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 followed Howland 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. He 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.

"Chew. Swallow. Grief does not fill a belly."

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. "His mother named him."

"His mother asked us to keep him alive. Robert called Elia's children dragonspawn after seeing what Clegane and Lorch had done. A name does not stop a hammer."

"Nor does a lie stop a man's blood."

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. Greywater has swallowed larger things. Arthur keeps the key. Ned keeps his promise."

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."

No one knelt. No one needed to. 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, and nothing in their parting closed the road home. The others turned towards Starfall with Lyanna between them and the child hidden in Wylla's arms.

* * *

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."

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.

"Aemon is not dead because you have written Jon."

"No. Jon is what keeps him from joining the dead."

"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."

Arthur's mouth almost smiled. 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. He had not yet grown fat. 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 had a chart of Blackwater Bay spread beneath four cups. Tywin Lannister sat where the light best showed the gold thread in his crimson sleeves. His green eyes moved from speaker to speaker while his hands rested still upon the table. Hoster Tully wore river-blue wool; when Robert spoke, he lifted his auburn head with the wary attention of a father counting how every royal favour might wound his daughter. Stannis stood rather than sit.

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

"Stannis will take the island as soon as he can put men beneath its walls," Robert said.

"With ships that must first be built," Stannis answered.

"Then build the ships and take what remains of Aerys's fleet when the garrison yields," Robert said.

"I need seasoned timber, rope and sailcloth," Stannis said. "And money to hire crews. New hulls are of no use without them."

Robert poured wine. "You have begun already, I hope."

"I have men buying seasoned timber from the yards. New oak is being felled to replace it."

"Then see that my master of coin pays them," Robert said.

Jon Arryn moved one cup from King's Landing to the black island painted in the bay. "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?"

"His father can name men who can until the boy is grown. I have just offered Ned the same burden," Robert answered.

"My daughter's lawful son is heir to Winterfell. A royal grant to his bastard brother will make ambitious men count the boys against one another," Hoster warned.

"And Robb will remain my only heir," Eddard said. "Dragonstone cannot give Jon a claim to one stone of Winterfell."

"Will he? This other boy is guarded by Arthur Dayne, acknowledged before half the realm and now raised to a princely seat."

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

Robert slapped the table with his palm. "Then the matter is plain. One boy receives the North, the other receives a smoking rock and fishermen too proud to pay their dues."

Tywin's voice was smooth. "The rock commands the mouth of the Blackwater. A child established there by royal favour may be seized by men still loyal to House Targaryen."

"Then give him men who will keep them out," Robert said. "Ned has no shortage of those."

Stannis put one blunt finger upon the chart. "The grant has merit. Velaryon and Celtigar distrust one another and would each resent the other above him. A Stark household is outside their quarrels. Men on Crackclaw Point still boast of First Men blood; a northern lord may win fairer hearing there than another court favourite."

"A northern castellan would still be a stranger to them," Hoster said.

"Better a stranger than either house's rival," Stannis answered. "They can bring their quarrels to him instead of fighting over the island."

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.

"I will answer before we ride north. A gift made in anger deserves one sober night before it binds a child," Eddard said.

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 council or the spite in which he made the grant," Eddard replied.

"Mark told me what was said," Arthur answered.

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

"The island is a fortress," Arthur continued. "No army reaches it without ships."

"Every man who wants Dragonstone will learn Jon's name and ask why a northern bastard received a dragon's seat," Eddard said.

"Every man who sees his eyes will wonder already."

"Children are forgotten every day when no banner, sword, or castle keeps their names before the realm," Eddard said.

Howland tore an oatcake in half. "Not children carried by the Sword of the Morning."

Arthur inclined his head to the crannogman. "Nor children who resemble a woman half the court once watched dance with Lord Stark. The lie is useful. It is not invisibility."

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.

"He will be raised with my children," he said. "He will have a home before he needs a fortress."

"Then give him both."

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. All of it belonged to him still. 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.

 

[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 the deep honey-gold of old Rhoynish tales. Rhaegar lived in 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."

Oberyn's hand closed around the table edge. 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 at a low table beneath the eastern arcade. Neither had slept. Servants brought warm flatbread, goat cheese rolled in mint, a dish of stewed chickpeas, river trout crisped in oil and a bowl piled with blood oranges. Doran tore one flatbread into small pieces and ate three. Oberyn peeled an orange so savagely that juice ran to his wrist. When the dishes had been laid, Mellario dismissed the servants. Areo closed the lattice gates at either end of the arcade and stood beyond the farther one, where no quiet word could reach him.

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

Doran spooned chickpeas onto his bread. "How will you feed them in the passes? The Fowlers have only just brought their sons home from the Trident."

"Then three columns through the Boneway. We enter the stormlands while Stannis's men are still lean from eating rats."

"And expose our western flank to a pardoned Reach eager to prove its loyalty upon Dornish backs. Mace Tyrell feasted outside walls, the Redwynes still have their fleet, and Tarly fights for whichever side can win."

"Yronwood's spears make the road possible," Oberyn insisted.

"Yronwood will come because I call," Doran said, "and Lord Anders will count how many Martells die before he decides what our weakness has made possible for him."

"You can find a reason against any blow," Oberyn said, pushing away the untouched trout. "Name one stroke you would judge worthy of Elia."

"Not a march into the stormlands with the Reach at our backs."

"They raped Elia. They crushed Aegon's skull. They put another little girl beneath a lion cloak and named her Rhaenys. Robert looked upon all of it and took the throne. Tell me which blow is good enough for that."

Doran's fingers stopped upon the bread. A pulse beat hard beside his mouth. "Do not speak as if you are the only brother Elia had."

The quiet words cut through Oberyn's anger. He looked at Doran properly. His elder brother had dressed with care, but the fastening at his collar sat awry. His bad foot was wrapped in red flannel beneath the table. He had not touched the trout because Elia had loved it with lime and pepper.

"What would you have me do while Clegane rides beneath Lannister colours and Elia lies cold?" Oberyn asked.

"First I would have you listen." Doran pushed the fish back towards him. "We cannot fight all of them."

Oberyn took the trout. Its skin cracked beneath his fork. "We have men returning to dry fields," Doran said. "The Yronwoods buried two sons. The Fowlers count every marcher horse across the passes. The Reach has grain, ships and Robert's pardon. The rebels have Arryn, Stark, Tully and Lannister in one camp. If we march now, we carry Rhaenys before us whether we name her or not."

"She is why we should march. Elia's daughter has a better right than the man drinking from her father's cups," Oberyn said.

"She is three," Doran said. "Last night she would not let us take her from a wounded man. I will not send her into another war."

"You would leave her inheritance to thieves while they learn to believe she is truly dead."

"I would keep her alive until there is a chance of recovering it."

"And what becomes of vengeance while Rhaenys sleeps behind guarded shutters?" Oberyn asked, chewing without tasting.

"Clegane rides with men who curry his horse. Lorch drinks somewhere, sleeps somewhere and pays someone to clean his mail. Tywin sent orders through mouths he considers beneath memory. Find those mouths."

"You want servants to tell us where they sleep."

"Quietly," Doran said. "I want to know where they go and who serves them. Bring me that before you ask for an army."

Oberyn reached for the cheese. "I want Clegane's head."

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

"And the dead girl whose face bought Rhaenys a road out of the city? I will not let our need turn her into an unnamed trick," Oberyn said.

Doran broke a blood orange in two. The flesh inside was crimson. "Begin below Aegon's High Hill. Missing servants' children. Girls near Rhaenys's age with dark hair. Someone washed her, dressed her and put her inside Maegor's Holdfast. Find who last saw her alive."

"If Varys arranged the exchange, he will have cut every thread before the lions crossed the river," Oberyn warned.

"Then ask who disappeared when the castle fell. Begin with the servants who escaped." Mellario came beneath the arcade with Quentyn on one hip, his bare toes knocking against her skirts. He seemed a large burden for so short a woman, but she carried their sleepy two-year-old without breaking stride. He reached at once 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 is asleep. She wakes when sandals pass the door. If either of you speaks of her as a crown before she can sleep through footsteps, I shall throw you both into the pool."

"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.

Mellario wiped Quentyn's wrist with her napkin. "The children come this afternoon."

"Good. Arianne has already decided Rhaenys belongs to her; the others should hear the truth before servants teach them a more dangerous tale," Doran said.

"Every child under the roof?" Oberyn asked. "Obara is old enough to ride with a spear, and Sarella is young enough to tell the pools."

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

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

"Another daughter," Mellario said, her mouth tilting. "No one in Dorne will strain belief, though they may marvel that one of Oberyn's children arrived with so little noise."

"You wound me before my nephew," Oberyn protested.

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.

"Why?" Nymeria asked.

Oberyn looked down at Elia's daughter. "Rhaenys."

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."

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 morning.

* * *

They ate the evening meal in Joss's chamber because Rhaenys would not leave him. The windows stood open to the orange court. Lamp flames leaned whenever the sea wind found them. On the low table were grilled mullet with lemons, lamb cooked with dates, peppers stuffed with cheese and herbs, flatbread still blistered from the oven and a dish of green olives that Quentyn rolled beneath his palm until Mellario took it away.

Joss slept beneath a linen sheet, his face shiny with fever. Caleotte sat at his feet and claimed he was only resting his eyes. No one believed him. The children had arranged themselves according to instincts no prince could have ordered. Arianne sat nearest Rhaenys and kept trying to choose food for her. Nymeria occupied the other side, peeling the skin from a pepper in long red strips. Tyene broke bread into neat pieces. Sarella knelt under the table with Balerion. Quentyn leaned against Mellario's knee. Obara chose the stool between Joss's bed and the door.

"Come and eat, Obara," Arianne said.

"I can eat here." Obara kept her stool beside the door.

"The guards are outside," Nymeria told her.

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

Nymeria shrugged and went back to her pepper.

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 to each face in turn. "You know me. That is Quentyn, my brother. Obara is Uncle Oberyn's eldest, then Nym, Tyene and Sarella. You can call her Sare."

"Sarella," came the correction from beneath the table.

Rhaenys peered over the edge. Sarella held up a hand slick with fish oil. "He licked it."

"He bites if you pull his tail."

"I know."

Arianne reached for another piece of mullet. Mellario stopped her hand. "Ask her."

"I was helping."

"Then ask."

Arianne held the dish towards Rhaenys. "Would you like some more?"

"No more fish," Rhaenys said.

Arianne set the dish down and 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.

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.

"A wicked beast and a wise 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.

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

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 voice no louder than the lamps.

"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 one sailor call her Myria, though he cannot swear the man meant the child."

"It is a beginning. Search for every Myria missing from the servants' lanes before you decide the sailor meant her," Doran said.

"And Varys?"

"A hidden stair known at the right hour is more than chance. Find which of Elia's servants dealt with the eunuch's people. Do not approach him. A spider feels a plucked thread."

Oberyn turned the cup in his hands. "You have more for me."

"Two armed men took ship east from the mouth of the Greenblood. One was old and broad. The other wore a bat worked into his sword belt."

"Hightower and Whent, if the age and the bat upon the belt were seen truly," Oberyn said.

"So it appears. They asked after Dragonstone."

"Why would three Kingsguard be in Dorne and only two sail?"

"That is a question worth carrying quietly. Learn which third man remained behind before you let either knight know we watched them sail," Doran said.

"Rhaella may know."

Doran glanced towards the children's door. "Rhaella holds a besieged island, a frightened household and a son who has watched his family die one by one. If we send word that Rhaenys lives, joy may make her careless where fear would not. No raven carries the name."

Oberyn turned his cup between both palms. "And if they miss Dragonstone?"

"The traders who watch the harbour can follow their inquiries east. I would know where Rhaella's children land."

"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."

"An oath does not fill a belly," 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. People before silver."

"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. "Tonight you are her brother before you are anything else. 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. "A drowned king spends nothing."

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 had chosen a red saddlecloth. Obara inspected the girth twice, then a third time after Oberyn told her twice was enough. Nymeria shortened the left stirrup. Tyene held a slice of apple beneath the pony's nose. 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 the 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 entered beneath the arch. He saw Doran watching from the shade and dismounted, landing stiffly after a hard ride. Foam crusted his bay gelding's breast. A groom took the reins before the horse could lower its head to drink too quickly. The courier brought the latest account from Dragonstone: the queen had been buried, her children had escaped, and two white knights had followed their trail east. Doran asked three questions, gave the man water and sent him to eat before he made 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 reins loose enough for Rhaenys to believe they were hers.

 

[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 wore half the realm's dust. His beard had grown ragged, lengthening a face already drawn thin by the road. The grey eyes beneath his brown hair looked older than the husband she remembered. Brown mud stained his boots above the ankle, with pale road dust over it. One shoulder sagged beneath his cloak. 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."

Eddard's mouth moved, though the smile never quite formed. "May I?"

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. That disturbed Catelyn more than pride would have done. 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 sent from Barrowton," Eddard said. "He reached home yesterday. Barbrey has threatened to break his legs if he mounts before the moon turns."

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

"Mark is in the Rills. Theo's kin met him below the mountain track. Martyn and Ethan reached White Harbor. All five know where the others have gone. None wrote more than that."

"All accounted for," Howland said.

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

"I know where to find you."

The answer left Arthur with nothing more to say. He turned towards the keep, listening.

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

"That one is hungry," said Wylla behind them. She came down the covered walk with the babe against her shoulder, brown hair escaping its braid. "And I have been looking for you both."

Arthur slipped the key beneath his shirt. "He fed less than an hour ago."

"And now the tyrant demands more because babes keep no maester's hours," Wylla said. She put Jon into Eddard's arms and began unfastening her gown beneath her mantle.

"Walk him while I make ready," Wylla said. She touched the crying cheek with the backs of her fingers before settling beneath the covered walk.

Eddard adjusted the swaddling. Jon rooted blindly against his doublet and protested when it offered no milk. Arthur watched Eddard bounce him once, too sharply, then laid a hand beneath the small head without speaking.

"There," Wylla said, reaching for him. "You have both done your part."

Eddard gave Jon over. The crying ceased as quickly as it had begun. Howland mounted while the babe fed. Eddard checked the girth himself. Arthur shortened the rear strap by one 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.

* * *

The nursery had room for one cradle beside the warm wall. Robb's was oak, brought from Riverrun with a clean wool mattress and lavender sewn into the ticking. Painted trout swam along its side beneath a blue wash. Jon's pine cradle still smelled of sap. Arthur moved it away from the shutter; Wylla moved it back from the brazier.

"Smoke," she said when he looked at her.

"There is a draught."

"Then have the shutter mended. I cannot mend his lungs." She set a folded piece of leather beneath the short leg and rocked the cradle. It settled without knocking the wall.

Old Nan watched Arthur test the shutter with one hand. "She has had more practice, ser."

Catelyn stood at the door with Robb upon her hip. She watched Arthur press his palm against the loose shutter, then turn back to the cradle.

"Mistress Wylla chose the place," she said. "The cradle remains there."

Arthur bowed. "My lady."

"You disagree."

"I have spent three nights watching that shutter move in its frame."

"I will have Poole send a carpenter. Leave the cradle where Wylla has put it."

Wylla gave Catelyn a brief smile. Later that morning Rodrik Cassel came to find Eddard in the nursery. He had the guard roster folded in one hand. "My lord, am I to put Ser Arthur down for a watch?"

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

Rodrik looked from the knight to Eddard. "There may be times when we need every man in the yard."

Eddard stood beside Robb's painted cradle, easing a strip of linen from his son's determined mouth. "Ser Arthur is Jon's mother's brother and his sworn shield by my leave. Within Winterfell he answers to my law and to your command in the yard."

"Who stays with Jon if I am called away?" Arthur asked.

"I will leave a man here," Rodrik said. "Tell the serjeant where you are going, and he will see to it."

Arthur considered the arrangement, then nodded. Jory, waiting in the doorway, took the roster when Rodrik handed it to him.

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 appeared with a wet cloak over one arm. "Wylla, my uncle says this knight has taken his best stool."

"Then your uncle may come and take it back."

Jory looked from Arthur to the sleeping boy. "I shall tell him it is occupied." He hooked the cloak over a peg and crouched beside Robb's cradle. Robb slept with his mouth open and one damp fist against his cheek. Jory tucked the blanket beneath his feet as carefully as any nurse.

"Did the miller keep you long?" he asked Eddard.

"His neighbour kept me longer."

"The pig again?"

"The pig's children."

Jory sighed. "Then we may have petitions for years."

Wylla covered her laugh with her spoon. Arthur drew the disputed stool to the door and sat, leaving Eddard to finish the last quiet circuit with Jon.

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 Baratheon had crossed from the mainland. The gates had opened without sack or fire. Queen Rhaella was dead. Her young son and newborn daughter had escaped the island before the royal fleet arrived. Eddard read the message twice over a supper gone cold. Barley stew filmed in the bowls. Fat from the roast goose had whitened along the platter's edge, and Robb was crushing peas beneath one wooden spoon while Jon watched with grave attention.

"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 as you ordered," the maester said. "Martyn is already riding back to Winterfell."

"Why send Glover east before the castle fell?" Catelyn asked.

"Because if Rhaella held, he was only a wounded man resting near a port. If she yielded, I needed a man ready to sail before some court favourite claimed Jon's island for himself."

Arthur tore bread in half. "Six northmen cannot hold Dragonstone against its garrison and sworn houses, whatever banners Stannis leaves above them."

"Sixty strangers cannot hold it if the island hates them. Ethan's first task is to learn which local men will keep a gate for Jon," Eddard said.

"Rhaella's garrison served House Targaryen until a Baratheon fleet appeared beyond the harbour," Arthur said.

"You served House Targaryen too. You have agreed to keep Robert's peace and serve Jon. Some of Rhaella's men may be willing to do the same," Eddard answered.

Arthur's knife touched the trencher and stopped. Wylla drew Jon's sleeve out of the gravy while the two men looked at one another.

Catelyn slid a clean board towards Eddard. "What do you require of Ethan?"

"The keys. The store count. The names of men holding the gates and armoury. He is to keep any islander willing to swear Robert's peace and Jon's service. Those who will not may depart with their goods. Theft and murder answer to judgement. Choosing the losing king does not."

Arthur leaned forward. "Tell him to question the gate captains separately. The man who took Stannis's money may try the same bargain again."

"I will," Eddard said. "Then Ethan must judge them. He is there and we are not."

Arthur looked at the map beneath the letter and gave a reluctant nod.

Catelyn dipped bread into the cooling stew. "Send him coin for wages before you ask loyalty from hungry men. Send grain as well."

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."

Eddard drew the clean board towards him. "Luwin, put that in the letter." 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 from Dragonstone came two moons after his departure with a broken chip of black basalt wrapped inside. Eddard had the household eat early so Luwin might read it before the children slept. Hot onions came from the kitchens in brown gravy, followed by smoked trout, soft cheese, black bread and baked apples split with honey. Robb refused the onions until Jon took one from his trencher and held it between them. Thereafter Robb ate his own while watching to see whether Jon did the same.

"Begin with the surrender and the men who yielded the gates," Arthur said before Luwin had opened the first sheet.

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

Luwin raised the first page. "He writes that he is well. The roof above his bed leaks, though he says he has found a dry corner for the accounts."

"He would save the accounts first," Eddard said. "Go on."

Stannis had left a royal captain with the keys and most of Rhaella's garrison in place. The queen had been found washed and dressed in black, with her dragon brooch at her throat. Stannis ordered a pyre in the Targaryen manner, sealed the ashes in stone and entered the ruby dragon from her throat among the castle goods. He had taken neither the jewel nor the ships.

Of ten warships on the roll, six remained at the quay. One had lost a mast. One made water faster than the harbour pumps could comfortably master. Four more stood hauled beyond the tide or stripped of oars and cordage. Twenty-three soldiers had asked leave to go, and Ethan granted it once their borrowed arms were returned and their arrears named. He heard the rest by company, questioned captains apart from common men, and matched each name against pay rolls, village complaints, and witnesses who had lived beside them. Thieves and men who would not swear were removed before the count closed. Three hundred remained. They swore to Jon into Ethan's hands under Eddard's sealed authority, to renew the oath before their lord when he came. Eight captains and serjeants swore readily; the companies followed after Ethan paid half their arrears and promised no punishment merely for an old banner.

"Ethan has paid half their arrears," Arthur said. "He must watch whether they keep their oaths once the money is spent."

"Aye," Eddard replied. "What of the stores?"

Three sacks marked barley held mould and mouse nests. A clerk who signed the false count had royal silver hidden beneath his bed. Ethan put him in a dry cell, then gave the clerk's chamber to a widow whose daughter had died when lightning fired the lower stable.

"And the silver?" Catelyn asked.

"Returned to the treasury." Luwin checked the line beneath. "The man is to answer for the false counts when Ethan has heard the witnesses."

Luwin turned the page. The old cook remained after showing Ethan which bins had been counted twice. Tobin, foreman of the quay, remained because he had stopped soldiers burning green roof timber after firewood failed. Ethan described Tobin as a man who mistrusted northmen, stormlanders, Targaryens, Baratheons and the sea whenever it damaged his work.

"Tobin sounds worth keeping," Catelyn said.

"Ethan has put him in charge of the quay," Luwin replied.

At the end came the hard choice. Sea pay and voyage stores for two crews would leave too little coin to buy the villagers' grain. Dismiss the men altogether, and Jon might own ten hulls with no sailors when he reached the island. Tobin wished to cut a mast from the green roof timbers he had saved. The shipmaster, Denys, swore it would twist before the wood cured. Each had added a note disputing the other's reckoning.

"Save the soundest ship and keep enough sailors together that the other hulls do not become firewood by neglect," Arthur said.

"Keep them, but not both crews at sea," Catelyn replied.

"A sound galley protects every fishing boat beneath its oars."

"One galley, then. Leave enough in the chest to buy the grain."

Eddard rubbed his thumb across the rough basalt chip. "What does Ethan advise?"

Luwin read the last lines. "Send what grain and slate you can. Tobin and the shipmaster 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 afford to fit out their ship."

Arthur considered it. "Ask whether Denys agrees about the galley. Ethan knows stores, but a captain should choose the hull."

"Put that in our answer," Eddard said. He pushed the basalt chip towards Luwin's letter. "And find the grain."

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. Eddard looked from his lawful heir to the little lord of the black island, one guarding what he loved and the other intent upon a fragment of the place already given him.

"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 the furniture, Jon had learned which floorboard outside the door complained beneath a grown man's weight. Eddard heard it creak one afternoon and saw the small dark head turn before he lifted the latch. Robb kept striking two wooden cups together upon the hearthrug.

Wylla sat near the window mending a stocking. Jon stood beside her stool with one hand upon its rung. Three little boxes lay on the floor, their lids fitted with leather loops. Old Nan had put a wooden horse inside one while he watched.

"Find it," Eddard said, settling beside the rug.

Jon lifted the right lid at once. Robb abandoned the cups and came to inspect the horse. Nan covered it again, changed the places of the boxes, and drew her hands back. Jon followed the box she had moved. When she exchanged the lids instead, he pushed the nearer one aside and reached for the same box.

"Again," he said.

Eddard smiled. Robb took a lid and wore it upon his head.

Nan hid the horse behind her back this time. Jon looked into the empty boxes, then at the fold of wool beside her elbow. He waited. When she spread her empty left hand, he pointed to the other.

"You will have to get up earlier than that," Wylla told Nan.

A maid carrying fresh rushes had stopped in the doorway. "He watches the hands," she said. "My sister's little one only lifts them all."

"Robb prefers the lids," Eddard said. His son had put a second upon the first and was trying to stand.

The maid smiled at Robb. When Jon turned towards her, her smile faltered. She remembered the rushes and carried them to the window. Eddard saw Arthur glance after her from the passage.

Jon pulled himself upright against Eddard's knee. He pointed at the horse Nan had finally brought out, then at Robb, who surrendered the lids to take it. Jon went back to Wylla and held up the foot with the loose stocking.

"He asks before he cries," Nan said. "That will save us some noise."

"He has to ask," Wylla answered. She drew him onto her lap and straightened the stocking. "He cannot reach half the things he means to have, and he does not forget them because you offer him something else."

Catelyn entered with a basket of nursery linen. She kissed Robb's hair and took the box lids from beneath his feet. Eddard told her what Jon had done.

"Nan has played that game with them all week," she said.

"And today he followed it when she changed it."

"Then he has learned it." She handed Wylla the linen and lifted Robb. "It is nearly time for their 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."

"I want you at Winterfell. Robb knows your step. Jon speaks your name whenever the gate opens. I have lost a father, a brother and a sister. I would keep the brother left to me."

"I asked your leave before witnesses."

"And you have not sworn at the Wall. Stay."

Benjen looked up. For a moment Eddard thought he might agree. Then he shook his head. "If I stay now, we shall have this quarrel every winter."

"There are lands I could give you. A household. You need not remain the youngest son in my hall."

"I do not want a hall."

The refusal hurt more for being quiet. Eddard kept his hand upon his brother's shoulder until Benjen bent to take up the cloak.

"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.

The riders mounted. Leather creaked. Benjen gathered his reins, tested the near stirrup and settled the black wool clear of the saddle skirts. Rain had darkened the gelding's neck, and vapour rose from its nostrils. The horse mouthed the bit and shifted from the puddle beneath him, iron shoes scraping once across wet stone. Benjen leaned down to check the girth himself. Hullen checked the packhorse one final time.

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 boots that would not cross the passage. He lay still until certainty and expectation had quarrelled themselves empty, then 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 a holdfast in the Gift reached them first, as Benjen had promised. His longer letter came from Castle Black before Poole cleared the chamber. The bird arrived drenched and furious. It bit the rookery boy through his glove, scattered three cups from Luwin's table and refused to yield its message until bribed with a strip of mutton. Eddard brought the letter to the solar, where Catelyn made room for both boys at the table. 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 had. Wylla counted them into a basket each morning before the children went down: one for Robb, one for Jon, one for herself. When a kitchen girl brought back only two, Jon pointed at the empty place beside the handle.

"One gone."

"Mistress Wylla's is below," the girl said.

He nodded and went back to fitting a wooden wheel onto its peg. The girl remained beside the basket.

"How did he know?" she asked Nan.

"There were three yesterday."

"My brother is four and still takes what he is given."

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 kitchen girl murmured.

"He is mending what your young lord will break," Nan said.

A second servant came for the linen. She bent towards the first, watching Jon through the corner of her eye. "My aunt says those pale hairs—"

"Your aunt has never washed his hair," Wylla said from the door. "I have. It tangles like any other boy's."

Both women straightened. Arthur had come in behind her. He looked from one to the other, and the girl with the linen pulled the bundle close against her breast.

"You have work elsewhere," he said.

The first girl curtsied to him. Neither looked at Jon as they left.

Arthur took a breath through his nose. "They might remember whose room they are in."

"They will remember what they are meant to be doing in it," Wylla answered. She knelt beside Jon and took the peg from his reddened fingers. "Let me see."

The pressure eased when he opened his hand. She rubbed the sore place with her thumb, then set the cart upon the table where Robb could not run it into his shin.

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. The maester knelt without gathering up his grey wool, his chain swinging forward as he examined Jon's skull. He had Wylla hold a clean cloth beneath the bleeding nose, then prised open the boy's eyelids and brought a lamp near enough to sting. "What did he eat, drink, or put in his mouth since breaking fast?" he asked without looking away from Jon's pupils.

"Porridge, apple and milk," Wylla said. "The same as Robb."

"Any sweetroot, berries, lamp oil, or physic from a chest he should not reach?" the maester pressed.

"Nothing unless he has learned to unlock my cupboard."

Catelyn knelt in the wet rushes and drew Robb to her. "Tell me. Slowly."

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

"Where did the bread come from?" Catelyn asked gently.

Robb pointed at himself. "I put it there." Shame crumpled his face.

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

Arthur heard her. His hold on Jon tightened as the boy tried to sit up and sagged against him. "Bed," Luwin said. He looked at the cloth; the bleeding had stopped. "He struck his temple and may have swooned before the fall. I will stay with him."

"His shoulder hurt him when I lifted him," Arthur said. "Will you look at it as well?"

Luwin moved Jon's arm carefully, then felt along the collarbone. "I can find no break."

Arthur watched Jon's face while the maester examined him. He had seen the little arms jerk with the hidden bird's wings. There would be time to ask what that meant when Jon could answer without being sick. For now he kept a hand beneath the boy's head and asked Luwin to tell him when it was safe to move him.

Catelyn looked towards the passage, where servants had begun to gather. "Jory," she said, "close the door. No one makes an omen of a sick child."

The door shut. Eddard arrived after dark, cold air following him into the chamber. He had been hearing a miller's plea in the winter town when the runner found him, and Stark guards had ridden back at his heels. Jon woke to his hand on his forehead.

"Father," Jon said, reaching from beneath the cover until Eddard caught his hand.

"I am here." Eddard squeezed his hand. "Luwin says you gave everyone a fright."

"My head hurts where I struck the floor," Jon said, touching the swelling and regretting it at once.

"Leave the swelling alone." Eddard eased his fingers away.

"It hurt before I fell," Jon whispered.

"I know." Eddard felt the swelling with the lightest touch. Robb demonstrated the fall twice with a carved horse until Catelyn stopped a third. Luwin described the brief swoon, the bleeding and the blow at Jon's temple.

"Will it happen again?" Catelyn asked.

"I cannot say yet."

She drew Robb closer. "Then the boys are not left alone near that window."

Arthur stood at the bed's foot. "I had gone for a cloth."

"Send a servant next time." She said it without heat, which made it harder to answer. Eddard looked at Arthur, then at the loose shutter.

"Have the catch mended. Luwin, stay until he sleeps."

Catelyn took Robb upstairs. She lifted the carved horse from the pillow to make room for Jon's head, but he reached after it. Wylla set it beside his hand once the coverlet was straight.

"There," she whispered. "No need to sit up."

Jon curled his fingers around it.

Mikken mended the iron catch while two servants shifted the settle away from the window. Jon heard the scrape of its feet before the men took their tools into the passage. Uncle Arthur remained beside his bed. Dawn leaned within reach of the chair. Luwin checked Jon's eyes once more and wiped the dried blood from his lip. He stayed until the boy slept, then left Arthur with a fresh cloth and instructions to call if the bleeding began again. When Jon woke thirsty, the knight held the cup while he drank.

"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 towards the covered basket. "When it came through the window?"

"Before. I could see the roofs. Then the bread. It wanted the bread so badly I could hardly think of anything else." Jon pressed his palm against the blanket. Skinchanging. He knew the gift from the books of his old life. None had taught him how to bear a bird's terror while his own body struck the floor.

"Were you asleep?"

"No. I could feel myself on the settle, and the wings as well. When it hit the shutter, my shoulder hurt."

Arthur touched the shoulder lightly. "Luwin found nothing broken. Does it hurt now?"

"Not now. How long before I answered you?"

"Your eyes were shut when I reached you. Then you opened them, but you did not answer for perhaps four breaths."

"Was I breathing?"

"Aye. I turned you when you were sick." Arthur rested his hand upon the coverlet. "I thought the fit had frightened the bird. Then I saw your arms jerk each time it beat its wings under the blanket."

"You were stopping me seeing."

The knight looked at the basket again. "I did not know."

"That is why I am telling you. If it happens again, I need you beside me."

"Do you mean to try?"

"I did not mean to this time." His throat ached. He held out a hand for the cup, and Arthur helped him drink. "I tried to come back. I could see myself on the floor, but I could not make that body move."

Arthur drew his chair against the bed. "Then you tell me when you feel it beginning. Sit down before your legs give way. I will keep you from falling."

"Call my name. I heard you."

"I will. What else?"

"I do not know yet." Jon laid his hand in the knight's. "You will have to tell me what happens here. I cannot watch both."

Arthur closed his fingers around it. "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.

The latch lifted before the knight could answer. Eddard came in with Luwin behind him and Wylla carrying another blanket. Jon drew the wooden horse onto his lap.

"Awake again?" Eddard sat beside the bed and touched his forehead.

"My throat hurts."

Luwin felt beneath his jaw and asked him to swallow. The maester examined the swelling at his temple, then held out two fingers for Jon to follow with his eyes. Jon obeyed. He answered the questions about his sickness and the pain in his head. He said nothing about seeing the room from beneath the blanket.

"Will he sleep?" Wylla asked.

"Let him, if he can. I will look in again." Luwin put away his lamp. "No yard tomorrow."

Jon began to object, but a yawn opened his mouth instead. Eddard drew the blanket over his feet.

Arthur carried the covered basket to the adjoining room. Jon heard him set it down with care. Wylla brought barley mashed in broth, tested its warmth against her lip, and held the spoon while Jon ate. Eddard sat until the bowl was empty.

"You will be here when I wake?" Jon asked.

His father drew the chair nearer. "Yes."

* * *
​

The roots beneath Winterfell were white. They pierced old stone and older bones without bending. Some were thin as hair. Others rose like towers into a dark that held no earth. Jon stood barefoot among them, though far away he could feel wool over his legs and Uncle Arthur's callused finger inside his fist. The wounded raven worried at the bark above. Beyond the roots, a pale man watched. White hair fell around a face too still for life. One eye burned red; shadow filled the other. Jon stepped back. A root curled around his ankle.

"Let go."

"You reached first," the pale man said.

"I was looking at the bird."

"And the bird was hungry."

The raven beat its injured wing. Jon saw Winterfell from above, wet roofs and smoking chimneys, then saw himself in the bed with Arthur beside him. He kept his attention upon that small figure beneath the blanket. Other helpless hours came to mind while the bird struggled, recollections he had no intention of sharing. The red eye moved from the raven to him, measuring.

"Who taught you to keep hold of yourself?" The pale man watched him pull against the root. "I can follow the threads of men you have never met. When I seek yours, the weave of what may come changes beneath my eye. Why?"

Jon pointed towards the bed instead.

"That is where I belong."

"Most children would still be crying."

"Would crying bring me back?" Jon asked. The root tightened.

"No." The pale man tilted his head. "You consider your answers carefully, Jon Snow." Jon let the silence stand.

Jon bent, dug both hands beneath the white coil and pulled. The bark tore his palms. Far away, a warm hand enclosed his own. Arthur was beside the bed. Jon held to that warmth and pulled again.

The raven screamed. White wood split. Black wings filled the dark, and the red eye vanished. Jon woke gripping Uncle Arthur's finger hard enough to whiten his knuckles. The brazier painted the room dull red. His temple throbbed.

"Jon?" Arthur leaned over him.

White hair, one red eye: Brynden Rivers, if the old stories had given him anything useful. Bloodraven. Jon knew the name; he had no idea what the man wanted with him.

"I am here," Jon said. Eddard rose from the chair by the hearth and came to feel his brow. Jon waited until his father had gone to fetch Luwin before tugging Arthur close. "There was a man. In the dream. He held my leg with a root."

Arthur drew the blanket clear of his ankle. There was no mark upon it.

"White hair," Jon said. "One red eye. He asked about the bird, and why he could not see what would happen to me."

"Did he give you his name?"

"No." Jon caught his hand again. "I could feel you here while he spoke."

"Then I shall stay."

This time, when sleep returned, Jon held to Arthur's hand.

* * *
​

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.

The maester waited until Robb was looking through the beans before he studied Jon again. Jon had already drawn his own unfinished strip of parchment towards him.

Catelyn had come to fetch them with Sansa in her arms. She watched from the doorway while Luwin changed the word once more. Robb began building a wall with the beans. Jon read the new arrangement, then asked why two different shapes could make the same sound.

"A question for many maesters," Luwin said.

"Do they agree?"

"Seldom." He was smiling now, though he had pulled a separate sheet close to record what Jon had read.

"Robb," Catelyn called. "Come and wash."

Robb began gathering the beans. "Jon has finished already."

"You are to finish your own work, not race through it after him." She waited while her son tied the sack. To Luwin she said, "I do not want him hurried because another child answers first."

"I will give them what each needs, my lady."

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. He told me not to trouble myself."

"Making sport of you?"

"He never smiled. Only took it back and asked somebody else."

"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.

The servant went to fill the lamps. Luwin gave Jon the names of the tools, then permission to look through a book with painted beasts while he put away his herbs. Jon found it above his reach.

"Would you lift that down?" he asked the guard. "The green one. Maester Luwin said I might have it."

The man glanced towards Luwin, who nodded, then propped his spear beside the doorway and took the volume from the nearest shelf. Its wooden covers were wider than Jon's chest.

"On the table, my lord?"

"By the window. Thank you."

Jon climbed onto the stool and pushed the white lock from his eyes. He smiled up at the man before opening the book with both hands. The guard lingered long enough to see him lay his strip of words safely beyond the heavy cover.

"Call when you have done. Do not try to put it back yourself."

"I will."

The man returned to his spear. Beside the window, the servant trimmed a fresh wick. Jon thanked him for that too, and the man moved the lamp until its light fell clear of the boy's shadow. He bent to look at 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 the separate sheet beside Luwin's lamp. The maester had recorded the words Jon recognised and three questions he had asked afterward. Arthur stood by the hearth.

"Is there cause to worry?" Eddard asked.

"He learns more quickly than any child I have taught, my lord. But it is not only the reading." Luwin turned the sheet towards him. "He knew why I changed the order of the letters. He offered to have me do it before I asked."

"To show you he knew them?"

"To show me he had not merely remembered where they stood. Later, when Robb was struggling, Jon covered part of the word and let him try again. I had been reaching to do the same."

"He is good with his brother."

"He is. Most boys who know an answer can scarcely bear to let another find it."

Arthur turned from the fire. "The men outside your door had been discussing him. Jon heard them."

"The guard came to me yesterday," Luwin replied. "He could not read a word Jon brought him. Jon told him not to trouble himself, and the man wondered whether he was being mocked."

"Was he?" Eddard asked.

"No. The boy saw his embarrassment and tried to spare him. Today the man fetched him a book and offered to put it back. He meant no harm."

"He is not the one I am concerned about," Arthur replied. "Wylla found the linen woman keeping her distance this afternoon. She had been making a fuss of him only days ago."

Luwin laid the sheet down. "She came to me as well. She wanted to know whether a child could be sly without knowing it."

"What had he done?"

"I asked her that. She could name nothing. She had been with Septa Mordane."

Arthur's hand closed upon the mantel. Eddard drew a chair nearer.

"What has Mordane to do with his lessons?"

"Nothing, my lord. She told the woman not to encourage him. When I asked her about it, she spoke of humility and the circumstances of his birth."

"And Catelyn?"

"The woman says Lady Catelyn was there," Luwin answered.

"Wylla brought Jon in afterwards." Arthur looked towards the nursery passage. "The woman had little to say to him by then."

Eddard sat for a moment without speaking. The rookery boy carried his bucket through the outer door; Luwin waited until it had shut behind him.

"I will speak to my lady. Poole can deal with the talk belowstairs."

"Let them bring me questions," Luwin urged. "Some are simply uneasy. They expect to coax a child of four, not find him waiting patiently for an explanation. They need to know him better."

"They can do that without gathering outside your door."

"Aye. I shall keep his lessons here, and a record of what he learns."

"Give him work that interests him. He need not wait for Robb. But stop when he is tired."

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.

* * *
​

Arthur waited until Luwin 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 put one finger beneath the first line. "The east boats landed less cod than last moon. Two crews stayed ashore because the Gull's Daughter split her mast. The reeve asks for timber from the castle store. Ethan refuses because the sound lengths are set aside for roof beams. The reeve says fish will cost two pennies more on the shore basket if the boat is not mended."

"Which shore basket?"

"The clerk has not given its size."

Luwin brought over the three baskets set out for the afternoon's counting lesson: a lidded creel, a broad shallow basket and a long one carried between two men. "Which do you suppose he means?"

Jon looked at the three. "I would be guessing. Are the harbour measures different?"

"Very different." Luwin tapped the middle basket. "That is near the size they use at Eastcove."

"And at White Harbor?"

"More like this one." The maester touched the long rim. "In Gulltown a shore basket is a weight, whatever vessel the fish are carried in."

"Then Ethan's clerk must give us the measure with the price. Otherwise we cannot compare them."

"I will put that in the answer," Luwin said. He wrote four words in different hands. Jon read the first as mole, the second as meal, the third as mill. The last defeated him.

"Mule," Luwin said. "A White Harbor copyist wrote it so for thirty years, and his lord praised the beauty of the hand."

"I should have read it as mill again."

"The last stroke is the tail of the e." Luwin marked it with his quill. "Once you know this man's hand, it is less troublesome."

"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. The hurt came before accusation. 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.

At the mill field, six wagons stood axle-deep in soft ground. Two carried sacks of barley, one oats and three split firewood. The miller claimed the barley sacks were the same measure used at Winterfell. Vayon Poole's clerk claimed the barley sacks were light.

"How do we learn which man has the right of it?" Eddard asked. His grey courser stood fetlock-deep in mud while the two accused men waited beside the wagons.

"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."

The miller nodded. Poole's clerk bent over his tablet. While they repacked the sacks, Mikken's apprentice took the worn weight to have it checked against the standard.

"You asked to see the weights," Eddard said to Jon as they went back to the horses. "That was well done."

"It would have been better to use the same ones before they quarrelled."

"Aye." Eddard held Moth's bridle while Jon found the stirrup. "Did Luwin speak to you about that?"

"About different measures. Not this quarrel." He settled into the saddle, working the reins free of the pommel. "A worn weight will make the next delivery wrong as well."

Eddard remained beside the pony after Jon was seated. Robb had already mounted Apple and was telling Hullen how he had found the hidden sacks. When Eddard turned back, he asked Jon whether the same trouble might arise over the fish baskets. He listened to the answer 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." Jon watched his father's hands upon the reins. "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. "He cannot mend the roofs if he gives away the timber set aside for them. Ask White Harbor what a sound mast costs and send the price to Ethan."

"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. The shipwrights 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 reached to smooth the hair out of Robb's eyes. In the firelight its red-brown was almost the colour of the braid over her shoulder, and the blue eyes lifted to hers without hesitation. "You have your own letters to learn. Do not skip them because Jon reads quickly."

"We can read together."

"When yours are finished." She drew him beside her to look at the page Luwin had brought. Jon stood with Ethan's letter in both hands, waiting. Eddard was already asking the maester 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.

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."

After the meal the household gathered in the small hall. No new hangings disguised Winterfell's grey walls. Robert had founded a house, not sent a coronation north. Vayon Poole stood with the household keys at his belt. Rodrik Cassel, Jory, Hullen, Mikken and the senior servants formed a half circle before the dais. Wylla held Sansa. Arthur waited behind Jon's right shoulder with Dawn sheathed and a deep violet cloak over black wool.

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 what the hall needed to hear: Robert confirmed Jon's new house, left him natural-born, and continued Eddard's keeping of Dragonstone until Jon came of age. The parchment lay open beneath Robert's seal while the household listened.

Vayon Poole bowed first. "Lord Black."

Rodrik and Jory followed. Hullen bent his head. Mikken looked as if a title mattered less than whether its owner returned borrowed tools. Arthur came last. He passed the royal letter and went to one knee. Before the hall he was Ashara Dayne's brother, Jon's uncle and sworn shield. To Eddard and Wylla, the words recalled the oath he had made beside 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 were gone, Eddard led Jon to the stable. Moth stood there wearing a new saddle blanket of plain black wool.

"Is the pony mine as well as the blanket?" Jon asked, already knowing Hullen would object from half the castle away.

"The blanket. Hullen informs me the pony still belongs to Winterfell, whatever Robb claims."

Jon ran his palm over the thick weave. "It looks strange without a wolf."

"You chose your own arms." Eddard watched him smooth the cloth. "Does that trouble you?"

Jon did not answer at once. Eddard knelt in the straw beside him. "The name does not put you outside this house. You remain my son and Robb's brother."

"But I shall have to leave."

"Not yet. And you will always have a place here."

"Uncle Arthur says a lord must live among his people."

Eddard looked towards the door. "He is right about that."

"Then will you come and see me?"

"Of course I will."

Jon touched the unmarked cloth again. "Ride with me now?"

"Twice around the yard. It is your nameday, so I may be persuaded into a third if Robb counts loudly enough."

They rode until Moth's breath smoked and Jon's thighs ached. Robb followed upon Apple, shouting that two circuits meant three because lords counted differently on namedays. Eddard let him have the third.

* * *
​

House Black's first summons came from a jammed bell rope. Rain returned the morning after the nameday. It darkened roofs, filled wheel ruts and swelled oak doors in their frames. The hour bell hung beneath a little peaked roof above the east gate. It was not the great bronze voice used for attack, only an old green bell whose strokes divided watches, meals and labour. Pate the bellman had rung it longer than this body had lived. Robb claimed Pate began before the Wall went up. Pate claimed the Wall's bellman had once 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 pulls it up again?" Pate asked.

"It must be wound up," Jon said. "But not at every stroke."

Jon could almost see the missing machine. A hanging stone turned a toothed wheel. A catch released one tooth, then another, keeping the fall slow. He could recall the motion, though not the dimensions. The work was clear enough: the weight must descend slowly, the teeth must be released one at a time, and a broken catch must not let stone or iron strike a man.

He held the glass beside the rope. "If the stone turns a wheel slowly, the wheel can let the hammer fall."

"How do you keep it slow?" Luwin asked.

"Two catches on a rocking bar. One holds while the other lets a tooth pass." Jon traced the motion in the air.

"And what rocks the bar?"

"The teeth push it each way. Weights on the bar resist them." Jon put down the glass. "I need to draw it. A small one first, on a bench."

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."

They went first to the kitchens. The roasting jack used a hanging stone to turn a spit above the coals. Its cord unwound from a wooden drum. A catch held the drum still while the kitchen boy unhooked the weight for winding. Grease shone on the teeth; heat had warped two. Jon halted beyond the reach of spit and flame.

Tobben caught him looking and stepped aside so he could see. "The catch is behind the drum, my lord. I can show you better when dinner is off the spit."

Jon crouched where he could see the drum without approaching the fire. "Show me how you stop it for winding."

Tobben used the long fork as a pointer. "That catch drops into the teeth. We lift it clear when the weight is hooked back on. Mind the grease—it spits."

In the smithy, Mikken showed them the treadle driving his grindstone. At the eastern portcullis, men, rope and counterweight lifted a wall of oak, but nothing measured how quickly. Beyond the gate the mill wheel turned so long as water ran. The miller judged its labour by meal under the stones, not by counting teeth. Back in Luwin's room, Robb stacked old writing boards into a fort while Jon drew.

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 moved his hand, kept the dividers steady while Luwin held the hinge, and marked the next space.

Robb moved his hand and watched the next space take shape.

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. Lampblack from House Black's first seal and charcoal from its first design marked the same sleeve.

 

[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 leather apron had scorched stiff against his knee. He laid the iron arbor on the bench and compared the two measuring sticks.

"My rule came from the armoury."

"And mine from the men who built the east granary," Woods said.

"Neither will match the other," Jon told them. He had sent for Luwin's old oak stave, brass-capped and dark from years of handling. "We use this one."

Mikken rubbed a black thumb over the brass. "This is shorter than mine."

"Use it for the work you make here," Jon said. "Horseshoes may still be fitted to horses." Woods gave the smallest grunt of laughter.

Jon laid a strip of well-seasoned pearwood against the oak stave. "Cut this true. Mark the full foot, its halves, quarters, and fingers. Mikken gets iron marked from the same rod. When a piece passes from one shop to the other, both men use those."

"Who pays for the new rules?" Mikken asked.

"I do." Jon pointed to the arbor that would not fit. "Credit the iron if you can use it again."

"For a hinge, perhaps." Mikken weighed it in his palm. Poole entered the cost of the two new rules. Luwin came down to reclaim his stave while the craftsmen were marking their copies.

Woods held the pearwood copy edgewise. "This settles length. It does not tell me how loose you want the arbor."

"We fit the bush to a pattern pin," Jon said. "Mikken, make one and keep its shoulders true. Woods fits the softer bush against it until it turns freely without rocking. Keep that pin for replacements."

Mikken examined the arbor. "I can file this one true and save the iron, my lord."

"Do that. Bring it to me before Woods fits the bush."

With the teeth properly spaced, Jon could see the next difficulty: the wheel ran unevenly around its arbor. The edge pressed hard against the pinion on one side and scarcely touched it on the other. He drew a pole lathe on a clean scrap of parchment, with a bed, two iron centres and a treadle beneath a springy ash pole.

"Bore the blank first, then turn its rim about the hole," he told Woods. "The teeth will all stand the same distance from the centre."

Olyver followed the cord with one dusty finger. "It turns back when you lift your foot?"

"Aye. Lift the tool then, and cut on the downstroke." Jon drew the tool rest close beside the blank, where the carpenter's hand could brace it.

Woods studied the low bed Jon had drawn. "May I, my lord?" At Jon's nod he took the charcoal 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."

The carpenter traced the new position, then nodded.

"And what does the bed cost?" Jon asked.

Woods reckoned the timber while Mikken priced the iron centres. They had reached the treadle fittings when Wylla arrived with a covered basket. Rain had darkened the shoulders of her green cloak. She cleared a place for the basket, 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, Woods took the cutting tool while Olyver worked the treadle. The rest crept beneath the pressure. Jon called a halt and had Woods drive its wedge more firmly before bringing it close to the wood again.

The next cut peeled away a long, pale shaving. Applewood scented the shop. Olyver found a steady pace with his foot, and Woods turned the blank until its rim ran true between the iron points.

Jon took the tool for the last few strokes. He could brace it against the rest, but the handle was too long for him; Woods cut down a spare and fitted the blade to that. With it Jon skimmed a fine curl from the rim. A shaving floated clear of the lathe. Robb picked it from the floor 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. By then Olyver had the tool, and Jon stood beside him with the pattern for the teeth. They laid it over the finished circle. This time every space fitted.

Woods waited for Jon to lift the pattern, then ran a thumb around the smooth edge. He glanced at the chair legs beneath his bench.

"I could finish a pair alike on this, my lord."

"With a pattern beside the piece, yes. Try it when we have our wheels." Jon showed him where a longer rest could sit along the bed. "Leave these centres where they are until Olyver has turned the second blank."

The carpenter nodded, still looking at the lathe. He picked up the shortened handle he had made for Jon and turned it 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 there: two applewood wheels, a horn pinion, an iron arbor running in a softer brass bush. Mikken brought the finished pin himself. Woods fitted the bush to it, and Jon turned the assembly under the wheel's weight. It ran freely.

Woods set a slatted screen in front of the movement. Jon hung a small stone from cord wound about the first barrel. Woods supported the weight on one palm while Olyver watched the pinion. Robb stood beside Jon, looking through the slats. A leather sack full of shavings and sand waited below to catch the weight.

"Lower it a little," Jon said. Woods eased his hand down until the cord drew taut.

"Now let it take its own weight."

The wheels spun as Woods lowered his hand clear. Each tooth caught its mate, but the cord began to climb the bare edge of the barrel. Jon stopped the trial before it could slip off. When he turned the frame, one fixing peg moved in its hole.

"Cheeks here to hold the cord," he said, showing Woods the barrel, "and a brace across the frame. The weight is pulling that joint apart."

Mikken tested the arbor and offered to fit iron collars to keep it from shifting sideways. Jon agreed. The train would run; now he needed to govern its speed.

They kept the spare parts in a box beneath the bench. Robb called it the box of enemies and added the crooked first wheel with great satisfaction. Pate the bellman visited a few days later, his arm still bound from the fall at the gate. He carried the cracked rope guide in his good hand.

"Lord Black." Pate inclined his head. "Mikken said you were trying the wheels. May I see?"

Jon showed him the clock train. Pate peered through the screen. "A box of wooden teeth."

"It is not finished. The wheels run, but nothing yet governs how quickly the stone falls," Jon said.

Pate watched the stone settle. "I shall still be ringing by hand for a while, then."

"For a while," Jon said. "What have you brought?"

The bellman held out the guide. "They have lifted the rope clear of this for now. Could it be smoothed before they put it back, my lord?"

Mikken took the piece from him. The guide's mouth was rusted rough, and wet hemp had bitten hard into it. Jon traced the groove. "Bronze would not rust against wet hemp, and the rope would run more freely through it," Jon said.

Mikken examined the worn mouth. "I can smooth this one today, my lord. With grease it should serve."

"A wheel at the turn would spare the rope."

"It would need an axle and a cover against rain," Mikken said. "That will take longer."

"Mend the guide now," Jon said. "Round the mouth, and let Pate 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 see 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 his attention to the lower-yard pump. Its worn piston leaked so badly that Harwin had to work the handle several times before water reached the spout. Jon sketched a leather cup that would press against the bore as the piston rose, with a valve below to hold the water and a leather flap through the piston to let it pass on the downstroke. His father had kept an old hand pump working long after buying a powered one for the farm. Jon could still remember the worn leather spread across the kitchen newspaper. He had no newspaper here, but the principle was simple enough to show the saddler.

He had Woods make a short elm barrel for a trial at the shop door. After the wood had soaked, the saddler felt inside it and found the ridge where the two auger holes met. Woods scraped that smooth while Jon and the saddler fitted the leather to a wooden backing disc. They left a narrow lip free to press against the wet bore.

Two days later Robb worked the handle and Jon held a clay jug beneath the spout. Pate stopped at the shop door to watch. The first pull brought nothing. The second produced a hollow gulp. On the fourth, a few drops of brown water reached the jug.

Woods stopped a small leak at the join with flax and pitch. On the next pull a thin stream reached Jon's jug. Robb heaved harder at the handle; the leather cup folded over its backing and the water stopped.

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. Then his mouth twitched.

"Not another stroke," Jon said, wiping his face.

"I had stopped."

That was enough to make Jon laugh 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.

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. He could write more when he had sorted what belonged before what.

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 hid a smile in his cup. Catelyn did not bother hiding hers. 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, breaking his fast with black bread, a boiled egg, and the watchful quiet he brought even to porridge. 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. Harwin filled his bucket only halfway; even so, some slopped over Jon's boot on the uneven stones. He set it down beside the brushes and shook the wet mitten from his hand.

"Next time I will take the smaller one."

"Aye, my lord." Harwin hung his own bucket on its peg. "It is behind the door."

Hullen put a wooden currycomb into Jon's hand and opened the stall beside Bucephalus's. An old grey mare stood within, one eye clouded and the near foreleg stiff until she moved. "Moonsong. She taught your father."

"I have Moth."

"Moth walks to the feed bin and back. You are ready to learn more than that."

Jon ran a hand down the mare's legs and found no heat. He lifted her feet for Harwin, brushed the mud from her shoulder and helped set the saddle blanket with the hair. Moonsong stood patiently through all of it. She was 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 the stable came Luwin's sums and the sword yard. Arthur put a wicker shield on Jon's left arm and an ash sword in his right. Across the yard Robb waited with Ser Rodrik, walking rather stiffly after his own ride.

Arthur began slowly. Jon caught the first cut on the shield, stepped in and struck towards the knight's thigh. Arthur turned his blade aside and touched him on the ribs where the shield had drifted wide.

"Keep it with you as you step."

They tried the exchange again. This time Jon covered his ribs and made Arthur shift his leading foot before the return cut. On the third pass the shield stayed close without a reminder. Arthur changed the angle. Jon caught that too, then lost the next blow because he tried to answer before his feet were set. Rodrik had stopped correcting Robb to watch. The knight increased the pace, and the wicker rim knocked against Jon's wrist at every blow.

"Dead," Robb called when Arthur caught him.

Ser Rodrik promptly tapped Robb's unguarded belly. Jon looked across the yard and grinned. His brother turned back to his own opponent.

They worked until the afternoon light reached the armoury doors. Two stable lads lingered by the rail with a bridle between them. When Jon repeated the turn Arthur had shown him only once, the elder nudged the other and lifted his chin towards the little shield. Arthur saw them watching. He gave Jon a different attack, then another, until the boy had to think instead of repeat. When Jon's shield arm began to shake, he called a halt.

Jon lowered the shield. He 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!"

Eddard's mouth moved. "She has kept the trick all these years."

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." The answer changed the room. 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.

On Moonsong, Jon could now trot a full circuit without losing his stirrups. Hullen had him ride with one hand on his hip and the other holding the reins, then change hands on the next turn. Robb copied him from the rail until Ser Rodrik called his name.

After riding, Jon ate cold beef with mustard, a boiled onion and two slices of bread before going to the clock room.

That afternoon the crown wheel ran through half a small sandglass before beginning to lose time. Jon lifted the hammer clear and watched the movement recover. The train was wasting too much of the weight's pull in friction; with the hammer attached it had barely enough left to run.

He had Mikken polish the pivots and try the thinner arbor the smith had brought. They would reduce the drag before adding more weight. Olyver set the glass beside the frame and began another count.

Bucephalus was less predictable. One morning he let Jon lift his forefoot, only to pull it away as Harwin handed over the pick. Jon let go before the hoof came down beside his boot. He rubbed his wrist while Harwin finished cleaning the foot.

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 know what happened."

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. At the same instant Jon's two heels dug into stone and his knees folded because they expected a strength and balance they did not possess. 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, her blue eyes intent upon the injury. She did not gather him against her as she had Robb.

"Were you struck?"

"No, my lady. I bit my tongue."

"Did he fall before the horse pulled him?" she asked Hullen.

"As the colt shied, my lady. I still had the lead."

"I was after the cloth," Harwin said. "I did not see him fall."

Catelyn looked at Arthur. "This has happened before."

"In the nursery, with the raven," Arthur said.

"Luwin called that a fit."

"Aye." Arthur wiped Jon's mouth with the clean corner of his sleeve. "He needs to sit."

Catelyn looked towards the arch where Jory had carried Robb. Hullen still held the colt turned away from them.

"And the headache?" Hullen asked Arthur. "Was that the same?"

"The beginning of it, perhaps. I should have told you."

Hullen glanced at his son, who had laid the torn washline beside the wall. "Aye, ser."

"Harwin, fetch Lord Stark and the maester," Catelyn said. "Jon, sit down."

Eddard arrived at a near run, slowing only when he saw Jon on the mounting block with Luwin beside him. He knelt and put both hands on Jon's shoulders.

"Robb said the horse had kicked you."

"No. Arthur caught me."

Luwin drew back the cloth from Jon's mouth and showed Eddard the bitten tongue. Arthur described the rearing colt and catching Jon before he fell. The maester asked whether Jon had felt faint before the horse moved.

"I cannot tell." Jon could still smell the mare across the yard, impossibly clear. He kept that to himself. "It happened quickly."

For a moment Hullen said nothing. He stroked the colt's neck with his free hand.

"If you feel faint, my lord, give me the rope before it takes your feet from under you."

"I will."

"The colt stays in Hullen's hands," Eddard said. "And Robb rides in the other yard for now."

Wylla arrived with Jon's cloak bundled in her arms. At the blood on his collar she stopped so sharply that Harwin had to step aside.

"His tongue," Luwin told her. "He bit it."

Wylla knelt in front of Jon. She made him open his mouth, looked at the torn place, then drew his cloak around his shoulders. Her hands shook while she fastened it.

"I am all right," Jon said.

"Let me look." Wylla felt along his ribs beneath the cloak. When he shook his head to say that did not hurt, she let out a long breath. Jon leaned against her, and her arm tightened about his shoulders.

Hullen and Harwin led the colt back to his stall. Catelyn went to find Robb, while Eddard took Jon upstairs to the little shuttered solar above the tack room. Arthur, Wylla and Luwin followed. The maester had Jon sit where the light fell upon his face.

Eddard kept one hand on his shoulder through the examination. "Your head?"

"It aches."

"And your sight?" Luwin asked.

Jon looked at the narrow window, where the latch stood out black against the sky. "Clear now."

The maester watched him follow a finger and asked him to stand. His legs obeyed this time. Wylla remained close enough to catch him.

"He will rest this afternoon," Luwin said. "Soft food until the tongue heals. Call me if he is sick again." He gathered his things and left for the rookery.

Eddard waited while Jon settled back upon the bench. From the yard came Hullen's voice and a long scrape of hooves. Jon turned towards it before he could stop himself.

"The horse is well," his father said. "You may leave him to Hullen for an afternoon."

"I will."

Wylla loosened the cloak at his throat and gave him a little water. He 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 kept his face still. He knew the word. He let a little time pass before asking, "What is a warg?"

"Wargs wear the skins of wolves. You have begun with other beasts."

"I have a horse. Tell me how to leave him."

The red eye narrowed. "You are in a hurry to choose the lesson."

"I was on the ground with blood in my mouth. You know about this. Who are you?"

"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 fourth, with Arthur beside the door and Hullen holding the colt, he went in with the soft brush. Warm breath passed over his hair. He waited, listening to the ordinary sounds of the stable. Nothing drew him away.

He brushed the shoulder and withers, working the loose hair from the coat until the bristles clogged. Bucephalus lowered his head. Jon emptied the brush into Harwin's bucket and began on the other side.

For all the fright, he still remembered how strong the colt's body had felt. He wanted to understand it. Harwin stood within reach of the hooves, however, and he would make no attempt here.

When the grooming was done, he helped Hullen lead Bucephalus out to the paddock. The colt followed quietly, stopping once to nose at a tuft of grass between the stones.

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," Eddard said. "Will you ride?"

Jon looked once at the clock room window, then gave the brush to Harwin. "Aye, Father."

Eddard mounted and Hullen lifted Jon behind him. Jon settled with his arms around his father's waist. Robb chattered ahead about beating them to the gate. Arthur mounted the bay beside them, and Wylla called from the steps that they were all to return before the beef pie went cold.

They rode beneath Winterfell's grey walls at a walk, Bucephalus watching from the paddock until the turn of the road hid him.

Beyond the gate, yesterday's rain lay in every wheel rut. Eddard's grey took the raised crown of the road. Jon tightened his arms when the horse stepped over a hollow; ahead, 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 red-faced 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 red 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. A small, unwilling laugh escaped before he could stop it. 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. The images came without all the roads between them. In this life Theon was eleven, trying not to look hungry at supper, furious at every kindness and awake whenever ravens crossed the light. Jon could not look at the boy and see only a betrayal that had not happened. He could not forget it either. Jon 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. Jon could allow for that without handing 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 behind him. Theon strained once against Harwin, then stopped. "He ordered a stableboy to seize me."

"After I told him twice to leave the clock alone," Jon said, pressing his sleeve beneath his nose.

Ser Rodrik looked to Harwin, who nodded. "Let him go. Theon, stand beside me."

Theon glared at the floor. Arthur looked past him at the fallen wedge and the tilted plate. "Was it meant to sit like that?"

"No." Jon kept his sleeve under his nose. "The plate was level."

Woods hurried in with a bundle of timber still under his arm. He put it down and found the loose plate pinched against one arbor and a crack in the wooden stop. Arthur sent Harwin for Luwin, then drew Jon clear of the doorway. Several wheels would have to come out before the plate could be seated again. Robb stared through the doorway. "How long?"

"I shall know when we have it apart," Jon said.

Colour climbed the ironborn boy's face. "I only caught it with my sleeve."

"After you were told to leave it." Jon's voice sounded thick behind his sleeve.

Theon's fist tightened. Ser Rodrik stepped between them before anger found another blow. Wylla appeared, took one look at the blood, and pressed clean linen beneath Jon's nose. "Lord Stark will hear this after Luwin sees whether the nose is straight."

Eddard heard the account in his solar. Theon and Jon stood on opposite sides of the hearth, one with Harwin's grip darkening his wrist and one holding linen beneath his nose. Arthur remained behind Jon; Ser Rodrik behind Theon. Woods and Mikken had been called to say what work the damage would require. Wylla stood between the boys and the door. "Theon," Eddard said, "you entered a room barred to you, handled the clock after Jon ordered you away, resisted the man he set to stop you and struck Jon. Is any part untrue?"

"The key hung above the door where any boy with a stool could reach it," Theon said.

"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 displaced plate upon Eddard's table beside the broken stop. "The iron is sound, my lord. It will take time to fit it again and prove the train."

Theon looked at the iron, then at Jon's bloodied linen. He said nothing.

"I want him with us when we open it," Jon said. "Six mornings carrying and cleaning for the craftsmen. Woods decides what he may touch."

Eddard looked to Woods and Mikken. Both men nodded. "That is my judgment as well."

Theon opened his mouth, met Eddard's gaze and closed it again. The next morning he carried charcoal to the forge while Jon and Olyver laid the clock's parts upon folded cloths. Woods set him to sawing an upright for the new rail. The cut wandered, and 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."

"There is no salt here, but there is heat and wet stone." Jon held the rule across the block without shifting it. A rise no thicker than a nail shaving showed beneath one end. "Woods, feel the wall and the underside. Mikken, help him lift it when he is ready. Theon, fetch the plumb line."

Woods found the wall sweating behind the support. The grain beneath was damp and raised. Jon hung the plumb line beside the frame. "The timber has moved. We replace it with a dry block, clear of the wall. Do not fit the plate until we have it steady."

Theon helped lift the old block out. They reset the frame upon dry timber and packed its feet until it stood square. The block no longer rocked when Olyver leaned across the bench.

"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.

* * *
​

Arthur had gathered the practice swords when Jon asked whether he would teach other boys. Robb and Theon had gone ahead to wash, still disputing the last bout, and the knight looked towards the doorway before answering.

"Which boys?"

"Ones I mean to take into my household. Twenty-five, if Father gives me leave."

Arthur kept one hand upon the rack. "You have spoken to him?"

"Not yet. I wanted to speak to you first."

The knight turned fully towards him. "You will need another man in the yard. When I am away with you, their training cannot stop."

"I know. I want you to teach their swordwork. Someone else can keep them at the rest."

"And what is the rest?"

Jon lowered his shield and described the running, riding and work he meant to give them between their weapons lessons. He wanted time for letters as well, and exercises to strengthen them before they learnt to carry heavier arms. Arthur listened without interrupting until Jon began fitting it all between breakfast and supper.

"Leave room for a boy to catch his breath," he said. "And for the man teaching him. Twenty-five will not all learn a turn because you show it once."

"Then they work in smaller groups. The others can be with the drillman while you teach the first."

"That would serve." Arthur knelt to unfasten the shield strap Jon was worrying with his fingers. "Why twenty-five?"

"Four files of six, and a captain. I could know them all."

"Provided you spend time with them outside the yard."

"I mean to."

Arthur drew the stiff end of the strap through its buckle. For years he had been the one fastening such things while Jon talked of what he would do when he was larger. This time he laid the shield beside the others and asked what wages Jon meant to offer.

"I have Poole's prices for boots and cloth. I need the food added."

"Have it added before you speak to Ned. He will ask."

"Will you come with me?"

"Aye. But you make the request." Arthur rose and hung the little sword within Jon's reach. "Tell him what you want from me as well. He should not have to guess."

* * *
​

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, less amused now that he had found something worth questioning. "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."

Arthur's mouth moved at that, but Eddard did not smile.

"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, not because he lacked an answer he could give, but because the answer would be worth little. A cracked piece of timber or an ill-fitted tooth could cost another week. He had lived long enough among unfinished works to know how cheaply certainty could be offered.

"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."

Theon bent over his trencher, though the corner of his mouth still moved. Beside him, 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." The old soldier's face did not change. Rodrik's moustache did.

Jon liked him better for it. "Arthur will teach the sword. 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."

"It also spends his strength carrying stone. I want the work measured. A weight a boy can lift cleanly today, a heavier one when he has earned it. Legs, back, shoulders, grip. Strength trained deliberately instead of left to chance."

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. "Then he discovers that I have not."

The old soldier's mouth twitched.

"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."

Rodrik looked away, but not before Jon saw the amusement beneath his moustache.

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 took Jon and Wylla to the chamber beside the armoury. The steward had its key threaded on a ring of smaller ones; he tried two before the lock yielded. Within, the beds had been pushed together to make room for two chests of spare harness. Jon counted twenty before reaching the far window.

"The other five?"

"In the stores, my lord. Woods must mend two of them."

Jon looked along the inner wall. "There, if we move the chests."

Wylla walked the space he had indicated, then turned towards the hearth. "Leave them a passage. I will not have boys climbing over their fellows whenever they need the privy."

Jon shifted the nearest bed himself. "This far?"

She passed between it and the next, carrying her basket. "That will do."

Poole opened his book. "And the bedding?"

"All of it in my account," Jon said. "Show me what can be used before we buy more."

Some mattresses only needed fresh straw; others had seams Wylla could push two fingers through. She laid those aside for mending while Jon and Poole counted the blankets. They would eat with Winterfell's guards, the cost entered against House Black, and fetch their wash water from the yard pump. Poole showed them the nearest privy and promised pegs for wet cloaks beneath the eaves rather than over the beds.

"Where will Heward sleep?" Wylla asked as they returned to the door.

Poole opened the little room across the passage. "Here. It has a bed of its own."

Jon tried the latch from within. Heward would hear anyone leaving the boys' chamber, and the passage gave him a shorter walk to the yard than his old lodging. Jon had no intention of placing another bed among the twenty-five and pretending the old soldier would be comfortable in it.

Wylla held the door while Poole checked the hearth. "And the boys waiting to be chosen? Some will come farther than a morning's walk."

"The ones who live near enough go home," Jon said. "For the others, what room can we use?"

"The lower hall can be kept free for the choosing. I can have straw and pallets brought in. Those who have kin with them may sleep there as well."

"Do that. They are to hear the terms when they arrive, not after they have spent six days hoping for a place."

Poole added the temporary bedding to the account. He went through the whole reckoning with Jon that evening and entered Eddard's advance, including the drillman's keep and the help Woods would need if Olyver were chosen. There was still no name beside the captain's place.

The teacher came the next day with a bundle of copied pages under his arm. Master Hollan earned his living writing letters and fair copies in Winter Town; Luwin had given him copying often enough to know his hand. Jon found them together in the maester's room, Hollan keeping his elbows clear of a tray of drying herbs.

"How many know their letters?" Hollan asked.

"We have not chosen them yet," Jon said. "Some will. Most may not."

Hollan considered the number upon the page. "Then I must hear them separately before I begin. A boy who can already read a little will learn nothing by listening to the alphabet every evening."

"Divide them according to what they know. Heward can keep one group at its other work while you teach the first."

"I shall need more than one primer."

Luwin turned towards his shelves. "Begin with mine. You may copy what you need, but they are to come back."

Jon drew the reckoning closer. "Put the copying in the price as well."

They agreed a weekly payment for lessons after the midday meal, leaving Hollan his mornings for other work. Reading and common sums would begin together, with harder accounts for those ready for them. He would visit during the choosing to hear the boys, then teach whoever Jon accepted. Luwin asked him to bring their work back after the first fortnight so they could see which needed more help.

"And your own lesson remains here," the maester told Jon. "You may sit with them when you have time. It will not replace the work I set you."

"I know."

Hollan was looking at the figures Jon had written. He asked him to read one line, then studied the boy a moment longer before folding his own account beside it.

"Bring that to Poole," Jon said. "He is keeping the costs with mine."

Luwin went back to the herbs once the hour was settled. Hollan stayed to choose the pages he would copy, moving a stool so Jon could see the primers beside him.

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 expected curiosity. He had not expected so many families to treat the offer as a road their sons might walk for years.

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.

Hullen watched the second boy bring the garron through, then glanced at Jon. "That one has never been taught to ride."

"No," Jon said.

"He listens to the horse anyway."

Jon remembered that.

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."

The fourth day was longer. Heward paired the boys for runs and made each pair finish together. Arthur returned to shields once their arms were tired. Jon moved among them asking where they came from, who depended upon their wages and what they understood of the service explained when they arrived. Hearing the little lord speak of taking them across 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 promise a road I have not travelled yet," 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."

Eddard came down with Poole before the boys were called in to eat. He read Arthur's roll beneath the gallery while Jon waited beside him. Rainwater dripped from the eaves onto the flagstones between them.

"Poole has the five spare beds in place," his father said. "The room beside the armoury is ready. They will take their meals with my men, as you agreed, until you have a kitchen of your own."

He lowered the roll. "Heward has my release. He may give you his oath. These boys will answer to him and to Arthur, and both men answer to you. They still obey my castellan while they live within these walls."

"Yes, Father."

Jon took the roll. "I will have practice shields brought from the armoury tonight. Arthur begins with them at dawn."

"I shall tell Rodrik," Eddard said. "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. He walked between the beds, looking at the shutters and the hearth, then sent Tomas to fetch another basket of wood from the store. One shutter would not stay closed. He showed Heward the loose fastening and asked for Woods in the morning.

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]

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. Bronze caught the morning light with a green-gold gleam. The bell was no wider than a helm, deep through the mouth and thick at the crown. He had brought its failed twin in a sack. "Strike the broken one first," Jon said.

Mallon lifted the sack. "This was the first casting, my lord. The mouth cracked as it cooled."

"I want to hear the difference."

Pate hung the two bells by slings from the lifting bar in the yard. The failed casting gave a dead clank beneath his little hammer. On the sound bell the same blow opened into a bright note that sent pigeons up from the roof. "Why did it crack?" Robb asked.

Mallon turned the broken mouth and showed him a dull line in the bronze. "It cooled before the metal had filled that part of the mould. I heard the crack while it was cooling."

Then Mallon gathered both bells and carried them inside.

Inside, Woods shut every cage door and leaned his weight upon the bars. Olyver lowered the bench guards. The rear catch stuck; he lifted the cover, cleared a shaving from the keeper and tried again. Jon waited until it dropped home before nodding to Mikken.

Mikken tested the iron eyes with a short lever, then withdrew it and shut the guard. Only then did Woods begin winding the going weight. The bell remained on its sledge. Jon sat with Olyver and Robb behind the outer rail, where they could see the movement without crowding the men.

"Enough," Jon said when the stone reached the appointed height. Woods removed the handle. Pate turned the sandglasses, and Jon gave the signal to release the train.

At Jon's order Woods drew the peg. The stone began to fall behind oak. The crown wheel turned. Its teeth caught and slipped beneath the verge, one side and then the other. The weighted bar swung forward, halted, and returned. Tick. Tock. The first beat struck harder. A board beneath the frame answered with a faint hum. Nothing else moved save the iron, the sand and the rope travelling into the closed trunk. Robb stopped eating. "Is it right?" he asked.

"We shall see," Jon said.

One glass emptied, then another. Pate turned them while the boys ate the bread Wylla had brought. When the room warmed, a board beneath the frame gave a faint creak and the beat softened. Woods laid two fingers against the timber.

"It has moved a little, my lord."

Jon marked the foot of the frame against the stone. "Leave it until tomorrow. We need to see how far it settles."

They let the fifth glass run empty before stopping the movement. Woods lowered the weight, and Mikken opened the guard. Jon released the rail he had been gripping. The frame stood sound.

He checked the mark once more before leaving it to stand.

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."

Pate hid a smile behind the sandglass. During the next striking trial the hammer counted thirteen. He raised a finger at the extra blow and looked towards Jon.

After the striking weight had been lowered, Jon took the count wheel from its arbor. "The follower rode over the lip."

"Or the follower's nose is too broad," Mikken said.

They tried the follower in the neighbouring hollows before Olyver dressed the lip by less than a nail's thickness. The next two trials rang twelve. Only then was the clock moved from the locked workroom to its place beside Winterfell's hour bell. The weights and wheels were enclosed, but the little cover over the foliot still had only a latch; Pate needed access while they checked its rate. Jon had ordered a lock for it.

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.

A groom asked Pate whether he might bring his wife up to see the works. The bellman told him to come after dinner, when the stair was clear. Beside them, the baker rubbed flour from her hands, found more in the creases and gave up. Jon thanked her for the pies she had sent to the workshop. "They came when we needed them."

"You can repay me by leaving the night quiet, my lord."

"Pate has the key now. Robb will have to ask him."

She laughed again and went back to her ovens. The groom waited for Jon to turn before saying that his own little boy wanted to learn his letters. Could he ask the maester? Jon told him to ask, and to bring the boy when Pate opened the stair.

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.

Pate listened through another dozen beats, then nodded to Jon. "Keeping well, my lord."

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. His face softened in the way Jon had learned to watch for, a change too small for court and large enough for a son. "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 said. "They peg above the face after the movement is fixed. Nothing wider than this gate-board enters a cart or ship." He laid Poole's measured slat across the drawing. The case cleared it 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 turned the drawing towards himself. "You are small enough to go with him. I could put you in the antler chest with wool around your ears."

"I am staying here," Jon said, moving the drawing out of his reach.

Wylla reached across and filled Jon's cup with watered milk while Poole put away the letters.

Jon drank, still watching the antlers Sansa had narrowed. Eddard turned the board towards the light and asked her to show him what she had changed. Robb interrupted twice to point out where Jon would fit inside the chest.

* * *
​

When the second movement had passed its trials and the seven cases were ready, Eddard set out for Prince Joffrey's nameday with Martyn Cassel commanding twenty mounted Stark guards. Jory rode among them. Stannis's award and Ethan's accounts travelled in Eddard's saddlebag; two carts carried the clock beneath waxed canvas. Mallon and Woods's journeyman travelled with Osric, each responsible for the parts he had helped make.

Osric rode beside the movement chest on a shaggy bay gelding that picked its way reluctantly through the puddles. The horse took each washout sideways, jarring Osric's knees against the saddle. At the first halt Osric dismounted and tightened a lashing that had worked loose. The chest sat squarely in its timber cradle.

On the second day the rear cart dropped a wheel into a rut. The chest moved half a hand before its padding caught it. The driver reached for a hammer. "No," Osric said.

"Axle pin is bent."

"Lift the axle before you draw it," Osric said. "I do not want that chest jolted any more."

The driver brought a lever and called his mate to the wheel.

They replaced the pin and repacked the loosened padding before continuing. At White Harbor, Captain Hareth put the movement chest on a raised bed in Black Tern's hold. Eight bales of woollen cloth were stowed around it. Osric had arranged their place with the owner, promising to make good any damage caused by using them to cushion the clock. Hareth was lean and grey at the temples, with a scar across the hand he laid upon the lashings. He made the mate tighten the forward pair before allowing Osric below.

On the third night an easterly gale laid the galley over until the oars groaned in their bindings. Black Tern shortened sail to keep with the two cogs. Osric went below with a lantern. The chest remained dry, but spray had soaked two cloth bales near the hatch. He helped the mate secure a loose iron case and stayed below until the rolling eased.

The cloth's owner met them on the Blackwater quay. Osric opened the wet bales with him and agreed to pay for drying, fulling and any cloth that could not be saved. Twelve dragons came out of the road purse before they began unloading the king's chest.

* * *
​

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.

"Lady Stark has not come with you?"

"She sends her respects, Your Grace. It was a long journey to ask of the little ones."

"So it is." Cersei brought Joffrey a step forward. "You know whom we have come to greet."

"Lord Stark." The prince made a careful bow. His golden curls had been combed back from his forehead, and he kept one hand upon the little belt at his waist. "Father says you were with him when he beat the ironmen."

"I was, my prince."

"Did you bring the clock?"

"It is coming up 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.

The queen stayed until the nurse shifted the waking baby upon her shoulder. Then she excused herself, gathered Myrcella's hand and called Joffrey away from the glass. Jaime followed them out. Robert watched his son go before demanding to know why Ned had left all his own behind.

"Robb is certain he could have ridden the whole way," Ned said. "His mother was less certain."

"Next time, then. We shall find horses to suit them." He reached for the wine. Jon Arryn took the flagon from him and filled Ned's cup himself.

They kept him until a council clerk came to the door. Jon heard the man's whispered message, asked Robert for a moment and left with him. Robert waved Ned into the chair he had vacated. There were hunting plans to settle, and old companions whose names the king had not yet asked after.

By the time Ned reached his chambers, Martyn had arranged the watches and put Jory upon the stair. He came inside while a servant laid out fresh water. When the servant had gone, Martyn shut the door.

"The men are settled, my lord. Eight here, the rest by the stables. We can change them at the fourth hour."

"Good." Ned unfastened his sword belt and laid it upon 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. It still wants the king's confirmation." Ned passed it across. "Ethan has sent the reckoning from Dragonstone. Some of the crews' shares remain unsettled."

Jon read the award, then the account beneath it. "Stannis has spoken of this. I shall ask him to bring the final claims before Robert while you are here. Your presence may keep the king seated long enough to hear them."

"That is partly why I came."

"And the other part?"

"Robert has begun asking to see the boy. The clock will give him another reason." Ned watched Jon fold the account. "He is seven. His place is with his brothers and his lessons."

"Has Robert asked you to bring him?"

"Often enough in his letters. I would rather he had me to talk to for a fortnight."

Jon considered that, then nodded. "The ship's business requires no more than your seal. I shall have the papers sent through you. Leave the boy where he is happy."

Ned thanked him. From the outer room came the sound of a chair being drawn up to a desk; the clerk had returned. Jon called for him to wait, then 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.

The next morning, the under-steward took Eddard to the recess chosen in their letters. Osric, Mallon and the journeyman were waiting there with the king's master carpenter. The weights could descend beside the store wall, but the work would close a busy passage. Eddard inspected the stair beyond it. "Will that serve while they work?" The under-steward went to have the other door opened.

The masons opened the drops over the next two days, and the king's carpenters fixed the frame into pier and floor. Woods's man supervised the assembly. A shifted ash wedge had trapped one retaining pin during the voyage; once he had drawn it out, the pin slid free. Mallon checked the hammer's clearance and the rope's travel. That evening Jon's machine was beating 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."

Jon Arryn coughed into his hand to hide a smile. 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 asked which men had died before he asked whether the captured hull was his," Eddard said.

Robert's appetite slowed. "He remembers such things at seven when grown lords forget them over supper."

"Denys sent him the names," Eddard said. "He read them before the rest of the letter."

"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 clock passage. Osric stood beside the two keepers. A wooden rail kept the gathering court clear of the work. The warning wheel began its quicker whisper. The blackened warhammer lifted beneath the bronze.

One blow filled the stone passage. On the second, courtiers stopped talking. By the fourth, Robert was grinning. The carved stag trembled faintly around the work, though it carried none of the strain. Iron caught iron. Ropes descended behind barred oak. The sixth stroke faded.

The follower settled. The hammer stayed down. The going train continued to tick. Robert rested one boot upon the rail and leaned forward. Osric bowed. "Take care of the open door, Your Grace. 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. "His Grace confirmed Lord Black's claim to Salt Wraith, but she still needs repairs and the remaining claims settled."

"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 asked what salt air does to bronze before he asked whether the case could be gilded."

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.

* * *
​

The following morning, Jon waited beside the practice rail while Theon and Robb finished their bout. He had nicked his thumb at the bench the day before, and the sword grip had opened it again. Arthur had taken his weapon when he saw the stain. Jon kept the hand inside his cloak and watched Theon give ground before Robb's eager cuts.

"You are following his sword," Jon called. "Make him come to you."

Robb stopped advancing. Theon circled him, ash blade held easily before his shield. He had the longer reach and knew it. When Robb shifted towards him, he stepped back just far enough to make the younger boy's point fall short.

"I can wait too," Theon said.

"Then wait," Robb answered, though his sword had begun to droop.

Theon struck at the lowered point. Robb caught the blow and came close behind his shield, forcing him back two steps before Theon turned and touched the unguarded thigh. Arthur called the end. Robb looked down at the place, then tried the movement again without striking.

"You nearly had me against the rail," Theon said. He was breathing harder than he wished to show. "Try it without your brother telling you next time."

Jon took Robb's place long enough to show him where the turn had opened his side. Theon stood opposite with his sword lowered, moving slowly through the same steps until Robb saw it. Then Arthur sent them to put away their weapons.

Theon was still disputing the earlier passes with Robb when they followed Jon into the keep. Wylla stopped them in the passage to change the stained linen. Robb and Theon waited beside the workshop door, their argument falling quiet when they saw Master Crellan 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."

"A western smith may bring iron and help forge rough blanks if Mikken tests his hand," Jon said. "The fine measures stay here. Lord Tywin's keeper may learn to wind and mend his clock, not copy it."

"Eight hundred dragons for a wonder dependent upon this one yard?"

"It buys the clock." Jon met his eye. "I am not selling the making."

Crellan looked at the bandaged hand. "My lord is buying something he expects his grandchildren to use. What happens if the only man who can make it dies?"

"Master Woods and Mikken can both repair the movement," Jon said. "Your keeper will have spares and learn to fit them. For anything beyond him, send to us. Lord Tywin is buying a clock that we will maintain; he is not buying my workshop."

Crellan glanced at the craftsmen. Neither spoke. Jon put a finger on the proposed bell. "Send us the height and the passages it must be heard through. I will not promise that one bell carries through the whole Rock."

Crellan faced Eddard. "My lord Stark, Lord Tywin does not commonly wait behind another purchaser."

"You came to bargain with Lord Black," Eddard said. "You have heard his answer."

"Then perhaps Lord Black will name another day."

"After the Manderly work. When Mallon has your bell's measurements, I will send a time he and the craftsmen can meet. The nameday is too soon."

Crellan closed the coffer. "I must carry that answer to Lord Tywin."

"You have my terms."

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 his work again, hiding a smile. The blank beneath his hand still carried the outline for its teeth. He had brought the last cut almost to the line and left the waste attached.

Jon drew a stool beside him. "Finish that one while I watch." His bandaged hand lay in his lap; with the other he held the pattern against the rim. Olyver took short strokes, checked the space and changed to the finer file. When he was done, Jon put the mating wheel against it and turned them together.

"That will do. Make the next to it."

Woods had stood back while his son worked. Now he carried the finished piece to the window. Light passed through the cut spaces evenly. He brought it back to Olyver himself and set it on a clean cloth, well away from the loose nails.

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."

Jon looked once more towards the trees where the red cloaks had vanished, then turned home with his father. Eddard took the longer path beside the fields. The ground was firmer there, and the horses settled into an easy walk between low stone walls. A man mending a gap rose at their approach and took off his cap. Eddard stopped to ask after him.

The man had a son in the castle stables. He asked whether the boy was giving satisfaction, then hurried to explain that Hullen had said nothing against him. Eddard told him he would ask the master of horse. While they spoke, Jon watched the water finding its way through the unfinished wall. Behind it, a strip of young barley had yellowed in the wet ground.

"Does that patch drown every spring?" he asked.

"In a wet one, my lord. It dries before the rest is ready for cutting."

Jon studied the slope. He could see where a shallow drain might carry the water down to the roadside ditch. He pointed the way out to Arthur as they rode on. The knight turned in his saddle to look, then asked where the water would go after the ditch. Jon followed its line to the trees and kept watching until the road bent away. He would need to see the lower ground before drawing anything.

At the gate his thigh had stiffened. Arthur took the reins while he dismounted onto the block. Jon straightened slowly, stretched the cramped leg and went inside. Wylla had put his dry shoes beside the fire; he pulled off the wet boots before reaching for the letters waiting on his table.

* * *
​

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 Manderly offered six hundred dragons: two hundred in earnest, the balance when a clock stood in Merman's Court and rang true for seven days. His servant had brought the wall height, old bell weight, narrowest door and the steepest turn between White Harbor's quay and New Castle. "He means to buy," Poole said.

"A sound movement, the bell Mallon can cast, and a keeper taught to tend them," Jon said. "Osric takes the cases by road to New Castle. We bear the damage until the cases are opened there."

"With his steward beside me," Osric said.

Jon nodded. Poole wrote the place of delivery beneath the price.

Mallon tapped the Manderly measure. With the tin already at White Harbor he could cast a sweet bell, but not the great bronze mouth Lord Wyman's servant had first requested.

"Offer the smaller bell," Jon said. "He has its measure. If he wants the greater, we must wait for another tin ship."

Mallon agreed to reserve metal for the smaller bell. Highgarden's moving petals would wait until Jon had a working model; the Vale's factor received a request for his lord's authority. Osric began the written answer to Tywin. Jon kept copies of the 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. Six months earlier 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. The yard did not stop because its lord was counting coin.

"And the hall?" Robb asked.

"Draw it. We raise no wall until this clock is paid for and Father has his money."

Wylla set down her seed cake. "We can house six apprentices in the lower loft once the hearth flue is mended. More will need another building."

"Six for now," Jon said. "Woods shall see to the loft."

Woods had been turning his cap on his knee. "The loft holds our offcuts and long boards, my lord. I can clear the smaller pieces, but there is no room below for the rest."

"Use the empty lean-to beside the yard for the boards," Jon said. "I will have Poole send a cart for the pieces you cannot carry. Let me see the loft with you tomorrow."

The carpenter inclined his head. Mikken asked for two of the apprentices at the forge once they could be trusted with the bellows. Mallon wanted a lad who would listen. Woods, more cautiously, wanted one who could sharpen a tool without grinding away half the steel. Jon heard them out. "When we choose them, each spends time at every bench. I want to see where their hands are best."

Catelyn looked at the page. "Your guards have beds in Winterfell. These boys will need the same care when you take them from their homes."

Wylla lifted Jon's hand from the salt water. She dried carefully around the cut. "Enough bargaining."

"Poole, enter Olyver's stag," Jon said. "I will finish with you at breakfast."

The steward wrote it down while Wylla dried Jon's fingers.

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."

The next morning Eddard found Jon with Poole in the little chamber where House Black's first book lay open. The king's clock occupied a page of timber, iron, bronze and carriage, with the hundred and eighty-four dragons owed to Winterfell written beneath. The promised Manderly payment stood on another page, still unpaid. Jon was comparing the cost of the two movements when his father came in. "I frightened you last night," Eddard said.

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 escaped Dragonstone with your aunt Daenerys," Arthur said. "Ser Willem Darry took them east. Queen Rhaella died when Daenerys was born."

"Where in the east?"

"We do not know where they are staying now. Reports reach us late, and they do not all agree."

"We should find out."

"We are trying." Arthur looked towards the door. "Ethan has men asking after those who went east. I will tell you what we hear."

"And if you find them?"

"Then we must learn how they live and who holds them. I cannot promise to bring them here. Nor may you write these things 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. Jon's place was laid beside Robb's, with Arthur's on his other side. A servant took his cloak as he came in. Across the table, Cley raised a hand to him before turning back to Daryn Hornwood.

The hall was warm with the smell of bread and roasting onions. At the far end of the hall, servants were setting out cups at the new tables. Above them, men were hanging the Dustin banner beside the Ryswell horse. Lady Barbrey had brought Marna across to Catelyn, and Sansa was trying to finish her greeting quickly enough to tell her friend something. Marna kept looking at her and smiling. Roderick had already escaped to Robb's end of the table.

Jon sat and reached for the bread. Wylla caught his wrist.

"Let me see."

He turned the bandaged hand over. There was a small red mark near the thumb. Wylla pressed her lips together, but only moved his cup to the other side and set a bowl where he could reach it. He ate while she went to find Arthur. He knew what she would tell him.

"Does it hurt?" Robb asked.

"Only when I use it."

"You keep using it."

Jon gave him a look. Robb tore the bread in half and put the larger piece in his bowl.

Across from them, Benfred Tallhart was describing the horse he had been allowed to bring. "He has beaten every horse I have put him against," he said. Daryn listened with his chin propped on one hand; his sleeve had drawn back from a wrist it scarcely covered.

"Your father's too?" Daryn asked.

"I have not raced him against Father's. That is a warhorse."

"Then whose?"

Hallan leaned past his cousin. "Was the other rider trying?"

"Race my grey on the track," Robb said. "He will give yours a chase."

Benfred turned to him. "Yours? He is smaller than mine."

"We shall see which is faster." Robb looked to Lord Helman, who had turned in his seat to listen. "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. Daryn thanked her and sat back, making room for Hallan to reach the platter.

Roderick wanted to know whether the household boys would take part in the field game.

"Aye," Jon said.

"The one who was showing Cley how to weave the wall?"

"Tomas. And some of the others."

"He is older than us."

"So is Benfred." Jon waited while a servant put down the mutton. "Rodrik will see that the numbers are fair."

Roderick cut a piece from the nearest joint, thinking about that. Daryn asked how a boy was to be put out of the game. Jon explained the ribbons, and Hallan immediately asked whether he could keep his beneath his shield arm.

"Above the elbow, where it can be seen," Jon said.

"But if I stand like this—" Hallan tucked his arm close to his side.

"Then you cannot use your shield." Daryn reached across and took the bread from his cramped hand. Hallan snatched for it, and Robb laughed so hard that Catelyn turned to look at them.

Jon waited for her to turn away before giving Hallan another piece. "Try it in the yard tomorrow. You will see."

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 took the place opposite Arthur after the first dishes had gone round. The shoulders of his coat were still damp from the road. He brought a boy with him and put a hand between his shoulder blades when he hesitated beside the crowded bench.

"Niall, my young kinsman. His father has lent him to me for the journey."

Robb shifted towards Jon and made a space. Niall sat, thanked Galbart and looked at the platter as though he was uncertain whether it had finished going round. Jon passed it to him. The boy helped himself sparingly until Willam told him the kitchen had more.

"Did you see the forts coming in?" Robb asked.

Niall nodded. "I saw men working on them."

"They are nearly done. Can you fight with a shield?"

"A little."

Galbart looked up from his cup. "More than a little. He will not tell you that himself."

Niall's ears reddened. Jon asked what sort of shield he used at home, and the boy answered readily enough once he had something to describe. Daryn leaned across to listen. By the time the platter came back, they were comparing sword grips, and Niall had stopped watching Galbart before he spoke.

A burst of voices by the door drew Arthur's attention. Theo Wull was shaking the rain from his cloak while Martyn tried to take it from him. Behind them came Torren Norrey and his two nephews. Beren saw Robb, waved and started towards the table; his elder brother Benfred caught him by the back of his coat and pointed towards their uncle. Beren went back to make his bow to Eddard.

Willam lifted his cup to Theo. "Over here, when Ned has done with you."

Arthur stood to greet Theo. At the end of the table, servants set out a bench and trenchers for the new arrivals. Robb beckoned Beren over as soon as his uncle had released him.

Theo steered a boy with cropped brown hair towards the new bench. "Hugo's second son, Harl Wull. You will find room for him, won't you?" Harl was already reaching for the bench when Theo held him back long enough to make his greeting. He bowed to Robb, then Jon, and offered a hand. Seeing the bandage, he changed hands without being asked.

Beren pulled at the sleeve of the broader boy behind him. "Our cousin Brandon," he told Jon. Brandon Norrey the Younger, his father's heir, reached across Beren to clasp Jon's hand. He was fourteen, with thick wrists and a nose that had healed crooked. Harl slid along to make room.

Edrik Flint came round the other end and wedged himself beside Harl, his sheepskin vest still damp from the road. His grandfather Torghen still led the First Flints in the high mountains; his father, Black Donnel, was Torghen's heir. Donnel had sent his eldest boy to Winterfell in his place. The three had grown up riding between their families' halls. Edrik thanked Robb for the seat, then shoved Harl's knee away from his own beneath the table.

"Are those your forts by the road?" Harl asked Jon.

"Ours," Robb said before Jon could answer. "Mine is the western one."

"I wanted to stop. Brandon would not let us."

"It was raining," Brandon said.

"We were wet already."

"You said you were starving," Edrik reminded him, passing the bread.

"I am." Harl tore off a piece and looked at Jon. "We can go after we have eaten."

"Tomorrow," Jon said. "You will see more."

Brandon had been looking towards the hall door. "The tall lad working there—does he belong to you?"

"Tomas. He is in my household."

"Will he fight?"

"Aye."

Brandon nodded and reached for the mutton. Harl turned to Robb. "Your west wall is low. I could be over it before you reached me."

"There will be boys on the other side," Robb said.

"I will take Edrik with me."

"You might ask me first." Edrik cut his meat. "Can we pull the wall down?"

"You can try," Robb said. "Jon made us drive the stakes twice as deep." Niall leaned forward to ask how far apart they stood. Theo had gone back to the high table and was telling Eddard about the mountain roads.

Sansa and Marna came down from the dais. Sansa stopped beside Jon, glanced at his bandaged hand, then turned to Robb.

"Mother says you are to come and speak to Lady Barbrey," she told him.

"I have spoken to her."

"She asked you a question. You ran away."

Robb looked towards the dais. Barbrey was watching him. He put down his bread and went, brushing crumbs from his coat. Marna followed, delighted to have caught him, while Sansa stayed beside Jon long enough to ask whether the Manderly girls would be there before the feast.

"They have a longer road," Jon said. "You will have time with them."

She was satisfied with that. Jon watched her hurry after Marna, then turned back to Niall, who was asking about the black flag above the eastern fort. Their supper cooled while he answered. Wylla came to check his bowl and found it empty at last.

* * *
​

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."

They were coming back when a groom hurried past with a lever on his shoulder. The White Harbor wagons had reached the gate and one was blocking the inner turn. Hullen called for the horses to be taken in, then went to see what was wrong. Jon and the boys followed him into a yard full of people trying to get through the same narrow space.

The wagon's rear wheel had sunk beside the kerb. A barley cart stood too close for the driver to straighten his team, and the men trying to lift the wheel were making the wagon lean towards the wall. Through its open flap Jon could see two girls holding tightly to the seat.

"Bring them down first," he told the driver.

Hullen held the team while a Manderly guard opened the rear. Wynafryd came down carefully, keeping hold of Wylla until the younger girl could reach the guard's arms. Sansa was calling to them from the stair. Wylla tried to answer and slipped on the last step; the guard caught her, set her on her feet and sent both girls clear.

Jon asked for the barley cart to be backed into the other yard. Once it was out of the way, Hullen had room to lead the team round while the men lifted the sunken wheel. Robb and Theon kept the loose horses back. Cley appeared with two grooms to push at the rear, and the wagon came free with a lurch that sent them all stumbling.

Wynafryd looked back at the wheel, then thanked the guard. Wylla had already found Sansa. The younger girls embraced so hard that Sansa's hood fell back, and Marna came running down the steps to join them. They were halfway through their news before anyone could persuade them to go inside.

Lord Wyman's litter followed the wagon through the arch. Wylis and Wendel walked beside it, calling to their men to keep the rest of the train moving. Eddard came down to greet them. Jon stepped out of the way as a servant went past with a covered birdcage. Something beneath the cloth screeched, and Cley nearly dropped the lever he had been helping to carry.

"Father said they would bring too much," he told Jon.

Hullen took the lever from him. "Then help put it away. 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."

Theon went to meet him. Robb called for another round, and Cley abandoned his borrowed bow to count their hits. Then Harwin raised his hand. A line of servants was crossing behind the targets with bedding and leather sacks. Two Mormont girls followed them, Dacey carrying her own cloak and Alysane arguing that the saddlebags should go to her mother's room.

Theon lowered his bow. "How many more?"

"Those are the last," Robb said. "Come and meet them."

Harrion began gathering his arrows. Eddard took Robb's borrowed shield before he could leave it by the butts, and the boys followed the Mormonts back towards the keep. Jorelle was waiting at the foot of the stairs with Lyra, who had put her bundle down to pull a stone from her boot.

"At last," Robb said. "We thought you would miss it."

"So did Mother." Jorelle embraced him, then greeted Jon. "We were waiting on the coast for days."

Maege heard as she came from speaking to Poole. "And complaining for every one of them. Have you found beds?"

"Dacey has." Lyra put her boot back on. "Can we see the field?"

Maege looked at the bundle still on the ground. Lyra picked it up at once. Jon sent for Oren while the girls took their things upstairs. When they came down, Robb was showing Jorelle how far Smalljon could reach in the wrestling ring. Lyra wanted to know whether she was allowed to try him.

"Ask Rodrik," Maege said. "And if he tells you no, that is the end of it."

"I will ask," Lyra promised. She caught Oren's arm when he arrived and began questioning him about the field. Robb went with them, still trying to describe Smalljon's reach. Jorelle listened for a little, then held out her own arms to see how they compared.

Jon stayed long enough to carry the last bundle up for Maege with his sound hand. When he came down again, Arya was sitting by the stair with Maege's youngest daughter, little Lyanna. Their nurses had given them three wooden cups. They took turns stacking them, then knocked them down and laughed. Arya objected when her nurse tried to lift her away; Lyanna caught at her skirt and objected too. The women let them have a little longer.

Arthur was waiting for Jon by the door. From beyond the wall came a shout, then Robb's laughter. Jon could not tell which of the older girls had made him laugh. He went out to find them before they began without him.

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.

Farther along the camp, Robb sat beside Benfred Tallhart and Lyra Mormont. Daryn and Hallan were in the grass below the bench, with Jorelle nearer the fire. Smalljon and Cley stood behind Robb, watching Theon argue with Harrion.

Theon looked up as Jon approached. "Tell him about the third arrow."

"Harrion's went high."

"He says the wind took it."

"It may have," Jon said. "Yours were lower."

Harrion held out a hand as though that settled everything. Theon disagreed. Cley began describing his own shooting, which neither boy seemed to remember in quite the same way.

Eddard Karstark came back with Torrhen and a stool borrowed from their father's tent. Eddard sat on it while Torrhen settled in the grass at his side. Harrion returned to his argument with Theon. Jon sat beside Daryn, where he could stretch his legs without upsetting anyone's cup.

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. He kept the rest to himself. Roose's name had been in the black book since the earlier harvest. He was choosing how much to tell Arthur, not struggling to understand a warning he had only just received. He disliked borrowing the authority of dreams, especially with a man who had served Rhaegar. But Arthur knew that strange things happened to him. He knew nothing of the life in which Jon had first read those names.

"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 again at the moving wheels. 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 studied the clock, his narrow face grave above the fur at his throat. "My bellman would want a larger stair."

Wyman pointed one thick finger at the grille. "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.

Mikken's mouth twitched. Wyman laughed aloud and turned back to the grille.

A visiting maester asked leave to see the movement at its next winding. Jon called Pate over and arranged it with him.

The maester thanked them and went to find a place 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 a folded skin beside Ethan's letter. Salt had stiffened one edge. Arthur did not touch it. "Seven years," Willam said. "He kept a letter seven years?"

"He hid it after the patrol searched his rooms. Later he feared what would happen if he delivered a fugitive's letter to Lord Stark's door."

Martyn asked, "What price did he demand?"

"A safe passage for his son, if carrying the letter brought trouble upon them."

"Did Ethan promise it?" Eddard said.

"He promised the boy passage to Dragonstone if there was danger. His covering letter sets it out."

Eddard turned to the passage in Ethan's hand and read it.

Eddard folded Ethan's outer letter. "You have carried the tale far enough. Martyn, find him a bed and see that no one troubles his sleep."

Martyn took the rider to a waiting 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.

Mark looked towards the barred door. "Could Ethan be deceived?"

"Any man can." Martyn came from the door and turned the skin without breaking its smaller seal. "This is Whent wax. That proves a ring touched it, no more."

Arthur passed his thumb across the bat. "The nick at the edge was there at Harrenhal." He turned it towards the light. "Let me see the hand."

"Open it," Eddard said. Arthur broke the seal with his nail. The narrow, dark hand was Oswell's. Arthur recognised the untidy join of the first two letters before he read the words. The letter named no ship and no harbour. Gerold meant to follow a rumour of Queen Rhaella's flight; Oswell trusted the rumour less than he trusted Gerold. They were taking passage east before Robert's patrol made any passage impossible. They would send another word when they had 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."

Martyn leaned a hip against the table beside Willam. Neither had looked at Arthur while they spoke. Now he said, "Ethan has men asking. Let him do the work."

Willam sat again. He accepted the cup but did not drink.

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. Jorelle was laughing too hard to help. Dacey picked a piece of straw from Lyra's hair and told her she had made him work for it. 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 came up the slope with the girls while the boys went to collect their ribbons. Arya had been allowed to walk beside her nurse. As soon as she saw Robb she let go and hurried towards him, her little skirts catching about her knees. The nurse followed and caught her before she could step over the hurdle.

"Me!" Arya reached for the red cloth in Robb's hand.

Robb crouched beside her. "You are too little."

She caught his sleeve and pulled. When he tried to free it, she stamped one small foot and said it again, louder.

"You would be knocked over, love." Catelyn took her from the nurse. Arya twisted round in her arms, still reaching for Robb. Jon brought a short piece of black cloth and let her take it. She gripped it fiercely, but it did not persuade her to stop pointing at the field.

"You can cheer for us," Jon told her. "Stay here where I can see you."

Sansa drew Jeyne Poole up beside Marna and the Manderly girls. Jonelle Cerwyn spread her cloak over a dry place on the slope and offered the younger children room to sit. Alys preferred to stand. She kept looking towards her brothers while Sansa explained which of the forts was Robb's.

Alysane and Jorelle settled beside Jonelle, while Lyra sat forward on her heels, trying to see over the boundary rope. She had spent the morning telling her sisters how she had almost thrown Smalljon. Now Jorelle pointed towards him and asked which part of him she meant to lift. "All of him," Lyra said, and Alysane laughed with the others. Their nurse brought little Lyanna to sit beside Arya. The two were soon knee to knee again, intent on folding and unfolding Arya's black ribbon.

"Roderick says he wants to be with Jon," Marna said.

"Then you must cheer for him." Sansa settled beside Jeyne. "I shall cheer for Robb."

"And Cley," Jonelle said, making room for Wylla Manderly.

Sansa considered this. "You can cheer for Cley. But he must help Robb."

Jonelle laughed and agreed. Jon went back down to the boys. Behind him Arya called Robb's name until he turned and 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. "Carry the enemy banner through your own gate. When either horn sounds, every hand opens. A boy who strikes another after the call spends 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.

Dacey returned her sword to Rodrik before going up to her sisters. Lyra met her at the rope, eager to explain what she had seen from the slope; Alysane passed her a cup of water and let her drink before Jorelle began as well.

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.

The first dishes took time to reach the lower tables. Jon waited by the wall while a line of servants passed with platters held at shoulder height. Between them he could see Helman Tallhart drawing Benfred out of Greatjon's way, and Lady Donella greeting Wyman Manderly with both hands extended. Wyman bent to kiss his cousin's cheek. The flower survived the greeting, though one petal fell into his wine.

At the mountain table a Norrey moved his cloak from the bench and called a late-arriving kinsman over. A Flint was already cutting bread for the old man beside him. Their cups were well filled; Eddard had sent down a cask of the brown ale which Theo preferred. Jon saw his father stop there on his way to the dais, bending to hear something beneath the growing noise of the hall.

Galbart Glover and Medger Cerwyn were discussing the previous day's races. Medger had lost sight of Cley at the first turn and heard a different account of the rest from everyone he asked. Galbart had seen the boy finish. He was describing it when Cley appeared between them to improve the tale. His father kept a hand on his sleeve and made him hear the other version first.

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. When Wylla went to the kitchen, Jon drew the bowl closer and dipped bread into it. His hand ached from the game. He rested it in his lap beneath the table.

Martyn took the place across from Arthur and loosened his belt beneath the table. He had spent most of the afternoon standing at the field rope. Willam leaned over his shoulder to ask whether he meant to eat before giving judgement on the race.

"I have given it twice."

"Roderick has found a reason to hear it again."

Martyn looked past him. Roderick was trying to explain something to Barbrey with the help of two spoons. She listened until he moved the second spoon, then put it back where it had begun. Willam watched his son consider this and decided to sit down before he was called as a witness.

Arthur cut his mutton and asked Jon whether he wanted the browned edge. Jon held out his trencher. He had been hungry on the walk back from the field, though he had scarcely noticed it while the game was being decided. The broth warmed him through. Beneath the table he eased his sore fingers open and let them rest against his knee.

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. Jon watched grease shine upon the living boy's chin until the remembered door and its blood receded. 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, setting his cup beyond Cley's elbow.

"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 began telling them where the second hurdle had stood. Theon listened, interrupting only when Cley moved a cup too far across the table to represent his own position. Beyond them the lower tables were loud with the day's disputes. An Umber retainer had caught his neighbour's wrist to show him how Robb had pulled Smalljon to one knee. The other man pulled free, insisting that Smalljon had never been in danger.

Harrion came down with his brothers when he saw where Theon had settled. Torrhen wanted to hear the taking of the ribbon again. Eddard caught sight of Hallan farther along the bench and asked why he had left the banner. "Everyone was running," Hallan said. Daryn moved over to let them sit, still 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. Give them food before you offer Winterfell."

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. Her fingers tightened upon the cap. 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.

Mara tightened her grip on the cap. 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's mouth softened into a brief smile. 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."

The missing Manderly cup was found after dinner because Catelyn asked a different question. 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.

* * *
​

Arthur put Robb on his back before the next dinner bell. 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. He would respect it without asking her to approve the house itself.

"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, Lord Wyman returned to settle the carving and bring his earnest. Jon's invitation had caught him visiting Castle Cerwyn. Wylis and Wendel rode beside the litter as it came into the ward. Pate's bell began to strike nine above them. Wyman held up a hand until the greeting could be heard over it.

Catelyn came forward to welcome him and asked after Lady Leona and the girls. Eddard wanted news of the harbour road and the fishing boats. Robb asked whether Wendel's lame courser had recovered. "The swelling is gone," Wendel said. "My brother says the horse merely tired of carrying me."

Wylis nodded. "A beast of judgement."

Wendel struck his brother's shoulder. Wyman let them quarrel as they crossed the yard, then asked to see the clock's winding before they went down to the workshop.

"The steps are steep," Wylis warned him.

"They were steep before I grew fat. Give me your arm."

Between his sons, Wyman climbed to the landing. Pate had a chair ready, which he accepted gratefully. Arthur waited at the door while the children found room beside the wall. In the close chamber the little beat was loud and steady.

Pate showed him the winding and the spare cord. Wyman watched the key come free before asking to see the movement itself.

"May I look behind the grille?"

"Once Pate has stopped the weights." Jon nodded to the bellman. "Keep your hands clear, my lord."

Pate secured the stones and opened the grille. Wyman leaned close without touching. He asked how often a new cord was needed and listened closely to the bellman's answer.

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." Wendel coughed into his fist, and Wyman's beard lifted with his smile.

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."

They settled the carving in Eddard's solar before supper. Wyman's cook had baked a lamprey pie that morning at Cerwyn, and a servant brought him a slice while Osric unrolled the drawing. Below, roast goose waited with pease, buttered turnips and black bread.

"The silver merman, white and green upon the face, and the bell we named," Poole read. "Six hundred dragons. Two hundred in earnest. The balance when it has kept seven days 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 on the merman began the following morning. Mallon went back to his foundry with the agreed measures and payment for the metal he had reserved. At Winterfell, Mikken forged the great wheel blank and left it to cool before Jon set it against the pattern pin. One part of the rim stood high.

"Here," Jon said, marking the high place with chalk.

Mikken tried it against the flat iron plate. "A little spring from the hub, my lord. I can bring it true."

He supported the rim and dressed the high place down. Jon turned it on the pin again, checked the opposite face and marked what remained for the file. They left it overnight and tested it cold in the morning before cutting any teeth.

"Do the smaller blanks the same way," Jon said. "I want them settled before Olyver takes the teeth to the line."

Mikken grunted and called his journeyman back to the anvil.

Once the rim ran true, Jon set out the teeth. He finished the first spaces himself, then gave the file to Olyver and stood beside him for the next.

The boy leaned close, his fair lashes lowered over the work. Jon put a finger against the back of his wrist and lowered it a little.

"Keep that level. You are opening the near side faster than the far."

Olyver took another stroke. Jon turned the wheel so that the window light fell through the space, then fitted the pinion beside it. He held one arbor while Olyver turned the other. The new tooth entered, drove its smaller fellow and came clear.

"Again," Jon said. This time he let Olyver feel both pieces. "You want it to pass like that all the way round. Do not take more off a sound tooth merely to make it shine."

The boy tried the next pair, listening as well as feeling. Mikken brought over the smaller blanks on a board, still rough at their edges. Jon laid them in order beside the drawing and gave each man his next piece. The journeyman could clean the sides while Mikken made the arbors; Woods need not wait upon either of them to finish the lower case. Only the fine fitting came back to Jon's bench.

By the afternoon a bright crescent of iron dust lay beneath Olyver's hand. Jon brushed it into the tray and fetched a clean cloth before touching the movement again. They turned the wheels together, dressing the high edges until the train ran without catching. At the open door Woods waited with an oak shaving caught in his beard and a question about the shelf.

While the new wheel was being prepared, Woods built the case in his winter town shed. At the first fitting, an inner brace stood a finger too near the descending cord. He showed Jon where it would foul.

"I could take one scale from the merman, my lord."

"Leave the carving. There is room behind the rear post." Jon took the drawing.

Jon narrowed the shelf and set the brace behind the rear post. Woods cut a trial joint from waste oak and tested it under a load before altering the case. Mallon's bell arrived under wool and oiled hide. Once it was hung clear for testing, Mikken struck it with the small hammer. Robb waited through the long fading note, then asked 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 was waiting with Jon's cloak when he turned from the bench. "Coming?"

Jon looked back at Mikken, already putting the little sandglass beside the frame. There was no reason to remain merely to watch another man do the task he had given him. He took the cloak.

"Call me if the bearing heats again," he told the smith.

"Aye, my lord." Mikken sat where he could hear the beat and began cleaning his tools.

Wylla had left bread and cheese in Jon's room. He ate while Arthur worked a stiff buckle free on his sword belt. From the bed Jon could just hear the clock through the open shutter. For once he left the counting to someone else.

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."

Robb brightened until Eddard told him he remained at Winterfell. Thereafter he blamed the merman whenever Jon passed within reach. Arthur rode on the first wagon's left and Jon upon its right. Osric's hired horseman, Ralf, followed with the spare mounts and fodder. Desmond, Harwin, Porther, and Quent spread before and behind. Osric kept the road purse among the carters. The carters tended their teams at each halt while Woods and Olyver saw to the cases. Jon rode ahead with Arthur to examine the next stretch of road, then returned to the wagons. Rain silvered Bucephalus's black neck and soaked the edge of Jon's gloves. The stallion wanted to overtake the slow wagons; Jon took him a little ahead, then let the wagons catch up rather than hold a hard rein all day. At the Brown Tankard, Mara brought hot mash to the wagon mares. 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, White Harbor announced itself by salt, fish scales, tar, smoke, horse dung, and a thousand people unwilling to leave silence between them. Pale walls rose through rain. Gulls spun above tiled roofs. The first clock wagon stopped behind a fish cart being unloaded in the narrow lane. Osric called to its driver, who hastened to move his baskets when he saw the mounted party. A fishwife caught two children running after the silver merman painted on the wagon cloth and pulled them against her skirts. Jon rode through at a walk while the driver stood with his cap in his hand.

Beyond the crowded approach, the streets opened broad and straight between whitewashed walls. Rain ran from the steep slate roofs into stone gutters. A silversmith had set his shutters out as a counter; behind the small cups and brooches Jon glimpsed a boy working a bow drill. Farther on, men rolled casks towards the waterside while a septon picked his way past them with his robe gathered 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 before entering the Merman's Court. Arthur straightened the silver clasp at his throat; a maid had brushed the last road dust from the black wool, though she had been unable to tame the white lock above his temple. Between the marble mermen outside the doors, 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. On the fourth morning a loose thread from Tobren's wool glove caught around the winding key.

Jon stopped him before he wound again. "Your glove is fraying." He unwound the loose thread from the key and showed it to Tobren.

"Take them off for the winding," Jon said. "You can warm your hands afterwards."

Tobren tucked the gloves into his belt and finished with bare hands.

Once the keeper 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's smile lingered. He looked towards Arthur, who was fastening Jon's travelling cloak, and seemed about to ask more. Instead he called for the letters he had prepared for Eddard. 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 before speaking of the house again. The gold had been locked away, but Jon still had Woods's plan open beneath the lamp. He was moving the sleeping hall farther from the stable when Arthur put two fingers upon the little chamber drawn above the counting room.

"This is yours?"

"Aye."

Arthur looked at him. "I thought you meant to house the boys below the walls."

"I do." Jon set down the charcoal. "I mean to live there as well."

For a moment Arthur said nothing. Rain tapped softly against the shutter.

"Does Ned know that?"

"Not yet."

"Then tell him before Woods lays your bed floor." Arthur drew the plan nearer. "He may hear more in it than another room for Heward."

"I know." Jon looked down at the four files marked beside the yard. "They rise before dawn because I require it. They eat together, train together, learn together, and one day I mean to take them across the sea. I cannot call them my household and spend every night in Father's castle while other men keep the house for me."

"You could command them from Winterfell."

"That is the problem." Jon tapped the counting room, kitchen and store in turn. "Poole finds half of what I need now. Winterfell's kitchens feed them. Rodrik gives us whatever part of the yard is free. If a roof leaks, I tell Father's steward. If grain runs short, someone in this castle puts it right. Dragonstone will not teach me gently because I arrived ignorant."

Arthur's mouth bent slightly. "You intend this house to do so?"

"I would rather make the first mistakes where Father can ride down and tell me I have been a fool."

"He may do that before you move."

Jon smiled. "Then I save time."

Arthur looked again at the little upper chamber. "You know Winterfell will still be your home."

"Aye."

"Good. Tell Ned that part too."

* * *

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.

Eddard studied the sleeping hall, stable and workshop before putting one finger upon the chamber above the counting room. "Whose room is this?"

"Mine."

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 then Poole finds their bedding, your kitchens feed them, and Ser Rodrik finds us a piece of yard. I pay what Poole asks, but most of the keeping is still done by your people."

Eddard leaned back. "That is because you are my son and still a boy."

"It is also why this is the best place to learn." Jon kept his voice even. "I am not asking to leave Winterfell for Dragonstone tomorrow. I am asking to keep a house less than a mile from your gate while you can still see what I do badly."

Arthur shifted beside the hearth. "Better his first poor store count costs him a supper here than a winter on an island."

Eddard gave him a flat look. "You are helping."

"I thought so."

Jon continued before the old argument between them could find room. "The boys are going to be my men. Heward will command their yard, Wylla will keep my chambers, Elspeth the kitchen, and I will expect all of them to answer when I call. I should know how they live. I should know when the roof leaks, when the bread is short and when a boy is sick before someone rides uphill to tell me."

"You can ride downhill every morning."

"Then I am visiting my own household." Jon met his father's eyes. "It cannot become mine if I return to yours every night and leave 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."

Arthur coughed into one hand. Eddard's mouth almost moved.

"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 found out before dinner because he saw the chamber marked on Woods's copy. He had come looking for Jon with two practice balls beneath one arm and stopped over the table instead.

"That is your room."

"Aye."

Robb looked from the drawing to Jon. "At the new house?"

"Aye."

"You are sleeping there?"

Jon nodded.

Robb's first expression was delight. "Then you can stay up as late as you like."

"Wylla is moving too."

The delight faded a little. "Oh."

Jon waited.

Robb traced the road between the drawn house and the little square Woods had used for Winterfell. "You could ride down in the morning and come back with me."

"I could."

"Then why not?"

"Because they are my household. I want to live with them before I ask them to follow me to Dragonstone."

"You are not going to Dragonstone yet."

"No. I am going down the road."

Robb did not laugh. "You are always down there already. Or at the workshop."

Jon had been about to tell him how close the new house would be. Robb knew the distance as well as he did.

"I will still come up."

"When you are not busy."

Jon turned towards him. "For supper. For lessons. To ride with you. To train. Father is not releasing me from being your brother because I have another bed."

Robb worried at the edge of the parchment. "Not every supper."

"No. Some nights I should eat with my own 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 matter might have ended there if Robb had known how to keep anything interesting from his sisters.

Jon discovered that he did not the following evening. He 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."

Arya abandoned the horse. "When?"

"When it is ready."

"Tomorrow?"

"No."

"After tomorrow?"

Jon smiled. "Not that soon."

Arya seemed satisfied for all of three heartbeats. "I am coming."

Sansa twisted around upon her mother's lap. "You cannot."

"Yes I can."

"You live here."

"So does Jon."

"Not anymore."

Arya looked back at him. The triumph disappeared from her little face. "You do not live here?"

"Winterfell is still my home."

"But you sleep there?"

"I will."

"Why?"

There was no accusation in it. Arya simply wanted an answer. Jon crouched before her.

"My guards are going to live there. Wylla too. There will be horses and the workshop, and I have to look after all of it."

Arya considered this. "Where will you eat?"

"Sometimes there. Sometimes here."

"Where will Wylla eat?"

"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.

Arya came closer. "Can I sleep there?"

"Sometimes, perhaps."

"Tonight?"

"The house is not built yet."

"When it is."

"If Father says you may."

Arya frowned at this unnecessary complication. "I will ask him."

"I thought you might."

She took his hand. "Can I bring my horse?"

Jon glanced at the wooden horse upon the rug. "You may bring your horse."

"And my blanket."

"If you mean to stay the night."

"And Sansa can come."

"I did not say I wanted to," Sansa said.

Arya looked at her as though this proved some failing in her sister. "You can stay here, then."

"I might come."

"You just said you did not want to."

"I said I did not say I wanted to."

Arya stared at her. Sansa lifted her chin.

"When the house is finished, you may both come and see it."

"Sleep there," Arya corrected.

"See it first."

"Then sleep there."

"We will ask Father."

Arya gave him a suspicious look. "I will ask him now."

She released Jon's hand and started for the door.

"Arya," Catelyn said.

Arya stopped.

"Your father is not at supper yet."

"Oh." She returned for her wooden horse. "I will ask him at supper."

Sansa spoke before Arya could begin planning anything else. "Will you still come to supper?"

Jon looked at her. She had stopped smiling. Catelyn's arm remained around her, Sansa leaning back against her mother's breast.

"Of course."

"Every night?"

"Not every night."

Sansa's mouth turned down.

"But often. And I shall still see you during the day."

"On namedays?"

"Aye."

"Feasts?"

"Aye."

"When Father has guests?"

"If he wants me here."

"He will," Sansa said with absolute certainty.

Jon smiled. "I expect he will."

Sansa thought about that before giving a small nod. Catelyn stroked her hair once.

Still she said nothing.

Jon's eyes met hers over Sansa's head. There was no anger upon her face. No relief either. Only that composed, guarded look she wore so well.

He wondered what she saw. A bastard finally preparing a roof of his own beyond her husband's walls? Or a boy who had gathered men, coin and work around himself until another household had begun to take shape?

Perhaps both.

Jon 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. Even Catelyn's mouth threatened, for the briefest instant, to soften.

"Arya," she 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."

This time Sansa laughed properly.

Jon rose. Catelyn was still watching him.

"My lady."

"Jon."

Nothing more passed between them. It did not need to.

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.

He was moving less than a mile. To Arya, it might as well have been across the sea.

* * *

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 could see why even the youngest plants were thriving. 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. That virtue had another face. Men remembered walls longer than the lord who raised them.

"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 his house drawing across a board held under two cloaks. The two-storey hall stood nearest the road. Callers entered a counting room without crossing the yard. Jon's chamber and solar lay above. Arthur had chosen the room beside the stair. Wylla's chamber adjoined a small sickroom at the rear.

Wylla found the altered doorway on the landing. "That is better. A litter can come straight from the stair."

Woods checked the width between the posts with her. Her own chamber would still open onto Jon's through the inner passage.

Mara had followed with Elspeth and the workmen's kettle. She looked at the washhouse. "Where does the dirty water run?"

Jon pointed to the southern cord. "Beside the stable drain after both pass below the well. Clean water comes from the eastern rise and never crosses dung, wash water, or the privy trench. The washhouse has its own hearth and a stone lip so hot ash does not reach the boards."

He walked the route with Mara and Wylla while Woods laid out the stable posts. Jon moved the path inside them, away from the horses, and widened the corner for women carrying pails. At the kitchen he set the entrance behind a short screen wall so the north wind would not blow straight into the 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."

Jon drew the plan towards him again. "Bring me what you will need for the first month. Pots, food and hands. I want the kitchen ready before the boys arrive."

"It will be, my lord."

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 had been below since dawn with Elspeth, bent over the plan on a trestle beside the timber. They had settled where the kitchen chests would stand before turning to the upper rooms. Jon had expected Wylla to concern herself with his chamber first; instead she had made him leave more room for 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."

Sansa's question at breakfast—whether the new roof would be up before the next rain—had set Arya worrying over the fate of her wooden horse if she came to visit too soon. Robb cared less for the roof than for the mattress Jon had supposedly promised him and had already begun trying to enlist Wylla in deciding where it would go. Their efforts amused Jon at first. Then he understood what lay beneath them. Robb was making a game of the move, Sansa was already counting the suppers he might miss, and Arya seemed to regard the short road into Winter Town as the beginning of his journey to Dragonstone. Jon had spent years preparing to leave; they had not. The house below the walls was necessary if he meant to learn to keep men, stores, servants and work of his own before an island depended upon him, but he would not let that preparation consume what remained of Winterfell. Dragonstone would take him soon enough. Until then there would be evenings for accounts and training, and others for Robb's rides, Sansa's questions, Arya's invasions of his chamber, and time with Bran as well.

Robb caught him smiling as Hallis tightened Apple's girth. "What?"

"Nothing."

Robb narrowed his eyes. "Then I still get the mattress?"

Jon sighed. "Apparently."

Eddard, passing them on his way from the hall, spared the exchange only a glance before asking whether the sill had remained level after the night's rain.

"It was level when I left," Jon said. "I checked twice."

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. The knight wore a hunting sword; Dawn remained wrapped in his chamber. He looked at the tender seam beside Jon's thumb, then drew on his gloves.

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, already running towards him through the black mud.

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 behind with the beaters and two guards. On clean ground above the run they rolled the carcass onto poles. Steam rose when the belly opened. The kennelmaster cut Theon's arrowhead free and wrapped it to carry home with the meat.

The sound hounds received their share. Barrel and Red Jeyne went back wrapped in coats, each carried by a kennelman. Farlen set aside one shoulder for the beaters and the other for his kennels. Heart, liver and haunches were bound for Winterfell, with the head whole for the hall.

The meat followed on a drag. Eddard did not wait for it. He went ahead with his sons, Arthur and the litters, taking the easier road wherever a rougher path might shake Desmond's dressing loose.

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, carefully above 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."

"See that you remember it when Robb fills the new one with his belongings."

Jon gave a tired breath that almost became a laugh. "He has already claimed a mattress."

"So I have heard."

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 already folded in a separate basket beside the wall, not for washing but for the new house. She had begun making such piles without ceremony: linen that could go below, linen that would remain at Winterfell, blankets for Jon's chamber, another pair because Robb had apparently convinced everyone that one visit required its own bedding.

Robb noticed the basket. "Is that mine?"

"No."

"The grey blanket is."

"The grey blanket belongs to Lord Stark's stores until Lord Stark says otherwise."

Robb looked at Jon. "You promised a mattress."

"I did not promise you Winterfell's blankets."

Wylla shut the sewing box before either boy could improve the bargain. "First we shall finish the roof. Then you may both quarrel over what goes beneath it."

Jon looked towards the basket after she carried it away. Until then the move had been lines on parchment, stone pads, timber and arguments over rooms. Seeing his own shirts folded for another chamber made it real in a way the first sill had not.