the turn of the royal stair. "They know the castle. We do not."

Martyn inclined his head. He had made no accusation. Ned wondered why he had answered as though he had.

"Keep our men together," he said. "And see that Osric has what help he needs."

Later, Ned took Stannis's prize award to the Hand's chambers. Jon Arryn rose from a desk crowded with letters and drew him towards the hearth. A clerk was still at work beneath the window, scratching through a column of figures. Jon waited until the man had gathered his papers and withdrawn before pouring the wine.

"I meant to send for you sooner. Robert has doubled the purses for the nameday tourney." Jon lowered himself into his chair. Only then did Ned see how tired he was. His broad shoulders sagged, and he rested his head against the high back before reaching for his cup. "He announced it in the yard. Several of the men who will ride were present."

"He was always open-handed," Ned said.

"I know. This morning he agreed that we had spent enough."

Ned glanced at the abandoned figures. "Can the treasury bear it?"

"With another loan." Jon turned the cup between his hands. "Lord Tywin has offered one. His letter also commends a cousin for a place in the royal household. The queen has spoken to Robert on the man's behalf."

"What place?"

"Supervision of the armoury stores. There is a capable man there already."

"Then Robert will hear you."

"He heard me yesterday. Today Cersei asked him why her cousin should be sent home in disgrace after coming so far." Jon drank. "He wants the fellow found something suitable."

Ned thought of the red cloaks by the stables and of Martyn having to ask a Lannister man where to put the king's guests. "You need not take every man Tywin sends."

"I have refused this one the armoury. That may be tomorrow's quarrel as well." Jon set down his cup. "Robert dislikes coming away from his wife to be told that I must disappoint her. He dislikes the accounts more. Once I could bring him both in an afternoon. Now I choose which I most need him to hear."

"He trusts you."

"Yes," Jon said. "I wish he would remember that before he agrees to things."

Ned almost smiled. Jon's hand lay beside the cup, the knuckles enlarged with age. At the door another clerk spoke quietly to the guard, then went away. Ned had spent the afternoon enjoying Robert's company while this man settled the business they had left behind.

"If you have need of men you know, send to me."

Jon looked up. "I will. For tonight, it is enough to have you here." His glance fell to the folded parchment in Ned's hand. "Though I see you have brought work of your own."

"The prize Stannis assigned to Jon. Ethan's reckoning came from Dragonstone, but some crews' shares still want settling." Ned handed over the award. "Robert's confirmation is partly why I came. The other reason is to give him me to talk to for a fortnight. His letters keep asking for the boy, and the clock will give him another reason."

Jon read both papers. "Stannis shall bring the final claims before him while you are here. You may keep the king seated long enough to hear them."

"Jon is seven. His place is with his brothers and his lessons."

"The ship's business needs no more than your seal. I shall send the papers through you. Leave the boy where he is happy."

Ned thanked him. The clerk's chair scraped in the outer room. Jon called for the man to wait and leaned towards the fire.

"Now tell me what Arya has been teaching her brother."

Ned stayed until the candles needed trimming. When he left, the clerk was admitted with a fresh handful of letters. He looked back once at Jon bending over them. The king would listen if Jon pressed him; he had seen Robert yield to him a hundred times. The nameday had put the whole castle out of order. Once it was over, there would be time to settle these appointments properly.

Next morning the under-steward showed Eddard the recess chosen in their letters. Work beside the store wall would close a busy passage; at Ned's direction he opened the other stair. Over two days, masons cut the drops and the king's carpenters fixed the frame into pier and floor under Woods's journeyman. The man freed a retaining pin trapped by a shifted ash wedge during the voyage. Mallon checked the hammer and rope, and that evening the machine beat beneath the black-oak stag.

* * *
​

Jon Arryn had arranged for Stannis to present the prize claims at Joffrey's feast. Eddard took his place beside Robert as the servants brought in the first dishes.

The king's small hall glittered with cloth-of-gold, green samite, crimson velvet and polished plate. Honeyed capons browned upon silver dishes. Steam rose from lamprey pies. Pages carried flagons of Arbor red between lords already jostling for a view of the crowned stag in the adjoining passage.

Stannis stood at a plain table with the final reckoning for Salt Wraith before him. His broad shoulders were rigid, his square jaw set beneath a close black beard. Part of the captors' money had already gone home; the remainder awaited the king's confirmation. He read the portions agreed for the boarding men, oarsmen and archers who had brought the prize clear of the fighting. Of the men entitled to this last payment, three left wives, and another a mother and two young sons. "Their coin goes to their kin, not to the captain's purse."

Robert tore a leg from one of the capons. "Must a prize hearing darken a nameday?"

"There are shares still owing on the ship you mean to give away," Stannis said.

"To Ned's boy," Robert answered. "I have heard the claims. Tell me what remains to be done."

"Confirm the award and settle the remaining claims. The mast and seams need work before she can go to sea again. Giving Lord Black the hull does not pay either bill."

Eddard watched the inked names rather than Robert. "Pay the dead men's kin first and let the living captors hear what remains."

"I said the same," Stannis replied. "Your agreement adds no silver, but perhaps Robert will hear it from you."

Robert chewed and pointed the capon bone at his brother. "You always say it as though no one else thought of justice until you entered the room."

"Many men think of it. Fewer put it before their own share."

Robert gave a long groan. "Confirm it, then. Settle the claims and give Jon his galley when the hull can float without a prayer."

"It floats now," Stannis said. "Whether it can fight another hard sea is the question."

"Then make it float without two prayers and a carpenter beneath every seam."

Stannis entered the king's decision and sanded the judgement. Robert reached for another piece of capon. "The boy sent no letter begging for his ship?"

"He wrote to Ethan about the families," Eddard said. "Three of the dead had no kin named beside them. He wants them found."

"Did Denys send him the whole list?" Robert had stopped chewing.

"He read it aloud. Robb sat with him."

"Seven, and already fretting like you." Robert shook his head, smiling. "Bring him south next year, Ned. I should like to hear what else he has to say."

"Let him finish the work he has begun," Eddard said. "You have given him a ship to mend as well. When I left, his maester was wondering where he would find time for lessons."

"Lessons? He can put those off for a visit."

Jon Arryn folded his copy of the award. "I seem to recall hearing that argument before. From both of you."

Robert laughed. "And you never once believed us." He pushed back his chair. "Very well, Ned. Show me what is keeping your son so busy."

The court crowded the passage behind the wooden rail. Osric stood with the two keepers as the warning wheel whispered and the blackened warhammer rose. By the fourth stroke Robert was grinning; the carved stag trembled round machinery whose strain it did not bear. On the sixth, the hammer settled and the going train ticked on.

Robert put a boot upon the rail and leaned towards the open work door.

"Take care, Your Grace," Osric said. "The wheels are moving."

"So I see." Robert leaned back and seized Eddard by one shoulder. "Six strokes, Ned. And no man pulling a rope."

"Jon designed it," Eddard said. "Our smith and carpenter made the first with him."

Robert looked through the open work door. "Seven years old, and already giving smiths work enough to curse him. I want to hear how he thought of all this."

"Ask in your letter. I will see that he answers."

Robert grunted. "A letter is a poor substitute for an argument with a Stark." He straightened when Joffrey tugged at his sleeve.

* * *
​

From the work door, Osric saw Prince Joffrey beneath Cersei's hand in a doublet of crimson velvet sewn with tiny golden stags. The queen wore green silk, her golden hair braided clear of a face so composed that Osric lowered his eyes when she glanced towards him. Joffrey's hair matched hers, though his had been curled about a jewelled coronet. He watched his father laugh, then fixed impatient green eyes upon the silent hammer. "It struck six," he said.

"Yes, my prince. It is six."

"I am five today. Make it strike five for my nameday."

Osric bowed. "It will strike five tomorrow, my prince. We must let it run."

"My father is king, and this is his clock."

"And even I must wait for seven," Robert said. "Come cut your cake before the sugar stag falls over."

Joffrey obeyed because the hall was watching. Colour remained high in his cheeks. Cersei followed him towards the cake, a page lifting the trailing silk clear of a dropped piece of bread. Behind them the courtiers lingered at the rail. One man asked a keeper where the bell rope had been hidden. Another was already describing a place in his own hall where such a clock might stand.

Osric returned to the seat the under-steward had found for him. It was well below the salt, between a wool factor and an elderly knight whose elbows crowded both neighbouring trenchers. The knight had scarcely spoken to him before the ringing. Now he shifted along the bench, made room and asked how many smiths Lord Black employed.

"Fewer than he will need if half these lords mean what they say, ser." Osric cut his beef while it was still hot. Across the hall Robert had one arm round Eddard's shoulders and was calling for someone who had missed the hour. The northern lord endured the attention with the look of a man who had heard the tale too often already.

A servant in Tyrell colours reached Osric before he had taken his third mouthful. His master wanted a rose whose petals opened at dawn. Osric asked whether his lord wished for a clock or wished first to see such a rose made. The servant had not been told. He remained beside the table while an Arryn man unrolled a drawing of the Giant's Lance road and began explaining its narrow turns.

"Have you Lord Arryn's order?" Osric asked.

The man had measurements and his own assurance that his lord would be pleased. Osric took down his name. A servant wearing the Manderly merman waited until he had finished writing, then asked how salt touched bronze and produced the breadth of Merman's Court. Osric moved his wine clear of the drawing. This man had measured the old bell wall as well.

The lion-liveried factor did not wait for a space in the talk. He offered eight hundred dragons for a gilt lion and the right to send a western smith to Jon's bench. The elderly knight stopped cutting his meat. Osric finished the word beneath his pen before looking up.

Osric drew a line beneath the requests already entered. The lion factor put one finger upon the blank space.

"Lord Tywin expects the first clock after the king's."

"Then I must have his sealed order," Osric said. "And the measurements. I cannot promise him a delivery before Lord Black has seen both."

"His lordship will pay eight hundred dragons."

"I have heard the price. The place at the bench is not mine to promise." Osric laid his knife aside and reached for a clean sheet. "Set down the whole request. I will take it to Lord Black."

Across the hall Joffrey watched the men gathering around Osric. Robert had begun telling the clock's tale with an invisible hammer in one fist. Each telling made Jon a little smaller and the clock a little larger.

A hearth boy passed with a box of tapers hugged to his chest. He was perhaps ten, made smaller by hunger, soot black upon one cuff and hard tallow upon the other. No lord looked at him. Joffrey did.

Before the seventh hour, he led the boy into the clock passage and pointed to the long iron poker beside the hearth. "Strike the bell five times."

The boy held the poker in both hands. "The keeper said no one touches it, my prince."

"I am the prince," Joffrey said. "The keeper obeys my father, and you obey me."

"Five times," Joffrey said.

The guard at the entrance looked away. Osric had seen the prince leave the hall and followed him. "Put that down, lad."

The boy released it so quickly that the end struck stone. Joffrey rounded upon him. "He meant to break Father's clock."

"No, my prince." The boy shrank against the wall.

"He had the poker!"

The guard seized the child's shoulder. Osric kept between the boy and the bell. "Call the under-steward before you take him away. Lord Stark will want the truth of what happened beside his gift."

The under-steward arrived with the senior keeper. Both locks remained whole. The bell had not been touched. Joffrey pointed at the boy. "He meant to break it."

The under-steward looked at the guard. "Was he acting on an order?"

The man swallowed. "Aye."

"Send him away," Joffrey said. The under-steward bowed. "At once, my prince."

The under-steward turned to the boy. "Go to the outer hearth. Tell the cook I sent you."

Osric followed him as far as the passage. "What is your name?"

"Wat."

"Have you eaten, Wat?"

The boy shook his head. Osric gave a kitchen servant a copper to bring him a bowl, and waited until it came.

Wat carried his taper box away. The prince returned to his cake. No one called the king. The under-steward took the guard aside, and Osric went back to his place by the work door. At the seventh hour the clock rang without being summoned. Courtiers turned. Joffrey sat still beneath his mother's hand and waited through every stroke. The lion factor watched him. Then he looked at the barred work door, Osric's freight coat and Eddard Stark beside the king. "Eight hundred dragons," he said again. "Master Crellan will carry them north." Osric noted the name.
.

 

[aiwonder]

Osric returned through Winterfell's east gate with four tired mules, two damp bales, a leather case swollen with great names and a Lannister factor in a red cloak gone nearly black with rain.

The bay had lost a shoe on the kingsroad. Osric had led it through the last village to have another fitted; his knee was stiff from too many wet days in the saddle. Salt had dried white in the seams of his brown cloak. Southern sun had peeled his left cheek, and northern wind had reddened the new skin beneath.

The guards knew him. They did not know Master Crellan, his two red-cloaked men, the hired muleteers or the wicker cage of furious hens strapped behind the last saddle. The whole train waited beneath the arch while a boy ran for Vayon Poole. Bronze began to speak above them.

Pate the bellman stood beside the locked stair with both hands on his belt. The clock counted ten across the wet yard. Osric mouthed every number. Crellan joined him for the last three. "Still keeping good time, then," Osric said.

"This one has had an easier journey than yours," Eddard said, coming down the hall steps with Arthur. He had ridden ahead of the freight train and been home four days. Jon had already read the sealed confirmation of Salt Wraith's award with him; a copy was on its way to Ethan, with the claims still to be settled.

Osric slid from the saddle, landed badly and caught the pommel. His bay tried to bite a mule while he recovered. "Questions from court?" Poole asked as he arrived.

Osric tapped the leather case. "Four worth answering. Lord Tywin has sent a man to press his claim."

Crellan touched the iron-bound coffer carried by one of his men. "Lord Tywin's offer."

"Tomorrow," Eddard said. He looked at Osric's blue fingers and rain-filled boots. "Hot broth first. Dry clothes. The mules are rubbed down before any chest is opened."

Crellan inclined his hooded head. "I should be grateful for an early hearing, my lord."

"After breakfast tomorrow. Poole will find you a chamber."

The factor studied Eddard, then bowed. Osric sat later in the solar wearing Jory's spare cloak and holding a bowl between both hands. The broth was thick with barley, leeks and shreds of mutton. He drank until the shaking left his fingers. Luwin waited by the fire; Poole opened the freight account only after the bowl was empty. "These are the enquiries worth bringing home," Osric said, setting the letters down. "None is a paid order yet."

Poole looked over the parchment. "Winterfell advanced one hundred and eighty-four dragons for the royal clock's wood, iron, bronze and carriage. Osric's twelve for the damaged cloth must be charged to House Black as well."

"Jon has seen the account," Eddard said. "He knows what he owes."

"Salt Wraith brings him no income yet," Osric said. "We must find money for her repairs as well."

"Who asked for clocks?" Luwin said.

Osric spread four letters. Lord Tywin wanted first place and the secret of the making. Highgarden asked for a rose whose petals opened at dawn. Lord Arryn's man had brought measurements for the high road, but no authority to place an order. Wyman Manderly's servant had measured Merman's Court, its bell wall and the doors through which the case would have to pass.

"Which would you advise Jon to take first?" Eddard asked.

"Lord Wyman's. His man wanted to know how the bronze would stand up to salt air. He was satisfied with the answer."

Osric went on to describe what had happened beside the royal clock. Eddard's expression changed as he heard how Joffrey had ordered the hearth boy to strike the bell, then accused him of trying to break it.

"Was the boy punished?" he asked.

"No, my lord. The under-steward sent him to work at the outer hearth. I saw him before I left."

Eddard frowned. "The guard heard the prince give the order and still seized the boy?"

"Aye. He only admitted it when the under-steward questioned him."

Eddard questioned Osric further about the guard and the accusation. When he had finished, Poole drew Lord Tywin's letter from the others. "How much has Master Crellan offered?"

"Eight hundred dragons: three hundred now and five hundred when the bell rings."

Jon came when the letters had been put away. Osric rose, remembered his stiff knee and steadied himself against the table. Jon told him to sit and drew the next chair close. He wanted to hear how the movement had travelled, but Osric first brought out a little wrapped parcel from his case.

Inside lay a sugar stag no longer than Jon's thumb, with the ends of its antlers broken. The icing had dried as hard as chalk.

"From the prince's cake, my lord. The cook had others. I thought your sister might like to see the work."

Jon turned it carefully by the base. A fine seam showed where the body had been shaped in a mould; the antlers were separate pieces fastened afterwards. He could imagine Sansa's disappointment at the broken ends and Robb's indifference to anything which delayed eating it. "She will. Was the whole cake covered in these?"

Osric described the sugar trees, the spun nests and the crowned stag which Robert had nearly struck with his sleeve. Jon laughed, then asked about the keepers. The factor's account grew less polished as the room warmed him: one man had learned the winding at once, another needed the instructions read back, and the royal carpenter had wanted to see every joint before fixing the frame. Jon listened with his feet braced on the chair rung. When Osric came to the shifted wedge, he took up a scrap and drew a packing block that would stay clear of it.

Osric also told him of Wat, and of the place found for the boy away from Joffrey's hearth. Jon listened without laughing this time. Afterwards they went through the four enquiries. Lord Wyman's measurements lay ready to use; Jon told Osric to hold the next place for him while they settled the price and the size of the bell.

Jon left the Vale letter open. "Does this man serve Lord Arryn at court?"

"At the Eyrie, my lord. He carries letters for the steward."

"Did he speak of anyone in his lord's household in King's Landing?"

"Only Lord Arryn himself. We spoke of the stairs and the road."

Jon turned the letter over. "Send the answer to the steward, then. We need his lord's authority before we promise him a clock."

Wylla found them over the drawing later. She brought Osric another cup and took charge of the sugar stag, which had begun to shed crumbs onto the accounts. He had crossed half the realm with it, she said, and she would see that it survived until Sansa's breakfast.

Before bed Jon opened the black book at Lord Arryn's name and entered what Osric had told him. Eddard could carry a warning to his old friend; Jon had never doubted that. He needed someone near enough to Lysa to test what he remembered before an accusation brought questions he could not answer. This messenger knew the Eyrie's stair. Jon left room below the entry and locked the book away.

* * *
​

Next morning Jon watched Robb and Theon from the practice rail. Yesterday's nick at the bench had reopened on his sword grip; Arthur had taken the weapon when he saw the blood.

"You are following his sword," Jon called. "Make him come to you."

Robb stopped. Theon circled out of reach with his ash blade held easily before his shield.

"I can wait too."

"Then wait," Robb said, his point drooping.

Theon struck it. Robb caught the blow, pressed him back two steps behind his shield, then lost him on the turn. The ash blade touched his thigh.

"You nearly had me against the rail," Theon said, breathing hard. "Try it without your brother telling you next time."

He helped Jon show Robb the opening before Arthur sent them to put the swords away. They were still disputing the passes when Wylla stopped Jon to change his linen. The argument died outside the workshop: Master Crellan was waiting within.

"No filing until this has closed," she said.

Jon flexed his fingers once and let her retie the bandage. "I can leave that to Olyver today."

Master Crellan stood at the bench in dry crimson, the lion of Casterly Rock worked small in gold at his throat. His coffer rested beside a polished boot. He drew off his gloves and bowed as gravely to Jon as he had to Eddard. Eddard stood beside Poole at the end of the bench. Robb and Theon kept clear of the craftsmen while Arthur brought Jon forward.

Jon took his place beside the craftsmen. "What does Lord Tywin want besides a clock?"

Crellan opened the coffer and named a clock worthy of the Rock: a lion in gilded oak, a bell heard from the Lion's Mouth to the sea stairs and delivery before Lord Tywin's next nameday. A Lannisport smith would work beside Mikken and carry the making west, so the clock would not die if a northern boy took fever. Three hundred dragons would be paid at once, five hundred when the bell rang.

Poole's quill paused. Eight hundred dragons was a handsome price, even after the metal, the work and the journey west. The surplus could repay Winterfell and begin the work hall Jon wanted. Jon left the coffer untouched. The offer was familiar in everything but its coin. A rich customer wanted priority, the skilled men, and enough knowledge to dispense with the maker afterward. Jon had sat through versions of that bargain with drawings on a table and coffee going cold beside them. He knew which part Crellan had left unpriced.

"We cannot meet his nameday," Jon said. "Lord Manderly asked first. I am holding the next place while we settle his terms, and these men have Winterfell's work to finish."

"Three hundred dragons can hire more hands," Crellan answered.

"Men who know the work must teach them. That takes time." Jon drew Woods's case plan across the bench. "Your carvers may make the lion at the Rock. We will send the movement and its inner frame."

Crellan examined the drawing. "Our smith is to work beside yours."

"He may bring iron and forge rough blanks if Mikken tests his hand. The fine measures stay here. Your keeper learns to wind and mend his clock, not copy it."

Crellan looked at Jon's bandage. "Lord Tywin expects his grandchildren to use this clock. What if the only man who can make it dies?"

"Woods and Mikken can repair the movement. Your keeper will have spares and learn to fit them; for work beyond him, send to us." Jon put a finger on the bell. "Send the height and the passages it must be heard through. I will not promise one bell carries through the whole Rock."

Crellan turned to Eddard. "Lord Tywin does not commonly wait behind another purchaser."

"You came to bargain with Lord Black. You have heard his answer."

"After Manderly," Jon said. "When Mallon has the measurements, we will name a time the men can meet. The nameday is too soon."

Crellan closed the coffer. "I must carry that answer to Lord Tywin."

Robb watched the gold go. Once the factor was out of hearing, he leaned towards Jon. "Eight hundred."

"I heard him." Jon looked back at the drawing. He could have put three more benches in the room and paid men to use them. Tywin knew that as well as he did.

Theon had watched Crellan turn to Eddard more closely than he had watched the gold. He waited until Poole had followed the factor out.

"He thought Lord Stark would make you take it."

"Father left the choice to me," Jon said.

Theon looked towards the door. "Suppose he had ordered you to. Would you have given Crellan the patterns?"

"No. He may buy a clock. He does not buy the work of every man here with it."

"It is easy to refuse when Lord Stark lets you."

"He has refused me before."

Theon glanced at the clock behind its rail. "And look what you have now. I have been asking to go home since I came here."

Jon laid his sound hand upon the drawing. "If you mean to quarrel with Father, do it with Father."

"He is not so fond of my questions." Theon's smile had gone. Woods set his plane upon the bench behind them, and the older boy shifted aside to let him pass.

For a moment Jon thought he would leave with the carpenter. Instead Theon kept his hands clear of the rail and leaned to look at the drawing. "His lion had better be worth waiting for."

"His carvers can answer for the lion," Jon said, turning the sheet so both boys could see. "This is the part we have to make."

* * *
​

Crellan did not leave at once. Woods found him in the lower yard beside a wagon of split ash. He held a fine brass rule across both palms while Olyver ran one thumb along its markings. "Lannisport has benches under glass," Crellan said. "A clever hand need not spend his life beneath a roof that drips into a bucket."

Woods stopped beside them. Olyver looked up and returned the rule.

"My son is in Lord Black's service, Master Crellan."

"There was no harm in showing him better tools."

Woods took Olyver by the shoulder and led him inside. Jon heard of it when they brought the next set of blanks to the bench.

"Did he offer you work?" he asked.

Olyver's ears darkened. "He spoke of it, my lord. I said I had given you my oath."

"Good. If he asks again, send him to me." Jon picked up Woods's wooden rule from the chest and turned its worn edge towards the light. "You will have a brass one of your own when the Manderly clock is sold, and a stag for your part in the work."

Olyver looked quickly at his father, who nodded. He bent over the blank again. When the cut was finished, Woods carried it to the window himself, then laid it safely upon a clean cloth.

Crellan left at the eleventh hour. Before mounting, he gave Poole a sealed account of Lord Tywin's offer and House Black's refusal. He required Eddard's witness that he had not failed through neglect. Eddard pressed his direwolf beneath the factor's lion. "You carried your lord's words faithfully."

Crellan gathered his reins. Rain had ceased, but his red cloak remained dark along the hem. "Lord Tywin may ask King Robert for the making."

"I gave the king a clock," Jon said. "I made no promise to sell Lord Tywin the making."

Crellan looked towards Eddard, who offered no different answer.

Crellan's party rode beneath the gate. The coffer went in the middle beneath a waxed hide. Eddard had two horses saddled. Bucephalus danced when the last red cloak passed, but Jon's right hand could not safely correct a young stallion upon wet ground. "Leave the black in the yard," Jon told Hullen. "Saddle the dun garron with the broad back. My hand can guide him without a hard rein."

Arthur checked the garron's girth and mounted a grey mare. They rode south at a walk, with the knight a little behind. Jory followed with Stark guards, far enough back to leave father and son their conversation. Rain had filled the kingsroad's ruts; wet grass brushed the horses' fetlocks. Crellan's crimson cloak showed on the ridge ahead.

"He will approach the others," Jon said. "Mikken, Woods, Mallon. Olyver was only the first."

"Aye," Eddard said. "See that your men have reason to stay."

"Steady work, good wages and tools of their own. I cannot offer what I have not earned, but they will share in the clocks they make."

"Put your answer in writing as well. Tywin should hear the terms you refused, not a report that a boy laughed at his name."

"I will have Osric send it."

They reached the ridge while Crellan's party entered the next stand of pines. Wind shook water from the needles. Below them, Winterfell rose in wet shades of slate, smoke and old brown granite. The glass gardens caught one pale strip of sun; every other roof shed water in silver threads. Crellan's crimson showed brightly on the kingsroad until pine shadow swallowed it, while the coffer horse left deeper prints than the other mounts.

The dun stood quietly while Jon looked back at Winterfell. Eddard followed his gaze.

"You wanted that coffer."

"I wanted what I could build with it."

His father nodded. "There will be other buyers." He watched Jon settle the reins between his bandaged fingers. "I nearly answered for you when he spoke of fever."

"I heard him."

"You had an answer ready." Eddard looked towards the pines. "He has bargained for Tywin longer than you have been alive. I thought you would need more help."

"He wanted the patterns. I wanted to keep them."

His father considered him a moment longer, then reached across to free Jon's cloak from beneath the saddlebag strap. It had caught when he turned.

For a while they watched smoke drift over the castle roofs. Jon's old certainty about Eddard belonged to a book read years ago. He had not expected to know how the man sat a horse when he was tired, or the sound of his voice when he was trying to offer comfort.

Jon looked back at Winterfell. "If Tywin goes to Robert?"

"Then I will tell Robert what was given and what was not." Eddard gathered his reins. "Keep the offer and your answer together. I mean to have your terms before me if Tywin complains."

Eddard took the firmer path home beside the fields. At a gap in a low stone wall, a man rose to ask whether his son was giving satisfaction in the stables. Hullen had said nothing against him, he hastened to add. Eddard promised to ask. Jon watched water seep through the unfinished wall into yellowing barley.

"Does that patch drown every spring?"

"In a wet one, my lord. It dries before the rest is ready for cutting."

Jon pointed out to Arthur where a shallow drain might reach the roadside ditch. The knight asked where the water went after that. Jon followed the ditch towards the trees until the bend hid it; he would need to see the lower ground before drawing anything.

By the gate his thigh was stiff. Arthur took the reins while he dismounted onto the block. Inside, Wylla had set dry shoes by the fire. He changed before reaching for his letters.

* * *
​

They answered the four houses after supper.

Poole spread the four letters before them. Eddard, Catelyn, Luwin, Osric and the masters sat around the solar table. Jon's hand rested in warm salt water under Wylla's eye. Robb leaned over his shoulder until Catelyn sent him to fetch another candle.

Lord Wyman offered six hundred dragons: two hundred in earnest, the balance after seven days' true running in Merman's Court. His servant had measured the wall, old bell, narrowest door and steepest turn from quay to castle.

"He means to buy," Poole said.

They would supply the movement, bell and a trained keeper, bearing damage until Osric opened the cases with Wyman's steward at New Castle after carriage by road. Mallon's tin would serve only a smaller bell. Jon told him to reserve it and offer its measure; the greater must wait for another tin ship.

Highgarden would wait for a model of the moving petals, the Vale for its lord's authority. Osric wrote Jon's terms to Tywin. Jon kept all four letters together.

Poole turned his book. Jon put one black-stained nail beneath the proposed payment. "His earnest stays against his own clock. Pay for its metal, wages and carriage first. When the balance comes, Father gets his hundred and eighty-four, and Osric his twelve for the cloth, from what we have earned."

From the yard below came Heward's voice, followed by the flat crack of practice shields meeting together. No one at the table paused for it now. In the household's first weeks the sound had drawn servants to the windows; now it belonged to Winterfell as readily as Mikken's hammer and the measured beat from Pate's clock.

Robb cocked his head when Heward called a file back for a second attempt. "Tomas has them turning at the gate again."

Jon listened long enough to hear the order repeated. The second turn came cleaner. "Then he has them." He brought his attention back to Poole's figures.

"And the hall?" Robb asked.

"Draw it. We raise no wall until this clock is paid for and Father has his money."

Wylla could house six apprentices in the lower loft once its hearth flue was mended. Woods objected that it held offcuts and long boards with nowhere below to go. Jon gave him the empty lean-to and promised Poole's cart for the heavier pieces. They would look at the loft together tomorrow; six boys would do until another building stood.

Mikken wanted two who could be trusted with the bellows. Mallon wanted a lad who listened; Woods, one who could sharpen a tool without grinding away half the steel.

"Each spends time at every bench," Jon said. "I want to see where their hands are best."

"These boys will need the same care as your guards," Catelyn said. "You are taking them from their homes."

Wylla lifted Jon's hand from the salt water. "Enough bargaining."

"Enter Olyver's stag, Poole. I will finish with you at breakfast." The steward wrote while Wylla dried the cut.

Robb followed Jon into the passage carrying two wool balls. "Three turns of Gates before bed, and I keep the red."

"Three turns. The red is yours until it crosses a gate." Robb threw the ball at his head and ran.

* * *
​

By the time Catelyn called them to the family supper on the following evening, Three Gates had acquired a belt between two stools, one disputed kitchen arch and a rule Sansa insisted nobody had heard before she won by it. Theon had held the arch until a servant came through with the bread. He stood aside for her, and Sansa vanished beneath the nearest bench.

"You moved the gate," Jon accused Robb.

"Sansa moved them."

Sansa crawled out with both wool balls gathered in her skirts. "I won."

"Which colour?" Robb demanded.

"Both."

Theon bent to look beneath the bench. There was room for Sansa to crawl through, but not for him to follow. "That was not a gate when I took my place."

"It was when I went through." She held the balls out of Robb's reach.

Jon laughed. Robb went to appeal to their mother, who told him to put the stools back before supper. Theon took one end of the bench while Jon freed the caught belt. Sansa followed them to the table with both balls, declining every offer of another game until she had eaten.

The kitchen sent beef-and-barley stew, brown bread, roasted roots and a little dish of preserved cherries for Sansa. Bran slept against Catelyn's breast. Arya had one fist closed around her nurse's collar. Robb ate too quickly and burnt his tongue. Jon tested the knife once, found the wrap made the cut unsafe and passed it to Wylla. She divided the meat without comment and returned the trencher.

Theon sat opposite Robb and reached for the bread before the younger boy could take the last browned piece. Robb swallowed a mouthful of water and asked whether he meant to race when the visiting boys came.

"I mean to shoot," Theon said. "Hullen can keep his garrons."

"You ride one every day."

"Which is how I know them." He broke the bread. "There were lads shooting at the lower butts this afternoon. One of the Tallhart men put three together before I had loosed my second."

"Did you beat him?" Jon asked.

"No. I shall try him again." Theon reached across for the butter, then paused. "Will you come? You need not use that hand to watch."

"Tell me when you go. I can spare an afternoon."

"Bring Robb. He says every arrow I put near the middle was meant for somewhere else."

Robb began defending the accusation. Theon listened with the butter dish in his hand until Jon took it from him. He had eaten the bread while arguing and was reaching for another piece before Robb finished.

After the bowls were cleared, Sansa asked for the lantern maiden. "You asked three nights ago," Robb said.

"You asked for the black ship four nights running," Sansa reminded Robb. "The maiden has waited longer."

"The ship has battles, storms and men with axes."

"The maiden has hounds," Sansa said. "And it is my turn."

Catelyn allowed one song before bed.

The tale had grown over several evenings. A young woman carried one coal through woods where every road returned her to the same black gate. Old Nan had added hounds and oatcakes. Sansa gave the maiden a silver cloak. Robb insisted one captive be a robber. Jon sang quietly, changing a word where Sansa had objected before. At a turn of the melody, Eddard looked up. He had heard something like it beside Rhaegar's harp at Harrenhal. Fire caught the purple in Jon's eyes. "Again," Sansa demanded when the last note faded.

Eddard asked, "Who taught you that tune?"

Robb stopped shifting beneath the table. Jon's wrapped hand closed upon the bench, while Arthur went still beside the door. "No one," Jon said. "I remembered a little. The rest changed."

"Did you dream it?" Robb asked.

"Perhaps. I remember the tune more clearly than the place where I first heard it."

Sansa took Jon's good hand. "You must sing it when Willam Dustin comes. His singer knows only sad marches."

"Keep this one for the family," Eddard said, too quickly.

Jon looked up from Sansa's hand. Eddard was still watching him, and Arthur had set his cup down without drinking.

"Was the song so bad?" Jon asked.

"No," Eddard said. "Another time. I am tired."

Catelyn moved the plate of cherries towards Sansa and called the nurse. "You have had your song. Off to bed, all of you." She waited until Jon rose before letting the nurse shepherd the children out. Theon retrieved the wool balls from Sansa's chair and went ahead with Robb, still talking about the butts. Their voices faded up the stair before Catelyn turned back to Eddard.

In the passage Sansa tugged his hand. "You may sing it to me tomorrow."

"If you learn the words."

"I know the best ones." She began the verse about the silver cloak and put three words in the wrong places. Jon corrected the first; she sang the others louder.

Behind them, Catelyn stayed by the fire. "You frightened him, Ned."

"Part of the tune. Rhaegar played something like it at Harrenhal."

"Arthur may have played it to him." She looked towards the passage. "Speak to Jon in the morning, Ned. He thinks you are angry with him."

Next morning Eddard found Jon and Poole comparing the cost of the royal and Manderly clocks. Winterfell's advance still stood unpaid in the book, the Manderly money only promised.

"I frightened you last night."

Jon looked up. Poole gathered his quills and excused himself.

When they were alone, Eddard sat beside him. "The tune reminded me of someone who died in the war. I should not have questioned you like that before the others."

"Someone you fought?" Jon asked.

"Prince Rhaegar. I heard him play at Harrenhal."

"Did Arthur hear him too?"

"Often. He served him." Eddard glanced towards the closed door. "There are men who would hear that music from you and make a quarrel of it. Keep the tune for Sansa."

"Shall I teach her another?" Jon asked.

"You need not." Eddard laid a hand over Jon's wrapped fingers. "I am sorry I spoke sharply."

Jon turned his hand beneath Eddard's and held on. There was one man he could speak plainly to, and he meant to find him that evening. From the eastern gate came the warning wheel's faint run. Robb shouted something about Three Gates in the yard. Poole returned with a raven strip. White wax bore the merman of White Harbor. Lord Wyman accepted the smaller sound bell, the earnest and the joint opening at New Castle. Two hundred gold dragons would ride north beneath guard. Jon read the strip twice.

Jon set the raven strip beside Poole's book. "Tell Mallon the bell is ordered. Woods can begin the dry fitting. I want the masters here at noon."

Poole reached for his quill. Eddard's hand still covered Jon's; he gave it a last squeeze before standing. Jon let him go, then read Lord Wyman's acceptance once more.

* * *
​

Arthur came after Wylla had taken away the supper tray. Eddard had gone to his solar with the steward. Jon was waiting beside the hearth.

"Close the door, Uncle. I need to speak with you."

Arthur looked at him before obeying. He waited until Wylla's footsteps had passed the stair, then unfastened Dawn's harness and set the sheathed blade beside his chair.

"Your hand?"

"No." Jon kept his voice low. "My name is Aemon Targaryen. Rhaegar was my father. Lyanna Stark was my mother."

Arthur's hand remained upon the harness. His pale eyes stayed on Jon, his lips slightly parted. Then he crossed to the door, listened, and came back without taking his chair.

"Who told you?"

"Dragon dreams."

"Did Ned speak to you?"

"Only about the song. He has told me nothing of my birth."

Arthur drew the chair nearer and sat, bringing his face level with Jon's. "Tell me what you saw."

"The room was hot. There was a brazier burning, though the sun was still on the wall. She could not lift me. Father had to hold my head."

Jon remembered the blood-wet linen and the voice he had tried to turn towards. He let Arthur see the effort of speaking about it. The years before that room would remain his own.

"She asked him for a promise," Jon went on. "As Ned. Not as Lord Stark, or Robert's friend."

Arthur's fingers tightened upon the chair arm. "What did she ask of me?"

"You had promised Rhaegar. She made you promise her as well."

"Where did I put my hand?"

"Across my feet. You gave me your sword, your honour and every day left to you."

Arthur looked down at his hands. Jon waited, then laid his sound hand upon the knight's wrist. "You have kept your word."

"Aemon," Arthur said at last. He spoke it so quietly that Jon scarcely heard. "She named you for the maester at the Wall."

"Because he chose to serve when he might have been king."

Arthur shut his eyes. When he opened them, he was looking at Jon as though he had only just come into the room.

"Did the man beneath the tree tell you?"

"No." That much was true. Jon left his hand where it was.

"Has he shown you more of this?"

"He is not in all my dreams." Jon could have filled the silence with explanations. He let it last until Arthur looked towards the fire.

"I have heard of such dreams," the knight said. "I have never known what to trust in them."

"Then tell me where I am wrong."

Arthur looked back at him. "You are Rhaegar's son. Lyanna was your mother. Everything you have told me of that room happened as you said."

Jon sat beside him. He had known, yet hearing Arthur confirm it left him quiet. Eddard had carried him out of that room and been his father ever since.

"He took me north as his own son."

"He had promised your mother."

"He has done more than he promised her," Jon said. "I know he loves me. I will not make him sorry he brought me home." He took his hand from the knight's wrist.

A log had burned through in the hearth. Arthur worked the fallen ends together with the poker, then returned it to its stand. He stayed in the nearer chair.

"And Ashara?"

"My sister lost her child before we reached Starfall. She died soon afterwards. We used the gossip about her and Ned to explain your birth. Lord Ulrick agreed."

"You let the world call me her son."

"It gave Ned a reason to keep you, and me a reason to remain at his side. It also left you believing my sister was your mother." Arthur met his eyes. "I have been asking Ned to tell you for years."

"I want you to tell me what you know. The dreams have not shown me everything."

Arthur named the men who had stood with them at the tower. Howland kept the papers; Arthur kept the key. There were men living who could speak to what they had seen, though not every man had witnessed the marriage itself. Jon listened without interrupting until the knight spoke of the vows on the Isle of Faces.

"Rhaegar was already married."

"To Elia of Dorne," Arthur said. "He took a second wife. He believed the vows binding. I stood witness."

"Would the High Septon agree?"

Arthur did not answer at once. "I cannot speak for him. There are lords who would call you lawful if it served them and bastard if it did not. We kept the proof. We cannot make men honour it."

"Is that why Father hid me?"

"Robert would have killed you for being Rhaegar's son. He would not have troubled himself over which vows I witnessed."

Arthur's voice had grown quieter. "Ned saw what was done to Elia's children. Robert accepted Tywin's allegiance afterwards. Your father brought you north rather than put you into his hands."

"Aegon and Rhaenys." Jon knew their names, but saying them here made them different from names in a history.

Arthur nodded. "Your brother and sister. They were very small."

Jon asked what had happened. Arthur answered without giving him the worst of the injuries. He named Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch, and said whose men they were. Once he stopped to master his voice. He had known the children before there was anything to mourn.

"Are there any others?" Jon asked.

"Your uncle Viserys and aunt Daenerys. Ser Willem Darry took them east from Dragonstone; Queen Rhaella died when Daenerys was born. We hear late, conflicting reports of where they are staying. Ethan has men asking, and I will tell you what they learn."

"And if you find them?"

"Then we learn how they live and who holds them. I cannot promise to bring them here. Nor may you write of this to anyone."

"Not even Robb?"

"Not Robb, not Sansa, not Lady Catelyn. They cannot betray what they have never been told."

Jon looked towards the closed door. Beyond it lay the rooms where they slept, where someone would wake Sansa if the stair creaked too loudly, where Robb would come in the morning expecting him to be the same brother. He meant to be.

"Does Wylla know?"

"She put you into Lyanna's arms."

Jon watched the low fire. There was much he had learned from books which he could not yet trust here, and much Arthur could answer without ever learning where his questions began.

"Father must not know that I know."

Arthur turned towards him. "He should hear it from you. If he learns we kept this from him, he may think I have turned you against him."

"He is my father. Nothing you have told me changes that. Keeping this from him is my choice, and I will answer for it." Jon let the words settle before going on. "But not yet. He could scarcely hear a song without fearing what it meant. Let him believe I am learning to be Lord of Dragonstone. That is true enough." He met the knight's eyes. "When I have questions about my parents, I will come to you."

"About either of them," Arthur said. "What I know, I will tell you. What I did not see, I will not pretend to have seen."

"And this stays between us?"

Arthur looked down at his hands, then back to Jon. "Neither Ned nor anyone else will hear it from me. But if one of these dreams puts you in danger, you must tell me."

"I will tell you what I can."

The knight glanced towards the sheathed sword beside his chair. "Learning to rule Dragonstone is well enough. It need not be the limit of what you inherit."

Jon held his gaze. "Viserys lives."

"Rhaegar was the elder brother. His son has the prior claim." Arthur spoke carefully. "There may come a time when you must consider it."

Jon looked towards the door. Eddard had helped put Robert on that throne. Beyond the sea, two of his kin lived under other men's roofs, while the men who had killed the others slept safely in the west.

"I will not give you an answer tonight."

"I ask for none." Arthur rose and took up Dawn. He drew the blade low, clear of Jon and the chair, and set the empty sheath against the wall. Then he went to one knee, offering the sword across both palms with its hilt towards Jon.

"Prince Aemon, I renew my oath to you as your Kingsguard. My sword and my life are yours. I will guard your person, keep your counsel, defend your rights, and give you the truth even when it displeases you."

Jon rested his left hand upon the hilt. Arthur bore the blade's weight. Men had looked to Jon for orders long before Winterfell, and some had died carrying them out. He would be taking responsibility for this man's life along with his service.

"I accept, Ser Arthur. I will hear your counsel. When we act, the choice will be mine."

"Aye, my prince."

"Rise, then. And before Father, I am still Jon."

Arthur stood, sheathed Dawn and set it beside the chair. His hands were steady now.

Before Arthur could lift the harness, Jon stopped him. "I shall still call him Father."

"I would not ask you to stop." Arthur left Dawn beside the chair and went to find more wood.

Eddard looked in later, after the steward had gone to bed. Jon left the hearth to meet him. His father put an arm around him and asked whether his hand hurt.

"A little." Jon held to the rough wool. "I wanted to say goodnight."

Eddard bent his head against Jon's hair. He stayed until the boy was settled. Jon watched him go without asking about Rhaegar.

 

[aiwonder]

Robb wanted a platform inside his fort.

He stood on an overturned basket to show Jon how high it ought to be. From there he could see over the hurdle Tomas was holding, across the cut barley and as far as the mill road. He could also look down on Jon, which he was plainly enjoying.

"I could see everything they were doing."

"Until someone pushed the wall," Jon said. "Get down. Tomas cannot hold it all morning."

Robb stepped off reluctantly. Tomas lowered the hurdle, and Jon knelt to work the cord through its frame with his left hand. His right was still wrapped. He had meant to finish both forts before the harvest guests came, but Robb found something else to change whenever they returned to the field. Yesterday he had wanted a second gate. This morning he had brought a basket out of the laundry.

"You could have a platform too," Robb offered.

"And spend the game standing on it?" Jon pulled the cord tight with his teeth, then gave the end to Tomas. "Leave that loose until Oren brings the stakes."

Cley Cerwyn called to them from the path. Robb dropped the basket and ran to meet him. They collided shoulder to shoulder, each trying to catch the other round the neck, and came back still hanging on to one another. Cley had a red wool hood pushed down about his shoulders and crumbs on his coat.

"Where is your father?" Jon asked.

"With yours. They were talking about grain when I left." Cley wiped his mouth and looked between the two half-built enclosures. "Which is ours?"

Robb pointed. Cley went straight through the opening and put both hands against the wall. Tomas caught it before it fell.

"It is not fixed yet," Jon said.

"I can see that." Cley came back out, rather less confidently. "Have I missed anyone?"

"No one," Robb said. "You live half a day away. The rest of them have farther to come."

Cley looked pleased. He took off his cloak, laid it on the basket and asked what needed doing.

They put him to carrying the loose willow rods. For a while the work went quickly. Robb held the uprights, Cley passed the rods through, and Tomas showed him how to turn the end without splitting it. Jon went round to check the lower edge. He could feel Arthur watching from the path whenever he tried to use his bandaged hand, so he kept it tucked against his belt.

Tomas worked in his shirtsleeves despite the cool morning. The boy who had once come last from a trial run with rain soaking through his coat had broadened through the shoulders, and the hurdle that made Cley brace both feet moved easily when Tomas took the other end. Cley noticed too.

"Do all your household grow like that?" he asked Jon under his breath.

"They eat like it," Jon said.

From the road came Heward's bark for Oren to stop showing off and use both hands. The answer made Cley grin before he went back to the willow.

Theon came out with an apple and stopped beside Arthur. He had changed into the coat Catelyn wanted him to wear when the guests arrived. Robb called him over to hold the far post.

"I have only just washed."

"You need not roll in it. Hold this."

Theon took another bite before coming to help. Cley studied the silver kraken at his throat, then looked at Robb, waiting to be told who he was.

"Theon Greyjoy," Robb said. "Cley Cerwyn. He is on my side."

"You have not chosen sides yet," Jon said.

"He is still on mine."

Cley nodded through a mouthful of the apple Theon had handed him. Theon watched him take a second bite and held out his free hand for it.

"Leave me some."

Arthur came down the slope when they began lifting the wall. He braced the end while Tomas drove the first stake. Jon stood back to judge the lean, then asked for the near side to come forward a little. Robb pushed from inside; Cley took hold beside him. They had it upright by the time Oren returned with the rest of the stakes.

"Now your basket," Jon said.

Robb fetched it, put it inside the wall and climbed on. Arthur laid one hand against the upper rail and shook it. Robb grabbed the hurdle with both hands.

"I could brace it."

"You could fall on the stakes," Arthur said. "Down."

Robb obeyed. He took the basket out himself this time and sat on it beside Cley while the others finished. When Jon joined them, his brother leaned against his shoulder, hot and dusty from the work.

"I still want somewhere to see from."

"Stand farther back," Jon said. "Let the others hold the front."

Robb looked towards his fort. "They will think I am hiding."

"You can come forward when you are needed. You need not fight every boy yourself." Jon offered him the water flask. Robb drank, then passed it to Cley without taking his eyes from the wall.

They were still there when Lord Medger came looking for his son. He had Eddard with him, and a servant following with the Cerwyn saddlebag. Cley rose at once. Medger inspected the work, listened while Robb explained where the flags would go, and asked Arthur whether he meant to let them batter one another with real shields.

"Under Rodrik's rules," Arthur said. "He will stop them if they forget."

"They will forget," Medger said, but he was smiling at Cley. Eddard sent the boys to wash. Cley's older sister, Jonelle, was waiting on the path; she pointed to the cloak he had left on the basket and made him go back for it. The men stayed by the field, their talk returning to the Cerwyn grain carts before Jon was out of hearing.

* * *
​

By the middle of the week, Poole had fitted two more tables into the hall. Bread and roasting onions scented the warm air; above the new places, men hung the Dustin banner beside the Ryswell horse. Lady Barbrey had brought Marna to Catelyn, and Sansa was trying to finish her greeting quickly enough to tell her friend something. Roderick had already escaped to Robb.

Jon sat beside his brother and reached for bread. Wylla caught his wrist. A red mark showed near the thumb of his bandage. She moved his cup to the other side and went to find Arthur.

"Does it hurt?" Robb asked.

"Only when I use it."

"You keep using it." Robb tore the bread and put the larger piece in Jon's bowl.

Across from them, Benfred Tallhart was describing his horse. "He has beaten every horse I have put him against."

"Your father's too?" Daryn asked, his sleeve drawn back from a wrist it scarcely covered.

"That is a warhorse."

"Then whose?" Daryn asked.

Hallan leaned past his cousin. "Was the other rider trying?"

"Race my grey," Robb said. "He will give yours a chase."

"Yours? He is smaller than mine."

Robb turned to Lord Helman, who was listening. "Will you let him?"

"If Hullen judges the horses fit to race together." Helman pushed the bread towards his son. "Eat, Benfred. There will be time enough to prove him." Lady Donella sent the onions down.

Roderick asked whether Tomas, the boy who had shown Cley how to weave the wall, would play.

"He is in my household," Jon said. "He and some of the others."

"He is older than us."

"So is Benfred. Rodrik will see that the numbers are fair."

Daryn asked how a boy was put out. Jon explained the ribbons, and Hallan tucked his arm close to his side to hide his.

"Above the elbow, where it can be seen," Jon told him.

"But if I stand like this—"

"Then you cannot use your shield." Daryn took the bread from his cramped hand. Hallan snatched for it, and Robb laughed so hard that Catelyn turned to look. Jon waited for her to turn away before giving Hallan another piece. "Try it in the yard tomorrow."

Arthur came to sit below Jon, bringing Willam Dustin with him. Willam kept a hand on the knight's shoulder while he bent to hear something Arthur was saying. When he straightened he was laughing, and he called to Mark Ryswell to come and deny it. Mark stayed where he was and raised his cup.

Jon watched Arthur laugh with Willam. So much of the knight's time went to Jon's lessons and ailments that it was easy to forget he had friends of his own. He was glad Willam had come.

Galbart Glover sat opposite Arthur, his coat shoulders damp from the road. He guided a hesitant boy onto the crowded bench. "Niall, my young kinsman. His father has lent him to me for the journey."

Robb made room. Jon passed the platter; Niall helped himself sparingly until Willam told him the kitchen had more.

"Can you fight with a shield?" Robb asked.

"A little."

"More than a little," Galbart said. "He will not tell you that himself."

Niall's ears reddened. Jon asked what sort he used at home. With something to describe, the boy answered readily. Daryn leaned across to compare grips, and by the platter's return Niall had stopped watching Galbart before he spoke.

Theo Wull arrived shaking rain from his cloak while Martyn tried to take it. Torren Norrey followed with his nephews Beren and Benfred. Beren waved to Robb; his elder brother caught his coat and sent him back to bow to Eddard. Arthur rose to greet Theo, and Willam called him over when Ned had done with him.

Theo brought Hugo's second son, Harl Wull, to the new bench. The boy with cropped brown hair was reaching for a seat before Theo detained him for his greeting. He bowed to Robb and Jon, then changed hands to clasp Jon's without touching the bandage.

Beren introduced their cousin Brandon Norrey the Younger, his father's heir: fourteen, thick-wristed, with a crookedly healed nose. Harl made room for him, then had to move again as Edrik Flint wedged himself beside them in his damp sheepskin vest. Edrik's grandfather Torghen still led the First Flints in the high mountains; his father, Black Donnel, was the heir and had sent his eldest boy in his place. The three had grown up riding between their families' halls. Edrik thanked Robb for the seat and shoved Harl's knee away beneath the table.

"Are those your forts by the road?" Harl asked.

"Ours," Robb said. "Mine is the western one."

"I wanted to stop. Brandon would not let us."

"It was raining."

"We were wet already."

"And starving," Edrik reminded him, passing the bread.

"Tomorrow," Jon said. "You will see more." Brandon asked whether Tomas would fight and nodded at Jon's answer. Harl was studying Robb.

"Your west wall is low. Edrik and I could be over it before you reached us."

"You might ask me first." Edrik cut his meat. "Can we pull it down?"

"You can try. Jon made us drive the stakes twice as deep." Niall leaned forward to ask how far apart they stood. At the high table Theo was telling Eddard about the mountain roads.

Sansa and Marna came down from the dais. "Mother says you are to speak to Lady Barbrey," Sansa told Robb.

"I have spoken to her."

"She asked you a question. You ran away."

Barbrey was watching. Robb put down his bread and went, brushing his coat, with Marna delightedly following. Sansa stayed to ask about the Manderly girls.

"They have a longer road," Jon said. "You will have time with them."

She hurried after Marna. Jon turned back to Niall's questions about the black flag. By the time Wylla checked his bowl, he had eaten it empty.

* * *
​

The next morning Hullen let Robb take his grey out to the riding field, provided he walked it first. Robb lasted as far as the stable door before beginning to explain why a little trot would do no harm. Theon followed with his own reins in one hand, listening with the interest of someone who meant to benefit if the argument succeeded.

Jon was waiting outside when Roose Bolton crossed the yard with Eddard. Robb stopped to greet them. The lord of the Dreadfort laid a pale hand on his shoulder and bent to hear him; Eddard looked back towards the stable and beckoned to a boy leading a bay courser.

"Your son tells me he has brought a horse to beat ours," Eddard said.

"He had better know its worth, then," Roose answered. His voice was quiet enough that Jon had to listen for it.

Robb grinned and turned to the boy. "Come and show them."

He brought him over while the men went into the keep. "Jon, this is Domeric Bolton. He has been at Redfort. Domeric, my brother Jon."

Domeric offered his hand. Jon took it with his left.

The name had brought back the story before the boy finished his greeting: the courteous heir, a sudden illness, the bastard called home to take his place. Jon had never known Domeric alive in the history he remembered. Here he stood with dust on his boots and a small horsehair caught in his sleeve, asking whether Jon meant to ride against them.

"Not with this." Jon showed the bandage. "Theon Greyjoy will, if Hullen gives him leave."

Theon gave his own greeting and went to look at the bay. Domeric moved with him, keeping a loose hold on the reins. He was long-faced, with none of his father's stillness. When the grey reached towards his horse, he drew them apart before either could bite.

"Does he always do that?"

"Only when Robb lets him," Jon said.

Robb shortened his reins. "He would not have reached."

"He meant to try." Domeric rubbed the bay's neck and asked about the course. Jon pointed out the mill road, but Robb was already describing its turns and the place where the ground began to rise. Theon listened, then asked whether anyone else had brought a horse worth racing.

"Harrion will have one," Domeric said. "He is better with a bow."

"So I hear." Theon glanced towards the lower butts. "I shall ask him for a match."

Hullen came out before Robb could mount and looked at the three horses standing nose to tail. He separated them with a word to each rider, then sent the boys to walk the course. Jon went with them. At the first turn he stepped aside while Domeric dismounted to feel the ground with his boot.

"It holds here," Domeric said. "What is it like above?"

"Drier," Jon told him. "But take the outside of the upper turn if there has been rain."

"It is farther," Robb objected.

"You can keep your pace." Jon pointed to the ruts on the inside. "There you must slow."

Domeric looked along both lines, then mounted again. He asked Robb to show him the rest. Theon let them go ahead and stayed beside Jon, leading his horse at a walk.

"Your brother has been telling everyone how he means to win."

"He has told me most often."

"I should like to see his face if that bay beats him."

Jon smiled. "Tell him that, and he will make you ride the course until dark."

On their return, the White Harbor wagons blocked the gate. A rear wheel had sunk beside the kerb, and a barley cart left no room to straighten the team. Men heaving at the wheel were tilting the wagon towards the wall. Two girls clung to the seat within.

"Bring them down first," Jon told the driver.

Hullen held the team while a Manderly guard helped Wynafryd down with Wylla. The younger girl tried to answer Sansa's call from the stair and slipped; the guard caught her and sent both clear. Jon had the barley cart backed into the other yard. Hullen could lead the team round now while the men lifted. Robb and Theon held the loose horses back; Cley joined two grooms pushing at the rear. The wagon came free with a lurch that sent them stumbling.

Wynafryd turned to thank the guard. Wylla embraced Sansa so hard that her hood fell back. Marna ran down to join them, and no one could get the girls inside before their news was told.

Wyman's litter followed through the arch, Wylis and Wendel beside it urging the train onward. As Eddard came to greet them, a covered birdcage passed Jon. Something screeched beneath the cloth. Cley nearly dropped the lever.

"Father said they would bring too much."

"Then help put it away," Hullen said, taking it from him. "There are more behind them."

* * *
​

By the week's end the guest stables were full. Robb could seldom cross the yard without finding someone he wanted to bring to the field, and Jon had given up trying to finish a morning's work before they called for him. He made them help instead. Smalljon Umber could lift a hurdle which usually took two of the younger boys; he worked beside Tomas while Robb argued with the Karstarks over the borrowed shields.

"You have taken all the good ones," Torrhen said.

"I was here first."

"You live here." Torrhen reached for the shield beneath Robb's arm. His brother Eddard caught his wrist and made him let go.

"Find one that fits you." He turned to Robb. "I should like another bout when you are ready."

Robb's grin returned. He passed Torrhen a shield and went to fetch a sword. Jon came over before they could begin. He clasped Eddard Karstark's hand and asked after the journey from Karhold. They had followed the Umbers down the last stretch of road, Eddard told him, though Torrhen insisted they could have arrived sooner without the wagons.

"Father meant to travel with the wagons," Harrion said, coming up with his bow. He was the tallest of the three, with their father's long face and the same blue-grey eyes as his brothers. "You heard him say so before we left."

Torrhen had no answer. Harrion let the matter drop when he saw Theon crossing the yard with a bow of his own.

Robb introduced them. Before either boy could ask, he proposed the lower butts. Eddard protested that they had been about to use the swords, but Torrhen had already gone to look at Theon's arrows. Jon sent someone to tell Harwin, then went with them. On the gallery, Alys Karstark stood beside her father, her brown braid pulled forward over one shoulder. Robb waved to her. She lifted her hand before Rickard had finished speaking to Eddard Stark.

Harwin cleared the path behind the butts and called a halt whenever someone needed to cross. Theon tested his string while Harrion unwrapped his arrows. Cley watched their hands and tried to persuade Robb to lend him a bow.

Theon's first shaft struck close to the middle. Harrion's went a little higher. They loosed twice more before Harwin let them fetch the arrows. Theon had the closer three, though Harrion's first was the best single shot. Harrion pointed that out twice on the walk back.

"Then loose three like it," Theon said, handing it to him by the shaft.

Jon had watched Theon's drawing hand return to the same place against his cheek. He asked about it while Harrion went back to the line.

"Dagmer would stand beside me and put his finger here." Theon touched the corner of his mouth. "I used to draw farther when I wanted to shoot harder. The arrows went everywhere."

He passed Jon the bow without an arrow. Jon held it in his sound hand and felt the balance, leaving the string alone.

"When the cut has closed," Theon said. "You pull with that one."

"I know." Jon gave it back. "Harrion is waiting for you."

Harwin stopped the next round for servants crossing behind the targets with bedding. Dacey Mormont followed carrying her cloak, Alysane arguing that the saddlebags belonged in their mother's room.

"How many more?" Theon asked, lowering his bow.

"The last," Robb said. "Come and meet them."

Harrion gathered his arrows; Eddard rescued Robb's borrowed shield from the butts. By the stair they found Jorelle and Lyra, who was digging a stone from her boot.

"We thought you would miss it," Robb said.

"So did Mother." Jorelle embraced him and greeted Jon. "We waited on the coast for days."

"And complained for every one," Maege said, coming from Poole. "Have you found beds?"

"Dacey has. Can we see the field?" Lyra caught her mother looking at the bundle on the ground and picked it up.

Jon sent for Oren while the girls took their things upstairs. By their return Robb was describing Smalljon's reach in the wrestling ring. Lyra wanted to try him.

"Ask Rodrik," Maege said. "And if he tells you no, that is the end of it."

"I will ask." She caught Oren's arm as he arrived, already questioning him. Jorelle spread her own arms to compare them with Robb's description.

Jon carried the last bundle up for Maege with his sound hand. Below, Arya and little Lyanna had three wooden cups between them. Each stack collapsed to delighted laughter. When their nurses tried to lift them away, both objected so stoutly that they won a little longer. Arthur waited by the door; Jon joined him and went out towards Robb's laughter.

Outside the walls, tents spread past the winter town palisade. Smoke from cookfires lay blue above the slope. One camp roasted a whole sheep with garlic pushed beneath the skin; another boiled oat porridge in a cauldron broad as a washtub. Three songs fought across the dark and each gained a drum whenever another grew louder.

That evening Jon walked through the camps with Arthur after supper. Men rose when they recognised the knight. At the Norrey fire a place was cleared on a folded cloak and a wooden bowl offered to Jon. He had eaten already, but accepted a little of the broth. Arthur sat beside him, stretching his legs towards the heat. A woman stirred the pot while her husband described the road they meant to take home.

Theo joined them with one of the Flints. The talk turned to houses farther up the valleys, and to who could offer the better lodging on a journey north. Jon asked about the rivers and found himself being told where they could be forded, where the banks fell steeply and whose mill stood below the crossing. Arthur listened over his cup. When they rose to leave, the Norrey made Jon promise to remember the invitation if he came that way.

At the next fire Theon called Jon into his dispute with Harrion over the third arrow.

"He says the wind took it."

"It may have. Yours were lower."

Harrion held out a hand as though that settled everything. Theon disagreed, and Cley's account of his own shooting found no more agreement. Jon sat beside Daryn, clear of the cups, while Eddard Karstark returned with Torrhen and a stool borrowed from their father's tent.

Jon returned to the keep smelling of woodsmoke. Wylla had water waiting and made him wash the soot from his neck. When she drew the brush through his hair, the white lock came forward over her hand. "Hold still, love. You have brought half a hedge home." Jon bent his head and let her work the burrs loose while he told her where Theo said the best trout could be caught.

Later, when Wylla had gone, Jon sent for Arthur. He waited until the door was closed.

"How well do you know Lord Bolton?"

"Less well than Ned does. Why?"

"I have dreamed of him."

Arthur pulled the chair away from the wall and sat. "Tell me."

"His voice. Someone calling for help. I can't see much of the place." Jon looked past him at the shutter. "It was worse when I saw him beside Robb in the yard."

"Was Robb in it?"

Jon nodded. Roose's name had been in the black book since the earlier harvest. Jon kept the wedding, the broken guest right and the deaths he remembered out of his answer. He disliked borrowing the authority of dreams with a man who had served Rhaegar.

"At the last harvest, you would hardly go near him," Arthur said at length.

"There is a name as well. Ramsay. I think he is another son."

"Roose has a bastard?"

"There is a mill beside a river. I don't know the boy by sight."

Arthur rested his forearms upon his knees. "Willam may know something of him."

"Ask quietly."

"I will." His eyes stayed on Jon's face. "What of Domeric?"

Jon had liked the older boy's easy talk with Robb, the care he took with his horse. "I don't think he is safe with them. I would rather he stayed at Redfort."

"Willam first," Arthur said. "Leave that to me. And if you dream of them again, wake me."

At noon the next day, Wyman had his litter brought to the gate tower. He had heard the clock since his arrival and now meant to see what rang it. Other guests gathered as the warning wheel began its quicker run. Pate stood below with his rope coiled and both hands raised when the bell struck. A Karstark man climbed three steps seeking the hidden bellman. Wyman waved his bearers forward, but Pate came down to explain that the stair was too narrow for the litter. The twelfth stroke faded above the yard. "Jon made it," Robb announced.

Too many heads found Jon at once. He waited until the questions quieted. "I drew it and fitted the movement. Mikken forged the iron, Woods made the frame, and Olyver worked with me. Mallon cast the bell. Pate keeps it running."

Wyman leaned out between his curtains. "You set the teeth yourself?"

"I set them out. Olyver and I finished them after Mikken had forged the blanks."

"So Osric wrote. I accused him of drinking before he took up his pen."

"He told you the truth, my lord."

Wyman's beard stirred with his laugh, and his pale blue eyes nearly disappeared into the folds about them. "How old are you now?"

"Seven."

Wyman looked up towards the bell. Roose Bolton stood beneath the tower with his hands folded inside his sleeves.

"How often must it be tended?" he asked.

"Pate winds it morning and evening," Jon said. "He oils the bearings and changes the cord when it wears. There are spare pins in the case."

Rickard Karstark considered the stair, his narrow face grave above the fur at his throat. "My bellman would want a larger stair."

Wyman pointed one thick finger up the stair. "I have a man in mind to keep mine. Shall I send him here before the work is ready?"

"Aye. Pate can teach him while we make it. He must learn to stop it as well as wind it. If a fault is beyond him, he bars the weights and sends word."

Wylis rubbed a hand over his bald head. "Across half the North?" His moustache scarcely moved with the quiet words. "A stopped clock may wait a month for its maker."

Jon beckoned Mikken forward. "Tell Lord Wyman which repairs his own smith can make."

"The common pins and bushes, my lord," Mikken said. "We will send patterns with the clock. The fine teeth should come back to us."

Wyman looked from the smith to Jon. "And the first notion was yours?"

"His drawing, my lord," Mikken said. "I had never seen wheels used that way."

"He called it a waste of good iron," Jon said.

Wyman laughed aloud.

A visiting maester asked to see the next winding. Jon arranged it with Pate, and the maester went to wait out of the traffic.

Domeric had remained by his father. He was not staring at the clock. He was looking at Jon's hidden hand. "Did you hurt that making the clock?" he asked when Roose turned away.

"A slip at the bench. I opened it again with the sword grip."

"Then let your other hand earn its keep today." Domeric smiled.

"Come and see the forts." Robb thrust himself between them. Before Domeric could answer, a salt-stained rider entered the yard and asked Martyn for Ser Arthur. Martyn took the packet he offered. Beneath Ethan Glover's cover was a second, older fold, sealed with a bat. He looked up sharply.

Eddard took the rider's bridle himself. "Food first. Then the guest solar."

Arthur had gone still beside Jon. Willam Dustin and Mark Ryswell came from opposite sides of the yard, all three watching the old seal in Martyn's hand. Robb watched the men gather. "What did he bring?"

"A letter from Dragonstone." Eddard turned the horse towards a waiting groom. "You will hear it later, Jon. Go with Robb for now." Jon glanced at Arthur, then followed his brother towards the barley field.

* * *
​

Martyn shut the solar door and sent the waiting servant away. Theo Wull barred the shutters. Eddard set Ethan's letter on the table while Arthur stood opposite, with Willam Dustin and Mark Ryswell at either end. The rider sat beside a bowl of broth, fighting to keep his eyes open. "Where did Ethan find this?" Eddard asked.

"A boatman from Planky Town brought it to Dragonstone, my lord. He was there to sell a storm-damaged cog. When he heard Lord Glover knew Ser Arthur, he asked to see him alone."

Mark put out a hand. "What did he see?"

"Two knights came to the cove before the king's patrol closed that part of the coast. One old and broad, one with a bat on his clasp. The boatman rowed them out to a merchant ship. The younger gave him this for Ser Arthur, if ever he found a safe way to send it."

The rider laid the folded skin beside Ethan's letter, one edge stiff with salt. Arthur did not touch it.

"Seven years?" Willam said.

"He hid it after the patrol searched his rooms. Later he feared bringing a fugitive's letter to Lord Stark's door."

"What price?" Martyn asked.

"Safety for his son, if carrying it brought trouble. Ethan promised the boy passage to Dragonstone."

Eddard found that promise in the covering letter. "You have carried the tale far enough. Martyn, find him a bed and see that no one troubles his sleep."

Martyn took him to a servant, then returned and barred the door.

Mark turned to Arthur. "Would Oswell have worn Whent silver while hiding?"

"A bat on his clasp would be like him. He could never bring himself to wear a plain one."

Martyn smiled briefly. He had seen the clasp at the tower.

Arthur drew the packet towards him, then paused over the seal.

"Could Ethan be deceived?" Mark asked.

"Any man can." Martyn turned the skin. "Whent wax proves a ring touched it, no more."

"The nick at the edge was there at Harrenhal." Arthur showed them, then broke the seal with Eddard's leave. Oswell's untidy join of the first two letters was there too. He read on. No ship or harbour was named. Gerold meant to follow a rumour of Queen Rhaella's flight; Oswell trusted it less than he trusted Gerold. They were taking passage east before Robert's patrol made it impossible and would send word when they found ground fit to stand upon. Arthur read the last line twice.

Willam leaned over the table. "What is it?"

"He says I chose the easier road."

Theo Wull snorted. "He had not seen Winterfell with thirty lords in it." The jest fell without laughter. Theo's beard moved as his mouth hardened.

Mark reached for the jug and stopped. "Did he always write to you that way?"

"When he wanted to be answered." Arthur folded the letter carefully. "I should have liked the chance."

"He knew you would keep the boy safe," Eddard said.

"I have tried." Arthur looked towards the closed door.

Seven years had taught Arthur winter roads, nursery fevers and the sound Jon made when a practice blow hurt more than he would admit. Eddard had seen him learning each of those things. He left the knight to read the letter again.

"If they learned where Viserys and the princess had gone," Arthur said, "they may have reached them."

"Or been sent to the wrong port," Mark replied. "The letter tells us they lived when they wrote. It does not tell us they live today."

"Rhaella never left Dragonstone," Eddard said. "Stannis sent word of her pyre. Whatever that rumour promised them, the queen died there. It is the children whose path we have lost."

Arthur flattened Oswell's letter against the table until the old folds whitened beneath his fingers. "Gerold knew what she would ask of him. Her children were still alive."

"He could not know where they had been taken."

"It was his duty to find them."

"And yours was to stay with Aemon." Eddard kept his voice low. "We divided the guard because both households needed swords."

Willam looked between them. "You speak as if the choice is finished. If the old bull and Oswell live, they are still his swords."

"They are also hunted men," Mark said. "If we send a ship openly from White Harbor, Robert will soon hear where she has gone."

Theo rested both fists on the table. "Then have a trader ask after them while he sells his wool. He need not tell every harbourmaster whose business he is on."

"Ask the boatman about the merchant ship," Mark said. "Her colours, her master, anything he remembers of the crew. Ethan's factors can put the questions to men who sailed those waters. There is nothing here to send Arthur after yet."

Willam pushed his chair back. "Seven years, and we send another question."

"Give me a harbour," Mark said, "and I will find you a ship."

Willam looked at the letter. Oswell had named none.

Theo reached past him for the jug. "You would enjoy the voyage until the first contrary wind. Then you would curse us for bringing you."

"I would curse you before we sailed."

"There is the Willam I remember." Theo filled his cup first. "Drink. Let Ethan's men ask about the ship."

Neither Theo nor Willam had looked at Arthur while they spoke. Willam accepted the cup and sat without drinking.

Arthur stood apart with Oswell's letter in both hands. Eddard turned to him. "Do you wish to go?"

Arthur gave no quick answer. That frightened Eddard more than anger would have done. "I want to know whether they are alive, and whether they found Rhaella's children. But this gives us nowhere to look." His fingers flattened the folded skin. "I would be leaving Jon to chase a rumour seven years old."

Eddard nodded. Outside, one of the boys shouted for Jon, and another shouted back that he had gone to the barley field.

"He will ask about the letter," Arthur said.

"Tell him old friends were alive when it was written. We are still looking for them."

Mark drew the ink towards him. Eddard dictated the answer for Ethan, keeping names out of the directions his factor would carry.

Martyn checked the passage and let Willam and Theo leave first. Mark followed with Eddard's answer. Arthur remained until the room was quiet.

When Eddard and Arthur came out, Robb and Jon stood across the yard beside a heap of uprooted turf. Both boys had mud to the knees. Robb held a red ribbon. Jon carried a stake in his left hand and watched Arthur's face. "Was it bad news?" Robb asked.

"An old letter," Eddard said.

Robb frowned at being excluded. Jon waited until Arthur had crossed the yard. "Does it call you away?"

"It was written seven years ago. We still do not know where they are," Arthur said. He touched Oswell's folded letter beneath his cloak. "Ethan continues the search. I am staying."

Jon stepped closer. "Tell me when we are alone."

"I will." Arthur put a hand upon the back of his neck, brief and firm. "Now show me which of you put a fort over a wet hollow." Robb blamed Jon before they had crossed half the yard.

* * *
​

That afternoon, Smalljon Umber laughed at the wrestling ring until Benfred Tallhart invited him inside it. Fresh sand covered the yard within a rope circle. Ser Rodrik allowed no fists, no fingers near eyes, and no hold that twisted a knee or neck. A boy won by putting both his opponent's shoulders to earth. Greatjon looked Benfred up and down. "You had best be quick, lad."

Smalljon stepped over the rope and bent his knees, waiting for Benfred.

Benfred went low before the Umber could close. He caught one knee, turned his shoulder against the thigh, and drove. Smalljon rocked a full step. The watching boys shouted. Harrion Karstark cried for the other leg. Lyra Mormont shouted for Benfred to hold on. Smalljon sprawled his weight, caught Benfred around the middle, and lifted him clear of the sand. The Tallhart kicked once in empty air. "Put me down."

"Yield, then."

"No," Benfred said. Smalljon grinned. He could have thrown the boy. Instead he lowered Benfred until his heels touched, shifted his grip, and tried for a proper fall. Benfred used the instant of care to hook a foot behind Smalljon's ankle. They went down together. Sand burst beneath them. Benfred sat upon the larger boy's chest for half a heartbeat. Surprise made him slow. Smalljon bridged, rolled, and pressed both Benfred's shoulders flat. Rodrik slapped the sand twice. Greatjon's approval startled pigeons from the broken tower.

Benfred came up rubbing one ear. Smalljon offered a hand. "You nearly had me."

"I did have you."

"Nearly." They clasped wrists. Smalljon bent to look at the ear Benfred kept rubbing, then called for water. Jon watched him with a pang. He had remembered the Umber dying behind an overturned table. This boy kept asking his opponent whether the ringing had stopped.

Rodrik rested Smalljon while Eddard Karstark took a turn against Daryn. Alys called her brother's name from beside the rope. Wynafryd urged Daryn on, more quietly, and Jonelle Cerwyn moved the younger girls back when the wrestlers came near. Daryn got his arms about him first, but Eddard planted his feet and refused to be dragged forward. Jon saw him shift his hip across the Hornwood's path. The fall was quick enough to leave Daryn staring up at the sky. Hallan called for another try; Eddard helped Daryn up and asked whether he had wind enough. They had one more bout before Rodrik sent them out and called Smalljon back into the ring.

Robb ducked beneath the rope. "Me." Catelyn called his full name from the gallery. He hesitated, then squared up to Smalljon.

"He is twice your size," Cley said.

"Only if he catches me." Robb lasted longer because he refused Smalljon's strength. He darted close, struck a shoulder, and fled. Smalljon turned after him. Robb went low. A huge hand caught the back of his tunic and raised him until his toes combed two lines through the sand.

"This is not wrestling," Robb complained.

Smalljon laughed. Robb caught his wrist, dropped and dragged him to one knee. The yard roared. The Umber recovered and rolled him beneath a shoulder, but Robb rose coughing and delighted.

Smalljon crooked a finger at Jon. "Black next."

The cut at the base of Jon's thumb pulled when he closed his hand. Arthur stood by the rope and said nothing. Every visiting boy looked from the famous knight to the small lord under his guard. "When it heals," Jon said.

Theon clicked his tongue. "Lord Black declines battle because his nurse tied a cloth around him."

Jon held up the wrap, already spotted from the morning's sword grip. "And I mean to have the use of it tomorrow."

Smalljon bent to look at the bloodied linen. "I can wait."

"You will wait longer if you let him hit you first," Robb said.

Jon elbowed his brother with his sound arm. Domeric smiled.

Lyra stepped into the ring. "My turn."

Rodrik looked at Lady Maege. She folded her arms. "Let her try."

"I will hurt you," Smalljon warned.

"You have to catch me first."

She made him spend a full minute. Dacey called to her from beside Maege. "Lower, Lyra!" Twice she slipped under his arm. On the third attempt he caught her around the middle; she locked both heels behind his knee and took him down with her. Smalljon still landed above, but he rose red-faced and uncertain whether he had won or been tricked. Lyra spat sand. "Nearly."

Alysane met Lyra at the rope with a cup of water. She waited while her sister spat out the last of the sand, then made her rinse her mouth before drinking.

"You made him work for that," Dacey said.

Lyra looked towards Smalljon, still pleased with herself.

Benfred laughed until Smalljon chased him out of the ring. They ate beside the riding field, where kitchen women passed oatcakes, crocks of curds and quartered apples. Cley drowned his cake in honey. Alys, seated beside Jorelle, warned him that it was breaking; he lifted it too late, and the middle landed on his boot.

Smalljon broke his own cake and gave Jon half. He had already eaten three. Lyra sat opposite with sand in her hair and demanded another bout.

"You lost," Robb told her.

"I nearly had him."

"So did I," Benfred said.

Smalljon drew his knees beneath the bench as Lyra reached for an apple. Cley saw him and began laughing. Honey ran over Jon's thumb while Benfred and Lyra disputed who had come nearer to a victory.

Domeric gave Cley a clean cloth for his boot. Before the baskets were empty, Hullen's horn called the race heats. The course crossed the western pasture, turned between white posts, climbed the mill road and came down to a rope before the east gate. Hullen allowed garrons and small coursers, with neither spurs nor whips.

Benfred had lost his heat to Robb and stayed by the rope to watch the final. Robb, Domeric, Harrion and Lyra Mormont brought their horses to the start. Lyra's shaggy black mare tried to bite the near post. Harrion's chestnut mouthed its bit. Robb bounced upon his grey until Jon caught the bridle.

"You are telling him to start before the horn."

"I am settling him."

"With your backside?" Domeric asked. Robb went still.

Jon released the bridle and stepped clear. He had hoped his hand would be fit for the race; instead Hullen gave him the light horn and went to place the judges at the finish. Arthur waited beside him.

"Ready?" Jon called.

Robb crouched over his grey's neck. Domeric settled his feet in the stirrups.

Four horses gathered themselves. Lyra leaned low. Harrion fought his chestnut's jaw. Robb stared at the first post. Domeric rested one hand upon his bay's neck and looked between the animal's ears. The horn sounded. Lyra's mare knew the call and took a length at once. Robb drove inside before the first turn. Harrion went wide. Domeric let the other three spend themselves across the wet lower ground, shortened before the post, and crossed behind Harrion into the open track. He entered the turn last and left it second. Robb looked back. "Eyes ahead!" Jon shouted.

The glance cost a stride. Domeric drew level upon the mill road. His bay was larger; Robb's grey knew every rut. At the second post, Domeric yielded the inner path before Robb could close it, kept his horse balanced on the wider curve, and came downhill with speed still under him. Lyra passed Harrion behind. Alys ran a few paces along the rope, calling for her brother to catch her. Beside Jonelle, Sansa had both hands clasped beneath her chin; Marna kept saying that the bay was gaining, though Sansa could see that perfectly well. Maege Mormont's shout carried from the wall. Robb drove with both heels and the grey began to close, but the bay crossed half a neck ahead. Greatjon struck the rail with his palm. "Good riding, lad!" Hullen called the three finish judges together. They had all seen the same thing. "Domeric," Jon said.

Robb slid down, breathing hard. Mud freckled his cheeks. "You were behind at the first post."

"I had room to pass on the hill," Domeric said.

"You gave me the inside."

"Your grey had to slow for it. I could keep my pace on the outside."

Robb looked back up the road. Irritation left as soon as he saw the choice. "Again tomorrow."

"After the forts."

"After the forts, then." They clasped arms. Roose raised one finger from the rail, summoning his son. Domeric loosened the bay's girth and told a stable boy the animal had shortened its stride on the last turn before answering the summons. Jon returned the horn to Hullen.

Domeric stopped beside Jon on his way to Roose. "You may race us next year."

"I mean to." Jon held out his left hand, and Domeric clasped it.

The smile left the older boy's face when he joined his father. Roose bent his head to speak; Jon could not hear the words. Arthur came up beside him and offered an apple quarter. Jon took it. Hullen's men were already pulling the course ropes down.

* * *
​

The next morning, the reaped barley field held two hurdle forts. Red cloth hung above the western wall, black above the east. Between them a shallow fold crossed the stubble beneath pale sedge. The soil looked dry until Oren pushed a stick into it and brought the end up black. "Water lies here after hard rain," he told Jon. "The upper run is choked."

Ser Rodrik stepped beside him and tried the ground with his heel. "The surface has dried over it."

"Not beneath," Jon said. "Move black three paces east. Rope the sedge. Leave one way through the stubble."

Arthur measured the new ground. "Your easier approach grows narrow."

"So does theirs."

Tomas took one end of the first hurdle. Jon raised his voice before visiting heirs could mistake a patched coat for a servant sent to carry. "Tomas commands my household and keeps black's left. If he says the ground fails, hear him."

Tomas beckoned two of the castle boys to help him. Torrhen Karstark took the far end as they lifted it. Jon left Oren beside the wet ground to keep boys away while the wall was moved.

Rodrik gathered both companies and gave the rules: no blows above the shoulder, no striking from behind. A boy who lost his arm ribbon knelt until a comrade retied it. Carry the enemy's banner through your own gate to win. Either horn ended the game.

Catelyn brought the girls up the slope while the boys collected ribbons. Arya escaped her nurse as soon as she saw Robb and was caught at the hurdle.

"Me!" She reached for his red cloth.

"You are too little." Robb crouched beside her, and she seized his sleeve. Catelyn took her before she could pull him into the field. Jon offered a scrap of black, which she gripped fiercely without ceasing to point.

"You can cheer for us," he told her. "Stay where I can see you."

Jonelle spread her cloak on the dry slope for the younger children. Sansa brought Jeyne to sit with Marna and the Manderly girls; Alys stayed on her feet to watch her brothers. Alysane and Jorelle settled beside Jonelle. Jorelle asked which part of Smalljon Lyra meant to lift.

"All of him," Lyra said.

Little Lyanna's nurse set her beside Arya. The two began folding and unfolding the black ribbon while Marna announced that Roderick wanted Jon's side.

"Then you must cheer for him," Sansa said. "I shall cheer for Robb."

"And Cley," Jonelle added.

Sansa considered. "You can cheer for Cley. But he must help Robb."

Jonelle agreed, laughing. Jon returned to the boys as Arya called Robb's name until he waved.

"Jon takes black," Robb said. "He moved the fort. I take red."

"Do you?" Jon nudged his shoulder with his sound arm. Robb nudged back. By the time Rodrik had gathered the others, boys upon the rise were already asking for colours. Cley tied red because Robb was his friend. Harrion brought Benfred Tallhart, Daryn and Hallan. Eddard Karstark tied on red beside his elder brother, while Torrhen chose black and grinned across at them. Theon chose red before learning the ground. Brandon Norrey took black. When Edrik reached for red, Harl caught his sleeve. "You said we would fight together."

"Yesterday," Edrik said, tying the strip.

Harl asked Jon for black. Brandon helped him with the knot, watching Edrik go across to Robb. Jon sent both boys to Tomas. Domeric waited until both sides had nearly formed, then wound red cloth about his arm.

"You are joining Robb?" Jon asked.

Domeric tightened the red strip. "He asked me first."

Dacey had been listening behind them. Now she held out a hand for one of the padded swords. "I should like a place, if there is one."

Jon offered her a black ribbon. "Oren needs another shield beside the lane."

Rodrik looked along the two companies, then nodded and found her a shield. Dacey tightened the belt over her riding coat and went to Oren, who showed her the ground they were to hold. From the slope, Jorelle called to ask which side she had chosen. Dacey lifted her arm to show the black cloth.

Smalljon took red last. Jon expected Robb to hide him behind the centre. An Umber was an obvious hammer; using him after another movement had opened the line made him harder to turn. Robb looked up at the enormous boy and said, "You wait behind our fort."

Smalljon's face fell. "Until when?"

"Until they forget you." The disappointment became a grin.

Robb caught Domeric by the red strip and pulled him towards their fort. "Come here. I need to know what he expects."

Domeric studied black's moved wall. "He expects the centre to enter the easy ground and find a second hurdle. He expected Smalljon at our front."

"Everyone expects me at the front," Smalljon said.

Robb shook his head. "Then everyone already knows where you are. Harrion and Ned make noise on the left. Daryn and Hallan keep the banner until I call them. Theon and Cley take the empty ground. Domeric comes with me around the right."

Theon frowned. "And when the empty ground proves full?"

"You lose loudly."

"A command worthy of a Stark."

"If Jon sends boys to chase you, run."

Cley asked, "What if he does not?"

Robb looked up at Smalljon. "Then we teach him why he should have."

Domeric's gaze remained upon the cut barley. "He has kept three behind the wall."

"So have I," Robb said.

Smalljon grinned. "Let them come. I can hold three."

Jon marked Smalljon's absence from the red front. Robb would loose him only after pursuit stretched black's centre. On black, Tomas held the left. Oren took the lane through the stubble. Niall Glover and Roderick Dustin guarded the fort. Jon kept Edden and two castle boys behind the wall, a reserve quick enough to answer either gate. Edden had a narrow face and a blue patch upon one elbow. Jon knew how quickly he could cross the yard; he had not yet asked where the boy slept.

Tomas crouched beside the black hurdle. "Harrion keeps looking at this end, my lord."

"Give him the first wall. Change the front pair when they tire, but do not follow him out." Jon looked along the file. "The same goes for Theon. Let him shout."

Tomas nodded and went to place his boys. Oren stood at the mouth of the lane through the stubble, testing its edge with his heel. Jon sent Torrhen to help Tomas.

Lords and ladies covered the rise. Eddard and Catelyn stood beneath the direwolf, Wyman seated to their right. Roose Bolton remained pale and still beyond him. Greatjon, Rickard and Maege found places at the front. Arthur held the east horn, Martyn the west.

Rodrik lifted his staff. "When either horn sounds, every hand opens. Strike after the call, and you spend tomorrow moving both forts alone."

The staff fell. Red came shouting through the stubble. Sansa and Jeyne called for Robb, their voices carrying together from the slope. Alys shouted to Harrion and Eddard, then saw Torrhen moving on the other side and called his name as well. Harrion, Eddard and Benfred struck black's left with enough noise for six men. Theon and Cley took the middle, Theon's padded sword high above his head. Robb and Domeric ran towards the open right. Jon yielded the first hurdle. Three red boys cheered. Theon let Cley vault the wattle first, then followed with his padded sword held across his body. Tomas rose behind the second wall. Theon caught his first stroke and reached past it for the black ribbon, but Torrhen Karstark drove Cley aside and came against his exposed flank. The red strip tore free before Theon could turn. He knelt at once. Cley crawled back towards him while Tomas withdrew behind the hurdle.

"You gave us that ground," he accused from his knees.

"You accepted," Tomas said. Cley retied the red strip and hauled Theon up beside him. Robb's eyes went to Oren's narrowing lane. He called Harrion across, and red shifted before its centre dissolved. Oren gave ground through the stubble without turning his back. Every step drew the attackers into a narrower line. Robb and Domeric reached the black fort. Niall caught Robb at the wall. Domeric passed them both. Jon met him beneath the banner. Domeric offered his left shoulder. Jon followed it. The Bolton's rear foot went right before the rest of him did. By the time Jon understood, Domeric was past. Red fingers tore the black ribbon from his arm. Heat climbed Jon's neck as he knelt. Boys shouted around him. He had watched Domeric's body at the race and still allowed a face and shoulder to lie to him.

"Roderick, the banner," he called from the ground. "Niall, hold Robb."

Roderick caught at Domeric's ribbon and lost his own. The exchange bought one breath. Niall pulled free, seized Jon's strip, and tied it with shaking fingers. Jon rose while Niall bent to retie Roderick's strip. Beneath the banner, Edden and the two castle boys had brought their shields together. Domeric tried to reach round them, then backed away as Jon advanced. "Once," Jon called after him.

"Once was sufficient," Domeric answered.

For the next quarter of an hour neither side could break through. Theon crouched beside the hurdle, found the stakes fastening it and called Cley away from the blocked opening. Together they went along its face, making Tomas's boys turn to keep them in sight. Cley maintained that three boys had struck his face when none had reached higher than his shoulder. Benfred lost a boot. Lyra, watching from the rope, found it and demanded a copper for salvage.

At the outer hurdle, Edrik feinted towards Harl's ribbon and sprang back. Harl started after him. Brandon caught his shield rim and hauled him into place beside Tomas. Edrik laughed from beyond their reach. Harl crouched lower behind his shield, waiting for him to try again.

Jon moved his left flank forward. Tomas did not wait upon every instruction; he changed the front pair when Harrion pressed, then sent Torrhen behind Oren before the wet lane opened. Eddard Karstark shouted a warning when he saw his brother moving. Robb called Daryn out from red's fort to meet him. Their padded blades clattered together while Oren edged two of his boys farther along the lane. Beside Oren, Dacey caught Harrion's sword on her shield and drove him back far enough for the younger boys to close their line. Jorelle cheered her from the slope.

Jon felt the old urge to call the change after it had already begun. He swallowed the needless order.

Robb climbed his own fort and shouted, "Run!"

Theon stared up at him. "Where?"

"Away from them." Robb leapt down the western side and fled. Cley laughed first. Theon called his captain a coward with such delight that black heard the lie and chased. Two of Tomas's boys broke before he stopped them. Torrhen would not be left behind by boys from Winter Town and ran after them. Black's centre stretched thin.

Robb turned. "Smalljon!" The waiting Umber came over the red wall, arms spread. Boys scattered before him. Dacey held her place beside Oren; Harrion and Eddard were pressing them too closely for her to leave the lane. Robb, Domeric and Theon turned back with the retreating line. Hallan ran after Smalljon, leaving the red banner unguarded. Jon saw the gap open in black's centre. Three had chased despite his order, leaving Tomas calling after them.

"Tomas, keep the left," Jon called. "Oren, hold the lane. Roderick, draw Smalljon away."

Roderick swallowed. "With what?"

"Draw him this way, then turn." Roderick ran across Smalljon's front and ducked beneath the reaching hand. Oren dropped a hurdle behind them, forcing Smalljon to go round. Jon took Edden and Niall through the stubble towards red's fort. Roderick doubled back and ran after them.

Cley shouted. Domeric turned back, but Edden had reached the cloth. He pulled it loose and ran with Niall at his left. Cley caught the trailing end. The cloth snapped taut; Edden stumbled, and Jon caught the banner beside him with his left hand.

"Keep your feet," Jon told Edden. He bunched the loose cloth clear of the boy's legs.

For three strides he and Edden carried it together. Cley clung until Roderick struck his ribbon away. Niall put his shoulder between them and red's gate. Behind, Robb dragged at black's cord. It held. "Theon, the knot!"

Theon surged from the straw and caught it with both hands. Jon and Edden crossed their own gate. Arthur's horn sounded. Martyn answered before the note died. Every boy stopped, or tried. Smalljon ran into the hurdle because he was watching the banners. The wattle collapsed beneath him. He sat amid broken willow with such betrayed dignity that Robb began laughing. A scrape marked Smalljon's knee, but he was laughing too. Black had won. Noise filled the field. Cley claimed his long grip upon the red banner made its capture unlawful. Theon insisted the black knot had been loose before the horn and invited Rodrik to admire the marks upon his palms. Rodrik examined the cord. "Still tied."

"Loosened."

"Still tied," Rodrik repeated. Greatjon was asking Robb about Smalljon's charge and interrupting every answer. Eddard Karstark went to collect Hallan, who had lost his ribbon in the charge. Torrhen passed them with his black strip still tied, unable to keep from grinning. Rickard watched Tomas gather his boys. Wyman leaned towards Wylis and asked who had brought the banner in.

Robb came across to the black fort. Edden held up the captured red cloth, and Robb raised one corner with him. "Black won. Jon led them, and Edden brought our banner in." Wyman repeated the boy's name to Wylis. Roose looked once at Edden, then returned his attention to Domeric. Black cheered. After a moment, red joined them.

Marna sprang up beside Sansa. "Roderick helped! Did you see?"

Sansa had seen. She watched Robb holding the corner of Jon's captured banner, then began clapping with the others. Wylla Manderly took up Edden's name when Robb called it, and Jorelle joined her. Jonelle called Cley over to look at a scrape on his cheek; he insisted on telling her how nearly he had held the banner until she turned his face towards the light.

Arya struggled to be put down when Jon reached the slope. Catelyn kept hold of her until the boys had stopped running past, then let her toddle the last few paces to him. Lyanna came too, with one hand in Arya's. Arya held out the crumpled black ribbon. Jon bent to take it, and she snatched it back against her chest. He laughed and let her keep it. The little girls went back together to show it to Lyanna's nurse.

When Jon returned to the field, Edden came to stand beside him, still breathing hard. Domeric clasped Jon's wrist, and Robb followed with straw in his hair.

"I had your knot," Robb said.

"You should have brought it with you."

Theon held out his scraped palms. "Next time untie your own."

"Next time I shall cut it," Robb said.

"Wooden swords," Domeric reminded him.

Robb looked at the ash blade in his hand and began to laugh again. Across the field Smalljon and Oren tried to lift the collapsed hurdle. It broke in the middle. Rodrik called the nearest boys over to help.

* * *
​

That evening, the great hall smelled of roast mutton, hot bread, damp wool, and honey glaze burning upon three trays of carrots. Banners covered the stone from the dais to the doors. Sansa's late flowers floated in bowls between salt and trenchers. Wylla Manderly had persuaded Lord Wyman to wear one white bloom in his beard.

Jon waited by the wall while servants passed with platters. Lady Donella greeted Wyman with both hands extended; he kissed his cousin's cheek without losing the flower, though a petal fell into his wine. At the mountain table a Norrey cleared a place for a late kinsman, a Flint cut bread for the old man beside him, and Theo's preferred brown ale filled the cups. Eddard stopped to listen there on his way to the dais.

Cley had found Galbart and Medger discussing his race. His father, who had lost sight of him at the first turn, held his sleeve until Galbart had finished the version Cley meant to improve.

Catelyn caught Robb before he reached his place and rubbed a smear from his cheek with her thumb. "You have washed everywhere but your face." She straightened his collar, then turned Sansa's sleeve to look for the missing ribbon. Jon waited beside them, his bad hand tucked beneath his arm.

"Your place is beside Ser Arthur this evening," she told him.

"Of course, my lady."

She turned back to Robb before Jon had moved away. At the lower tables Tomas and Oren sat among grooms and craftsmen's sons. Edden had found a place within sight of the dais.

Wylla caught Jon by the back of his collar before he sat. She worked a stiff barley awn out of the wool where it had been scratching his neck all afternoon. "You might have asked."

"I forgot it was there."

"So I see." Wylla smoothed his hair and set beef broth beside him. "Eat this while I cut your meat."

Arthur sat one place below Jon. Across from him, Martyn loosened his belt after the long afternoon at the field rope. Willam leaned over his shoulder.

"Will you eat before giving judgement on the race?"

"I have given it twice."

"Roderick has found a reason to hear it again."

Roderick was explaining something to Barbrey with two spoons. She returned the second to its starting place, and Willam sat before he could be called as a witness. Arthur offered Jon the browned edge of his mutton. He held out his trencher, hungry now that the game was over, and rested his aching hand beneath the table. The broth warmed him through.

Theo came down from the mountain table with news of a singer who knew a verse Greatjon had been demanding all evening. He asked Martyn to judge which version he remembered. By the time the serving women returned, the three men were arguing over a name in the second verse, and Arthur had been drawn into it. Jon ate while they tried the tune in low voices and failed to agree.

Across the hall, Smalljon had acquired a second trencher of mutton and was bargaining with Benfred for a third. Edden sat within Jon's sight because Robb had shouted his name until Poole found the boy a place. Tomas sat two tables away with Oren. Cley drew up a stool opposite Tomas and called for him to explain how he had caught Theon's ribbon. Theon drew a stool nearer.

"Torrhen took it," Theon said. "I was watching your sword."

"He was beside me." Tomas broke his bread and passed the loaf on. "You came over where both of us could reach you."

"Cley was meant to have him."

"Cley was busy being shoved," Cley said. He took two pieces of bread and gave Theon the larger. "You could have come sooner."

Theon reached across him for the onions. "Next time, stay on your feet and I shall consider it."

Tomas placed the second hurdle with a cup. Theon listened, objecting when Cley moved his own cup too far. Harrion came down with his brothers to join them; Torrhen wanted to hear his taking of the ribbon again. Eddard spotted Hallan. "Why did you leave the banner?"

"Everyone was running." Daryn moved over to let them sit, rubbing the shoulder he had landed on in the wrestling.

Domeric opened his harp case after the meat. Jon heard the first strings while a serving woman cleared their platters. The air came from the Vale, slower than the songs Theo had been remembering. Conversation continued at the far end of the hall, but those nearest turned to listen. Barbrey rested one elbow on the table and watched her nephew's hands.

His second air was northern. Greatjon knew the words and began them in a voice which carried to the doors. Others joined him at the refrain. He sang well, with more care for the tune than Jon had expected from a man who had spent dinner shouting over it. One of the Norreys took the next verse while Greatjon drank.

Rickard Ryswell called for a quicker song before Domeric had finished. Maege told him to let the boy play. Domeric bowed to both and began a reel. Dacey rose from beside her mother, shaking the folds of her gown clear of the bench. Maege passed her the ribbon she had left on the table and returned to her cup.

When the reel ended, Domeric came to Jon's table. Robb had come over from his own place and was sitting beside Jon. He leaned across to make room. "Who taught you the Vale song?"

"Lord Redfort's harper," Domeric said. "He said I played it like a burial."

"It sounded well," Robb said.

Domeric laid the harp carefully beside his stool.

"Will you go back?" Jon asked.

"Aye. My service remains at Redfort. Father wanted me here for the gathering." He glanced towards Roose, then tested a string with one finger.

"Do you like it there?" Robb asked.

"Very much. Lord Redfort's sons have made me welcome. There is always someone to ride with." Domeric ran his thumb along the polished edge of the harp. "The Dreadfort will seem quiet when I go home."

"Come here, then. Father would let you." Robb glanced towards the dais. "I can ask him."

"I must go home sometime." Domeric smiled at him. "They have their brothers at Redfort. You have Jon. I shall miss having someone to quarrel with over breakfast."

"Come for the next gathering, at least," Robb said. "We can ride every day."

"I should like that."

Domeric went back to tuning his harp. Redfort kept Domeric far from the boy at the mill, but his service there would end. Jon had thought about keeping Ramsay away from him. Listening to Domeric now, he could see why the young heir might go looking for a brother himself. Jon would write to him; he wanted to know before Domeric returned north. "Was there a stone in your bay's foot?" he asked.

Domeric looked up from the strings. "A loose shoe. Hullen set it before supper. You watched after all."

"I saw you speaking to the groom."

"You shall ride against him next year." At the lower table, Edden slid a heel of bread under his tunic. A kitchen boy caught the motion and reached for his sleeve. Edden went white.

Jon rose and went to their table. "Leave the bread."

"Steward said clear the tables, my lord," the kitchen boy replied.

Poole had already seen. "Clear the spoiled trenchers. A sound heel may go where it is needed."

Jon wrapped the bread in a clean corner of linen and put it beside Edden. "Keep it. Meet me in the side passage at first bell, before breakfast. Bring your mother if she is here."

Edden nodded. When Jon returned, Robb leaned close. "Benfred says he sleeps above the cooper."

"Then I know where to find him." Jon looked down the hall once more. Edden was eating the bread now, holding the cloth beneath it to catch the crumbs.

Sansa came from the dais carrying a white flower. The blue silk at her shoulders shone when she passed the candles, and loose auburn curls had escaped the little braids beside her face. Marna Dustin walked beside her, keeping the edge of her skirt clear of the spilled ale. The girls had been watching the musicians from Lady Barbrey's side of the table.

Wylla Manderly followed with three green ribbons she claimed to have won in contests no one remembered holding. Wynafryd came more slowly, waiting while Sansa stopped to free her hem from a stool. Marna held the flower for her and gave it back as soon as the silk was loose.

"We are to stand beside Wynafryd," Sansa informed Jon. "She knows when to turn."

"I know," Marna said.

"You turned twice when we practised."

"Only because Wylla pulled me." Wylla Manderly had already gone to ask Cley whether he meant to dance in the same boots he had worn in the field. Sansa inspected Jon's instead, appeared satisfied and stepped closer.

Sansa pushed the flower through Jon's black cord. "You must dance when they clear away the tables."

"Show me the first turn, then."

"Wynafryd will show us." Sansa went to fetch Robb while Jon set his cup aside.

Robb came willingly and caught Jon's sound wrist. Cley took his other arm. Alys seized Robb. Jorelle drew Hallan into the line beside her, while Daryn offered his hand to Wynafryd. Domeric passed his harp to a Winterfell player before joining them. Jon watched Wynafryd through the opening figure and followed it on the repeat. Smalljon trod on his cloak and apologised so gravely that Lyra laughed. Robb turned the wrong way; Cley collided with Domeric. Sansa tried to follow Wynafryd while Wylla Manderly pulled her the other way. Jon laughed with them and brought the line round again before Robb could spoil the next turn.

Once Jon found the turn, it became easier. The line carried him past the hearth and back towards the dais, hands lifting and parting, skirts brushing the rushes. His cloak grew hot about his shoulders. Arthur took it when they paused, folded it over one arm and sent him back before Sansa could come looking. Jon's wife, in his first life, had liked a room full of music. He had spent too many evenings pleading work before learning that finishing one more page was seldom worth missing it. Tonight the work was safely locked away.

Theon joined the next measure with a Flint girl who had been watching beside her sisters. He bowed before offering his hand and brought her through the first crossing without the confusion at Robb's end of the line. At the turn she said something which made him glance towards Cley. Jon could not hear the answer, but she laughed, and Theon found room for another bow when the music stopped.

Robb caught him by the sleeve on his way back to the cups. "How did you know that turn?"

"I watched Wynafryd. You were looking at your feet." Theon set down his cup and took Robb through the change beside the wall. "There. Now do it before the next one begins."

Robb tried it twice. When the fiddler lifted his bow, he went back to Alys, and Theon returned to the Flint sisters rather than follow him.

Eddard had led Catelyn onto the floor. She moved with an ease which made the children's efforts look more disorderly, the sleeve of her gown passing over his wrist as they turned. Sansa watched her mother and immediately raised her chin; the line of her cheek and jaw was already like Catelyn's. Marna copied Sansa. Jon caught Robb looking at them and had to look away before he laughed again.

At the end of the tune, Wyman Manderly gave Lady Donella his arm. Men moved a bench to clear their way. For all his size, he placed his feet neatly and brought his cousin through the turn without troubling the couple beside them. Jon watched until Robb tugged him towards the cups. He was thirsty enough to drink the watered wine without tasting it.

Wylla waited near the passage with his cloak. She let him finish the next tune before calling him over. The others were still arguing about their best moments in the game as he followed her upstairs. Music reached them even after the hall doors had closed. Jon sat on the bed while she pulled off his boots, then lay back, one stocking still on, and listened to the beat growing faint beneath the floor.

The next morning Ser Rodrik sent every boy back to the barley field with spades, brushes and coiled rope. The forts were to come down before the guests left. Theon began arguing about the knot as soon as he saw it.

"I said you won, didn't I?" he said.

"Wind the boundary rope," Rodrik told him. The boys began taking the forts down. Tomas counted tools and gave them out. Smalljon and the Karstarks carried hurdles. Cley received the narrow spade he had left caked in mud.

He looked at Tomas's patched coat. "Give that to one of the field boys."

Tomas met his gaze. "You dirtied it, my lord." Lord Medger's wagons waited in the yard. By noon Cley would be a lord's son upon the road, while Tomas returned to work beneath a plain black banner most Cerwyn men had never seen.

Cley fetched the brush. "If I clean it, you admit red nearly won."

Tomas let him scrape the blade without conceding the point.

At the first bell Jon waited in the side passage while Poole's men set out breakfast for the boys who had worked the forts. He waited until the last of them went in to eat. Edden had not come.

He went to find Robb. "Edden is not here. Do you know the cooper Benfred meant?"

Robb put down his spoon. Arthur came with them to the room above the cooper's shed where Edden sometimes slept with his mother. Wet staves scented the stair. The door had no lock, only a leather loop. One rolled pallet rested against the wall. Two pegs stood bare. A cracked cup remained upon the sill. Ash had been swept from the hearth; the rushes had been gathered as though the room were being left for a landlord who might charge for dirt. The old trencher basket stood beside the door. No bread remained beneath its cloth. The cooper said the mother washed linen when work could be found and followed harvest camps when it could not. A neighbour had heard them before dawn and thought they were joining a wagon.

"Which road?" Jon asked.

The woman spread red, swollen hands. "Twenty wagons passed in the dark, my lord. Half went north and half south."

"Which wagons did you see?" Jon asked.

"One southbound cart squealed fit to wake the dead. A green tilt went north. I saw no more."

"Did she owe rent?"

"A fortnight," the cooper said. "I would have waited."

"Did she know that?" Robb asked. The man looked at the swept hearth and had no answer.

Jon left the basket beside the door. Back at the castle, he and Robb went straight to Eddard's solar, where Poole's clerk was sorting the morning's letters. Jon told Eddard of the missed meeting and the room left empty before dawn. Robb added the bare pegs and described Edden taking the banner as if that should make the rest impossible.

"He was hungry," Robb said. "We had six kinds of meat."

Eddard opened the door and called Jory. "One rider north and one south. Ask after the green tilt and the squealing wheel first, then the last camps. Find the boy and his mother if you can. Do not ride at them like thieves. Take food for them. His mother may need persuading to return."

Jory ran. "If they find him, he can stay," Robb said.

"His mother washes linen," Jon said. "My household has work for her. We can employ him too."

Eddard turned to Poole's clerk. "Ask at the washhouse for her name. Give it to the riders."

Robb rubbed at the dried mud on his cuff. "He told Benfred where he slept. I could have asked him."

"So could I."

Eddard drew the inkpot clear of Robb's muddy sleeve.

Eddard waited until the clerk had gone. "The riders will bring them back if they can be found. I will have the gate clerk send for you if either comes here."

Arthur glanced at the mud on Robb's sleeves. "Rodrik is waiting for you."

"Three hurdles," Robb said with a sigh.

"Four," Jon told him. "We still have Smalljon's to carry." They went down to the gate before returning to the field. The two riders passed the last guest wagons and divided beyond it, one north and one south.

 

[aiwonder]

The stableman's wife came after the last lord had ridden out. Catelyn saw her waiting beneath the gallery while the guest yard emptied around her. She wore a brown cloak mended at both elbows and held a good wool cap between hands roughened by lye. A raw-boned boy stood at her shoulder. He had combed his hair with water; it was already drying into dark spikes. Behind them, a Manderly wagon groaned through the gate. Two Karstark men shouted for a missing saddlecloth. Servants carried rolled pallets from the guest range, and Robb struck a leather ball against the wall until Cley's departing voice called one final insult from beneath the arch. "You are Alasdair's mother?" Catelyn asked.

The woman dipped her head. "Mara, my lady. His father kept the stable at the Brown Tankard until Master Harclay took him for the south teams."

Alasdair bowed late and too deeply. He was twelve, perhaps, all wrist and knee, with a rope burn crossing one palm. Catelyn asked what he had learnt in the stables since taking Jon's badge. "I can saddle, curry, and mend common tack. I know most lame steps upon level ground, read short words, and reckon feed for six horses."

"Four," Mara corrected. The boy's ears reddened, but he lowered his claim.

Catelyn looked from the boy to his mother. "What brings you here, Mara?"

Mara twisted the cap once. "Work for me, my lady. The innkeeper has put his cousins in the stable while my husband is away. They say I may keep the loft if I wash for the inn, but most of the washing wage goes in rent. My son gives me what he can. He cannot keep us both."

Catelyn asked what Harclay owed. "The last moon's silver and a share of barley," Mara said. Alasdair counted the weeks since his father left. The first month had been paid on the road; nothing had come home since.

"The keeper says payment waits until the teams return," Mara added. Alasdair looked towards the gate.

A broken axle could delay the teams for a fortnight. Mara still had to pay for her loft. Catelyn had watched her father hear enough of these quarrels at Riverrun; by the time a carter returned, the wife might have pawned everything she could spare. She sent for Harclay's keeper, who had come below the winter town to meet the north wagons.

While they waited, Alasdair watched the yard. Jon was speaking with Oren beside a pile of split shovel hafts, his wrapped hand tucked beneath his arm. "Lord Black means to have a house below the walls," Mara said. "There might be washing there."

"When it is built," Catelyn said. "For now his men sleep here."

Mara lowered her eyes. Catelyn gave her three days washing the bedding from the guest range at the common wage, with her bed still at the Tankard. "Poole will speak to the innkeeper. You will not lose the loft while this debt is heard. Alasdair may help Hullen clear the guest stable when Heward releases him from drill."

The boy asked whether the stable work carried pay. "For work beyond your lord's service," Catelyn said. "Hullen will keep the count. You will not miss the yard to earn another penny."

Mara made a small sound of disbelief.

The leather ball struck a gallery post, sprang past Robb, and rolled to Alasdair's boot. "Throw!" Robb called.

Alasdair sent it back in a hard, level cast. Robb caught it against his chest and laughed. "You have an arm. Come down."

Alasdair looked at Catelyn. She shook her head. "Wait here." Harclay's keeper arrived before the game ended, with two teamsters and his half of a tally stick. Catelyn received him in the lower hall. Poole sat beside her with an ink horn. Mara remained near the door, Alasdair on a low stool at her side.

"Paid through the first moon," the keeper said. He put one thick finger upon a split notch. "There."

Poole turned the wood. Beside the divided cut, another notch remained whole. "This marks a second moon."

"The teams have not come home. Drivers take part of their silver upon return, when lost feed, harness, and road damage are known."

"Was he hired for the second moon?" Catelyn asked.

"Aye, my lady. But road damage may be owed against it."

"Bring that claim when you know it. Who witnessed the hiring?"

One teamster raised his hand. "I loaded barley beside him. Harclay promised the second moon at the east bridge."

The other had heard the same hiring and the promise of barley when they came north again.

"How much barley?" Poole asked. The men disagreed. One remembered a sack. The other remembered a half-sack for each driver and a full one for the master carter. The keeper declared that memory always grew when grain changed hands.

Catelyn turned the tally towards Poole.

"Poole, advance her the unpaid moon and half a sack of barley. Deduct it from Harclay's next carriage payment." Catelyn turned to the keeper. "Tell him to bring the reckoning when he returns. Any claim against the driver can be heard then."

The keeper bowed. Poole counted out the silver and entered it against Harclay's name.

Mara counted the coins twice. She thanked Catelyn, then Poole and each teamster who had spoken for her. The keeper gathered his tally and left. Catelyn saw the worn leather beneath Alasdair's stool and turned to Poole. "House Black's cobbler must mend those shoes."

"He will outgrow them by winter."

"Then he must leave room for the boy to grow." Mara smiled. With Heward's leave, Alasdair earned three extra coppers in the guest stable. A Manderly mare had returned under a groom after balking beneath the south arch. Sweat blackened one shoulder while the other had dried. The groom claimed the animal was stubborn.

Alasdair laid a hand under the saddlecloth. "There is something folded here."

The groom began to object, but Hullen had heard. He lifted the saddle and found the felt pad doubled beneath the near side. The skin below was hot and swollen.

"No saddle until that has eased," Hullen said. "Wash the pad and lay it flat to dry." He gave Alasdair the halter. "Take her inside."

After dinner, a missing Manderly cup brought Catelyn to the guest range. An under-steward had searched the rush baskets, the laundry bundles, and the sleeping places of every low hand who had served the guest range. By the time she reached him, a kitchen girl was crying and Alasdair stood with both fists shut. "We touched no silver," the boy said.

"The cup must be found," the under-steward said, lifting another bundle from Mara's basket.

Catelyn looked at the stripped bed, then at the feather mattress still resting upon its ropes. "Has that been lifted?"

"The maids removed the linens."

"I asked about the mattress." Alasdair and another stable boy raised one side. Beneath a folded blanket, caught between rope webbing and carved rail, the silver cup flashed in the lamplight.

The under-steward pulled it free. Catelyn looked at the emptied baskets. "Have those put back. Tell the women we found it."

When Sansa saw the recovered cup, she remembered the game: Wylla Manderly had hidden it as treasure for the wooden bear. Catelyn sent her to tell the frightened kitchen girl what had happened, then had her write to Wylla. The cup went east with the letter in a servant's keeping. Outside the stable, Mara met Alasdair with the barley beneath one arm. He put his three coppers into her free hand.

* * *
​

That afternoon, Arthur put Robb on his back. Wind chased straw beneath the eastern arches. Theon lounged upon the mounting rail and declared himself too old for children's drills while watching every pass. Ser Rodrik stood with folded arms. Eddard had come from the small hall and stopped beneath the gallery without announcing himself. Robb struck high with an ash sword. Arthur stepped through the reach and touched a willow wand behind his knee. The movement barely stirred his black hair; Robb had spent twice the effort only lifting the ash sword. Robb's legs went away. He caught himself upon one hand and rolled. "Dead," Theon said.

Robb rose. "He has a stick."

"He has had more practice," Rodrik said.

"Again."

Arthur beckoned Jon forward. Jon tucked his wrapped hand against his belt and took the ash sword in his left. He advanced before Robb could finish describing the trick.

Arthur offered the same shoulder. Jon held the centre and waited. The wand slipped beneath his blade and tapped his chest.

"Dead," Theon said. "A smaller corpse, but very lordly."

"You waited too long," Arthur told Jon. He made the movement again, slowly. "His heel tells you he can turn. Strike before he does."

Jon tried it with Robb. His brother offered the same feint, and this time Jon's point caught him beneath the ribs. Robb looked down at it.

"Domeric showed you."

"He showed both of us." Jon returned the sword to Arthur.

Eddard stepped into the yard. "You have lost a pin from that bandage."

Jon looked down. The linen had worked loose at the base of his thumb. He held it out for Eddard to see.

Eddard took him towards the covered stair while Rodrik set Robb to footwork. Jon glanced at the loosened fold.

"You saw that from the gallery?"

"You have been tugging at it since I came out."

Jon tucked the loose end beneath his finger so it would not catch again. He climbed the stair beside Eddard. The riders seeking Edden returned while Wylla changed the linen. One had followed the northern road past the steaming pools; the other had searched the south camps until departing wheels had made three tracks of every one. Neither had found the boy or his mother.

Robb waited for Jon outside. They went down to the gate together to ask for news.

"Has anyone brought word of Edden?" Robb asked.

The clerk shook his head.

Jon stayed beside the gate while Robb stopped the next wagoner to ask whether he had seen a boy in a blue-patched coat. He had not.

At the family table Arya threw peas until her nurse carried her away. Bran slept through the fish course and woke crying for milk. Sansa earned stewed plums by keeping her hands clean, then tried to save the largest for Jeyne, who had been sent to eat with her father. Catelyn had a small dish fetched for it.

"She may have it tomorrow," she said. "Eat yours before it cools."

Robb had Cley's wooden ball beneath his chair. He rolled it from one foot to the other while Eddard cut through the crisp skin of a trout. With the guest benches empty, the small sounds carried farther: Sansa scraping her spoon, the click of Arthur's cup, rain beginning against the shutter. Jon could hear the great hall being swept beyond the passage.

"Cley says his father will let him come back when the hay is in," Robb said.

"His father said we would discuss it," Catelyn answered. "That is not quite the same thing."

Robb caught the ball between his heels. "Could we ask him?"

"When Lord Cerwyn writes." She moved the platter nearer Eddard without looking at Jon. "You may put a letter of your own with mine."

Jon took a piece of fish and worked the bones free against the edge of his trencher. Robb nudged the ball beneath his boot, wanting it held still while he reached for bread. After a while he began moving a crust round the edge of his bowl.

"Will the riders look again tomorrow?"

"Jory has left word at the inns," Eddard said. "They know to send here if he comes."

Eddard put down his bread. "Your lady mother found work for Alasdair's mother today. His father is with Harclay's wagons, and she has been waiting for wages."

"She will have them," Catelyn said. "Poole has the keeper's tally."

Robb looked at her. "Did she ask?"

"She came to the gallery with her son." Catelyn glanced towards Jon. "There will be more of them when word of the new house spreads. Know what you offer before you call them."

"The household will have its own roof," Jon said. "Heward wants room to drill all four files without waiting for Ser Rodrik's men to clear the yard."

Arthur leaned forward. "Give him room, then. And hear what he needs before you set the armoury door."

"He walks the ground with us," Jon said.

Wylla reached for the house drawing beside Poole's book. "And Elspeth wants to see this kitchen before you put a wall through her pantry."

"You have both altered it already."

"She has altered her half. I have not begun." Wylla spread it between them and pointed to the sickroom doorway. "A fevered boy comes in from the yard. I should be able to bring him straight off the stair, not carry him through the upper rooms."

Catelyn moved her wine out of the drawing's path. "Nor should Elspeth leave my kitchen without training the woman who takes her place."

"I will speak to you before I hire her." Jon kept the drawing where both women could see it. Elspeth was in Lady Stark's service; that leave was hers to give.

"See that you do." She called Robb back to his chair when he climbed onto the bench to look. Wylla left the drawing where he could see it.

They moved the sickroom entrance on the plan before Wylla folded it away. Jon finished his supper while Poole asked Woods about the extra doorway posts.

* * *
​

The next packet from Dragonstone came with a White Harbor trader: six lines in Ethan's hand and a broken harbour link wrapped in sailcloth. A tide had torn the western capstan loose. Tobin closed the damaged berth, called Ethan down and had masons reset its bed before another ship used it.

Jon turned the orange-scaled link while Eddard read the letter. "Tobin did well," Jon said. "Tell him he may close a damaged berth at once. He is to let Ethan know what men and stone he needs, as he did here."

Black showed beneath the rust where the iron had opened. "Tell Ethan to include the repair in his next account. I want Tobin's drawing of the new capstan bed as well."

Luwin drew the ink nearer. "Anything else?"

"The old harvest and harbour returns. Bad years as well as good."

Jon took a quill from Luwin. It sat poorly between his bandaged fingers, so he used his left hand. The letters came large and uneven. Eddard waited until he had finished, then passed him the wax.

* * *
​

Twelve days after the feast, Wyman returned from Castle Cerwyn to settle the carving and bring his earnest. Pate's bell struck nine as his litter entered the ward between Wylis and Wendel. He held up a hand until he could hear Catelyn's enquiry after Leona and the girls. Eddard asked about the harbour road and fishing boats; Robb wanted news of Wendel's lame courser.

"The swelling is gone," Wendel said. "My brother says the horse merely tired of carrying me."

"A beast of judgement," Wylis agreed.

Before visiting the workshop, Wyman insisted on seeing the clock wound. Wylis warned him of the steep steps.

"They were steep before I grew fat. Give me your arm."

His sons brought him to Pate's waiting chair. Arthur stayed by the door and the children found room against the wall. In the close chamber the beat sounded loud and steady. Pate showed the winding and spare cord, removed the key, then secured the weights before opening the grille. Wyman kept his hands clear and questioned the bellman about replacing the cord.

Rain followed them to the old storeroom serving as a workshop. Rough blanks filled two racks beside the fine bench. Spoiled wheels, bent arbors and the cracked bell hung above it. A bucket stood beneath a leak near the door. Wyman looked around. "This is the workshop?"

"For now," Jon said. "We need another fine bench and a dry place for the timber."

"My privy at New Castle has more floor."

Jon glanced at the racks. "We could use the space."

Wyman leaned upon the rail. "Where does my merman go?"

Jon showed him the full-sized chalk outline Woods had made on a board. The movement would fit within the body; the carving carried none of its weight. Wyman compared the outline with his own armspan and asked whether the silver tail could curve farther out.

Woods bowed his head. "It would not pass the stair at New Castle, my lord. Your man brought us its breadth."

Wylis took the folded measures from his sleeve. The stair had not widened. Wyman conceded the tail and turned to the single fine bench.

"You will need more of those. When the northern lords see mine, they will all find reasons their halls require bells."

"And hands trained to use them," Jon said. "Mikken can rough the blanks while Woods makes the cases. The fine cutting still waits its turn here."

Wyman glanced at Olyver, then at the locked grille. "Train them well. I do not wish to be the last man who pays only six hundred."

Before supper they settled the carving in Eddard's solar. Wyman ate a slice of lamprey pie his cook had baked at Cerwyn while Osric unrolled the drawing and Poole read the terms: silver merman, white and green upon the face, the agreed bell; six hundred dragons, two hundred in earnest, the balance after seven days' running at New Castle.

"I have brought the earnest," Wyman said. "And an offer. A dry shed beneath the Wolf's Den, if you will set your bench there."

Mikken looked up. Woods stopped turning the drawing towards the light.

"For this clock?" Jon asked.

"For this and the next. You need iron, bronze and ships. I have all three."

"I have the bench." Jon put his good hand on the edge of the drawing. "Your keeper learns to wind it and your smith learns the common repairs. The making stays with me."

Wyman chewed a mouthful of pie before answering. "You could save yourself the road."

"And put every clock I sell through your gate."

Wyman's eyes creased. He took another mouthful of pie.

"Ask me again when I need a harbour workshop," Jon said. "For now, the making stays here."

Wyman signed and set his seal beside the measure. The price did not change. After dark four Manderly guards carried the advance to Poole's room, where each coin met a scale. One clipped dragon rose light. Wendel replaced it from his purse and made the clerk name the chest it had left.

Olyver watched from the doorway. Poole set the bitten coin beside a whole one and beckoned him nearer. "Tell me what differs."

Olyver ran a thumbnail round the clipped edge. "This one has been cut, master."

Poole let him weigh both. The clipped coin rose.

* * *
​

Work began next morning. Mallon took the measures and metal payment back to his foundry. Mikken trued the great wheel blank and left it overnight to be tested cold. Jon cut the first spaces, then shared the filing with Olyver, trying each tooth against the pinion. Arbors and smaller blanks came from Mikken and his journeyman; only fine fitting waited on Jon's bench.

Woods built the case in his winter town shed. At the first fitting he showed Jon where an inner brace stood a finger too near the descending cord.

"I could take one scale from the merman, my lord."

"Leave the carving. There is room behind the rear post."

Jon narrowed the shelf and moved the brace on the drawing. Woods tested a waste-oak trial joint under load before altering the case. Mallon's bell arrived beneath wool and oiled hide. They hung it clear, and Mikken struck it with the little hammer. Robb waited through the long fading note before asking for another.

Meals came covered to the table by the door. Jon had the fine work put away before the dishes were opened, and Woods's wife made her husband wash his hands before she passed him the bread. On the ninth evening one bearing warmed more than its fellow. Jon stopped the train and called Mikken; together they found a burr at the arbor's shoulder, dressed it away and cleaned the bush. By dusk both bearings were cool. Mikken took the next watch, and Jon showed him the point to feel when he made his round. He had once relied on gauges that could be read without opening a machine. Mikken had his fingertips, his hearing and long experience of hot iron. Jon showed him the fault plainly and stayed until the smith could recognise it for himself.

Arthur waited at the door with his cloak. Jon asked Mikken to call if the bearing heated again, then left him to the watch.

The clock kept for fourteen days beside Pate's glasses. They checked the beat after cold nights and damp mornings, and each of the three keepers wound it in turn. When the trial was done, the bell went east upon one wagon and the movement upon another. Felt lined the oak cradles; each loose wheel travelled separately in clean wool, marked for its place. Jon barred the trains, and Woods checked the lashings with the carters. Robb inspected both loads. "When one loses a wheel, Lord Wyman receives half a clock."

"Come with us," Jon said. "I shall lash you beneath the axle to catch it."

Eddard said Robb remained at Winterfell. Thereafter he blamed the merman whenever Jon passed within reach. Arthur rode on the first wagon's left, Jon on its right; Osric's hired horseman, Ralf, followed with spare mounts and fodder. Desmond, Harwin, Porther and Quent spread before and behind, Osric kept the purse among the carters, and Woods and Olyver tended the cases at each halt. Jon rode ahead with Arthur to examine the road, letting the wagons catch up rather than fighting Bucephalus's wish to pass them. Rain silvered the stallion's black neck and soaked Jon's gloves. At the Brown Tankard, Mara brought the mares hot mash. Alasdair ran a hand down the off animal's foreleg and stopped above the hoof.

"She is warm here."

The carter frowned. "She has not limped."

"Not yet."

Jon dismounted beside the wheel. "Lift the foot." A small stone lay wedged beside the frog, bruising the soft edge. Ralf freed it and walked the mare. She went short for several steps. They left her in the Tankard stable; Osric arranged a sound replacement before the carts moved on.

Mara watched Jon put one copper in Alasdair's palm. "His household pay came yesterday, my lord."

"This is for the work he did beyond it."

"Will you set him to the horses when the new stable stands?"

Jon looked at the boy, who was already helping Ralf lead the mare into an empty stall. "If Ralf judges him ready. He saw what the carter missed tonight."

Alasdair closed his fingers around the coin and hurried back to the mare.

Several days later, salt, tar and fish reached Jon before the pale walls of White Harbor showed through rain. Gulls wheeled above the slate roofs. The clock wagon stopped behind a fish cart, its driver hastily moving baskets at Osric's call. A fishwife pulled two children against her skirts as they ran after the painted silver merman. Jon passed at a walk beneath their eyes.

Beyond the crush, streets opened broad and straight between whitewashed walls, roof water running into stone gutters. A silversmith's shutters held cups and brooches; behind them a boy worked a bow drill. Jon kept watching the boy while casks rolled towards the water and a septon gathered his robe clear of the puddles.

Jon eased Bucephalus aside for a dray. The stallion's flank brushed Arthur's boot.

"You are looking at every shop," Arthur said.

"At the hands in them." Jon watched the drill bow move again. "Mikken has to make a farmer wait whenever I need an arbor. Here there are men who do nothing all day but cut, bore and polish silver."

"Manderly will tell you so himself."

"He has. I can still buy their work without giving him mine."

Arthur smiled a little and moved his horse forward. A Manderly man had come to lead them through the next crossing. He wore a sea-green cloak fastened with a silver trident, and the traffic parted when he called. Above the nearer roofs Jon could see the New Castle on its hill and, lower down, the smoke from the furnaces they had come to visit.

Mallon's foundry stood below the Wolf's Den, black around its high vents. Three men worked the furnace. Two boys carried charcoal in shallow baskets. A girl not much older than Olyver scraped mould clay from small castings at a low bench. Mallon left the casting he had been examining and came to meet Jon.

Mallon called a charcoal boy over. "This lad heard a mould crack before I did, my lord."

The boy lowered his eyes. Jon asked his age and how long he had worked at the furnace. He was old enough to begin learning the casting.

"Put him on my next bell," Jon told Mallon. "I will pay his apprentice's wage while he learns."

Mallon bowed. At New Castle, Woods and the local carpenters were preparing the frame. Two days passed in raising it, fitting the movement and hanging the bell. The first trial sounded before the merman's silver tail had been fixed to the case. Wyman came in his chair to listen. When his granddaughter Wylla slipped towards the open work door, Lady Leona caught her hand.

"A kitten could fit through that door," the girl said.

"No kittens near the weights," Jon told her.

"Then why make a kitten door?"

"For the keeper's hand, not the keeper," Jon said, pointing to the small access hatch. Wyman asked the women to stand beside his chair while the test began. The first stroke set a kitchen dog barking. The second brought servants to the passage ends. By the sixth, Wylla counted aloud. At the ninth, Wyman ceased pretending to watch only for faults.

That evening Jon changed out of his work coat and joined Arthur at the doors of the Merman's Court. Voices and lamplight spilled into the passage.

He stopped just inside. Painted fish swam between the windows, and the rafters rose above a sea of green and blue. Beneath his boots a crab seemed to crawl out of a tangle of dark weed. Wylla Manderly came to tell him which creatures she liked best and pointed towards a shark higher up the wall. Her elder sister caught her hand before she could drag him across the path of the serving men.

"Grandfather is waiting," Wynafryd said.

Wyman had given Jon a place near his own, with Arthur beside Wendel. Men who had visited the clock that afternoon rose when Jon reached the dais. Their manners were polished, their coats richer than most he had seen in Winter Town. A shipowner bowed over a ringed hand and asked whether the next movement could be made small enough for his own hall. Another wanted a painted face in the colours of his wife's family.

"Give Osric the breadth of the wall and where you mean the weights to hang," Jon told them. "He can have drawings sent to you. The present orders take their place first."

The shipowner glanced towards Wyman. "Lord Manderly has made it difficult to entertain him without one."

"I remain capable of eating in a silent hall," Wyman assured him. He settled a cloth beneath his beard while the first platter came. "Provided the cooking is good."

There were mussels in their shells, a white fish dressed with parsley, warm bread and little dishes of salted butter. Wendel prised a stubborn shell apart and narrowly saved his sleeve from the broth. Conversation passed from the clock to ships overdue from the Sisters and a cargo of wine whose owner insisted that some other man's casks had been loaded first. Jon listened while he ate. These men knew the cost of an idle quay down to the day, and Wyman knew which of them was concealing his profit.

When the wine came, Wynafryd asked after Sansa. Jon told her about the recovered cup and her grandfather demanded to hear the whole tale. Wylla hid her face against her sister's shoulder. She emerged only to insist that the wooden bear had needed treasure. Wendel asked whether the bear had paid for it; Lady Leona told him to stop helping. For several minutes the clock was forgotten.

New Castle's keeper, Tobren, wound the clock at dawn for seven days while Jon watched. The air was damp, but the covered bearings stayed clean.

One morning, once Tobren had finished, Jon rode down to the harbor with Wendel and Arthur. The morning tide was lifting a deep-bellied merchantman against her moorings. Bare-legged men moved sacks along a gangplank while a mate shouted the count from the rail. Across the water a shipwright's mallet kept a slower beat, driving caulking into a hull propped above the mud.

Wendel pointed out the fishing boats and the berths used by the larger traders. Jon asked which quay could take a laden ship at low water. When Wendel did not know, he called the harbor man over and let him answer. Jon dismounted to look along the face of the stonework; Arthur stayed close while he knelt above the wet steps and judged the drop to the water.

"Are you buying a quay as well?" Wendel asked.

"I want to see how this one was built. Ethan has repairs to make on Dragonstone."

He stood and brushed grit from his knees. Beyond the moored hulls, the open water was grey under the morning sky. He had missed its smell more than he knew. For a little while he watched the men aboard the merchantman, following an order from the mate's mouth to the hands that obeyed it, and thought of a deck that would be his to command again.

Wendel waited until he turned back. On the climb to New Castle they bought hot fish wrapped in coarse bread, and Jon ate his from the saddle while Arthur kept the stallion at a walk. Wendel was halfway through a second piece before the gate came into view.

On the seventh morning Jon stood back and let Tobren work without prompting. When the eighth noon struck clean, Wyman pronounced himself satisfied and paid the balance. "Six hundred for all that," he said, watching the men close the case. "Do you regret the price yet?"

"Perhaps I should have asked for more," Jon said.

Wyman laughed. "Too late." He watched Jon pass the winding key back to the keeper. "Tell Maester Luwin I should be glad to hear how he has taught you. My granddaughters have their lessons every morning. Neither has yet put my bellman out of work."

"Pate still has work, my lord. So does your keeper."

"And Luwin?"

"Has helped me a great deal."

Wyman called for the letters he had prepared for Eddard while Arthur fastened Jon's travelling cloak. Three jars of lamprey went north with them.

* * *
​

Poole counted the gain in Winterfell's lower room. Metal, oak, the craftsmen's wages, carriage, guards, food upon the road, the damaged cloth, the household advance and the debt of the king's clock came away. Two hundred and ninety-four dragons remained on the table. Robb stared at the gold. "You could buy fifty suits of armour."

"Plain ones," Mikken said. "Forty if blackened. Thirty if you put wolves upon every buckle."

"No wolves," Jon said.

Mikken grinned. Jon left enough with Poole for the next promised work and locked the rest in the iron-bound chest.

Arthur waited until Robb had gone, then drew Woods's plan across the table. He put a finger upon the room beside the stair.

"I should like this one."

"It is yours."

"Does Ned know you mean to sleep here?"

"I will tell him tomorrow."

Arthur glanced towards the passage. "In private. He may think you want to leave because you have been made unwelcome."

"He has never made me feel that."

"Then tell him. I will come with you."

* * *
​

Eddard heard them the next morning in the small solar. Woods's plan lay between them. Arthur stood by the hearth while Jon sat opposite his father, his boots not quite reaching the floor.

Jon waited until his father had set down the plan. "When the house is ready, I mean to live there with the boys."

Eddard looked up. "Your household may sleep there without you. Your bed is here."

Jon had expected the words. They still made him glance towards the door and the familiar passage beyond it.

"I know. I want to keep the house myself."

"You already give your men their orders."

"And Poole finds their bedding, your kitchens feed them, and Rodrik finds us a piece of yard. I pay what Poole asks. Your people do most of the keeping."

"Because you are my son and still a boy."

"Then let me start less than a mile from your gate, while you can see what I do badly."

Arthur shifted beside the hearth. "I would rather be beside him here when he learns, Ned."

Eddard gave him a flat look. "You are helping."

"I thought so."

"Heward will command the yard," Jon continued, "Wylla my chambers, Elspeth the kitchen. I expect them to answer when I call. I want to live with them, Father. If a boy is sick, Wylla should be able to knock on my door."

"You can ride downhill every morning."

"Then I am visiting my own household and leaving other people to keep it."

The room went quiet.

Eddard's gaze returned to the plan. "Have I ever made you think you had no place here?"

"No, Father."

"Or that Dragonstone changed whose son you are?"

"No." Jon leaned forward. "I want my own house. I do not want to stop being part of yours."

Arthur spoke more quietly. "He will have me, Wylla and Heward below. Luwin is a short ride away. So are you. One day he will have to do this where you cannot look over the wall and see the smoke from his chimney."

Eddard rubbed his thumb along the edge of the drawing. "And when the novelty passes? When it is raining, the roof is leaking and you would rather eat at this table?"

"Then I come to supper, complain about my roof, and go back down to have it mended."

"You will still attend Luwin's lessons," Eddard said. "You will still train here when Rodrik requires you. You come when I summon you, and no man below those walls forgets that the ground is held of Winterfell while you are in my keeping."

"Agreed."

"And no war wall."

"I know."

Eddard looked at Arthur. "If he begins sleeping at the bench because a wheel displeases him, carry him uphill."

"Gladly."

"Uncle Arthur."

"You heard your father."

Eddard drew the plan back towards Jon. "Show me the ground you want."

* * *
​

Robb came looking for Jon before dinner, with two practice balls beneath one arm. When Jon told him about moving, he set them on the table.

"You are always down there already. Or at the workshop."

"I will still come up."

"When you are not busy."

Jon put aside Woods's drawing. "We will still ride together. And I will come to supper."

"Every night?"

"No. Some nights I will eat with my men."

"Can I eat there?"

"If Father and your mother give you leave."

"Can I stay?"

"Ask them."

Robb brightened. "Then I need a bed."

"You need a pallet."

"A bed."

"A pallet with a mattress."

Robb considered the concession. "Beside yours."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you are visiting, not moving in."

Robb grinned at last. "We shall see."

* * *
​

The following evening, Jon came into the family solar before supper and found Catelyn beside the hearth with Sansa upon her lap. The girl was growing too large to fit there neatly, though her mother did not seem to mind. One arm circled Sansa's waist. Arya sat upon the rug with a wooden horse, pushing it through a fortress made from two cushions.

Arya looked up first. "Robb says you are leaving."

Jon stopped. Across the room Catelyn's eyes rose to him. So did Sansa's.

"I am moving to the new house."

"Tomorrow?"

"When it is ready." Jon smiled at her. "Not that soon."

"I am coming."

"You cannot," Sansa said from her mother's lap. "You live here."

"So does Jon."

"Not anymore."

Arya's triumph vanished. "You do not live here?"

"Winterfell is still my home." He crouched before her. "But my guards and Wylla will live below. There will be horses and the workshop, and I must look after them."

"Where will you eat?"

"Sometimes there. Sometimes here."

"And Wylla?"

"With me, most likely."

Arya's little face tightened. Sansa had gone very still upon her mother's lap.

"Is Wylla leaving too?" Sansa asked.

"Aye."

Catelyn's hand moved slowly over her daughter's hair. She had not spoken. Jon was conscious of her watching him nevertheless.

"Can I sleep there?" Arya asked.

"When it is built, if Father gives you leave."

"I will ask him." She took Jon's hand. "Can I bring my horse? And my blanket?"

"You may bring them."

"And Sansa can come."

"I did not say I wanted to."

Arya looked at her as though this proved a failing in her sister. "Stay here, then."

"I might come."

"You just said you did not want to."

"I said I did not say I wanted to." Sansa lifted her chin.

"When it is finished, you may both come and see it," Jon said.

Sansa spoke before Arya could begin planning anything else. "Will you still come to supper?"

She had stopped smiling and leaned back against her mother.

"Often," Jon said. "And I shall see you during the day."

"On namedays? Feasts?"

"Aye."

"When Father has guests?"

"If he wants me here."

"He will," Sansa said with absolute certainty.

"I expect he will."

Catelyn stroked her hair. Jon met her guarded gaze over Sansa's head and wondered whether she saw another household taking shape or a bastard finally leaving her husband's roof. Both, perhaps. He had no wish to ask.

Arya tugged at his fingers again. "Can I come tomorrow?"

"To an unfinished house?"

"Yes."

"There is not even a roof."

"I have a cloak."

Sansa giggled.

"Arya," Catelyn said.

Arya looked towards her.

"Leave Jon be. It is nearly supper."

"But I am going to his house."

"When there is a house to go to."

Arya considered that judgment and apparently found it acceptable. She tucked the wooden horse beneath her arm. "He is coming too."

Jon rose. Catelyn was still watching him.

"My lady."

"Jon."

As he followed the girls towards supper, Arya chattering about where her horse would sleep and Sansa correcting every third thing she said, Jon looked back once at the room.

* * *
​

Sansa came looking for Jon the following afternoon with an empty basket upon her arm. He was comparing the two drawings of the house and had nearly forgotten the sound of rain against his shutter.

"Will you come to the glass gardens? I am getting flowers for Mother."

Jon laid one drawing over the other. "Let me find my cloak."

She waited beside the door while he fastened it, then slipped her hand into his. The basket knocked against her knee all the way across the yard.

Warmth met them at the garden door. Rain ran down the green and yellow panes above beds of cabbages and young onions. Farther along, flowers crowded the edge of the path, and blackberry canes bowed beneath their fruit. Sansa went straight to the roses.

The gardener rose from the bed where he had been thinning seedlings. He wiped his hands upon his breeches and fetched his knife.

"Those white ones?" he asked her.

Sansa nodded, then pointed to a pale pink bloom. "And that. Please."

Jon rested his hand against the low stone edging. Warm water murmured beneath it. At the far end the gardener had propped open two high panes; a faint draught stirred the leaves below them. The gardener had left the beds their warmth without shutting out all the air. Jon brushed loose soil from the stone and stepped aside as the gardener returned with the roses.

The man stripped the lower thorns before laying them in Sansa's basket. She watched each one go in, moving a leaf aside so the pink flower would show.

"May I have another? For Wylla."

"Choose one she will like." Jon glanced at the gardener, who had already turned back towards the bush.

At the door Sansa stopped beneath the dripping glass. "Wylla likes the pink ones too."

Jon took the basket while she rearranged the flowers. The rain had slackened outside, but she worked carefully, leaving him to hold it until she was satisfied.

* * *
​

Two mornings after Jon's talk with his sisters, Eddard went with him to look at ground for the new house. Rain shone upon the grass. Jon mounted Bucephalus from the block; his hand had healed, though the new skin was still tender. Catelyn rode her chestnut mare, Arthur a rangy bay. Wylla came on the broad brown palfrey she trusted not to shy at every puddle. Jory and the Stark guards followed as they took the road beyond the winter town.

Eddard gave the stallion a little more room, and Jon brought him alongside with the outer rein. They climbed past the last gardens at a walk.

The first site rose north of the road. Dry turf ran to a stony back. From the crown Jon could see Winterfell's east gate, the roofs below and every cart approaching for half a mile. A ditch and timber wall would command the road.

Arthur dismounted first. He drove a heel into the turf. "Dry footing. Stone near the surface. A small wall makes this hard to rush."

Catelyn remained in the saddle. "A wall here also watches my son's gate."

"It watches any man who comes against it," Arthur said.

"Including Winterfell," Catelyn said. Jon looked from the height to the castle. The site was cheaper because the ground did part of the defence. Whoever held the house after him would inherit the same command of Winterfell's road.

"We could defend it with few men," Jon said.

"And close Winterfell's road," Eddard answered. "I will not permit a fort here."

Arthur looked towards the lower pasture. "That ground is open on three sides."

"Then show me where the house would stand." Jon gathered his reins. "I want to see both."

They rode back past the last gardens to rough pasture. Water shone among reeds along the western edge. Midges rose in grey clouds. Jon put one boot down and sank above the sole. He pulled it free, stirring a brown pool beneath the sedge. The smell of rot lifted from the grass. Wylla covered her nose. "I hope you were not counting that as drinking water."

Arthur looked over the open approach. "This will cost twice the labour."

"At least we could build here without barring Winterfell's road," Jon said.

Eddard dismounted beside him. "The choice is yours. I will forbid a war wall upon the rise. I will not make you take this mud."

Jon walked a little farther along the bank. The eastern ground rose clear of the reeds; there was room for the hall above it, if the old watercourse could be opened.

"I will have Branch sound the ground before I decide."

Wylla dismounted and joined him. She pointed to the castle beyond the roofs. "Near enough to send for Luwin. Let us see where you mean to put the kitchen."

The next morning Jon brought Oren, Alasdair, Master Branch and Woods to the field with three bundles of willow rods. Ralf led the measuring party's horses. Eddard and Catelyn followed with Robb and Wylla, while Jory kept the guards near the road. One cord ran from the high eastern turf towards the reed bed; another followed the old watercourse south. Oren drove a rod every ten paces while Branch tested the depth of wet ground.

"The surface falls south," Jon said. "I want the buried clay, every older cut you remember, and the place this water joins Winter Town's drain. We open nothing above until the lower road is clear."

The ditcher probed the straight run on Jon's sketch and struck clay. Farther south, the rod found an older cut still carrying water. Jon followed it towards the willows. Flood debris hung above the bank.

"Has it risen higher than this?" he asked.

"Not since I have worked here, my lord."

Alasdair pointed to a fork where grass and twigs had caught above Jon's knee. "The Tankard's pig gate reached the mill that year."

Poole, who had come on a mule with the ground grant in his saddlebag, frowned at the mark. "That lies twelve paces beyond the bank."

Jon set a black cord two full timber courses above the debris. "No sleeping floor, workshop sill, grain store, or hearth below this. The pasture may flood; the house must not. Master Branch, trace the race to the town grate before a spade opens the upper end. Alasdair, ask the older neighbours whether they remember water higher than this."

Woods spread the drawing on a board beneath two cloaks. The two-storey hall faced the road, its counting room admitting callers without a crossing of the yard. Jon's chamber and solar lay above, Arthur's room beside the stair. Wylla's still opened to Jon's through the inner passage. She checked the altered sickroom entrance with Woods.

"A litter can come straight off the stair now." They measured between the posts.

Mara and Elspeth had brought the workmen's kettle. Mara pointed to the washhouse. "Where does the dirty water run?"

"Beside the stable drain once both are below the well." Jon showed her the southern cord and the clean supply from the eastern rise, clear of dung, wash water and privies. The washhouse would have its own hearth, with a stone lip to keep hot ash off the boards. Walking it with Mara and Wylla, he drew the pail path inside the stable posts, away from the horses, and widened its corner. A short screen would keep the north wind from the kitchen hearth.

Elspeth looked over the pantry on the drawing. "I should need more room for the bread, my lord. Twenty-five lads will eat a great deal after a morning's work."

Jon had allowed a fortnight's grain within the inner store. "What would you add?"

"A cool wall for bread, hooks beyond the hearth heat, and a hatch from store to kitchen." She pointed out the space she meant. "That would save carrying everything round through the yard."

"Put the hatch there, Woods. Extend the pantry to the next post." Jon turned to Elspeth. "Will you keep the kitchen when it stands?"

She glanced at Catelyn. "Gladly, my lord, if Lady Stark will give me leave."

"Not before the next feast," Catelyn said. "Morna can manage the second kitchen. She has yet to learn the larger ovens."

"I can teach her, my lady. She knows the stores already."

Catelyn considered it. "She receives your chamber and key. You remain until she can do the work."

Elspeth curtseyed. "Thank you, my lady."

"Bring me the first month's needs," Jon told Elspeth. "Pots, food and hands. The kitchen must be ready before the boys arrive." She promised it would be.

Heward came to inspect the ground he would no longer share with Rodrik's men. He paced from the sleeping hall to the armoury, his staff keeping time with his stiff leg, then turned and covered the distance again.

"Leave this clear," he said. "If I call them out armed, I will not have a cart between their beds and their shields."

Jon moved the stacking ground beyond the stable posts. Heward planted his staff where the morning ranks would stand and had Woods shift the nearest store door out of their way.

Heward followed the privy trench below the well and kitchen while Jon inspected the approach with Ralf. At Jon's order a carter brought the longest wagon through the proposed gate. Its rear wheel cut across the corner stake.

"Move that out six paces," Jon said. "There must be room to pass a horse beside it."

Ralf agreed and helped Robb reset the stake. When the wagon had cleared, Jon drew the horseman aside.

"How long are you bound to Osric?"

"Until these teams return sound."

"And after?"

Ralf rubbed his crooked knee. "My last master sold his horses and took ship. I have my saddle, my eye, and no wish to sleep beneath another cart."

"Ride with me for six days," Jon said. "I need garrons for the boys and a man to teach them horsecraft. You shall have road money, board and a horse master's wage while I judge your work."

Ralf glanced towards Arthur. "And afterwards, my lord?"

"If you suit the post, it is yours."

Ralf pulled his cap off. "I shall be glad to try."

Poole read the ground grant before witnesses. House Black held the pasture of Winterfell. For this ground Jon answered to Eddard Stark. Until Jon came of age, Eddard answered for what rose there. The fine bench remained inside the castle until the new workshop stood dry and locked. The lower field might have a ditch and post fence, but no war palisade. Jon set his plain black seal beneath the words. Eddard's direwolf followed.

Master Branch opened the lower townward run before any spade touched the upper ditch. Black water moved south with a smell that drove Robb uphill. Only then did Oren clear roots from the pasture end. Alasdair carried stakes, lost one in the mud, and found it with his whole arm while every man nearby offered useless counsel.

Elspeth sent onion broth to the field. Woods's wife brought coarse bread and white cheese. Workers ate upon overturned turf. Jon sat among them with mud to his calves. Eddard lowered himself beside him and accepted the same wooden bowl. Jory and the guards who had come down with him ate a little farther up the bank.

Eddard tasted the broth. "Good."

"Elspeth," Jon said. "She has sent enough for the men still working at the ditch."

His father broke the bread and gave him half. They ate while the ditcher's mattock rang against a buried stone. Jon looked along the cleared channel to see how far the lower cutting had reached.

A beetle climbed out of the upturned turf and disappeared beneath Eddard's cloak. He shook the hem free and moved his bowl to the other knee. Jon held the bread while he did it.

"Benjen would have chosen the dry rise," Eddard said, looking over the field. "Then he would have spent the afternoon racing me down it."

Jon smiled. He had heard enough of Benjen's boyhood to believe it. The damp soil beneath his boots called up another place altogether: a field after rain, an older man's hands on a spade, the patient work of opening a run that cattle had trodden shut.

"This ground will dry," he said. "We have the fall for it. Once the roots are out, it should carry the water away."

Eddard looked towards the ditcher and the men waiting with the timber. "I can see why you wanted to come down yourself."

Jon scraped the last barley from his bowl. Across the field Woods raised an arm to ask where the next load should stand. Jon gave his father the empty bowl and went to show him, stepping over the cord that marked the future wall.

At dusk, a thin ribbon of brown water began moving south. The old digger washed his spade in it and came over to Jon. "With your leave, my lord, I could use Oren until the hall stands. Cerwyn has culverts after. I would teach him the trade."

Jon called Oren over. "You heard him. What do you want?"

Oren stood his shovel against the bank. "The ditching, my lord. If you will release me."

"For this roof, or to learn the trade?"

"The trade." He touched the black badge on his coat. "I can keep a shield beside another boy. Master Branch says I have an eye for the water."

Jon looked towards the old digger. "Will you take him on those terms?"

"Aye, my lord. Paid work while he learns, here and at Cerwyn."

Jon sent for Heward. The old soldier heard Oren out, then stood beside him while Jon released him from armed service. Poole entered the release beneath his name and read the new hiring aloud. Oren unfastened his black badge and put it into Jon's hand.

"Leave us a dry yard," Jon said. Oren bowed and went back to his shovel.

When the footings were ready, timber wagons stood upon the road and the winter town men unloaded the oak. Woods set the first sill on the stone pads above Alasdair's flood mark. Jon checked the cord against it and called for the far end to rise a little. Four labourers took the weight while Woods packed the bearing beneath. Eddard stood beside Jon with the drawing held clear of the rain. When the sill lay level, Jon wiped the wet from the rule and went to check the next pair of stones.

 

[aiwonder]

Jon came up from the building ground with mud dried to both knees.

The first sill lay square upon the stone pads, and Woods had left two men fitting the next. Wylla and Elspeth had spent the morning over the plan on a trestle beside the timber. The kitchen chests were accounted for; Jon had also agreed to enlarge the pantry, linen press and sickroom.

Robb had inspected only one thing.

"My pallet," he said as Jon crossed the inner yard. "Woods says there is room beside your bed."

"Woods said no such thing."

"He said the chamber is wide enough."

"That is not the same answer."

Robb considered this distinction while Hallis Mollen brought the hunting horses out. "It still means there is room."

Jon had spent years preparing to leave Winterfell. Robb had only just learned that he meant to sleep down the road and was already trying to follow him. Jon could spare the space. His brother would want afternoons to ride as well, and those would be harder to keep free once the new house was running. He would have to make time for them.

Rain had washed the inner yard almost black. Boar spears leaned against the armoury wall, their ash shafts taller than Jon and their broad iron heads grey beneath fresh oil. Each blade had a crosspiece below it. Jory Cassel took the weapons one at a time, set the butt against stone and pulled upon the bar with both hands while Hallis checked the waiting horses. At the kennel gate, five hounds flung themselves against the boards. Farlen struck the oak with his knife hilt. "Quiet. You have not even left the kennels."

Barrel barked in his face. Theon called that a persuasive answer; Robb shoved a fox-fur cap out of his eyes and claimed the dog said he smelled of seal. Theon told him to ask the dog rather than inventing answers for it. Farlen ignored them. With the butt of a spear he drew Sentinel Ridge in the mud. A hooked root became Grey Shelf; three pebbles marked the north run, the eastern rise and the place where the horses would wait.

"He was here three days ago," Farlen said. "The beaters will come round the north, towards Jory's spears. If he breaks east, let him run."

Jory sounded the horn calls once for the men: a long note to begin, two short to break, three for the spears. Farlen sent the six townsmen to collect red rags from Hallis.

Hullen had chosen steady older horses for the boys. Robb had Apple again; Jon and Theon rode broad-backed garrons. Jon's dun edged a hoof towards his boot while he tightened the girth. He shifted clear, pressed a hand against its shoulder until it stepped over, then led it a few paces before checking the strap.

Theon leaned down from his saddle. "He knows you have oats."

Jon gave the dun a few from his pocket. "That makes two of you watching."

Robb checked Apple's girth while Arthur came from the armoury wearing a hunting sword; Dawn remained wrapped in his chamber.

Arthur touched the glove over the newly healed cut. "Any pulling here, tell me."

"I will."

The knight looked once towards the crows, then checked the girth himself. Eddard crossed the yard in mail and dark riding leathers. His old grey cloak was beaded with rain. Jory offered him the heaviest spear.

"The old boar has one torn ear," Eddard said once he was mounted. "One tusk pale, one dark. Sow and young pass. No arrow flies unless Farlen or I name the beast. Theon, you carry the second horn."

Theon's look brightened. Robb's soured, and he demanded the horn for himself. "Theon has the stronger wind," Eddard said. "You may have a turn when Farlen has no need of it."

Robb claimed excellent wind. Theon observed that he spent most of it talking. The gate rose before the dispute could grow, and men, hounds and horses passed beneath the dripping teeth of the portcullis to take the road into the wolfswood. For the first mile the way allowed three riders abreast. Alder and silver birch gave way to oak. Wet leaves darkened the earth to rust-red, and every low branch shook cold water down the boys' necks. Farlen rode ahead with Eddard and Jory. Ser Rodrik kept the children behind them, Arthur at Jon's left and Hallis beside Robb. The dun garron's rolling gait brought back red lamps above a steel deck and men waiting for an order while weather hammered the world flat. He could remember the cramped galley afterward, the hot drink handed across to him, and the ordinary relief of having brought everyone through. Here the road smelled of wet oak, and Robb was arguing about the hounds. Jon drew his hood forward and listened.

Eddard let his horse fall back. "You are too quiet, and Farlen has already endured Robb and Theon. Whatever you say cannot frighten the boar more than they have."

His father glanced at the mud dried along Jon's boots. "Was Woods satisfied with the footing?"

"After we packed beneath the west stone. Oren noticed it had settled before the timber was fastened down."

Eddard nodded once. "Then Branch chose his apprentice well. Have Woods look at the other pads before he raises the frame."

"He is checking them while we are out." Jon had expected his father to ask about the price of the timber. Since giving leave for the move, Eddard had begun asking about the work itself.

"Wylla says I have too few linen chests."

"You have time to put that right before the roof is on," Eddard said.

"She has already told Woods," Arthur said from Jon's other side. "Twice."

"Then I doubt he will forget."

"Where will the horses wait?" Jon asked. "Farlen means to leave the eastern track open."

"Below Grey Shelf, west of it." Eddard looked ahead to where the kennelmaster had stopped beneath a tree. "Where the charcoal road bends below the split oak. It is well clear of the run."

For a while Eddard rode beside them without speaking. The track skirted a clearing where charcoal burners had stacked billets beneath a turf shelter. One came out to bow, black dust showing in the folds of his neck. Eddard asked whether his son's leg had mended. The man said he was cutting again and pointed towards the farther stand of trees.

Robb leaned round Jon to look. "Was that the one beneath the tree?"

"A limb," Eddard said. "Jory brought him in last moon." He asked the burner to send word if the young man still walked painfully, then raised a hand and rode on.

They watered the horses at a shallow run. Jon stayed in the saddle while the dun drank, loosening his grip long enough to work the stiffness out of his fingers. Beside him Eddard pushed his hood back. Rain had silvered the brown hair at his temples, and a drop hung from the end of his nose until Robb told him.

"You could have said so sooner," Eddard said, wiping it away.

"I thought it would fall."

Arthur laughed quietly behind them. Across the run Theon shook rainwater from the horn. Farlen beckoned him closer and reminded him to wait for a signal before blowing it, then gathered the hounds and took them deeper into the wood.

The road narrowed, and they fell into single file. Munin dropped to a low limb with a rowan berry in her beak. Her hunger brushed Jon's mind. He rode past without looking up. Arthur kept his mare close.

* * *
​

Farlen raised his fist beside a beech rubbed raw near the ground. Riders drew rein while the kennelmen held the straining hounds. Water moved somewhere beyond the trees. Coarse black hair clung to dried mud upon the trunk, and a root below bore one fresh white gouge. Robb started to dismount. Rodrik caught his belt. "Stay in the saddle until told."

Farlen crushed the hair between his fingers. "Large boar. He rubbed after the rain and went towards the ridge."

Brindle pulled hard enough to tremble from muzzle to tail. A forester found one print in the wallow, deep and sharp along the forward edge. "Grey Shelf," Farlen decided. "Horses take the lower stone. Beaters around the north cut."

Orders passed backwards from mouth to mouth. Hallis sent four guards with the mounts. Farlen shortened the young hounds' leashes and put Brindle into the hands of his best kennelman. The boys carried light bows. Theon's could kill a deer. Jon's could trouble one. A young hart burst from hazel as they walked. One antler forked; the other had broken near the brow. Theon had an arrow on the string before Hallis cursed, but did not loose. "I had him," Theon said when the white tail vanished.

"And no leave to shoot him," Rodrik answered.

Grey Shelf rose like a stone shoulder above a shallow bowl. A game run came from the north and divided beneath three oaks. Thorn closed the west. Broken earth climbed east towards Sentinel Ridge. A fallen oak lay across the lower slope, its torn roots making a wall higher than Jon's chest. Farlen put Jory and two spearmen at the northern run. Hallis held the east rise with Alyn and Desmond, watching the open way rather than barring it. Eddard stood below them, between the northern spears and the fallen oak. Rodrik, Arthur and the boys waited behind the fallen oak. Harwin kept spare spears and the third horn ten paces downhill.

The beaters vanished around the ridge. Their red rags showed between trunks like scraps of fresh blood. One long horn sounded. Shields began striking trees. At first the blows came separately, hollow and uncertain. Then men's voices joined them. Dead fern broke. Hounds whined against leather. A hare fled between Jory's boots. Robb laughed too loudly and caught himself. Jon's palms sweated within his gloves.

Leaves stirred in the bowl. Three striped shoats came low and fast, followed by a sow with mud along her belly and foam at her lips. She swerved from Jory's points and ran past the root end of the fallen oak. Theon drew.

Arthur pressed the bow stave down before Theon could complete his draw. "Sow."

Theon flushed, eased the string forward and took the arrow off it.

The sow and young vanished into thorn. Brindle did not follow them. Her nose had turned east. Every hair along her back stood. "Hold," Farlen called.

A beater shouted from the eastern rise. Ferns shook behind him. Another man scrambled down the bank, lost his footing and slid almost to Hallis's feet. Farlen called to break the drive. Theon raised the horn at Rodrik's signal and sounded two short notes. The knocking ceased beyond the ridge, but branches were already cracking much nearer.

The hounds dragged their handlers towards the noise. Hallis and Alyn went up to help the fallen beater; Desmond stood below them with his spear. Eddard crossed from the northern run. Between the trees Jon caught a glimpse of red cloth, then lost it. The men were coming down the very track left open for the boar.

Hugin's fear struck him with a second glimpse, higher and farther east: two beaters scrambling over roots, a black back moving behind them. "There!" Jon pointed beyond Desmond. "Men still on the track."

Rodrik shouted the warning. The beast appeared before either beater could answer, black-backed and high at the shoulder, its left ear hanging torn. Desmond planted his spear. Loose earth slipped beneath his heel as the boar struck; the point scraped shoulder, the crosspiece glanced from bone, and the shaft spun out of his hands. A tusk opened leather and wool along his thigh. Hallis thrust from the side. His spear entered behind the ribs and tore free as the boar turned away. The beaters scattered. Barrel escaped his handler and the other hounds were slipped after him. For a moment the animal vanished among men, dogs and shaking fern. Then it broke east through the gap, blood bright upon its flank. Alyn dragged Desmond behind a tree. Eddard knelt beside him. "Jory, keep it off the charcoal road. Rodrik, take the boys to the horses."

Harwin came up with linen from his saddle bag and pressed it against Desmond's wound. Arthur steered Jon and Robb past them, keeping himself between the boys and the open wood. Farlen appeared carrying Barrel. The dog's flank was torn to the ribs. He wrapped him in a beater's coat and put the man's hands upon the folded cloth. "Hold that firmly. I will come back for him."

Then he ran after Brindle and Red Jeyne. Rodrik drove the boys towards Grey Shelf. "No questions. Move."

A shout reached them before they saw the horses. A guard came running down the track with a broken rope in one hand and blood upon his cheek. "It came through the ties, ser. Gored the bay. We had to loose the others or be trampled." Two mounts stood trembling beside their grooms. Beyond them, hoofprints tore the wet ground towards the charcoal road.

Rodrik put the boys behind the root bank of an uprooted fir beside the road. The two guards who had remained with the grooms brought their spears across the track. Farther off, Jory's three notes called the other spearmen together. Hounds answered from the bend. "Stay here," Rodrik told the boys. "Do not come out."

Hugin broke through the trees, flying low. The crow's fright touched Jon: men running, red leaves, a black back beneath branches. He fixed himself in his own body—boot against root, wet glove on bark—and thrust the bird away. "Boar upon the east road, below the split oak. Coming fast towards this bend."

Rodrik's grey whiskers bristled. His gaze found the black wings overhead. "How close?"

"Just below the oak. Two hounds after him." Jon gripped the root beneath his hand.

Arthur drew his hunting sword. "Keep the points low. Rodrik, stay with them." He moved beside the nearer spearman, watching the bend.

The bay mare came first, her saddle slipped beneath her belly and a tusk wound bright upon her haunch. She swerved towards the boys. Arthur caught her bridle and turned her away; a forehoof struck his shoulder as she reared. Rodrik seized the other rein while one guard cut the hanging girth. The saddle fell between their feet. For an instant the mare's terror filled Jon—leather biting his belly, men barring every road. He pressed his heel hard against the root and kept looking at his own gloved hands.

The mare pulled free as the cut girth parted and bolted downhill. Behind her came Alyn, bareheaded and panting, with his spear held low. Brindle and Red Jeyne darted at the wounded boar behind him, checking its rush whenever it turned upon one of them. Theon sounded three notes. Arthur left the mare and ran towards Alyn.

"Off the road and behind the points!" Arthur shouted at Alyn.

The guards lowered their points, but Alyn was between them and the animal. His boot caught in a stirrup of the fallen saddle. He stumbled to one knee, dropping his spear across the ditch. Red Jeyne flew at the boar's face. It tossed her against the bank and turned upon Brindle. Arthur caught Alyn beneath the arms.

"Round him!" Jon shouted to the nearer guard. "Theon, the boar—by the torn ear!"

The guards sought an angle past Alyn. Arthur dragged him backwards, but Alyn's boot remained wedged in the stirrup, dragging the saddle after him. Robb saw the snag. Before Jon could catch him, he darted from the roots, lifted the iron and worked it off Alyn's heel.

"Robb, back!" Theon loosed. The arrow entered slantwise behind the torn ear. The boar flung its head towards the pain, and the pale tusk passed clear of Alyn while Arthur dragged him from the saddle. Then it came on again. Jon slid down the bank and caught the fallen spear. Its long shaft was awkward in his hands; he could never hold it against that charge. He shoved the butt between two crossing roots, resting the shaft against the bank while he brought the point round. Beyond it, Robb was still struggling out of Alyn's way. "Jon!" Eddard's voice came from the bend.

Jon pushed the point towards the boar's shoulder. Iron met hide and drove inward. The butt jammed hard between the roots; the shaft bowed against the bank, then jerked upwards in his hands. He tried to let go. The blow threw him sideways before he managed it. His knee struck stone. Blood splashed his face as the boar drove against the crosspiece and twisted, carrying the spear with it.

Its forelegs folded. The carcass rolled, wrenching the spear sideways. Arthur caught Jon across the ribs and hauled him up the bank. Below, the boar kicked twice and scraped leaves into a red fan. Then only Brindle moved, barking into its ruined ear. Arthur spoke against Jon's hair. "Open your hands."

They were still fists around a shaft no longer there. "Jon. Give me your fingers." Arthur's breath shook against his hair.

Arthur prised them open one at a time. The right glove had split at the palm. Most of the blood belonged to the boar. Not all. Eddard reached them as Rodrik helped Alyn up the bank. Robb let the stirrup fall and sat in the road. Theon kept another arrow upon the string, its head wandering as his hands shook. "Point it down," Rodrik ordered. "Let down the string."

Theon swallowed against a dry throat. "There may be another beast behind it." His arrowhead wandered across the road.

"Take the arrow off. You are pointing at Alyn." Theon eased his draw and lowered the bow. Farlen arrived with Jory and Hallis. He passed the boar and knelt beside Red Jeyne, feeling beneath her foreleg for the movement of her chest.

"Bite if you please," he muttered. "Only keep breathing." Red Jeyne's teeth closed weakly upon his sleeve.

He splinted her dragging leg with hazel and torn cloth. Barrel came after in the beater's coat, snarling whenever pain made him weak. Both dogs lived. Alyn had no tusk wound, only thorn cuts and a shoulder bruised beneath mail. Eddard looked from Robb to Jon, still held against Arthur's chest. "Show me."

Jon tried to answer, but his teeth had begun to chatter. Eddard found the torn glove, then checked beneath his arm.

"Bring a litter."

Hallis and a guard cut two straight saplings and lashed a cloak between them. Arthur lowered Jon onto it. His stomach heaved, and Eddard made the bearers wait until it passed.

Theon stood over the arrow behind the torn ear. "I turned it."

Alyn pushed himself upright. "You turned the tusk from my belly." Theon nodded once, staring at the broken shaft until Rodrik took his arm and brought him away.

Farlen rolled back the boar's foreleg and examined the wound. He looked from the buried spear to the roots that had braced its butt, then towards Jon. His mouth tightened.

Eddard sent a groom ahead on one of the recovered horses. Luwin was to have warning before the wounded arrived. Then he called for Desmond and told the bearers to take Jon down to the road. "Steady over the bank. He has had enough jolting."

* * *
​

Farlen stayed with the beaters and two guards. On clean ground above the run they rolled the carcass onto poles; steam rose as the belly opened. He cut Theon's arrowhead free and wrapped it for the journey home.

The sound hounds received their share. Barrel and Red Jeyne went back in coats, each carried by a kennelman. Farlen reserved one shoulder for the beaters, the other for his kennels; heart, liver, haunches and the whole head went to Winterfell.

Eddard went ahead of the meat drag with his sons, Arthur and the litters, taking the easier road to spare Desmond's dressing.

Robb walked beside Jon with one hand on the litter pole. For a while he watched his own boots. Then he said, "His foot was caught. I saw it."

"I know."

"Uncle Arthur was pulling, but he did not see."

The bearers lifted the pole over a fallen branch. Jon clenched his teeth until they had him level again. Robb's hand slipped from the wet wood; he caught it with both hands.

"You might have shouted," Jon said.

"I thought I could do it." Robb looked at the blood upon Jon's glove. "I did do it."

"And I thought it would catch you before you came back."

Robb said nothing. His cap was gone, his hair wet against his forehead. Jon remembered the moment he had looked up from the ditch and found that red head in front of the boar. He could still feel the spear jerking out of his hands.

"Next time call me," he said. "Or Arthur. Let us hear you before you run."

Robb nodded. A little later he put his hand beside Jon's sound one on the blanket and left it there. At Winterfell, Luwin sent Desmond to the infirmary and cut Jon's glove away. Catelyn examined Robb from throat to heel before coming to the litter.

"How much is yours?" she asked, touching the dried red upon Jon's torn sleeve before looking at his face.

"Not much." Jon lifted his good hand towards the torn glove. "Here."

Wylla came with hot water. Arthur helped her unbuckle the coat while Luwin dressed the cut in his palm. She found a pale scrape beneath his arm and held the leather against it.

"Gods, Jon." She bent and kissed his hair, then drew back before he could see her face.

Supper was late. Boar liver hissed in onions at the hearth, but Jon could not bear the smell. Wylla gave him broth in a small cup, and Robb tore bread into it. Theon talked loudly through two helpings of liver and left the second half untouched.

Sansa came to Jon's bench before leaving for bed. She stopped beside Wylla rather than crowding him and looked at the linen around his palm.

"Will you still move if your hand hurts?"

"The house is not finished, Sansa. My hand will mend first."

She accepted that, then looked towards Robb. "Mother says neither of you is to tell Arya about the boar before bed."

"Why?" Robb asked.

"Because she will ask to see it."

From the passage Arya's voice called, "See what?"

Catelyn appeared behind her with one hand upon the little girl's shoulder. Her gaze went first to Robb, then to Jon's bound hand and torn sleeve. She did not ask about the house. She only said, "Upstairs, Arya."

Arya tried to look around her. "What did they see?"

"Something that will still be there tomorrow."

That promise carried her away more readily than any order. Sansa followed, looking back once at Jon's bandage.

Catelyn remained for a moment. "Drink your broth before it goes cold."

"Aye, my lady."

She went after the girls, leaving Robb beside him.

Jon looked down at the broth. He had spent much of the week thinking about the first night he would sleep below the walls. Tonight the old chamber upstairs did not feel like a place he had already left.

Eddard sent for them once the girls had gone. Wylla took Jon's cup and went with the three boys to the solar, where Farlen, Jory, Hallis, Rodrik and Arthur were waiting.

Farlen gave his report when Eddard called upon him. "The last pair stood too far apart, my lord. The boar rose behind them, and we could not see who had cleared the east road."

Hallis laid the broken lead rope beside Farlen's hand. "The boar doubled back through the horses. The bay broke her tie. The others pulled after her."

"And I went to the mare," Rodrik said. "I meant to stay with the boys. When she came at them, we both moved."

Arthur looked at him. "I had their charge first."

Eddard looked at the rope. "They were too close to the drive. Next time the horses stay beyond the ridge, and a guard takes the boys straight to them at the first break. Arthur goes with Jon. The rest of us can manage the hunt."

The kennelmaster nodded. "I will walk both roads before we bring them out again."

"Aye." Eddard turned to the boys. "We will leave hunting for a while. When Luwin permits, you may go with Farlen to look at the ground. Until then, you can help him with the hounds."

Theon glanced at his sleeve. Barrel had bitten it twice already. "Does that include the one that hates me?"

"Especially him," Farlen said.

Robb kept looking at Jon's bandage. Eddard sent him with Theon when Farlen rose. At the door the kennelmaster stopped and turned to Jon. "Well chosen, those roots, my lord. They held the butt when nothing else could."

Arthur waited until the door shut. "We nearly lost both of them."

"I saw." Eddard's voice had roughened. "I will not take them out behind the same arrangements."

Wylla lifted Jon's empty cup from the table. "Then that is settled for tonight."

Jon pushed himself from the chair. His shoulder hurt before his feet reached the floor. Eddard offered a forearm, and Jon took it. They crossed the gallery above the quiet yard. Rain tapped the shutters; below, men washed blood from the boar drag.

"Are you still angry?" Jon asked.

"Aye," Eddard said. He kept his eyes upon the far end of the gallery.

"At me?" Jon asked.

Eddard stopped beneath an arch. Rain rattled the gutter above them. His long face tightened as he looked down at Jon. "I saw you put the spear down. I was running, and I knew I would not reach you."

Jon looked at his father's hand beneath his elbow. The knuckles were scraped raw. He had not noticed before.

"Arthur had hold of Alyn," Jon said. "Robb was beside him. I had to stop it."

"I know why you did it."

For a moment neither moved. A servant passed below carrying a bloodied hide towards the cold room. Eddard waited until the man was gone, then drew Jon against his side, taking care not to press the bruised shoulder.

"You are angry because I did it," Jon said, "and you cannot tell me what else I ought to have done."

Eddard looked at him. "No. I cannot."

Jon had been ready to argue. He let his father hold him instead.

Jon listened to the rain. He had frightened his own wife like that once, coming home after weeks in which she had heard nothing but the loss of another ship. He could remember being too tired to understand her anger.

"We might have lost more men trying to save Alyn," he said at last.

Eddard looked down at him. "We might. He is alive, and so are you. I am glad of both."

At the turn towards his chamber Jon leaned a little more heavily on his father's arm, looking towards the familiar door. Eddard had carried him along this passage often enough after fever or an evening that outlasted his strength. Soon Jon meant to choose another roof at the end of most days.

Eddard seemed to follow his glance. "Your room does not vanish because you have another one."

Jon rested his head against the grey wool. "I know."

Eddard opened the bedchamber. A brazier glowed beside the wall. Fresh linen waited, and Wylla had left a bowl of stewed apples near enough to smell the cinnamon.

Jon looked at the apples. "Could I have some?"

His right hand was bound and the left shoulder would not lift cleanly. Eddard held the spoon. Jon ate three mouthfuls. The apples were tart beneath honey and warm enough to ease the chill in his belly.

"Will Lady Catelyn forbid Robb the yard?" Jon asked.

"Not for long. But he will have to obey Ser Rodrik." Eddard dipped the spoon again. "She wants to know he will come home whole."

Jon watched the fire. Catelyn had touched his torn sleeve before asking about the blood. He had not expected that.

Arthur entered as Eddard put down the spoon. He checked that the fresh dressing had not slipped, then sat on Jon's other side. Jon opened his fingers to show him that he could.

The knight's fingers were gentle. That made it harder to look at him.

"Does your shoulder hurt?" Jon asked.

Arthur glanced up. "A little. Why?"

"The mare struck you."

"It has been struck before." He flexed his own shoulder and winced. "Not many of my opponents have had such large feet."

Jon managed a small smile. Arthur left his hand resting on the coverlet, close to Jon's sound one, without asking him to describe the charge again.

Wylla came with clean water. Arthur rose from the chair beside Jon's head and brought it nearer for her. Eddard set the apples within reach for later and banked the brazier.

Jon caught Wylla's sleeve as she turned to set down the ewer. She put her hand over his. "I am staying."

* * *
​

Pain woke him before midnight. The bound palm lay upon his chest. His shoulder throbbed whenever he turned. From the adjoining chamber came the scrape of Arthur's chair and then stillness. Jon slept again beneath the smell of boiled linen and boar blood.

A crow called from a branch he could not see. He followed the sound through a drift of red leaves, and a hundred bowstrings spoke together. He stood above a southern field drowned in dust. His right hand was bound as in Winterfell, but the sun burned white and cruel. Archers crowded the ridge in smoke-coloured cloaks, sucking air after the climb. One retched, wiped his beard and reached for another shaft. Below them, horsemen broke through a line of foot and swerved as fresh spears came down beyond it. A loose destrier ran with its belly open until a spearman stepped from the rank and ended its screaming. Near the centre flew a black dragon upon red. Redgrass Field.

Daemon Blackfyre had driven the royal host almost to ruin, then stopped to save Gwayne Corbray from trampling. While he lingered below, the archers gained the crest above him. Jon counted without willing it: beaten ground to the standard, crosswind tugging cloak hems, breaths the archers needed before their hands steadied.

The broken line recalled a steel deck and black water rising beyond an open hatch. Jon remembered giving the order to close it while men were still beyond it. He kept his eyes upon the archers; this was no memory he would discuss with the man who had brought him here.

At the edge of his sight a pale trunk took the shape of a man. Bloodraven watched beside him, one red eye bright in a face crossed by fine white roots. "These men stood where I could see them," he said. "Attend to the ridge." Ten paces ahead, the younger Brynden Rivers still had both eyes. He was narrow, white-haired and not much older than Arthur had been at the Trident. A wine-red birthmark climbed his throat and cheek. Dark Sister hung from his hip. In his hands he held a weirwood bow as tall as he was. "Look beneath the dragon," the old sorcerer said.

Daemon stood beside a white horse with Blackfyre bare in one hand. Wind spread his silver-gold hair across the broad shoulders of his black-and-red plate; even amid the broken ranks, Jon found him as readily as the banner. His twin sons rode close under the standard, red surcoats hanging loosely over mail. Aegon and Aemon were twelve. Beneath the loose surcoats, their mail sleeves had been gathered back from their wrists. One archer named the wind. Another called the distance. The Raven's Teeth planted their feet. "Did you know Baelor had reached the rear?" Jon asked.

"No."

"Did you know Daemon would go to Aegon?"

"I knew my brother loved his sons."

The first flight rose against the sun. Aegon fell from the saddle. Daemon turned at once towards the fallen boy. A knight stepped into his path, pointing towards the royal line. Daemon pushed him aside, dropped beside his son and cradled the bloodied head while arrows struck around his knees. "Again," young Brynden ordered.

The second storm fell through men and horses. Daemon bent over Aegon. Shafts stood in his shoulder and back. Blackfyre slid from his hand. Aemon jumped down. Hands reached for him. He tore free, took up his father's sword with both hands and raised it beneath the black dragon. The point dragged before he got it clear of the ground. The third flight struck him beneath the standard. After it passed, Blackfyre lay across the younger twin. Men nearest the fallen dragon began to run. Those behind tried to see past them, lowering shields and turning towards the retreat. "You chose Aegon because Daemon would go to him," Jon said.

"I loosed upon a rebel king and the sons who bore his banner."

"They were children."

"And you drove at the boar for your brother." White tusks flashed between the horsemen for an instant. Bloodraven watched the broken image fade. "You have brought that choice with you."

The field struck harder than Jon had expected. On the flank, Bittersteel raised a red stallion with black wings. The mane upon his horsehead helm streamed behind plain grey steel as he rode among the fugitives. He lifted Blackfyre, and men who had been running turned when they saw the sword. "What if you had waited?" Jon asked.

"I did not know when Baelor would come. I knew only the ridge, the wind and the man beneath the dragon."

"And the boys."

"And the boys." Below the ridge, men were still fighting for the ground around the fallen standard. Jon searched beyond them for Baelor's banners and found only dust.

"Would you loose?" Bloodraven asked. Jon had been watching the gap open around the fallen standard. Those archers had stopped Daemon when the men below could not; if he had rallied them, thousands might still have died fighting him. Jon could see why Brynden had given the order. He could also see Aemon's hands dragging Blackfyre clear of the ground, and the arrows arriving before the boy could use it.

"I would have," he said. "That is what frightens me." He woke with his bound fist pressed against his heart.

Arthur sat in the dark with one hand resting on Jon's good shoulder. "Where?"

"Redgrass."

"Did he speak?"

"Aye. He knew Daemon would go to Aegon. He did not know when Breakspear would reach the rear."

"And what did he ask of you?"

"Whether I would order the arrows." Arthur waited.

Jon flexed his bandaged fingers. "I said I would have. Then I remembered Robb in the road." Arthur drew his chair closer to the bed.

By morning the faces were fading. Jon asked Arthur for parchment and began writing while the knight held the edge flat beside his bandaged hand. He could remember the bowstrings better than the words.

"Aemon looked so young holding Blackfyre," Jon said.

Arthur glanced at the unfinished page. "Have you read an account that named him there?"

"Aye. I knew how it ended." Jon rested his aching hand. "That does not mean he showed me all of it. I saw the arrows. He did not show me what waiting would have cost either."

Arthur was quiet for a time. Then he turned the sheet over for Jon to finish on the back.

Outside, men were hanging the pale tusk in the hall. Jon heard the ladder scrape the floor below. He finished the last line and watched Arthur fold the parchment into the little packet he kept beneath his spare shirts.

Robb came to fetch him with a torn sleeve held in one fist. "Barrel bit me."

"I thought he hated Theon."

"He has enough hate." Robb showed the ragged hole. "Wylla says I must mend it myself."

Jon went with him to find a needle. He could not stitch with his bound hand, but he could hold the sleeve while Robb worked. By the third crooked seam his brother had begun telling him, in great detail, how a wounded dog ought to be grateful.

The knot caught in the wool. Robb pulled it harder, frowned and held the sleeve almost against his nose.

"From this side," Jon said. He turned the cloth with his sound hand and freed the loop. "There."

Robb drew the thread through. The torn edges met in a puckered ridge. It was a poor repair, but the hole was closed, and he held it up for Wylla when she came to see what they had done.

"That will keep the wind out," she said. "A little flatter next time."

"I am not letting him bite it next time."

She took the needle before he could leave it in the cushion. Jon leaned back against the folded blanket, his shoulder easing now that he no longer had to hold the sleeve. Robb remained beside him, picking loose threads from the mend and talking of a leather patch he might put there. Below the window a kennelman called Barrel's name. Both boys listened until the old hound answered.

Wylla gathered the spare thread into the little sewing box. Two of Jon's winter shirts were folded in a separate basket beside the wall for the new house. She added blankets for his chamber, then another pair for Robb.

 

[aiwonder]

Eleven weeks after the boar hunt, Elspeth came out of House Black's new kitchen with a sooty broom, her cap and cheeks black from the first hearth trial. "There is something in that flue," she told Jon. Woods went up before she lit another fire and brought down two lumps of fallen mortar. "There," she called. "I said it was not my fire."

By breakfast the chimney drew cleanly. Woods checked the damp beneath the eaves, Olyver fought two rain-swollen doors, and the ditchers raised a bank beside the flooded well path. Men were cursing ordinary faults now instead of unfinished walls. The place was becoming a house.

Before dawn the next morning, Pate opened the oak clock case above the road-facing arch. Olyver had cut its wheels from Jon's drawings, adapting Winterfell's proven count to the shorter fall and lighter hammer. Winterfell's great bell sounded uphill; House Black answered a breath later with a thinner bronze note. "Late," Pate said.

Jon listened below with an oatcake. Pate set the hand forward and adjusted the striking lever to the hour. Olyver would compare the clocks through the day before they altered the rate.

Breakfast was oat bread, hard cheese, onions browned in dripping and a pot of spiced small beer. Jon ate with the grown folk who would keep the house. Heward sat nearest the hearth with his stiff leg on a stool. Ralf smelled of horse. Arthur wore black wool, and Wylla had new keys at her girdle beside her list of beds. For a moment he enjoyed having a breakfast table full of adults with work to discuss. Then Ralf fed the dog under it, and Jon thought of the excuses his own children had made for doing exactly that. He passed the cheese before Wylla could catch either of them.

Perkin, one of Poole's clerks and lately lent to Jon for the new household, laid the applicant roll beside Jon's bowl. A line beneath Oren's name recorded his release, leaving one place empty. Heward read the number of hopefuls upside down and grunted. "More than twenty-five asking for one place."

That drew Wylla from her bed list. "Then ask where their families are living now. Two have moved since we first took the names, and I will not have us hunting half the winter for a mother if one of them falls ill."

Jon looked from her sheet to Heward's roll. "Hear them all. Make the terms plain—board, clothing, silver, obedience, and service may carry them to Dragonstone when they are grown. Elspeth is to feed everyone who comes."

Ralf's agreed hiring lay beside the roll: horses and road gear once he gave his oath. Heward would keep the yard, Arthur teaching sword and shield when guarding Jon allowed it. Beneath the armoury eaves the practice shields were ready, with room for all four files. At the first fist on the gate, Heward took his staff and Jon ordered the bar lifted.

* * *
​

Alasdair entered beneath the arch carrying a smoked ham almost as wide as his chest. His mother came beside him with a folded blanket. She bowed to Jon and held the blanket against her breast. "For the new hall, my lord. His father sent salt home with Harclay's teams. The ham is ours."

"Thank you. Lay it here, Alasdair." Jon cleared a place on the kitchen board. "Elspeth, we shall have some at supper."

"I kept the smoke, my lord," Alasdair said. "Mam salted it."

His mother looked pleased despite herself. Elspeth examined the rind and called for a hook.

By sunrise eleven families waited outside. The household boys brought bundles from their borrowed quarters uphill; other lads hoped to fill Oren's place. Before noon the lane was full of crofters, charcoal burners' sons and grown men misled by rumour. Lord Black, it seemed, ate from gold, slept upon silver and served capon to scullions.

The clerk repeated the terms: one place for a boy of twelve to fourteen. One boy left at the mention of Dragonstone; another, still bound to a master, went to Poole to settle his term. A disbanded Mormont spear protested that boys would not keep a lord alive.

"They are still being trained," Arthur said. "Heward and I see to it."

The man looked at Dawn and decided to try Winterfell. Jon sent him to Ser Rodrik with Heward's name. Among the grown hopefuls stood a hunter missing two fingers and a younger son quarrelling over half a hide of land. With Jon's leave Ralf set the latter to sorting worn saddles. He knew packhorses, though his name never touched the household roll. A little boy asked Arthur when his brother would receive a sword like Dawn.

"Your brother will have a wooden one to begin with," Arthur said. The child looked disappointed. Near midday Alys arrived with Gared, who carried his bedding and two hens in a wicker basket. A pine had killed her husband; she cooked for reaping crews and scoured alehouse pots when field work ended. The clerk found Gared on the household roll.

"For the kitchen, my lord," Alys said of the hens. Jon asked about the cake at Gared's belt. "Barley and onion," she told him, "with no egg to bind it."

"Elspeth wants another hand. Speak to her. Gared, put your bedding in the hall and report to Gage."

Elspeth heard where Alys had cooked, then gave her an onion and a knife. They settled the wage while she chopped. Her hens went into the kitchen run; Alys stayed. At Elspeth's bidding she took Gared a bowl before he went to drill.

Edden came with his sister Mairi. He was twelve and small for it, his cheeks hollow above a coat made for a broader child. Jon rose before the clerk could ask their names.

"Edden." He came round the board and took the boy's hand. "We went to the cooper's for you. Father sent riders along both roads."

"Mam had found work with a reaping train, my lord. We had to go before dawn."

Jon looked towards Mairi. "And your mother?"

Edden lowered his eyes. His sister answered for him. "Fever, beyond Cerwyn. They buried her beside the road. The carters brought him back to me."

Jon kept hold of Edden's hand. "I am sorry. I am glad you came back to us." The boy nodded without looking up.

Mairi was sixteen, though poor sleep had added years. Edden's only kin, she washed pots, carried water and took whatever work the winter town gave her; she could not keep their rented room alone. Her hands stayed tightly folded while Wylla asked about her work. Elspeth had linen waiting, Wylla needed help with the beds, and they agreed board and wages before Mairi left for her bundle.

"She sleeps behind the kitchen stair," Wylla told Edden. "You will see her at supper."

He nodded but kept watching the gate.

Inside the sleeping hall, the first arrivals were choosing hooks and spreading blankets. Sunlight fell through the open shutters onto pale boards still smelling of the saw. Tomas had put his bed where he could see the door. The four file leaders kept their fellows together, though Fergus argued that the wall side was warmer and Rylas told him to wait for winter before deciding.

Alasdair's mother ran her hand over a bed frame. There was space beneath it for his chest and enough room between the beds to stand upright while dressing. She set the folded blanket across the foot, drew it straight twice and asked where the wet boots would go.

"Under the eaves, Mam." Alasdair pointed. "Ralf has had a rail put up."

"Then use it. I did not wash this for you to throw horse muck on it."

At the next bed a little girl was counting the pegs aloud while her brother pretended not to listen. Jon passed through with Heward, stopping at the far shutter to lift it against its catch. From there he could see the whole yard and the wide strip kept clear before the armoury. He left the shutter open. One bed remained bare among the twenty-four already claimed. Jon returned to the table as the clerk called the next applicant.

One father claimed his younger son had seen twelve namedays. The elder brother blurted that he was nine. Jon looked at the small wrists beneath the boy's sleeves and sent him home.

"He is strong," the father protested.

"Bring him in three years. And give the clerk his right age." Jon called the next name before the man could begin again.

By afternoon the boys' bundles had been carried into the sleeping hall. A carter from White Harbor was unloading grain beside the kitchen while Heward gathered the applicants under the armoury eaves. Rain had begun again. He gave each boy a practice shield and sent them round the yard in pairs.

Tomas ran ahead with the household. Their feet struck the wet ground together; the newcomers spread behind them, breathing hard. Edden lost ground on the turn but kept the shield against his chest and finished without dropping it. Mallador came in first among the applicants and looked round to be certain Jon had seen.

Jon took the ash sword from Arthur. "Gage, show them."

He struck twice at the file leader's shield, slowly enough for the applicants to see where Gage set his feet. Then they changed, and Jon caught Gage's measured blow before turning it aside.

"You will try that in pairs," Jon said. "Tomas calls the changes. Stop when he calls."

Heward walked between them, shifting a foot here, lifting a sagging rim there. Ralf watched Alasdair help a smaller boy loosen a shield strap. At the far end Olyver demonstrated the step again. Edden copied Gage carefully. When he took a blow he was not ready for, he stumbled back, reset his feet and tried once more.

Mallador drove his first partner against the wall. Tomas stopped the bout and took the boy's place. Mallador struck harder. Tomas caught the blow, turned it and stepped out of reach.

"Hold," Heward called.

Tomas lowered his sword. Mallador struck again. The shield rim caught Tomas in the mouth and knocked him to one knee. Arthur crossed the yard, took Mallador's wrist and pulled the shield from his hand.

Mallador's uncle shoved through the families. "The blood rose in him. Boys strike, and this one is the strongest in your yard."

"He struck after the halt," Heward said. Jon looked at Tomas holding linen to his split lip.

The uncle asked for another trial. Jon refused it. Mallador's anger faltered beneath the certainty. "I can beat every boy here, and you cast me out for striking one."

"You heard the halt," Jon said. "He had lowered his weapon."

"He kept backing away." Mallador looked from Jon to Arthur. "I could have beaten him."

"You will not serve me." Jon turned to Heward. "Take his name off the list."

Mallador's uncle led him beneath the eaves. He refused the stew until the man set it in his hands. Jon sent a boy uphill for Luwin and stayed with Tomas until the maester had cleaned the cut and closed it with one stitch. Afterwards he joined Arthur, Heward and Ralf by the stable door.

"Tomas kept his temper," Heward said. "Even after the blow."

"Keep the four leaders where they are." Jon watched the captain rinse his mouth. "Gage had his boys set before the others found their shields." Ralf asked for Alasdair's help with the horses. Jon granted it and confirmed that Fergus should keep his lighter shield until his arm was ready.

"Edden listens," Heward said. "He needs feeding and work, but he will learn."

Arthur watched him practising beneath the eaves. "He remembered Gage's step after the blow caught him. Begin below the older boys' work."

Jon remembered Edden bringing in the banner at the harvest games. Hunger had thinned him, but he still tried a correction instead of making excuses. "Start him with the light shield. Judge him against what he can manage, not what the others have had months to learn. Gage has room where Oren was?"

"He does."

"Then Edden takes Oren's place." Jon watched the clerk enter the name. Wylla brought him bread, choosing the piece with most cheese. "Mairi is back," she said. "Elspeth has found work for both her hands already."

Edden stood by the kitchen door watching his sister carry a bundle of linen upstairs. Heward called him to Gage's file. He came at once this time.

* * *
​

Poole's clerk read twenty-five names beneath the road arch. Tomas's lip was swollen round its black stitch when Jon confirmed him as captain, with Jorren, Olyver, Rylas and Gage keeping their files of six under Heward's instruction. Tomas's mother clutched her apron to her mouth. Robb had come to see them take their own hall; as the clerk set out bread, salt and cup, he walked among the families beside Jon. "Rylas's aunt broke Master Harclay's nose with a bucket last week. He pinched her."

Jon looked towards the broad woman standing beside Rylas. "I had heard that he fell from a wagon."

"That is what he told Poole. She told me about the bucket."

Jon glanced at the woman once more, then greeted Eddard as he came through the gate with Ser Rodrik. Jory followed them in; his men drew aside for the families leaving the yard. At dusk Ralf knelt and put his hands between Jon's. He pledged horsecraft, roadcraft and sword until death or lawful release. Jon received his oath and promised the board, wool and silver agreed at his hiring.

Heward stood at the head of the files, Arthur at Jon's right as First Sword. Both had given their words before these walls were raised. Edden came forward alone, spoke his name and ate Jon's bread and salt. He promised to keep the house's peace, obey those set above him and stand beside his fellows, until Jon, or Eddard while he remained Jon's guardian, released him. Jon promised protection, board and the clothing and silver named at the hiring. Gage took Edden back to his place. As the other files came forward for bread and salt in their new home, Olyver's father asked whether the longer walk downhill would cost the clock bench more of his son's day.

"His hours at the bench remain as we agreed," Jon said. "Send word if the work grows."

Woods bowed. Wylla and Mairi helped the families fit the badges to the new coats. Alasdair's mother pricked her thumb and left a red drop on his collar. Alys sewed Gared's badge crooked, then pulled the stitch tight when he complained. Edden stood quite still while Mairi worked. "You may breathe," she told him.

"I am."

"Poorly." At the armoury door each boy received two black wool coats, a serviceable belt, a blanket and such boots as could be found. The cobblers had made the first pairs for those who had outgrown their old boots. Edden received a practice shield and wooden sword. Heward tapped the rim before giving it to him.

"Keep them in the rack when the lesson ends," Heward said.

The first supper was barley, mutton neck, cabbage and the ham Alasdair had smoked. Steam filled the common room. Fergus looked at the second piece of meat Elspeth put into his bowl. "For me?"

"For you. Pass the bread down."

The ham went slowly down the table, each slice cut thin enough to give every place a share. Mara stood near the kitchen until Alasdair saw her and lifted his piece. She went pink beneath the steam and allowed Elspeth to draw her inside to eat.

The workmen had gone and the horses were fed. Inside, Jon heard Gage telling Edden where the spare blankets were kept. Farther down the table, boys made room for a father who had stayed to see his son's bed. Heward moved his stiff leg off its stool to let a girl pass; Arthur put the stool back afterwards. Wylla had found a chair in which he could sit with Dawn without striking the next man's knee.

"You have arranged us all," Jon said when she passed.

"For supper." She set the jug near his hand. "I have had less success with the blankets."

He poured for her and she stayed long enough to eat. Across the room Alasdair was being asked how long the ham had hung in the smoke. His mother answered for him from the kitchen, and this time he let her.

At the high end Eddard turned the new black cup in his hands and watched Jon looking down the tables.

"Will we see you at supper tomorrow?" he asked.

"I will come after the afternoon drill."

Across the room a mother still stood in the doorway watching her son eat. Wylla went to her, spoke quietly and drew her to an empty place beside the kitchen.

Robb sat beside Jon and stole a piece of ham. Across the room Cressen spilled cabbage when Fergus put an untied boot across his path. Tomas called both over and made Fergus tie his boot and wipe up the spill before they went back to the table.

After supper the boys brought out their slates. Hollan, who had taught them beside Winterfell's armoury, had inspected the new room that afternoon and left work while he returned to his copying in town. The stronger readers helped the others; Olyver wrote "bread" and "board" for Cressen and asked which belonged beside a loaf. Afterwards Wylla set out linen, thread and needles for mending stockings.

Rylas cut his aunt's little honey cake into six pieces, counted again and halved his own for Tomas. Outside, Heward showed Eddard the four shield racks; all had moved except two cracked rims with Mikken. A cup broke indoors. Elspeth called for a brush, and Jon went to see.

* * *
​

The last of Jon's belongings came downhill before full dark. A mule cart carried books, bedding, maps, practice weapons and the iron-bound coin chest. Wylla had gone back with Arthur to bring the cart down. She sat among the folded blankets with her keys at her belt. She had packed his old wool horse between two shirts; one button eye was missing, and Jon had not asked her to bring it. When he saw the worn head above the cloth, she tucked it back without remark. Arthur followed on the grey mare. Robb walked beside the cart with two histories against his chest as though the road from Winterfell were a voyage already.

They carried the books upstairs first. The chamber smelled of clean rushes and the oil Woods had rubbed into the new chest. Jon went to the window while Robb tried the narrow bed. Below them the kitchen door opened and light fell across Mairi carrying a pail; beyond the wall, candles were appearing in the town.

Wylla put the shirts away and moved the lamp nearer Jon's table. His old wool horse went against the pillow. Robb saw it and left it alone.

"I can see our window," he said, pointing past Jon.

"We can go up again tomorrow."

Robb got up to look from the window beside him. Winterfell was close enough for the two of them to recognise the lit gallery, yet they were looking up at it now. Robb asked which light was the nursery, and Jon showed him.

Wylla opened the inner door to her own chamber. A familiar coverlet lay across her bed and her comb rested beside the basin. Jon glanced through before turning back to the yard.

Eddard was waiting at the black gate. When Jon went down, his father looked past him towards the lights upstairs. "Your room at Winterfell will be kept."

"Thank you, Father."

"You need not send word before using it."

Jon had almost answered that he already knew. Then he noticed how slowly his father drew on his gloves, leaving the second in his hand while he looked again towards the house. "I shall come up tomorrow, after drill. There are things I want to show Robb."

"I shall look for you at supper." Eddard finished pulling on the glove and rested his hand upon Jon's shoulder.

His father gave his shoulder a final squeeze before leaving with Robb and the Stark escort. Before midnight rain began dripping through the barracks roof. A drop struck Cressen's ear; he woke shouting that someone had pissed on him. The laughter stopped when water reached Tomas's blanket as well. Woods found the leak from the loft and set a basin beneath it; he would mend the shingles in daylight. Wylla and Mairi brought dry bedding. Mairi found Edden dressed upon his bunk with his bundle at his feet.

"Where are you going?"

"I thought you might leave."

"Across one wet yard?"

"When the beds were made. I thought you might go then."

She sat and made room beneath the blanket. "I am staying, Edden. My bed is behind the kitchen stair. You saw where I put my things."

"Can I come now?"

"Tonight, until this blanket dries." She put an arm around his shoulders. "Tomorrow you come back to your own bed. I shall still be just across the yard." Heward found Len at the barred gate before dawn with his bundle beneath one arm and sent for the boy's mother. Len wanted his old bed uphill; when Heward said the chamber had been given back to Winterfell, he asked for his mother's hearth.

She came with a shawl pulled over her nightdress. "He gave his word, my lord."

"He did." Jon faced Len. "Do you ask release from my service, or leave to visit home after the morning's work?"

Len touched the black badge. "I thought I could sleep in my old place and return."

Jon looked towards Len's mother.

His mother shook her head. "Your sisters have had the alcove since you first took service. Meg kicks, and little Beth talks in her sleep. I can find you straw by the hearth."

Len looked towards the barracks. "Then I would be sleeping on the floor."

"By the hearth, if you choose it. I have no other bed to give you."

Rylas came from beneath the eaves and took one end of his bundle. Len let him. "The bunk by the door," he said.

"Fergus snores there."

"I can bear one."

"You will bear three." They crossed the wet yard together. Len's mother waited until the barracks door shut before bowing to Jon and walking home. On the road uphill she passed Robb riding Apple, with Harwin at his bridle. Heward's bell sounded from the new house before they reached its gate.

 

[aiwonder]

On the household's first morning in the new house, Robb came downhill before dawn expecting swords. Two lanterns burned above House Black's gate, and beyond them four files of six were gathering. Jon stood with Tomas near the gate, fastening the leather guard about his wrist. The cut from the boar spear had closed, though the scar was still tender beneath it.

"Have I missed it?" Robb asked. He swung down from Apple and passed Harwin the reins.

"We have not begun. You can run beside Rylas."

"I meant the swords."

Jon smiled. "After breakfast."

Lady Stark had ordered Harwin to stay with Robb. Heward showed him the strip beside the field and warned him they would go round four times. Harwin tied Apple under the eaves and followed them into the mist.

Gage beckoned Edden into the right file. Tomas counted twenty-five, but Jon waited while Gared changed a boot with a loose sole. Then he led the exercises: shoulders turning, knees bending, one leg stretched behind with the heel pressed down. The files knew the movements; Robb copied them while Arthur corrected feet and backs.

"Ser Rodrik never made me do this," Robb said.

"He will if he comes down often enough," Jon answered. Heward struck his staff against the gatepost, and they set off.

The first circuit was easy. On the second Robb warmed through, and by the third his right heel was rubbing. Heward had called Edden out to walk beside him after two turns; the others went on, Rylas shortening his stride when Fergus began to lag. Jon ran in Gage's file, his shorter legs working faster than those of the older boys. Near the last turn Tomas came past to count them. Robb quickened, determined to beat him to the gate.

"With us, my lord," Rylas called.

Robb had almost drawn level with Tomas. He glanced back at Fergus, who was red-faced and breathing hard, and reluctantly slowed. The file reached the gate together. Harwin arrived after them, pulling at the neck of his coat.

"Next time," Robb told Tomas, "we race properly."

"If Heward allows it, my lord." Tomas was still catching his breath, but he grinned.

The boys and their officers rose for Jon at breakfast. Robb had seen men stand for his father all his life. It was strange to watch them wait for Jon, who had to pull his chair closer before sitting. Jon waved them down. There were oats with milk and apples, eggs, crisp onions and thin slices of yesterday's meat.

At the next table Edden ate the apples first and slipped an egg beneath his bread. Mairi noticed as she brought the ale.

"You may have another if you want it."

"I am keeping this one."

"For later? Then I'll put it in the kitchen for you." He hesitated before surrendering it. Jon passed him the salt. Tomas reported that the new shield rims were in the armoury; Olyver had helped fit them last night.

When Robb rose, his heel hurt enough to make him catch the table. Harwin knelt to help with the boot. Blood had stained the back of the stocking.

"I have your other pair outside, my lord."

"The soft ones," Jon said. "You will want those tomorrow."

Robb looked up. "You think I'm coming again?"

"You have challenged Tomas."

Heward washed and bound the blister while Harwin fetched the soft boots. Outside, sacks of sand, paired water pails and short billets waited beneath the eaves. Jon carried a smaller sack across the yard, sweat darkening his black collar and plastering the pale lock to his cheek. Robb chose a heavier one; when his arms tired, Jon drew the sack closer against Robb's chest. Gage gave Edden a smaller load and stopped him after a few carries.

Ralf brought the garrons while they rested. Robb found a burr as they stripped and brushed the pads; Ralf checked the wool before letting him tighten the girth. They rode between close-set posts, changing from pairs to single file, halting and forming again. The oldest needed few corrections. Ralf stayed beside Edden when he lost his place at a turn.

Jon's dun garron passed between the posts with scarcely a touch of the rein. Robb watched it turn as Jon shifted his weight. He remembered how the crows came when Jon called and wondered whether he had taught the horse some private signal too. Then the dun stretched its neck to nibble a peeling strip of white paint, and Jon pulled it away.

"Hungry still?" Robb called.

"He ate more than you did." Jon turned the garron back into line, laughing.

After the horses had been rubbed down, Arthur brought shields and ash swords. Rodrik and six Winterfell guards waited with padded weapons. Heward put Robb beside Rylas; Arthur kept Edden aside to watch and repeat the footwork unopposed. The first rush jarred Robb's teeth and drove the line back three paces before the boys behind braced it. Fergus breathed close against his shoulder. Jon showed them the outer shield's turn while Arthur walked the line with his wand.

They changed sides. Tomas came at them with six boys, and Robb drove at him as soon as their shields met. His first blow landed; Tomas gave ground. Robb followed and struck again. A shield caught him under the arm. He stumbled against another boy and went down on the trampled ground as Tomas's men pushed through the gap.

"Hold!" Heward called.

Robb shoved himself upright, angry enough to swing again. Rylas was helping Gared up by the wall. Their whole file had been driven apart. Robb lowered his sword.

"I went too far."

"Stay beside me next time, my lord," Rylas said. He held out Robb's shield.

On the next pass Robb kept his place. He wanted to chase Tomas when the captain stepped back, but he saw Gage waiting beyond him and stayed shoulder to shoulder with Rylas. Tomas tried to force the middle. Robb turned the blow with his shield, and Fergus reached past him to touch Tomas's ribs with an ash blade.

"Dead," Ser Rodrik called from behind them.

Tomas sat on the ground. Robb laughed and offered him a hand when Heward ended the bout. "Fergus got you."

"Aye, my lord. I felt it." Tomas rubbed his side. "He usually does when I forget him."

Cold beef, curds, onions and heels of bread made the midday meal beneath the open eaves. The boys sat by file without being told. Gage's little brother pressed his face between the rails until Gage sent him a crust. Rylas traded half an onion for Finnan's curds. Robb sat between Fergus and Cressen, listening to them argue over which blow had left the bruise on his shoulder.

Gared caught a bowl with his elbow as he reached across Fergus for the salt. It fell from the bench and split. Alys hurried from the kitchen and picked up the pieces before anyone could step on them.

"Take it from my wage, my lord," she said to Jon. "He should have asked to have it passed."

Wylla turned one half in her hand. "It had a crack already. This should not have been put out."

"No deduction, then," Jon said. "Gared, fetch another bowl."

The boy went at once. His mother still looked troubled, but Wylla took the broken pieces from her and asked for more mustard. Robb watched them return to the kitchen. At Winterfell he had never thought to ask who paid for a broken bowl.

"Your sleeve, my lord," Tomas said. Robb looked down and found mustard on the cuff.

* * *
​

After washing, Robb pointed out the dust Gared had missed beneath one eye. Mairi settled a quarrel over shirts by finding the red cross inside one collar. Jon went uphill with Arthur for Luwin's lesson; Robb had leave to stay this first day for Hollan's. The less practised readers worked through short orders, the others through stable accounts. Robb had finished when Jon returned and opened a White Harbor letter.

"Will you help Cressen?" Jon asked, looking up. "He keeps putting the grain on the wrong side of the stable."

Cressen glared at his slate. "Leave the grain behind the stable before the last bell," Hollan had written. He kept reading "before" in both places. Robb copied the two troublesome words beneath the order.

"They begin alike," he said. "Look at the rest." He covered the first two letters of each while Cressen sounded out what remained, then uncovered the whole line. Across the table Tomas had written thirteen sacks instead of thirty-one. Robb noticed as he reached for the slate cloth and showed him the reversed figures.

Tomas covered the slate with one forearm. "I have them backwards again, my lord." It had pleased Robb to find the mistake; he had not expected Tomas to be ashamed of it. He said he could put them right. Tomas glanced at Cressen's slate. "Has he found the grain, at least?"

"Behind the stable. Before the last bell," Cressen said. Tomas moved his arm so Robb could correct the count. Hollan gave Cressen a fresh order sending the sacks to the mill at the second bell. He read it slowly, frowning at the last few words. "Second bell," he said, and tapped the word he had nearly missed.

Hollan gathered the slates before the afternoon drill. Robb went back to Rylas to try the turn he had missed that morning, while Gage kept Edden at the rail. When Heward dismissed them, Jon washed and told Wylla he would eat at Winterfell. The household were beginning their supper as he came through the hall to say goodnight.

Edden was falling asleep over cabbage and mutton neck. Mairi caught his bowl before his chin struck it. When she helped him stand, a cramp caught his calf and he cried out. Jon came down the bench and knelt beside him, easing the foot back until the muscle began to loosen.

"He has done enough for one day," Jon told Heward. "Light work tomorrow."

Gage crouched beside them. "I'll see to him, my lord."

When Mairi took Edden away to bed, she stopped beside Jon. "He has put bread under his mattress. I found it when I made the bed."

"Leave him a little in a covered bowl," Jon said. "He has only just come here. Give him time." Robb watched Jon return to the end of the table. He had never gone to bed wondering whether there would be food in the morning; neither had Jon, as far as he knew. Yet Jon had understood at once.

Eddard came down at the evening bell, leaving Jory and the escort at the horse rail. The boys were mending torn hose; three waited for Olyver, who could close a leather seam neatly. Rylas divided his aunt's honey cake into seven and offered Robb a piece.

"That is your aunt's cake."

"She sent it for us to share, my lord."

"Then thank her for me." Robb took the smallest piece and knocked Fergus's hand away from it.

"Is there any left?" Eddard asked. Rylas leapt up, but Eddard waved him down before he could surrender his own share. He sat beside Jon with small beer and heard how Tomas had knocked Robb down, and Fergus had helped him get the captain back.

"Fergus seems to have had the best of it."

Robb grinned. "He did. Tomas never saw him coming."

Arthur brought Robb's polished boots, cleaned and stuffed with rags. Harwin had his pony ready.

"I'll keep the soft pair for tomorrow," Robb said.

"Wise," Arthur said.

Jon left Heward in charge and told Gage to send to Wylla if Edden's leg troubled him. Arthur accompanied them uphill. At Winterfell Sansa drew her stool nearer Jon to hear about the house; Robb sat opposite with his soft boots beneath the bench.

Catelyn's auburn braid slipped over her shoulder as she examined Robb: blistered heel, bruise above the collar, a shaking hand reaching for bread. He named each hurt; saying nowhere would only make her look harder.

"The new boots rubbed," he said. "Harwin brought these from my saddlebag."

"Then wear those when you run. And have Luwin see that heel before bed."

"It is only a blister, Mother."

"I would prefer it not to become worse."

Eddard laid down his knife. "Will you go again?"

"At dawn," Robb said, and looked at his mother.

"After your own lessons are finished, and not one moment before," Catelyn said.

"I did Master Hollan's writing," Robb said. "He could give me another page."

"You will finish your lessons with Luwin first," Catelyn said. Robb had no answer that would change her mind. After supper, Jon went back downhill with Arthur. Robb found Sansa outside the family solar with a carved horse hidden badly behind her skirt. Her deep blue eyes followed his soft boots before she remembered her grievance. One foreleg had broken two days before, and Robb had twice promised to mend it.

"You forgot Chestnut again," she said. "His leg has been broken two whole days while you found other things to do."

"I was at Jon's." Robb held out his hand. "Give him here."

"You promised to mend him yesterday," Sansa replied. She thrust the horse towards him. When Robb bent to take it, his worked shoulder pulled and betrayed him with a grunt. Sansa snatched the toy back. "You are hurt. Did Ser Arthur strike you hard enough to do that?"

"Three of Jon's boys knocked me down. I left a gap and they came through it."

"Was it like the games at the feast?" Sansa asked, turning the horse.

"The fighting was. But they train every day. You should have seen them move when Heward called."

She looked through the window towards the roofs below. "Did Jon sleep there last night?"

"Aye. Upstairs, beside Wylla's."

"Then mend Chestnut before you go back."

Before bed Robb bound the leg with linen thread and glue; his fingers ached too badly to carve another. Sansa held the pieces when asked and passed the wrong tool when she was not.

The horse had been painted chestnut brown, with a black mane and a white star half worn away by her thumb. Robb turned it on its side and pressed the leg into place. Sansa bent so close that her hair fell across his hand.

"Move back. You will stick to him."

She gathered the hair over her shoulder and watched from the other side. When Catelyn came to find them, both children had glue on their fingers. She closed the glue pot.

"Will it hold?" Sansa asked her.

Catelyn examined the repair. "If you let it dry. Put him on his side tonight."

"He does not sleep like that."

"He will manage for one night." Catelyn folded a scrap of cloth for the toy and laid it on the shelf. Then she touched Robb's brow and sent him to bed before he could begin another task. Harwin cleaned the soft boots and packed them with rags beside the brazier. Robb put them on before first bell.

* * *
​

After Robb's lessons the next morning, House Black rode to the old watermill with Harwin and six other Winterfell guards. Robb wore his soft boots. Benfred Tallhart, Cley Cerwyn and Daryn Hornwood, who had arrived the previous evening for a short visit at Robb's invitation and with their fathers' leave, joined them from Winterfell with Theon and Rodrik. Their voices carried along the wet road. Ralf stopped to straighten the food mare's panniers, Alasdair lifting one while he smoothed the pad; they caught up within sight of the wheel.

Sheep had cropped the meadow short. It rose north in two shelves divided by a dry spill channel paved with white stone. Alders crowded the western bank; a low ridge ran east towards three charred posts. Master Branch and his son Cley were setting the last stakes above the old tailrace. A white rope stretched between them, well back from the water.

"The race has washed out beneath the bank in places, my lord," Branch told Jon. "Keep them this side of the rope."

Jon walked the boundary with Arthur and Ser Rodrik. At the upper end he could see water moving under a tangle of exposed roots. He shifted the nearest stake farther into the meadow, then returned to the waiting boys.

"We fight inside the rope," he told them. "If you cross it, you are out. No one is to follow another boy onto that bank."

Gage brought Edden to Arthur before the companies were chosen. "Light work, my lord, as you ordered."

Jon looked at the boy standing without a shield. "You stay with Arthur and watch. Tell Gage afterwards where his file lost its place."

Edden nodded and took his place beside the knight, clear of the rope. Gage went back for his own shield.

Rodrik divided the fighting boys into two companies. Jon took Tomas, Olyver, Gage, Gared, Finnan, Alasdair and half the black coats. Robb had Rylas, Jorren, Cressen, Fergus and the rest, with the castle boys as extra men to balance Tomas and Jon on the other side. Robb objected to needing the advantage; Rodrik told him to win with it before complaining. A blue standard stood behind the broken mill wall, a yellow one beside the southern stakes. To win, a company must bring the other's standard back to its own. Arthur and the Winterfell guards would judge the blows.

"Drop your weapons when the whistle sounds," Arthur said. He waited until every boy had nodded before sending them to their places.

A crow settled on the mill roof. Robb looked from it to Jon.

Jon smiled at Robb and went to arrange his men, leaving the crow to pick at the thatch.

Robb set Jorren beside the yellow standard with four shields. Daryn held the western side; Theon waited on the eastern ridge with Cley Cerwyn and four more. Theon began to complain about being left behind.

"You can see over both companies from there," Robb told him. "Watch for my hand."

Jon sent Tomas down the middle, keeping Gage close behind him. Olyver moved along the western edge. Robb heard the first shields meet, then the rapid wooden blows as Daryn tried to drive Olyver back. Daryn was gaining ground. Too much ground. Robb called him back as Olyver's boys began to turn on his flank.

Daryn came two paces before Gared touched his side with an ash sword.

"Dead," Arthur called.

"I was coming back!"

"Sit down, Daryn." Arthur was already watching the next pair.

Tomas struck Robb's shield hard enough to force him a step backwards. Robb held beside Rylas, waited for the next rush and raised his left hand. Theon came off the ridge with his party. Gage turned to meet them, leaving only two shields between Cley Cerwyn and the broken wall. Cley ducked past the first, took a blow across the shoulder from the second and reached the blue standard.

"Shoulder only," Ser Rodrik called. "You may run."

Cerwyn needed no encouragement. He raced down the eastern shelf with the cloth streaming behind him. Jon called Gage back, but Theon held him long enough for Cerwyn to reach the yellow flag. Rodrik blew the whistle.

Robb pulled off his padded cap, laughing. Theon had lost his sword and was arguing that he could have fought on with his fist. Benfred insisted he had struck Tomas twice. Tomas showed him the fresh dents in his shield.

"On that, my lord."

"You put too many men into the middle," Robb said, settling beside Jon on the southern rise and rubbing his shoulder.

"I saw Theon turn. I did not see Cley go past him." Jon rested his back against a warm stone and accepted the small beer the miller's wife brought him. "I will next time."

Robb took a piece of brown bread while the young Cerwyn recounted his run to Benfred.

Benfred interrupted to describe his own fight with Tomas. His account grew louder and less accurate. Theon threw a crust at him and hit Rodrik's boot.

"Greyjoy."

Theon straightened. "Sorry, ser."

"Throw another and you can eat with the dogs." Rodrik handed the crust to the miller's dog and rose to set the standards for another bout.

The miller's children had come to watch, the youngest carrying a little wheel he had cut from bark. He turned it in the shallow run beside the meal stones while his sisters argued over the best place to set it. Cley Cerwyn watched for a time, then shifted a pebble so that the water struck the paddles instead of passing beneath them.

Benfred told him there was a larger wheel near Torrhen's Square and began describing the pond behind it. Soon he and Daryn were disputing which of their fathers had the better fishing. Robb had heard neither place described at this length before. At Winterfell they generally spoke of horses, weapons and who had been struck hardest in the yard.

"The pike take the little ducks," Benfred said. "You see the feet go under first."

Theon reached for the mustard. "Then put a duck on your hook."

"You have to catch the duck."

"Is it faster than you?"

Benfred laughed. Jon sat with one arm across his raised knee, turning a piece of bread in his fingers while Cley described the fish they smoked at Cerwyn. Ralf came for the empty cloths. By the time the standards stood ready again, the mustard was gone and Robb had promised to see the pond at Torrhen's Square if his father took him there.

* * *
​

Jon placed Gage behind the blue standard and kept Olyver near the western rope. This time Tomas would wait for Robb to come to him. The boys settled their shields against their knees while Arthur walked clear. Beyond the field Master Branch was gathering his tools, his son pulling up the short testing rods.

Robb sent Jorren up the spill channel. When Tomas moved to meet him, Theon and Cerwyn ran towards the eastern ridge, drawing two of Gage's shields. Robb kept his remaining boys close. He could see Jon watching from the broken wall, black hair damp against his forehead.

"Now," Robb said.

Rylas led the rush. Shields clapped together, and Robb drove against the boy in front of him while Benfred shouted at his shoulder. Tomas's line held. For a moment Robb could see nothing beyond the close-set rims. Then Theon's voice rose from the north.

"I have it!"

He came out beside the broken wall with the blue standard under one arm. Cerwyn covered him with a shield. Gared left Olyver and ran to cut them off.

"Stay with me!" Olyver shouted.

Theon veered west, keeping inside the rope. Gared was farther downhill. Instead of running round the bulge in the boundary, he ducked beneath it to cross the shorter stretch of bank. Robb saw him go and kept shouting for Theon to run.

"Gared, back!" Arthur called.

Olyver reached him first. He caught Gared's coat and hauled him towards the field. The turf gave beneath them. Gared dropped waist-deep into brown water, dragging Olyver to his knees. Olyver threw out his left hand to stop himself. His arm folded under his weight, and his cry cut through the shouts.

Arthur blew the whistle. The shields fell quiet at once.

Jon reached the rope as Master Branch's son Cley came running from the mill.

"Above them, my lord. The bank's hollow there."

Jon stopped where Cley showed him firm ground. "Tomas, clear everyone uphill. Ralf, bring the boundary rope." He pointed out the torn bank to Arthur while two Winterfell guards carried the rope round the nearest sound tree.

The knight took a loop about his chest and crawled forward from above the break. Robb backed uphill with the others. Arthur's shoulders hid his hands; Robb watched for Gared to rise.

The rope drew tight as the guards pulled. Gared came over the edge, held beneath the arms as Arthur pushed himself backwards. Jon and Tomas kept the others clear.

Gared could stand, though blood ran down his shin. Olyver lay on his right side, cradling the other arm.

"My shoulder," he said when Arthur reached him. "Don't pull it."

Master Branch knelt on sound turf beside Olyver. At Arthur's order, Harwin rode ahead to fetch Luwin and warn Woods. The others brought a broad board from the mill. Jon spread a blanket over it, then stood clear while Arthur and two guards lifted Olyver without pulling at the injured arm. His face had gone pale beneath its freckles.

"He came after me," Gared whispered. "I thought I could get back before the bank went."

Jon looked up. "You were ordered to stay inside the rope."

Gared lowered his eyes. Across the field Theon stood holding the blue standard. Robb took it from him and laid it beside the others. He could still hear himself calling for Theon to run after he had seen Gared cross the boundary.

They carried Olyver home. Luwin was waiting at House Black, and Woods came across the yard as soon as he saw the bearers.

Luwin laid Olyver upon the long table. Woods stood at his head, one hand in his son's hair. Arthur held him steady while Wylla put a folded strap between his teeth. After examining the shoulder and feeling along the arm for a break, the maester drew it slowly, turned it, and the joint slipped back with a dull sound. Olyver's heels struck the table. His father bent over him, speaking too quietly for Robb to hear.

When the arm was bound across his chest, Olyver spat out the strap.

"Did Greyjoy keep the flag?"

"No one finished," Jon said.

Olyver shut his eyes. "He'll say he won."

Woods gave a rough laugh and kissed his son's hair. Alys hurried in from the kitchen, flour still on her arms. She caught Gared by both shoulders and looked him over.

"Where are you hurt?"

"Only my shin."

Her fingers tightened. Gared looked away. "I heard him call me back. I should have stopped."

"Aye," she said. "You should." She held him for a moment, then let him go to the table.

"I am sorry, Olyver."

Olyver opened one eye. "You can clean my boots."

"I will."

Jon drew a stool beside the table for Woods. "Stay with him. I will pay for the work you miss." To Olyver he said, "No shields or riding until Luwin allows it. Your place is safe." Woods's hand still rested against his son's head. Jon remembered waiting beside his own child and resenting every person who tried to draw him away with a task that could have waited. The clock could wait.

"I can still mend leather, my lord."

"Later. Rest today." Jon turned to Gared. "You are out of the line for a fortnight. Tomorrow you help Master Branch fence that bank. Stay on the meadow side and do only the work he gives you."

Gared nodded. He made no attempt to argue.

Catelyn entered with Eddard behind her, rain darkening both cloaks. Jory stopped at the doorway and turned to the guards waiting outside. She went straight to Robb, caught his muddy hands, and turned them palms upward. Finding no hurt, she looked past him towards Luwin.

"I was not in the hole, Mother."

"So I see." She released him only after Luwin had given her the injured boy's condition. "Tell me what happened."

Robb began with the standards and the first bout. When he reached Gared crossing the boundary, he faltered.

"I saw him go under the rope. I was still calling for Theon to run."

"You should have called a halt," Eddard said.

"I know."

Catelyn looked towards Olyver, who lay with his eyes closed and his father beside him. "You will help Master Branch for the next six mornings. And you will follow another captain at the next two field days. Winning is no use if you let your men hurt themselves to do it."

Robb started to protest, then stopped. "Yes, Mother."

Theon set the muddy standards beside the hearth and went to find a basin for them.

"I am going to his mother," Jon told Eddard. "Before someone brings her the wrong tale."

"Robb goes with you," Catelyn said. "And tomorrow he carries her water while she sits with her son."

Eddard stopped Jon at the door. "Tell her first that he lives. She may already have heard there was an accident."

Jon nodded and took the cloak Wylla held out.

"Here." Wylla put bread and cheese into their hands. "You have had nothing since the field."

Jon ate while she fastened his cloak. Robb followed him out, turning once to look at Olyver on the table.

* * *
​

Olyver's mother lived behind the sawpit with wood shavings banked against one wall to keep out damp. She opened the door carrying her youngest girl upon one hip. Another child peered around her skirt with a wooden spoon. The smell of boiled beans and woodsmoke came from the hearth. Her eyes found Arthur, then the mud upon the boys. "Olyver?"

"Olyver has hurt his shoulder," Jon said at once. "He is alive. Luwin has set it, and his father is with him."

The child upon her hip fussed when her mother went still. "Take her," the woman told Arthur. The Sword of the Morning received the little girl without question. She closed both hands around the star upon Dawn's pommel.

Jon told her about the broken bank and Gared crossing the rope. When he came to Olyver pulling the other boy clear, her hand tightened upon the door.

"He went after him?"

"Aye. Gared is home with a scraped shin."

She looked past them towards Winterfell. "His father is with him?"

"At the table. He has not left."

"I saw Gared cross," Robb said. "I should have called a halt."

"Why did you not?"

Robb looked down at the little girl's spoon. "I wanted Theon to reach the flag."

Jon stood beside him without answering for him. Olyver's mother drew a long breath.

"Would you take her hand, my lord?" she asked Robb, nodding towards her other daughter beside her.

"Aye." Robb took the little girl's hand. The baby had wound her fingers through Dawn's star and refused to let go. Arthur gently freed them, one at a time.

The other girl raised her spoon. "I have a sword."

Arthur regarded it gravely. "Keep it from your sister. She has a dangerous grip."

Olyver's mother pressed a hand over her mouth. When she lowered it, she looked at Jon. "Does Olyver lose his place?"

"No," Jon said. "His wage will be paid. When Luwin says he can be moved, would you rather have him here or stay beside him at the yard?"

"Here, if Maester Luwin permits it, my lord." Her hands would not keep still. "He will want his sisters."

"Then I will have a cart bring him. Wylla will send what you need."

She drew her shawl from its peg, then stood with it bunched in her hands. "He asked me this morning whether I would come to watch him. I said there were shirts to mend."

"You can see him now," Robb said.

She nodded, but kept turning the shawl in her hands. Jon freed the fringe where it had caught on a nail and gave it back to her.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, smoothing it with a shaking thumb.

Arthur shifted the little girl more securely upon his arm. Jon waited while her mother gathered herself.

"He will be trying that arm before the binding comes off," she said at last.

"Luwin has forbidden it. Tell Wylla if he tries."

"Oh, he will. And his father will say he was just the same at twelve, as though that mended anything."

Robb glanced at Jon. "Mother says I am to bring water tomorrow."

"Does she?"

"While you sit with him."

"After breakfast, then, my lord. The sound bucket is under the bench." She looked towards the woodbox. "That will want filling too."

Robb followed her glance. The box was larger than the one beside his own hearth. "All of it?"

Arthur looked into the nearly empty box. "You may need more than one armful."

"Everyone has me today," Robb said.

She almost smiled. Then she took her daughter from Arthur and reached for the other girl's hand. "Come, both of you. Your brother will want to tell you what happened before I can."

Ralf had brought the food cart round from the yard. Arthur helped Olyver's mother onto the seat while Jon lifted the smaller child up to her. Robb helped the other girl climb after them.

At dawn Robb and Gared joined Master Branch at the mill. His men dug the post holes on sound ground, well inside the boundary of the washed-out bank. The boys carried pegs and gathered the loose turf on the meadow side. Branch's son Cley set the stout fence posts. Gared's shin was bandaged, and he moved stiffly when he bent for another sod.

"Leave that one," Robb told him. "I'll lift it."

Gared took the smaller piece instead. Above them Tomas drilled the household on the eastern shelf, giving Olyver's file the next turn himself. Gared had cleaned Olyver's boots before breakfast and left them with Mairi to take to the sawpit. Eddard and Arthur stood beside Jon as Branch's men drove another post into the ground.

"You mean to use the field again?" Arthur asked.

"The eastern end," Jon said. "There is room enough once the bank is fenced."

"Olyver will want to come."

"He can watch from the mill." Jon looked towards the village road. "I said I would see him this morning."

"Then go," Eddard said. "Take Ralf. Arthur and I can stay here."

Jon called Tomas over, gave him the rest of the morning's work and went to fetch his horse. Ralf rode beside him, two household boys following. The mill bell rang above the rush of water. Robb set down his last armful of turf. After breakfast he still had the water and wood he had promised Olyver's mother.

 

[aiwonder]

Myr gave Viserys and Daenerys one night beneath Narbo Vhassyl's roof and no second. The merchant had offered Viserys coin, rooms, and the use of shipmasters who still remembered dragon banners. In return, Daenerys would be raised behind his gates and one day wed his son. Her brother might visit when Narbo allowed it. Daenerys drew closer to Viserys's chair, long silver-gold hair falling over the shoulder of her faded gown. Her violet eyes stayed on the merchant. "I can learn Myrish," she said. "And I will be kind to Beloro. But why cannot Viserys stay too?"

Narbo turned his bronze keys around one thick finger. "Your brother has business elsewhere. You would be well cared for."

Daenerys took Viserys's hand. "I am going with him."

When a servant barred the dining-room door, Viserys drew Ser Willem's old sword. His silver-blond hair slipped from its thong as he struck at the man's arm. Daenerys caught his sleeve and shouted his name. A honey dish broke against the floor as the servant fell back. Narbo ordered the servant away from the door. Only then did Viserys lower the blade, breathing hard. The merchant had no wish for a killing in his dining room; he sent four armed men to escort the siblings out and a fifth for a healer. By dawn he had withdrawn his promises and spoken to their landlord; the siblings found their rooms locked against them. That night they slept in a sail loft above the Split Net, sharing fish stew while rain dripped through the roof. Below them a glass merchant spoke of a northern boy called Jon Black, of a stag clock in King's Landing, and of Robert granting Dragonstone to his bastard lord.

"Our father's seat," Viserys said. "Given to Stark's bastard."

"The boy does not live there," Daenerys answered.

"He will."

Daenerys tested the hatch latch, then set her wooden dragon beside the single blanket. "I should like to see the clock." Viserys wrote Jon Black's name in the household book.

The blanket smelled of tar. Daenerys drew its edge over her feet and listened to the men below moving benches for the last drinkers. A lantern shone through the gaps in the loft boards. Each time someone passed beneath it, the light disappeared and returned in narrow yellow bars across Viserys's face.

He had laid the sword within reach and was trying to smooth the torn page where he had written. One corner had been wetted in the rain. She set her dragon on it to keep it flat.

"The ink will stain him," Viserys said.

"Only his feet."

Her brother looked at the little carving, then wiped his fingers on the cloth from their supper. He pushed the last piece of fish towards her. She ate it slowly, taking out the bones. Below, the merchant had begun telling the clock story again for a man who had missed it, and the same names rose through the floor: Winterfell, the king, Dragonstone.

Daenerys knew the island only from Viserys's stories, and it angered her when other people spoke of it as though it were no more than a place to unload a ship. She asked Viserys whether their mother's chamber had looked towards the sea.

"All the chambers heard it," he said after a while. "Even with the shutters closed."

He took the dragon off the drying page and gave it back. They listened to the rain until the voices below grew quieter. When he lay down, Daenerys moved close enough to share the blanket and kept hold of his sleeve.

* * *
​

At House Black the gate clock missed its last stroke. Pate the bellman looked up, counted under his breath and reached for the hand rope.

"Leave it a moment," Jon called. He had heard the catch slip. "I am coming up."

An onion seller beneath the arch supplied the missing note with a shout. Three of the household boys joined him until Elspeth appeared at the kitchen door with their breakfast. They abandoned the bell for their bowls.

When Winterfell's first clock was new, people had left their stalls to watch it. Now they complained when a bell failed. Jon climbed with Pate and Olyver. A full moon after the mill field, Olyver was back at light shield drill by Luwin's leave, but still favoured his left arm at the grille.

"Let Pate take that."

The bellman secured the weight. By lamplight Jon found wool and chaff clogging the locking catch. The oak case had dried and opened at its upper joint, admitting dust from the loading carts. He showed Pate where to close it and fit a leather strip along the lid. Olyver fetched a narrow hook and clean cloth, then held the lamp while Jon cleared the groove.

"That was clean when we fitted it," Olyver said.

"It will not stay clean with the lid open here." Jon oiled it sparingly. Pate released the weight, and one late note sounded over the market.

"The White Harbor clock has the same door," Olyver said.

"I will send leather for its lid with Garrick, the carter. Tobren can have it fitted when they clean the movement." Jon looked at him. "If Luwin allows you to ride, you can go with the wagon and show him."

"To White Harbor, my lord?"

"You have been asking to go back."

Olyver was grinning when they went down to breakfast.

Rain came at noon, hammering the shingles and driving brown streams through the gate. Garrick's men covered their loads while Woods's carvers carried pale boards into shelter. Jon was eating mutton broth with black bread and roasted onions when Master Branch's son Cley came through the arch, muddy to the knees.

"The lower drain is blocked, my lord. Water is in Donella's house."

Elspeth took Jon's bowl as he reached for his cloak. Jon called, "Tomas, bring Gage's and Rylas's files and the grain cart. Wylla, clear the apprentice loft. Take Mairi and dry clothes for the children. Cley, come with me. Arthur, send word to Poole."

Arthur dispatched a page before following. Donella's house stood below the cooperage where three crofts met the drain. Water crossed its threshold, turning rushes against the wall. A barley sack split as men lifted it from the meal chest to a storage bench. Donella stood upon a stool, her bad knee straight beneath her skirt.

"How high when you left?" Jon asked Cley.

Cley pointed to a dark ring on the stool leg. Water already lapped above it. "I could see water running through at first light, my lord. The cooper has been planing beneath his platform. The shavings have packed the mouth."

"Get the children out. The dry sacks go on the cart. Keep the wet ones apart." Jon moved a loose bench against the threshold so Donella could step down without putting her bad leg in the water. Tomas and Gage helped her across to the higher doorstep. She kept looking back at the split sack.

"That was for winter, my lord. My daughter has nothing put by."

"You shall have barley from mine. How much have you lost?"

"Three sacks spoiled. Six still dry."

Jon sent a boy to the storekeeper. Wylla arrived with two women, wool and linen held above the water, and took the smallest child while Mairi wrapped the other two.

"The loft is ready," Wylla told Donella, but the widow refused to leave until someone looked at her house. Her daughter stayed with her on the dry step while Wylla took the children ahead.

Under the awning Jon had the three wet sacks opened. Drain water had soaked the barley; none would be dried and passed off as sound. He ordered it carted away and entered three replacements against his stores. Behind the houses, the cooper's work platform of bark, waste staves and old hoops crossed the brim-full channel. Fresh oak shavings packed the timber grate beneath it.

The cooper stood under his door hood with a maul across one shoulder. He took it down when Jon approached. "My father bent hoops there, my lord. We have always worked above the run."

Jon waded to the edge of the platform. Fresh shavings choked the narrow opening beneath it. Above the blockage, water from House Black's new ditch was pouring into the old channel. The bank beneath the turn had begun to crumble. He had followed enough floodwater through farm ditches to recognise the mistake. A clear new drain could still drown the house below it if the old outlet could not carry the flow. His own work was feeding this blockage.

"Clear your hoops off it," he said. "Cley, take up those boards."

"There are finished casks on it, my lord. A season's work—"

"Then move them now. Cley, start at this end." Jon pointed to the dry ground against the wall. Arthur stepped beside the cooper and took the maul from his uncertain grip.

"Show the boys where you want your hoops," Arthur said. The man swallowed his next objection and obeyed.

Cley levered up the boards once the casks and hoops were clear. The boys passed their loads towards the dry road, heavier sacks slung two boys to a pole. Tomas caught Cressen's end when he stumbled; Edden carried clothing and blankets. Water tore through the shavings. The cooper lunged after a spinning hoop, saw the depth and cursed.

Poole arrived with Hallis as the water fell below the ring on Donella's stool. He heard the cooper and checked the water roll beneath waxed hide: the channel belonged to Winterfell, and no lease allowed it narrowed. There would be a hearing tomorrow.

"Could someone look at the bank before night?" Donella asked. "It is still crumbling."

"Brace it before you leave, Cley. I will pay the men." Jon sent her bedding up to the loft. When Wylla returned, Donella left with her daughter, leaning on the nurse's arm. Tomas brought out the last dry sack while Jon followed Cley to the bank.

* * *
​

Eddard heard the quarrel in the small hall the next morning. The cooper argued that his father and grandsire had worked above the channel. Cley described the shavings he had pulled from the grate. Donella brought a bowl of swollen barley and laid it beside a ruined blanket.

The channel was to remain open. The cooper would rebuild his platform against the far wall and pay for Donella's bedding; Jon would strengthen the lower bank against the faster water from his ditch. When the cooper began again about his grandsire, Eddard stopped him.

"The channel must be kept clear," Eddard said. "You knew where your shavings were going."

The cooper lowered his head. "Yes, my lord."

Afterward Eddard gave Jon the water map. "Take Robb when you inspect the bank. He has finished his lessons."

"I heard that much," Robb said from beyond the door, both cloaks in his arms. Eddard walked them to the stair.

They found Cley and his father setting willow against the bank. Donella sat in the sun with the salvaged blanket while her eldest granddaughter carried out wet rushes. Jon greeted her before she could rise on her bad knee, handed Robb his cloak and climbed into the channel. The lower water showed fresh scour beneath the bend. He tested the earth with his heel, broke away the loose face with a spade and drove a stake through Cley's willow.

"Carry it round the turn. Stop short and the water will eat behind the last stake."

"Does the willow hold it?" Robb asked.

"Until the bank binds again. Bring that basket of small stone."

Robb poured behind the weave while Branch worked ahead with the heavier maul. Robb's cuffs were muddy by the straight run. Jon retied his hair and climbed out for the well water Donella's granddaughter brought. Branch examined the work from above and pronounced the edge sound.

"Leave room to walk it," Jon said. "They must be able to clear the run without climbing the fence." Donella called her thanks as they passed; her meal chest stood open and dry in the afternoon light.

That evening Lord Willam Dustin's rider warmed his hands beside the common-room fire while Woods unrolled Barrow Hall's measures. Lady Barbrey wanted black oak, twelve bronze studs and no carved figures.

"My lady says a clock should tell the hour," the rider reported. "She will not pay for little figures to dance round it."

Woods laid his drawing of the case beside the measures. "Some moulding at the corners, perhaps? The broad panels will look very bare."

"Give her what she asked for," Jon told Woods. "The oak will be handsome enough polished. Does she want the bell heard in the hall or the outer ward?"

"The outer ward, my lord."

"Then it needs a broader bell. I will write to her about the price."

Ralf spread the Gates of the Moon route beside three horse lists and Lord Arryn's sealed order, answering the enquiry Osric had brought from the king's feast. The earnest had come through White Harbor. Nestor Royce would receive the falcon and oversee its keeper's trial at the Gates; it need not climb to the Eyrie. Even so, the measured stair turn was too narrow for the wings. Woods would pack them separately.

"Harl, Osbert, Wyl and Quent beyond White Harbor, if Lord Stark releases them," Ralf said. "Garrick takes the wagons to the quay; I go from the ship to the Gates and back."

He would be gone more than a moon, longer if a ship home delayed him. Beyond the door the boys were bringing in their eight garrons.

"We hunt in three mornings," Jon said. "I want you there before you leave."

"I will be there, my lord."

When Ralf had gone, Jon had supper in his upstairs chamber with Eddard, Arthur, Wylla and Luwin. Through the window they could see Gared waiting in the yard with a strip of blue cloth tied about his sleeve. Munin watched him from the counting-room ridge.

"She has her eye on that ribbon," Eddard said.

"She had the other end this morning." Jon watched the crow sidle along the slates. "He had to trade her a crust for it."

Eddard left with Luwin before the lamps were lit, Jory and the grey-cloaked escort waiting below. Wylla took the bowls downstairs. Arthur waited for her footsteps to pass.

"Tonight?"

"As far as the well. Gared has leather to fetch from the tanner. I can leave her on the roof now; it should be no different in the lane."

Arthur looked at the pillow Jon had set on the bed. "Return when I call, even if you lose him."

"I will." Jon sent Gared word to go, with no instructions beyond keeping the blue cloth uncovered and taking his usual road. Arthur shut the door and sat beside the bed. Munin tore at cooked liver on the counting-room ridge. "Ready?" Arthur asked. Jon settled against the pillow, put his hand in Arthur's, nodded and closed his eyes.

Cold rain struck black wings. Claws gripped the wet slates, and the taste of liver filled his mouth.

The first beat lifted her scarcely above the ridge. Jon felt the effort between the shoulders that were no longer his and the sudden purchase of air beneath the feathers. He banked over the stable, one wing tipped towards the wet yard, then rose on the wind running up the slope.

The warm stable yard fell away beneath him. The market's noise broke into separate sharp cries, wheel squeals and hammer blows, none of them belonging to the place where he would have put them from the ground. Sunlight flashed on a bucket at the well. For an instant he wanted its bright rim more than he wanted the boy in blue.

He turned back. Below him lay the hall, forge, sheds and pale practice posts, with the new drain running brown beyond the wall. Gared's blue sleeve showed between two market carts before the boy reached the end of the nearest roof. Jon knew the passage beside it because he had walked there that morning, and he kept Munin above its line until the boy emerged.

Jon followed him from ridge to ridge. He vanished beneath the eaves, appeared beside stacked barrels and crossed the market well behind a shaggy horse. Then another patch of blue moved towards the cooperage. Jon turned after it. The man went into a pale-boarded shed before he could see his face.

A bright hinge caught Munin's eye. She landed beside it and pecked the iron before Jon could turn her. Below the gutter a butcher threw out a strip of fat. Her hunger rose at once. Jon felt Arthur's hand, faint but still there, and heard his name. He stopped trying to turn the bird. Holding to the pressure about his fingers, he let her go after the fat.

The chamber tilted as his own eyes opened. Jon held still against the pillow until bed, shutter and Arthur's face had settled into their proper places. Arthur still held his hand.

"I held Gared to the market well," he said after a moment. "After that there was a dark cloak and something blue at the cooper's shed. I could not see the face."

"We can ask Gared," Arthur said. "When you can stand."

Arthur gave him water and waited beside him. Jon drank without help. When he stood, he kept a hand upon the bedpost until the last dizziness had passed. Voices were rising from the evening market below.

"I want to see the lane," Jon said. "The roof hid the way. I could not tell where she had turned."

Arthur brought his boots. "Then we walk it together."

At the foot of the stair Wylla looked up from a basket of washing. "Have you been asleep?"

"For a little while." Jon fastened his cloak. "We are going to the tanner."

"Then come back before the lamps burn out. I have your clean shirt here."

Jon took Arthur's arm through the gate. The lanes had looked flat and orderly from the sky. On the ground, upper storeys leaned over gutters. Yards hid behind walls no higher than Jon's shoulder. The ditch smelled of dung, wet bark, and opened earth. At a dye yard women turned black wool through steaming water, their hands stained blue to the wrists. Across the lane, a smith watched a House Black timber wagon pass his unlit forge and shut the door when Jon looked back. Near the market corner a woman waited with a thin boy pressed against her skirt. "My boy went to your gate twice, my lord. They told him the beds were full."

"The household is full," Jon said. "But we are taking apprentices for the works. Ask Perkin at the gate to enter his name."

"My sister's Gared eats meat every day and learns his letters," the woman said.

"So do the apprentices. If he is willing to learn a trade, have him come tomorrow."

She drew her boy aside. At the open cooper's shed an old man sat astride a hoop, blue wool round his throat. The cooper directed Jon two lanes east, beneath the black roof.

Gared was there holding a wet hide. Roof, steam and black coat had hidden him from the air; the blue cord still circled his arm. He began to bow.

"Keep hold of it. Finish your work first."

The tanner grunted his thanks. When the hide was over its pole, Gared confirmed he had come by the well and the covered passage. Tollen had the leather ready but needed help with the hide.

Out of his hearing Jon looked back. From above he had seen one roof. Here three doors opened into separate yards. "I followed the man at the cooper's shed."

"The same blue round his neck," Arthur said.

They took the shorter lanes home, Jon counting turns while Arthur pointed out the junction where he had left Gared's road. Munin had finished the fat and settled on her roof, indifferent to the boy. At his desk Jon fitted the three doors into the blank space on his drawing while Arthur stood beside the lamp.

"Did you hear Bloodraven?" the knight asked quietly.

"I heard nothing from him."

Arthur waited while Jon marked the last doorway. "Enough for tonight."

Jon cleaned the quill and laid it beside the corrected drawing. He would take it down to the market in daylight. For now he was content that he had found his own way back from the bird.

In his sleep, Jon heard someone walking across a roof. He looked up into a crow's face, then found himself beneath white walls above a muddy yard. Torn wedding silk hung from a gallery. A battered knight lowered his lance. Men tore dragons from their breasts; hammers struck stone. Jon tried to follow one scene, but another took its place. Maynard Plumm waited beside a well in a purple cloak. His face changed when he turned, growing old, then young again. One eye shone red.

"What are you showing me?" Jon asked.

"You recognised him before he turned," Bloodraven said. "Where have you heard of this wedding?"

"You chose a conspicuous cloak." Jon kept his attention upon the well.

"I had watched another road for a long while. Then yours crossed it." The young face aged again. "You were not the eyes I expected to find here."

Bran came to mind, the boy the books had sent north. Bloodraven had named no one. Jon would not supply a name for him.

"You brought me," he said.

"And you see more than I have shown." The voice thinned until the hammering almost drowned it. "You will need that sight for more than kings." Jon tried to turn, but the yard was gone. He woke with dried blood beneath one nostril.

Arthur rose from the chair beside the hearth. "Jon?"

"He spoke. There was a wedding."

Arthur brought a cloth for his nose and sat upon the bed. Jon pressed it beneath one nostril.

"You were bleeding before you woke."

"It has stopped."

"You could not hear me." Arthur's voice sharpened. "I called you three times."

Jon lowered the cloth. Arthur was still dressed, though the hearth had burned nearly to ash. He rubbed both hands over his face.

"We leave this alone."

"The dreams?"

"The birds. The horse." Arthur looked towards the shutter. "Whatever lets him reach you."

"He reached me before I knew what I was doing. Refusing to learn will not keep him out."

"And you believe he will teach you how to shut him out?"

Jon paused. "He may teach me enough to discover that myself."

Arthur rose and went to the hearth. He moved a fallen log with the poker, scattering sparks, then set it down harder than he intended.

"You cannot treat him as another craftsman with something useful to teach you."

"I know what men say about my father's family. Madness in the blood. Dreams mistaken for prophecy. I know what my grandfather became."

"I stood beside your grandfather."

"I know."

"You know what you have been told." Arthur turned back. "I watched men search his face before answering a simple question. Your father was different, but once he believed a thing had been foretold, it was hard to make him consider anything else."

"Then question me. You have never needed leave."

"And when I tell you this is too dangerous?"

"Tell me how to make it safer. The gift will still be there."

Arthur looked at the blood upon the linen. "I cannot follow you into these dreams, Jon. Tonight I could do nothing but keep calling."

Jon laid the cloth upon his knee. "A crow could show me an ambush before we rode into it. I could look beyond a wall and see how many men held the gate. Bloodraven understood what that was worth."

"He used more than birds. Men vanished because they spoke against him."

"Then warn me when I begin doing the same. Learning his craft does not oblige me to serve him."

"You think he will ask nothing in return?"

"I expect him to ask. I have not promised to give it."

Arthur remained by the hearth. Jon waited until he looked up.

"This gift came through my mother. My father left me a claim men would kill me for. I mean to win that throne, Arthur, and live to hold it. I shall need what both of them gave me."

"And if this kills you before you ever leave Winterfell?"

"Then we learn slowly. With you beside me."

Arthur came back to the bed. "When I say you have had enough, we stop. No waiting until your nose bleeds."

Jon glanced at the cloth. "Agreed."

"And you tell me what he asks of you."

Jon hesitated.

Arthur pulled his chair closer. "Especially the things you think I will dislike."

"He asked how I recognised someone in the dream."

Arthur watched him. "Who?"

"Let me tell you what I saw first."

Arthur brought water. When Jon had washed, he began describing the white walls and the man beside the well. The knight listened before reaching for his parchment. Outside, a cart rattled beneath the window, bringing the first flour to the bakehouse.

 

[aiwonder]

Bran wanted the antlers. He had heard Farlen speak of a hart's tracks beside the wolfswood road, and now he kept both hands spread above his head while Robb buttered an oatcake.

"Antlers," he said again, leaning towards his brother.

"If we find him," Robb promised.

Theon took the last crisp strip of bacon. "After twenty-five boys walk into the wood, Farlen will be lucky to find a squirrel."

Hugin watched from the open window. Jon put a scrap of meat on the sill before the crow could investigate the platter. Munin landed beside him, pushed beneath his wing and took it. Bran lowered his antlers long enough to laugh.

"You could come and show us how it is done," Jon said.

"Ser Rodrik has other plans for me." Theon looked less sorry than he ought to have done. Robb suspected those plans would occupy only the morning.

Arya wanted to go. Sansa reminded her that she had frightened away the cat she meant to catch the day before, and Arya began to explain that she had let it escape. Septa Mordane told her to finish her porridge.

"Bring me a hoof, then," Arya told Robb.

"What would you do with a hoof?" Sansa asked.

"Keep it."

Sansa wrinkled her nose and turned to Robb. "Jeyne says deer hide makes good gloves. May we have some?"

"If Farlen finds your deer," Eddard said. "You have divided most of it already."

Catelyn looked towards the short hunting spear Robb had left beside the door. "You are to stay with Farlen or Ser Arthur."

"I will, Mother."

"Jon leads the household today," Eddard said. "Listen when he calls you." He passed Robb the bread, and the matter was settled.

Old Nan was to have the tongue. Arya had asked her which part she liked, and now insisted that Robb remember it. He counted the requests on his fingers while Jon finished his breakfast. Bran caught at one of the fingers and said, "Mine."

"Aye. I remember yours." Robb lifted him onto his knee and let him finish the buttered oatcake.

The rain had ended before dawn. Robb's pony picked along the ridge between two wheel-ruts as Winter Town dripped around them. House Black waited at the lower gate without horns or bright hunting silk: eight shaggy garrons in mended tack, one gelding blind in a white eye with a scar beneath its saddle cloth.

Arthur held Bucephalus while Jon checked the girth with both hands. Short silver strands had escaped his tied-back hair. He glanced at Robb's mud-splashed boots. "Those may survive the first mile."

Robb grinned. "Where do you want me?"

"Beside me. Farlen has the hounds ready."

Eddard came down on his mud-flecked chestnut with Jory and the escort. While Ralf checked the last girths, Farlen described the two ways he had walked back to the road yesterday.

"Stay with Jon," Eddard told Arthur. "Leave the hunt to Farlen and Harwin." The knight inclined his head, and Eddard asked Jon's route.

"Along the wolfswood road, then west where Farlen found the tracks. We shall practise moving through the trees and be home before dark."

"Good hunting."

Tomas called the household into files. Elspeth came from the kitchen with oatcakes wrapped in linen and passed them to Alasdair for the packs.

"Remember the liver, Farlen."

"I know," the huntsman said. "You have told me twice."

"And yet I have had to remind you before." She gave him the last bundle, and he rode off laughing.

Eight of the household rode the garrons while the others walked beside their files, changing places when Ralf called. Jon dismounted at the first change and led Bucephalus; Robb let Cressen have his pony. The boy climbed up with both hands on the saddle bow, trying not to show how pleased he was. Their garrons were brown, dun and grey, with old collar scars beneath two saddles. Ralf had chosen quiet animals accustomed to children and long roads. Luwin had allowed Olyver to ride again after examining his shoulder the day before, provided he kept to quiet horses and left the heavy work to others. Through the rougher ground Olyver led the white-eyed gelding, keeping to the side it could see. Beyond the last crofts the pines closed around them. Drops fell heavily from the boughs, and the hounds lowered their noses to the wet earth.

* * *
​

They found fresh sign beside a holly brake. Farlen crouched over the droppings and pointed west, calling Harwin to bring the hounds. Jon sent Tomas along the higher ground with two files and took the others below him. In the trees the boys kept sight of the man ahead, passing a raised hand back whenever the line stopped.

Leather creaked and water ticked from the needles. A jay screamed overhead. Then a hind broke cover below the ridge, followed by another. The hart came over a fallen pine after them. Wet needles clung to his dark back; his antlers brushed the lower branches and shook rain about him. For a moment he stood broadside, one black eye fixed upon the riders. Then he wheeled away.

Rylas ran after him. Cressen followed before Tomas called them back.

"Here!" Tomas struck his staff against the pale trunk of a lightning-split pine. Rylas stopped within sight of it and pulled Cressen back by the sleeve. The two returned flushed and breathing hard.

Jon halted the two lower files and went up to where Tomas waited with Rylas and Cressen. Ralf had stopped the horses below the turn, leaving the whole household strung out along the slope.

"Look behind you," Jon told the two boys. "Four files waiting because you wanted to chase a deer." He turned to Rylas. "Cressen followed you. You are meant to keep your file together."

Rylas looked down the empty track the hart had taken. Cressen kept his eyes on Jon.

"Tomas takes your file for the rest of the day. You stay beside him, both of you. When he moves, you move."

"Yes, my lord," Rylas said. Cressen nodded beside him.

Farlen's horn sounded to the west. They moved on more slowly, following the hounds through a band of close-set pines. Boughs caught the shield rims and shook cold water down their collars. On the steeper ground the garrons lowered their heads and picked their way among black, slippery roots. Jon's thighs ached from gripping the saddle. He loosened his knees where the path widened and leaned forward again for the next descent.

Harwin appeared in a deer track with his bow drawn. The hart crossed below him. His first arrow passed beneath its belly; the second struck behind the ribs. The beast lurched, recovered and plunged downhill.

"Hold the horses!" Ralf shouted.

Robb's pony slipped in the churned leaf mould. Arthur caught its bridle while Jon seized the other rein, bringing its head uphill until it found its feet. Robb climbed down, shaken, and took the reins from Jon.

A horse screamed below them. The wounded hart had turned across the slope towards the waiting garrons. The white-eyed gelding reared, throwing Donnel onto his back. Ralf hauled two of the other horses clear. Alasdair caught a loose bridle as the hart struck a birch and turned again, its antlers sweeping towards the fallen boy.

"Shields to Donnel!" Jon called. "Rylas, get him out!"

Gage and Finnan reached him first. They braced their shields while Rylas crawled behind them. The hart struck Gage's shield with its lowered head, knocking him backwards. Tomas came against his shoulder and held him up. A tine tore through Finnan's sleeve. Behind them Rylas caught Donnel under the arms and dragged him over the roots.

Farlen was already running down the bank with his boar spear. Jon called Gage aside as Donnel came clear. The hart turned at the movement; Farlen drove the spear beneath its breast, and Harwin caught the shaft beside him. The animal stumbled to its knees. Farlen went beyond the antlers and finished it with his knife.

For a moment Jon could hear only the men breathing and a loose garron crashing through the fern. Then Tomas began calling the files together. Ralf went after the loose garron. Olyver waited beside the track with the horses that had stayed.

Jon knelt beside Donnel. "Where does it hurt?"

"My back, my lord."

Arthur felt carefully along his ribs and spine while the boy lay still. Donnel could move his feet, though turning made him wince. Farther up the slope Cressen was binding Finnan's shallow cut with clean linen. Gage stood rubbing his left arm.

"You three did well," Jon told Gage, Tomas and Rylas. "He could not have got clear alone."

Rylas wiped the mud from his mouth. "I saw where he fell."

Robb came down leading his pony. He looked at the dead hart, then at the deep scratches across Gage's shield. He handed the reins to Cressen and went to sit beside Donnel while Arthur finished examining him.

* * *
​

Farlen dressed the hart beneath the pines. Steam rose when he opened the belly, and the smell of blood mixed with crushed fern and pine resin. The boys held the legs, fetched water and kept the hounds away. Two went pale and stepped back until Farlen called for more water. He gave Harwin the heart, wrapped the liver for Elspeth and saved the tongue for Old Nan.

"One tine's broken," Robb said. He tied Bran's cord about a sound one lower down the antler.

"That is big enough for him," Jon said.

"For now. He will want the rest when he sees it." Robb helped bind the carcass to two carrying poles.

Jon halted them to eat before they shouldered the poles. Beneath a spreading pine Alasdair passed Elspeth's oatcakes round the half-circle, and Farlen washed at the run. Donnel lay on a blanket looking up into the branches. He tried to rise when Robb brought his food; Robb told him to stay down and sat beside him. Sunlight moved across his boots.

Near Arthur, Jon worked pine resin from his fingers with a cloth while the knight divided the cheese. The hounds settled with heavy heads on their paws, watching every mouthful.

"Brindle will remember that," Farlen said when Robb let a crumb fall beside his knee.

The dog had already lifted her head. Robb ate the rest more carefully. Farther round the circle, Cressen was showing Finnan a beetle large enough to carry on his thumbnail. Gage leaned over to look, holding the sore arm close to his chest. They ate, drank and listened to the water until Tomas called the first carrying pairs. Rylas and Cressen took their first turn at the rear, and he changed them before either had begun to stagger.

Donnel rode behind Ralf with a blanket about his bruised middle. Gage walked because his left hand was too sore to hold a rein. The files looked ragged among the trunks, but the boys passed each halt back and waited for those behind them. At the road they stopped to water the horses. Donnel approached the white-eyed gelding with a piece of oatcake, and the horse drew away.

"He hates me now," Donnel said, holding the oatcake where the gelding could smell without reaching.

"Let him smell it," Ralf said. He stood beside Donnel at the horse's sound eye. "Keep your hand open."

The gelding stretched towards the oatcake, then drew back again. Donnel waited until it reached a second time. The soft lips brushed his palm.

"Will I ride him home?"

"Not with that back. Olyver can take him." Ralf loosened the girth a little and checked beneath the pad while Donnel stroked the horse's neck.

They reached the first roofs of Winter Town smelling of blood. Dogs barked along the lane. Children ran behind the antlers. Women leaned from doors while the tired bearers straightened under their pole. Elspeth met them with a basin beneath one arm and a knife in the other.

"Hang it by the washhouse," Elspeth called. She took the liver from Farlen before he had finished dismounting.

Onions were already hissing in the pan. The smell drew the boys into the common room as soon as the horses had been rubbed down. Donnel eased himself onto a bench and received the first slice. Gage held his cup with both hands. Tomas sat only when Olyver came in with the last of the horse boys.

Ralf laid the gelding's torn rein beside Jon. "They need more room between the horses. Once the first one shied, the others had nowhere to go."

"Show Arthur before you leave," Jon said. He turned to Tomas. "And we will practise getting a fallen man behind the shields. Use the straw men tomorrow."

"Two shields on his left, my lord," Gage said. "I could not cover Rylas and hold the hart by myself."

Jon examined the torn rim. "Two on the left. We can try it when your arm is better."

Elspeth brought more liver. Gage reached for the platter with his sore hand, thought better of it and passed his plate to Finnan. Robb ate quickly, eager to take the antler uphill before Bran's bedtime.

Farlen wrapped the sawn base in sacking, though a dark patch soon soaked through it. Arya's hoof hung from Robb's belt. Harwin carried the folded hide over his saddle. The tongue went ahead in Elspeth's covered bowl, out of reach of the castle dogs.

Bran came along the gallery beneath his nurse's guiding hand. He saw the antler and stretched both arms towards it.

"This one," Robb said, showing him the cord. "Mikken will cut it for you."

Sansa and Jeyne came to inspect the hide. Jeyne lifted a clean edge from Harwin's saddle, and Sansa asked whether they could have their gloves lined in blue. Arya arrived at a run and seized the hoof from Robb's belt.

"It smells," Sansa said, stepping back.

Arya held it up as though it were a sword hilt. "Mikken can put a blade in it."

"Mikken has work enough." The smith had heard his name as he crossed the ward with an iron bar. He stopped to examine the antler Robb showed him. "I can saw that before supper. The hoof had best be cleaned before anyone takes it indoors."

Arya looked down at it, then at Sansa's retreating skirts. Robb caught her wrist before she could follow.

"No."

"I wasn't."

"You were." He took the hoof and hung it beside the washhouse. Bran began crying when he carried the antler to Mikken, and stopped only when the smith let him hold the loose cord.

Catelyn's eyes passed over the prizes and settled on Robb's muddied cloak and bruised wrist. "What happened?"

"My pony slipped. Arthur and Jon caught it. I am not hurt, Mother. Donnel was thrown; he is resting at the yard."

"Luwin is there?" She turned his wrist to examine it.

"Arthur sent for him," Jon said.

Theon came out of the armoury asking about the hart. Robb raised the bloody wrapping, remembered his mother and lowered it.

"Wash first," she told him. When he had gone, she turned to Jon. "He was to stay beside Arthur."

"He did, my lady. The ground gave under the pony."

She looked at the blood on his cuff without asking whose it was. "I am glad Arthur was close enough."

"So am I." Jon took Harwin's empty sacking and followed Robb to the basin.

Eddard found them washing and heard how the shields had got Donnel clear. "I shall see him tonight. Will you come?"

Both nodded. Robb poured the last clean water over Jon's hands before they went in.

They ate before going back down. Sansa and Jeyne discussed their gloves; Arya wanted to know when a hoof stopped smelling, until Mordane forbade the question at supper. Bran had fallen asleep with the antler cord in his fist. His nurse freed it finger by finger. Robb watched her carry him away, disappointed that the prize had failed to keep him awake.

Eddard carved the haunch, giving the youngest the tenderest slices, and asked about the holly track, the stream crossing and the garrons. Robb described the wood with his knife until Catelyn moved the wine jug; Jon supplied a forgotten place name.

Later a kitchen girl brought Old Nan's thanks for the tongue. She had asked whether the boys meant to empty the whole forest before she grew too old to chew.

"She was too old before I was born," Theon said.

"You may tell her so yourself," Eddard replied.

Before the girl went, Theon said, "Tell her I want to hear how that ship got off the rocks. She sent me away last night before the men had even raised a sail."

"She said you would come asking."

"Did she? Tell her I shall bring a better ending if hers is poor."

The girl went away laughing. Robb asked what ship he meant, and Theon began with the storm, pushing his cup aside to show how close the vessel had come to shore.

Nan had lost both sons in Robert's war and a grandson at Pyke. Jon had heard her speak of the grandson to Wylla; she still kept a little knife he had made her for cutting thread. When Theon joined the children by her fire, she would send him to fetch another stool. Jon listened as Robb asked whether the captain could have put his men ashore. Theon shook his head and began explaining the rocks again.

When the dishes were cleared, Jon fetched his cloak. Robb came without being called. Eddard joined them at the door, and the three went down through the lingering evening light to see Donnel. Jory brought six guards after them, leaving room for Robb to walk beside his father.

Elspeth had sent the customary haunch to the castle kitchens and divided the rest among the lower hall, Farlen, Harwin, the injured boys' homes, and the hands who had carried the carcass. Marya came for Harl's portion with two daughters. The younger girl asked whether men ate better on the high road.

"Worse," Ralf told her. "That is why they speak so fondly of supper after they return." She tied a little strip of yellow wool around his finger and went to find another for her father.

* * *
​

For two days the Falcon clock filled the work court: its body in a felt-lined cradle under waxed cloth, blue face and white case on another wagon, carved wings in long chests for Nestor Royce's narrow stair turn. Jon checked the cradle with Garrick and ordered a wedge where the case might shift. Olyver rolled hooks, oil, leather flaps and small tools in waxed linen.

Eddard had released Harl, Osbert, Wyl and Quent. Ralf read them the route: Garrick to see the clock aboard at White Harbor, Ralf to take the voyage and inland road to the Gates of the Moon.

The convoy was ready three mornings after the hunt. Woods followed the largest chest onto the road, reminding Osric where to support it. Marya and both daughters stood among the townsfolk watching the wagons. The younger had tied yellow wool round Harl's sword belt.

"It is a favour," she told Jon.

"He will be pleased with it," Jon said.

Harl bent to kiss his daughter and then Marya. She straightened the strip where it had twisted about his belt.

Jon gave Ralf the letter for Nestor Royce. "Seven dawns under the keeper's hand. Bring back his seal when it has passed."

Ralf tucked it inside his coat. "If he asks for another week?"

"You judge whether the clock needs it. Do not let him keep the men for show."

Garrick called that the team was ready. Ralf went to the lead wagon.

The wagons rolled beneath the black gate. Olyver rode beside Garrick's second team with his hooks and hide flaps under the seat; he would turn north again from White Harbor while Ralf carried the clock south. Harl swung into the saddle and raised a hand to his daughters as they called after him.

When the last black cover vanished beyond the pines, the household returned to the field. Two straw men lay behind a row of practice shields. At Tomas's call, Alasdair and Rylas went through the opening, took one beneath its arms, and hauled it back while Gage's file covered them. The straw man lost a boot. Tomas sent them back for it after the halt.

Donnel watched from beside the white-eyed gelding, oats in his open hand. When the shields struck together the horse raised its head. Donnel waited; after a moment it lowered its nose again.

Jon came over and stood on the gelding's seeing side while Donnel stroked its neck. Beyond them the shields struck again; this time the horse went on eating.

 

[aiwonder]

Ser Gawen of Willow Creek lost his last hope of Vale service when his lance broke against Ser Morton Waynwood's shield. He reached after the blow instead of letting it go. His weight passed the saddle bow, the brown mare took another stride and Gawen fell hard on his back. A hoof struck close enough to throw mud across his cheek. Beyond the rope, the crowd groaned.

"The course to Ser Morton!" the marshal called, while Waynwood's men beat split lance wood against their painted shields.

Pate Shett leaned across the rope. "If falls won purses, your debts would be ended." Beside him, Kennet Coldwater held up three fingers to show which debt he meant.

Gawen stayed on one knee until air returned to his chest. He wiped mud from his cheek with the back of his glove and managed a lopsided grin. "Morton has half my lance in his shield."

"And all of himself in the saddle," Kennet replied. The mare had stopped at the end of the lists. A squire held her reins and ran one hand beneath the girth.

"She is sound, ser," the squire said.

The mare was unhurt; Gawen checked her legs, girth and stirrup leathers before seeking work. By noon Mooncrest's pavilions were coming down. The Gulltown merchant had hired six men already; the Corbray tents turned him away. A Royce man suggested Runestone when Bronze Yohn next gathered riders, but could give no date.

He returned to find Pate drinking ale on Kennet's folded cloak. Men stripped the white canvas from a Waynwood pavilion while a woman wrapped its cups. Green cloth fluttered over a cart of bedding. By the lists a fiddler still played to three boys and a drunk asleep against a wheel. Gawen hoped he had been paid in advance.

Gawen put his shield beside the mare's feed bag, pressing down a fresh splinter bright against the old grey wood. She nosed him for her customary oats; he gave her the little left. Two well-fed destriers passed towards covered quarters, their embroidered saddlecloths still clean. He watched them go, then unbuckled his dusty tack. Pate waited until the mare had finished before speaking.

"Good news," he announced. "You need never tilt again."

"Have you found me work?" Gawen asked.

"My cousin's good-sister needs a husband. She owns two geese."

Kennet pulled his cloak out from under Pate. "Her first husband ran away."

"I shall keep her in mind." Gawen tightened the straps around his bedroll.

Pate watched him for a moment, then put the ale down. "Nothing?"

"Nothing that pays." Pate had an uncle's table in Gulltown and work on the wool roads. Kennet's elder brother kept a place for him at Coldwater Burn. Neither was rich, but both knew where they would go when their purses emptied.

Kennet tapped the small purse beneath his jerkin. "Three silver stags, Gawen. I should like them back before another tourney eats them."

"You will have them," Gawen said.

"When?"

"I do not know." He looked at the mare eating beside the picket line.

Pate offered him the ale. "Come to Gulltown. My uncle can use another sword with the wool."

Gawen drank before answering. "For a moon. Then I am looking again."

"It would pay Kennet."

"And feed the mare," Kennet added.

"I know. But I have spent three years going from one road to another. I want service that lasts." Gawen returned the skin. "I am riding west. There may be work beyond the Gate."

Kennet studied him. "Do not go because you lost one tilt."

"It was my last entry bought on borrowed coin."

Pate rose and began gathering his own things. "We will ride with you as far as the turning."

Mooncrest dropped behind them beneath a high washed sky. Torn pennons snapped above the gate, and a cart carried broken barriers downhill for kindling. Pate improved Gawen's fall through the first mile. By the second, a lady had cried out from the gallery. Kennet said it had been a page spilling cider. Gawen let them quarrel. The road wound between sheep fields and old grey walls. Summer snow lay in seams high upon the Giant's Lance; below, rain had blackened the pines and filled the runnels.

"Strong Sam will hear about that reach," Pate said.

"He told me often enough not to do it." Gawen flexed his bruised shoulder.

Before Pate could answer, a horn sounded beyond the next bend: one clear note, then half another. A horse screamed. All three drove in their heels.

* * *
​

The high road narrowed between a broken stone wall and a pine slope steep enough to take a falling man. A wagon stood across the bend with one rear wheel dragged into the ditch. A tall timber cradle rose empty beneath torn oilcloth. One garron hung dead in the traces. The remaining team fought leather, wheel, and the weight beside them. Three northmen still held the road. Clansmen came from above and below: goat-hide mantles, round shields painted with blue jaws, short bows among the rocks. Gawen counted five on the lower road, three already at the wagon, and shapes moving through pine higher up. A rope ran from the mired wheel into the brush. They had pulled the wagon sideways after it entered the bend. One guard lay beside the rear wheel. Another had dragged himself against its rim, both hands pressed to his thigh. The grey-haired man among the traces held half a spear. A yellow strip of wool showed at the dead man's belt. The bowman above turned towards Pate. There was room for one horse between wall and wagon.

"I go first," Gawen said. "Kennet, break the lower rush. Pate, watch the rocks."

Pate bent over his horse's neck and followed. Gawen set his lance and took the gap between wall and wagon. The mare's shoes scrambled on wet grit. His point struck a bowman rising beside the wheel. He felt the ash bend and opened his hand before the lodged lance could wrench him from the saddle. A painted shield filled the road ahead. The mare struck it with her shoulder and stumbled. Gawen held his seat as an axe came down against his shield, numbing his left arm.

Gawen drew his sword. The axeman swung again. He caught the haft on his shield rim, shoved it aside and cut beneath the raised arm. Blood soaked the goat-hair cloak as the man fell against the wheel. Behind Gawen, Kennet's lance broke. Pate came through with his sword drawn, and the narrow road rang with iron and frightened horses.

Three clansmen were cutting the live team free on the far side of the wagon. The grey-haired northman among the traces had only half a spear left. Gawen slipped out of his stirrups, planted a boot on the wheel and climbed across the bed. An arrow struck the empty timber cradle over his back. He dropped among the traces as an axe hooked the northman's broken spear. Gawen cut the attacker down. The second clansman raised a stone axe, but the northman drove his spear butt into the man's mouth and Gawen finished him as he reeled. The third fled into the pines.

"After him!" Pate called. He had opened the lower road. Kennet followed with half his shield hanging loose. Two northmen came beside them, one clutching a blood-dark arm. The Painted Dogs broke upslope. One stopped to cast a stone. It glanced from Pate's halfhelm and split the skin below his ear. He turned after the thrower. Above him, another bow bent between rocks.

"Down!" Gawen shouted. Kennet seized Pate's cloak. The arrow passed over his helm and shattered against the stone beneath the chestnut's hoof.

Gawen caught Pate by the shoulder. "Leave them. There are more bows above us."

Pate looked up through the pines and lowered his sword.

The grey-haired northman came round the wagon, blood running from his scalp into one eye. "Help with the wounded."

Seven clansmen lay on the road. One garron was dead in the traces, and the living team still fought to pull clear of it.

The northman pointed with his broken spear. "Quent, watch the rocks. Wyl, sit before you fall. Osbert?"

"Here." Osbert lay against the wheel with both hands pressed to his thigh. Blood welled between the fingers. The man beside the rear wheel did not answer. The grey-haired captain knelt, put two fingers below the jaw, and covered the body with his own cloak.

"Harl is dead." The northman looked up at Gawen. "Ralf is my name. I need clean linen."

Kennet brought it from his pack. Ralf folded a pad and pressed it against the torn thigh, then put Gawen's hand over his own.

"Hold it there."

Osbert hissed as Gawen leaned his weight into the cloth. Ralf worked a binding round the leg while Kennet supported it. Pate fixed Wyl's injured arm between two pieces of broken lance. Quent never turned from the rocks.

When the bleeding had slowed, Ralf searched Harl's purse. There were six coppers and a whetstone. He put them back and tied the purse closed with the strip of yellow wool Rhea had given her father.

"From his daughter?" Gawen asked, looking at the wool.

"Rhea. She gave me one too." Ralf tucked the purse inside his coat.

One of the fallen clansmen still breathed, a youth with blue paint across his face. Kennet's lance head had entered below his ribs.

"Name?" Ralf asked, kneeling where the painted youth could see him. The boy spat blood across the road stones.

The clansman tried to answer, coughed blood and died before Ralf could ask again.

Kennet searched the bodies and held up a greasy twist of hide. "Dried goat. No blankets, pots, or climbing rope but their ambush line."

"They came from near," Ralf said. Quent found bundles of arrows under an overhang and the rope tied behind the rear wheel.

Gawen looked up at the bend. The rope and the hidden arrows had been ready for travellers long before Ralf arrived.

Ralf looked at Kennet's colours, Pate's badge, and Gawen's plain shield. "Whose men?"

"Coldwater," Kennet said.

"Shett," Pate answered.

"I am in no man's service," Gawen said.

They cut the dead garron from the traces. Pate led the surviving horses away while Kennet and Quent cleared the mired wheel. Gawen set his broken lance beneath the hub. At the second heave the wheel came up onto the road, and they blocked it with a stone while Ralf brought the wounded to the wagon. Osbert went into the bed, Wyl beside him. Harl lay beneath the empty cradle.

"What rode in that cradle?" Gawen asked as they shifted Harl beneath it.

"Lord Nestor's clock. We delivered it at the Gates of the Moon." Ralf drew his cloak over Harl's boots. "The keeper tried it for seven days. Nestor sent us home with his seal. No northbound ship at Gulltown would take our horses and wagon, so we are going home by road."

Osbert groaned as the wagon shifted. Ralf checked the binding once more, then helped Gawen spread the oilcloth over the men. Blood had stained the white falcon carved into the headboard.

They made only four miles before the light failed. The roughest stretches brought a cry from Osbert, and Ralf stopped often to examine his leg. Gawen rode last, listening for pursuit beneath the creak of the traces. None came. At dusk they found the remains of a watchtower beside the road.

* * *
​

A roofless watchtower stood by an old well where the road widened. Quent searched the broken stair. The wounded took the one dry corner. Harl lay against the wall, still wrapped in Ralf's cloak. Kennet discovered onions, bacon, barley, and no cook among the northmen.

"I can cook," Quent said.

Ralf looked at the pot. "You burned the last one."

"That was the fire."

Kennet kept the spoon. He did little better: the bacon blackened before the barley softened, though everyone ate it. Gawen walked round the wagon while some light remained, inspecting the arrow hole beside the carved falcon.

"The clock was out of reach before they stopped us," Ralf said. He sat on the hub splicing a cut rein. "An empty cradle for their trouble."

Pate stopped scraping scorched barley from the pot and stared at the white falcon. "Jon Black's clock rode this road?"

"Lord Black's," Ralf corrected.

"The boy with Arthur Dayne," Kennet said. Every Vale cookfire knew the black-clad child: Ashara Dayne's son, some said, or a northern witch's. All agreed the Sword of the Morning served him.

"Any other knights?" Pate asked.

"None when we left."

Gawen ignored Pate's look. "Who trains his men when Dayne rides with him?"

"Heward on foot, myself in the saddle. Household boys, not squires. Most have served near enough two years. They can handle a shield, but there are too many for me when the road takes me away."

"There is your place, Gawen," Pate said.

"You have no place to offer."

"A lord who sells clocks for six hundred dragons can feed one mare."

"If the price is true," Kennet said.

"He can pay a knight," Ralf answered. "He chooses his own men, and needs one who can teach. Ride north with us. I can feed you and the mare as far as Winterfell. After that, ask him yourself."

"Is that why you asked whose man I was?"

"Aye. You crossed that wagon when we needed you. I will tell him what happened."

Gawen turned the offer over. A long way for another refusal. Yet Ralf had seen him fight and had not asked who his father was.

"I will stand watches and help the team."

"You will be welcome." Ralf passed him the repaired rein to pack away.

Kennet spooned the last of the barley into Gawen's bowl. "Think before you wager. Winterfell is a long way from my purse."

"Which is why he chose it," Pate said.

Gawen ate the burned barley while they argued. Ralf lay beside Harl that night, his back against the broken wall.

The fire burned low against the tower wall. Kennet laid his damaged shield beside it and tested the loose edge with his knife. Pate had washed the blood from below his ear, leaving a pale strip through the road dust.

"You can have this strap," Kennet told Gawen. "The one beneath your knee is near gone."

"You need it for that shield."

"I need wood for this shield. Leather will not grow it back." He cut off the sound length and passed it across.

Gawen thanked him and worked the strap through the buckle by firelight. Pate held the lamp without being asked. From the dry corner came Osbert's uneven breathing and the quiet answer when Ralf asked whether he wanted water. They kept their voices low after that.

When the repair was done, Gawen rolled the old leather and put it away. Kennet had fallen asleep with his cloak round his shoulders. Pate was still looking into the fire. Gawen settled beside them, close enough for the same warmth to reach all three, and listened until it was time to relieve Quent.

At dawn they turned back towards the Bloody Gate. The wounded needed its maester, and Harl could not be carried home along the long road north. Osbert was given milk of the poppy while the wound was cleaned and bound afresh. Wyl's arm was broken but straight. The captain knew Kennet and Pate's uncle and had seen Gawen ride at Mooncrest. He took their account of the ambush without interruption. A clerk entered their names beside Ralf's, riders went to search the bend and a raven flew to Winterfell. Harl was buried beneath a cairn east of the wall.

Pate carried a stone large enough for both arms. Kennet fitted it above the cloak. Ralf stood with Harl's yellow wool in one hand until the last gap was closed.

At the western arch, Pate embraced Gawen hard enough to find every bruise.

"Write when you find your lord," Pate said.

"I will."

Kennet clasped his forearm. "And remember the three stags."

Gawen smiled. "You will have them before I enter another list."

"That is what I wanted to hear." Kennet lifted three fingers as they rode east. Gawen watched them round the bend, then tightened the mare's girth and followed Ralf west.

* * *
​

Beyond the mountains lay river fields, long hedges and muddy villages. Arryn riders left them at a ford; a wool train shared the road for two days. Gawen walked beside the mare each morning until his bruised side eased. Ralf let the team walk freely on sound ground and gathered them for descents. Rain entered Gawen's shoulder seam and sometimes drove him from beneath the wagon at night.

He learned to sleep through Quent's snoring. The man saved apple cores for the off-side garron and claimed the least-burned crust. They shaved hard cheese with daggers, softened oatcakes in onion broth and once bought a costly rabbit from a child. Gawen took his turn with the team; when a wheel sank into a causeway rut, he and Ralf lifted it with poles.

On clear days they dried blankets over the rails. Quent warmed his shirt across his shoulders before putting it on, sighing loudly enough to earn Ralf's headshake. Fresh hay instead of old wet straw began to seem a stable luxury worth paying for.

At an alehouse Osbert stretched his bound leg along a bench while Wyl cut his bread. Ralf found a private corner to change the bandages with hot water. After supper Gawen grazed the mare beside barley strips and watched two children drive geese home through a hedge. When he returned, someone had moved his bowl nearer the fire and left bread beside it.

The Neck's road seemed to float over black water. Gnats found every seam; low branches caught the cradle until Quent wrapped the carved falcon beneath the wagon. At the White Knife they met three northbound trade wagons. Garrick received Harl's news in silence. With him rode a grey-bearded man whose hands were scarred by saws and a black-coated youth with tools in oiled hide.

"Master Woods, Olyver," Garrick introduced them over cups. "Ser Gawen of Willow Creek. He helped Ralf on the high road." That evening he removed a cup from the fire circle and poured Harl's share into the earth. Gawen waited for a prayer.

"Northern custom?" he asked Ralf later.

"Garrick's."

The trains joined for the last stretch. By their third camp the drivers knew that Gawen checked his mare's picket before eating and would not dice for coin he lacked. He learned of Jon through quarrels: the boy could hear a poor axle before it turned; Dayne had killed a boar with Jon on its back. Garrick gave a longer account of Jon wading into a flooded lane to fetch a widow off her stool.

"Did he really ride the boar?" Gawen asked.

"No," Olyver said. "Jon braced the spear between the roots. Ser Arthur pulled him clear."

"The blow threw him off his feet," Garrick added. "That was dangerous enough without the rest."

Winterfell rose above the rain-dark pines beneath a broad cap of smoke. Round towers, square towers and old walls appeared one by one. Gawen had crossed the Vale looking for work and come halfway across the kingdom with Ralf. Now he wished he had mended his surcoat before leaving Mooncrest. The gate guards recognised the team and called down for news.

Ralf led the wagons through Winter Town to the Black Yard. Boys rode between close-set rails. Gawen was trying to judge their seats when he saw Arthur Dayne watching from the side in a rain-dark grey cloak, mud on one boot. Beside him stood a lean child in fitted black wool, cuffs turned back for work. Dark hair framed a long young face; a pale lock showed above the left temple. Gawen had expected a boy. He had not expected him to be quite so small.

Ralf dismounted. "We are home, my lord." The young file leader raised a hand, and the boys halted while the wagons came through the gate.

Jon Black looked first at the purse tied with yellow wool in Ralf's hand. "Harl's things?"

"Yes, my lord." Ralf passed the purse to him.

Jon held it against his coat. "Was it quick?"

"He was gone when I reached him. He had gone to help Osbert."

"I will go with you to Marya," Jon said. "Wylla has been seeing to her and the girls."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Harl's wages will be paid for six moons, and his road share with them. Luwin has the place of burial?"

"He does."

Jon returned the purse, and Ralf brought Gawen forward. The boy's purple eyes passed over the stitched shield, patched mail and worn spurs to the quiet mare. "Ser Gawen of Willow Creek. The letter named you, Pate Shett and Kennet Coldwater."

"They rode east from the Bloody Gate, my lord. Coldwater and Gulltown still have beds for them."

"Ralf says you crossed the wagon while arrows struck the cradle."

"Men needed help on the far side. The wagon happened to stand between us."

"Whom have you served?"

"Ser Samwell Stone taught me at Runestone. Strong Sam. I have ridden for the Coldwaters and Shett merchants out of Gulltown. I owe no service elsewhere."

"Then eat and rest. Ralf tells me you can ride and fight. Tomorrow I should like to see you teach."

Arthur offered his hand. Gawen took it, relieved not to be sent straight back into the saddle. A servant showed him a bed above the stable. He washed, slept an hour, then went with Ralf and Jon to return Harl's things to Marya before supper.

* * *
​

The following morning Gawen saddled the borrowed bay and rode it twice round the yard before taking a practice lance. Arthur waited on foot at the other end, practice sword in hand and shield raised. The household gathered along the rail. Gawen adjusted his grip, set his heels and brought the horse into a canter.

His first point slid off Arthur's shield. On the second pass he struck cleanly and heard the boys shout. Arthur gave him little room after that, turning his shield as they met and touching Gawen twice before he could recover. On the fifth pass an opening appeared below the shield. Gawen reached for it. Arthur turned, struck behind his hip and sent him into the mud.

Gawen rolled, stood and laughed. He knew what Strong Sam would have said.

"I wanted that one too badly."

Arthur handed the bay's reins to Tomas. "Show him."

Gawen stood beside the saddle and put his hand where his weight had passed the stirrup. "I could not reach him from a sound seat. I leaned instead of taking the horse closer."

Tomas mounted at Arthur's signal. Gawen watched him ride a slow pass, then another. The boy held the lance steadily, but stiffened when he expected the blow. Gawen had him lower it and ride through the turn again, using his knees while he kept his hands quiet. By the fourth circuit Tomas brought the bay round without tugging its mouth.

"Better," Gawen told him. "Now take the lance."

Ralf called Gawen across when the passes were done. Donnel waited beside the white-eyed gelding near the training lane. A deer hide hung over the far rail, and the horse kept turning its head towards it.

"He threw the boy on the hunt," Ralf explained.

Gawen watched Donnel hold the reins. "Give him a little more room." He moved the hide back from the lane, then walked beside the boy while they led the gelding past it. The horse snorted and stopped. They waited until it lowered its head before going on. At the end Gawen had Donnel turn it and walk back the same way.

"Do that again after he has rested," he said. "Do not try to force him through."

Donnel nodded. Ralf watched the horse pass the rail once more, then took the reins so the boy could join his file.

By noon Gawen had mud on both knees and three boys waiting to ask about their seats. It was a small household: patched shields, eight rough horses, no bright liveries. Yet Tomas kept the files moving without having to shout twice, and the boys listened when Gawen corrected them. He began to think he could be of use here.

In the hall Nestor Royce's seal lay beneath the keeper's account. Ralf sat at the lower end with a bowl of broth. Jon had the head of the table. Arthur stood near the hearth and let him speak.

"What would you begin with?" Jon asked.

"More work without the lance. Most can strike a target, but they stiffen when they expect a blow. I would have them turn and halt together until they scarcely need the reins."

Jon nodded. "You will work with Ralf. Heward keeps the foot drill, and Arthur the sword."

"I understand, my lord."

"Ride with me until the coming harvest. Teach the household, and take the field beneath my banner. I will keep you and the mare and pay your wage. If we suit one another, there will be a place for you on Dragonstone."

"Where shall I swear?"

"Before the heart tree this evening," Jon said. "Eddard Stark will hear it."

Gawen glanced at Ralf. "You have seen Dragonstone?"

"Aye. You will need to keep the salt off your mail."

"My castellan, Ethan Glover, commands five hundred men on Dragonstone," Jon said. "Two hundred from the North and three hundred sworn men of the island. The barracks and stables need work. I mean to put them right before we go."

"Then there will be work for me."

"More than enough."

Jon clasped his hand. At dusk they went beneath the heart tree. The godswood swallowed the noise of the castle after the first turning; under the branches the air was cool and smelled of damp earth. Gawen had left his spurs at the house. His boots made little sound upon the path, though Ralf's tread followed close behind him.

Eddard stood near the pool with Arthur and Tomas. Jon waited before the pale trunk, the last light catching the white lock in his black hair. Without the table between them, Gawen saw again how young his new lord was. Then Jon spoke his name, steadily and without a glance towards either man beside him, and Gawen knelt.

He gave the words they had agreed: his sword, his teaching and his service beneath the black banner. Jon received them with Gawen's hands between his own. A healed scar lay near the thumb of the small hand closing round his. When Gawen rose, Eddard clasped his forearm and welcomed him to Winterfell.

Ralf walked beside him on the way back. For once he had nothing to say about horses. They crossed the quiet ward and passed through Winterfell's gate. Below them the town's lights showed between the trees, and Gawen could see smoke rising from the kitchen where his supper waited.

Elspeth filled his bowl with venison stew, and Tomas showed him the place laid at the upper table. The household talked over the morning's riding while Gawen ate. Donnel insisted he had seen Gawen strike Arthur cleanly; Olyver had been fetching the gelding and wanted to hear it again. Across the room the new knight's damp cloak hung beside Ralf's, steaming gently towards the rafters.

Ralf drank once towards Harl's empty place. No one asked Gawen to retell the ambush. When supper ended, he went to see the mare. She had been rubbed down, her coat shining dark beneath the stable lantern. Fresh hay filled the rack, and her saddle cloth was dry.

Tomas found him there with the borrowed bay's bridle.

"Shall I bring him at first light, ser?"

"After Heward has finished with you. I will speak to him."

Tomas nodded and hung the bridle on its peg.

When Tomas had gone, Gawen finished with the mare and climbed to his room. The narrow bed stood ready beneath a sound roof. Kennet's three stags remained unpaid, and his purse was nearly empty. He set his boots beside the bed and lay down, stretching his stiff leg beneath the blanket.

 

[aiwonder]

William woke to his aunt pulling dead Edrick's boots onto his feet.

"They pinch at the ankle," he said, curling his toes against the packed wool where Edrick's toes had once rested.

"They are too long." His aunt packed more torn wool into the toes and loosened the laces at his ankle. Three cousins watched from the pallet beside the candle-shop hearth. The two eldest pretended to sleep. Little Beth had taken William's blanket and wrapped it about her shoulders.

"I shall sleep here tonight," she said.

"You kick."

"You snore."

Their mother turned William's face towards the rushlight and wiped a smudge from his cheek. She wet his black hair and combed it with her fingers. The shop had no spare charcoal to warm a basin before the market bell. Behind them, pale candles hung from their wicks. Beeswax tapers for the castle were wrapped in linen on the high shelf; common tallow dips filled the rest of the room with a sour, greasy smell.

"When Lord Black speaks, answer clearly. Call him my lord."

"I know."

"And do not interrupt." She gave him a heel of barley bread. "Eat on the way. If they have no work, we shall still be back to scrape the moulds."

William looked at the rolled blanket by the door. "If they keep me?" The answer took longer. Fever had buried his father first and his mother six days after. Since then he had slept at his aunt's hearth, dipped wicks until his hands smelled of fat, and learned that four children might share two pallets if no one insisted upon a fair portion of blanket.

"Then Beth gets your corner," his aunt said, scraping the barley pot's thin brown crust back beneath the spoon.

Little Beth waved from inside the stolen blanket. "I have it now."

Winter Town was waking beneath a yellow-grey sky. Bakers' boys carried boards under cloth; a butcher sluiced old blood into the gutter. Boys came from every lane, some with fathers, some with mothers whose hands stayed fixed upon their shoulders. Two brothers from the washerwomen's row shared one green cloak until the elder saw the crowd at House Black's gate and wrapped all of it around the younger. Kin pressed three deep against the rail. Fathers praised strong backs. Mothers praised quiet hands. An uncle boasted that his sister's son could bear a beating, then cuffed the boy when he began to cry.

William's aunt drew him away from the shouting uncle. The gate opened, and a torn-eared old soldier came through with an ash staff. William knew his face from town but not his name. One leg swung stiffly. Behind him stood a young captain in a weathered black cloak and four files of household guards. Their coats were not all the same black: rain had drawn blue from some and brown from others, and many hems had been lengthened.

"The guard has all its places," the old soldier called. "Master Ralf needs boys for the stables and the wagons. The workshops may take one or two if the masters find them fit. Boys come inside. Kin give Perkin true names, true ages and any service already owed."

A tall lad beside William hid his mouth behind one hand. "Say fourteen. No one measures years at a gate."

His mother called from the rail, "Thirteen, my lord!"

"Thirteen, then," the old soldier said. "Give the clerk your name."

The lad lowered his head and went inside.

William's aunt handed his blanket over the rail. "Shoulders back."

"The boots still feel strange."

"Keep them on." She straightened his shoulders before the gate shut between them. Inside, smoke rose from a forge roof. A cook sent two black-coated boys back for bowls they had left beneath the eaves. Carpenters had stripped half the shingles from the outer storehouse. Wind lifted a loose corner of the cloth covering it, and the first drops of rain struck the paving.

"Ralf! The oats are still outside." Heward opened the gate while the grey-bearded stablemaster backed the wagon beneath the eaves and called the waiting boys to help.

"Two boys to a sack. Oats to the loft; leave the oil casks for the men."

William caught the end offered by the tall thirteen-year-old. They carried it upstairs beneath a dry beam and came back for another. Rain was already running off the roof cloth.

At the wagon the dun mare tossed her head. The boy holding her pulled harder. An older lad stepped up beside him and put a palm against her neck.

"Let her look."

The roof cloth cracked again. This time the mare turned her head towards it and stood.

"Name?" Ralf asked.

"Iain, master."

"Keep hold of her."

Two men rolled the first oil barrel from beside the storehouse and up a plank into the cleared end of the wagon. William came down the stair as it began to move back towards the open tailboard.

"Stop," he called.

The nearer man caught it. Ralf turned at once.

"It wants a wedge," William said. "That board slopes."

Ralf put his boot against the rim while William fetched a block from beneath the carpenter's bench. They set it under the barrel, then lashed both casks against the headboard.

A man with a Vale voice took the rope end William passed round the side. "Leave the knot here. You will want it when you unload." He asked the boy's name, then watched him turn it. "One more turn, William."

The men took the wagon to the stone shed while the boys carried the remaining oats. William's boots filled with rain. Wool bunched beneath his toes; at the loft stair he stumbled and struck his knee against the edge of a step.

Ralf made him set the sack down. William rubbed his knee, then stood carefully.

"Carry the empty sacks for now," Ralf said. "Show Wylla if it swells." He turned back to the horses.

Iain was rubbing the dun mare's shoulder. He had taken the collar off and found a red ridge beneath its lining.

"It was twisted when they brought her out," he told Ralf.

Ralf ran a hand over the ridge. "Who is your father?"

"Creylen the cooper, master. We keep a pony for the hoops."

"Finish drying her. I shall speak to him afterward."

William heard the difference. Iain had been given another task after the morning's work. He watched him from the loft stair while the rain ran down his own bootlegs.

They ate late: hot onion broth, brown bread, sharp white cheese and small ale. William finished one bowl, then another. A red-haired kitchen woman set a boiled egg on his bread. He hesitated before taking it.

"It is for you," she said. "There is enough."

He was carrying his bowl back when Mikken called for a wagon pin. The old one had bent when the wheel sank. Beside him a broad smith with an old burn pulling down one corner of his mouth took the pin in tongs and set it in the coals. When the iron reached a dull red he straightened it with light blows. For the last strokes he used a wooden mallet, turning the pin and checking it against the stone sill.

William stopped to watch. The kitchen woman took the bowl from his hands and left him there. Lord Jon came to the bench with his black sleeves rolled clear. William looked twice at the silver in the dark hair above his left temple; the face beneath it was younger than his own.

"The mallet will not mark the surface as a hammer does," Jon told him. "That part turns inside the collar. It must be smooth."

The pin rolled straight on the sill. Mikken tested it in its collar and set both beside the finished work. The other smith wiped his tongs and hung them above the new hearth.

"Ewan will work here from now on," Jon told Mikken. "The clocks are taking too much time from your other work. If you need a hand with the ploughs, send word."

"I shall," Mikken said. "And he can use my larger hearth when he needs it."

Ewan's son brought the last tools across the yard and hung the tongs where his father could reach them without turning. The stable and the forge had found their boys. At his aunt's shop William knew by touch which rod held the fine wicks and which mould needed scraping; here even the smallest tools had uses he could only guess.

Jon set a short pair of callipers over the pin, tightened the joint and handed them to Ewan with a word about the next one. William followed the instrument from one hand to the other, then looked at the pin again.

Outside, the rain had eased to a patter. The other boys were being called back to the stable, but no one had called William. He stayed by the door until the smith's son needed to pass with a rack, then stepped aside and went to find his blanket.

* * *
​

Rain came through the workroom roof above a wooden teaching wheel. William had left his blanket inside to keep it dry and went to move it when he saw water on the bench. A black-coated apprentice hurried in with cloths.

"Take that end," he told William.

They lifted the frame beneath a sound beam. While the other boy covered a brass movement nearby, William wiped the wooden rim. The hand on its painted dial jerked as he turned the wheel.

"It catches," he said.

"It is old." The apprentice came over. "I am Olyver. What are you called?"

"William." He turned the wheel again. At the same point the hand stopped, then jumped. He held it there and bent close.

Lord Jon came in carrying one end of a hide sheet. Arthur had the other. They laid it over the exposed benches, and Jon sent a boy for Woods to see to the roof.

"What have you found?" he asked William.

"One peg is lower than the others, my lord." William pointed without touching it. "It barely catches that tooth."

Jon turned the wheel slowly. The low peg slipped beneath the tooth, then caught it as the frame leaned. "Aye. Hold the wheel there."

He had Olyver bring a small hammer and drove the peg level. When William turned the wheel again, the hand moved smoothly round the dial. Jon watched him try it twice more.

"Have you worked with tools?"

"Only candle moulds, my lord. My aunt has me scrape them and mend the dipping frame."

Jon asked him how the frame was made. William described the crosspieces and the hooks for the wicks, forgetting the wet wool bunched in his boots. He was still speaking when his aunt called from the rail. She had Beth on one hip and her free hand resting on the rail.

"Wait," Jon called. William's aunt stopped. Wylla came up with dry shirts for the soaked boys; Arthur remained by the workroom door.

"Your nephew has a good eye," Jon said. "I can use him at the craft benches. Is he bound to the candle-master?"

"No bound years, my lord. What work would he do here?"

"He learns letters, figures, measures, wood and metal. He sleeps above the workroom, eats from my kitchens, and receives clothes and boots fit for the work."

His aunt shifted Beth. "He carries the wax and scrapes the moulds for us. The girls cannot manage the dipping frame yet."

Jon glanced at William's patched boots. "His wage will go to your hearth until he is grown. Perkin will settle it with you this afternoon."

"Thank you, my lord. He is a willing boy."

Wylla gave William a dry black shirt and knelt to loosen his wet laces. "We have a pair nearer his size. These are folding beneath him."

"They belonged to his cousin," his aunt said.

Jon turned to Olyver. "He will work with you after his letters. Begin with the tools, and bring him to me when we set out the next movement."

Jon looked at William. "Would you rather work at the bench?"

"Aye, my lord."

His aunt smoothed William's wet hair. "May he come home tonight, my lord? His cousins will want to hear."

"After supper." Jon turned to Olyver. "Show him where he will sleep."

"Do not grin yet," she told William. "You have only traded tallow for soot." He grinned anyway. Olyver gave him a broom.

* * *
​

For the first few days William spent much of his time with a broom. Olyver showed him where clean brass filings were saved for the melting pot, where iron went and which shavings could be used for kindling. William learned to put a tray beneath the bench before anyone began filing. It saved him crouching afterward to pick bright flecks out of the grit.

Ewan taught him to choose dry charcoal and check the bottom of a sack before accepting it. At the bench Olyver showed him how to clamp a small piece of brass and hold the file level. William liked that work best. He could see each stroke taking the edge closer to the line.

On the third day the file slipped and grazed his thumb. Wylla cleaned the cut while Jon finished measuring the piece. William watched him, ashamed of the blood on the cloth.

"I can use my other hand, my lord."

"You will have both again tomorrow if you leave it alone now." Jon set down the brass and took a slate from the shelf. "Come and show me your figures."

That evening William copied his name until the last letters no longer trailed downhill. Master Hollan or Perkin's youngest clerk taught the common lessons, but Jon often took William aside afterward.

One afternoon Jon put a smooth iron rod on the bench between them. Beside it lay another still bearing the rough skin from the forge, and a small plate with a round hole through it.

"This one is finished," he said, pushing the smooth rod through the plate. It turned with little room to wander. "This one must come down to the same breadth."

He closed the callipers over the finished rod and held them to the rough one. William could see daylight beneath one foot. Jon turned the rod a little and showed him the same place again.

"We take that down first. If you work all round it alike, the thin side will be too small before the thick side is right."

William held the callipers while Jon took a few strokes with the file. The rough skin brightened in a narrow strip. Jon stopped before the measure would quite pass and let William try it himself, first there and then farther along the rod.

"Still high, my lord."

"A little. Give it two strokes."

William set the callipers down and took the file. Jon stayed beside him, turning his hand so that the whole length of the tool worked instead of the last inch. Beyond the door Ewan's hammer struck; from the yard came the duller knock of practice swords. William could hear Olyver calling a change.

When the measure passed, Jon tried the plate. The rod entered but stopped halfway. He turned it under the light, found where it rubbed and showed William the bright patch. They worked there until the rod passed through and turned freely.

"Now clean it," Jon said. "Oil and a cloth. We do not leave the filings inside."

William wiped the metal carefully, then tried it once more. The change was small enough that he could scarcely see it, yet his fingers could feel the difference. Jon showed him where the rod belonged on Ewan's drawing for the next movement. William turned it once more in his fingers before putting it beside the finished work.

Other evenings they drew the end of a shaft square, or William held the lamp while Jon showed him how the wheels carried the motion from one arbor to the next. Sometimes Arthur had to remind them that supper was waiting. Jon would set the work down, wash his hands and go, with William following a pace behind and thinking about the part they had left unfinished.

His aunt visited on the tenth day with all three girls. Beth sat on the apprentice bed, bounced once and declared the mattress softer than hers.

"It is stuffed with the same straw," William said.

"Then his straw is better," Beth told Jon.

Jon smiled and let her bounce again. William's aunt examined the new boots, the healing thumb and the blanket hung from its peg. She asked whether he had been useful.

"He comes early and listens," Olyver told her. "He is learning."

His aunt smoothed William's hair. He ducked his head to hide his grin.

He took them down to the idle workroom. Beth reached for the wooden dial, but his aunt caught her hand until Olyver gave leave. William turned the teaching wheel; the painted hand followed him round the face.

"Is that the bell?" Beth asked.

"No. That is only the hand." He pointed out the arbor, pleased to know the word and show them what it meant. His aunt leaned closer to follow his finger.

William let the eldest girl turn the wheel while he held the frame. His aunt stayed close enough to catch a wandering sleeve and asked Olyver how the work was paid. Hearing his wage spoken of as something certain, due at the end of the moon, William looked down at his good boots.

Before they left, his aunt took a clean heel of bread from the cloth at her wrist and gave it to him. She had brought it without knowing what he would be fed. He thanked her and put it away for later, then walked with them as far as the gate.

During his third week William noticed the wooden teaching frame leaning towards the hearth. He fetched a square and held it against the upright, just as Jon had shown him. A narrow gap widened towards the top. He brought Olyver to see it before trying to move anything.

"The wood has warped," Olyver said. Together they carried the frame away from the heat. Later Jon showed William how a metal bearing plate could keep the axle true even when the rough wooden support moved. William held the square while Jon set it, then helped Olyver clear away the filings. This time he could turn the wheel and see why the repair worked.

At the end of the moon Olyver placed the lower workroom key upon William's slate.

William did not touch it. "Why?"

"You are here before the rest of us most mornings," Olyver said. "Open the workroom and look for damp before Ewan lights the hearth."

"May I keep it?"

"Aye. Hang it inside your shirt so it does not catch in the work. Tell me at once if you lose it." Olyver kept a finger on the key. "There is a promise first. No measured pattern leaves these rooms, and no selling the making to another master without Lord Jon's leave. He requires it of every hand he teaches."

"What if my aunt asks what I make?"

"Tell her. She has seen the teaching wheel. You may show her the winding too. The cutting patterns and master gauges stay with us."

William looked at the bench where he had fitted his first rod. "I swear it."

Olyver lifted his finger. "Then you may open up tomorrow."

William closed his hand about the key. It was cold and heavier than he had expected.

"I need a thong," he said.

Under the harness maker's eye William cut a leather strip, pierced it and hung the key inside his shirt. At supper Iain ate with Ralf's stable hands. When Tomas called the household into the yard, Olyver rose to join his file; William stayed with his slate until the last wrong figure was gone.

He left it for Perkin's clerk and asked leave at the gate. The key warmed beneath his shirt as he walked home. Candles still burned in his aunt's window, and through the open door he heard Beth arguing that she had saved him a place beside the hearth.

His aunt looked up from trimming a wick. She examined his face out of habit, then moved the rushlight so he could see the bowl she had kept for him.

"I have eaten," he said.

"Then sit while we do."

He sat in his old corner. Beth put her feet against his knee and wanted to know whether he had made the great bell yet. William shook his head and took out the small key instead. His aunt held it a moment, feeling its weight, before passing it back.

"Keep that safe."

"I will."

She returned to the candle she had been trimming. William watched until the wax began to cool, then rose to help her lift the finished tray. He knew that work too.
.

 

[aiwonder]

After a night spent at Winterfell, Wylla caught Jon halfway down the bedchamber stair and put two fingers through the gap between his glove and his sleeve.

Arthur and Robb were already in the covered yard below; Jon could hear ash striking limewood and Robb's laughter. Dawn had scarcely coloured the windows. He stopped on the cold stair while Wylla pulled his glove back.

Hugin croaked from the yard rail. He had begun following Jon between Winterfell and the Black Yard, sometimes riding the last stretch on his saddle roll. Munin preferred the roofs. She usually reached the kitchens first.

"That sleeve was long enough a moon ago."

"It catches across my back as well." Jon raised his arm, and the seam pulled tight.

"Then it is finished with you. Come." She took him back to the chamber, where Mairi brought a measuring cord and the basket of black thread. The coat had been a good one at midsummer: close black wool, horn buttons and grey linen at the neck. Wylla had let the cuffs down twice. Now his wrists showed, and the shoulders bound whenever he lifted a shield.

Growing still surprised him. He remembered letting out his belt in his first life, grey appearing at his temples, knees that ached after a climb. Here it was sleeves and stirrups that needed changing. His hands were larger than they had been a few moons before, though the forearms beneath the wool were still a boy's.

Wylla held the old coat open while Mairi fetched the other one. "Sometimes I stand outside your workroom and wait to be called."

"You need never wait."

"I know that." She drew the sleeve carefully over his hand. "Then I hear you with those men and forget. You sound so much older."

Jon looked up at her. She was studying him with the coat gathered against her breast. He touched her wrist.

"I still want you there."

"Aye, and you shall have me." She smoothed the white lock back from his brow before turning to Mairi. "Iain can wear this. Take off the badge and mend that elbow."

Jon pulled on his older practice coat. By the time he reached the yard, Robb had sweated a dark line down the back of his grey tunic. His red-brown hair curled at the nape, and his blue eyes brightened when he saw Jon fastening the last button.

"Did she shorten you enough to fit the coat again?" Robb asked, circling with his practice shield raised.

"She plans to, if I outgrow the next coat."

Arthur tossed Jon a round shield, then touched his padded sword to the boy's throat when Jon stepped too far. On the next pass Jon kept his step short. Robb came upon his open side; he caught the blow, but turned towards Arthur's low attack too soon and took Robb's edge beneath the ribs.

"You were watching him." Robb grinned. Jon caught his ankle with the shield edge, and both boys went down in the mud.

Arthur set aside his practice sword and planted a staff beside them. "Up."

"He is heavier than he looks," Robb complained.

Jon rolled off him. Above the yard Bran was making his way between the gallery pillars, his nurse close behind. Arya ran round the corner, saw the adults watching and slowed.

"I was walking."

"Walk beside Bran," Jon called.

She went back and took her brother's hand. For two pillars she kept his pace; at the third she hurried and pulled him off balance. The nurse steadied him. Arthur went up the stair and crouched beside the children.

"Do not pull him, Arya. Let him set the pace," he said.

Bran gripped Arthur's hand and reached the next pillar. Arya waited properly this time. When the knight returned, Jon kept his eyes on both opponents. Arthur caught him again, but had to change his attack to do it.

"Better."

Pate and two kitchen men waited at the arch for the passage to clear. The bellman lifted an approving fist; Arthur tapped Jon's boot, and Pate lowered it with a grin as Jon corrected his stance.

The bouts ended with both boys muddy and Robb complaining that Arthur had more arms than other men. Jon helped move the rack for the kitchen men.

"You nearly had him that time, my lord," Pate said.

"Tell him that. He keeps finding places I have left open."

One of the men asked when they would practise again. Arthur gave him the hour before he could stop himself. Eddard was waiting at the head of the stair.

"You have supplied him an audience," he said quietly when Jon went to fetch his cloak.

"They see him do something well and wish to see it again."

"I remember when you wanted them kept away from his lessons."

Arthur watched Pate help shift the last rack. "They looked at him differently then."

"Some of them still do. Now they carry better stories."

"Would you have him do badly for their peace of mind?"

"I would have him free to do badly without the whole castle asking what has gone wrong." Eddard looked towards the changing room. "Praise the work. Give him room to leave it."

Arthur rubbed mud from the staff with his thumb. When Jon returned, he took the boy's shield himself and sent him to wash before riding out.

Later Jon and Robb rode down to the Black Yard. Bucephalus moved sideways at the smell of wet ash from Ewan's forge, and Robb's bay tossed its copper-red mane. Tomas had the household drawn up beside the rail. Iain held two spare reins in Jon's old coat. The sleeves ended at his wrists, and tiny needle holes showed where Mairi had removed the badge.

"It fits you better," Jon said. Iain began to bow.

"Thank you, my lord." Iain dipped his head and took Bucephalus's reins.

Robb fell in beside Rylas for the run. Afterward they washed and went in to porridge, sage mutton and hot brown loaves. Perkin found Jon at breakfast, rain beading on his hair.

"A factor from Oldtown is here, my lord. He bears Lord Leyton's silver tower."

"Give him breakfast and a place by the fire. I will receive him when we have eaten."

While Tomas told Jon which horses Gawen meant to take out, Robb tried to persuade Gage to race his grey against the bay after lessons. Arthur's presence made him careful to avoid calling it a wager.

"On the firm ground," Jon said. "The lower bend is still wet."

"We rode through it."

"That is why I am telling you."

Robb grinned and went on settling the race as Jon left to receive his visitor.

The factor was Master Ronnel, a narrow man in smoke-grey wool with a small silver tower pinned to his breast. Road mud remained in the seams of his boots. A locked chest stood beside his stool, and an oiled leather tube lay across the table. He bowed when Jon and Arthur entered. Woods and Ewan followed to examine the drawings. Perkin took a stool beside Jon with his writing board.

Ronnel had finished his breakfast and folded the cloth beside the bowl. In the warmth his neatly trimmed beard had dried into little points. He looked from the working clock above the door to Jon, then down at the leather tube, as though putting an account he had heard beside the thing itself.

"Lord Leyton sends his greetings, my lord. He was much taken with the account of the clock at White Harbor."

"Has he seen it?"

"No. One of his captains has, and brought him a drawing. Since then he has sent three letters asking whether I had reached Winterfell."

Jon took the chair at the head of the table. "Then we had better give him an answer." He put his cup clear of the leather tube and beckoned Ronnel to open it. The factor slid out the sheets, which sprang back into a roll until Woods fetched weights for their corners.

Four sheets showed the crown of the Hightower, a great painted hand on each face. Two bells stood above them: one to tell the common hour and another to call the faithful to prayer. Lord Leyton's masons would open the stone and raise the scaffolding. House Black would supply the movement, weights, shafts, bells and dials, then send men south to install them.

"Nine hundred golden dragons," Ronnel said. "Half when you accept, half when Oldtown hears the first bell."

Woods laid a cord across the stair on the drawing. "This turn will not take the main frame. How far may the masons open it?"

"As far as need requires. Oldtown's masons know the tower better than any northern drawing can."

Ewan set his try-square beside the bearing seats. One wall leaned a hand's width in the mason's notes, though the drawing showed it straight.

"Then they can supply what is missing," Jon said. "I need a mason who has worked inside it. These shafts must run true through all four walls."

"A Myrish master has offered two faces for less," Ronnel said.

"Then you have his price for two faces," Jon answered. "Your drawings ask for four, and two bells larger than any we have yet cast."

"Lord Leyton asked for your work because the New Castle clock has not lost a quarter-hour since it was set."

"And he will have work as good. But these shafts must carry the motion through four old walls. The nine hundred will not cover what you want."

Ronnel drew the western sheet nearer. "What price would you require, my lord?"

"Two thousand one hundred dragons," Jon said.

Ronnel looked down at the sheets. Jon waited while the factor traced the route of a shaft with one finger.

"If a hand lags, the whole city will see it. Lord Leyton will expect you to answer for that."

"I will," Jon said. "Send your mason north to work with Woods on the full timber pattern. We shall settle the openings before cutting the great wheels. Mallon will oversee the bells."

Ronnel nodded slowly. "Fifteen hundred."

"Two thousand, with your mason travelling north before the first great wheel is cut."

"Six hundred now. Six hundred when the wooden pattern is accepted. Six hundred when all four hands have agreed for a moon. Eighteen hundred, and Oldtown gives your men bread, beds, timber, and scaffold." Jon looked to Woods.

"The mason must come before we cut the frame, my lord," Woods said.

Ewan indicated the bearing seats. "I shall need sound bar for these. White Harbor can supply it."

"Eighteen hundred," Jon agreed. "Your mason comes north before the first great wheel is cut. The first six hundred pays his journey, the timber proof and the casting bed. No finished wheel or bell begins until the pattern and our working ground are fit." Green wax closed the bargain. Ronnel opened the iron chest and counted six hundred dragons into three low piles. His hand rested upon the last coin.

Perkin counted after him. For once no one spoke over the clerk. Ewan stood with his broad hands spread upon the edge of the drawing; Woods went to the window and called for William to fetch the long rule. By the time the last of the gold was locked away, the carpenter had begun laying out the space the wooden pattern would occupy.

Ronnel fastened the empty chest. "There will be no quiet hour in Oldtown when it first rings."

"Bring back the mason's measures," Jon said. "Then I can tell you when that hour will be." He gave Perkin the signed sheet, keeping his own copy beside the working drawings.

A hub scraped the gatepost. Jon went out with Ronnel and found a timber wagon caught at the entrance, Garrick holding the leaders while apprentices shifted case boards. A mermaid, falcon, rose and lion showed among the cases beside measuring frames and Hightower timber. More orders lay unopened on Perkin's sill. At the only clear bench William covered his finished brass pins against the dust.

"You have run out of room," Arthur said.

Jon had the boards moved under the awning and Garrick lead the horses round by hand. When the wagon came free, he stayed to watch its turn. Beyond the eastern palisade three goats cropped the pasture beside the old ditch.

"The foundry goes there. And the heavy smithing. Woods keeps this hall."

"Poole has the grazing roll," Arthur said.

"Have him bring it. I will speak to Father this afternoon."

* * *
​

Eddard agreed to consider the grant upon the boundary itself. They rode out after the midday meal in thinning rain: Jon on a shaggy grey because Bucephalus disliked measuring pace, Eddard ahead on his chestnut, with Arthur, Perkin, Jory and the Stark riders following. Three crofters and Donella waited beside the lower ditch. From the gate the pasture had looked broad; here hooves had worn tracks between the hummocks, rushes filled the low strip, and water hidden beneath the grass rose shining round the horses' fetlocks.

Eddard halted beside the crofters. One wore a sheepskin patched with red cloth; another held a little girl before him on a dun pony. Donella had her old green shawl wrapped tightly round her head.

"Read their rights, Poole," Eddard said.

Poole read the grazing rights. Three crofters used the upper strip for goats and milk cows; Donella cut rushes below the ditch.

Donella waited until Poole had finished. "Will I still have the rush ground, my lord?"

"It lies below the boundary I want," Jon said. "You keep it." He turned his horse towards the drain. "Show me where the water stood after the last rain."

Donella led them to the culvert. The repaired bank held, but silt had gathered at its narrow lip; only one loaded cart could cross at a time. Jon crouched to sight along the standing water.

"I shall widen this before the foundry roof goes up. Cley will need the outfall opened farther down. Who keeps the millrace?"

"Harlon the miller, my lord. He clears it every spring."

"Send him tomorrow. We need more fall here, and room for a cart to turn without breaking the edge."

Mud caught Jon's boot as he stood. Eddard took his arm while he worked his heel free.

They returned to the higher strip. Perkin sheltered his writing board beneath his cloak while Poole asked six dragons a year. Jon offered four, with the stone road and culvert improvements paid from his own purse.

"The wagons have worn that turn badly," Poole said.

"And a paved turn will serve Winterfell as well as me. Five dragons, with room for the road and the right to carry water across the pasture."

Eddard considered the distance to the gate. "Five. House Black lays a stone road from the market turn and mends the culvert before the foundry rises. No building beyond the second alder without my leave. The goats move west; Donella keeps the rush ground below the ditch."

The crofter with the red patch said, "West grass is poorer."

"For the first year, take one cart of House Black's hay before winter," Jon said. "If the west field proves as poor as you fear, bring Poole and show us."

"Bring it before winter if there is trouble," Eddard said. "Poole will see that the grazing is fit." He and Jon clasped hands. Perkin sheltered his notes beneath Arthur's cloak; he would draw up the lease when they were dry.

Poole rolled the parchment and held out his hand for Perkin's ink horn.

"You have borrowed my clerk for three moons, Lord Jon."

"Four," Jon said. "I should like to keep him. There are too many accounts now for him to keep them in his spare hours."

"The harvest books still need him." Poole looked unconvinced.

"He can teach Edmyn before he leaves you. I have sealed work from White Harbor, the Vale, Barrowton and Oldtown, and inquiries from the Rock, Highgarden, Gulltown and Lannisport. I need someone to keep the commissions, payments and costs together."

"Winterfell has two hundred mouths more whenever the harvest guests arrive. I need the same man."

Jon turned to Perkin. "Keep my books and sail when I do. You will have a room of your own and two silver stags a moon above Winterfell's wage. I need the cost of each commission, what has been paid, and what is owed. When the copying outruns you, hire another hand and teach him."

"Three," Perkin said before fear caught him. He went pale. Poole looked almost pleased. Arthur inspected the grey sky.

"Two, and Wylla gives you a new suit each year," Jon said.

Perkin looked down at his ink-stained sleeve. "Might I ask for two suits in the first year, my lord? Mine are nearly worn through."

Jon followed his glance. The cuff had been turned back to hide a tear. "Two in the first year."

Perkin bowed. "I will serve you gladly, my lord." Poole surrendered the ink horn with a sigh.

"You will show Edmyn the harvest books until the next moon," he said. "If he ruins my figures after that, I shall send both of you downhill."

"I will show him," Perkin promised.

On the climb to Winterfell Perkin rode beside Poole, learning which harvest accounts Edmyn needed first. Eddard glanced back. "He has served us well."

"He will have enough to do," Jon said. "I will give him a copying hand before the next orders arrive."

Three days later Garrick tested the staked boundary with his broadest loaded wagon. Woods moved the proposed corner back before the masons began. Black wool strips showed Ewan where to set the foundry chimney downwind of the fine benches; covered walks would join the timber hall and brass room. Jon placed the privy below the well and checked the outfall with Cley.

Harlon and Cley widened the culvert, supported the turning bank with rubble and marked the dangerous water height with three pale stones. At the next heavy rain Donella sent word that the mouth was clear.

The following morning she brought Jon a rush mat, green-gold and still smelling of wet hay.

"For your floor, my lord," she said. "The new mouth carried all that rain. The children slept through it."

Jon unrolled the mat. It was closely woven, with a darker border. "Wylla will be pleased to have something for my muddy boots."

Donella smiled. "It will take those well enough."

* * *
​

Hammers woke the lower town before the bakers lit their ovens. Stone carts came along the new road, and saws worked beneath Woods's long southern windows. Mallon arrived from White Harbor with his wife, two sons and three boxes of moulding tools. He tested the casting pit's draught with a taper, then knelt to feel the clay.

"A few more days under the roof, my lord. Longer if rain gets in."

"See to the moulds while it dries." Jon took him to the small stone cottage beside the pit, where his wife had already opened the shutters and begun examining the hearth.

"Is this ours?" she asked.

"For as long as your husband serves here."

Mallon looked round the room. It was small, but sound and close to the work. "My elder boy can tend a furnace. The younger has helped with moulds since he was small."

"Ewan will find work for both. Settle their wages with Perkin."

His wife turned from the hearth. "We shall need an iron crane and a shelf for the pans, my lord."

Mallon sighed. "We have barely arrived."

"And I would like to cook before night." Jon sent for Ewan, leaving them to unpack.

Within a moon their chimney smoke had joined the rest over the yard. The baker lit his oven earlier because labourers queued for rye loaves at dawn. Wylla hired six women to cut black wool under an old seamstress with one cloudy eye. A collier sold his sacks before reaching the market well. Two alewives raised their bed prices on wagon nights. At Jon's counter Gage's elder sister brought a dozen rain covers. Perkin counted them and found one seam open.

"I missed that," she said, taking it back.

"Bring it before supper and Perkin can pay for all twelve," Jon told her. She tucked the cover beneath her arm and moved aside for a smith who had been waiting with a wrapped hinge.

The smith took off his cap. "Might I ask for work, my lord? Ewan sends to White Harbor for iron while my forge has stood cold these three days."

Jon picked up the hinge. One leaf was thick, the other thin; the pin turned smoothly despite the rust. "He buys bar stock for the Hightower wheels. Do you make your own?"

"I buy what the merchants bring. Hinges, shoes, gate irons—I can make those as well as any man here."

"Can you make two hundred of these, with both leaves matched?"

"Two hundred, my lord?" The smith looked at the hinge again. "I could not give you the whole lot at once. I still shoe the brewers' teams."

"How many could you bring each sennight?"

"Let me reckon it before I promise. Those men have brought me work when there was little else. I would not put them off now." He turned the hinge over in his hands. "If you can take them as I finish them, I can keep a lad at the bellows."

"We can take them in batches. Bring Ewan a sound pair and give Perkin your price, with the number you can finish each sennight."

The smith returned next day with two sound hinges and his price. Perkin bargained, Ewan inspected, and Jon placed the order. Other men found work less easily. A carpenter who had refused Woods's first wage watched his cousin accept it. Rooms near the gate grew dearer; Elspeth paid more for smaller onions. Wylla brought the women's complaints to Jon. He sent Perkin to learn which trades lacked work and went with Ewan next morning to the cold forge. There were doors to fit and tools to mend beyond Ewan's own work.

William spent those weeks between the bench and his slate. Jon taught him beside the small workroom fire after supper, using the measures from pieces they had made that day. The boy still wrote slowly, with his head bent so low that his hair brushed the slate. Jon drew it towards the lamp before taking up a pair of wheels. He knew the temptation to finish the sum for the pupil. He had done it with his son's homework and discovered, the following evening, that only one of them had learned anything. He kept his own chalk still while William worked.

William marked the teeth with chalk as he counted and watched Jon turn the unequal wheels together. Jon set their counts upon the slate and worked the division beside them. William fetched another pair and set the small wheel against the larger. "This one will turn farther," he said, touching the smaller rim.

"How much farther?" Jon asked.

William began counting the teeth.

* * *
​

The Hightower mason arrived while the great wooden pattern filled half of Woods's new hall. Master Lorcas was red-cheeked, with lime worked deep into the skin of his fingertips. He climbed the frame with Woods and compared it against the measures he had brought from Oldtown. By evening Perkin had corrections for every old opening. On the second day Lorcas asked for a copy of the wheel train.

Jon showed him the drawings of the supports and the clearances round each moving part. "These go with you. The drawing of the train stays here."

"My masons must know what they are supporting."

"They have the weight, the bearings and the timber pattern. You can examine the assembled movement before you leave. They do not need its making copied into every Oldtown workshop."

Lorcas looked at the supplied sheets again. The clearances were there, with room to reach the bearings for oiling. He took the support drawing back to Woods and spent the rest of the day laying out the corrected openings. When he accepted the pattern, Lord Leyton sent the second six hundred dragons.

Before that moon turned, two earlier offers returned under altered seals. Highgarden yielded the moving petals it had demanded; a rose carved in oak would serve. Casterly Rock yielded the western smith it had meant to set beside Jon's guarded bench; one keeper might learn to wind and mend, never to copy the making. Perkin entered both deposits.

Woods began the cases from the proved measures while Ewan made common blanks. The fine trains waited for their promised benches. Perkin wrote the completion season at the head of each account and sent copies to the buyers.

Before the new gold was spent, William began his first work for a buyer. Cleaning a brass pin, he found a bright scrape and brought Jon the plate. The weight cord pulled the frame's upper corner sideways; when Jon lifted the load onto a stool, William could turn the pin freely.

"A brace will keep it there," Jon said. He chose seasoned oak and cut one end of a diagonal stay clear of the wheels. William fitted the other while Olyver held the frame. Together they bored and pegged it; under the weight the pin now turned freely.

"Replace that scored pin before you fit the arm." William stayed on his knees, looking from the stay to the loaded cord, before reaching for his tools.

His first fitted arm belonged to a plain hall clock for a White Harbor salt merchant. Ewan forged the blank. Olyver watched William file the shoulder, stop short of the line, and finish it slowly. Woods cased the movement in dark pine. On the morning of the proof, William scrubbed his hands until they were red.

The merchant arrived with white salt dust along his boots. He listened to the bell once, frowned, and listened again.

"Who fitted the arm?" he asked.

"I did, master," William answered. "Under Olyver's eye."

The merchant wound the weight and watched it turn. "Rendall has put his where every man entering his hall must pass it," he told Jon. "He had me to supper twice before I understood that I was meant to ask about the clock."

"Where will yours stand?"

"Above my counting-room door. My clerks can see it from their stools." He glanced at the pine case. "And my guests can hear it from the hall."

Jon showed the merchant where to oil the movement and had him wind it again. His wife called from the door about a chest they had bought in the market. Promising to see whether the carter had room, he followed Perkin to pay the remaining half of the clock's two hundred and forty dragons. He checked a worn coin before adding it to the stacks.

"Rendall paid more," he said.

"Rendall wanted oak and carved salt barrels," Perkin replied.

The merchant looked back at the plain case, pleased with his thrift. His wife called again. He took his receipt and hurried out. Garrick would carry word if the clock needed attention.

William waited until he had gone before grinning. Jon put another drawing on the bench, holding its corners with four brass weights.

"You will fit this one as well."

William touched the paper as carefully as he had touched the finished arm. "The whole arm, my lord?"

"Under Olyver's eye."

William bent over the drawing, still smiling. Olyver moved the finished pieces out of his way and fetched a fresh blank.

* * *
​

Ralf and Gawen spent part of the cleared clock profit on horses. Over two moons of markets they bought bays, browns, duns, a flea-bitten grey, three chestnuts and a black mare with a broad white nose. Some were older than the boys who would ride them, but all were sound and accustomed to work.

Robb watched the string being led past. "Lord Manderly's guards all ride greys."

"He pays dearly to match them," Ralf said. "I would rather have these."

Gawen held up his bandaged hand. "You missed the six bays outside Torrhen's Square. One tried to take a finger."

"The farmer still has them," Ralf said.

Each household boy cleaned and fitted his tack before receiving a mount. Tomas exchanged Edden's leather jack when it cut beneath his arm. Iain took the old girths to Ralf, saving sound buckles for new leather.

Gawen brought the household onto the lower field. Heward waited at its far end with six Winterfell guards carrying padded staves. Between them, three white posts marked the way back to the gate.

"Lord Jon comes down the field," Gawen told Tomas. "Heward cuts him off. Get him through those posts."

Tomas put four riders ahead of Jon and four behind. The rest waited under Gage beyond the centre post.

Heward let the front riders pass, then sent his men across behind them. Jon checked Bucephalus before the first staff reached him. His rear pair crowded forward; for a moment he had no room to turn.

Gawen called the halt.

Tomas looked at the men in front of Jon. "I sent too many ahead."

"You sent them too far. Walk it again."

This time Tomas kept two riders within reach of Jon's bridle. Gage waited beside the centre post with his reserve turned towards them. When Heward's men moved across the field, Tomas lifted his sword and the two nearest shields came up together.

Jon heard the dull knock of a padded staff against wood. His horse wanted to follow the riders going ahead; he shortened the reins and kept him beside the shield on his left. Beyond its rim he saw Gage bring the reserve across, a chestnut's pale mane flying above the others. Heward turned to meet them. The guard nearest the post had to give ground, and daylight opened between the horses.

"With me, my lord," Gage called.

Jon put Bucephalus into the gap. For three strides there was nothing ahead but wet grass and the white posts. Then Tomas came abreast on his right, another rider on his left, and Heward's staff fell behind his shoulder. They slowed only when they had passed the last post. Jon turned in the saddle to see the rear pair drawing clear in good order.

He could have turned Bucephalus into the nearer guard while they were hemmed in. Waiting for his own men to open the way had been harder.

Robb whooped from the rail, and Gawen sent him round to take Heward's place. By the last pass Robb had found a gap along the wet edge, and Tomas had learned to keep a pair facing it.

Jon's thighs ached as he rubbed Bucephalus down. Robb leaned over the next partition to praise Gage's speed. "He has been practising with Tomas," Jon said, taking a cloth from Iain. Tomorrow he meant to exchange places with Gage, so the file leader could judge the escort from the protected rider's place.

As the first harvest wagons came down to Winter Town, Perkin counted out the last silver owed for Gawen's first term.

"Will you stay another year?" Jon asked.

Gawen looked through the door at Tomas checking a girth beside Ralf. "Gladly, my lord."

"The same terms?"

"Aye. And I mean to have Cressen holding his place before the next hunt."

Jon smiled and pushed the silver towards him. Gawen counted it into his purse. Three stags would go to Kennet with a letter. He had postponed writing too long already.

* * *
​

The next packet from Dragonstone reached the Black Yard before noon, smelling of tar and salt. Oilskin had kept the pages dry, but white crystals crusted the knots. Jon took it up to Winterfell with Arthur and Perkin before breaking Ethan's seal. Eddard was in his solar, finishing a letter beside a bowl of cold broth. He set down his quill when Jon laid the packet upon his desk. "From Ethan?"

"And Tobin." Jon waited until Arthur had closed the door, then cut the cord and passed the papers to Perkin. Beneath the harbour sounding lay Denys's report. Eight warships were back in service. Stone Drum's new planking was fastened, but her caulking had not passed the captain's inspection. Salt Wraith still needed her replacement mast stepped. Stannis had released the prize after the captors and the dead men's families received their shares; the torn galley was Jon's now, with the expense of making her useful.

"Send Ethan the money Denys asks for," Jon said. "From the clocks already paid for. I want both ships under sail before the year turns." He drew the harbour sounding nearer. "And timber for the repair berth. He should not have to borrow a merchant's crane every time a spar comes out."

Eddard studied the two estimates. "You will keep all ten?"

"We lost Black Gull because the men kept their place. I will not leave the ships they saved rotting against a quay." Jon put Denys's report beside the sounding. "When the repairs are finished, he can put them on the coastal patrols in turn. The crews need their sea time."

Beneath the sounding lay the eastern letters. Qavo Ryndoon would not cross the narrow sea without his wife Anara, their grown children Moro and Naella, little Tala and the three apprentices who had kept his furnaces through lean years. A Myrish creditor held two apprentices and their tools against old debts. Another claimed Qavo's moulds. Vaegon would not leave Pentos while his brother's family lacked passage.

"Pello can redeem the debts," Perkin said. "The creditor asks less than the Hightower gave for its wooden pattern."

"Have him settle them and bring away the releases," Jon replied. "They come as free men, with their families and tools. If any chooses to leave our service later, pay his passage home."

Perkin noted the order and asked about their lodgings.

"Ethan is to find a sound house for all eight, close enough to the work. Send him the list of their tools as well." Jon signed the letters to Ethan, Pello in Myr and the Pentoshi factor speaking for Vaegon. Perkin sanded them and went to Luwin's raven room.

Jon stayed at his father's desk with Arthur after Perkin had gone. Other men would have to judge the quay and houses he had never seen. Ethan had his trust; now he had enough money to do the work. He turned the harbour drawing so Eddard could see the sound berth.

Arthur set one hand upon Ethan's harbour map. "He will still have to go there."

"When the island can receive him."

"It is his seat, Eddard."

"And Winterfell is his home."

Arthur's face became careful. "You speak as though the two must contend."

"You have spoken so since Ethan went south."

"Because you call every delay prudence. Ethan has governed the island for years, while Jon has yet to set foot there. How much longer must he wait?"

Eddard's voice went low. "He is learning men, harvest, justice and command beside those who love him. Those lessons will serve him on Dragonstone too."

"But he knows every turn of the road to Winter Town and must learn the faces of his own people from letters."

"Here I know who is asking things of him. On Dragonstone I would hear of it in a letter, when it was already done."

"Then tell him when he may go. Do not leave him asking whether he is wanted there."

"He is wanted here," Eddard said. "I will not send him south merely because men who have never held him begin to ask after him."

"Ethan has held the island in his name all these years. He has a right to ask when his lord is coming."

Eddard's hand closed upon the table edge. "And I ask when you will cease treating every ordinary year with his brothers as something I must answer for." His knuckles whitened. Arthur's shoulders went still.

"I am here," Jon said. Both men looked at him.

"You argue as if I have already sailed."

Eddard's hand eased upon the table. "You are right. What would you have us do?"

"I mean to go," Jon said. "But I want to know what you are waiting for. The ships and houses can be made ready. If there is more I must learn first, tell me."

Arthur drew his stool back. "Forgive me. I should have asked you."

"We will set it out together," Eddard said. "What the island needs, and what I would still have you learn here. The three of us."

Jon nodded. Wylla opened the door carrying hot onion broth, three heels of buttered bread, and no patience for an argument that had kept Jon from dinner.

"A pair of fools, the two of you. He still needs feeding." She set the tray over the harbour sounding. "Move those papers, my lord. The broth will spill."

Eddard said, "You heard all of that?"

"I heard the last of it from the door. You have argued the rest often enough."

Arthur cleared the papers from beneath the tray and passed Jon a bowl.

The broth was sweet with onions browned in butter, peppered enough to warm his nose, and thickened with torn bread. Eddard sat beside him rather than at the head of the table. Arthur took the stool opposite. For a time they ate with Ethan's harbour drawing between them.

"Ride with me at dawn," Eddard said. "North along the wolfswood road."

Jon looked up from his bowl. "Robb will want to come."

"Then we shall take him."

Arthur broke another piece of bread. "He will be ready before either of you."

At the family supper that evening, Bran struck his cup with a spoon whenever Robb tried to speak. Arya joined him with the handle of her knife. Catelyn took the spoon; Sansa took the knife. Jeyne Poole sat beside Sansa, trying to hide her laughter. They ate cold capon, barley with mushrooms, sharp cheese and apples baked until their red skins split. Robb speared the last mushroom before Jon reached it.

"Father says I may come," he said.

"Then leave me something to eat."

Robb split the mushroom and pushed half towards Jon. Eddard cut an apple while Sansa reached for the bread.

Sansa leaned around Jeyne. "She has never heard the song from the sea."

Jeyne's cheeks coloured. "You need not sing, my lord."

"He will not," Robb said. "He becomes stubborn when asked."

"I was stubborn before you asked."

"Then I have proved nothing." Bran found another spoon and struck the cup once.

Jon began before the accompaniment grew. The tune belonged to the life no one at the table could know. His wife had sung it without words while mending by rainlight; years later their daughter had hummed it over a feverish child while Jon walked the floor with his first grandson against his shoulder. He no longer knew which woman had changed the third note. Both voices lived there now.

He gave the melody northern words. A sailor followed one lamp through black water until war drew him beyond its light. He came home with white in his beard and found the woman who had tended the flame beneath a stone above the shore. Their daughter had kept the lamp burning in her mother's place. Arya liked the storm and demanded another broken mast. Sansa's fingers went still upon Jeyne's sleeve when the old sailor reached the grave. Robb stopped tapping before the final verse.

"Home?" Bran asked when the sailor reached his daughter.

"For a little while," Jon said. "Then he goes to sea again."

Arya scowled. "Why? He only just got there."

"It is a sad song," Sansa told her.

"He could stay." Arya folded her arms. Robb smiled, but Sansa looked thoughtful.

"I should want him to stay," she said.

Bran pushed his spoon towards Jon. For an instant Jon thought of his own daughter, grown old in a world he could no longer reach. He wondered who had sat with her after his death, whether she still hummed the tune to her children. Here Robb was watching him across the dish of apples, and Eddard had promised to ride with him in the morning.

"You are right," Jon said. "He stays until spring. Then they sail together."

Robb pointed his knife. "You changed the song."

"It needed another verse."

Bran struck the cup again, and Catelyn took back her spoon. Eddard gave Jon the other half of the baked apple. Below the hill the last hammers fell silent in the Black Yard. Jon stayed at the table while Robb told him where he wanted to ride.

 

[aiwonder]

Seven black-cloaked riders came through the rain. Jon saw them from the lower field as Tomas raised his ash sword for another pass. Arthur watched from the eaves; Ralf held their horses beside the fence.

Tomas showed Jon an opening he had used once already. Jon began the expected cut, checked it when the captain moved and stepped inside his guard. His shield rim caught Tomas's sword hand before the padded edge could reach him.

Arthur nodded. "Again."

Jon lowered his sword. A page from the east gate had reached the fence, wet hair plastered to his forehead and his cap crushed in one fist.

"Lord Jon. The First Ranger has come. Six brothers with him."

"Ralf, bring the grey," Jon said. "Carry on, Tomas." He passed his sword to Arthur and went to fetch his cloak.

Jon rode uphill with Arthur and Ralf and slowed before the east arch, where the last ranger was dismounting. The brothers' cloaks steamed against the stable wall. Rawhide bound one stirrup; a torn-eared bay hung its head while Hullen examined Benjen's black gelding. Jon could see swelling above the forehoof.

Benjen turned at the sound of their horses. The ride had hollowed his sharp face, and rain clung to his beard. A dirty thong held his glove shut. Yet the smile in his blue-grey eyes was familiar. Jon dismounted, and his uncle caught him by the forearms, drew him close and then held him out to look.

"You have grown." Benjen put a hand against the top of Jon's head. "Last time you barely reached here."

"Wylla has had to let my sleeves out again."

"She might mend this while she has her needle." Benjen held up his torn glove.

"You could have sewn it."

"Have you seen my sewing?"

Robb and Theon ran under the arch with Arya between them. She struck Benjen about the waist, and he caught her before she slipped in the mud. Sansa came more carefully, lifting the hem of her pale-blue gown. A matching ribbon held her thick auburn braid. She curtsied.

"My lady," Benjen said, bowing as though Sansa had ridden out with a queen's own honour guard.

"Uncle." She lasted one heartbeat before throwing both arms around him. "Your cloak is dripping on me."

"Then I had better get you indoors." Benjen drew his cloak back. Bran arrived holding Eddard's hand, and Benjen knelt to greet him before lifting him high. Bran crowed. Catelyn watched from the covered walk.

"Mind his head, Benjen."

Benjen lowered him to his shoulder. The east clock began to strike. One ranger counted the notes on his fingers while the sound rolled across the wet roofs.

"Manderly has one, Robert has one, and a Darry trader tells me Leyton has ordered one with four faces," Benjen said. "At Castle Black we still argue over the hour."

"I will give you one," Jon said.

The jest went out of Benjen's eyes. "We have no gold for a House Black clock."

"It will be a gift. A plain oak case with the weights covered and room for a man to oil it in gloves."

"Make the bell loud. Bowen Marsh sleeps under enough wool to stop an arrow."

Jon laughed. Benjen looked up as the final stroke sounded.

"Maester Aemon will be pleased. He misses little enough now, even without his sight."

Aemon Targaryen. Jon remembered the blind maester from the books: Egg's brother, who had refused a crown and gone to the Wall. He was still alive here, still serving while nearly everyone he had known was gone. Jon wanted to hear him speak for himself.

"How is he?"

"Old," Benjen said. "But he still tends our sick and tells Mormont when he is being a fool."

"I should like to meet him."

"Come while you can. He is past ninety." Benjen gripped Jon's shoulder, and for a moment neither spoke.

Eddard took them inside before the rain thickened. The six black brothers ate below with Jory, Hullen, and the stable hands who had received their horses. Benjen took his place at the family table in the little hall. Hot wine steamed with cloves. The cook had sent up boiled beef with leeks, onions browned in dripping, hard white cheese, and three fresh loaves beneath a linen cloth. Benjen cut the first slice with a guest's restraint. Before Arya had finished asking whether spearwives truly wore mail, he was dragging bread through the beef juices.

"Some wear mail," he told her. "Some boiled leather. Most wear whatever the last man failed to keep."

"Do the spearwives use swords like Uncle Benjen," Arya asked, "or only the axes in Old Nan's tales?"

"Axes, bows, spears, knives." Arya looked triumphantly at Septa Mordane.

"They also steal children, sleep in mud, and have no proper halls," the septa said. "Wildling women are not fit examples for a lady."

Sansa touched the rough edge of Benjen's sleeve. "Do they sew their own cloaks?"

"Better than the Watch," Benjen said, offering Sansa the glove whose wrist had been closed with a thong.

"That cannot be hard." She caught his tied glove and frowned. "This is not sewn at all."

"No," Benjen admitted. "I tied it in a hurry."

Sansa fetched her basket. He took the glove off and gave it to her. She cut the thong and began a careful line of blue stitches while Arya asked whether a spearwife could beat a knight. Septa Mordane told her that her meat was getting cold.

Bran built a wall from bread crusts and pushed a piece of cheese against it. Benjen made a great lumbering noise and lifted the cheese over the wall. Bran laughed and knocked the crusts flat.

"Was that a giant?" Robb asked.

"A hungry one." Benjen ate the cheese.

Theon asked about a bear that had stolen a cask at Eastwatch.

"A whole cask?" Benjen said. "That is what they are saying now?"

"Jory heard it from a man who came south with wool."

"The cask was empty when we found it. The cook said a bear had taken it, and showed Cotter Pyke the tracks himself." Benjen reached for the bread. "Unfortunately, the tracks led past his own door."

Theon began laughing before he had finished. Eddard's smile deepened, and Catelyn hid hers behind her cup.

"What became of the cook?" Robb asked.

"He cleaned the casks for a moon. Empty ones."

Arya wanted to know whether there had been a bear at all. Benjen said there were bears enough without sending one to steal a man's ale. That began another round of questions, and he finally held up his knife and asked whether he might finish his beef before they reached giants again.

Jon watched him eat. Beneath the good humour his uncle was tired, and he glanced towards every sound from the yard as though someone might call him away. These were men Jon had once read about. Now Benjen sat close enough for him to see the split nail beside Sansa's new stitches, and six brothers waited downstairs with stories of their own.

After the meal Catelyn sent the smaller children away. Arya returned for a knife she claimed Bran had taken; Septa Mordane found it in Arya's sleeve and led her out again. Theon went below to hear the rangers. Robb stayed for the council in Eddard's solar, where Martyn shut the door and Luwin opened Mormont's letter beside Poole's store roll.

The Lord Commander asked for grain, salt beef, wool, lamp oil, horses and men. The three sound ships at Eastwatch sailed only by taking brothers from the Wall. Shadow Tower's mounts were worn thin, and Castle Black buried old men faster than recruits arrived.

"We need men who can serve," Benjen said. "A willing second son, a veteran with no place, a thief who has chosen the Wall. Some lords send us anyone they are tired of feeding. We have frightened boys enough."

Eddard read the count twice before laying one broad finger beside the barley line. "Poole, what may leave without shortening Winterfell's own winter?"

"The second barley cutting came in dry, and the White Knife oats were good," Poole said. "I can give you a count in two days."

"Do so. Hullen will choose remounts. Luwin, ask the northern houses for what they can spare and send Mormont the names with the gifts." Benjen stared into the fire.

Jon said, "That could have gone by raven." His uncle looked over one shoulder.

"You did not ride a lame horse the length of the North to ask whether Poole owns barley." Robb's eyes narrowed. Eddard waited. Benjen drew a packet of waxed cloth from beneath his cloak. Inside lay a rough map drawn upon scraped parchment. He spread it across Mormont's count.

"Three villages stood empty when our rangers found them. One near the Milkwater. Two east. No burned roofs. No slain men. The grain pits were scraped clean, hides and iron carried away."

"How many?" Eddard asked.

"We could not tell. More than one clan. Bare footprints crossed tracks from sewn boots, and there were three kinds of spearhead at one abandoned fire. Men who usually kill one another are travelling together."

"Mance Rayder may have called them," Robb said, leaning over the map.

"Perhaps. Mormont thinks he is calling them." Benjen set a black nail upon the map. "Most trails lead north, away from us. Yet those who come south range farther and remain longer. Two crofts in the Gift lost grain and horses. The folk were beaten, not killed."

Martyn bent over the Gift. "They wanted supplies."

"Aye," Benjen said. "And horses. They were in a hurry."

"Have any of your rangers gone missing?" Luwin asked.

"Four from the Shadow Tower. Two went after them. We found one horse alive with the saddle cut away. No men. No bodies." Jon kept both palms upon his knees. His memory offered blue eyes, a horn in darkness, dead hands rising from snow. It did not offer a trustworthy year. Arthur's survival had already bent the road he knew; every raven, every marriage, every life spared bent it again. To speak a certainty he could not prove might save a ranging. It might also leave him having to explain how he knew, and make every later warning suspect. He forced himself to look only at the charcoal.

"Any sign of sickness?" Jon asked. "Bodies left in the houses?"

"None."

"Were the graves disturbed?"

Benjen frowned. "We did not search them. Why?"

Jon looked at the map. "I would like your men to look next time."

Catelyn came in and paused beside the map. Eddard drew a chair beside him and told her of the empty villages.

"Mance may be calling them north," she said. "Whatever they fear may be helping him."

"Luwin, write to Last Hearth, the mountain clans, Deepwood, and Bear Island," Eddard said. "No levy. Ask about strange tracks, missing crofters and stolen horses, and whether the same tales reach more than one holdfast. Men on the northern roads are to travel together; send escorts where they are needed." He turned back to Mormont's count. "Tell him what grain and horses we can spare once Poole has the figures. Ask what his men find at the graves. Copies of Benjen's map go only to those houses."

Benjen kept a hand on the map. "The Old Bear has given me leave to count stores and hear which lords will send men."

"Then you shall have hot meat while you do it," Catelyn said.

Benjen smiled faintly. Robb went out with Martyn; Catelyn took Poole and the store roll. Luwin crossed to his locked book while Eddard stayed beside the map. Benjen caught Jon by the sleeve before he could follow the others.

"What did you mean about the graves?"

Jon looked into his uncle's tired face. He could give no honest account of where the knowledge came from. He had meant to be cautious, but six men had vanished already.

"I fear something worse than Mance," he said quietly. "I cannot tell you when it will come. Search those villages in strength. If you find any dead thing moving, burn it. Send word to Father, Luwin and me if the graves are open."

"Dead things do not move beyond a frightened child's tale," Benjen said, though his gaze had sharpened.

"I would rather you laughed at me from Castle Black," Jon said.

Benjen held his gaze. There was no laughter left in the blue-grey eyes. "I shall tell Mormont."

He caught Jon by the shoulder before Eddard called him back. For once there was no jest about oats or height. Jon watched him cross to the map.

Arthur came to stand beside Jon. "He heard you."

"I know."

Four men had vanished, then the two sent to find them.

* * *
​

Benjen slept through the noon bell. By midafternoon he rode downhill with Jon, Eddard, Robb, Theon and Martyn. Two black brothers followed on fresh horses, with Jory and the Stark escort at the rear. Hullen had kept Benjen's lame gelding with its foreleg wrapped; Ralf lent him a placid brown horse called Tallow. It halted at the lightest touch, a kindness on the rutted road.

Before they heard the hammers, smoke thickened over the new roofs.

"You have built half a town," Benjen said.

"The orders keep coming. We needed room to work."

At the gate Tomas was leading the household through mounted turns while Gawen watched. Their black coats moved against the wet green field. One horse shied at a puddle; the next pair opened around it and closed again without losing the pace.

Benjen rested one hand upon his saddle bow. "The Wall could use a hundred like those. How long have they been under Heward?"

"Two years," Jon said. "I was six when the twenty-five took service. Ralf and Gawen came later for the horses."

Benjen watched Tomas steady the next turn. "The two years show."

"You may not have mine," Jon said.

"I thought not." Benjen smiled and leaned forward to watch the next turn. Dywen clicked his wooden teeth behind him. Tomas halted the files when Gawen signalled; the knight finished speaking to one rider, sent the files out again and came to greet the visitors.

The other black brother rubbed rain from his nose. Dywen had folded the cuff of his cloak back to keep it clear of the rail; the hand beneath was brown and knotted, the nails blunt from years of work. He studied the horses more closely than the coats.

"Sound beasts," he said when Benjen asked him.

"Ralf chose them," Jon replied. "Some from the same markets that supply the Watch."

"Aye, my lord. Before we reach them, by the look of it." He rubbed his chin as he smiled. Ralf, who had come to the rail with a spare bridle over his arm, asked what a serviceable gelding cost at the last northern fair. Dywen named a price that made him shake his head, and the two fell into a quiet comparison of the road and the horses it had worn out.

"Is that your garrison," Benjen asked, "or the men you mean to keep beside your saddle?"

"My household." Jon watched Tomas bring the rear pair round. "They ride and fight with me."

Heward joined them at the practice rail. Beyond it, Garrick's men were unloading a long timber wagon. Its escort had dismounted in the turning yard. Their captain, thick through the shoulders in a faded red cloak, set two rollers beneath the first baulk and made the carters lower it onto both before pulling.

Heward looked across. "Hewyn."

The road captain turned at the sound of his name. "You have misplaced half an ear."

"Pyke."

"I remember. You still had both when we went ashore." Hewyn handed his gloves to a road man and came over. The two veterans clasped forearms without smiling. Then Hewyn faced Eddard and Jon and bowed.

Beside Jon, Theon folded his arms. "There is always a man here who remembers Pyke." He spoke quietly enough that the veterans did not turn.

"They are speaking of an ear."

"Aye. We lost a tower."

Jon looked at him. "They are allowed to remember."

"So am I." Theon held his gaze a moment, then turned towards the riders. His brother had died beneath that tower. Jon let him turn.

Robb beckoned from the rail. "You are missing it."

"I have seen horses walk in a circle before."

"Then come and tell me who is doing it badly." Robb grinned and made room. Theon went over, leaning upon the rail beside him.

On the field, Gage's riders closed about Jon's empty place while Tomas drove two attackers clear of the flank. Martyn leaned on the rail. Hewyn watched the turn, then the smaller boys behind it.

Jon called him nearer. "You have led foot on the road. What do you make of them?"

"They could bring you out of trouble, my lord. Too few to hold much ground after."

"That is why I mean to raise foot."

"Dragonstone already has five hundred sworn defenders," Jon said. "Rodwell's three hundred from Queen Rhaella's garrison and the two hundred Northmen Father gave Ethan to hold the island for me. They must hold the castle and protect the island. I will not strip the island whenever I take the field. Tomas commands my household guard. What we raise here marches with me."

Eddard turned from the riders. "You spoke of more when you asked for the first twenty-five. How many now?"

"Fifty in my household by the time I sail. Apart from them, two hundred spears and one hundred sword-and-shield foot to begin with."

Robb looked across the pegged field. "Three hundred foot?"

"The spears for open ground, the swords for close fighting. The household rides with me."

"He said to begin with." Theon snorted at Robb's expression. "He will have twice as many before you stop staring."

"Only if I can pay them," Jon said.

"The Watch needs recruits too," Benjen said.

"And Father is calling for them. I will pay mine and take them to Dragonstone. A man willing to serve for wages may not be willing to swear his whole life to the Wall."

Benjen looked towards the field. "No. He may not."

Hewyn rubbed the mud from one knee. "Three hundred foot will need more leaders than I have with me, my lord."

"Bring men you have served beside," Jon said. "There will be places for veterans among the new companies, with the pay to keep them. For the new lads, sixteen or seventeen. I want years enough to teach them. They swear when I choose them. I mean to sail in four years. That gives us time to train them."

"Will you choose the serjeants?"

"You test them and recommend. I appoint."

Hewyn considered the men on the field. "And when the foot serves with your household?"

"Tomas commands my household. You will command the foot. Both answer to me."

"I understand, my lord." Hewyn inclined his head. "I should like to see the ground where you mean to train them."

Eddard looked across the crowded yard. "Three hundred foot and twenty-five household guards make a private host beneath Winterfell's wall. Your yard cannot house them without choking the work that pays them."

"Lease me the ruined watchfort above Miller's Run," Jon said. "It is less than half a league from here. We can house the foot there and move the arms work beside them."

"Miller's Watch," Eddard said. "It has been empty since my father was young."

"Then the Old Watch will suit it. The clockmakers stay here. I can ride between them."

Hewyn glanced east as though he could see the ruined tower through rain and roofs. "Will the men help with the works, my lord?"

"They will dig the drains and raise the banks," Jon said. "When we march, they will know how to make camp."

"Bring Perkin's estimates at dusk," Eddard said. "Poole can go through them with us."

"They are ready," Jon answered.

* * *
​

At dusk Poole and Perkin spread their books across Eddard's table. Benjen helped himself to the salt beef and onions; Catelyn sewed beside the hearth while Hewyn studied the estimates and Martyn waited with the armoury roll. Rain ticked against the shutters.

Two dozen smaller clocks had left the yard since the first paid order, besides the mermaid and falcon. Buyers had collected them here or at White Harbor, sending keepers to learn the winding. Jon followed the payments through making, carriage, his earlier debt to Winterfell, and the money spent on his household and yard. He had Perkin separate the Hightower money already promised to unfinished work from the sum available for soldiers.

"Three thousand four hundred and eighty dragons remain yours to spend, my lord." Perkin showed Poole the balance. "The earnest for unfinished work is in the other account."

Benjen lowered the piece of beef he had been taking to his mouth. He looked from the book to Jon. "You have kept this much after buying the horses?"

"And building the yard," Poole said. He followed the figures back a page before returning to the estimate for the men. "You have allowed dearer grain here."

"I will buy while the price is good," Jon said. "But the men must eat if it rises. Set aside twenty-seven hundred for the first year: their keep, pay, first arms and clothing, and the pack beasts. Hewyn has seen what the armourers can supply."

"Mail to mend, mostly," Hewyn said. "Good shields. I can begin with those."

"That provides for the three hundred before we call them," Jon said while Poole checked the lines. "My household and the first tower work come from the balance and the clocks we finish next. Barrow Hall, Highgarden and Casterly Rock are ordered, with more buyers waiting. Dragonstone's dues keep its five hundred defenders; my clocks pay these men."

"When the clocks earn more and the barracks are ready, I mean to take another batch," Jon went on. "Each year, until the six companies have a hundred men apiece. The first men will help train those who follow."

"Six hundred by the time you sail," Eddard said.

"If the trade continues as it has. I can put their quarters along the upper field. I have left room on the drawing."

Poole checked the sum once more, then drew the old plan of Miller's Watch towards him. "Three hundred acres: meadow, old crofts, grazing above the wood and both banks of the run to the lower ford. Edran Venn of Alderbank holds beyond the eastern ditch; Osmer Rusk of Greybeck below the ford. Both have used this cattle way since before the watchfort stood empty."

"Put that right in the lease," Jon said. "I shall keep the barracks clear."

Eddard drew a finger along the line Poole had shown. "They hold their lands of Winterfell, as you will hold these acres. Neither owes service to your new fort. If you need ground beyond these stones, speak to its master before taking men onto it."

"I will. Have the woodward show me the cattle way when we ride out."

Poole added the holdings beside the bounds. Jon moved his storehouse mark uphill to leave the cattle way clear.

"The full three hundred acres, Father. Meadow for crops, higher ground for grazing and room for barracks. Four years at twenty dragons a year. House Black pays for repairs and leaves the buildings, drains and road when we sail. Tools, arms, horses and stores go with us."

Eddard looked from the broken tower to his eight-year-old son. "And no claim against Winterfell for improvements?"

"None."

"The rent stays fixed. You may surrender the holding when you sail."

"Agreed."

"Some grandchild of mine may be sent there one day," Eddard said, "or a loyal man who has earned stone of his own."

Jon looked at the broken tower on his drawing. "I hope we leave him something worth having."

Martyn laid the armoury roll upon the table.

"My lord," he said to Eddard, "let me take the sword-and-shield men."

Eddard looked up. "You would leave the yard?"

"Rodrik has men enough to help him there. A hundred brought in from as many places will need someone with them every day. Some will have fought before. That may make the first lessons harder." He turned to Jon. "If you will have me, I will teach them."

"I will," Jon said. "You know how I want them to fight together."

"Close. Shield beside shield. A man who swings as though he were alone will find me beside him often."

Benjen smiled at Martyn. Eddard looked at the plan again, then nodded.

"Speak to Rodrik in the morning. Jory can take your place when you are at the Old Watch."

"Thank you, my lord."

Jon pulled the plan closer. "Hewyn commands the foot. You lead the swordsmen's training. Tomas keeps command of the household, with Arthur and Gawen to train them. Hewyn's veterans teach the spears. I will be with you for the joined work and the marches."

"I can begin with my road men," Hewyn said.

Jon offered his hand. Hewyn took it, and Martyn did the same when the captain had stepped aside.

"Lend me Hallis and twelve guards for the muster and first training, Father. My household must keep its drill and work. We may have twice as many applicants as places, none yet answerable to Hewyn. I need grown men at the gates and stores, with those off duty helping the trials and teaching."

"Men who can teach," Martyn said. "Rodrik will know whom to send."

"Hallis and twelve," Eddard agreed. "Until your officers can manage. They remain my men: Hallis keeps my peace, Hewyn oversees your trials. An applicant who draws steel in a quarrel is brought here."

"I will feed and house them and pay for the extra service."

Poole added it to the muster costs. Hewyn asked to speak with Hallis before the call was read; Martyn studied where the first hundred men would stand.

Eddard drew a fresh sheet of parchment towards him. "Any unbound man may present himself. A man already sworn brings his lord's release. An apprentice or bonded servant brings his master's release. A thief or killer comes before my justice, not beneath your banner. No reeve empties a village to be rid of troublesome mouths."

Catelyn pulled one stitch through grey wool. "Put Dragonstone in the call. Let them talk it over at home. A wife may want to keep her husband; once he has sworn, she must ask you for him."

Jon inclined his head. He had no quarrel with the advice. It was the purpose of the men, not the manner of taking them, that he kept to himself: a trained force took years, and the dangers he remembered would not wait for Winterfell to grow comfortable with him.

"House Black, wages, Dragonstone and the sea," Jon said. "Hewyn will try the men and recommend their leaders. I will choose who takes the oath."

Eddard nodded. "And you will keep and pay them."

"Aye. They serve until I release them. I will see that they have food, clothes, arms and care when they are hurt."

Eddard broke his grey wax beside Jon's black seal. The charter set the first intake at two hundred spears and one hundred sword-and-shield foot, with further yearly intakes dependent on earnings and quarters, to six hundred foot. The household could reach fifty before departure. Jon bore the cost; all kept the Stark peace upon Stark land.

* * *
​

Before leaving Winterfell, Jon went up to Luwin for Chronicles of the Doom. He had asked whether it named any harbours that had survived; Luwin had promised to look. The maester stood upon a short stool, looking along the upper shelf. Jon held the lamp while he eased out two books and passed down the smaller one.

"That is the wrong volume," Luwin said as Jon opened it. "Cyvasse. A Pentoshi merchant gave it to my teacher."

The drawing showed a dragon, an elephant and little ranks of armed men. Jon had wanted to play cyvasse since reading of it in his first life, though those books had never given him the full rules. He ran a finger beneath the elephant, smiling.

"Do you play?"

"I did at the Citadel. There was usually someone willing to take my coin." Luwin came down with the history, a slip of parchment marking the High Valyrian account they had been translating. "Though I won a little back."

"Then teach me."

"When you have a set. This book has more opinions than instructions."

Jon opened the history at the marker. He read the Valyrian account without Luwin's help, then checked the date at its head.

"This man wrote before the Doom."

"Aye," Luwin said. "I have found no later account of that anchorage."

Jon left the marker in place and laid the game book over the history. "You earned a link for the higher mysteries, did you not?"

Luwin drew the dark link forward with his thumb. "Valyrian steel. Yes."

"What did they teach you? I have never heard you claim to work a spell."

"I never learned to work one." The maester let the chain fall against his robe. "That was a considerable disappointment to me. I went to Oldtown hoping to find men who could."

Jon put the books down again. It was difficult to imagine Luwin arriving anywhere young and eager, with no chain about his neck. "And the men who taught you?"

"Had accounts of wonders. Some were very old, and a few were written by men who had seen what they described. I spent years reading them. For a time I thought I had only to find the right book." Luwin looked up at the crowded shelves. "I should have liked to see a little of what those men saw."

"Yet you kept studying."

"There was still much to learn, Jon. Even after I ceased expecting spells to answer me." He picked up the history and set it back beneath the game book. "You must forgive me if I ask rather more of a tale than Old Nan does."

Jon could have given Luwin something worth examining; he had bloodied enough cloths in the attempt to master it. But an account of the dreams would bring questions about their speaker, and he was not ready to answer those.

Jon borrowed both. Before bed he wrote to their correspondent at White Harbor, asking for a complete cyvasse set from the foreign traders. Plain wood would do. He wanted pieces that could be played with, and someone to make certain none was missing.

Before he opened the black book, Jon drew his chair to the window. Munin waited upon the sill. Arthur shut the door and stood beside him while he settled his hands upon his knees.

The sill narrowed beneath his claws. He let Munin take the wind, crossing the yard until she found the counting-room ridge. A grey cat passed below. Her head turned to follow it, and Jon waited through the small movements of her feet upon the tiles. He no longer tried to make her look by turning a neck that was not his.

He left her there. His own hands lay where he had put them, and Arthur had not yet called his name. Jon stood, waited a moment, then went back to the desk.

"Did he teach you to come back so easily?" Arthur asked.

"No. That has taken practice."

The knight looked towards Munin, who had begun picking at something beneath a tile. "I should like that man within reach just once."

"I would settle for choosing when he comes." Jon drew the lamp nearer. Arthur remained beside the window until Munin flew towards the stables.

Jon fetched the black book and turned to the forge he had drawn years before. Its wheel had no stream to drive it then. Now he set a clean leaf beside the sketch and marked Miller's Run above the proposed workshops. He left the height of the fall blank. Tomorrow he would walk both banks; he wanted the wheel below the barracks, with room to bring ore in without hauling it through the men's yard.

The drawing had once seemed an extravagant thing to put upon a page. Now the troublesome part was fitting it among work already begun. William was learning to carry more of the clockmaking, and each order that left the yard had to keep running without Jon's hand upon it. A factory remembered from another life could not be summoned by drawing its roof. He needed men who could teach the next men, and somewhere to put them while they learned.

He turned to the pages concerning the Wall. Beneath Benjen's account of the empty villages he recorded the warning he had given him. He knew more of what waited in the far North than any man who had sat in the solar, yet Benjen knew the tracks his rangers had actually found. Both belonged in the book. Jon kept the remembered events apart from the reports that had reached him here.

He had come to Winterfell expecting years in which to prepare. The preparations had grown less abstract with every man who took his pay. He read the terms he had agreed with Eddard once more, then copied the workshop drawing onto a separate sheet. The measurements Woods needed went into the Common Tongue. The other pages stayed shut while he worked.

 

[aiwonder]

The grass brushed Jon's boots as Bucephalus climbed the last rise. From Winter Town the tower had looked scarcely more than a broken tooth above the alders. Here he could see the empty windows, the bush growing from the parapet and the long crack beneath it. A jackdaw came out of a slit with a harsh cry. Others answered from somewhere within.

Arthur drew alongside him. Neither spoke for a little while.

Hugin settled on the broken gate. Munin went straight to the nettles below it, where the horses had disturbed something worth eating. Jon smiled at the pair before looking up at the tower again.

The old road ended at a gate without doors. One iron hinge remained, red with rust. A fallen length of wall narrowed the entrance so much that Jon had to turn his knee inward as he rode through. Beyond it lay nettles, docks and a little yellow grass where sheep had cropped what they could reach. Someone had built a hearth against the curtain. Rainwater filled the ring of blackened stones.

"A good deal smaller than Winterfell," Arthur said.

"I should hope so. I mean to finish some of it."

Jon dismounted beside the hearth. Bucephalus stretched his neck towards the grass, found a thistle and snorted. Ralf took his reins. Behind them came Woods with an axe hung from his saddle and a short, thickset man who had been waiting at the lane. Lord Eddard's woodward knew the bounds. He wore a patched green cloak and kept his cap in his hand after coming through the gate.

"Show us the holding after we have seen inside," Jon told him. "Have you a key?"

"Nothing here that locks, my lord. The shepherds used the west room until part of the stair came down."

The tower door lay on its face among the nettles. Jon could see where somebody had hacked out the iron straps. Woods cleared the growth from the threshold with his axe, and Arthur struck a light. They went in with the lantern held high.

Cold air touched Jon's cheeks. The lower chamber smelled of wet stone and old ashes. Daylight fell from far above, finding a heap of shingles, broken beams and pale bird droppings in the middle of the floor. A strip of blue sky showed through the ruin. On the eastern side the stair had broken away from its landing; the remaining steps climbed into ivy and stopped beneath a great block tilted out of the wall.

Jon stayed near the doorway while Arthur carried the lantern along the west wall. Here the roof was stone. It covered a low room reached through a narrow arch, with a slit at one end and an old hearth at the other. Water had stained the outside wall, but the flagstones beneath the vault were dry.

He went down on one knee, rubbed a seam with his thumb and examined what came away. Grit, a little powdered lime. He followed the joints upwards. None had opened across the crown of the vault.

"This side first," he said. "We can use it while the rest is being made sound."

Woods set the head of his axe against the old door jamb. "A new door and a shutter, my lord. I can bring men to clear it tomorrow."

"Clear the entrance and the room. Leave the fallen beams in the middle until we have the loose stone down." Jon stood, brushing his knee. A rotten stool stood beneath the slit, its seat full of sticks. He left that too. "I will want a mason here."

"There is one working at the north store," Woods said. "Master Ormund. He set the new lintel last summer."

"Ask Poole to send him when he has finished there."

A narrow western stair rose within the thickness of the wall. Arthur went first. Jon followed with one hand against the cold stone, turning sideways where fallen plaster crowded a step. Six paces brought them to a small landing and an empty doorway. Beyond lay the space where an upper floor had been. The beams were gone. Across the gap, beneath a window, a stone seat still held its place.

Arthur held the lantern out. Its light found a hearth with a plain carved border, smoke-black above the opening. A rusted hook remained in the wall beside it. Jon could picture a cloak hanging there, boots warming near the fire. Someone had lived in this room and looked down at the same river before the roofs failed.

He could hear it now, beyond the window: water over rock, louder than it had been in the yard.

"We shall put a floor back here," he said.

"And finish the stair." Arthur glanced at the dark void beyond their feet.

"The western one. The other comes down before anyone works beneath it."

They descended. Jon paused once more in the vaulted room, judging its breadth against the beds he knew. His, Arthur's, a curtain across the recess for Wylla until the chamber above could be restored. It would be close. At Winterfell she had a window which opened upon the yard. He would have to tell her about the slit before she saw it.

Outside, the sun had reached the tower wall. The woodward was speaking to Ralf about an old walnut tree. Woods pulled a burr from his sleeve.

Jon took his horse's reins. "Let us see what comes with it."

They rode out by the breach in the southern curtain. From there the holding opened in a broad slope to Miller's Run. Alders followed the water. Beyond them stood abandoned crofts with grey thatch sunk between the rafters; one had lost its roof altogether. A strip of meadow remained bright between the rushes and the brown seed heads of the higher ground. Farther off, through the trees, smoke rose from the Black Yard.

The woodward pointed out a boundary stone nearly hidden by bracken. Beyond it an old ditch ran towards two forked oaks. They followed it slowly, with Jon stopping wherever the line turned. Three hundred acres had seemed easily contained upon Poole's parchment. From the saddle, with woodland hiding the lower ford and the far pasture still beyond the rise, he began to feel the work of bringing it back into use. At the oaks the woodward showed him Alderbank's boundary; farther down lay the crossing used by Greybeck's cattle. Master Venn's herds and Master Rusk's would still have to reach the water after the soldiers came. Jon had the path marked before Woods laid out any building beside it. Walking a boundary had settled more arguments on his family's farm than any amount of pointing at a map.

At the far corner he looked back towards the tower. From here the long east crack was plain. So was the level shelf below the curtain, with enough room for timber barracks and a yard between them. The larger field sloped gently away from it. Men could drill there while the masons worked above.

"Woods, bring cord and stakes when you come. The first buildings go on that shelf. We will leave a broad way through to the gate."

"Along the old wall, my lord?"

"Near it. Clear of anything that must come down." Jon turned in the saddle and pointed. "The road bends there, then goes straight between the barracks. Stores beside the entrance, where a wagon can unload without crossing the ranks. We shall walk it before you cut timber."

Arthur studied the slope. "The men can form outside the gate as well as inside it."

"And march out without passing through the kitchens."

"That will disappoint them."

Jon smiled. He had seen hungry men queue before a galley hatch with less order than they brought to a boarding drill. He expected no improvement merely because these men would carry spears.

They left the horses on the bank and went down through the alders. Jon caught the hem of his black coat out of the mud. The run was narrow here, clear over brown stones, then suddenly white where it dropped between two shelves of rock. Below the fall lay a deeper pool with foam caught against its edge. A broken length of old masonry stood upon the nearer bank.

"Was there a mill?" he asked.

"My grandfather called this the mill path," the woodward said. "I never saw one, my lord."

Jon crossed the exposed stones to examine the masonry. Roots had forced their way between its courses. It would not carry a new wheel without rebuilding, but the site was useful. Water could be taken off above the fall and brought along the bank. Beneath it there was room for a forge, and enough slope to return the water without drowning the wheel.

He crouched with a stick and drew in a patch of silt. The little channel he made filled almost at once. Woods came nearer; Arthur held back a branch so both could see.

"The wheelhouse here," Jon said. "The hearth farther from the water. We shall raise the floor above this bank." He showed Woods the course of the race with the stick. "Do not fell those alders yet. I want the levels taken before we choose where to bring the water in."

"What will you drive with it?" Arthur asked.

"A grindstone first. Later a hammer and bellows, when the frame is ready for them." Jon stood and cleaned the stick against his boot. "Ewan needs men to work the bellows and swing the heavy hammers. The stream could do much of that."

Arthur looked from the water to the tower. "You have been wanting this for a while."

"Since the first clock paid for its iron."

They ate upon the bank, with the woodward and Woods sitting a little way down beneath an alder. Ralf had brought a loaf, cheese wrapped in linen and cold beef from the kitchens. Jon cut bread upon his knee. A fly settled on the meat and he waved it away with his crust.

Arthur called down to the woodward. "Will you send word to Venn and Rusk before you return to Winterfell? Ask them to bring the men who drive their cattle through here. We should walk the crossing with them before the builders come."

"Tomorrow morning," Jon said. "I shall be here with Woods." The woodward nodded and went back to his bread.

Jon cut another slice of beef. "You think they will object to the barracks?"

"They may. I would rather hear it here than after they have been talking about us for a moon." Arthur brushed a crumb from his knee. "When we went into the kingswood, men who could find a stray ewe in the dark swore they had never seen the outlaws. They had no wish to help us."

"Yet they did in the end."

"After we paid for what we took, and I carried their grievances to the king. Grazing, timber, the right to hunt. Things that mattered to the people feeding our horses." Arthur reached for the cheese. "The brotherhood had been their only protection against demands from the castle. We had to give them cause to come to us instead."

"And Aerys heard you?" Jon asked quietly.

Arthur paused with his knife against the rind. "He granted enough. I would not have found the Smiling Knight without those people." He cut the cheese and passed it across. Jon took it, glancing towards the cattle path they had marked. He would have Perkin bring the ale when their neighbours came.

"On Dragonstone I shall need men who can build without my standing over every trench," he told Arthur quietly. "Here I can ride from a wheel to a clock bench before dinner. I can teach Woods's men, and the men Osric finds, while there is still time to correct what they have misunderstood."

Arthur took the loaf. "You will take all of them south?"

"Those I need, and those willing to enter my service. William must have men who can keep the northern works going. I mean to train their replacements before I take anyone away." Jon looked towards the crofts. "The farmers stay. Father will still have their fields when my lease is over."

"And the soldiers?"

"Go with me. They will have built this place by then." He tore another piece of bread. "I have seen how much men can forget between being shown a thing and doing it themselves. Hewyn can tell them where to pitch a camp. I want them to have dug one, drained it, lived in it and cursed the places where they put their beds."

Arthur laughed softly. "They will certainly do the last."

Jon finished his beef and reached for the reins. There were clocks waiting downhill, and he wanted Ewan here before the light failed. As they rode back along the boundary, he looked again at the empty shelf beneath the tower. In the morning it would have stakes upon it. For today he had the place clear in his mind.

* * *
​

Woods brought the stakes in a handcart. Jon arrived with Arthur and four of the household carrying cord, a measuring rod and an A-shaped level. The woodward waited at the first boundary stone. Beside him stood Ormund the mason, a lean man with lime caught in the creases of his hands.

The mason bowed and took his cap off. "Master Woods says you mean to mend the tower, my lord."

"I do. Come and look at it with me when we have set the first barrack."

Venn and Rusk arrived with their herdsmen before the cord was unrolled. Arthur went down with them and the woodward while Jon showed Woods the shelf. At the crossing they left two stakes beside the cattle path. The herdsmen wanted its breadth plain to anyone bringing timber down from the tower. When Arthur returned, he pointed the stakes out to Woods before taking up the measuring line.

They spent the cool part of the morning on the shelf. Jon laid the main line himself. Arthur held the far end while Tomas and the others cleared grass from the places where the stakes would stand. Woods followed Jon from corner to corner, measuring the timber spans against the ground. At one place the first line crossed a patch of rushes. Jon pushed his rod into the soil; it went down easily. He took the whole building farther up the shelf instead of trying to force its lower end onto wet ground.

Soon there was a doorway which had no door and a lane bordered by cord. Jon walked along it, imagining a loaded cart and men standing with their shields. He widened the turn by the store, then brought the carpenter back to see it.

Jory brought Robb and Theon up before the morning was out. Robb came through the grass, red-brown hair damp beneath his cap, and stopped at the cord.

"This is a house?"

"The first barrack." Jon showed him the empty strip leading towards the gate. "The road stays clear. I want the men to come out together."

Robb turned slowly, trying to see walls where there were only cords. At Winterfell a stair or doorway generally led somewhere already built. Here Jon was choosing where everything would be.

"Your tower is crooked to the rest."

"It can stay crooked. I am not pulling it down."

Theon lifted a boot over the line and followed Robb along the empty road. On the way back Robb spread his arms to judge its width, then stood beside Jon watching Woods measure the next span.

"Keep these corners," Jon told the carpenter. "The next buildings go beyond the lane. I want the first fifty under a roof before we call the others in to swear."

"We shall need more sawyers."

"Hire them. Take the straight pine for the frames. Oak for the lower sills where we need it, not for every roof spar."

Ormund had gone to examine the tower while they worked. Jon found him beneath the west arch, looking up at the vault. The mason pointed out a joint which needed packing, then took him back into the open chamber to show him the east corner.

"We shall need timber before we need stone here, my lord."

"Shores against the sound work. A platform on the west side for bringing the loose courses down." Jon pointed to the tilted block above the eastern stair. "That must come off from above. I want the platform drawn before the men begin."

Ormund looked at him more closely. "Aye, my lord. Woods and I can set it out."

"Bring it to me tonight."

Outside, Tomas had driven the last stake. Ralf arrived with two hired men and began moving fallen stone from the entrance. They carried the smaller pieces by hand and put the larger on a low sledge. Woods chose sound dressed blocks from the heap before they were taken away. By noon a cart could pass through without a man climbing onto the wall to guide its wheel.

* * *
​

The next morning the bell sounded while the fishmonger was still laying out his trout. Jon waited in the saddle beside Arthur, cleanly dressed but with dust beneath one thumbnail. Hewyn, Martyn and Hallis stood by the well; Stark guards kept a way open for carts as men came out from beneath the awnings.

The bellman mounted the well's rim and waited for a mule to stop braying before he read.

"Hear the word of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. By his leave, Lord Jon Black raises two hundred men for the spear and one hundred for sword and shield. Lads of sixteen and seventeen are wanted, and proven soldiers to help teach them."

The bellman read the wage and its payment days. A cooper asked his neighbour to repeat the amount; two older soldiers near the cookshop exchanged a glance.

"Those chosen will receive food, clothes, arms and a place to sleep. They will train, march, dig and build as commanded, and fight when called. In four years they sail with Lord Black to Dragonstone. Their oath lasts until he releases them."

A drover folded his arms. Beside him a woman lifted her basket so two lads could stand nearer.

"A man already sworn must bring his lord's release. Present yourselves at the Old Watch before the moon is out. Captain Hewyn receives the spears; Ser Martyn the swordsmen. No man has a place until Lord Black accepts him."

Questions rose from the crowd. Hewyn answered while the bellman drank, then raised the second page: paid work for masons, carpenters, smiths, carters and labourers; purchases of timber, lime, stone, iron and charcoal. Women who could cut or sew heavy cloth were to apply to Mistress Mairi at the Black Yard. Craftsmen should bring their tools and work to show.

"What of the empty crofts?" a woman called.

Jon brought Bucephalus a few paces nearer. Caps came off. The woman who had spoken drew back against the stall, but he had heard her.

"They will be settled after the harvest," he said. "I will hear families who need land when there is shelter for them. Leave your name with Perkin. Do not bring your children to an empty house."

She bobbed her head. "Thank you, my lord."

Jon looked across the crowd. "The work begins this week. Woods is at the Old Watch today. Hewyn begins hearing men tomorrow."

Jon left the officers to the questions and rode towards the works. At the last awning two broad young men whose faces were much alike watched him; their muttering stopped when Arthur looked round.

A wool cart waited outside the Black Yard. Its driver's daughter had sewn sailcloth at White Harbor, and he wanted to know whether Mairi was paying women to make tents. Jon dismounted to direct him to her and handed his reins to a groom.

The leather shifted against Jon's hip. He looked down and saw a small hand in his purse.

Jon caught the small wrist and turned. The child twisted towards the space beneath a wool cart, but Arthur was already there. He stopped so suddenly that one bare heel skidded in the mud. Red hair stuck through three holes in his cap. Beneath the dirt, his face was narrow enough that the grey eyes seemed too large for it.

"Open your hand," Jon said.

"I never took nothing."

"Then you can open it."

A silver stag fell between their boots. The boy tried to tread upon it. Arthur put his own foot there first.

The woman selling oatcakes beside the cart set down her knife. "Red. Gods help us, not him."

"He caught my sleeve."

"He caught you stealing." She came round the board, wiping both palms on her apron. "Forgive him, my lord. He has no sense."

"I have more than you." The boy bared his teeth when she reached towards his cap. Jon moved him clear of the cart before its driver could back the team.

"How old is he?" Jon asked her. "Who keeps him?"

"Six. I helped his mother when she had him. She died last summer, and no father came. Half the town has tried. My sister washed him and found a bed; he was gone before the blanket dried. Wyl the basket-maker gave him reeds to split, and he cut the bindings from finished baskets instead."

"They were old."

"They were ordered. We feed him when he comes, my lord. He will carry nothing, stay nowhere, and tells you to get buggered if you ask where he sleeps."

"Mayhap you should stop asking."

A waiting man moved towards the boy's ear. Arthur put an arm between them. "Leave him."

The boy jerked against Jon's hand at the movement. His other arm came up over his head; he lowered it at once, furious that they had seen. Jon eased his hold without releasing him.

"Is the stag all of it?"

"Aye."

Jon waited. The boy's gaze shifted towards the cart, then the opening between Arthur and the woman. At last he pulled a second coin from the turned edge of his cap. Arthur held out his hand for it.

"There. Let me go."

"Your name first."

"Red. She told you."

"Another name?"

The boy frowned. "Red."

The woman shook her head. "That is all his mother called him, my lord."

Jon crouched, keeping the purse above the mud. He could see where hunger had tightened the skin at the child's jaw. Red stood with his free hand balled, ready to strike as soon as he thought he could escape. His cap was better cloth than the rest of him and plainly belonged to someone else.

"Whose cap?"

"Mine."

"Before yours?"

The woman sighed. "The basket-maker's son. We have been looking for that."

Red snatched the cap off and flung it onto her board. "He can bloody have it."

"You will hand it back," Jon said.

The boy did not move. Arthur lifted the cap from the oatcakes and gave it to him. After a long moment Red held it towards the woman, looking at neither her nor Jon.

Jon stood. "I have work for a boy who can carry a message and remember what he is told. You would have clothes, meals and somewhere to sleep. You would also have to do the work."

"You want me sweeping shite."

"You would begin by attending me. Fetching what I ask for, putting it away afterwards and learning your letters. Gawen will show you the stable work when he judges you ready."

"I don't read."

"I said you would learn." Jon released his wrist. "You are coming to the Black Yard now. We shall ask after any kin with a claim to your keeping. Until then you remain with Mistress Wylla."

Red rubbed the place Jon had held. A clean band showed through the grime. "You cannot make me swear. I heard the other boys."

"You are not being made a soldier."

That seemed to unsettle him more than the threat he had expected. He looked at Arthur's sword, then towards the open street. The woman wrapped two oatcakes and held them out. He took them before she could change her mind, cramming one into his mouth.

"Slowly," she said.

He ate faster. Arthur walked beside him to the yard, leaving no unguarded turn towards the alleys. Jon sent the woman's account to Poole. At the gate Red hid the second cake beneath his shirt.

Wylla found them by the pump. She had a bundle of sheets against her hip and a loose thread caught in her brown braid.

"Whose boy?"

"No one's," Red said before Jon could answer.

Jon told her what had happened. She put the sheets on a dry bench and sent Mairi for a basin. Red backed away when she drew near.

"I washed."

"Then you have fallen in something since." She tested the water Mairi brought and sat upon the bench instead of reaching after him. "Come and show me your hands."

He kept them beneath his arms. Wylla waited. Men passed carrying a door between them, and Red watched the gap they left at the gate until Arthur quietly took the place beside it. Red went to the basin at last, splashing more water onto the bench than into his hands.

The dirt came away slowly. So did the hard brown crust behind one ear. Wylla stopped when he flinched and wet it again before trying. He bore the rest with his jaw thrust out, watching her face whenever her hand moved towards him.

"There are scratches beneath that shirt," she said.

"Brambles."

She did not argue. Mairi found a clean shirt from the small mending, and Wylla held her cloak between the boy and the yard while he changed. He refused to surrender the old one until she promised to leave it where he could see it.

Wet, his hair shone a deep copper-red. The colour put an old name into Jon's mind.

"Aries," he said.

The boy turned. "What?"

"A name for you. Better than being called after your hair."

He worked it soundlessly with his mouth before risking it aloud. "Aries."

Jon nodded. Wylla drew the clean shirt down over the thin shoulders.

"Will you answer to that?" she asked.

"Depends who's calling."

"You will answer when I call you to supper." She handed him the dry cloth. "Finish your face."

That evening Jon set a cup beside his own and had Aries bring it to the other end of the table. The boy took it one-handed, spilled a little and glanced towards the door before anyone spoke.

"Both hands until you are used to it," Jon told him. "Wipe the table, then try again."

The second journey went better. Jon showed him the shelf upon which it belonged, the peg for his cloak and the place where he kept the gloves he was forever mislaying. Aries remembered all three, though he pretended to have forgotten the gloves until Jon waited beside the wrong peg.

Elspeth called them to eat. Wylla had found a little pallet for Aries in the room beside hers, close enough to hear him in the night. He asked twice whether she meant to bar the door.

"No," she told him. "We shall leave it ajar."

He slept in the clean shirt with his old one folded beneath his head. Before Wylla extinguished the lamp, she found the second oatcake hidden inside it. She put it on the stool beside him rather than carry it away. In the morning half remained.

* * *
​

The call had travelled farther while Jon dealt with the market. Five ravens carried it from Winterfell; copies went with the carters, wrapped against rain. By the next market the offer would be read on Cerwyn land. Beyond that Jon would have to wait for roads, weather and men's decisions.

The neighbours came first.

A carpenter brought two sons and a broad saw wrapped in sacking. Four brothers came with axes; only three wanted work, the fourth having promised his wife to mend their byre. Mairi inspected a widow's sample coat and set her to quilting beside an older woman.

By the third morning fires burned beneath the tower. A carter's wife cooked beside his stone wagon, keeping her smallest child out of the ashes with one foot. When Jon showed her where Elspeth meant to put the common shelter, she asked whether she must move before the next cart.

"After you have fed him. Woods will show you the place."

The barrack still consisted of stakes, trenches and timber beside the gate. Sawyers worked beyond the store line, one above the pine trunk and one below. Labourers carried rubbish from the tower in baskets, separating thatch, stone and household leavings into heaps.

Jon left his horse with Ralf, took off his coat and joined Woods in the foundation trench. The upper end rested on gravel; the lower needed digging deeper to reach the same bed. He showed the men the depth, then took a spade to widen the side so the mason could work without earth falling into his mortar.

One of the men paused with a full basket in his hands. He was watching Jon's white forelock, now plastered to his brow.

"That goes to the road," Jon told him, pointing to the gravel. "Keep the topsoil in the other heap."

"Aye, my lord."

When the trench was broad enough Jon climbed out to see Woods's brace pattern fitted against an upright. The new carpenter copied it neatly; his elder son worked slowly, looking to his father before each cut. Jon gave the lad shorter pieces to practise the joint.

"Keep him with you for the first frame," he told Woods. "When he has that, put another lad beside him."

Near dinner more applicants came up the road, most with bundles, one carrying an old mail shirt. They stared at the trenches and barefoot labourers while Hallis and two Stark guards received them and Hewyn came down to speak. There were more than Jon had expected so early.

"Tents in the west meadow," he told Hallis. "Keep the entrance free." A guard led them through the breach.

Elspeth brought two kettles on a cart. The men washed and sat along the fallen curtain; Jon ate with Arthur and Woods beside the boards, cutting a stubborn piece of beef while the carpenter reckoned the thatch still needed. William's messenger found him there: the new movement was ready to try.

Jon rode down with Arthur and spent the afternoon timing its striking train with William. Other apprentices filed pins nearby while Perkin read a merchant's request to Osric. When Jon returned, fresh stone filled the lower half of the first footing, tools lay under a cloth-covered trestle, and Hallis had doubled the guard at the fork for the arriving men.

At Winterfell he was too tired to say much over supper. Robb made up for him, wanting to know whether there would be room to race round the new barracks. Theon thought the broken tower would make a fine place to hide wine. Catelyn asked who would be sleeping there. Jon answered her, then found Wylla watching him across the table.

"I shall show you the room tomorrow," he told her.

"Does it have a window?"

"A small one."

"How small?"

Arthur put down his cup. "We shall make her a better one, Jon."

Robb laughed. Jon tore the bread on his plate into the gravy and reached for another slice.

* * *
​

The following evening Jon reached the Black Yard as meals went into the workrooms. Through the open doors he saw the Hightower frames in their travelling cradles. Callum, who had fitted the ironwork, fastened the last lid with Woods's carpenter while William held the lamp.

Osric waited at Perkin's cleared table, his travelling cloak over a stool and leather case beside it. Arthur called for bowls while Jon laid out the drawings.

"Lord Leyton's clock goes with you. Garrick has the wagons; Callum and Woods's man will fit it."

"All four faces?"

"All four. Lorcas sent the finished measures, Woods checked the openings against the cradles, and the movement has run its proof here. Callum has the fitting instructions; the keeper's lessons travel in a separate roll. Hire what labour you need in Oldtown. Lord Leyton supplies the agreed lifting gear. If the walls have changed since Lorcas measured them, write before cutting."

Perkin set the agreement beside the drawings. Twelve hundred dragons had been paid in two portions; the last six hundred fell due after the trial in the tower, with the keeper able to tend the clock unaided.

"You will be there a moon at least," Jon said. "Before we settle the rest of your work, I want you in my regular service."

"As your factor, my lord?" Osric asked.

"For buying as well as deliveries." Jon nodded to Perkin.

Perkin passed him a sealed sheet. House Black would pay a regular wage, his road expenses and the hire of the men he needed for deliveries. He would represent Jon before customers, carry his letters to those from whom he wished to buy, and send back the offers worth considering.

Osric read to the bottom before putting it down.

"I will serve you, my lord."

Jon gave him his hand. By the time Master Ronnel arrived, Osric had moved his bowl away from the papers and begun a fresh page in his road book.

The Hightower factor brought a letter for Lord Leyton's steward. Jon asked him to include the names of the men travelling with the clock. Two smaller clocks for Oldtown counting houses would go in the same cargo; their buyers' balances would meet part of the journey's cost. Once those were settled, Jon brought out Luwin's recommendation and turned to Osric. "While the fitters attend to Lord Leyton's clock, I want you looking for men at the Citadel to bring north."

Osric took the recommendation. "The men will need berths of their own on the return voyage."

"Pay for them. I want a healer who has earned his silver and worked with patients. Ask whom he has served under and what they trusted him to do."

Arthur reached for the bread. "Luwin will be glad of someone who can tend the works without fetching him from Winterfell."

"So will Wylla." Jon put down the first requirement. "Two men with iron for warcraft as well. Look for men who knew a smith's forge or an armourer's bench before entering the Citadel."

"To teach the soldiers?" Ronnel asked.

"Hewyn and Martyn will teach them to fight. I need men who understand bridges and siege engines and can make what they draw. I shall give them lads to teach."

Ronnel named Henly, an ironmonger's son who had once delivered to his warehouse. He thought the young man still helped at his father's forge.

"Find him," Jon said. "And look for others. I shall choose after seeing their work."

"There is a mason's son, Otho. He drew a stair for me when we rebuilt a loft."

"Ask him to bring his drawings. I need someone who has studied building, water and measure. He will work beside me here, then go south when I do."

"And an accountant," Perkin said, rescuing three unanswered letters from beside the supper bowls.

"One who has kept accounts outside a book of lessons. A merchant's son may suit." Jon had worked beside clever graduates who could explain a calculation and could not yet judge what had been left out of it.

Ronnel told Osric to begin at the Scribe's Hearth, where men seeking copying work drank. Its keeper knew which of the acolytes paid their reckoning.

"Merchants' and craftsmen's sons first," Jon said. "Crofters' sons too, and acknowledged bastards who have learning but little chance of advancement. Ask why they want to leave the Citadel, Osric."

"Some will be close to taking their vows," Osric said.

"Then put the offer to the Seneschal. He can tell them plainly what they would be giving up. Only men still free to take service may come."

They settled the terms: passage north, keep and a month's wage during the trial; passage home for those Jon did not retain. Those chosen for the five places would swear seven years to House Black unless released sooner. Their work would include teaching and would follow Jon to Dragonstone.

"Bring more than five if there are several worth trying," he told Osric. "Do not fill a place merely because you have found a man willing to take it."

Ronnel folded his letter. Perkin counted the travelling purse with Osric and entered the expense apart from the money spent making the clocks. When Jon finished his last letter, the workrooms had fallen quiet.

Two mornings later the great clock stood packed beside the smaller cases. The bells, weights and long shafts were secured separately. Garrick went from wagon to wagon with Woods, while Callum's mother added a final bundle to her son's food basket.

William brought out the keeper's roll. Jon stopped him beside Callum and had him explain the order of the first fitting. William hesitated over one step, went back to his drawing and corrected himself. Callum waited until he had finished before taking it.

"Keep your copy here," Jon told William. "You will read the reports with me when they come."

Osric packed Luwin's recommendation beside Ronnel's letter, clear of the clock drawings. Jon handed him the request that had arrived overnight from an Oldtown wool merchant.

"Take his measures while you are there. Send them with the offers."

Arthur raised a hand as the wagons moved. Clocks, fitters and factor took the White Harbor road; Jon and Arthur turned uphill to the Old Watch.

* * *
​

Aries lasted six nights beneath a sound roof before trying to leave it.

He waited until the laundry cart crossed the Black Yard entrance, crawled beneath its loose rear cloth and dropped off at the market turn. He had taken his old shirt, two pieces of bread and the small bone comb Wylla had used upon his hair. The black coat she was fitting for him remained on the bench with pins in one sleeve.

Heward found him behind the pig pens. A herdsman had seen the red head vanish beneath the hurdles and sent to the yard. The boy crouched beside a sow with the bread wrapped against his chest; he threatened to set her upon anyone who came nearer.

"She belongs to the man at the gate," Heward said. "I doubt she means to change masters."

Aries kicked mud at him. The old soldier caught his ankle before the second kick and kept him where he was until the herdsman opened the pen. He brought Aries home on foot, one hand round the boy's wrist and the bundle in the other.

"Were you hurt?" Jon asked beneath the eaves.

Aries shook his head. Heward confirmed that the boy had only a scratched shin, and Jon told him to let the boy go.

The boy kept his chin high. He had seen Wylla at the stair and turned his face from her. One of her sleeves was wet nearly to the shoulder.

"She went down to the run looking for you," Jon said. "You might have told her you were leaving."

"You would have stopped me."

"Yes."

Aries glared at his own feet. Jon took the bundle from Heward and opened it upon the bench. Bread, shirt, comb. A wooden cup tumbled out last.

"That is Elspeth's."

"It was broken."

"It still holds water. Give it back. The comb goes to Wylla."

"She gave it to me."

"To use," Wylla said.

"I was using it." He snatched the comb from the bundle and thrust it against her palm, hard enough that one tooth caught her skin. She closed her hand around it without answering the little provocation.

"Why did you run, Aries?" Jon asked.

Aries looked at the unfinished coat.

"You said they were taking boys south. I heard."

"The men who swear to me will go to Dragonstone in four years. Not today. Those wagons carry Lord Leyton's clock to Oldtown. You stay here with Wylla."

The boy had stopped scowling. He stared at the open bundle as though it had betrayed him.

"You will stay beside Gawen for the next two days," Jon continued. "When he sends you anywhere, you come back to him. You do not hide beneath carts. Have you understood?"

"Aye."

Aries took the cup back to Elspeth. At the kitchen door he stopped, muttered, then tried again. She pointed out its place in the stack and offered no cake.

Heward met him outside. "Show me where you lay beneath that cloth."

"The cart has gone."

"Beside the laundry. We can bring the empty baskets back."

There it stood. Heward heard how he had slipped beneath the covering, then fetched the guard who had spent an hour searching the road. Jon heard the apology from the bench. Only when Aries had spoken it clearly did Heward take him to Gawen.

At supper Wylla put his bowl in the usual place.

"I get that?" he asked.

"You have been on your feet since morning. Sit down." She pulled out his stool. "And next time you frighten me like that, you will answer to me before anyone else."

He ate without looking at her. Later, when she sat down with his coat, he came and stood between her knees to let her finish the fitting. She turned him gently towards the light, leaving room for his shoulders to grow. He held still even when she had to unpick the same seam twice.

* * *
​

At Barrowton's next market, Rafe stopped beneath the elms with a brace of rabbits knocking against his knee. The town crier had mounted a barrel outside the inn with the painted wheat sheaf. Beside him stood one of Lord Willam's men and a muddy rider whose horse was drinking from the trough.

The rider counted copper into the crier's palm.

"Here, the east gate, and the horse market. Again tomorrow."

The crier pocketed his fee and took the parchment. Above the wooden roofs, Barrow Hall stood upon its great hill. Rafe had been up there once with a load of firewood; he knew the crossed longaxes upon the guard's breast.

Rafe listened while the crier read Lord Black's offer. Sixteen and seventeen; wages, an oath, and Dragonstone in four years. He was sixteen. His brother had their father's bow and the little croft; Rafe slept beside the woodpile when his sister's children came to stay.

Rafe sold both rabbits to the butcher. He usually kept a little back for ale. This time he crossed to the cobbler's stall and asked what it would cost to mend his soles.

* * *
​

In White Harbor, the crier nearly lost the last word to a gull.

He began again from the fountain in Fishfoot Yard, bawling above the fish carts. Nella paused with her knife inside a herring. Beside him stood a guard in Manderly colours and the clerk carrying Lord Stark's sealed letter.

"Lord Manderly grants leave for the call," the crier shouted. "Lord Jon Black offers service at Winter Town. Three hundred places for his foot!"

Her son came out from behind the stall.

"Keep hold of that basket, Will."

He caught it before the crabs could climb out. At seventeen he stood a head above her and still forgot whatever was in his hands when something interested him.

Nella listened through the wage. She had heard Lord Black's clock strike in New Castle; half the market had gone quiet, waiting to learn whether it would ring again.

Will watched them go. Nella gutted the herring and passed it to him.

"Finish these. Then fetch your uncle. He knows the road to Winterfell."

He took the knife so quickly that she had to move her hand.

 

[aiwonder]

Hennet had a sack of onions over one shoulder when the bell began to ring.

He would have gone on to the maltster's if the man with the bell had not climbed onto the mounting stone outside the inn. That was where the reeve stood to announce a levy. Hennet stopped beneath the hanging sign, shifting the sack higher. Across the road, a woman hurried her geese out of the way of a rider in Tallhart colours.

The rider dismounted and drank from the innkeeper's cup before handing over his parchment.

"What do they want now?" a carter asked.

"By Lord Stark's leave, Lord Jon Black calls for men to enter his service."

Hennet lowered the onions. The bellman read the terms: three hundred places, arms and keep provided, trials at the old watchfort beside Winter Town. Those accepted would swear to House Black and sail south when their lord went to Dragonstone.

Hennet looked at the rider. He knew Ser Helman's pine trees upon the cloak; the man stood listening with one hand upon his horse's neck. The call for craftsmen brought the innkeeper's wife to the door, her sister behind her with flour on both forearms.

The bellman finished, then read the soldier's wage again when someone asked. Hennet repeated it silently. At home there might be money after the wool was sold, or after his father had taken a beast to market. It was always wanted for something before Hennet saw it. A wage paid to him, with food and clothes besides, was harder to picture than the island.

A lad stepped out from beside the horse trough. Hennet knew him slightly: Murch, who sometimes brought timber down from the woods with his father. He was long in the arm and narrow across the shoulders, though he could lift more than his coat suggested.

"Must a man bring a spear?"

"No," said the bellman. "Bring one if you have it, but his lordship will arm you."

Murch nodded and stepped back. Hennet found himself looking at the lad's boots, which had been mended with darker leather along the toes. His own were no better.

Hennet shouldered the onions while two women questioned the bellman and a grey-bearded joiner spoke to the rider. The innkeeper complained that they were blocking his door.

At the maltster's he forgot to ask for the sack back. He had to knock a second time and stand listening to a laugh from inside while the man emptied it.

* * *
​

His father was sharpening a sickle when Hennet came home. The barley was in, but there was rough grass still to cut by the ditch. His younger brother sat upon the doorstep plaiting rushes into something that might have been a bridle.

Hennet told them about the call before he had put down the empty sack.

"Dragonstone," his father said. He tried the sickle's edge with his thumb. "You know where that is?"

"Off the king's city."

"Who told you?"

"A man at the inn."

"Which man?"

Hennet did not know his name.

His father set the sickle down. "I saw good men come home from the last war with nothing but the clothes on their backs. They'd heard fine promises too."

"This was Lord Stark's call."

"It was another lord's. Stark's allowing it."

Hennet's mother stood at the table cutting cabbage. She had said nothing yet. When his father fell silent, she asked whether the men would be kept at Winter Town.

"For now. They're to train there before they go south."

"For how long?"

"The rider said Lord Black means to stay four years."

She turned the cabbage upon its cut end. "Four years is a long while."

His father looked past him to the doorway. Beyond it lay the little yard, the woodpile, the strip where the hens had scratched almost everything bare. Hennet had worked beside him since he could carry a pail without dragging it. He could mend the hedge, cut peat, lead their neighbours' oxen and turn the hay. His elder brother could do all those things too, and already had a wife.

"You could take work at the mill," his father said.

"When they want another man."

His mother's knife struck the table. She had cut through the last piece.

"Sit down and eat," she said. "There's water in the jug. You sound as though you've swallowed the road."

They ate cabbage with barley and the end of a smoked flank his mother had kept hanging from a beam. His father gave him work for the morning. Hennet did it, cutting the grass along the ditch while the dew soaked his shoes. He sharpened the sickle twice and hung it where his father would find it.

By the following evening his mother had let out the seam of his spare shirt. She washed his shoes with a scrap of old linen, stuffed them with dry grass and set them beside the hearth.

"You'll wear through those," his father said.

"They're what he has."

She put the scrap aside to wash with the clothes. Hennet sat on the bench beside her, trying to roll his blanket tightly enough to tie. She took it from him, shook it out and began again.

Murch was leaving in the morning. So were two brothers from farther up the road, and a carpenter who meant to take his wife and children in their cart. Hennet could join them at the crossroads.

When he rose before dawn, his father was already outside. He had tied a wooden spoon to the cord of Hennet's bundle.

"You'll want that if they do feed you."

"I have one."

"It's split."

Hennet took the bundle. His father kept hold of it for another moment, pulling at a knot that needed no pulling.

"Find someone coming this way. Send word."

"I will."

His mother kissed his cheek and tucked a cloth parcel beneath the cord. His little brother wanted to walk as far as the mill turning. Their father sent him back for his shoes.

Hennet was grateful for that. He had not known how to leave them standing in the doorway.

* * *
​

At the crossroads Murch was sitting on a fallen tree with a heel of bread in his hand. He wore the same boots. A bundle lay at his feet, and he had cut a walking staff so tall it rose above his head when he stood.

"Have you come for the swords?" he asked Hennet.

"The spears."

"So have I."

Neither offered a reason. Hennet had never held a sword, and from the way Murch glanced at his empty belt he supposed the other lad had not either.

The carpenter arrived last, leading a shaggy pony hitched to a cart piled with his possessions. A saw had been wrapped in sacking and lashed along one side. Two small children sat among pots and blankets while their mother walked behind, carrying a basket. The elder child waved solemnly at Hennet's brother.

For a little while the road was familiar. Hennet knew where a gate had fallen, where the track dipped and where a farmer kept a dog that would follow them barking. His brother stopped at the turning for the mill. He accepted half an oatcake, then changed his mind and put it back into Hennet's hand.

"For the road," he said, copying their mother.

Hennet broke it again and made him keep a piece.

They walked until the sun stood high before the carpenter halted to feed his pony. Hennet's shoulders ached beneath the cord. When he lowered his bundle, he found that his mother's parcel had worked its way under his back, pressing the hard cheese against his ribs at every step. The cheese was sound. He ate it with oatcake and a little onion while the children fought over which of them would hold the pony.

That night they slept in a hay shed for which the carpenter paid the owner. The lads helped him lift a broken trough out of the yard before they were allowed inside. Hennet had thought he would lie awake in a strange place. He remembered the smell of old hay and one of the children asking for water. Then Murch was shaking his shoulder and daylight showed between the planks.

Others joined the road. A lean man with an old sword at his hip had served a landed knight until the knight's sons quarrelled over what they had inherited. He showed the carpenter a folded release, but put it away when the children crowded near. Three cousins arrived carrying new ash staves, all freshly shaved and still too sure that they would be chosen. By the next evening there were enough men to spread their bedrolls along both sides of a barn.

News passed among them with the food. Lord Black was a bastard, a prince, Lord Stark's son, a boy who had killed a boar and a boy who made golden clocks. Hennet had heard the boar story before. In this telling the beast had grown so large that one of the cousins challenged it.

"My uncle saw the tusks."

"Did he see the boar?" Murch asked.

"He saw the tusks."

Murch nodded, tearing bread with his teeth. The cousin went on, but made the boar a little smaller.

The man with the sword said the clocks were real. He had seen one at a lord's table, covered with a cloth after the guests had eaten, though he could not say how a boy had made it. The carpenter wanted to know what sort of tools were used. Nobody could tell him.

Rain caught them two days later. It began thinly enough that Hennet put off opening his bundle for his cloak. By the time he did, his shoulders were wet beneath his shirt.

Water ran down the pony's mane. The carpenter spread a cloth over the cart, leaving a low tunnel in which the children crouched. His wife walked with one hand upon the tailboard. Murch had wrapped his feet that morning where his boots rubbed; now the strips worked loose and bunched beneath his heels. They stopped beneath dripping trees while he pulled the boots off.

Hennet squatted beside him. There was a raw place above one heel, bright against the grey, wet skin.

"Will it stop you?" he asked.

Murch glanced at the other men waiting upon the road. "I can walk."

The carpenter's wife handed him a strip torn from the edge of an old apron. He thanked her, bound the heel again and stood. They went more slowly after that. The three cousins left them behind, long ash staves rising and falling through the rain until a bend hid them.

They caught up at a wayside inn. The cousins had discovered what a bed cost and were sitting beneath the eaves eating their own food. Hennet had a few coppers his mother had pressed upon him, but after hearing the price he left them tied in the corner of his kerchief. He bought a bowl of hot broth instead. He held it in both hands until Murch asked whether he meant to drink it.

They slept beneath the cart and the tarred cloth stretched from its side. Someone's knee pressed against Hennet's back. He woke to the pony tearing at the grass beside his head and lay listening until he could be sure the sound was an animal.

Next morning they waited for a wool wagon before joining the crowded road. Behind it came two women on a cart, a man with iron tools and more lads with packs.

"Winter Town?" the carpenter called.

"Where else?" the driver said. "Not a needle left for hire in three villages behind me."

A man beside the wagon said there were plenty; they had simply heard what he paid. The carpenter's wife smiled for the first time since the rain began.

* * *
​

Hennet saw Winterfell before he saw the town. The walls rose above the nearer trees, higher and longer than anything he had known at Torrhen's Square. Smoke trailed across them. He was still looking when the road brought him between houses, and a man pushing a barrow told him to mind his feet.

Hennet could smell bread now. A woman shook a blanket from a window, raising dust in the sunlight; below her, men carried a door towards a house with only half a roof. Hennet stepped aside and nearly collided with a girl balancing a basket of thread.

The carpenter stopped for directions while his wife lifted a child down to piss against the wall. Both children were asking for food.

"The Black Yard's there," a man said. "You'll hear it."

Hammers rang behind the fence, and the saw's rasp caught in Hennet's teeth. Men unloaded straw-packed cases from a waiting cart. He glimpsed a small brass wheel with bright teeth before a cloth covered it. Nearby, a merchant demanded an answer for White Harbor from an ink-stained man already holding three letters.

The carpenter took off his cap before approaching. His wife brought the children close and waited with him. Hennet wished them luck, though he hardly knew what that would mean here: a house, perhaps, and a place for the wrapped saw. The little girl waved as he went. Her brother was already staring through the gates.

A guard sent the would-be soldiers along the road beside the works. More men followed them. Ahead, a broken tower showed over a rise, with the tops of tents beneath it. Hennet counted the tents until they passed an alder thicket and he saw more behind the first row.

Murch had stopped counting the men. They sat along the roadside with their packs between their knees, stood talking in knots beside the tents, or waited in a queue that ran beyond the nearest shelter. Hennet had thought the three hundred would take a long time to find. Now he began to fear that every place would be taken before he reached the head of the line.

At the gate a broad-shouldered man in Stark colours held up a hand to stop them while an empty timber cart came through. Another guard stood across the road, sending the waiting men back from its wheels. Hennet recognised the grey direwolves upon their coats and moved without being asked twice. The cart had left deep ruts in the earth. Beyond it, men were cutting turf, stripping branches from poles and heaving fallen stone onto low sledges. Little of the old wall was clear of nettles. A line of newly driven stakes crossed the grass towards the river.

Two riders came down from the tower. One was a tall knight in a pale cloak. The other sat a great dark horse whose head turned towards the waiting men.

The boy upon it wore black wool, the skirts divided over the saddle. His hair had come loose at one side; a white lock lay against the black above his left temple. Hennet saw his eyes when he looked towards the gate. In the light they had a purple cast, strange enough that Hennet glanced down before he was caught staring.

The guard bowed. "More for the trials, my lord."

"Keep them clear of the wagons, Hallis. Hewyn has room beside the upper tents."

A mason asked Jon about stone for the next barrack footings. The boy agreed to use sound stone but reserved the dressed pieces for the tower. He sent Arthur for Woods: the store floor must be set out before another timber wagon came. Handing his reins to a black-coated boy, he carried a stake farther into the grass. By the time Hennet reached the tents, he was kneeling at the cord with the mason beside him.

"That's him?" one of the cousins whispered.

"He called him my lord," Murch said.

"He's little."

Hennet looked back. Jon stood beneath the mason's shoulder, listening while the man pointed towards the wall. When he turned to answer, Hennet could see how young his face was. He had known Lord Black was a boy. He had imagined one nearer his own age, perhaps already shaving. His youngest brother would scarcely have needed to look up at this one.

"How old is he?" the cousin asked a man beside the tents.

"Eight."

The three cousins stared at one another. One let out a disbelieving breath and rubbed his mouth.

"We've walked all this way."

Murch said nothing. Hennet wished he would. He could hear his father asking which lord, who had made the promise and whether Hennet knew anything about him. He had not asked how old the boy was when the bellman read the call.

The man with the old sword had stopped beside them. For the first time since they had met, he seemed uncertain where to go.

"I'll speak to Ser Martyn," he said at last. "I know the Cassel name."

One cousin turned towards the road. "There's work at the yard. We could ask there."

"We haven't even been tried," his brother answered.

"By a child?"

The words were low. All three looked towards the nearest Stark guard before they spoke again.

Hennet looked back as the mason bowed and returned to his men. Arthur brought two carpenters to the moved stake, where Jon showed them the space the carts needed. Nobody was smiling or waiting for another man to give the real orders.

Hennet still could not picture him leading men into a battle. The great dark horse cropped the grass beside the road, its saddle empty. An iron-shod cart rolled past him, and Hallis waved the applicants farther in.

The man outside the largest tent looked up from his writing. Hennet removed his cap and went forward.

They gave their names and where they had come from. Hennet said his father held a free croft in the Tallhart lands. He had never been sworn to a lord's household or bound to a master. The man asked whether he had offered for the spear or the sword, wrote his answer and sent him to Captain Hewyn at the next shelter.

Hewyn stood there with his sleeves rolled back and a staff in his hand. Men made room when he moved. It was a relief to find a grown soldier waiting for them, with weather in his face and boots more worn than Hennet's.

"You've walked a way," the captain said. "Get your packs down. You'll be called after breakfast tomorrow."

One of the cousins began to explain that he could use a spear already.

"Then you may show me tomorrow." Hewyn pointed towards the tents. "Find somewhere dry. Keep the lane open."

There were men from Barrowton under the first shelter and two who said they had come from near Deepwood. Others had left their homes that morning. A sawyer had spread his cloak along a rope beside a young man polishing a rusted helm with a handful of grit. Hennet found a place under the next canvas, set his bundle down and sat beside it.

He was hungry enough to feel hollow, but for a moment he did not want to move. Beyond the tent a mallet struck a peg. Someone shouted for help with a beam. A woman walked past with a basket of bowls upon her hip, following two men who carried a steaming pot between them.

Murch put his bundle down nearby. He loosened his boots and inspected the heel that had troubled him.

"Better?" Hennet asked.

"Aye." He held up the damp strip of apron. "I owe her another."

Hennet untied his blanket. The wooden spoon fell into his lap, and he sat turning it while he watched the men gathering around the pot. He had meant to buy something in the town to send home with a traveller, something that would prove he had come so far. Now he remembered he had not yet been given a place.

Murch stood carefully and reached for a bowl. Hennet followed him, carrying the spoon his father had tied to his pack.

* * *
​

At the Black Yard, Gawen took two soft brushes from their peg and led Aries to the smallest brown gelding in the stable.

"Bracken," he said. "Start at his shoulder. Let him see where you are."

Aries did not reach for the brush at once. He held the back of his hand beneath the gelding's nose and waited until the warm lips had searched it. Then he scratched the hollow beside the jaw. Bracken lowered his head.

"He thinks you have an apple," Gawen said.

"He knows I haven't."

"What makes you say that?"

"He looked." Aries held up his empty hands. The knight smiled and moved him to the shoulder.

The boy worked carefully until the brush filled with hair. He tried to wipe it on the doorpost. Gawen gave him the other brush and showed him how to clean the bristles. When Aries reached too far round the animal, he put a hand on his back and brought him nearer the front.

"Do not crawl beneath him. You cannot tell where a hoof will come down."

"I've slept by horses."

"Then you have been lucky. Here you will learn a safer place to stand."

Bucephalus watched from the adjoining stall. Aries held out the brush towards him when Bracken was finished. Gawen caught his arm before he reached the half-door.

"Not alone with that one."

"He wants his neck done."

"He may. Wait for me to hold him."

Under the knight's hand, Bucephalus permitted the small brush along his lower neck. Aries hummed while he worked, tuneless and quiet. When a sack dropped in the passage the stallion raised his head, and the boy stepped back before Gawen asked. He waited until the horse had settled before returning to the same place.

Jon came down for the afternoon's riding and found them there. Aries's black coat had hay upon both sleeves. One brush lay clean beside the door; he was working the loose hair from the other.

"Has he worked?" Jon asked.

"Better when I put a horse in front of him," Gawen said. "Bracken will carry him round the enclosed yard tomorrow. I shall hold the lead."

Aries grinned at Jon.

"Do the stable work first," Jon said. "And stay with Gawen. You are not to ride out with the other boys unless he is with you."

"I can sit a horse."

"Tomorrow he will tell me how well."

When Jon had mounted, Aries fetched the gloves from the right peg without being called. He stood on the mounting block to give them up, pleased with himself until Gawen pointed out the clean brush still lying beside the door. A yard dog followed him back for it, sniffing at the crumbs caught in his cuff. Aries scratched behind its ear and turned it from Bracken's stall with a touch to the neck. The gelding stretched over the rail and searched the boy's empty hand.

 

[aiwonder]

By the tenth day of the call, the applicants' tents had spread beyond the first meadow. Hallis put two guards on the road before breakfast and two more beside the stores. Men who had arrived late were sleeping beneath their cloaks until Woods could spare poles for another shelter. Jon ordered more canvas brought from the Black Yard and walked the meadow with Hewyn before the next group was called.

There were men shaving at the water barrels, men rubbing their feet and men who had risen early to practise thrusts with sticks. A pair of brothers were arguing over which of them would wear their one good coat before the officers. Near the cookfire a man in patched mail sat upon his pack, watching all of it with the tired contempt of an old soldier.

"How many have you seen?" Jon asked.

Hewyn gave him the number. It was already more than half the strength Jon meant to raise, with most of the recruiting moon still to come.

"Keep hearing them," Jon said. "Do not fill a company because its beds are ready."

Martyn had begun with the men who claimed to know the sword. Jon joined him on the lower field. One applicant had borrowed a fine belt and could scarcely draw the blade which hung from it. Another used an old sword with such economy that Martyn stayed opposite him for several passes before lowering his own.

"Who taught you?"

"My last captain, ser."

"And before him?"

"A man who beat me for dropping the shield."

Martyn glanced at Jon. "He remembers."

Jon wanted a hundred such men, but the old soldier's ease could not be bought for all of them. Some had fought in levies; others had carried spears for years and learned little beyond where to stand. Martyn set the experienced men aside for a second trial together; his assistants worked with the others to judge what they might learn.

Across the field, Hewyn's veterans brought men back from a run. The big youth who had lifted the heaviest sack sat with his head between his knees. A smaller one waited by his pack, pale but upright. Hewyn asked after trades, service and wounds, then tried their balance and made them repeat simple movements together. Jon watched them more closely on the second attempt. On his first ship, the quiet man who asked to be shown again had become more useful than the one who claimed to know everything.

"That one," he said quietly, indicating a narrow-faced lad who had gone back for another man's dropped bundle. "See him again tomorrow."

"He has never held a spear, my lord."

"We have four years. We can teach him."

Hewyn put his name beside the others worth another look.

Not all the refusals were for want of strength. An older man would accept the wage but would not go to sea. Jon heard him out beside the tent, with Arthur and Hallis near enough to listen.

"I could keep your castle while you were gone, my lord."

"The call is for men who go with me."

"I have kept gates before."

"Then give Hallis the name of your last captain. He may know someone who needs you."

The man bowed stiffly and took his pack. He waited until he was beyond the tent before putting his cap on. Jon saw him stop at the road and look back once, then go down towards the town.

"Would you have taken him if he had agreed to sail?" Arthur asked.

"If Hewyn found him sound."

"He thought you might leave him a place here."

"After he had sworn? He might hope so still. Better he leaves now." Jon watched the man join the people upon the road. He had known men who accepted an unwanted posting because the pay would serve their families, then spent every day resenting the service. Here the oath could bind far longer than a posting. He meant to enforce it. That obliged him to make certain a man understood it before he swore.

Hallis looked from Arthur to Jon, received a nod and called the next applicant.

By dinner Perkin was rewriting the lists beneath the awning, checking the men's claims and releases from lords and masters. An apprentice without his release was sent to settle it before returning. Behind the trials, applicants carried boards for Woods in return for hire. Some would still be there when their companions began learning the spear.

A lesser lord offered twelve horses if his fourth son received a command. Jon sent a courteous refusal. The young man was welcome to try for a place, but his father's horses would not choose an officer.

The son came and handled horse and spear well, but complained when Hewyn set a crofter's son over him.

"My father commands men," he told Jon.

"Here you would answer to Hewyn and the officers I appoint. You knew the terms before you came."

He went home. The lists continued to fill, Woods's men raised more tents, and Elspeth hired women for the additional cookfires.

Hewyn kept the trials open through the moon. While the lists filled, Jon brought Ewan a drawing of the heavy javelin he meant the spearmen to use. A Roman soldier had cast it before closing with sword and shield. The narrow head could pass through a shield, leaving the long iron shank and heavy shaft to hamper the man carrying it.

Ewan held the drawing against the forge light. "That is a long piece of iron for a throwing spear."

"The weight is part of its use," Jon said. "But the point must be hard enough to go through, and the shank must not break at the joint." He showed where the ash would enter the fastening. "Make a few. We will see which thickness your iron will bear."

For practice they used ash shafts with padded heads and weighted leather pouches. Jon and Hewyn adjusted the balance until the point stayed forward. Arthur joined them and put one cleanly into the wicker.

Nine days later Ewan brought five iron-headed examples to the field. An old wicker shield hung before the alder planks. Hewyn's first throw punched through but split the ash at the fastening. The next head broke at the neck. Of the other three, two held in the target; one bent under the weight of its shaft when Arthur tried to lift the shield.

He had to brace the wicker with his boot to pull it free. "A man would have to throw his shield away or stop to deal with that."

"That is what I want," Jon said. He kept the two sound examples and returned the broken pieces to Ewan. "Strengthen the fastening on these. We will try the next ones against wet wood."

Ewan nodded. "I can make the neck thicker without changing the point."

Hewyn took the practice shafts back for the new companies. The iron heads stayed at the forge until Jon and Ewan were satisfied with the pattern.

Later, in Winterfell's stable, Jon found Benjen while Hullen changed the wrapping on his gelding. The swelling had gone down, but the horse flinched when Hullen pressed the tendon.

"He needs another fortnight standing," Hullen said. "Then walking before you try a saddle."

Benjen stroked the black neck. "I cannot take him north like this."

"Take Tallow north," Jon said. "Ralf can keep this one until he is sound."

Benjen looked at him. "The clock and a horse?"

"The horse is lent."

"Then I shall bring him back." Benjen scratched beneath the gelding's mane, took Tallow's reins from a groom and followed Jon outside. Dusk had turned the wet yard purple. Smoke lay low over Winter Town, broken by the orange windows of the alehouses and the brighter lights of the works.

"Three hundred men, then," Benjen said. "When I rode in, you were still talking about the first twenty-five."

"They have done well."

"I saw." Benjen put an arm about him and drew him close. He smelled of horses, smoke and wet wool. "You have done well too. Remember to come and see me."

Jon watched his uncle lead Tallow towards the guest stable. Benjen would take him north after the harvest gathering. Arthur waited beneath the arch, then drew Jon a little way into the empty paddock, beyond hearing of the stable lads.

"Rhaegar wrote to Maester Aemon," he said.

Jon looked up. "Often?"

"Often enough that the prince kept Aemon's replies apart from his other letters. He read them himself. I saw them upon Dragonstone and at Summerhall."

"What did they write of?"

"Old histories. Summerhall. The promised prince." Arthur's thumb rested against Dawn's pommel. "Rhaegar would sometimes read a reply twice before he spoke to anyone. Aemon could tell him something he disliked, and he would still write again."

"Did Aemon know of me?"

"Not in any letter I saw."

Jon looked towards the turn where Benjen had gone. "I want to ask him about Rhaegar. What he was like before all this."

Arthur was quiet long enough that Jon looked back.

"He will remember things I never knew," the knight said. "I should like you to hear them."

"Will you come with me?"

"Aye," Arthur said. "I should like to hear him speak of Rhaegar."

Jon looked towards the keep. "When we can make the journey, then."

* * *
​

With four days left in the recruiting moon, Hewyn began calling back the men who had passed their first trials. One hundred and seventeen names remained on his own list. Three of his road veterans had others, while Martyn still had more swordsmen than places. Jon meant to hear their final choices together. More men arrived that morning and waited outside the Old Watch, where Woods's carpenters had raised the first barrack walls beneath the broken tower.

Pine had arrived late from the wolfswood. Jon rode in beside Arthur as the first wagon of rafters came through the gate, the carpenters hurrying to get it under cover before rain. Most of the waiting applicants were older than the household boys, broad from timber yards or thin-faced from poor land.

Jon had Poole begin with the men whose releases were clear. Woods took eight volunteers who could lift, with any who had set a roof before; Hewyn and Martyn led the others to their trials. Tomas brought two household files to help with the timber, Gage kept men at the stores, and Olyver examined the unfinished hearth with Ewan.

Mallador was already at work below the tents. Water had gathered round the bedrolls before dawn, and he was cutting an outlet through the bank. He had grown since Jon refused him a place in the household. When Tomas passed, Mallador nodded once and went on with the spade.

A big black-haired youth laughed as the household filed past. Someone called him Joss. He was a butcher's son from near the market gate, broad in the back and confident of it.

"Are those the soldiers?" he asked Hewyn. "My little brother is taller."

Tomas heard and kept walking.

"Would you face their captain?" Jon asked.

Joss turned at his voice. "Gladly, my lord."

"Hewyn, give him a shield and an ash sword. Tomas."

The captain handed his load to another boy and came over. Hewyn fitted both with padded caps and sent the applicants back beyond the posts. Joss rolled his shoulders and swung the sword twice. Tomas settled his shield close and waited.

At Hewyn's call Joss came straight at him. His first blow struck the shield hard enough to sound across the yard. Tomas gave a step, turned the next stroke aside and touched Joss above the knee. Joss pressed harder. He was strong, but each swing pulled him across his own feet. Tomas moved round him, making him turn, then drove the rim of his shield into Joss's sword arm and struck his ribs.

"Dead," Hewyn called. "Enough."

Joss swung once more. Tomas caught the blow on his shield, stepped close and drove him backwards over his planted leg. Joss fell hard in the mud. Arthur took the sword from his hand before he could rise.

"He tricked me," Joss gasped.

"You struck after the halt," Jon said. "There is no place for you."

"My lord—"

"Leave the gear with Hewyn." Jon waited until the young man's father came through the rail and took him away. Tomas picked up his load and returned to the carpenters. The applicants made room for him without another laugh.

Malcolm, a miller's third son, arranged four bearers along the next beam and freed its binding. Mallador took the heavy end. At the first rafter Malcolm held the line while Mallador steadied the joint; when Beron brought short pegs, Mallador began to swear, caught himself and sent him for longer ones. Hewyn watched without comment.

Mist thickened over the yard. Heward cleared the wagon entrance, Murch, a long-armed Tallhart youth, counted bowls and divided bread, Symon took charge of an ox backing towards the lime sacks, and Coll moved the chests and bedrolls into the dry middle of a leaking tent.

Behind the stable, a Barrowton boy called Rafe was trying to pull on a boot without bending his swollen knee. He caught the wall when Jon approached. He had walked from Barrowton; the swelling had begun yesterday. Jon had a cart take him to Winterfell and rode up with him. Luwin received them in his chamber and made Rafe sit with the boot off. Rafe bit his sleeve as the maester pressed beside the kneecap.

Rafe stared down at his bare foot. "I came all this way, my lord."

Jon crouched beside him. "I cannot put you in a company with that leg. Garrick has a cart going to Barrowton. You can ride home when Luwin has tended it."

"Will you take me when it mends?"

"Write to Hewyn before you set out again. There may be a place then."

Rafe wiped his face with his sleeve and nodded. Jon sent for food before leaving him with the maester.

The main rafters stood when Jon returned to the Old Watch at noon. Woods brought up the first thatch and sent the volunteers to Hewyn in small groups after they ate; the other trials had continued through the morning.

Next morning Jon watched Martyn's candidates fight in pairs below the byre. They kept their patched mail and old iron along the rail where they could see it. Brus, the grizzled man Ser Rodrik had recommended, changed the pairs at Martyn's call. Yesterday Jon had watched him fight; today he watched him teach.

A carter with bent shoulders thrust over an opposing shield while his partner held the second man. Both withdrew together, shields still up.

"Gerralt," Martyn told Jon. "Deepwood. Four years."

"Take his name." Hewyn would give Jon spears enough for open ground. In a doorway, aboard a ship or among broken ranks, he would need men who could fight this close without losing one another.

On the lower ground Hewyn set rough ranks and taught an advance, a turn and a halt. Men accustomed to boar spears reached too far; rear points caught sleeves, and shields drifted apart. He slowed the pace and had them repeat it. When the man behind Mallador trod on his heel, Mallador turned sharply, his padded point rising.

"Halt."

The point stopped. Mallador lowered it and faced front. Hewyn watched him through the next two turns before calling the following group.

The storm drove them into the new hall before dark. Rain came through the unfinished thatch, and families passed dry cloaks through the shutters. Elspeth's women served barley stew with mutton neck and turnips. Malcolm pushed onions towards Mallador. Beron went to ask Woods about the next roof.

Jon warmed his hands on his bowl. "Bring the men you are uncertain of back tomorrow. The others can wait until we have heard Martyn and your veterans."

On the third morning Rennick placed a lad who watched his feet at the end of a rank, where he could follow his neighbour. Jon asked to see him again. Norren's taller youth thrust well alone but blamed his partner when they worked together; Jon sent him off. Rymond, youngest of the road veterans, made his men repeat yesterday's work without another demonstration.

By the fourth afternoon the meadow had thinned. The brothers with the good coat waited together; when Hewyn called the younger, both rose, then the elder sat down. Gerralt led four lads through a narrow gap between two hurdles. One caught his shield on the timber and stopped the others. Gerralt moved him back, showed him how to turn his shoulder and brought them through again. Brus had disarmed another angry loser; Jon heard both accounts and upheld the refusal.

Sunset found the officers in the hall, with Perkin's rolls spread beside Jon's unfinished supper. Rennick had come straight from the field; mud covered his boots to the ankle. Norren stood beside Rymond near the fire. Martyn made room for Gerralt and Brus at the table.

"Your first fifty?" Jon asked Hewyn.

"Chosen. Malcolm for the first ten. Symon, Coll and Murch for three more."

"And the last?"

"Mallador, if you approve him." Hewyn lowered his voice. "He still has a temper. But he listens now, and the others worked well under him at the roof."

"Keep him close," Jon said. "If he gives you cause, tell me."

"I will, my lord."

Rennick's fifty included the lad who had learned to keep his place. Norren had fifty with the angry youth removed. Jon questioned two names on Rymond's roll before Perkin laid the four spear lists together.

"Two hundred spears," Perkin said.

Martyn drew forward the remaining rolls. "Gerralt for the fifth company. Brus for the sixth. Fifty in each, with their commanders counted among them."

Jon looked at the carter. "I saw you teaching those lads. They will need it every day."

"Aye, my lord." Gerralt had folded his thick hands upon the table. "I shall see to them."

"Under Ser Martyn. You both continue learning while you teach." Brus bowed his head beside Gerralt. Jon returned the two rolls to Perkin. "Accept these as well."

Outside, a woman called for her son. The younger brother waited beneath the eaves; he would have his answer in the morning.

"Read every name back," Jon told Perkin. "Then bring the pay chest up from the Black Yard."

Before dawn Perkin finished the six rolls. Hewyn and the officers gathered the chosen men beneath the eaves. Malcolm, Symon, Coll, Mallador and Murch stood at the heads of the first five tens. The refused men heard their names separately. Some watched the new coats being carried past; one began gathering his things before Hewyn had finished.

Beron stood near the end, holding the cap he had worn to every trial. He could carry a beam all afternoon, but each time he returned to the field he still froze when a shield came at his face. Woods had liked his hands better than Hewyn liked his feet.

"Have you spoken to Woods again?" Jon asked him.

"Yes, my lord."

"He has work for you if you want it."

Beron swallowed. Behind Jon, men were lining up beneath the black banner. "I wanted the coat."

"I know."

The lad looked at his cap. After a while he asked what Woods would pay. Jon sent him to the carpenter to hear the terms himself.

The brothers who had shared the good coat had fared differently. One had been chosen for the spears. The other kept saying he would come again, although Hewyn had told him there were no places left in this muster. They went aside to talk. Presently the chosen man took off the coat and gave it back. His brother pulled it on, slapped dust from the sleeves harder than he needed to, then shouldered his pack.

At the cook shelter Elspeth served the departing men from the same kettle as the others. A few would not take the food. Most did. Garrick hired two for the teams, and a sawyer went to look at Woods's pit. Those bound for the same roads gathered together, their bundles smaller than when they had arrived. Jon watched Hallis send the first party through the gate, then turned back to the men waiting to swear.

The six companies formed below the tower, spears nearest the banner and swords across the lane. Hallis cleared a carter's empty wagon through the families at the rail. When it had passed, Jon called the commanders forward; Perkin followed with the rolls.

"These six companies form my First Cohort," Jon said. "Each company is a century. Hewyn has the First, Rennick the Second, Norren the Third and Rymond the Fourth. Gerralt commands the Fifth, Brus the Sixth. Four centuries of spears, two of sword and shield."

"Fifty to a century, my lord?" Rennick asked.

"For now. A hundred when we have filled them. You are its centurion. Bring me the name of a man fit to be your deputy, your optio, and I shall choose the optiones from those you put forward." Jon called Malcolm nearer. "Each ten has a decanus. Malcolm, Symon and the others will learn those duties first. Use the names from today."

Brus repeated the unfamiliar words under his breath. Martyn leaned nearer to hear it, then looked to Jon.

"Hewyn commands the cohort," Jon continued. "Ser Martyn trains both sword centuries. The household remains with Arthur and Gawen." Martyn turned to Gerralt and Brus and told them to bring their men up after the Fourth.

Jon called Heward forward. The old soldier planted his staff before each step; a dark darn marked where his freshly washed coat had worn against it.

"You have kept my yard since there were twenty-five of us. I name you campidoctor. You will oversee common training for the household and six centuries through their officers, as you taught my file leaders. Inspect their camps, marches, exercises and alarms. Make the officer responsible put faults right." Jon faced the commanders. "He may stop your drill and keep you to repeat it."

"And the watches?" Hewyn asked.

"You post them; Heward inspects them and brings serious neglect to you. You command the cohort in the field, Tomas my household. Heward has no century of his own."

"I shall need time with the men who teach," Heward said.

"Before their companies begin. Arthur keeps the household's swords, Martyn the sword centuries, Gawen and Ralf the mounted work. Arrange common exercises with them so no man is expected in two places."

Perkin entered the appointment. Heward turned to the centurions. "Bring your leading decani tomorrow. I want you where your rear ranks can see you."

Before Hewyn returned to his men, Jon beckoned to the six waiting bearers. Mairi had finished their flags the previous evening. Each was a square of black wool hanging from a short crossbar, edged in purple, with a large white numeral sewn above its badge. The first four bore a spearhead; the last two a round shield. I, II, III, IV, V, VI. The white cloth showed clearly even when the breeze dropped.

Jon placed the first staff in Hewyn's hand. "A vexillum for each century. Your men form upon their own flag, on the road or in camp. Choose a bearer and a man to take his place."

Hewyn turned it towards the ranks. Rennick took the next, studying the two white strokes before passing the staff to a veteran at his shoulder. Norren held the Third high and called his men forward. This time they had something to follow.

Martyn waited while the last flag went past. "Vexillum as well? Where do you find these names?"

"In my reading. They will soon know them." Jon looked towards the far ranks, where Brus was showing his men the white VI. "Let the bearers stand forward for the oath."

The six flags rose along the line. Above them all, the larger banner of House Black remained plain sable.

Mairi and three seamstresses were still working along Hewyn's ranks, pinning back sleeves that covered hands and chalking hems for alteration.

"Mine reaches my knees," Symon said, pulling at the skirt.

"It is meant to," Mallador told him.

Families crowded the rail. Malcolm's father gripped his shoulders and warned him not to gamble his first wages. A Glover widow turned her son's coat inside out to look for a pocket. Wylla promised to add one when the fitting was done. The young man endured it with his eyes fixed ahead until Hewyn called the ranks to attention. Jon stepped beneath the banner, and the talking died away.

"You have heard the terms," Jon said. "You serve House Black, and you will sail with me to Dragonstone. Hewyn commands the foot; Ser Martyn teaches the swords. While we remain here, you keep Lord Stark's peace. Fighting among yourselves will earn the lash. Bring your quarrels to your officers. I will pay and equip you, feed you and care for those hurt in my service. If you will not take that oath, step out now."

A youth in Murch's ten held up a folded letter. "Lord Cerwyn's under-steward said I should have a braid, my lord."

"Your release lets you serve. It does not appoint you over my men. Murch is your decanus."

The young man looked at the strip on Murch's shoulder, then lowered the letter. "Yes, my lord."

Hewyn lifted his staff. Malcolm came forward first and knelt upon the damp earth, his men behind him.

"I swear my service to House Black," he said. "I will keep faith with Lord Jon, obey the officers he sets over me and bear arms at his command. I will guard what is entrusted to me and stand with my fellows until I am released from service. Before the old gods, I give my word."

The others spoke after him. Jon heard their voices catch upon unfamiliar words and grow firmer towards the end. When they had finished he accepted their service and called them to their feet. Hewyn brought the next ten forward. Families pressed nearer the rail, trying to see their own men kneel.

The other centuries followed. A child called to his father and was hushed against a woman's shoulder. Water dripped from the banner onto Jon's cloak as Gerralt knelt stiffly with the Fifth. Beside him a lad who had never owned a sword watched Jon's face while he swore. Brus brought the last company forward.

At last Perkin read back the rolls: two hundred spears and one hundred swords, with the twenty-five household guards standing apart under Tomas. Benjen watched from the rail beside Eddard. Jory stood behind them, his men between the horses and the gathered families. Three hundred men faced Jon across the yard, waiting to be dismissed, and the tent ropes beyond them seemed suddenly very close together. He turned to Hewyn and ordered the companies paid.

Perkin opened the pay chest beside the hall. Hallis stood at its corner while the officers brought the companies forward. Each ordinary spearman and swordsman received a silver stag for the sennight, with food, a bed and his issued clothing besides. The officers drew the higher wages agreed at their choosing. Jon stayed beside the table for the first company.

Hennet came forward bareheaded. Jon remembered the narrow face from the trials, though he had to wait for Perkin to read his name. Perkin set a silver stag upon his palm. The lad turned it over, rubbed its edge with his thumb and looked up at Jon. "Thank you, my lord."

"Next week, after the tools are put away," Perkin told him. "Come with your ten."

"Yes, master."

He closed his hand and went to Malcolm. Jon saw him open it again beyond the table, as if to be certain the money had remained there.

The paid men called to their families until Hewyn ordered them back. Hallis cleared the departing road, keeping two guards beside the chest. Their own Winterfell pay continued; Jon's silver was extra for the muster and work ahead. Hallis signed the separate page. The road guards would receive theirs when relieved.

Jon checked the issued spears with Hewyn. Shields came from half a dozen yards; old iron caps, boiled leather, quilted coats and repaired mail went where the drill required them. Fine armour must wait. These men would begin with what Jon could buy and mend.

"At first light, by your companies. Hewyn and Ser Martyn have your orders." Beyond the half-built barrack, tent pegs were being driven and someone shouted for another kettle.

Eddard came across while Jon was unfastening his wet cloak. He took it before the hem could drag in the mud and handed it to Arthur.

"I thought you might ride back with me."

"I am eating with the officers." Jon glanced towards the hall, where Hewyn had stopped to hear one of his new decani. "I want to hear what they have to say now the choosing is done."

His father looked towards the waiting horses. Benjen had mounted; Jory held the chestnut's bridle. For a moment Eddard stayed where he was, with rain shining upon the shoulders of his cloak.

"Then stay," he said. "I will tell Robb."

Jon caught his sleeve before he turned. "Come down and eat with me sometimes. You need not wait for me to bring you a difficulty."

Eddard's hand closed over his. "I should like that." He released him and went to his horse. Jon watched until they had passed the first tents, then joined Hewyn beneath the hall's dripping eaves.

The new hall could hold only Hewyn's first company. The others ate at the cookfires beneath the adjoining shelters while carpenters worked on the next barracks. Elspeth sent the decani to collect bread and bowls for their tens, then had the stew carried along the benches. Malcolm waited until his last man had been served before lifting his spoon.

Jon sat at Hewyn's table with Arthur on one side and Heward nearest the fire. Tomas's household had returned to their hall by the Black Yard after the oaths; tomorrow they would ride back to drill while the foot companies began work.

Martyn brought his bowl to the place opposite Jon. "You said you found those words in your reading. They were not in any of the histories Rodrik and I learnt from."

"I have read a great deal," Jon said. "These suit the force I mean to build."

"Which book?"

Jon reached for the bread. "There is more to it than one book. I have changed things to suit us."

Arthur had been listening. "The names are easy enough to learn. The training is what interests me. You knew how you wanted these men arranged before Hewyn brought you the first roll."

"I had time to consider it."

"You are eight, Jon." Martyn said it quietly, with a glance at the soldiers farther down the table. "I was still being put upon my pony at eight."

Jon set the bread down. "I have told you as much as I intend to about that, Martyn. I will show you the drill and explain why I chose it."

"I need to understand it myself if I am to teach it."

"Come to the yard tomorrow. We will go through it together before you bring the men out."

Martyn studied him for a moment. "Then I shall bring my shield."

Arthur passed Jon the salt. Hewyn wanted to know which company Martyn meant to begin with, and the knight turned to him.

Here, men who had come by different roads passed bread along the unfamiliar benches, still learning the names of their new companions. Murch unfolded a letter written downhill across a scrap and turned it twice.

"From your sweetheart?" Mallador asked.

"My sister," Murch said, turning the page again.

"What does she say?"

"If I knew, I would hold it right way up."

"Can you read it?" Jon asked Malcolm. The decanus nodded and took the scrap from Murch.

Malcolm read. "Your mother cried after you left. Your father says she did not. The red cow calved, and the calf is white."

Murch held out both hands for the page. "Could I learn to read it myself?"

"You will," Jon said. "Bring the letter to your lessons. Perkin will have you in small groups after drill. Men who can already read will help him. Every decanus must learn enough to read an order and keep his men's accounts as well."

Murch folded the letter carefully. "I will come."

Coll touched the grey strip at his shoulder. "I never learned either."

"Then come with him," Hewyn said. Coll nodded and returned to his stew.

"Tell your men, Hewyn," Jon said. "I shall want to hear what a man has done to earn his promotion. He must read and write as well, so see that the promising ones have a chance to learn."

After supper Hewyn assigned the First's bunks and places for their gear. Rennick sorted his century among the tents; Brus called for a man seeing his sister off. No one could leave that night without his decanus's knowledge. Families lingered over their farewells. Mallador stood alone beneath the eaves.

"Your mother?" Jon asked.

"She said she would come if I earned the place, my lord."

"Send word."

"She did not think I would."

"Give Perkin the message. He can send it with a traveller."

Mallador looked into the hall, where his fourth ten were choosing bunks. "Will there be land on Dragonstone, my lord?"

"There will be opportunities for men who serve me well," Jon said. "I have no holding to promise you tonight."

Mallador nodded and went to his men. He chose the bunk nearest the door.

* * *
​

Jon found Aries beneath the stairs when he came back from the muster. The boy had fallen asleep sitting up, with Jon's spare gloves in his lap. Wylla was covering him when he woke and caught the blanket with both hands.

"I kept them."

"So I see," Jon said. "You could have put them on their peg."

"You said fetch them."

"That was before dinner."

Aries looked affronted by the hours he had wasted. Wylla helped him onto his feet and sent him to wash. When he returned, Jon had a slate upon the little table and two short pieces of chalk.

He wrote ARIES slowly, leaving room beneath it. The boy watched his hand, then studied the finished marks.

"All that is me?"

"Five letters." Jon named the first and had him follow its strokes. Aries made it too wide. The second attempt leaned into the next letter until the word resembled a broken fence.

"It's wrong." He pushed the slate away.

"The first is better. Try the second again."

"Master Perkin says I hold it wrong."

"He showed you a way that will not tire your hand. Show me."

Jon loosened the fist around the chalk and rested the boy's wrist upon the table. They made three more letters before Wylla brought their bread. Aries turned the slate face down when she looked at it.

"He has written his name," Jon told her.

"I shall see it when he chooses to show me." She put a piece of cheese beside his bread and did not reach for the slate.

Arthur came in while Aries was eating the cheese and set his gloves beside Jon's. The boy watched him sit, then looked towards the doorway, where two household guards were passing.

"Gage says the new men all knelt. What for?"

"They were swearing to serve me," Jon said.

"Heward makes them stand up."

"For drill. Today they were giving their word before witnesses. I gave mine back."

"What did you promise?"

"Food, wages, their arms and a place to sleep. The new beds are for them."

Aries nodded. He had been sent away from two of them that morning while looking for a place to hide Jon's gloves.

"They get paid even when there's no fighting?"

"They are learning now. Tomorrow some will guard the stores and some will help build the quarters."

The boy thought about that over the last of his bread. "But they're bigger than you."

"Most are." Jon turned his cup away from the slate. "They know whose land and silver keep them here. Soon they will know whether I can lead them. Being bigger will not answer every question they bring me."

"Nor will a title," Arthur said. "A man may obey a lord and still think him a fool. I have met a few who took a bow for proof that they had spoken wisely."

"Have you bowed to fools?" Aries asked.

"Yes."

"Did you tell them?"

"When it was my place." Arthur looked at Jon. "Some listened."

Jon drew the slate round again. "Ask about what you see here. Ask me when I have finished with the men, and I shall answer what I can. You will learn more than how to carry my gloves."

Aries looked down at the five letters. "Do I still have to do those?"

"Yes. If you can read the order yourself, you need not wait for someone to tell you what it says."

The boy chose the longer piece of chalk and pulled the slate close. He added a dot beside his name, rubbed it out, and tried to make the second letter stand straight.

After eating, Jon sent him to Gawen with a spoken message: the two quiet mares were wanted after breakfast, not before it. He made Aries repeat it first. The boy came back reporting that Gawen had said aye, and would his lordship stop letting the page race round blind corners.

"Did he?"

Aries nodded gravely. "He nearly walked into me."

"You slowed for the return, then."

"Some."

"Walk next time," Jon told him. Before bed, Aries took the slate to Wylla and set it upon her mending. He pointed to the first letter himself.

 

[aiwonder]

On the morning after the oaths, Bucephalus carried Jon up the last slope blowing through his nose, his black neck damp beneath the mane. Jon shortened the reins before the broken gate. Wind lifted the silver hair at his left temple; the rest was tied back, clear of his plain black collar. Water had washed gravel into the wheel ruts during the night; the horse chose the firmer strip between them and stopped with one forefoot raised above a loose stone.

Arthur rode up beside him. Wylla followed on a brown palfrey, holding her skirts clear of the wet flank. A little cart behind her carried their chests, three rolled mattresses and blankets bound in sailcloth. She had packed the cups between Jon's spare shirts and made Ralf find room for the pot she wanted.

A timber cart was climbing towards the turn, its outside wheel close to the soft edge. Jon rode the bend wide enough to judge where the load would swing.

"Cut this bank back. The wagons can turn here and wait clear of the gate."

Arthur rode farther along and looked towards the thorn below the wall. "That hides the lower road."

"It comes out today. Leave the two oaks." Beneath the cart's rumble Jon could hear Miller's Run spilling over the rocks.

The six centuries waited across the slope, Hewyn's First outside the new barrack, Rennick's Second beside the timber sledges, Third and Fourth coming from their tents and Martyn's swords below. Jon handed Bucephalus to a groom and struck the cracked ploughshare beneath its ash frame.

"Leave the shields. Coats open. Centurions, bring them down to the trial field." He gave Arthur his cloak.

Four of Hallis's guards joined them; the others kept the road and stores. They would exchange places after dinner, giving Hewyn experienced hands for each lesson.

Heward brought the centurions and their leading decani forward while Jon took off his sword belt. The rest waited in their companies. A man near the back tried to see between two shoulders until Heward moved the officers farther apart.

"Another pace apart," he said. "The men at the back cannot see between you."

Jon took the officers through the movements while Heward watched. Rymond hurried into the next turn before his men had finished the first.

"Look behind you," Heward said. "What are they copying now?"

Half the rank had turned; the rest still faced him. Jon demonstrated again, and this time Rymond waited. Malcolm needed reminding to show one movement before naming the next. Heward then sent the officers back to their companies and walked among the ranks with Jon.

"Brus! Face your men when you show them! They cannot copy the part you have turned away."

The centurion returned to the front. His men stopped smiling when he made them hold the movement while he checked their feet.

Heward set the order of the run. Jon took the First towards the stream; the other centuries followed at intervals. The campidoctor mounted a quiet garron and rode beside the lower bend, where he could watch the front and rear of each company without asking his damaged knee to keep pace with either.

At the bend Jon shortened his stride. His legs were warm now, his breath coming harder. One circuit would serve him today. He brought the First back at a walk and stood beside Arthur while the other centuries came in.

The Third had strung out. Norren reached the field well before his last pair. Heward rode up beside him and pointed down the road.

"Take them in together."

Norren went back. He returned at a walk with both red-faced men beside him, one pressing his side. Jon waited until they had caught their breath, then heard the centurion's account.

"I let the front go too quickly, my lord."

"Keep the shorter course tomorrow," Jon said. "Heward will watch your pace. We lengthen it when they can all finish."

Norren bowed and took his men towards the washing trough. Heward remained at the bend until the last of Sixth had passed him.

Only when Brus's last man was through the gate did Jon send the centuries to breakfast. Hallis's guards kept order at the two cook shelters while the tool carts arrived beside the timber sledges. Jon washed and ate the bread Wylla had kept for him.

"Tools by tens," he told the decani. "Return broken iron as well as sound. We can replace a handle."

Some men hefted the picks as if they had hoped never to touch one again. Jon took Hewyn's nearest ten towards the tower. The others brought the carts in, while Rennick cleared turning room down the lane.

The frost crack still ran down the tower's corner. The exposed stone was wet blue-grey, streaked iron-red beneath the old hinge clamps. Ivy hid the other joints; more stone would loosen when the roots came out. The curtain had opened in two places, one to winter and one to men carrying away dressed stone. Jon turned towards the low guardroom at the western foot, well clear of the cracked corner. Woods had cleared its doorway during the first barrack work; a new door stood fitted.

Inside, the vault held and the floor was dry away from the threshold, though stale rushes soured the cold air. A narrow slit admitted a grey line of morning above the stone shelf. Jon set Arthur's lantern in the old hollow cut for a lamp. He dragged a broken stool from the wall, uncovering a bird's nest with two white feathers, and carried it out with the rotten wood before returning for the rushes.

"Your chest?" Arthur asked from the doorway.

"Here. I want the bed along that wall, clear of the draught." Jon pushed at the lowest stone with his boot. It did not move. "We can board the slit until there is a shutter."

Arthur set down his own bedroll against the opposite wall. Wylla came in carrying the wrapped cups and looked into the rear recess.

"My bed will fit there. A curtain across the beam, and I shall manage."

Jon took the cups from her. "The room above will be yours when the stair is sound."

"Then see that it is sound before you send me up it." She pushed her sleeves back and went out for the broom. Jon left the door open to the morning air and went to join Malcolm at the run. Behind him, Arthur called two men to bring in their chests.

Jon began with water. He walked the whole rise carrying one end of a knotted cord while Murch held the other. Coll carried the level, and Malcolm wrote down the falls as Jon called them. Jon drove short stakes wherever the slope changed. At the southern hollow, last night's rain stood dark beneath coarse grass. His old surveying gear would have given him these heights before breakfast. With cord and plumb line, a small error carried forward could send the drain towards the barracks. He checked the last reading again before they moved the stakes. He called Malcolm closer so the man could see both the reading and the ground it described.

Above the survey party, the spearmen cutting thorn exposed an old doorway. Daylight showed through it for the first time since Jon had come here. He chose the southern hollow for a settling pool; the western barrack stood clear of it, and his drain ran below the proposed granary with its outfall away from the foundations.

Woods proposed moving the second roof two paces west to avoid breaking the rock shelf. Jon tested its edge, moved the stake and checked that the main lane kept its width. They spread the drawing between them.

At the end of the barrack range Jon marked an exercise room opening onto the yard, large enough for two tens. Stones, sacks, ropes and bars could stay dry there; the weights needed paving and timber pads, the climbing ropes sound posts. High windows would light the work.

"I can carry that span with the barrack timbers," Woods said.

"Finish their beds first. We can fit this out afterwards." Woods called his apprentice to measure the remaining length.

Near the gate, steam escaped through the sand over Ormund's slaking lime. He kept the new hands hauling sand until the last hard lumps had broken down; only then could they add water and work the mortar. At the tower, Jon set two men to clearing roots and old mortar. The joints were brushed and dampened, gaps filled with stone pinnings, and finished lengths sheltered beneath reed mats. He had the corner stones kept in their courses for reuse. Hewyn cleared the stone heaps from the space where his company must turn.

Jon carried the sighting board to the outfall. From here he could see the long lane between the new sheds, the cooking ground beside it and the higher strip he had kept for stores. Men would pass through those spaces every day. A badly placed wall would send them round it with every sack of meal; a low doorway would catch every long load brought under cover.

He had drawn Roman camps often enough in another life, their streets and divisions familiar from plans that survived long after the armies. He had enjoyed reconstructing them upon paper. Here men disputed a doorway within earshot of the work, and he could correct it before they had to live with it. Jon brought the granary entrance round towards the road and left the broad space at the crossing clear. He had spent a pleasant morning and wanted to see the walls rise.

Beyond the sleeping halls Jon walked Woods round the planned bank, keeping its rounded corners within the leased bounds. There would be a raised timber walk, corner towers and a pair flanking the gate, with empty ground inside for later intakes. He meant to enclose it while the men learned to build.

The six centuries divided among drains, road, masonry, timber and unloading, their decani beside the craftsmen and skilled soldiers helping the rest. After dinner Martyn would take the swords and Hewyn the spears, leaving the hands the craftsmen could not spare.

At the noon bell William rode up on Iain's shaggy pony with a brass plate wrapped beneath his coat. A bearing hole had opened into a black crescent under the heavier proving weight. Jon washed and took a fresh grey back to the Black Yard with him, Arthur following.

Ewan wanted the plate reheated and flattened. At the bench William showed Jon the flaw he had traced beyond the punched circle.

"The hole did not make this," William said. "It was in the plate before we bored."

"Cut through the flaw so Ewan can see how far it runs," Jon said. "The clock needs a new plate." He held the brass towards the window once more, then laid it beside the saw. William fetched a fresh piece while the smith went to see which of his men could bore it before the afternoon's forging.

Four smaller movements had filled the space left by the Hightower frame. Apprentices fitted barrels and pins while two joiners hung case doors. A finished pine clock stood ready for a White Harbor rope and sailcloth merchant; its keeper's slate showed scarcely any change in the error since yesterday.

"He wound it himself this morning," Olyver said, nodding towards the merchant. "And fitted the spare cord."

Jon warned the buyer against keeping it in his damp store.

"My wife has cleared a place in the hall. I doubt she means to let the ropewalk have it." He followed Perkin to pay the remaining hundred and twenty dragons while the joiners brought the cradle.

Jon went back to William, who had laid the new plate upon the old one. He made the boy separate them and find the centres from the drawing. The flaw had pulled the first hole awry; copying it would put the fault into sound brass. William turned the drawing towards the light and began again.

Perkin waited until the first centre had been pricked before bringing a Gulltown factor to the bench. Perkin carried two letters; the factor wanted the fitters promised to Barrow Hall. His master would pay twice Lord Dustin's price to have them before his guests arrived.

"Barrow Hall keeps its place," Jon said.

"For twice the gold, my lord?"

"The men have their road. When did your master first ask for his clock?"

The factor looked at Perkin's letters. His own was the later of the two. From the wall came four different little beats, with the file rasping through them. He watched the pine clock being lowered into its cradle.

"Could he have one of those sooner?"

"If he accepts the smaller movement. Perkin will tell you the price and which bench can take it." Jon turned to the clerk. "Ask him for the room's height before you promise the case."

Perkin took the factor towards the finished clocks. Beneath his table stood the wage coffer; beside it lay the smith's paid bill for brass and iron. At the door, the rope merchant paused beside Jon's grey.

"Captain Denys has ordered more of my best cordage. He paid for the last before the cart was empty—and sent back two coils. I told my men to open the next lot before he does."

Jon had read Denys's letter that morning. Stone Drum had spent twelve days at sea with only ordinary pumping; Salt Wraith had weathered a squall under her new mast. All ten warships were working again, and Denys was sending pairs along the trading coast. Jon asked for the soundest rope before the merchant climbed up beside his clock.

Arthur had an onion pie waiting beside the grey. Jon ate it on the slow ride through the market, catching the drips in its linen wrapper. Beyond the last carts he urged the horse uphill and asked whether the long poles had come from Winterfell.

The eastern drain had advanced twenty paces, but rose before the outfall. Jon marked the high reach for Mallador's men to lower. At the relief, fresh men took the tools while Hewyn gave the tired ten water before their throwing lesson.

The well stayed covered while hired diggers cleared it; drinking water still came from Winterfell in casks. Jon placed washing troughs and horse water below the sleeping sheds, the privies farther downhill, clear of the well and the run above its intake.

One spearman measured the walk with a mournful eye. "In snow, my lord?"

"In snow too." Jon pointed out the path to the next decanus and moved on.

Below the fall, Ewan stood ankle-deep beside the proposed wheel race, his trousers rolled above his calves. Jon unfolded the plans upon a flat stone. The smith recognised the mill gearing at once; he had repaired enough broken gudgeons to know what water could do to a badly seated shaft. He followed the drawing into the forge and stopped at the hammer.

"These raised pieces turn with it?"

Jon laid a stick between two stones and turned it beneath another. "They lift the tail. The head falls when it clears." He showed him the separate shafts upon the page. "This connection comes free when you pull the lever. The wheel can keep the bellows working while the hammer rests."

Ewan took the stick and turned it himself. He held it still with the little hammer raised, then let it fall. Water ran round his bare ankles while he looked from the sticks to the drawing.

"I have never seen a forge worked that way." He tried the movement again. "It will shake this bank to pieces if you put that weight upon a boarded floor."

"The anvil gets its own bed beneath the floor." Jon turned to the section and drew its footing larger. "We open the ground before Woods sets the frame. Keep the hearth back here, and leave this side clear for the long bars."

Ewan shifted his tongs to the place a billet would occupy. "A striker sees when I turn the work. That head will come down whether I am ready or not."

"You will try the release with the shaft turned by hand. Then with the water, before there is hot iron under it." Jon drew the lever nearer the smith's place. "Keep it within reach here. Tell me if you need it moved."

The smith examined the bellows next. "And if I want less blast? There is iron I could spoil with all the wind those will give."

"We choose the gearing for the hearth. The bellows work in turn, with less pause between them. You still judge the heat." Jon tapped the hammer shaft. "We try this under load as well. I want to know what it takes from the wheel before we settle the blast."

Ewan climbed onto the bank to get both hands free. Jon unrolled the plan of the later buildings. There were furnaces beyond the first hearth, another hammer space, and rows of armourers' benches. Farther along, Jon had reserved a shed for a rolling frame and the powered turning and boring bench needed to make its fittings. Ewan spread his palm over them as though checking the size against the small forge he knew.

"All of this for arms?"

"For my men first. Six hundred foot when the companies are full, and the household besides. Good steel for their helms and plates. More than one armourer can shape and fit them."

Ewan stared at him while Jon weighted the curling edge with a stone.

"My lord, men keep steel good enough for that locked in chests. You have drawn room for cartloads."

"We shall begin with small charges and test what comes out. The hammers will help us work it without spending all its heat under tired strikers. Good pieces must be made again before I promise hundreds."

Ewan looked back at the plan. "Who taught you this?"

"I am keeping that to myself, Ewan."

Ewan held his gaze. "I will need more than a drawing when we try the steel, my lord. I want to see those first charges." He pulled the hammer drawing nearer. "May I take this to Woods? I want him beside me when we choose the shaft."

"Take it. Bring your questions to the yard tomorrow. You will be there when we try the steel." Jon held the paper while Ewan dried his hands to take it.

Back at the practice ground, Jon found that Martyn had laid six narrow lanes between paired stakes. The first two admitted a spear line. The next narrowed to the width of a gate, the fifth turned like a tower stair, and the last ended at a plank deck smeared with wet clay.

"My shield companies train there," he said. "Close enough that every wide sword cut punishes a friend."

Arthur pointed to the high field. "Gawen and I shall take the household up there. Tomas can bring them up after dinner tomorrow."

Hewyn planted his staff beside Jon's throwing lane. "My veterans will see to the grip and the step. Shall I bring you the first ten when they can cast without striking their neighbours?"

"Bring them to me," Jon said. "We will have them cast together, then fall back through opened intervals while the second ten closes. One weighted cast, and no pursuit after the horn. We test it with wood before Ewan gives us iron."

By the last bell carts could turn without a man at every wheel. Mallador's ten helped two tired spearmen free a buried lintel before supper; rubble still covered much of the yard.

Supper was barley thickened with peas, onions and scraps of salt pork. Jon sat upon a sawn block with the bowl between his knees. One thumb still smelled of lime after washing. He found a strip of pork at the bottom, ate it before it could slip away again, and listened while Woods described the loose stone above the eastern stair.

"Take it down from outside," Jon said. "No one climbs those steps to reach it. We shall rig the ropes from the sound wall."

Woods spread his hands towards the fire. "I shall need the long poles."

"The straight ones beside the gate. Come round with me before the men start." Jon scraped the barley from the side of his bowl. The well-diggers needed another pair of hands; after the loose wallhead and surviving upper timbers were made safe, they could return more men to the barracks and granary.

"May I keep Coll's ten for the whole afternoon tomorrow, my lord?" Hewyn asked. "Two of them know a spear already. I want them helping the rest."

Jon agreed. The masons could spare them once the morning's stone had been brought up. He called the other centurions over before they went back to their shelters.

"Bring the cohort out after supper. Shields and practice weapons. Each century on its own ground. We begin the night drill."

Hewyn glanced towards the men finishing their bowls. "They have had a long day, my lord."

"A short lesson, then. Finding their places and moving together."

By the time the decani brought them out, the light had gone from the upper windows. Two lanterns hung beneath the barrack eaves. Beyond them the yard lay dark, with a pale strip of cloud over the broken wall. Rennick took the Second to the cleared road; Norren and Rymond had the ground below it. From the lower field came Martyn's voice and the answering calls of the sword centuries. Jon buckled his belt and joined Hewyn beside the First.

The first ten found Malcolm; the next crowded them. Murch was fetching strays from the wrong decanus when Jon halted the company.

"Each decanus calls his own men. When you have found him, stand fast."

Jon waited for the tens to form, then led Malcolm's men across the yard. The rear pair overran the halt. They tried more slowly, keeping their distance by the dim shapes ahead and listening for the command.

Tomas brought a household file down from the high field. They crossed the open ground and wheeled at his quiet order, their shields scarcely touching. Some of Hewyn's lads turned to watch. Jon let them see the file come back before calling Malcolm forward again.

Below them, Brus called the Sixth back for another attempt. Heward stood between the two sword companies with Martyn. Fifth wheeled at Gerralt's word; Sixth began moving before Brus had finished giving his. The two front pairs nearly met.

Heward raised his staff. "Stand fast. Gerralt, give the order. Brus, listen to all of it."

He made the two centurions use the same words before bringing their men forward again. This time the companies waited for the word to move. Jon watched them pass clear of each other, then left Heward with the next pairs and climbed back towards the barrack.

Murch no longer needed to fetch his strays. The First's ranks still wavered, but they stopped without piling into one another. Jon dismissed them and sent word down the slope for the others to finish. Men rubbed their eyes beneath the barrack lanterns and went in talking more quietly than they had come out.

Hewyn waited until the last spear had passed the doorway. "Again tomorrow?"

"After supper. Heward has the common drill. Let him see each century halt and turn before you take them into the meadow." Jon looked downhill, where the old man had seated himself upon a timber while Brus brought the last pair back. "I have letters to answer. He need not wait for me."

Jon unfastened his belt a hole and handed the practice shield back to Malcolm. His shoulders ached from the spade, and he wanted his bed.

Jon inspected the sentries with Tomas. He stopped at the horse line on his way back and rubbed the dried sweat beneath Bucephalus's mane. The stallion nosed his coat for an apple. Jon found only the hard corner of his folded drawing. He brought a handful of hay instead and stood there while the horse took it, warm breath moving over his fingers.

Wylla had lit the lamp in the guardroom. The new mattresses lay on low planks supported by short trestles, above the chill of the stone floor. Her bed stood behind a woollen curtain in the recess. Jon's chest was beneath the slit, his spare boots beside it. She was shaking the last shreds of packing straw from his blanket when he came in.

Jon sat to pull off his work boots.

Once both boots were off, he spread the drawing across the lid of his chest and held its curling edge with the lamp. Arthur knelt beside him. They went over the approach they had ridden that morning, then the gap beside the barrack through which the household could bring its horses into the high field. Jon shifted the proposed stable back enough to leave it clear. He wanted to walk the distance with Tomas before any footing was opened there.

Arthur brushed a fleck of dried mud from the drawing. "Tomorrow, while Hewyn has the spears."

"After the wallhead." Jon bent closer to the little lane. The lamp blurred. He rubbed his eyes and found grit beneath one lid.

Arthur lifted the lamp off the parchment. "You can see it better in the morning."

Jon wanted to finish the stable. Instead he rolled the drawing, put it inside the chest and eased himself under the blankets. Straw crackled inside the mattress. The bed was narrower than his one at Winterfell, and when he turned, his knee found the cold wall.

Through the open door he heard Hewyn speaking to a man at the fire, the scrape of a pot, and someone coughing in the barrack. Wylla laid his clean shirt on the chest, felt his forehead with the back of her hand and drew the blanket higher. Arthur shut the door and laid a folded cloak against the draught beneath it before lying down. Behind her curtain Wylla unfastened her shoes. The last light went out.

At first light Jon ran with First, had Wylla's bread and warm small beer, and joined Arthur and Woods with the long poles. Cut ivy hung over the wallhead's empty joints. Jon had the paired poles set on the sound side, well stayed, and climbed the lower platform beside Arthur.

Mallador's ten took the slack. Jon halted them until Woods freed the block's lower edge with a bar. It settled onto the tackle and descended past the empty stair; while the spearmen freed the sling, Woods prepared the next block.

They took the unsafe courses down through the morning. Jon moved between the platform and the ground, keeping the dressed stones in order for rebuilding and sending sound fallen timber to the carpenters. As the broken edge grew lower, a room opened to the sky beyond it: an old hearth, a window seat, the dark ends of floor beams that had rotted in their sockets. He stopped beside the hearth long enough to clear loose mortar from its carved lintel with his glove.

"Wylla will have more light up here," Arthur said.

Jon could already see where the bed would stand, away from the window. "She will want the hearth made good first."

Arthur looked down into the yard, where Wylla was taking bowls from a cart and directing a man twice her size towards the cookfires. "She will tell you."

By dinner the condemned wallhead lay in ordered rows beside the tower. The men ate against stones buried beneath nettles yesterday. Jon and Woods chose beams to reuse above the guardroom; then Hewyn's call brought Jon down to the throwing field.

* * *
​

At the Black Yard, bread began disappearing from other men's places a few weeks after Aries's own meals became certain.

Elspeth found two small loaves inside his clean shirt basket. Gage lost the heel he had left beside his cup. Aries claimed the kitchen cat had taken it, though he had flour down the front of his coat and the cat was sitting in the yard eating a mouse.

Jon caught him at the low wall with a third loaf beneath his arm. A bare hand appeared between the stones on the other side. It vanished as Jon came nearer.

"Come round to the gate," Jon called.

Feet ran away through the nettles. Aries stood very still.

"Who was that?"

"No one."

"He can use the gate." Jon opened it and looked along the wall. The lane was empty. He closed it again without sending men into the town.

Back in the hall, he put Aries upon the bench opposite him. Elspeth reclaimed the loaf, cut the dirty edge away and waited beside the hearth.

"How many?" Jon asked.

Aries rubbed a crumb between finger and thumb.

"How many boys are you feeding?"

"Sometimes they find their own."

"That is not what I asked."

"Six." He said it so quietly that Jon had to lean closer. "Not all at once. Geth finds things. Nibs can't always."

"Did you sleep with them before you came here?"

Aries nodded. His jaw began to work. "They won't come if your men take them."

"Are they orphans too?"

"Timm's aunt went with a wagon. He waited for her. The others have no one."

Jon sent for Wylla and asked her to sit while Aries told them what he would. They slept in a roofless house beyond the dyer's shed when it was dry, beneath a cooper's awning when it rained, and in places the boy would not name. Geth was the eldest. Wrenn had a cough. Nibs had lost the better of his two shoes and wrapped a strip of sacking about that foot.

"You might have told me," Jon said.

"You had one already."

"One what?"

"Me."

Wylla drew the boy's crumb-dusted sleeve out of his mouth. He had been chewing it without knowing.

"Bring them here," Jon said. "Tell the gate guards I sent you. Elspeth will find them something to eat, and Perkin can enquire after their kin, as he did for you."

"You'll keep all of them?"

"I mean to give them somewhere to stay. There is room above the lower hall while we make better beds."

Aries looked towards the kitchen. "They don't all work."

"Neither did you."

"I do now."

"Yes. Tell them what that means. No stealing from the men, no slipping out without leave. They will have work they can do and someone to teach them." Jon glanced towards Heward, who had come in during the account and waited by the door. "There are six centurions whose messages are forever carried by the nearest soldier. Let them teach pages instead."

Heward considered the small red head at the table. "The youngest will need a man to go with him until he knows the camp."

"Then give him one. Reading, figures and light work first. They are not recruits for the fighting rolls."

"And this one?"

"Remains with me."

Aries slid off the bench. "I can find them now."

"After supper, with Gawen," Jon said. "You will not vanish on me a second time."

The knight came back at dusk with five boys and a sixth trailing well behind. Aries kept turning to call him closer. All stopped when they saw the open door and the waiting bowls.

Elspeth had set the food inside, where no passing man could reach over their shoulders. She moved out of the doorway herself. Geth entered first, eleven and already trying to look older. Timm followed with Nibs clinging to the back of his coat. The others gave their names as Tob, Wrenn and Hake. Wrenn coughed hard enough to lose his first mouthful.

Wylla took him to the bench nearest the hearth. Nibs tried to go after him with a bowl too hot to hold. Aries wrapped a cloth about it and carried it for him, complaining that he was spilling the best part.

"Sit," Jon told him. "There is another bowl for you."

"I ate."

"Then help Nibs with his bread."

The six had scarcely spoken beyond their names. Geth asked what work began in the morning. Jon told him he would first be shown his bed, his washing place and the man who would teach him. Heward named the six centurions and said that the pages would change places at the turn of each moon.

"They must have their lessons together," Jon told Heward. "Whatever work you give them."

Geth looked towards Aries. "Does he learn with us?"

"Yes. His errands will be different, but he has letters to learn too." Jon waited until Aries had put down Nibs's bowl. "Show him the slate."

The red-haired boy fetched it reluctantly. Timm peered at the letters and asked which was the mark for Red.

"Aries," the boy told him, too quickly. Then, when his friend drew back, he turned the slate and began explaining the first letter.

Wylla stayed until all six had eaten. She found a place for their bundles without emptying them in front of the men. Nibs slept before she finished his feet; Geth waited by the door until he saw the little boy tucked beneath a blanket. When Jon passed later, Aries lay beside his friends on the borrowed floor pallet, though his own bed waited upstairs. He had left his new coat folded over Nibs.

 

[aiwonder]

On the third morning after the oaths, Hennet woke when somebody trod upon his hand.

He had let it hang over the side of the bunk. The man passing between the beds apologised in a whisper, then knocked his shin against the next one and stopped whispering. Hennet drew his hand under the blanket and waited for his fingers to stop aching.

At home the morning began with his mother stirring the hearth. Here it began with men trying to find their boots. One had fallen asleep in his. Another had put his beneath the wrong bed and was accusing its owner of theft. The quarrel ended when Malcolm came down the aisle carrying a lamp.

"Out from under the blankets. You can find the other boot by daylight."

Hennet sat up. The new barrack smelled of damp wool, fresh timber and a great many sleeping men. A narrow piece of sky showed grey through the window. He pulled his shirt over his head, wriggled into the black coat and found that he had put the belt through only half its loops. The boy beside him had done worse. Both sleeves of his coat were inside out.

"How did you get into it yesterday?" Hennet asked.

"My brother pulled it off me."

"He went home."

"I know." The boy pushed a fist into the lining and began wrestling. Hennet helped him find the cuff. By the time they had straightened both sleeves, Malcolm was coming back.

Outside, water stood in the hollows the carts had made. Hennet stepped across one and put his other foot into the next. He had meant to keep the shoes dry. His mother had scrubbed them before he left home, using a piece of cloth she afterwards washed and put away for the next pair.

The Old Watch rose dark above the camp. Lamplight showed in a narrow slit near its foot. Along the broken curtain, scaffold poles reached into the grey sky, and bundles of thatch lay under a weighted cloth. Mairi was lifting her sewing basket from a little cart beside the guardroom. A smell of porridge came from the hall. Hennet looked towards it until Malcolm called him back.

They assembled by tens with their wooden shields. Hennet had been placed in Malcolm's. He knew the decanus's face and the men to either side; beyond them he still confused names. He had learned to answer his own quickly. When Hewyn paused over the roll, nobody wanted to be the man who made him look up twice.

Lord Jon came from the guardroom carrying his gloves. Ser Arthur followed, stooping beneath the doorway. The boy's black hair had been tied behind his head, though a pale lock at his left temple remained loose. Hennet had seen him take a spade from a grown man the day before and cut the first reach of a drain himself. He still had to remind himself that this was the child who had done it.

Wylla put an oatcake in Jon's hand as he passed. He ate while Hewyn reported, then ordered a man with a swollen ankle kept off the run until Luwin had examined him.

Tomas brought the household up the road before Jon had finished eating. Hennet knew their captain by the grey braid. Twenty-five black coats came through the gate, some with patches so neatly fitted that he had not noticed them at first. Most looked younger than the new spearmen, some by several years. Yet they moved around the standing men without shoving, and when Tomas raised a hand they found their places without being called one by one.

A knight with a worn blue cloak came beside them. Hennet had heard his name the day before. Ser Gawen took the household's horses towards the clear ground while Arthur spoke to their file leaders. Jon handed his gloves to Tomas and went to Hewyn's side.

"Shields against the rail," he said. "Coats open. Follow me."

Hennet still felt foolish loosening his ankles before the run. He had lifted wood for years without doing such things, but the stiffness in his legs eased as he followed Jon.

The path led around the foot of the rise, past the covered well and towards the run. Malcolm kept the first ten together. Hennet shortened his stride for the man beside him, lengthened it when the ground opened and discovered that it was harder to keep another man's pace than to run his own. The household took a longer turn under Tomas. He could see their black coats passing between the trees ahead.

Jon ran beside the spearmen for the lower circuit. His steps were quick, his breath audible when they came up the slope. He was no more than eight. Hennet could have outpaced him upon the straight, if that had been the task. On the stony turn the boy went lightly over ground where Hennet planted his whole foot and jarred himself to the hip.

At the top, Jon waved Malcolm's ten on, stepped aside with Arthur and walked until his breathing steadied. Hewyn sent the spears round again.

By the last climb Hennet had stopped looking at the other men. He watched Malcolm's back and the next piece of ground. The decanus called the pace down before the gate. They entered at a walk, sweating beneath their open coats.

"Keep moving," Jon told them. "You may sit at breakfast."

Hennet wanted to sit sooner. He took a cup of water, drank too quickly and coughed half of it over his sleeve. The man who had stepped on his hand thumped him once between the shoulders.

"Sorry about your hand," the man said.

"Mind the other one tonight," Hennet told him.

Hewyn sent the spears to breakfast by tens.

Two carpenters were setting a heavy oak block beside the barrack wall. Iron rings hung at either end. One man held it steady while the other drove a wedge beneath its foot. Hennet slowed as he passed. He had seen a groom whipped over such a block at Torrhen's Square, with his father's hand gripping the back of his neck to keep him watching.

"Move along," Malcolm said. Hennet followed his ten towards the hall.

At the washing barrel Malcolm stopped them to clean their hands. Hennet dipped his hands, rubbed the dirt from between his fingers and found the water cold enough to hurt. Beside him the boy with the twisted sleeves was trying to smooth his hair in the reflection.

"Does it lie down?" he asked.

"No."

He pressed harder. Hennet gave him room and went in.

The bowls were already upon the benches. Hennet sat where Malcolm pointed, accepted the bread passed from his neighbour and waited while the last men found their places. Outside, a cart rattled towards the tower. Its driver was singing badly and loudly enough to rise above the wheels.

The porridge had been thickened with peas, and fat shone in a little hollow beneath the spoon. Hennet stirred it through. At home his mother always scraped her own bowl last. Here a woman came down the aisle with another pot before he had finished, asking which ten still lacked food. Malcolm sent her to the far end, where two men were only just taking their seats.

The boy who had fought with his sleeves tore the crust from his bread and set it aside.

"Saving that?" Hennet asked.

"My sister likes the crust." He looked at the piece, then put it back beside his bowl. "She is home."

"How far?"

"Beyond the Cerwyn road. I could walk there by dinner."

"You had better ask Malcolm."

"I know that. I only said I could." He ate the crust himself. Hennet finished his porridge and took another piece when the loaf reached him, without first looking to see whether anyone would object. The noise in the hall rose as the bowls emptied. Someone wanted to trade a belt; someone else had a brother who could mend boots. At the end of the table Malcolm was telling a man where his wife could leave a bundle when she came from town.

As they came out, Lord Jon was mounting beside the gate. Arthur waited on a grey horse, with William standing by his stirrup. Jon spoke to Hewyn before the two riders followed the clockmaker down the road. Malcolm took Hennet's ten to the tool shed.

Hennet would have been glad of his father's wood axe. He knew what to do with an axe. He had cut and stacked firewood for years without a man telling him that his left foot ought to have been his right.

Malcolm gave him a spade instead.

Their ten went down behind the new barrack, where a length of drain remained choked with roots. The sun had warmed the upper yard, but here the bank kept them in shade. Hennet could smell wet earth and the sour leaves lying under the thorn. He thrust the blade in, jumped upon it and found a stone.

"I have come a long way to do this," Harwyn said. The broad man leaned upon his spade and looked along the uncut bank.

"How far?"

"Four days."

"Should have stayed where you were. We have these at home." Hennet worked his spade beneath the stone. His shoulders hurt when he tried to lift it.

The boy with the ill-fitting sleeves began laughing. His name was Lew, Hennet had learned, and he laughed readily when there was nobody important nearby.

"He promised us spears."

"You will have one after dinner," Malcolm said. "Give Hennet a hand."

Lew took the other spade. Between them they brought the stone up, rolled it clear and stood panting over the hole. Downhill, Murch's men were doing the same work, their coats hung over the thorn. Beyond them a line of soldiers passed baskets of rubble towards the broken wall. There seemed to be men everywhere now: digging, carrying, waiting beneath a beam while a carpenter fitted the joint. A month ago Hennet had known most of the faces he saw in a day.

Someone began a song about a miller's wife. Malcolm let the first verse go by, then told the singer there were women working within earshot. The man substituted a miller's goat. That made it worse.

They were still laughing when Lord Jon rode through the lower gate. Hennet put his foot upon the spade and straightened. Around him, men pulled up their breeches and reached for coats they had no time to put on.

"Carry on," Jon said.

His horse's dark mane was flecked with dust from the road. A bundle of papers rode in the bag behind the saddle, and the boy held half a pear in one gloved hand. He finished it while Hewyn came down to meet him. Ser Arthur took the reins when Jon dismounted. The men bowed as he passed between the heaps of earth.

He came to the drain and looked uphill. Hennet could see what he was looking at: the space left beneath the lane, where Woods had laid two flat stones beside an unfinished crossing.

"Bring those down," Jon told Malcolm. "We can finish the culvert before the timber cart comes back."

The stones were heavy enough for four men. Hennet took a corner with the others and carried it to the narrow channel. Jon had climbed down into it. Mud reached the tops of his boots. He cleared the ledge with a little iron trowel, then showed them where to lower the slab. Hewyn took Hennet's corner for the last of the lift.

From the bank Hennet watched Jon push small stones under the edge until the slab rested firmly. The second covered the remaining gap. When Jon climbed out, one knee of his breeches was brown and his hair had come loose against his cheek.

"Stone over the top, then gravel," he said to Malcolm. "Keep the opening clear."

Harwyn waited until Jon had gone to the next ten before looking into it.

"That will take a cart?"

Hewyn heard him. "When you have finished it."

They carried the filling up in baskets. By the time the timber wagon returned, the lane ran over the drain. Hennet stepped back while the wheel ground across the gravel. The horse flicked its tail in his face, and Lew laughed again.

The water beneath kept running.

Hennet crouched beside the opening until Lew called for the empty basket. His father would have sent for a mason before trusting a loaded wagon to that crossing.

They put away the tools when the dinner bell sounded. Hennet ate barley and onions with his coat spread over the bench to dry. By the time Malcolm called them out again, the sun had reached the ground beneath the barrack wall.

After loosening their shoulders, the men took sand sacks from beneath the shelter. Hennet pulled at the knot until Jon stopped him and brought the weight nearer his feet. The lift became easier once he could get both hands beneath it. By the time Hewyn let them put the sacks away, his legs trembled. Beyond the rail Gawen was reducing the loads for two of the younger household boys.

They took up blunted spears and formed again. Hennet's shield was sound wood faced with hide, the rim mended where another owner had split it. The coat beneath his belt was a greyish black. A strip of deeper cloth had been let into the side, and the two colours showed plainly when he lifted his arm. He had been proud of it at the oath. Now he wanted Mairi to take a little out from under the shoulder so it would stop bunching there.

On their first advance Hennet caught his neighbour's heel. On the turn his spear crossed another shaft. Jon freed them, then noticed how Hennet's coat caught beneath his shield arm. Malcolm loosened his belt so the cloth could settle and promised to send him to Mairi after drill. The ten reached the far end of the yard on the next attempt.

Benjen Stark arrived while they were returning. Hennet knew him by the black cloak and the long face, so like Lord Eddard's that he had once mistaken him at a distance. A second black brother rode behind him. The men at the gate bowed. Hennet nearly turned his head, then kept it where Hewyn had told him to keep it.

The two visitors dismounted. Jon went to his uncle, spoke briefly and brought him towards the household's ground. There Gawen had put a padded jerkin over a timber stand. It was small enough to pass for a boy, with an old black cloak over its shoulders. Arthur stood behind it holding a wooden sword.

Hennet had wondered why the household practised around a dressed post. Then Tomas called two files in, and Gawen came at them from the side.

The nearest shields turned. One file struck forward while the other closed around the stand. Arthur moved it back, and the boys gave him space without uncovering it. Gawen caught one shield, dragged it low and stepped into the opening. A second boy drove his own rim in against him. Wood knocked upon wood. Gawen yielded a pace, came again and found Tomas waiting beside the first file.

The whole movement lasted less time than Hennet had needed to untangle his spear.

Benjen said something to Jon. The boy nodded, and Gawen passed Benjen a practice sword. The black brother behind him leaned upon the rail with an expression that made Hennet want to see what would happen next.

Hewyn tapped Hennet's shield.

"Your work is here."

He faced front. They made another advance. Behind him the household's swords began knocking again, faster now. He caught a glimpse upon the turn: Benjen inside the first pair of shields, one black-coated boy falling backwards, another moving in before the ranger could follow. Nobody ran off to fight him alone.

When Hewyn gave them a rest, Hennet looked openly. Gawen was explaining something to the boy who had fallen. Benjen held his sword low and listened. Jon stood beside the timber figure, pointing out the opening to the two boys while Arthur held the wooden blade across it.

Hennet watched the shields close again around the padded figure. One of the boys had moved his rear foot first and left room for the man coming beside him. Hennet tried the step with his own shield, careful not to strike his neighbour. He would ask Malcolm to show him when the ten next rested.

Hewyn brought Malcolm's ten across to face the household. Hennet expected the smaller boys to yield easily. They stopped his first push; when Malcolm called the whole ten forward, he followed too far and found his spear turned aside. At the halt he saw the gap he had left and returned to his place, cheeks burning. On the next pass he stayed beside Harwyn, letting Malcolm choose when they pressed and when they stopped.

The household went back to their own ground. Hewyn gave the spearmen a rest. Hennet lowered his spear and worked the fingers of his shield hand, the grip warm and slippery against his palm.

Across the lane Ser Martyn had the swordsmen working in pairs. Hennet could see them from the shade beside the water cask. Some had come to the muster wearing old mail and carrying swords of their own. He had expected them to be spared much of the teaching. Martyn seemed to find more to correct in them than Hewyn found in the spearmen.

A young swordsman drove his opponent backwards with high, sweeping cuts. The lad was shorter than most of the men around him, but he struck so quickly that the other man scarcely found time to answer.

"Colin," Martyn called. "Beside Gerralt."

Fifth's centurion took his place without setting down his shield. He gave Colin room to settle, then faced another pair. Lord Jon stopped at the rail with Arthur beside him.

Gerralt's short thrust forced one opponent back. Colin reached after the other with a wide cut, eager to keep him retreating. A wooden blade came through the space between their shields and struck Gerralt beneath the arm.

Martyn called the halt.

Colin looked at the opening. Gerralt rubbed his ribs, then moved the lad's shield back beside his own.

"You have left me open twice this week," he said.

"I thought I could reach him."

"You could. So could his friend reach me."

Jon took Colin's place. Arthur passed him a wooden sword, and Gerralt settled his shield beside the smaller one. Jon kept his arm close and thrust over the joined rims. There was scarcely room for the stroke Hennet had admired, but the point reached the opposing shoulder without moving Gerralt's shield.

"Try it," Jon said, stepping aside for Colin.

The second passage looked less handsome. Colin checked his first blow, found a shorter one and stayed beside Gerralt as their opponents gave ground. Martyn stopped them at the hurdle.

Gerralt touched Colin's shield with his sword. "That one. Remember how that felt."

"Again, centurion?"

Martyn waved another pair into the lane. This time Colin caught his own mistake before the wide blow was finished. Gerralt gave him no praise; he called the next step, and Colin followed it.

Martyn spoke quietly to Jon, pointing towards Colin. Hennet could not hear the words. Malcolm called him over to loosen the coat beneath his arm again; when he looked back, Jon and Arthur had gone to the household.

Tomas spoke to Jon, who looked towards the road. Beyond the trees, sunlight caught the upper walls of Winterfell. Benjen handed the practice sword to Gawen and went to his horse.

"Come and eat," he told Jon. "Your father is expecting you."

Jon gave Hewyn the evening's orders and asked Malcolm whether he had remembered Hennet's coat. Then he mounted beside Arthur, and Tomas brought the household through the gate.

Hewyn dismissed the spears. Hennet went to find Mairi before supper. She had laid her cloth out beneath the eaves, beside a shutter kept open with a wedge. He stood bareheaded until she looked up, then showed her the place Malcolm had loosened.

"Off with it."

"Malcolm told me where it pulls." She held out her hand. Hennet gave her the coat and stood in his shirt, feeling the cool air upon the sweat between his shoulders. She turned the garment inside out, picked free a short length of stitching and spread the seam beneath her thumb. There were other coats waiting, some with new cuffs, some almost finished. His was one of the best he had ever owned, and the sight of the open seam troubled him until she began sewing it closed again with more room beneath the arm.

From the shelter he could see the road Lord Jon had taken. A stone cart was climbing towards them; downhill, men carried a long timber through the gate of the works. His father had doubted the promises made in the call. Hennet had his first pay wrapped inside his chest, and there had been meat in yesterday's stew. He meant to write home when he knew how to say that without sounding as though he thought his father a fool.

"Try it now." Mairi gave back the coat. Hennet drew it on and lifted his arm as he had with the shield. The cloth moved with him.

"Thank you, mistress."

She had already taken up the next garment. He fastened his belt outside and walked back to Malcolm's ten, making the turn once with an empty hand before he reached the hall.

Jon returned after dark. Hennet heard the horses pass beneath the barrack window while he was spreading his blanket.

The quarrel began over a boot.

Harwyn had left his wet pair upon Lew's rolled cloak. Lew knocked them to the floor. When their owner told him to pick them up, he threw one instead. It struck the man's thigh, and a moment later Lew was against a bedpost with a fist in his shirt. He hit out wildly. Harwyn drove him backwards, upsetting the stool between the bunks.

"Enough!" Malcolm came down the aisle. Hennet caught Lew's arm, but Harwyn struck once more before the decanus dragged him away. Blood ran from Lew's nose. He kept saying that the cloak was his own, as though nobody had understood him.

Malcolm took both men outside, then called Hennet after them. Jon stood beneath the guardroom lamp with his coat unfastened. Arthur had come to the doorway behind him. Hennet bowed and waited until Jon asked what he had seen.

Harwyn said Lew had attacked him without cause. Jon heard him out, then turned to Hennet. With the man staring at him, Hennet told it from the boots upon the cloak. Lew tried to interrupt.

"You will speak when I ask you," Jon said.

Lew shut his mouth. Malcolm gave his own account, including the last blow.

"You heard him call the halt?" Jon asked Harwyn.

"I was angry, my lord."

"Did you hear him?"

Harwyn looked down. "Aye."

Jon turned to Lew. "And you threw the boot."

"Yes, my lord." Lew pressed his sleeve beneath his nose. "I'll not do it again."

"Six strokes for fighting. Ten for you," Jon told Harwyn. "You struck again after your decanus ordered you to stop. At morning muster, before the cohort."

Lew's hand fell from his face. "My lord, please—"

"I warned you before you swore. The sentence stands." Jon called Hewyn from the barrack door. "Neither leaves camp this sennight. Keep them apart tonight and have the six centuries formed before breakfast."

"Aye, my lord." Hewyn sent Harwyn to sleep in the officers' shelter and took Lew inside. Hennet picked up the fallen stool before getting into his bunk. Lew lay awake across the aisle, his cloak pulled over him.

At dawn the six centuries formed on three sides of the yard. Mist clung to the broken wall. The cooks had begun stirring their kettles, and Hennet could smell oats and woodsmoke as Malcolm brought his ten to a halt. Lew and Harwyn stood beside the oak block in their shirts.

Jon came out with Arthur and walked to the open side of the square. His black coat was buttoned to the throat; the white lock showed plainly against his dark hair. Beside Hewyn he looked smaller than ever. He waited until the last men were still, then named the offences and repeated the sentences so that the rear ranks could hear.

Hewyn laid a leather scourge across the block. Lew stared at it.

"Shirt off," Hewyn told him.

Lew fumbled at the fastening. When he bent over the oak, a veteran secured his wrists to the rings. Hennet had stood beside him all afternoon, laughing when their throwing shafts went wide. Now Lew turned his face towards the wood and gripped its edge.

Jon gave Hewyn a nod.

The first stroke made Lew gasp. Hennet stiffened with him. Hewyn counted aloud, giving each stroke the same space. By the fourth Lew was crying into his forearm. Hennet looked towards Jon. His lord stood with his hands at his sides, watching; when Hewyn reached six, Jon ordered Lew released.

Malcolm helped him straighten. Harwyn had gone pale. He obeyed Hewyn without a word and bent over the block in his turn. At the eighth stroke he cursed through clenched teeth. Hewyn counted the remaining two and lowered the scourge.

"Take them to the guardroom," Jon said. "I have sent for Maester Luwin. Until he has seen them, neither drills nor carries a load." He faced the ranks. "When an officer calls a halt, you obey him. That applies in the barracks as well as the field. Centurions, dismiss your men to breakfast."

Arthur moved aside to let Malcolm bring Lew through the door. Jon followed them. Hennet stayed in his place until Malcolm's second called the ten forward. Harwyn's shirt lay folded beside the block; a soldier fetched it and hurried after him.

At breakfast the usual scramble for the loaf did not begin. Hennet passed it along and kept two pieces beside Lew's empty bowl. Outside, Hewyn hung the scourge upon an iron hook beneath the eaves.

* * *
​

Two afternoons later Hewyn took First Century onto newly cleared ground beyond the tower. Bracken lay heaped along the bank; an old ditch crossed the field. Malcolm's ten was short of Lew and Harwyn, still kept from drill by Luwin. They picked stones from dried peas under the cook shelter while the other companies spread across the meadow, Martyn's round shields distinct from the longer spear lines.

Jon walked the course with Hewyn and Arthur, carrying his small shield and short practice spear. He crossed the ditch and turned back towards the waiting men. Hewyn brought them forward.

For the first stretch they did well. Hennet kept his eyes upon the back of the man ahead. At the ditch the first rank slowed. The second crowded them, the third pushed on, and Hennet found himself standing with his shield against somebody's back while the man behind him trod firmly upon his heel.

"Halt!"

They disentangled themselves. One man had lost his footing on the bank and sat in the mud, furious with the two who helped him up.

Jon came through the ranks to the front.

"Malcolm, take your ten across. The rest wait."

Hennet's ten crossed easily with nobody pressing behind. Jon sent them farther into the cleared ground before calling the next ten forward. They formed raggedly—Coll's men slanted towards them, and Mallador came over too fast—but nobody was trapped in the ditch.

On the next passage Jon took a place beside Malcolm. His quick steps shortened on the slope. At the turn he brought his shield round and waited for his neighbour to come level. Hennet followed him, awkward at the shorter pace, but with his spear clear of the next man. They reached the open ground together.

Hewyn let them rest while the next company came through. Jon stood with his shield resting against his leg, breathing hard. Arthur brought him water and spoke quietly beside his ear. The boy shook his head at something, drank again, and handed over the shield before returning to Hewyn.

"He has had enough of it as well," a man behind Hennet whispered.

Hennet shifted his shield to ease the grip. He kept his answer to himself.

Malcolm looked down the ten, and the man behind Hennet fell quiet.

Later they left the long spears in the rack and took the throwing shafts to the lower field. Bundles of cut wicker stood beyond the practice line. Hewyn spread the men out, and Jon showed them how he wanted the cast made, his lighter shaft passing over his shield before it struck low in the wicker.

Hennet had thrown stones at crows all his life, but his first shaft turned sideways and fell short. Jon shifted his grip and made him cast again with the shield held high. Its rim brushed his jaw; this time the padded end struck wicker. Hennet kept his empty hand in place until he could fetch the shaft and try again.

By supper his left arm ached more than his right. He had not expected that.

* * *
​

The aches changed through the week. Hennet stopped feeling the run in his chest and began feeling it in his calves. The shield grip still rubbed his palm, though he no longer held it quite so desperately. Lew slept upon his stomach and had Hennet help him with his shirt. By the week's end he could dress himself, but Malcolm still kept him at the cooks' light work until Luwin permitted more.

After the morning run they ate, then went to work until dinner. Their ten cleared fallen stones from the old hall and carried them to the masons. Hennet learned which faces Ormund wanted kept whole. He learned to recognise the smell of lime before he saw the white tubs, and to tell the tower hammer from the smith's hammer downhill.

Lord Jon was at both places so often that the men began looking for his horse before they spoke too freely. Hennet saw him kneeling upon a new beam beside Woods, holding one end of a cord while the carpenter worked. Another day he found him on the riverbank with Ewan, drawing in the dirt. The two men who had come to carry stone waited bareheaded until Jon looked up and sent them to Ormund.

It was slow work, whatever his lord intended the place to become. They could spend a whole morning clearing a patch scarcely wider than the hall. Yet from Hennet's bunk the gap above the shutter no longer showed the sky. There was a roof over the next company's belongings, and the carts crossed the drain his ten had covered without stopping.

At the week's end, Perkin came with the pay chest.

Malcolm took his men to the hall after the afternoon drill. They waited along the wall while the clerk called each name. Harwyn went first. Hennet watched the coins pass across the table into his hand. Harwyn counted them, put them away, and stepped aside for Lew.

When Hennet's turn came, he took off his cap. Perkin asked his name again before paying him. The coins felt cool upon his sore palm. He had earned money before, carrying wood or helping bring in a harvest, but never while being fed as well as this. He closed his fingers over it and moved away, reluctant to put it out of sight.

Outside, Lew wanted to know whether the sennight without leave was reckoned from the fight or from the whipping.

"Ask Malcolm."

"You always say that."

"He always knows."

Hennet went back to the hall. Malcolm was sitting at the end of a table, taking a stone from his boot.

"Decanus, could you write something for me?"

Malcolm looked up. "For home?"

Hennet nodded. His mother could ask the miller to read it. She would know how to get the letter to him without his father hearing it first.

"Sit down, then." Malcolm put the boot back on. "What do you want said?"

Hennet looked down at the coins in his hand. He would keep a little for himself. The rest could go with the letter; one of the wood carters knew his village.

"Tell her I have been paid. And tell her there is some for her."

"Is that all?"

"Tell her I am eating well." He thought of the porridge, the extra bread, the meat they had twice that week. "She will ask."

Malcolm nodded and made room for him on the bench. Outside, Lew was asking someone else about Winter Town.

At the week's end Hallis took most of the Stark guards back to Winterfell; Hewyn's sworn men could now keep the lanes clear and account for the stores. Two guards stayed until the visiting lords left, with orders to bring serious trouble to Hallis. Hennet watched the grey cloaks leave while his ten cleared the gate for a wagon.

* * *
​

During the following days, six smaller black coats came up from the sewing room with the next clothing bundle. Their sleeves had been shortened, the hems left deep enough to let down as the boys grew. Wylla put shoes beside them and made each child try his pair upon both feet. None received a soldier's weapon or a place upon the muster roll.

Heward brought the pages to the centurions after the common drill. Geth went first to Hewyn, Timm to Rennick, Tob to Norren, Wrenn to Rymond, Nibs to Gerralt and Hake to Brus. Each officer heard when the boy was to eat and when he must be released for lessons. At the new moon they would move to the next century; Aries, already wearing Jon's small black page's coat, stayed beside his lord.

For their first errands Heward sent them with men who knew the paths. In the yard afterwards he laid seven light wooden swords on the ground, shorter even than those Jon had first learned upon. Gawen showed the grip and the first step. Nibs tried to strike Timm's blade before anyone had been told to begin.

Heward took it away, showed him where to stand, and kept him there until the other boys had finished the passage. Then he returned it.

"You may have a turn now. When Ser Gawen says."

The boy waited. Aries watched that lesson with an attention Jon had not seen over the letters. When Gawen called him forward, he kept the point down until the knight raised his own.

They finished well before the soldiers did. Gawen sent them to the pump and then to their bowls, while Heward went back to make a whole ten repeat its turn. The pages had time to hear him twice before their porridge cooled.

* * *
​

By then Jon's mornings belonged to the works and his afternoons to Hewyn's throwing field. He kept the little guardroom, riding to the Black Yard when the benches needed him and to Winterfell for supper with his family. Each time he came back, there was less nettle in the yard and more stone laid bare.

One morning Jon took four tens to the western boundary. Woods had set the corner stake beyond the barrack frames. They saved the turf to face the bank, carrying the ditch spoil inward and ramming it in layers. Jon worked beside Malcolm until his shoulders shook. A man in the cutting asked how high the bank would rise.

Jon rested his rammer against his hip. "Higher than you, before the timber goes on top."

The man looked from the short boy to the long row of stakes. "Aye, my lord." He put his foot upon his spade again, less cheerfully.

Arthur brought Jon to Woods at the corner. They set the tower's inner feet clear of the passage and its floor level with the wallwalk. From beyond the trees came Martyn's call to halt; one sword company had kept its morning for drill and would relieve the diggers after dinner.

When the meal bell rang, the trench reached well beyond the first heap of tools. Jon walked its length with Malcolm. No great wall stood yet, but the raw strip of soil and the packed earth beside it made the boundary plain. Men climbed out stiffly, knocking mud from their spades. Hennet lifted one of the turf squares and showed Lew a worm as long as his finger.

"Leave that for the crows," Malcolm said. "There is beef today."

Jon returned the plan to its case. His arms trembled when he fastened the strap. Arthur took the case from him and handed him a piece of bread instead; Jon ate it walking back between the barrack frames. After dinner he had an hour at the Black Yard, then the throwing field. The next party was already collecting its tools.

Hewyn began bringing the men together for the casts. Five threw abreast at first. Later that week he brought the front ten forward while the other ranks covered behind them. The practice shafts left their hands unevenly. One struck the earth almost at once; another sailed over the wicker. The last man was still drawing back his arm when the first reached for his long spear. Hewyn halted them and waited for every shaft to fall.

"No second ten," Jon said. "The front repeats until one drumbeat produces one cast. Check their grips and widen the two outer places."

"Leave the iron heads locked up," he added. They shortened the cast and used a single drumbeat for the release. Before the evening bell, most of the shafts reached the wicker together. On Hewyn's call, the throwers stepped back beneath their neighbours' shields and took up the long spear. Mallador began to shout at his ten when an outside rim wandered.

"It is the outside man, Mallador," Hewyn said. "Show him where to hold it." Mallador went to the drifting rim and spoke close. It returned.

Benjen watched from the rail with Robb and Theon. "Tomorrow half the North arrives for the harvest gathering. By supper, every lord will know why your fifth cast missed."

"They will have plenty to say about it," Jon said. He took another practice shaft from the rack.

"I want to see what Greatjon makes of it," Benjen said. At the family supper that evening, Robb asked whether Smalljon had crossed Cerwyn land, and Sansa asked whether Marna Dustin and the Manderly girls could be lodged near her. Arya asked whether Lyanna Mormont could sleep in her room. Catelyn said she would speak to Lady Maege; Arya immediately asked whether Lyra was bringing her pony again.

"Have Lady Dustin's gentlewomen come by the lower road?" Theon asked. "It was foul enough when we rode it."

"She has her own guards," Robb said.

"I was asking after the ladies. I have seen enough men in wet wool." Theon helped himself to the bread.

Benjen listened until the children had divided every expected guest between them. Jon was about to remind Theon that Barbrey Dustin owned sharp ears when a horn sounded from Winterfell's east gate. Men upon the road took it up. Beyond the castle wall, black horsehair streamed above Karstark riders, dark against a strip of clearing gold.

 

[Ahtu]

Lord Ulrick Dayne heard them in a solar above the Torrentine. He had not changed the black robe worn for Ashara. Purple shadows lay beneath his eyes, and her silver-and-amethyst hair net remained upon the table beside an untouched cup of lemon water. Arthur told him the truth without ornament. Eddard watched grief strike a man already hollowed by it.

"You would name Lyanna's boy as the child Ashara bore," Ulrick said at last.

"Your sister's dead daughter will remain hers," Eddard answered. "The living boy will be said to be Ashara's. I will acknowledge him and take him north."

"Men will call her whore."

"Men already do," Arthur said.

Ulrick's look could have cut mail. "Do not tell me what men say of my sister."

Arthur accepted the anger. "I know what they say of her. I would not ask this for myself."

Click to shrink...

Quite confused.

The father is calling Ashara his sister. Proven by the context.

It is not explained that Jon would be her presumed twin brother. But there is no other logical explanation for the take Ned gives.

With every paragraph my confusion got worse. Had to re-read it three times to even be sure of what it was MEANT to say. Let alone the confused mess that is what it actually says.