Aemon of Dragonstone

[aiwonder]

The next morning, the new bell sounded as Willam Dustin's stallion picked a dry path through barley carts. The horse raised its head. Men paused with pavilion ropes in their fists; a cook leaned from an awning, flour to his elbows. By the ditch, a girl held coloured ribbons above the mud and counted the notes.

"That is not Winterfell's bell," Mark Ryswell said after the second.

Barbrey sat tall and straight beside him, a brown braid against her wine-dark hood. Rain had blackened the hem of her divided skirts. She turned towards Mark. "It comes from Jon's yard." Seven strokes crossed Winter Town.

"Is that what we have bought?" Willam asked.

"Something smaller, I hope." Barbrey listened until the last note faded.

Willam turned in the saddle to look at the children. Their daughter Marna rode a shaggy pony between two Dustin guards. She had Barbrey's dark eyes and brown hair, though the hair was braided with yellow ribbon and the eyes were busy searching the receiving stair. Her yellow cloak lay rolled behind the saddle because she had declared the morning too warm for it. Her brother Roderick ignored her from the back of the scarred bay he had praised in every letter north, with one white eye, one chewed ear and a mouth already wet around the bit.

"Nine," Marna said. "I heard nine."

"Seven," her father told her. "The sound comes back from the walls."

Marna looked towards the nearest tower, listening for another. The long summer had brought another harvest and another court, larger than the first. Fires smoked beside both ditches. Mountain riders led strings of hairy ponies between grain wagons. White Harbor merchants had rented every dry doorway. Pavilions crowded the outer wall in russet, green, brown, pale blue and wool dyed so cheaply purple that rain had turned it pink. Lesser sons argued over beds while kitchen women argued over firewood. A factor had hung painted clock faces above his stall. Their hands all showed different hours.

"That man says Lord Jon made them," Mark observed.

Barbrey glanced once. "I should ask him before paying for one." Behind the market stood the Black Yard's timber halls, two smoking kitchens, roofed work court, stable, barracks and Ewan's forge. Its plain black banner hung dark with rain. Twenty-five riders came through beneath Tomas's raised fist, four files halting clear of a brewer's broken cart. At the earlier harvest the captain had been narrow-shouldered in a patched cloak. Now the grey braid lay across a man's shoulder. Good bread had covered the other boys' sharp wrists too; they sat their rough northern horses without hanging upon the reins or turning to admire the watching lords. Jon followed on his black stallion, the silver clasp of his black cloak above cloth wetted by the mane. Arthur rode a dappled grey at his right, Dawn's pale hilt above his shoulder. Jon waited for Tomas to clear the gate before dismounting.

Willam dismounted with care, gave his reins to a groom and opened his arms. "At last, someone in Winterfell who has changed."

Jon embraced him. The boy had grown high enough to strike Willam's shoulder instead of his ribs. "Roderick has found a bigger horse, too."

Roderick stroked the white-eyed bay. "Neither of you has asked to see him move."

"He tried to bite the groom," Jon said.

"He requires a firm hand and a rider who does not fear a little spirit," Roderick insisted.

"He requires another owner," Barbrey replied. "Your hand has failed."

"Try him, then," Roderick said to Jon. "He threw one of our grooms yesterday."

Arthur looked at the horse, then at the churned road and hanging awnings. "In the yard. There are too many people here."

Marna opened both hands to show six pebbles. "Six stones on Jon."

"Whose stones have you wagered against my horse this time?" Roderick demanded, already knowing the answer.

"Yours."

In the field beside the Black Yard, Hewyn's first fifty drilled that morning in black coats behind broad shields. Their front rank threw practice javelins at wicker targets, then stepped back for their long spears while the men behind covered them. Three shafts struck early. One fell short. A shield rose late and knocked against the next man's spear. Laughter came from the rail.

Hewyn walked to the man with the late shield. "Farther left. You nearly struck the man beside you." The man corrected his stance. A young decanus started to shout at the outer rank, stopped himself, and crossed to speak close instead. Hewyn passed behind without interfering.

"How long have those soldiers served beneath the black cloth?" Mark asked as the late shield returned to place.

A brewer beside the rail answered with the confidence of a man who had heard from someone else. "They came in with the last muster, my lord."

"They cast like new men," Mark said. "Half the shafts quarrelled before reaching the wicker."

"They recover better than many levies after five moons," Willam replied. On the next cast, the shafts struck in two ragged beats but none crossed another file. The second rank raised its shields before the first reached for their spears. The rail grew quieter.

Jon came beside them. "They are Hewyn's First Century. The others train at the Old Watch."

"How many others?" Mark asked.

"Five centuries. Three hundred men altogether."

Mark looked towards the road to the Old Watch. "I thought your father had lent you those guards to keep order among the workmen."

"He did. These men are mine."

"And you keep them after the harvest?" Barbrey asked.

"They are paid throughout the year."

She looked from the drilled fifty to the roofs beyond them. Willam knew that look; she had given it to their steward when he first named the price of the clock. Mark was still watching the field.

"Eight," he said to Willam, too quietly for Jon to hear over the hammer. "My father would not let me choose my own horse at eight."

Willam glanced towards the busy gate. He remembered helping Ned carry this boy out of a tower. "Nor mine," he said.

A hammer rang from the forge, followed by another. Barbrey turned towards the roof. "How do you hear yourself think?"

"I usually go uphill." Jon led them towards the work hall.

Willam looked towards the new roof. "Show us what we bought before my wife begins sending some of it back."

The Dustin clock waited beneath the work-hall roof, its movement enclosed in polished black oak. Twelve bronze studs marked the face. The case stood inside a travelling cradle lined with grey felt.

William smoothed the felt beneath the case and stood aside as Willam approached.

Willam looked at the apprentice. "Your name?"

"William, my lord."

Willam smiled. "My mother spared me the second i."

"So did Master Woods until I learnt my letters." The apprentice coloured, but Willam laughed and waved him back to his work.

Woods waited beyond the cradle while Barbrey walked around the case. She opened both lower doors, examined the joinery and listened when the bell struck.

"Adequate," she said.

Woods glanced at Jon, uncertain whether that was approval.

"She means she likes it," he told the carpenter. "You may send the bill."

Woods bowed. "We shall fit felt and timber against the wall behind the case, my lady. It will soften the sound of the bell through the stone."

"Will we hear it from our chamber?" Barbrey asked.

"Less with the lining, my lady. William will test it when he sets the clock."

She closed the little door. "Send it when the road dries. I have waited long enough. I will not lose it to a careless carter."

"I shall go with it, my lady," William said. "We will have it striking before I leave Barrow Hall."

"Show my steward how to stop it at night."

"There is a lever inside the case. I can show you now."

"Later. Leave it striking while we are here."

Willam thanked the apprentice and turned to Jon.

On their way through the work hall, a woman stopped Jon to ask for a letter from her son in White Harbor. Perkin kept the letters; Jon would look after dinner. She touched his sleeve, then remembered his guests and curtsied. Jon introduced her as one of the women who had sewn the clock's travelling covers. Barbrey asked whether the felt kept out road dust, and Willam waited while they spoke. Before they left, Maege Mormont's mud-spattered outrider announced the Bear Island party less than a mile away. A page brought word of Theo Wull and nine mountain ponies on the west road.

"Tell Arya," Jon said. "She has been waiting for them since dawn."

Marna sent word to Sansa that she had arrived and asked after the Manderly girls. They were already with Sansa at Winterfell; Arya waited at the gate with Jory. Jon sent the page to Septa Mordane, then rode uphill with the Dustins to greet the newcomers. The horse trial waited while Maege rode into Winterfell at the head of twelve islanders, stout in patched ringmail with grey threading her braid.

Dacey dismounted behind her, lean and long-legged, taller than the groom she shyly thanked. She helped Jorelle from a smaller pony while a groom lifted Lyanna from the pillion. Arya ran to embrace her, and Lyra had to call them clear of the horses.

Three short-handled axes rode behind Lyra's saddle. When she dismounted, Arya brought Jory and Lyanna to see them. Lyra crouched and uncovered the polished hafts, keeping the leather over the edges.

"You said you would bring them."

"I did. You can watch me throw tomorrow."

"I want to try."

"We shall find you something you can lift first," Dacey said. She led the little girls towards the keep, Arya looking back at the bundle.

Eddard walked down at a lord's pace and clasped Maege's forearm. She had watched Hewyn's ragged spear ranks as she rode through Winter Town. Theo announced himself with laughter before the mountain ponies reached the yard. He caught Jon by both shoulders and scowled.

"Too tall by half and still too solemn," Theo said, looking him over.

"You should have come yesterday. Robb put me in the mud twice."

Theo cuffed him lightly. "An army and still no beard. The gods are cruel."

Jon grinned and caught Theo's wrist before he could cuff him again. "Robb would be pleased to put you in the mud as well."

"He will need help," Theo said. "He can have Mark."

"Leave me out of it," Mark said. "I have come to eat."

Eddard laughed as he came to greet them. The bay jerked against his lead. Ralf caught the bridle before the horse could swing into Willam's bad leg. He ran a hand beneath the saddlecloth, then began unbuckling the bit.

"He fights this," he said, showing Jon the heavy curb.

"Put the plain one on him." Jon handed his cloak to Arthur. "And shorten the leathers."

Roderick followed them into the yard. At the horse block Jon greeted Harl Wull, Brandon Norrey and Edrik Flint, their ponies already with Theo's. He pointed Edrik towards the games ground beyond the wall, then mounted. The three joined Robb at the rail. Gawen cleared two boys from the gate and guarded it himself; Arthur stayed near the block.

The bay sidled at once. Jon settled into the saddle with one hand in the mane and let him walk. Roderick had held the reins tight on the road; Jon's hands were lower, the leather slackening whenever the horse stopped tossing his head. They passed Willam once, then again. The bay was beginning to lengthen his stride when a shout rose from the market beyond the wall.

He reared. Willam gripped his stick, suddenly aware of how small Jon looked above the horse's shoulders. Arthur was already moving along the rail. Jon bent forward, his black hair falling across his face, and kept his hands clear of the bay's mouth. The forefeet struck the mud. Before Willam had drawn breath, the horse kicked up behind and lunged towards the gate.

Gawen stepped aside. Jon turned the bay along the fence, taking him past the closed gate and into the length of the yard. Mud flew from his heels. For a few strides Willam thought he would bolt through the men at the far end, but Jon brought him round before he reached them. The gallop shortened to a trot. At the next turn they were walking.

No one at the rail spoke. Jon kept the bay moving until his head lowered and the reins hung loose again. When he stopped beside Ralf, the horse stood while he dismounted.

Roderick let out a breath. "He threw Harrold with less than that."

"He tried hard enough," Jon said. He rubbed the bay's damp neck. "Leave him with us while you are here. Gawen can ride him tomorrow."

"I brought him for the race."

"You will ride the roan," Willam said.

Roderick glanced at his mother. She was watching Jon shake the mud from his sleeve. "You heard your father."

Jon turned to Gawen. "Use this bit. He went well enough before the noise."

"Aye, my lord." Gawen took the reins while Ralf loosened the girth. The bay followed him towards the stable, ears moving at the voices behind him.

Arthur handed Jon his cloak. "Hurt?"

"Only my knees." Jon bent one, then the other, and brushed the wet hair from his eyes. The pale lock at his left temple had come loose from its thong. "I shall feel it tomorrow."

Marna held out her hand to Roderick. "Six."

"Those were my stones you wagered."

She kept her hand out. Roderick dug into his purse and dropped six more pebbles into it. Willam looked away before his son could catch him smiling.

* * *

That evening, the benches nearest the hearths were full when Willam and Barbrey entered the hall. Wet riding cloaks had given way to best wool and silver clasps. Green boughs bound the pillars beneath the visiting banners; above the high seat, the grey direwolf spread across white cloth.

Outside, spits turned over the yard fires. Servants carried broken loaves and a steaming pot to the tables beneath the awnings and the people eating along the wall. Willam caught roast meat, damp stone and sweet applewood smoke. A piper among the wagons played fast enough to set the serving boys running to his tune.

Barbrey stopped him before he took his place.

"Your clasp."

He looked down. One end of the little gold chain had caught beneath his collar. She freed it with a practised finger, settled the black crown upon his breast and turned to greet her father.

Barbrey's father, Lord Ryswell, had saved her a seat below the dais. Mark sat opposite, talking horses with Medger Cerwyn. Halys Hornwood, still helping Lady Donella out of a cloak a servant mostly held, beckoned Willam to hear about a stag.

"Let him sit first," Barbrey said. "He has heard about nothing but horses since dawn. Give him time to swallow something before you begin upon deer."

Halys promised to save the best part. Willam eased his bad leg beneath the table and found a cushion at his back. Catelyn caught his eye from beside the Tallharts and nodded. Amid the crowded hall, she seemed to know exactly who had found a place and who still wanted a familiar face.

Theo Wull found Willam before the first dish did. His blue cloak was checked in grey and white about the edge, its clasp worked in the shape of one of his house's buckets. He laid it over a bench and brought a spare, bearded man forward by the elbow.

"You remember the Norrey."

"Brandon." Willam rose far enough to clasp the offered hand. "You have come a long road."

"And found three of my neighbours here before me." Norrey glanced towards the lower end of the table, where a Burley was already breaking bread. "I should have left when the oats were cut."

"You stayed to see them threshed as well," Theo said. He took the place beside Mark and stretched his legs. "His folk would sooner finish a field than begin a feast."

Norrey sat opposite him. "Some of us finish both."

They washed while the servants set out bread, salt and butter. On the dais Catelyn touched Robb's shoulder and he turned from Harrion to sit straight. Sansa needed no reminder; her silver clasp, no larger than Willam's thumbnail, shone against blue wool. Beside Arthur, Jon wore his usual black, but the fine cloth fitted close over narrow shoulders. His hair was drawn back, the white lock bright whenever he turned towards the candles.

Eddard rose before the dishes were uncovered. The fiddles fell quiet. Men near the doors passed the silence back through the hall until the sound of the yard piper could be heard quite plainly.

"My lords. My ladies. Friends." He rested one hand beside his cup. "We have brought in another good harvest. I have ridden through full fields this summer, and heard the same news from many of you. The gods have been generous to us."

Willam looked along the faces turned towards the high seat. Some of these men had eaten at Rickard Stark's table. Others had first come to Winterfell as boys in their fathers' company and now had children waiting beside them. Eddard knew most of them by name. He let his gaze travel the length of the hall before going on.

"You have brought your sons and daughters a long way to be here. My wife and I are glad to welcome them. There is food and ale in the yards for those who came with you, and the kitchens will keep serving while any guest remains hungry."

Greatjon struck the table once with the heel of his hand. Several men answered him. Eddard waited with the beginning of a smile.

"Tomorrow evening, I ask the lords and the clan chiefs to join me in my solar. There are matters we should speak of while we are gathered." His eyes went to Benjen, seated in black near the end of the dais. His brother gave a small nod. "The Night's Watch has sent us news, and I would have you hear it."

Willam saw Norrey lower his cup without drinking. The man exchanged a glance with Theo, then looked back towards Eddard.

Eddard lifted his cup. "For now, I thank you for coming. May your households prosper, and may we share many more harvests. To the North."

"To the North!"

The answer filled the rafters. Willam drank with the rest. Beside him Barbrey raised her cup towards her sister's son at the Bolton table. Domeric saw her and returned the salute rather gravely before Smalljon leaned across to say something that made him smile.

The covers came off the dishes. Aurochs, blackened at the edges and red where the carvers cut into it, went past on a great wooden platter. There was venison in a thick sauce of onions and wine, turnips shining with butter, little pies that released the smell of pepper when a knife broke their crusts. Willam took a rib and a spoonful of the onions baked whole in their skins. Barbrey cut into a trout scattered with green herbs. Across from them Mark was already pressing the bread into the meat juices.

Wyman Manderly had sent jars of pickled cockles and smoked fish from White Harbor. He watched Norrey try one of the cockles, his pale eyes bright above the white beard he had tucked into his cloth.

"Well?"

Norrey chewed, swallowed, and looked into the jar. "A long road for something so small."

"The vinegar makes the journey with it," Wyman said. He offered the jar to Theo, who took three at once. "My cook swears they are best with ale. I have yet to persuade him that wine will serve."

"The cook is right," Theo said after trying them.

"Then you must come to White Harbor and tell him. He is a lonely man among so many drinkers of wine."

Wyman told them how his granddaughters' carriage had sunk to its hub on the river road, within sight of an inn. Norrey heard with satisfaction how a team had to be fetched through the rain. Mountain men, he said, knew better than to take a wheeled house uphill.

"My wife expects no such thing," Willam said.

"I expect a horse that stands still while I mount." Barbrey looked towards Roderick. Her father followed the glance and told the boy to bring the bay to him before they left.

"After Jon's riding master has ridden him," Willam said.

"A man can buy a horse without all his kin riding it." Roderick picked up his knife. Marna laughed, and Barbrey passed him the venison.

At the next table Galbart and Helman argued over the driest road from Torrhen's Square. Halys left his stag to trace a third route with a crust, until Medger reminded them that its bridge had been mended. The men leaned nearer to hear him. Willam ate through roads, a Rills marriage, hunting hounds and a cousin's quarrel that had sent him to the Watch. Halys eventually returned to his stag.

Theo had news of Ethan as well. A letter had reached him before he left home. He drew it from inside his coat, still folded in its worn cover, and passed it to Willam below the level of the dishes.

"The sea has not drowned him yet."

"He means to ruin my eyes instead." Willam held the page nearer a candle. Ethan had crowded the last lines up the margin. He wanted news of the families and asked whether Martyn's old shoulder still troubled him. Willam read that part aloud, and Martyn, who had come down from the high table with Jon and Arthur, reached over his shoulder for the letter.

"It never troubled me half as much as his complaining."

Arthur smiled as Martyn turned the page in search of the beginning. For a little while the talk stayed with Ethan and the letters that had crossed the length of the kingdom. Jon listened with his hand resting upon the back of Willam's chair, and asked to read the letter when the others had finished.

"You have had three from him since I had one," Theo told him.

"He sends me harbour accounts."

"This one is chiefly about your roofs." Willam gave it to him. "Apparently he means to have you dry when you arrive."

Jon read the cramped last lines. "I shall thank him. He has found room to complain about my writing too."

"There is little wrong with your writing," Arthur said. "You give him too much of it."

Jon's mouth bent. He folded the letter carefully and returned it to Theo before sitting in the place Martyn made for him. A servant brought a clean trencher. Willam cut a fresh piece from the aurochs and put it on it.

"Eat before Halys gets you started upon the stag."

"He has already told me," Jon said. "Twice."

"Then you can tell your men where to find its brother," Halys answered readily. "Come to the Hornwood when you have finished with all this building. Bring Robb. My son could do with company that doesn't agree with everything he says."

Daryn heard his father and said that his friends knew when he was right. Halys looked delighted to have proved his point. Lady Donella gave the boy a little smile and moved the salt within his reach.

As hunger eased, Catelyn and Donella went to the mountain women, while Eddard and Benjen joined Helman at the Glover table. Farther down, one black brother taught a boy a trick with a sliver of wood. Tomas sat at the head of the household table, Olyver laughing beside him; beyond them Hewyn's new spearmen glanced towards the high tables between watching for the next dish.

Wylla stood beside their serving table with a basket under one arm. She caught Jon looking and lifted it enough for him to see the little blackberry tarts inside. He picked up his trencher, excused himself and went down to her. Willam saw her inspect his trencher, say something close to his ear, and give him a tart. When he came back he had brought two. He put the second before Barbrey.

"Marna says you like these."

"Marna has been asking me for another since the first course." Barbrey broke it and offered Willam half. "She seems to have found a better table."

Their daughter was at Sansa's side, where a space had been made between the Manderly sisters. The girls had been watching the musicians for some time. Now servants were taking away two narrow trestles and carrying the empty benches to the wall. Sansa rose as soon as the floor was clear, only to sit again when Catelyn looked towards her. Marna caught her hand beneath the table.

The boys were no less watchful. Daryn Hornwood had abandoned a story about his father's hounds halfway through it. Cley Cerwyn was rubbing a spot from one boot with the heel of the other. Near the pillar, Theon adjusted the clasp at his throat and pushed his dark hair back. He caught Robb watching him and stopped.

"Your collar is straight," Robb said.

"I know." Theon glanced towards the girls again. "Look at your own."

Robb's grin broadened. Then Alys Karstark looked his way, and he found something to say to Jon.

The fiddler tried a few notes. Beside him a woman in a russet dress plucked her harp, bending close to listen before tightening a string. The yard pipes sounded faintly through the doors, quicker and rougher than the measure beginning in the hall.

Eddard offered Catelyn his hand. She rose, smoothing the folds of her dark blue gown. For the first few steps they had the floor to themselves. She lifted her face to his, candlelight catching her high cheekbones as he turned her. Willam remembered a younger Ned who would gladly have found some pressing duty in the yard when the music began.

"He still counts," Barbrey murmured.

Eddard's lips moved once. Catelyn said something to him, and he laughed. Wyman Manderly bowed to Lady Donella; she touched her husband's sleeve before accepting. Other couples followed them out, wool and velvet brushing as they passed between the benches.

Harrion brought Dacey down from Maege's side, then stepped aside when a young knight asked her to dance. She smiled shyly and took his hand at once. Maege had spent the greetings presenting her heir to men who remembered a child. In her green dress she looked tall and slender; with her hair loose, her long face seemed softer than it had above her mail that morning.

"You had only to ask," Smalljon told Harrion as he came back.

Harrion took his cup from the table. "I was speaking to her."

Smalljon looked towards the dancers. Harrion gave him a shove before he could say anything else.

When the musicians began a quicker tune, Sansa came straight to Jon.

"Will you dance with us?"

He set down his cup. "Gladly."

Marna followed her, but stopped beside Barbrey to smooth her skirts. Her mother freed a yellow ribbon caught beneath her sash. Across the table, Wynafryd Manderly had risen with her younger sister. Wylla was tugging at her hand to make her hurry.

"You will miss it," Barbrey told Marna.

"I know." Yet she stayed until Jon turned and offered his other hand. Then she went so quickly that her ribbon slipped loose.

The girls took Jon towards the floor. Sansa's auburn hair shone against her blue dress; beside her, his own lay black as ink over the high collar of his coat. Wylla Manderly reached up to touch the white lock at his temple, stopped short of it, and put her hand behind her back. Jon bent to hear what she asked. Whatever his answer, it brought her nearer, looking up at him with a smile. A serving woman stepped back to let the children pass. Willam watched Jon make room for each girl, the candlelight catching his fine straight nose and the clear colour of his eyes. "He will turn heads," the serving woman murmured to a man passing with bread. "He does that with a wooden sword," the man answered. Jon caught the woman's eye as he passed and thanked her for finding Sansa's ribbon earlier. She smiled, then curtsied.

Robb had crossed to Alys. He bowed as carefully as his father had, and she stood before he had finished asking. Both paused, uncertain what came next, until Robb offered his hand. Alys took it. Her narrow face was pink above the white sunbursts at her collar. She glanced back once towards Lord Rickard, then hurried to keep beside Robb as they joined the others.

Torrhen Karstark leaned over his brother Eddard to watch them. Harrion caught the back of Torrhen's collar and pulled him down before Alys could see.

Theon lingered beside Willam's table, pretending to listen to Roderick. A Flint girl stood nearby with her sister, turning a blue glass bead upon the cord at her neck. She had thick brown braids and a little gap between her front teeth. Each time Theon looked over, she looked away.

Roderick nudged him. Theon elbowed him back, but went to her.

"Lady Erena. Will you dance?"

She glanced at her sister, who immediately found reason to turn towards the hearth. Erena's fingers left the bead. "Yes, thank you."

Theon had his hand out before she finished. They set off on opposite sides of a bench, stopped, and came round the same end. Erena laughed a little. Theon's ears reddened beneath his hair, but his grin returned when she took his arm. Roderick watched them go with his mouth open, as if he had not expected his advice to work.

"And you?" Barbrey asked Roderick. "You have been waiting since the floor was cleared."

He looked towards a Norrey girl in red wool. "What is her name?"

"Anya," Willam supplied. "You shared a pie with her this afternoon."

"We did not talk much." He left before his mother could answer. Anya nodded to his invitation; one of her two cousins hid a smile as they passed.

The dancers formed two lines. Older sisters made room for little ones, and boys who had shouted over supper stood straight beneath embroidered collars. Sansa watched the opposite girl for the first turn and knew the second herself. Marna laughed when Jon brought her round to face her parents.

Cley listened while Wylla Manderly explained something—then waited, hand still offered, when she turned the wrong way. Farther down, Benfred Tallhart bent to hear the softly spoken Ryswell girl instead of filling the hall with his own voice. Lyra unwound Arya from her skirt without leaving the measure; Jorelle drew Lyanna round beside them. Dacey passed with the knight, light-footed and certain. Maege watched her daughters over her cup.

When the music ended, Willam made room for Sansa, Marna and Wynafryd. Barbrey moved the candle clear of their sleeves and called for watered wine.

"Did you see Cley? He waited for me," Wylla Manderly told her sister.

"We all saw." Wynafryd's eyes strayed towards Daryn at the edge of the floor. He was looking at her; she bent over her cup before he could smile.

Marna leaned close to Sansa. Her whisper carried across Willam's sleeve.

"Your brother has such pretty eyes."

Sansa looked at Robb, who was coming towards them with Alys.

"Jon," Marna whispered.

"They look purple near the candles," Sansa told her. "Come nearer next time."

"Sansa." Marna's whisper was urgent now. Jon was returning with Theon.

Barbrey lowered her cup. Willam kept his eyes upon the dancers still leaving the floor. He had no wish to make his daughter hide behind her mother for the rest of the evening.

"You are still counting the steps," Theon said as they approached.

"Erena had to steer you round a bench," Jon answered.

"She seemed pleased to have hold of me." Theon's grin widened.

Willam watched Jon join them, smiling, without a trace of his usual dust, charcoal or dried mud. Wylla stood beside the serving table, pleased with her work.

Marna put down her cup with both hands. "Could we dance again?"

"Of course." Jon offered his hand.

"I meant to ask—" Wynafryd began.

"The dance after?" Jon asked. She nodded, and Daryn finally came to claim this one. His shoulders eased when she smiled and took his arm. Sansa watched them with satisfaction until Domeric asked her. She rose at once and gave him her practised curtsey.

"I know this dance."

"So do I." His smile made her lift her chin as they found their places.

Harrion had reached Dacey before anyone else this time. He gave Smalljon a look as they passed; Smalljon raised both hands, grinning, then beat Benfred to Jorelle. He asked properly and took her hand with unexpected care. Theon returned to Erena by the correct end of the bench. Anya drew Roderick back from the doorway when the first notes sounded.

The slower measure carried them past Willam's table. Marna watched Jon's feet until they came level with her father, then looked up. "Your bell rang nine times this morning."

"Seven," Jon said.

"Father said that too. I counted nine."

"You heard it come back from the walls."

"Then I shall stand in your yard next time." Marna followed him through the next turn without looking down.

Robb and Alys followed, concentrating until she looked up and made him smile. Cley danced with a mountain girl; Lyra settled Arya beside Maege before accepting Benfred. Daryn said something that made Wynafryd glance towards Halys. Willam could see the stag story coming round again.

At the change of tune Wynafryd claimed her promised dance without prompting. Marna let Jon go reluctantly, then took Torrhen's hand with Barbrey's nod.

"She has remembered her manners," Barbrey said.

Willam watched Roderick fetch a cup for Anya. "So has he."

"For tonight."

When Domeric brought out his harp, Sansa drew Marna and Wynafryd onto the nearest bench. She inspected the silver waves on Wynafryd's cuff and secured a promise to learn the stitch after breakfast. Wylla showed them her own crooked attempt; their heads stayed together until Barbrey reminded them to listen. Theon stood beside Erena, while Daryn and Cley sat on the hearth edge. Roderick's heel tapped to the first notes before he remembered he was pretending not to care.

Willam could see Domeric's resemblance to his mother when he bent over the strings. Roose came to stand behind him and said nothing during the playing. When the tune ended he laid a hand briefly upon his son's shoulder. The boy looked up, then towards the girls clapping beside Barbrey. His smile lingered as he settled the harp again.

Barbrey asked for another, but Theo had already begun singing the final verse again. Greatjon joined him from three places away. By the last line half the table was singing, some keeping the tune and others trusting that enough ale would carry them through it.

Jon returned with Galbart Glover, who had been asking after the new roof above the clockmakers' benches.

"Woods should have asked for twice the floor," Wyman said. "A merchant in my hall last moon forgot the ship he had come about when I showed him my clock. He had spoken of nothing but Leyton Hightower's."

"Did he remember his ship before paying for another?" Barbrey asked.

"He ordered one through Jon's factor next morning. Some men would sooner be seen without a horse than without what their neighbour has bought."

"They must wait with the lords," Jon said. "The clockwork must be sound before we send it."

"Put mine after Lord Halys's, then," Galbart said. "Helman and I left our earnest this morning. Hornwood has chosen its case?"

"And sent the measurements for his case first," Jon said. "William will write when yours is ready."

"Some grow tired of waiting," Wyman said. He set down his cup. "Lord Walder's steward has asked me to carry an offer. He would give you a yard at the Twins, freedom for your carts at his crossing, and a portion of the price of every clock sold there."

"Who would teach them?" Jon asked.

"You would send two of your best hands, with the patterns. He wants the right to make and sell."

Galbart looked towards Jon. The conversations nearest them had begun to slow.

"My men have work here," Jon said. "If Lord Walder wishes to buy clocks for his towers, Osric will send the terms. His keepers will have the same instruction as yours."

"There is more. His steward suggests that a granddaughter's marriage portion could settle matters between your houses."

Jon put down his knife. "Did he name her?"

"He offered to send a list."

Barbrey looked across the hall at the girls gathered beside Sansa. "Does he send the same list with every bargain?"

"I did not ask," Wyman said. "What answer shall I carry?"

"The making remains with my house. And he may address any marriage proposal to my father, apart from the price of a workshop." Jon glanced towards Eddard, still speaking with Benjen and Helman, then took up his knife again. "I thank you for bringing it yourself, my lord."

Wyman turned to Galbart about a ship overdue from the west. Jon finished his tart while they compared sailing dates.

Greatjon had been looking towards the table where Jon's household sat. Tomas and several of the younger guards had stood to make room for a late dish, and their shoulders were level for a moment above the seated men.

"Those are the boys you mean to take south?" he asked.

"My household," Jon said.

"I saw them riding through the town. They sit their horses well." The praise came easily, but Greatjon's eyes had gone to his own son. "Have you set any of them against a lad who was born with a sword in his hand?"

Roose drew his chair nearer the table. "They are a credit to their coats. I had wondered how they would fare against someone they do not practise with."

"Then tomorrow will interest you," Jon said. "There is room after the other games."

"Put your best against Smalljon," Greatjon said. His son straightened at the sound of his name. "We shall see what your teaching has done."

Willam looked down the hall. Tomas had noticed that his lord was being watched, although the words could not have reached him through the noise. He waited at the end of his table. Around him the others continued eating and talking.

"Your son has had a master-at-arms since he could hold a wooden sword," Jon said. "So have Robb and most of the heirs here. One of my men against him would be a good bout. It would tell you little about the company I have trained."

"A company, then," Greatjon said. "You have boys enough."

"Let them fight the heirs together," Jon said. He looked towards Eddard, who had come back with Benjen and Helman. "Equal sides. Shields and ash swords. A banner at each end of the south meadow, and the first company to carry the other banner home wins."

"I will lead the heirs," Robb said. "Will you lead yours?"

"Yes." Jon watched him turn to Eddard. Smalljon was already whispering to Harrion, Cley leaning over the table, Theon smiling as though he had seen an opening.

"Ser Rodrik will prepare the field," Eddard said. "Arthur and Martyn judge, with Jory's men to help. You obey them."

"We will," Robb said.

"After the midday meal," Jon said. "Let them finish the other games first."

Mark asked whether the Dustins could make a third side; Barbrey told him to let the boys choose these two. Willam found himself looking forward to it.

Maege put down her cup. "Lyra will fight with the heirs."

Greatjon looked at the girl beside Arya, then back at her mother. "You mean to set your daughter in the middle of that?"

"I mean to let her use what she has been taught." Maege turned to Robb. "Will you have her?"

"She is already in," Robb said. Lyra grinned. Smalljon began to object to something Harrion had said about his shield, and Greatjon left the matter of daughters to demand what the two boys were arguing over.

Over the next cheese and bread, Robb gathered Domeric, Theon and Harrion to choose the rest: Daryn, Roderick, Lyra, Cley, Brandon Norrey, Edrik Flint and Harl Wull, with a Burley boy beckoned from his father's side. Medger had to tell Cley to let his captain finish before asking again about the banner.

Jon called Tomas over. "The full household in the south meadow after dinner tomorrow. Lord Robb and the heirs."

Tomas bowed, exchanged a nod with Theon's raised cup, and went to his file leaders.

Greatjon offered a cask of ale on the heirs. Theo wanted to know which ale before committing himself, and Norrey offered to drink it first and settle the question. The wagers spread as the serving women cut the cheese. Lord Ryswell called Mark back to hear the terms; Wyman asked whether he might back a side even if his granddaughters disapproved. Sansa announced that she would cheer for Jon, then saw Robb looking and added that she would cheer for him in the morning.

"You can cheer for both," Jon told her.

"Not when you fight each other."

"You managed it in the yard last week."

"That was different." She went to Marna before either brother could ask her why. The girls had decided to wear their ribbons to the games, and Wylla Manderly was trying to persuade her sister to lend her the blue one.

Jon went to hear what Robb's new company was boasting. Robb lowered his voice until he left them to it. While Greatjon drew the other men into his wager, Maege took the place beside Eddard. Arthur remained at his shoulder. Willam heard her ask when Jon would return from Dragonstone.

"He means to take up his seat," Eddard said. "Winterfell will still see him."

"And his wife, when he has one?"

Eddard turned towards her. Across the table Jorelle was trying to persuade Lyra to leave the boys to their battle plans.

"She has years before she must leave my hall," Maege said, following his glance. "I should like to know something of the hall she might go to."

"You are speaking of Jorelle."

"I am. I have no great chest of gold to put beside her, but she will not come friendless. Our people know ships and hard coasts. There are men on Bear Island with no holding for a second son, and your lad has work enough for them." Her voice stayed low beneath the quarrel over the ale. "I should like to see her keep a hall of her own, with her sisters welcome at its table. It would do both our islands good."

"The Mormonts are a loyal house," Eddard said. "There is good blood on both sides. It could be a good match."

Arthur looked at him sharply.

"I ask for a hearing, Ned. We need promise nothing over supper."

Jon returned to fetch his cup. Maege made room for him without breaking off. "Your father and I have been speaking of my daughter, Lord Jon."

Jorelle had heard her name. She came nearer, uncertain which of them to address. Jon drew out the vacant chair beside him.

"Will you join us for the next dance, my lady?"

"If Smalljon leaves my feet alone."

"He will be at the other end of the line. I shall put myself between you if he comes this way."

She laughed and sat. Maege watched him move the hot cheese dish clear of her sleeve before turning back to Eddard.

"We will speak," Eddard said.

Arthur's hand remained upon Eddard's chair while Maege thanked her host. Willam waited for the wine servant to pass before taking his cup. Theo rose when the fiddler lifted his bow.

"Give us something we can dance to up a hill."

"You have danced to that one for thirty years," Mark said.

"And I mean to finish learning it." Theo fetched a mountain woman who promptly took charge of his turns. Shoes struck the flagstones together; Greatjon sang above the fiddles, answered by men beside the low yard fires.

Dacey had accepted another dance from the young knight. Her skirts swept past Willam's knee as they joined the line. He watched them complete the turn, set his cup upon the table, and offered Barbrey his hand.

"Will your leg bear it?" Barbrey asked.

"For one dance."

She rose and took his hand. He had to keep his steps short, and she matched him without comment. Across the line, Sansa drew Jon beside Marna, Jorelle and Wylla Manderly. Arya caught Lyra's hand and hurried to keep up with her. Smalljon turned too soon and collided with Robb; both boys laughed and found their places again. Bran tried to follow beneath the linked arms until Catelyn lifted him clear.

Willam watched Jon miss a step, recover and smile at Sansa. The boy laughed more readily among them than he had on his arrival that morning. Near the hearth, Mordane spoke to the linen woman, who had paused to watch. The woman curtsied, took up her empty jug, then called encouragement to Sansa when the line came round again. Willam nearly missed his own turn and felt Barbrey's fingers tighten around his.

"Watch where you put your feet," she said softly. He obeyed. Across the floor, Eddard caught Theo by the wrist and drew him into the reel. Mark and Martyn seized Arthur. For one noisy circuit, the six men in the hall who had ridden from the tower moved beneath Winterfell's rafters, children weaving between them, alive where they had once expected graves. When the music ended, Willam stayed beside the floor to watch his friends try to persuade Arthur into another dance.

"You have looked at those men all day," she said.

"Theo is difficult to overlook while standing still and impossible once someone begins a song."

"Do not make a fool of me, Willam. You have watched the other four whenever the laughter eased."

He watched Jon crouch to hear Bran's solemn account of a stolen tart. "We nearly lost all this."

Barbrey knew the dead who had not been brought north, though not every truth. "Yet here they are. Loud enough to trouble the living." Greatjon roared with laughter at that moment. Willam lifted his cup to him.

* * *

When the last guests began leaving the hall, Eddard asked Jon to come upstairs. Arthur followed them into the solar and closed the door. The noise of the feast dwindled to a murmur beneath the floor.

"Lady Maege is not a woman to make an offer lightly," Eddard said. "Nor would I dismiss her daughter lightly."

"No one has dismissed her daughter," Arthur said. "There will be no betrothal."

"You might allow Jon to sit before settling his marriage."

Jon took the chair beside the hearth. "What did you tell her, Father?"

"That I would hear her. The Mormonts are loyal, and Jorelle is well brought up. A good match deserves consideration."

Arthur remained standing. "His fortunes have scarcely begun to change. You have seen the letters asking for his work. Give it a few years and the fathers of those houses will be asking the same question as Maege."

"And would a girl with a richer father make a better wife?"

"It might give Jon allies who could do more for him."

"Maege has never withheld her help when I needed it."

Jon looked from one to the other. "I would hear what she wants for her people. We can employ men without marrying their lord's daughter. I like Jorelle. I have never thought of marrying her."

"There would be time to know more," Eddard said.

"Then leave me that time. I have not yet set foot on my own island. I do not want to promise what sort of life a wife would find there."

Arthur drew the other chair out, but did not sit. "Tell Maege he is too young for an undertaking of this kind. Let her daughter enjoy the rest of her visit."

Eddard's eyes rested upon him before returning to Jon. "No promise will be made. I will speak to her myself."

"Thank you, Father."

"Go to bed. You will be wanted early." He waited until Jon rose, then drew him close enough to kiss his brow. "Lady Jorelle must hear no unkindness from this."

"She will hear none from me."

Jon went out. Arthur stayed beside the empty chair until the footsteps had faded along the gallery. Eddard went to the door and closed it.

"A good match," Arthur said. "For Lord Stark's bastard."

"Choose your words."

"I have chosen them all evening. You know whose son he is. He could marry into a house with the strength to put thousands behind him. You offer to hear a match that would bring him a few boats and men who already answer to you."

"Maege would be his kin. She would not betray him."

"To whom?" Arthur asked. "Robert?"

Eddard's mouth tightened. He lifted the wine jug, found it empty and set it down again.

"You fear what a greater marriage might give him," Arthur said. "Is that why this one pleased you?"

"I would have him live long enough to marry." Eddard's voice roughened. "I would have him know his children."

"And remain harmless enough for your king to permit both."

"I have promised him nothing." Eddard faced him. "Do not mistake what I promised my sister for a wish to see the realm bury another generation."

Arthur took his hand from the chair. "Nor mistake my agreement to hide him for consent to keep him beneath the men who should bow to him."

"You will not arrange a marriage behind my back."

"I will bring an offer to you. I will not consent merely because you approve it." Arthur opened the door and left.

* * *

Jon was waiting in his own room. Wylla had gone to settle the younger children; he had asked her to leave the lamp. Arthur closed the door and crossed to the hearth.

"He called it a good match twice," he said. "He knows what she can bring you. He knows how little it would change."

Jon poured water into the empty cup beside him. "Sit down."

Arthur took the cup, but remained standing. "You think I have made too much of it."

"I think he loves Robert. That has not changed because I am growing."

"It should change what he is willing to give away."

"He lost his father and his brother to Aerys. Then he lost my mother. Robert was his friend before any of it." Jon waited until Arthur looked at him. "Aerys called for Robert's head as well. What were they meant to do? Wait to be strangled or burnt?"

Arthur set the cup down. "The king gave them cause. I know that."

"So does Father. He can love me and still fear what you hope I will become."

"He would choose your life for you."

"And I have told him what I will not promise." Jon leaned back in the chair. "He wants this to end with everyone he loves alive. I understand that wish."

Arthur sat at last. For a little while they could hear someone laughing in the yard below. Then Jon raised his head. The softness had gone from his face; his purple eyes held Arthur's.

"Aegon was a babe. Rhaenys was a child. Whatever our father did, neither of them had done it."

"No."

"Clegane and Lorch murdered them. Tywin offered their bodies to Robert, and Robert accepted them. I might have been laid beside them if the wrong man had found us." His hand closed upon the chair arm. "Viserys and Daenerys are somewhere across the sea, and we cannot even tell them where it is safe to come. That is what they have left of our family."

Arthur bowed his head. "I ought to have been in King's Landing."

"You kept me alive," Jon said. "I will not forget that. Father may choose to forgive Robert. I cannot forgive the men who murdered children and called it service. My brother and sister must be avenged."

Arthur looked up. Jon had not raised his voice.

"Then keep the freedom to choose your allies."

"I mean to. Help me build something they can trust, and find out where my kin have gone."

He had no intention of letting Walder Frey marry into those works. Jon remembered the welcome given to Starks at the Twins; he would pay the toll and choose another place to sleep. Wyman could carry back a price for a finished clock and leave the rest unanswered.

Arthur drank the water. His shoulders eased as he set the cup down.

"Father will speak to Maege," Jon said. "Let him do it."

Arthur nodded. At the door he stopped.

"Willam has word of the boy you asked about. Ramsay, at the mill. His mother says he is Roose's. Money comes from the Dreadfort for his keep."

Jon straightened in his chair. "Has Domeric been to see him?"

"Not that Willam's man has heard. Domeric returns to the Vale after the gathering."

"Let me know if that changes."

"I will." Arthur's hand remained upon the door. "You remembered the name plainly."

Jon said nothing. After a moment Arthur wished him good night and went out.

When he was alone, Jon opened the black book at the Bolton names and added Willam's report. Beneath it he noted Domeric's intended return to the Vale.

He did not cross out his old warning about Domeric's death. Beside it he wrote the name of the man now making inquiries. At the earlier harvest he had scarcely been able to get his questions beyond his own room. This time someone would bring him an answer.

* * *

The games began the next morning in the damp field below Winterfell. Robb caught Harrion Karstark's sword on his shield and struck him across the ribs. Harrion seized the shield rim as Martyn called him out.

"He still has hold of me," Robb protested.

"Let go, Harrion." Martyn stepped between them. "Robb, back to your place." The boys separated. Theon won his bout against Daryn Hornwood with a quick thrust that caught the Hornwood beneath his raised arm.

"Again?" Theon asked, as Daryn lowered his sword.

"After the other bouts. I know what to watch for now."

Theon grinned and passed his weapon to the next boy. Daryn stayed beside the rope to watch. Arya called Jon's name when he entered against Roderick Dustin. Roderick was taller, heavier and plainly eager to recover some of the pride he had lost over the bay.

"You will not find this as easy as riding," Roderick said.

Jon raised his shield. Roderick came straight at him, driving hard enough to make him yield the centre. Jon let him take another step, turned outside the heavy rim and laid his ash blade across Roderick's back.

"Out," Jory called. Roderick looked towards his mother.

She shook her head. He lowered his sword and left the field. Smalljon called for Jon next, but Ser Rodrik put a Burley boy before him. Smalljon knocked the other shield high on their first exchange. While he watched it fall, the Burley struck him across the side.

"Smalljon Umber, dead," Martyn called. Greatjon laughed until he bent over the rail. The last boys' bout put Robb opposite Jon. They had fought with ash since both could close their hands around it. Robb knew the small dip in Jon's shield; Jon knew the hard fourth cut with which Robb liked to finish an attack.

"You always wait for the fourth," Robb said.

"Then try something else."

At the signal, Robb gave him three familiar strokes, then drove in behind his shield. Jon was already lifting his sword for the expected fourth cut. His boot slipped in the wet grass as their shields met; his knee struck the ground and Robb's padded point touched his shoulder.

"Jon Black, out," Martyn called. Jon lowered his sword.

Robb offered his hand. Jon took it and rose with mud across one knee.

"You were still waiting for the sword," Robb said.

"I was."

"Try tomorrow."

Sansa came with a cloth. Jon took it, wiped his hands and passed it to Robb, who had mud down his cheek.

Theon asked whether either of them had left any mud in the field. Robb flicked the wet cloth at him and missed.

Arthur brushed a smear from the back of Jon's collar. "How are your knees?"

"Sore." Jon watched Martyn fetch another sword from the rack. "Is he finally going to ask you?"

Martyn heard him. "A duel is owed." He stepped inside the rope while Smalljon began shouting for the grown men.

"Ser Arthur?"

Arthur unbuckled Dawn. "I have been waiting."

Martyn rolled his shoulders as he watched Arthur take the pale sword to Eddard. Jon moved closer to the rope. He had seen both men teach for years and rarely seen them face one another.

Eddard received Dawn across his palms. Arthur chose an ash sword from the rack and tried its balance. Martyn saluted him with his own.

"First to two clean touches," Rodrik called. "No head or hand. I will not send either man to Luwin because children wanted a song." Martyn kept the centre. Arthur circled him, coming close enough to tempt a blow and slipping back out of reach. On the first pass Martyn cut for the ribs and changed high. Arthur stepped outside the stroke and touched his sleeve.

"Dayne." The second pass began more slowly. Arthur left his side exposed, but Martyn ignored the opening. He struck Arthur's blade just above the hilt, pressed close and wrenched the ash sword from his hand. Martyn's point stopped at his ribs.

"Cassel." The field erupted. Smalljon climbed the fence. Greatjon dragged him down without ceasing to shout.

Arthur retrieved the fallen sword and smiled at Martyn.

"You have been practising that."

"On Jory." On the last pass Martyn tried to close again. Arthur caught the blow, held their blades pressed together and stepped inside Martyn's defence. His point touched the centre of Martyn's chest.

"Dayne." Jon saw another field for a heartbeat: red stone, hard sun, Martyn dead in dust, Arthur's white cloak bloodied in the sand, Eddard riding north with names instead of men. The remembered deaths had once been more certain than the laughing men before him. Arthur crossed to Eddard. Their eyes met over Dawn. Eddard's right hand had closed so tightly around the grip that the knuckles showed white. He returned the sword without a word. Martyn embraced Arthur. Mark reached them first, followed by Theo and Willam, all three talking over one another. Eddard stood outside the laughter for one breath, then clasped Martyn's shoulder. Jon took up a spare sword and tried to disarm Tomas beside the rope. Tomas struck him beneath the ribs.

"Again," Jon said. Tomas reset his shield. This time Jon caught his blade but could not wrench it free before Tomas recovered.

Robb sat on the rail to watch. "You will be here all morning."

"Only until I have it."

"You said that about the last one," Theon said, and went to fetch his bow. The bowmen had the far field before the sun climbed over the east wall. Rain still darkened the butts. Daryn Hornwood put his last shaft a thumb from the centre peg. Theon waited for the rag above the target to fall still, drew and split a pale shaving from the peg. He lowered the bow with his arm trembling and a grin he made no effort to hide.

Daryn brought the arrows back and handed Theon his.

"A good shot."

"Better than yours."

"Today." Daryn took his place for the next round. Theon was still smiling when he followed.

Lyra knelt beside Arya with the smallest bow from Farlen's rack. She steadied it while Arya drew, her little face lengthening with effort until Jon saw Father's look of concentration beneath the untidy dark hair. Three arrows reached the straw; one caught the edge of a painted ring. Arya turned at once to show Dacey, who had waited behind the line.

"I hit it."

"I saw." Dacey bent to free a loose strand of hair from the bowstring before Lyra took the bow away. Arya stayed close to them while the older girl chose her own.

Sansa watched from beside Marna, blue ribbon looped over her fingers. The two girls had wagered upon Theon and Daryn; Marna surrendered a yellow ribbon with a sigh, then held it against Sansa's sleeve to see how the colours went together. Wynafryd fastened the slipping end while Wylla Manderly called for Lyra to shoot. Lyra's two green-fletched shafts landed close enough that their feathers brushed. Arya clapped hardest.

At the rail, Sansa was trying to decide whose colours would look best on a horse. The Hornwood orange, she told Marna, would show wonderfully against a black coat; the grey of Winterfell was handsome close by but vanished in a crowd. Wynafryd disagreed about the grey and pointed to Robb, whose white wool caught the sunlight whenever he moved.

"You can know a rider before you see his face," Sansa said. "That is what I like. All the colours coming towards you, and everyone knowing his name."

Arya had returned with Lyra. "I like it when they fall off."

"You would." Sansa turned the yellow ribbon between her fingers. "A knight may break his neck."

"Not if he falls properly. Ser Gawen said so."

"He said he would teach you to fall," Lyra corrected. "Not that horses will always put you down gently."

Arya looked annoyed by the distinction. Sansa took the chance to draw Marna's attention to Daryn's embroidered collar. It was fine work; the leaves ran beneath the fastening without losing their shape.

"Perhaps you can marry the collar," Arya said.

"Perhaps you can go and roll in the mud until someone mistakes you for a pig."

Marna made a small, shocked sound. Arya's ears reddened. She snatched a loose rush from the ground and tickled the back of Sansa's neck with it. Sansa jerked, struck Wynafryd's hand and sent the ribbon fluttering beyond the rope.

"Give it back."

Arya had already ducked under the rail. She caught the cloth before a passing boot reached it, but Sansa took it from her without thanks.

"You are not sitting by me at supper."

"I did not want to." Arya went to Lyra's other side. She stayed there for the next round, cheering twice as loudly as anyone when Sansa's chosen bowman missed.

Theo Wull took a bow after Lyra and put his first arrow well outside hers. Greatjon jeered from the rail. Theo handed him the bow, and the laughter turned upon Greatjon when he fared no better.

The horse race followed the dry rise beyond Winter Town. Robb rode a rangy chestnut against Domeric's grey, a long-legged Dustin roan beneath Roderick, and six other northern horses. The white-eyed bay remained in the Black Yard's inner ring with Gawen's groom and no crowd at the rail. Jon stayed at the race rail beside Gawen, his knees still sore from the bay. Roderick led the first half but took the turn wide and lost three lengths. Domeric slipped inside. Robb waited until the last rising ground before letting the chestnut stretch, then won by a head. Domeric leaned from his grey to clasp Robb's forearm before either mount had blown itself quiet. Roderick came in behind Domeric. He dismounted without looking towards his sister while Ralf took the sweating roan.

"You went wide," Domeric told him as he dismounted.

"The bay turns faster."

"We will work the bay before you leave," Gawen said. "Today you had to judge the roan." By midday the wrestling ground had become brown paste. Smalljon carried a Burley three strides towards the rope while the boy clung around his middle; both went out together and landed hard enough to paint their backs in mud. Rodrik made them begin again. On the second grip Smalljon set his feet, turned his hip and dropped the Burley within the rope. Greatjon ran onto the field, lifted his son and nearly fell beneath their joined weight.

"Leave him breath for the next bout," Maege called.

"He has won it," Greatjon said, setting Smalljon down. His son shoved a muddy hand through his hair, grinning at the boys beyond the rope.

They ate at the meadow edge before the mock battle. Elspeth's beef-and-onion pies vanished before the second basket arrived. Boys compared bruises and pressed them to see which hurt most. Wylla put a pie, an apple and a cup of watered ale before Jon. He broke the crust while it was hot.

"Is that the first you have eaten since dawn?" she asked.

"No. Ralf brought bread to the yard."

She sat beside him while he ate. Pepper and sweet onion warmed his mouth. Across the trestle, Robb was trying to find space for Smalljon on a bench already full of his chosen band.

"Domeric has the banner?" Jon asked.

"He does," Robb said. "You will find out the rest soon enough."

Theon reached across for Jon's apple. Wylla caught his wrist.

"There are more in the basket."

He fetched one for himself and brought her another. She accepted it without giving him the praise he seemed to expect.

Robb was still making room on the bench when Jon noticed the swelling beneath his sleeve.

"Let Luwin see that before the field."

"It is only a bruise." Robb pulled the sleeve lower.

"Then he will tell you so."

Theon snorted into his apple. "Gods, let him eat. Lord Stark is sitting over there. He does not need another father at this table."

"I would rather he could hold his shield."

"So would I. He has put me on his left." Theon nudged Robb's elbow. "Show the maester. Then neither of them can keep asking."

Robb gave both of them a resentful look and went to where Luwin was washing his hands. Jon watched him lift the sleeve. The maester turned the arm, pressed the swelling and sent him back with no more than an instruction to come back if it stiffened.

"There," Robb said as he reclaimed his seat.

Theon leaned back to let him pass. "You may grow up now, Jon. Your son has survived."

Jon had been reaching to move the cup from Robb's returning elbow. He left it where it was and took another bite of pie. Theon saw the checked movement and grinned.

"Come closer," Robb told Theon. "I want to tell you where Smalljon is going."

"Straight at whoever looks biggest. I have watched him before."

"Not if he does as I ask. Listen." Robb caught his sleeve to draw him nearer. Theon shifted his cup clear of the younger boy's elbow and leaned across the table. Smalljon bent in from the other side. Whatever Robb said made Theon shake his head, but he stayed close, answering too quietly for Jon to hear. Jon finished his pie while the three argued.

* * *

After the midday meal, Ser Rodrik emptied the south meadow and measured the starting ropes himself. House Black's plain banner stood at the north. The grey direwolf marked the south. Twenty-five heirs, wards and Winterfell boys formed behind Robb. Jon's twenty-five household guards faced them across churned grass. The crowd stood three deep beyond the side ropes. Lords climbed benches; townsmen filled wagon beds. The fifty spearmen of First Century remained in their own field in five tens. Less than a moon under black cloth had not made them proven men, and Hewyn would not let cheers persuade them otherwise.

Rodrik walked the ground between both bands. "Bring the enemy banner across your own rope and you win. When a marshal ties white upon your arm, leave at once. When the horn sounds, stop." Arthur and Martyn carried white staffs on opposite sides. Jory and five guards waited to pull marked boys clear.

Tomas set Jorren's file on the left and Rylas's beside the reeds along the eastern edge. Gage stayed with the banner; Olyver's six waited behind the centre. Jon walked between them, checking the gaps. Their northern end was firmer underfoot. Robb would have to cross the wet middle to reach it.

"Let them come to us," Jon told the file leaders. "Give a little at the first clash, then hold. Gage, keep four with the banner whatever happens."

He turned to Tomas. "When they leave an opening, take Jorren and Rylas through it. Olyver will cover the gap behind you."

"And the reeds?" Rylas asked.

"Watch for Theon. Let Gage's men take him before you follow Tomas." Jon raised his sword so every file could see. "If I am put out, obey your captain."

The horn blew. Robb crossed the wet centre at once. Smalljon's wing pulled ahead of Harrion on the left, leaving a gap between them. Rylas held his place beside the reeds. Jon saw Robb glance towards Theon, who was hidden by the taller growth, then call his centre to slow.

Jorren yielded two paces, drawing Harrion after him. Rylas gave ground towards the ditch beside the reeds. Theon burst from them with five shields, hoping to find a clear way to the banner. Rylas stayed to meet his first two, and Gage brought another pair of guards out from the pole. Leather boomed. Theon slipped around a shield and struck a household boy across the ribs. Jory tied white upon him before he finished swearing. Gage caught a Cerwyn youth upon the upper arm. Martyn marked him out and waved him towards the rope.

"Their middle is open," Tomas called.

The grey banner stood behind Domeric, Lyra Mormont and four younger heirs. Harrion had followed Jorren too far west; Smalljon was still driving towards the runnel. Jon raised his sword. "Now, Tomas!"

Tomas struck Jorren's shield with his own and called Rylas from the reeds. As the two files went south with him, Olyver brought his six forward to fill the gap. Gage's outer pair took over against Theon. Padded ash hammered shields. Olyver struck Cley across the ribs, but Cley's answering blow caught him beneath the arm.

"Both dead," Martyn called. Cley lowered his weapon and looked ready to dispute which blow landed first. Lord Cerwyn pointed towards the rope. Cley left.

Two black files drove south with Tomas. Jon kept Olyver's remaining men between Robb and the pole while Gage held four close and two against Theon's raid. Robb saw the division and attacked before Tomas reached the middle.

"Smalljon, break their right!" Robb shouted. "Theon, hold their left. Wait until their middle turns." Smalljon drove a shield into the boy behind it and pushed both through the mud. Olyver's remaining guards gave a pace, then closed up again. Theon slipped past a boy marked out of the fight, but Gage's outer pair stopped him short of the banner. Robb came in behind Smalljon, his shield high and sword low.

Jon met Robb beside Olyver's remaining guards. Smalljon was still struggling with the shields to their right. Robb cut high. Jon caught the blow square and kept his footing. Then Smalljon broke free and battered the shield beside him just as Robb drove through with his shoulder. Jon could not hold against both boys. He turned enough to keep his knee beneath him, but Robb's padded point slid under his raised arm.

Martyn's staff struck earth. "Jon Black, dead."

"Clean," Jon said. He handed his sword and shield to Jory and crossed the nearest rope. He stayed beside the rope without calling to the men still fighting. Robb and Smalljon drove against the remaining centre while Theon forced Gage's outer pair inward. Two of Olyver's surviving men saw the breach and ran towards the middle.

The four guards at the banner closed their shields. Smalljon took the left pair, driving them back against the pole. Robb beat down the shield before him and struck its owner across the ribs. The fourth guard turned to meet him, but an heir coming up behind Robb caught the boy's exposed side. The two guards received white bands and stepped clear. With the remaining pair held by Smalljon, Robb tore the black cloth from its pole.

At the southern end, Domeric shifted left exactly as Tomas approached. Tomas turned towards Jorren.

"Rylas, keep Lyra busy. Jorren, take Domeric. Finnan, with me." Domeric met Jorren square while Lyra drew Rylas away from the flag. Finnan knocked aside the next defender's shield, and Tomas slipped past. Harrion Karstark ran back from the western side to stop him, only to be struck by two black blades. Arthur marked him out. Tomas snatched the grey direwolf. Across the field Robb was already running south with black cloth in his hand. Tomas took the strip of firm ground between the reeds and the eastern rope, heading north.

At the wet middle, the two men from Olyver's file closed their shields across Robb's path. He checked his stride and called Smalljon. The larger boy came pounding down from the pole, struck one defender across the ribs and drove the other's shield aside. Robb burst through. While they had been stopped, Tomas had passed the middle along the eastern rope; he now had fewer strides left to run.

The field broke around the two banners. Boys abandoned their bouts to chase or block the runners. White staffs rose behind them. Domeric chased Tomas until Finnan met him; they struck one another almost together, and Arthur tied white upon both arms. Theon struck the last guard behind Tomas. Rylas turned on him, struck his ribs and took Theon's answering blow. They left together, arguing which was first until Martyn pointed his staff.

Robb gained on the open ground, but Tomas reached the black rope with the direwolf against his breast. Robb brought House Black's banner over his own line two strides later. Arthur sounded the horn. Every blade stopped. For a breath neither side knew which cloth had passed first. Tomas bent over, hauling air, with the grey cloth bunched against his chest. Robb stood mud to both knees with the black banner in one hand.

Rodrik heard Arthur, then Martyn. He lifted his staff towards Tomas. "House Black." The black coats shouted. Robb's company groaned, then laughed. Greatjon demanded another battle loud enough for the Wall to hear. Roose Bolton did not join him. He watched Tomas call four battered files together. Domeric watched too, his white band looped around one arm, then said something to his father. Roose listened, his eyes still on the black coats.

Robb returned the black banner before coming to Jon. "I had you."

"You did." Jon took his shield back from Jory.

"And Smalljon got us through." Robb looked towards Tomas, who was carrying the grey banner back across the field. "I should have left more men with Domeric."

"Tomas saw the gap."

"Next time I am putting someone on him." Robb called the captain over and took the banner from him. "You run too fast."

Tomas was still catching his breath. "So did you, my lord."

Robb clasped his shoulder. Roose approached while Greatjon and Rodrik were disputing the finish. Domeric followed one step behind his father.

Roose looked past Jon to the eastern boundary, his exceptionally pale grey eyes following the strip between reeds and rope. "That strip of turf brought your captain home."

"Domeric nearly closed it," Tomas said.

"Nearly," Domeric agreed. He was still breathing hard. "I should have called Harrion back sooner."

"I needed Theon back," Robb said. "Not that he would have come."

"You commanded him," Domeric said.

Theon joined them, a white band around his wrist. "You should have called. I could not see you through the reeds."

Domeric offered Tomas his forearm, pushing back a mud-stained cuff so they could clasp cleanly. Roose watched the clasp, then went to speak with Rodrik. By the barrels, the boys were comparing the white bands they had earned and accusing one another of having died too cheaply.

Greatjon claimed Robb's banner must count because he had crossed his own rope before the horn ended. Rodrik told him Tomas had crossed first. Maege observed that Smalljon had spent most of the field running in the wrong direction with admirable force. Their sons drank and listened while the fathers fought the battle anew with cups in hand.

Medger Cerwyn brought Cley through the noise with a pale-haired nephew held by the shoulder. "This one died when he was told," he said, nudging Cley forward. "The other has spoken of your silver since the bellman read the call. He is fifteen and free of every promise but mine. After his next nameday, Hewyn may look at him."

The nephew bowed to Jon. "My lord, I have been practising with my uncle's men."

"Keep at it," Jon said. "Hewyn will hear you when a place opens."

Two mountain men came next to ask about landless cousins, followed by a Glover steward asking whether sea service changed the pay. Hewyn took them aside beneath the awning and sent for his clerk.

Near the water barrels, Luwin washed blood from Fergus's brow. A shield rim had opened the skin above one eye during Theon's first rush, but the boy had hidden it beneath wet hair until the red line reached his cheek.

"Who struck you?" Luwin asked, holding up two fingers for him to follow.

"Theon Greyjoy."

"Look at my hand." The maester bound the cut in white linen. "You sleep beside my hearth tonight. I want to watch that swelling."

Fergus touched the bandage and looked towards his file. "May I ride tomorrow?"

Ralf passed behind him with two saddles over one arm. "If Maester Luwin says you may. Until then, no saddle. Your horse can spare you a day."

Benjen found Eddard while the household counted shields. "Let me take them into the wolfswood tomorrow. Three nights should be enough to see how they manage away from their own yard."

The rookery horn answered before Eddard could. A boy brought the message to Luwin at the barrels. The maester broke the black wax and called Benjen over. Two more steadings in the Gift had emptied. One ranger had returned without the three men who left with him, and Mormont wanted his First Ranger north before another moon was lost.

"I ride at dawn," Benjen said.

Robb looked towards the wet meadow. "And the wolfswood?"

"Arthur can take you. I must get north." Benjen turned to Jon. "We will ride together when I next come down."

"I shall hold you to it."

Jon watched Tomas gather the four file leaders beside the racks. "Fifty before I sail," he said to Arthur. "I want men who can fight beside me as well as those have today."

"You have a good captain to help choose them." Arthur took the cracked shield Jon held and turned it to examine the split.

After supper Jon and Robb took the window bench in Eddard's solar while Benjen laid out the raven's message. Arthur came with them. Servants had brought extra benches; Wyman took the broad chair and Willam a place where he could stretch his leg. Theo sat at Eddard's invitation. Through the open windows came the fiddler's tune. No one interrupted Luwin's reading; by the missing rangers, Greatjon had stopped turning his cup.

"Which steadings?" Norrey asked.

Benjen named them. Norrey leaned forward, elbows upon his knees.

"My men use the western one when they cross the hills. There was a family there when they passed in the spring."

"There was a family there a moon ago," Benjen said. "Mormont has sent men to look for them."

"Raiding?" Rickard Karstark asked.

"We have found burnt crofts elsewhere. At these, the animals were gone and the doors left open. I will know more when I get back." Benjen rubbed a thumb along the edge of the letter. "The Watch has too few men for the roads it must cover. Mormont asked me to bring home what help I could find."

Eddard drew Luwin's list towards him. "Winterfell's grain will leave with an escort. The horses Hullen has chosen are ready. My brother rides at dawn; the wagons will follow."

"I can send flour by sea to Eastwatch," Wyman said. "Fish as well. There is no reason to drag it all the way from White Harbor on an axle."

Benjen nodded. "Send word to Cotter Pyke before your captain sails. He can have men ready to unload."

Luwin wrote down the captain's name. Wyman wanted a letter waiting at the harbour before he returned.

Greatjon would send cattle. The drive could join Winterfell's wagons where the roads met. Lord Ryswell asked what kind of horses the rangers needed, and Benjen answered readily: sure feet, sound wind, mounts that would live on what could be found for them. He had no use for a great destrier in the woods.

"You shall have garrons," Ryswell said. "I know the sort."

Maege waited until Luwin had finished the line. "Bear Island can spare smoked fish. Not many men."

"Mormont knows your coast needs watching," Benjen said. "The fish will be welcome."

She nodded and sat back. Beside her, Galbart spoke quietly to Helman, arranging for their provisions to go together.

Eddard let the offers finish before asking about recruits. Some lords had prisoners who might choose the black. Others promised to have the call made at their next gathering. Norrey said he would send word through his villages when he returned; his people knew the Watch's roads and some had kin among the brothers.

"I shall have the call made in Winter Town again," Eddard said. "Men who wish to go will be given food for the road."

Jon waited until his father looked towards the window bench. "I can send woollen cloth with the wagons. It is ready in the Black Yard. Perkin can have it brought up in the morning."

"Good dark wool?" Benjen asked.

"Brown. You will have to dye it."

"We have managed that before." His uncle smiled for the first time since entering the room. "Thank you."

Luwin read the promises back. A few men corrected the routes or added the names of stewards who should receive the letters. Robb listened closely, his hands still upon his knees.

Galbart Glover waited until the maester laid down his quill. "I saw your new men below the town, Jon. Young men, most of them. They will scarcely know another service by the time you sail."

"That is why I chose them young."

Galbart rested his cup upon one knee. "And every oath is to you?"

"Yes, my lord."

"He raises them with my leave," Eddard said. "They will go to Dragonstone with him."

"I know, Ned." Galbart glanced towards Robb beside Jon. "But we are accustomed to calling men from their fields when we need them. Yours will spend four years learning to be soldiers."

"They will," Jon said. "Hewyn and Martyn have begun."

Galbart turned his cup once, then rose. He bade Jon good night with a grave inclination of his head and went to speak with Benjen at the table.

Robb rose with his father. Norrey and Theo stayed to describe the western track and the family seen there; Willam waited for Arthur. Downstairs, the music had stopped and benches were being put back.

Later the young guests crowded the gallery outside Jon's room to argue over the banner race and their winnings. Wylla made them wait until he had washed and changed for bed, then let them into his room and took the best chair herself. Robb wanted to go over the race with Tomas; the boys were already moving pebbles across the floor while Smalljon insisted all games should end in wrestling. Beneath the window Wynafryd taught Sansa the admired border, Marna's brown braid touching Sansa's auburn one as she watched beside the Manderly sisters. Arya sat against Lyra's knee and made her explain how she had defended the flag.

When Benjen came to say his farewells, he found a dozen children on the floor arguing over pebbles laid out as shields. He stepped across the battlefield to embrace Jon, promised Arya he would remember the axe she had asked for, and told Robb to write something in his next letter besides who had beaten whom.

"What else happens here?" Theon asked.

"I shall ask your maester." Benjen ducked a cushion on his way out.

Benjen left before sunrise upon Tallow, with his bedroll across the saddle and provisions for the road. Jon watched the black cloak vanish along the kingsroad. Behind him the Old Watch's cracked ploughshare sounded the work bell. Below, the Black Yard answered in bronze. Between the two, Winter Town opened its shutters to another crowded morning.

 

[aiwonder]

The swallows still gathered beneath the Old Watch gate when Jon rode down to the river fields. Beyond the wall, men were pitching the last oat sheaves onto a cart. Arthur pulled his horse aside to let it pass. A loose stalk caught in his boot buckle and went with him down the slope.

Miller's Run entered the holding through a stand of alder, crossed below the tower and fell between the rocks where Jon meant to put his wheel. Farther down, it curved east and left the leased ground. On the western bank, old field walls disappeared beneath briar. Two empty crofts faced a byre whose thatch had sunk between the rafters.

Jon dismounted beside the nearer croft. Through its open door he could see nettles growing around the hearth. A row of empty nests clung beneath the lintel.

"Woods says the walls will bear another roof," he told Arthur. "The byre needs new timbers. I shall have them here before the next families come."

Arthur looked beyond him at the rushes. "You have men enough asking for the spear."

"I need ploughmen as well. Men who can tell me what this soil will grow." Jon put his reins over his arm and led Bucephalus down the bank. "I can try a new plough here and still reach the clock benches before dinner. Dragonstone will need its own crops and drains, but the men I take south will have seen this work done."

Bucephalus lowered his head towards a thistle. Jon drew him clear.

"These families will stay," he added. "Father has agreed that their holdings pass back to Winterfell with the tower. The rent stays as we agree it now."

Arthur took the stallion's reins while Jon went farther down on foot. The ground sucked at his heels. He hitched his plain black coat above the mud and tucked its skirts through his belt. By the water, he crouched and pulled a mat of grass from the mouth of an old ditch. Beneath it lay black mud and a broken stone lip.

He followed the old channel until it vanished beneath a tumble of field stone. Beyond it, the higher ground was dry enough to crumble between his fingers. Someone had worked this land before the cottages emptied. The ridges were still there under the grass, and along the far wall an apple tree held a few small, hard fruits.

Jon looked back towards the tower. From the high window he would be able to see these fields and the road to the works. He had spent years in another life driving out before dawn to find a pump, a fence or a gate that needed attention. Here he could ride the whole holding before breakfast.

He brought a lump of the upper soil back to Arthur. "Have Perkin send for the families as soon as their harvest is in. Woods can begin the roofs while we clear the water."

Arthur gave him the reins. The lump broke apart as Jon slipped his glove on, scattering crumbs over his black sleeve.

* * *

At the next market Jon had the bellman call for farmers. This time he stayed beside the well while the man read, with Perkin seated beneath the adjoining awning.

"Land at Miller's Run for families willing to settle it. Shelter on arrival, with cottages to be repaired for the settlers. Seed and the first provisions supplied. No rent before the first crop is brought in. Those accepted will keep the husbandry Lord Black sets upon the holding."

The crowd was smaller than the one which had heard the call for spears. Men listened beside wives with market baskets. A few had brought children. There was less laughter and more asking the bellman to repeat himself.

A grey-haired man listened to Perkin's rent terms, then stepped aside to consult his wife. The next wanted to know whether he must bring his own oxen.

"Not to be considered," Jon said. "Tell Perkin what you have, and the work you know."

By noon they had names from several lordships. A woman with two boys received directions for her husband to meet Jon after finishing his present lord's harvest. One family withdrew at the amount of draining; another went with the woodward to see the croft before deciding.

A week later six households gathered below the Old Watch, where canvas shelters stood ready upon the dry ground beside the byre. They had brought tools and bedding in handcarts and upon pack ponies; one man carried a cradle with his spade tied across it. Jon rode down to meet them, passing the new barracks where Hewyn's men were putting their shields away. Beside the river a woman had spread a cloth upon the grass for her youngest children. The others waited with their caps in their hands while Perkin read the names.

Gerren, who had driven the first cart, bowed with his cap against his belly. He had worked his elder brother's land near Cerwyn until the brother's sons were old enough to do without him.

"Your lordship means to let us the fields beyond the byre?"

"The sound ground. The wet bottom stays meadow until we can drain what is worth draining." Jon stepped over a fallen doorpost. "Come and look."

Gerren followed him inside. His wife remained by the cart, watching Woods's men lift a new ridge beam onto trestles.

"You will owe labour on the common drains and keep the ground in the crops I set," Jon said. "Your own garden lies behind the house."

Gerren rubbed mortar between his fingers. "And when you go south, my lord?"

"You remain. Lord Stark has agreed it."

The man glanced through the doorway towards his wife. She had begun untying the loom.

Spearmen tightened the canvas shelters by the byre. Once roofed, the crofts would take two households; until more dwellings were ready, the settlers shared a fire beside their carts. Jon showed them the future doors and garden fences. One man measured a doorway with his shoulders; another asked to bring the fruit tree from his former home.

"If it can be moved without killing it," Jon said. "Ask Gerren to help you choose the place."

When they came back towards the crofts, Gerren's wife was waiting beside the door. Her name was Merra. She asked for a window beside the hearth, wide enough to work by.

Woods joined them from the byre. Jon looked at the sun and moved round the corner to see the slope. "Put the loom against this wall. You will get light from the east. Woods, give her a shutter here."

She curtseyed and went back to the cart. When Jon passed again on his way to the ditch, she had taken the boy from between the turnip sacks and wrapped him in a blanket upon the ground. Her husband was holding up two pieces of the dismantled loom while she told him which belonged together. Farther along, a hen escaped its wicker crate and the children went after it, checked at once by a sharp word from their mother when their chase reached Jon's horse.

Jon took them down to the ditch that afternoon. Ten spearmen had come with spades after their morning drill; the settlers brought mattocks and baskets for spoil. At the lower end, Jon stepped onto the gravel and set his spade against the broken lip. He loosened the stone while Symon lifted it clear.

Water seeped into the space. Jon scraped the bed open until it ran, brown at first, then clear enough to show pebbles.

"Keep the bottom falling towards this," he told Gerren. "We work back from here. Leave the sides sloped or the first rain will bring them down."

He cut a length himself, lifting each sod onto the bank with both hands. Behind him, the digging spread uphill. Symon showed one of the new men how to lever a root instead of wearing himself out chopping it. By dusk, water from the lowest hollow was moving between the fresh sides. The farther ground was still too wet to bear a cart.

Jon returned each morning before riding to the Black Yard, checking the drain after rain and helping where roots or stones slowed the digging. Upstream he found ground high enough to carry water to the gardens. With Gerren's elder son holding the measuring line, he marked a channel that curved around the hillside.

Gerren stopped beside the first bend. "That brings us farther from the houses, my lord."

"For a little way." Jon took him along the hillside to where it flattened. "Here we turn back. Keep it at this height and the water will reach the upper garden. Cut down there and your wife will still be carrying buckets uphill."

The man looked back along the proposed course. He had cleared ditches since he could lift a spade; he had never laid one out to bring water round a hill. "Will it come so far with scarcely any fall?"

"Come tomorrow and see."

Woods fitted a wooden hatch at the mouth, well above the proposed wheel. When the first length was open, Jon lifted it and let Gerren's son watch the water enter. It crept over the dry bed, darkening the earth ahead of it. Merra followed beside it with her skirts gathered up. By the time it reached the croft, two more women had come from the shelters.

Jon knelt at the bend and scraped away a ridge left by a spade. The thin stream spread across his fingers, gathered again and ran on towards the garden.

"All the way from there," Merra said. She looked uphill, then at the buckets beside her door. "And we can let it in when we need it?"

"Once the sides are finished. Show her the hatch, Gerren." Jon stood, wiping his wet hand on his breeches. "You will both need to work it."

Gerren's elder son had run ahead to watch it arrive. His father called him back to help raise the low side. Merra stayed by the stream until Jon shut the hatch, watching the last of the water disappear into the thirsty ground.

"Close it if the run falls low," Jon told Gerren.

The new roof timbers went up while they dug. Smoke returned to the crofts. More families came to look, and Woods began a second row on the dry rise. Jon found children collecting fallen twigs there one evening; they stood aside with their bundles and watched him pass.

* * *

William returned from Barrow Hall with mud on his boots and Lord Dustin's steward's receipt folded inside his coat. The clock had kept its hours through the trial. Lady Barbrey had made him show the steward twice how to silence the bell at night.

"She heard it from her chamber?" Jon asked.

"No, my lord. She said I was to make him do it with his eyes shut."

Woods laughed and went back to the case he was fitting. Perkin counted the balance William had brought, paid the last of the journey's charges and closed the Dustin account.

Osric's packet arrived that afternoon with an Oldtown merchant: Leyton's final six hundred dragons, acceptance of the Hightower clock and recommendations for nine prospective recruits. The clock's four faces had shown the same hour throughout the trial, and its keeper was now winding it without help.

Arthur read the names. "Did Lord Leyton's factor find these men?"

"The first two," Jon said. "Osric spoke to the Seneschal while the clock was fitted and proved."

Henly, Otho, a healer, an armourer's son and four men who had kept accounts were among those recommended. Osric would bring them north when he had arranged the remaining passages.

With the final payment, the Hightower clock had brought eighteen hundred dragons. The two counting-house clocks were settled as well. Perkin added the last fitting wages and carriage to the costs already entered.

"Close the clock accounts," Jon said. "Their passage belongs with the men I am hiring."

William opened the report from Callum, who had fitted the clock at Oldtown. One shaft had rubbed against its support until he adjusted it. Jon had William find the altered part upon their drawing.

"Would you have found it here?" Jon asked.

"Not here. The frame sat differently against their wall." William put the two drawings together. "I would have to test it again once it was fitted."

"Remember that at the next hall."

Perkin put the Hightower account with the completed work. Highgarden and the Rock were next: the rose case ready, the lion still awaiting its movement. William had two plain clocks to finish before either left, and three more merchants had paid earnest.

"One at a time upon my bench," Jon said, giving him the lion drawing. "Fit the clockwork first. Leave the moving paws until we can do them together."

William pulled his stool nearer. Arthur took the recruits' recommendations beyond reach of the brass filings.

* * *

Ewan and Jon worked on the new plough between the clock orders.

The plough's curved iron mouldboard would lift and turn the soil after the blade cut it. Jon carved a wooden pattern for Ewan to shape the iron against. Twice he sent a piece back: its edge stood proud of the next and would catch the earth instead of letting it slide.

The cutting share was separate, so a worn blade could be changed without making the whole plough anew. Woods brought an ash beam and the handles; Jon helped him fit the ironwork, driving the smaller pins while Ewan seated the heavy ones.

Gerren came when they had it assembled. He took off his cap at the door and waited until Jon beckoned him to the bench. For a while he touched only the wood. Then he bent to examine the iron curve, following it from the share to its broad upper edge.

"There is a deal of iron in that, my lord."

"It must hold this shape. Bare wood would soon lose the curve I want." Jon took the wooden form from beneath the bench and set it beside the finished mouldboard.

Gerren turned the form over. "You cut this yourself?"

"Aye." Jon held it against the iron curve to show him the fit.

Ewan loosened the fastening and drew the cutting blade free. Gerren set his cap down and crouched for a better look.

"Will your lordship have it drawn by horses?"

"Oxen. Garrick is buying trained pairs."

"The lower ground will tire them soon enough."

"We shall begin above it." Jon showed him the fittings at the beam. "The pull can be shifted here. You know the teams. Work with me until we have it drawing straight."

Cold rain delayed them for weeks. A skin of ice formed overnight in the horse trough and broke beneath a bucket next morning. Jon kept the oxen on the firm road, where Symon walked the unfamiliar teams in their new yokes. The plough waited beneath the byre roof, its iron greased against rust.

When the weather softened and a handful of the upper soil crumbled instead of smearing across his palm, Jon brought it out. Ewan came to watch the ironwork under strain; Arthur waited with the horses at the headland.

He walked behind the handles with Gerren beside him. Symon led the oxen. Their shoulders moved under the yoke; the beam tightened, and the share entered the ground. Earth climbed the mouldboard and rolled over with its grass beneath it.

The first length took them along the old headland. Jon felt the pull through both arms and settled his weight behind the handles, guiding rather than forcing the share down. Small roots tore with a sound like cloth parting. Gerren kept pace beside him, watching the clean face of the furrow. At its end Jon stopped the team and had him help shift the hitch. On the return the sideways strain eased. The rhythm came back more readily than the strength. As a boy in his first life he had wanted farm work finished so he could get to his books; as an old man he had found reasons to walk the fields after supper. He understood that last habit best now.

"Keep it there," Jon said. "Let it turn the earth."

He gave Gerren the handles and walked beside him while they made the next length. The man had spent more of his life behind oxen than Jon had spent in this body. He soon found the feel of it, eased one handle and laid the next slice of earth beside the first. His sons followed with a basket for stones. At the far end he stopped, planted the handles and looked back down the furrow.

"That has buried the grass, my lord."

"Aye. We shall harrow it before sowing."

Gerren bent over the turned sod and broke its edge with his thumb. "I used to send the boys through after me with mattocks." He beckoned his elder son to look. The lad knelt, pulled at a tuft buried beneath the furrow, then looked along the whole length they had just turned.

"Fetch your mother," Gerren told him.

By the time they reached the far end again, Merra was waiting with her knitting caught beneath one arm. Gerren made her walk the furrow. He had begun explaining before he remembered Jon was beside him, and stopped with a muttered apology.

"Show her," Jon said. "You know what work it has saved."

Another farmer came from the byre and asked to try. Gerren walked beside him while Jon watched the join between the plates. The soil shed cleanly.

"I could use another team now," the farmer said when he halted. "If your lordship will have another of these made."

"When Ewan has finished this one. The hitch needs an easier fastening. Bring your eldest to the next trial."

The man lingered beside the mouldboard until Gerren called him to help move the team. Behind them Merra was asking how much more ground they could manage.

By noon dark furrows crossed the field and the stone basket had been filled twice. Merra brought bread; Wylla arrived with onions and barley. Arthur cut the loaf while Jon washed, then they sat together upon the cart bed. Merra broke her youngest boy's bread into his broth.

"The loom is yours?" Jon asked.

"My mother's before me." She glanced towards the byre. "I have been weaving through the wet days. If your women have need of plain cloth."

"Bring Mairi, my seamstress, a piece when you have one ready. There are shirts to make as well as coats."

Merra looked at Gerren, who was eating too quickly to answer at once. He swallowed and nodded. The older boy asked whether the soldiers' black cloth came from black sheep, and Wylla told him that the best of it did. She had spent enough mornings separating shades to have an opinion on the matter. Gerren reached for another piece of bread while they talked. Beyond the cart, one of the oxen lay down, folding its great forelegs beneath it with a sigh.

After the meal, Jon walked the fields with the ploughman. Beyond the newly turned earth lay another long strip, the rough ground beside the byre and a sheltered enclosure against the western wall.

"Four fields," Jon said. "Barley, clover, rye and turnips. Each takes those crops in turn. The clover feeds the beasts, and the turnips help us keep them through the cold."

"We keep a turnip patch, my lord. My wife tends it."

"Then I shall want her help. I mean to grow enough for the byre as well as the pot."

Gerren looked back at the oxen. "There is work in that much hoeing." He hesitated. "And which field rests, my lord?"

"The clover takes the place of bare fallow."

"But it is growing a crop."

"A different one. Grain after grain takes the goodness out; clover helps put it back."

Gerren rubbed his beard. "We let the cows onto the fallow. My father did the same. I have never heard of a man sowing it for them."

"You will see the difference in the byre before you see it in the next grain crop."

The ploughman looked across the four strips again. Beside the byre, his wife had begun gathering the bowls. "She wanted another cow. We had no hay to spare."

"Let us bring in the first cutting before you buy her one."

"Aye, my lord." Gerren's eyes moved to the clover ground. "Will your lordship have us keep the grass cut apart, then, so we know how much?"

"That is what I want."

"I will pay for the extra hands. We shall begin with these four strips and keep seed from what grows best." Jon knelt and broke a clod along the furrow. "The lower meadow stays in grass. We have enough to bring under the plough."

Merra joined them to reckon the seed and hands needed for the root strip. She would use the spacing from her garden, with paths left for the hoers. When Jon asked about storing the sound roots dry and covered, she showed him an old pit beyond the wall. It stood above the ditch, half filled with rubbish; he had it cleared and left open to dry.

Before Jon left, Gerren called his sons over and explained the next morning's work. Jon listened beside the cart. In four years he wanted men on Dragonstone who could teach it as plainly.

They first tested seed from each sack on damp linen to see whether it would sprout. Over the following days they sowed barley, rye upon the lighter ground and clover beyond it. Jon and Merra marked rows for the turnips. Behind the byre, the lads piled bedding, dung, leaves and spoiled fodder to rot, clear of the stream.

When the turnip seedlings were large enough, Jon and Merra returned to thin the crowded rows.

Gerren's youngest daughter found Jon at the root ground with the dinner Wylla had sent. He ate upon the boundary wall while the harrow crossed the brown earth. Across the run, Woods's men were lifting another beam beneath the broken tower.

* * *

Gawen had Jon's arming coat waiting for his afternoon practice when he came back from the fields. While Jon washed the soil from his hands, the knight made Aries lay out everything which went over it.

The boy found the mail collar, the belt and the gloves. He put the helm with its open side upwards, where loose grit could fall inside it. Gawen turned it over without scolding and had him feel the lining.

"Clean cloth beneath it. You would notice a stone after someone had fastened that on your head."

"I'd take it off."

"Lord Jon may have both hands occupied."

Aries spread the cloth. Jon came in with Arthur, still drying his hands, and stood while the page brought his coat. Gawen helped settle the heavier pieces, then showed the boy which fastenings could be reached without lifting anything beyond his strength.

Aries hauled the first strap tight enough to pucker the coat. Jon caught his hand.

"I shall want to breathe."

The boy let go at once. Gawen loosened the fastening and showed how much room to leave, then made Aries set it again. One strap twisted against the collar. He had to undo the buckle and begin from the other side.

"Now ask him to move," Gawen said.

"Move, my lord."

Jon raised his arms, turned and bent to take up his shield. The collar held without drawing across his throat. Aries ran a finger beneath the edge as he had been shown, pleased to find the same space still there.

"Better," Jon said. "Leave the sword belt for Gawen until you can manage it without dragging the scabbard on the floor."

The boy's pleased look vanished. "I can lift it."

"Lifting it is not the only part."

After the practice Gawen made him return each piece dry to its place. Aries discovered how much work remained after his lord had taken the armour off. He tried to leave a buckle beneath the cloth. Jon found it when he came for his gloves and called him back.

Wylla sat nearby mending the elbow of the little black coat. She watched Aries take the buckle without argument, and set it down again only after he had cleaned the dirt from beneath its tongue. When she called him to try the mended sleeve, he came with his hands held out to show they were clean.

While Gawen took the horses out, Jon cleared the little table and laid down a worn copy of the northern road map. Aries came back from Wylla with his mended sleeve rolled up to admire the stitching.

"Here," Jon said, setting a fingertip beside Winterfell. "Find where we are."

Aries bent over the ink. "Where's the pig pens?"

"Too small to show."

"They're bigger than that." He pointed to the little square which stood for the castle.

"The square tells you where Winterfell is. It does not show the size of the walls." Jon traced the kingsroad south with his finger. "This takes you out of the town. Follow it with me."

At the turning towards White Harbor, Aries tried to take the straighter road. Jon brought his finger back and let him choose again. Arthur drew up a stool while they followed the branch towards the sea.

"Our factor Osric went that way with the clocks," Jon said. "At White Harbor he took ship. When you carry a message, you ask which road. When you send a man as far as Oldtown, you must ask about ships as well."

"Why not ride all the way?"

"You could. It would take longer, and the clocks would have to bear every rut. Find the sea."

Aries touched the blank space east of the coast. He knew the word now, though he had never seen more water than the river in flood. "Dragonstone's in there?"

"Farther south than this sheet shows." Jon fetched the smaller coast chart from his letter case and set White Harbor beside White Harbor. "Here is Gulltown. Farther down, my island."

Arthur held the curled corner flat while Aries followed the coast between them. The boy had begun to recognise some of the letters; he picked out the first of his own name in White Harbor and lost interest in the others.

"If it's yours, why do you live here?"

"I am preparing the men and the work we shall take there. My castellan Ethan keeps it for me until I come."

"Is White Harbor yours too?"

"No. Lord Manderly holds it."

"But our clocks go there."

"And pay to use his harbour." Jon tapped the square for Winterfell again. "Here, my neighbours have the right to bring cattle across the lower lane. My wagons must wait for them."

Aries frowned at the sea chart. "What if you send soldiers?"

"Then I have sent armed men to break an agreement I made before Lord Stark. He would have something to say about it."

"So would the neighbours," Arthur said. "And the next man Lord Jon asked to make an agreement with him."

The boy looked from one sheet to the other. He put a finger on White Harbor, then drew it carefully through the blank sea towards Dragonstone.

"That way?"

"By ship," Jon said. "Yes."

Jon gave him a scrap and the charcoal to draw the journey. Aries made a boat with a horse almost as large as its hull. Jon put away the charts while the drawing acquired a second horse and a strip of dry land for them to reach.

* * *

The cyvasse set from White Harbor reached the Black Yard with a merchant's next parcel of brass. Its box had plain iron hinges and smelled faintly of the cinnamon packed beside it. Jon unwrapped the pieces, checked them against the book and took the whole thing up to Winterfell that afternoon.

Luwin cleared his little table beneath the rookery window. He named the pieces, showed Jon how to set his ground and raised the screen between them. Above their heads a raven knocked its beak against a cage bar. The maester went up to settle it while Jon arranged his army, then returned and lifted the screen.

Jon lost a horse before he had quite understood what Luwin was preparing. He asked to have the move shown again. Luwin smiled and leaned over the board to show him, then put the pieces back where they had been and allowed Jon to continue from his mistake.

Robb found them there with the game well advanced. He pulled a stool beside Jon and watched Luwin move an elephant.

"Has he taken one of yours?"

"Another horse," Jon said as Luwin removed it.

Robb bent nearer. "You could take—"

"Let me finish this one."

Jon brought his dragon forward. Luwin considered it for a while before answering, and Jon began to think he had recovered enough to trouble him. Then he saw the approach he had left open beside his own king. Three moves later the maester took it.

"Again," Jon said.

"After Robb has had his turn." Luwin set the captured king upright and showed Jon where the trouble had begun. Robb was already drawing the box towards him.

Jon gave up the stool. He stayed to hear the maester explain the pieces again, watching Robb choose his ground far more cautiously than he had chosen his. When a servant came to fetch them for supper, Robb made her wait while Luwin showed him why a move he wanted would lose his horse.

Arthur waited outside the rookery. He nodded towards the game box and asked in High Valyrian, "How did you fare?"

"I lost," Jon answered in the same tongue, passing him the box.

"Against Luwin? You are in good company."

They carried the set down together. Robb wanted to borrow it the next evening. Jon agreed, provided he brought every piece back.

Jon had enjoyed himself, even in defeat. He wanted another game against Luwin now that he understood the pieces, but he also wanted to put Robb across a board whose rules he knew. He had played chess for most of his former life; the prospect of teaching his brother brought back his appetite for it. That night he drew an eight-by-eight board and set down the shapes of all thirty-two pieces.

Woods found a strip of dry birch among the offcuts. The men could be cut from it, he said, but no one was to expect fine horses' heads from a carpenter who had roofs to finish. Jon asked only that the pieces could be told apart. He inked the board himself while the glue dried beneath its frame.

Robb came upon him a few evenings later with the pale men arranged before an empty chair. He set down the mittens he had brought from Winterfell and examined a knight.

"Where are the elephants?"

"There are none. This is a different game." Jon moved the chair out with his foot. "Sit. You can have the pale side."

"What is it called?"

"Chess."

Robb settled opposite him. Jon showed him the towers first, then the septons and their slanting paths. The knight took longer. Robb lifted it over a pawn, put it down upon the wrong square and frowned when Jon moved it one farther across.

"It can jump over its own men?"

"And yours. But only to a square it can reach by that move."

"Show me again."

Jon did. He left castling until Robb could move the rest without asking and let him take back the first queen he offered. The second stayed beside Jon's cup. Robb stared at the gap in his line, then began making room for a tower.

Arthur stopped behind his chair. "Your king."

"I can see him." Robb bent lower. "Jon, wait."

Jon waited. Robb's frown over the board was giving him almost as much pleasure as the game. When the meal bell sounded, Robb asked whether they might eat there. Jon sent for bread and cheese, and Arthur took the spare stool.

Hewyn came in as they were finishing and returned the following evening to try it. Jon had a second board made for the officers' room. He wrote out the moves in a few plain lines and left the sheet with it, but for the first week men were forever coming to ask about a pawn at the far edge or a king that had nowhere to go. He went back with them when he could. Before long he was finding his chair occupied and two more men waiting to challenge the winner.

Robb borrowed the first set for an evening at Winterfell. When Jon arrived for supper, he found it in the family room, with Sansa in Robb's chair and Theon opposite her. Jeyne had drawn a stool close to Sansa. Robb stood behind them, trying to explain a move neither had asked him about.

"That tower cannot go through your own man," he said.

"I was moving him out of the way." Sansa set down the pawn she held. "You said I could move him two places at the beginning."

"You can," Jon said from the doorway. Sansa looked round at once, and Robb made room for him.

Theon turned one of the dark pieces upon its base. "Who taught you this? Luwin says it is not in his book."

"Jon made it," Robb said. "The board and all the moves." There was pride in the way he said it. Jon took the chair beside the hearth, close enough to see the game without standing over Sansa.

Theon put the piece back and looked up at Robb. "And you know them all?"

"Enough to beat you," Robb said.

"After me." Sansa waited until Theon looked at the board again before moving her pawn. Jeyne whispered something to her, then pressed her lips together when Robb leaned nearer.

Arya came to Jon with a captured knight in each hand. He made a place for her beside him and showed her the carved heads. She preferred the dark one; its nose had come out longer. Across the room Robb caught himself reaching over Sansa's shoulder and drew his hand back. A few moves later she took Theon's tower.

 

[aiwonder]

In the third moon of the lease, Jon stood inside the sixth of the first sleeping sheds and watched a swallow turn between the wall plates at its open end. It flew out over Woods's head with a wisp of straw in its beak.

"It has begun before us," Robb said.

"It need not house fifty," Jon answered.

Robb and Theon had arrived while the carpenters laid out the last truss. Their horses stood outside with Arthur's grey. Jon's coat hung upon a peg; lime dust whitened his black breeches, and a shaving had lodged in the pale lock beside his left eye.

Munin perched above the coat, turning a bent nail between her claws. When Woods reached for it she flew to the next post. Robb began to laugh, then covered his purse with one hand.

Beyond the doorway, rain had dulled the first barracks' shingles to old honey; the newest still shone yellow. Men were carrying bundles into the fifth. One had wrapped an astonishing number of possessions in his blanket. Another brought only boots and a wooden bowl. Clay stopped the gaps between rough planks upon low stone footings. Once this roof was covered, the last men could leave their tents. Proper stone barracks and passages would follow the tower work; Woods had framed the roofs so their sound timbers could be lifted and used again.

"Where did you find room for all this?" Robb asked. "There were nettles here."

"You helped cut them."

"There seemed rather more nettles than ground."

Jon smiled and took the measuring cord from Woods. The pegged triangular truss lay over the scratched lines used for its fellows, ready to fill the roof's last short bay. He checked its width and the two feet that would rest upon the wall plates.

"Hold there, Symon."

The spearman kept his end while Jon checked the second measure. Woods took the cord, coiled it, and waved the waiting men closer.

Robb picked up one of the short braces waiting beside the frame. "Where does this go?"

"Along the roof, between these and the next timbers." Jon showed him the angled ends. "The frame carries the weight across the room. The braces stop it leaning along the building when the wind presses against it."

Theon took the brace from Robb. "Even with those pegs?"

"The pegs hold the joints together. The whole frame can still lean. These braces tie it to the frames beside it."

"He will be asking all morning," Robb said.

"Then he can help Woods after dinner. There are plenty of braces still to fit." Jon went out with the carpenter to see the lifting ropes.

The last truss lay close to the end wall. Two stout poles rose above it, lashed together at their heads, with the tackle hanging between them. The lifting line ran to a windlass bolted upon a heavy timber bed. Woods had made its drum; Ewan had cut the teeth for the wheels Jon drew beside it. Within the open framing, the little wheel at the handle meshed with a much larger one on the drum.

"We have a windlass at Pyke," Theon said. He followed the rope with his eyes. "It takes more than those two to work it."

"Try the handle when they have taken the slack." Jon laid his hand upon the smaller wheel. "This turns several times before the drum turns once. You will have farther to wind, but less weight on each turn."

Theon looked up at the great beam, then at the two spearmen beside the handles. "That is a roof timber."

"I know what it weighs." Jon called Woods over to check the sling. "Leave the handles where I have set them. The men can change places without stopping the lift."

Jon crossed to the spearmen. Black coats lay along the wall beside water bottles and a loaf wrapped in a sleeve. Farther up the lane Hewyn's shouted commands punctuated the scrape of another company's feet.

Jon chose the men for the guide ropes and put Woods where he could see both ends of the beam. Arthur brought Robb and Theon beside the windlass.

"Take up."

Rope wound upon the drum and the truss rose, shedding wood chips. Once its whole weight hung clear, Theon glanced at Arthur. The knight stepped aside.

"Keep it moving," Jon told the nearer spearman. "Lord Theon, take his place."

Theon caught the handle as it came round. He braced for the weight; his first turn carried him farther than he intended. He found his footing, turned again, and looked up. The beam was still rising.

Robb left Arthur to see it from the other side. "You are doing it."

"I can see that." Theon was breathing harder now, but his grin had spread. He made another turn before letting the spearman take over. For once he left the questions to Robb.

Jon followed the nearer end towards the pencil line marking its seat. The guide ropes steadied the frame beyond the men's reach; Woods climbed the short ladder and put a shoulder behind his bar.

"Keep winding."

The beam came level with the wall. Jon moved outside, where he could see the far end.

"Towards me a little. That will do. Lower."

Wood settled against wood with a deep knock. Woods drove the first peg while his man secured the other end. Jon waited until they had fitted the braces, then had the men ease the windlass. Above him, the last frame stood against the pale sky.

A shingler put down his bundle and bent to examine the windlass. "Could I have a drawing of this?"

"Come back with Woods after dinner," Jon said. The man put on his cap and fetched his shingles.

The lifting crew drank at the well while Hewyn's company came to relieve them, each side making the usual remarks about easy mornings. A man with three water bottles stopped to give one to a friend. Beyond the last sleeping hall, Fourth packed turf along the western bank, now above a man's head. Each week Jon extended the work, taking different tens as drill allowed.

Ormund came from the tower with mortar upon his leather apron. The mason looked along the barrack plinth before approaching Jon.

"The hearth is ready, my lord. I have left the screen wall for after they move in. It will not hinder them."

Sun lay across the red hearth bricks and swept floor. Bed spaces lined a clear central passage; Woods's opposing windows let air move through the room.

"Finish the tower stair next," Jon said. "Wylla still has to go round by the yard whenever she wants the stores."

"We can begin after dinner."

Ormund went back to his men. Robb wandered to a window and leaned out, trying to see the kitchen fires. Theon looked at the rows of empty bed frames awaiting their straw mattresses.

"They will be pleased when it rains."

"They were pleased after the last rain," Arthur said. "They could see their roof timber coming up the road."

Jon took his coat from the peg. Across the run, men were extending the wheel pit's channel while a barrow brought foundation stone. The wheel remained a covered stack of timber beside the unfinished shelter for Ewan's work.

Wylla had set cold beef, mustard and baked onions beneath an awning. Theon washed; Jon found soot from the hearth bricks upon his own palms and joined him. Robb's bread split beneath a hot onion, and he reached for another piece.

"Your father asks whether you are coming tomorrow," Wylla told Jon.

"After the morning drill. Tell him I shall stay to supper."

"Sansa wants you to hear what she has learned upon the harp."

Robb swallowed. "She wants all of us. Septa Mordane made us sit through it yesterday."

"Was she good?" Jon asked.

"Better the second time."

"There were three times," Theon said.

Wylla set the mustard beside them. "Then she is practising."

A rider appeared at the gate with Perkin's boy, and Jon put down his onion. Osric's letter had come through White Harbor in a merchant's packet.

Osric was still near the Citadel, checking the nine candidates' references. Paid work in the North continued to draw enquiries; most ended when he mentioned the eventual move to Dragonstone.

His fuller report described a healer who had earned silver links, two men with iron links whose fathers worked metal, and a factor's son accustomed to accounts. A mason's son had brought drawings of a watercourse. Osric had kept him talking long after the first visit.

Jon read that part again.

"Good news?" Arthur asked.

"Useful men, if they are what they claim." Jon passed him the letter. "Osric has been to see their former masters. He is checking their work before he brings them."

Theon had gone to join Robb at the parapet, from which they could see the last rafters going up. Jon pulled the cloth over the remaining bread and stood.

Wylla's curtain still divided the guardroom. Riverbank flowers stood upon the chest beneath it. Jon moved his blanket and spread the papers on his own chest while Arthur brought the stool.

"He asks for something to put before them," Arthur said.

Jon found the drawing of the proposed wheelhouse. He set aside the page showing the drive and chose the simpler plan of the building and its channel. Beside it he laid Hewyn's notes about the javelins, then took a clean sheet to draw the ironwork that had given Ewan trouble.

"These can go. Have the mason's son draw his watercourse in section. I want to see how he joins the banks to his walls."

Arthur leaned nearer as Jon drew the shoulder below the point.

"And the smiths?"

"They can tell Osric how they would make this, and what iron they would choose. I shall learn more from that than from counting the links at their throats."

He wrote a short reply, asking Osric to bring the strongest candidates when his enquiries were finished. The healer was to describe the work he had actually done; the accountant could send a page in his own hand.

Arthur turned the building plan towards the light. "You mean to take them all south?"

"If I keep them. They will have time to learn beside me here." Jon rubbed a spot of dried mud from the corner. "Ethan can hire a mason. What I want is a man who knows why I put a drain where I do, and can lay the next one without sending across the sea to ask me."

"And when he disagrees with you?"

"He can show me his ground." Jon smiled faintly. "I still decide what we build."

By late afternoon the last stretch of shingles lay beneath the mallets. Robb was holding a ladder for Woods while Theon passed bundles up to him, his fine grey sleeves rolled and his expression suggesting that this had not been his intention when he left Winterfell.

Jon crossed to the tent ground with Martyn. Men shook old straw from their blankets; one crawled inside for a lost knife while another waited barefoot for a friend to find his shoes. Pale, flattened patches marked where they had slept.

Woods sent a boy back for a mallet left on the ridge, then called the men in. A broad young swordsman entered carrying two mattresses, reconsidered the window bed and dragged one farther inside. His companions followed so closely that Martyn had to clear the passage.

Jon stood in the smell of pine and fresh straw while the last tent poles went past. Voices filled the windows. Beneath a new bed, muddy boots stood carefully together.

Woods came beside him, looking up at the timbers. Beyond the far doorway Wylla was calling Robb and Theon to wash before they rode home. Robb shouted that they were coming. Theon was still brushing wood dust from his sleeves when they reached her.

The next day Jon rode up to Winterfell after drill. He left Arthur speaking to Jory in the lower yard and went through the Great Keep, following the broken phrases of a harp. Sansa sat by the family-room window with Jeyne Poole beside her. The tune was one Domeric had played at harvest; she managed the troublesome turn, saw Jon in the doorway and lost the next note.

"You remembered."

"I promised, didn't I?" Jon took the chair she had cleared for him. "Finish it. You had it right until you looked up."

She began again, this time keeping her eyes upon the strings. At the last note Jeyne shut the little book with satisfaction. Septa Mordane gave a nod from beside the hearth.

"Better. Put it away carefully." She turned to Jon. "She will want to practise the dance as well, Lord Black. She has been saving it for your visit."

"I promised her."

"Then move the spare chair before you begin." She returned to her sewing. Jon put it against the wall and sat down again. He could work with that much civility.

Sansa put away the harp, then came back with quite a different book. She opened it across Jon's knees at a coloured picture of a queen and her ladies. Their sleeves trailed almost to the floor; the queen wore a net of pearls over her hair.

"Wynafryd says they still dress like that at some of the southern courts. Not the crowns, of course."

Jon examined a blue sleeve. "You would trail that in every dish you reached for."

"You fold it over your wrist. Mother showed me." Sansa demonstrated with the narrower sleeve of her own gown. "You do not reach across a table anyway."

"Robb does," Jeyne said.

"Robb is not a queen."

"He would eat as much if he were," Jon said, and Sansa laughed before the septa looked up.

Thread marked pictures of riders before a pavilion and a feast with musicians in a gallery. Jon turned the book towards the window. Beneath the queen's chair sat a small dog; at the back, the painter had given two men little more than noses.

"Would King's Landing look like this?" Sansa asked.

"I have never seen its court."

"Uncle Arthur has. He tells me who rode in the lists, but never who danced afterwards, or what the ladies wore. He says he does not remember."

"He probably remembers which doors he had to guard."

"Then you must remember when you go south. Properly. Not merely whether your dinner was hot." She touched the painted pavilion. "I should like to see the entry of the knights. The banners and all the horses dressed together. Here half the men come to supper in whatever they wore in the yard."

"You would miss the ones who did."

"I would write to them. And they could visit."

The door opened. Arya entered with a pair of shoes dangling from her fingers and a look of innocence Jon did not trust. Robb followed her, carrying Bran because the little boy had refused to be left with his nurse.

"I found these outside," Arya said. She set Sansa's dancing shoes very neatly beside the chair.

"They were in my chamber."

"Then I found them there."

Sansa reached for the nearer shoe. Something rattled inside it. She tipped a little heap of dried peas into her hand while Jeyne covered her mouth. Robb put Bran down and turned towards the window, shoulders shaking.

Arya lifted her skirts in a curtsey so deep that her hair fell over her face. "For the princess. So everyone will hear her coming."

"Those are my new shoes." Sansa's voice had gone thin. "You have stretched the stitching."

"No, I haven't."

"They are Sansa's shoes, Arya," Jon said.

Arya's grey eyes narrowed as though he had joined the wrong army. Jon held out the other shoe. A pea rolled beneath his chair.

"Empty it."

"It was only a jest."

"Then you can finish it by picking them up."

Septa Mordane set down her sewing. Arya's face changed at once; she bent to the floor before the septa could begin. Sansa drew both shoes into her lap and inspected the soft seams.

"You are a baby," Arya muttered.

"And you are filthy. Look at your hands."

"They are clean enough."

"They are not coming near my things again."

Jeyne shifted closer to Sansa. Arya looked from one girl to the other. "Lyanna would have laughed." Neither answered. She gathered the peas in the hem of her gown, dropped one, and snatched it up before anyone could help her.

Robb made room at the window for Bran. Jon put the book on the table and bent to look at the shoes in Sansa's lap. The stitching had held. He told her so, but she still put them safely behind her chair.

"I wanted to practise," she said. "You promised."

"I did." Jon stood. "Which dance?"

"The one Wynafryd showed us. You go back too soon."

He let her place his hands. The first movement was slow enough that Jeyne could call it out from beside the table. Sansa watched Jon's feet, corrected his turn and began again. Soon she forgot to be angry long enough to smile when he managed it.

Arya stayed by the hearth. When Robb beckoned her to join him, she shook her head.

"I do not want to. You cannot even run in those shoes."

"Then do not," Sansa said. "No one is making you."

Bran wanted Robb to carry him through the turn. They nearly overturned the chair, and the septa sent them into the passage, where Jon found them after the dance.

Bran had taken one of the wooden swords from the nursery box. He thrust it towards Jon's belt.

"My sword," Bran said. He held it up for Jon to admire.

"A fine one. Will you let me pass?"

Bran lowered it and reached for Jon's belt instead. "Yours."

"Mine stays where it is." Jon caught the reaching hand. "Come down to the yard. We can find a shield for yours, and Arthur can show you how to hold it."

Behind them Sansa and Jeyne were arguing over the painted queen's sleeves. Arya went the other way with the peas, without saying goodbye to her sister.

Two mornings later Mairi spread one of the emptied tents across a bench. A rope had torn through its corner, and the cloth smelled of wet straw. Jon laid his drawing beside it. Woods held down the curling edge while Mairi followed the seams with a blunt finger.

"Room for a ten, my lord?"

"With their bedding. The cooking stays outside."

She measured the width again. "I would put another strip here. They will pull at that when the cloth is wet."

Jon added the strip to his drawing. They would use stout linen, with leather sewn beneath the rope holes and around the places where the poles pressed. He wanted a low ridge and sides that reached the ground, with an overlapping flap at each end. Mairi cut the first pieces while he and Woods worked upon the poles.

Jon had cursed enough equipment that packed well in a drawing and badly into a vehicle. He divided the ridge pole into sleeved, pinned sections and had Woods lay them beside Ralf's panniers. One stood too high; they shortened it before cutting the rest. Woods made shouldered hardwood pegs and a pattern for the other carpenters.

Ewan brought two spades and an axe. Jon chose the broader spade head as the pattern; its handle must be replaceable with timber cut on the road. He fitted a leather guard to the axe before letting it near the tent cloth. Elspeth's borrowed cooking pot stood beside it. She wanted it back before dinner.

"For the whole ten," Jon told Ewan. "They can share the fire and the pot. I want the other smiths' prices before we order the rest."

Woods brought over the carrying fork he had shaped from Jon's second drawing. A crosspiece held the rolled wool blanket above a hanging food bag. Malcolm and Symon came in from the yard to try the load. Jon tied on a cup, a small bundle of spare wool hose and a cover of oiled cloth, then had Malcolm take it upon his shoulder. Woods watched the crosspiece while Jon settled the ties closer to the shaft.

The blanket stayed behind Malcolm's neck and the bag rested against his back. His cup struck the wood with every step.

"We shall hear First coming," Symon said.

Malcolm stopped, tucked the cup beneath a strap and walked past him in silence.

Arthur lifted the second fork, cut shorter for Jon. "What do you call this one?"

"The bundle is a sarcina. The fork is a furca." Jon fitted the cover over his blanket.

"More old words?"

"Useful ones." He drew the lower tie tight and shouldered it. "Bring your shield, Malcolm. I want to see you put the load down."

They tried lowering the forks and bringing their shields forward at the gate. Malcolm's food bag dragged through the dust; Jon raised its fastening. Mairi's first tent needed a second line of stitching along one seam, and Woods secured a loose pole pin with a retaining thong.

Ralf balanced the folded tent against the pot and tools in the mule's panniers, with the short poles lashed above. He checked the padded saddle clear of the spine and led the beast through a tight turn. Jon tied the repair pouch where a man could reach it without unloading.

"One ten first," he told Woods. "They will carry it and mend what fails. Keep the patterns when we have put that right."

Perkin noted the linen and iron, and Jon had him seek pack beasts in small lots, working towards thirty for the cohort. Men would carry bedding and food; beasts and carts took the shared loads. The next tents, tools and blankets must be priced before another recruiting call.

Elspeth sent a boy for her pot before they had finished packing. Jon gave it back and told Perkin to add another to the order; they would need their own for the next trial.

* * *
​

A fortnight later Lew and Hennet carried the last lifting stone into the exercise room and set it upon its thick timber pad. Wet grass scented the air through the shutters; outside, Martyn's practice swords knocked together.

The room took two tens with space between them. Smaller stones stood beneath the windows; Mairi was reinforcing a sand sack's worn corner beside the clear central floor. At the far end, a smooth ash bar crossed two stout uprights, with a climbing rope beside it.

Jon left his coat on the bench and checked the joints with Woods. From a stool he reached the bar, drew his chin above it and lowered himself. The uprights held under his shifting weight. Arthur tried next; Woods watched the pegs, then told his apprentice to trim them.

Heward leaned upon the bar with both boots on the floor, moved a sack clear of the door and beckoned the men in.

"First's two leading tens. Leave the shields at the rack. Malcolm, take the window side; Symon, the other."

Hewyn sent the men in and went to bring the next company down from the field. Rain began tapping upon the shingles. Those nearest the windows closed the windward shutters while Jon laid a sack in the clear space between his boots.

Jon showed Malcolm and Symon the lift, holding the sack close as he rose and lowering it gently. Heward watched the two decani before allowing their men to take the stones.

Lew chose one of the larger pairs. His shoulder twisted as the second came up.

"Down," Heward said. "The pair by your left boot."

"I can lift those, Campidoctor."

"I saw. Now show me one you can put down as well."

Malcolm worked beside him with the smaller pair. Jon moved Hennet's stones closer to his feet, while Heward caught Symon lifting when he should have been watching his men.

Small groups changed between sacks, low-bar holds and the climbing rope. Heward kept the floor beneath it empty and brought down a lad kicking for a height his arms could not hold. Jon held a stool at the bar so weaker men could practise without swinging.

Mairi finished one sack and took another whose stitching had begun to pull. Heward named it to Tomas when the household arrived, then kept Malcolm and Symon at the door.

"Tomorrow you show the next two decani. I shall watch. Nobody takes a larger stone because the man beside him has one."

Jon took his coat from the bench. Tomas was already setting his file in pairs.

* * *
​

On the next dry afternoon, Jon and Woods raised a tally board beside the drill ground, where the men passed to the trough. Its six columns bore the century flags: white numerals above spearheads and shields, on black within purple borders.

Hewyn read the numerals. "What goes beneath them?"

"Wins. Shield games at the last drill of each sennight. One stroke for the century that wins its match. Change the men each sennight." Jon brushed a shaving from the board. "At the moon's end, the best century has a supper of its own choosing, if Elspeth can make it."

"Tell them that last part yourself," Hewyn said. "Or they will ask her to roast an aurochs."

Jon laughed. "She may refuse that."

The first contests began after the carrying gangs had put their tools away. Hewyn set straw bosses along the bank for javelins while Martyn brought out the practice shields. Men came from the washing trough still rubbing their hair, calling to friends in other centuries. Lew had tucked his shirt into his breeches crookedly. Hennet pulled it straight before he reached the throwing rope.

"You have made me miss," Lew said after his first shaft went wide.

"You have not hit anything yet."

The next went into the straw. Lew turned with his hands spread, and Hennet bowed to him so extravagantly that Malcolm told both to face the targets.

Hennet's last two shafts held in the straw, one beside the centre.

Coll won the final cast. Jon put a silver stag into his palm before the men, and Coll's grin widened when his friends began telling him what he owed them. Hennet received a copper for the change in his throwing. He kept turning it between his fingers until Lew told him it would buy no more for being polished.

At the shield square, four of First faced four of Third. They had to drive the opposing line beyond the cord while keeping their own men inside it. First rushed, opened in the middle and lost two men at once. The others tried to hold until Malcolm called them out. Third's waiting men shouted loud enough to bring Woods from the roof timbers.

Jon gave Norren the chalk. The centurion put the first white stroke beneath III while the victors crowded to see it. First's men stood farther back, already disputing their rush.

"Next sennight," Malcolm told them. "You may argue at supper."

The board filled slowly over the following weeks. Men stopped beneath it with wet hair or spades upon their shoulders; even those who had watched a match came to see its result written. When Third finished the moon ahead, Jon came to their hall as Elspeth's women carried in mutton pies. He sat with Norren for the first bowl. Outside, First's men were asking Malcolm whom he meant to put in their next four.

* * *
​

In the fifth moon, the First Cohort marched out to spend two nights beside the wolfswood. Poole had hired a rough pasture above a stream. There was no barrack waiting there, no cookhouse and no bank already cut. The men carried their bedding and food; the new tents went with the pack animals, together with older canvas which Mairi had patched for the journey.

The pages stayed with Wylla. Aries had put his bedroll beside Jon's until Gawen carried it upstairs again. He was still learning to ride within the yard. Jon left him three short lines for Perkin and promised to hear them upon returning.

Hennet had liked the carrying fork upon the short roads round the Old Watch. After half a day his right shoulder had grown sore. He shifted the shaft to his left, caught his cup against Lew's helm and received a curse for it. Ahead, men crowded at a narrow crossing. The rear ranks kept walking until Malcolm raised his voice.

Jon came back along the stopped column on foot, leading his horse. He watched Rennick's first ten clear the crossing before turning to Malcolm.

"Leave that distance when you move. If they stop again, you will have room to put your loads down."

Malcolm brought his men back a few paces. Jon waited beside the crossing until the next two tens had passed.

They reached the pasture with three hours of daylight left. A clump of ash trees stood beside the stream. Lew pointed towards their shade, already easing the fork from his shoulder. Malcolm stopped him before he could untie the blanket.

"We have not been given our ground."

First's flag went up beside a stake driven into the higher grass. Jon called the six centurions to him. Tomas had already taken the household beyond the field, leaving pairs upon the approaches.

Jon walked the ground with the officers before allowing the animals in. He took them first to the stream, where the mud showed the edge of its last rise. Grass lay flat beneath the ash roots. He scraped a shallow hole with the heel of his boot; water gleamed in it before they had finished speaking.

"No beds here," he said. "Drinking water from above that bend. Horses below the crossing. The privies go beyond the southern hedge, away from this stream."

Hewyn looked towards the higher slope. "First and Second there?"

Jon laid the first cord from the entrance across the field, with Arthur at its far end. The centurions set their flags in the barrack order: four spear centuries in their familiar places, swordsmen beside the two entrances. Fourth's rear tents would run down into wet ground; Jon moved them forward.

"Walk it with your decani," he told Rymond. "They must be able to find their own tents after dark."

Malcolm brought First through the entrance and found Sixth's canvas across the lane. Its bearers had put the bundles down where the pack animals stopped. Men behind Malcolm began spreading out to pass them.

"Keep your ten together," Jon called. He took one end of the nearest bundle while its owner caught the other. They carried it to Sixth's flag. "Unload at the tents. This road stays open."

Brus sent two men for the rest. A mule squeezed past, its pannier almost brushing Hennet's chest.

Hewyn divided the work. Some men remained armed while the digging parties took spades; others carried canvas and fetched water. Jon joined Malcolm's ten at the northern ditch, took off his coat and borrowed a spade. Hennet watched him begin cutting turf.

The ground was dry at the surface and heavy beneath. Jon lifted smaller pieces than the men beside him. He laid the first sods grass-down upon a cloth, then scraped the bottom until the cut was broad enough to work in. Malcolm knelt to judge its depth.

"Only this?"

"For two nights. The Old Watch has to hold through years of weather." Jon pointed to the stakes lying inside the cord. "We still need room for those on the bank. Keep the loose earth back from the lip."

Hennet cut until his shoulders ached worse than they had upon the road. When the relief came he surrendered the spade gladly. His hands were dark with soil, and there was still a tent to raise.

Lew forgot a retaining pin when they raised the ridge. The pole sleeve parted, dropping canvas over Hennet's head. Jon helped them lower it and fit the pin before trying again. He stayed until Lew had moved two pegs into firmer ground and Hennet had shifted his blanket clear of the cloth. The low clouds over the trees promised to test their work before morning.

By supper the ditch was continuous except at the entrances. One of Third's tents leaned; Gerralt had Fifth move a rope from the path to the water. The cooking fires stood clear of the canvas, but their pots were slower than Elspeth's kettles. Lew tried the barley and found it hard.

Jon ate with the centurions beside the northern entrance. Arthur sat upon a rolled cloak, his sword across his knees. Beyond them men lay back in the grass rather than return to the tents they had spent so long raising.

"Fifth have put their boots outside," Arthur said.

"They will fetch them when it rains." Jon scraped the last onion from his bowl. "Malcolm's men still have a drain to finish."

Hewyn looked towards First. "What has he left?"

"The channel above their tents stops short of the lane drain. Malcolm said it was finished. I want him to look again."

Hewyn called the decanus over. Malcolm went back with Jon, carrying a lantern. The shallow cut looked sound until they reached its lower end. There a ridge of untouched grass stood between it and the open drain. Malcolm set the lantern down and put his heel against the ridge.

"I meant to send them back."

"Then you should not have told me it was done. Fetch a spade."

They opened the end together. Jon poured half a bucket into the upper reach. Water crept down towards them, gathered in a hollow and stopped. He made Malcolm follow it back with the lantern, then scraped away the higher patch below the hollow. The next water ran through to the lane.

Malcolm reached for the spade. "I will bring them out to see it."

"Bring the two who cut it. The others have their own work." Jon wiped the handle before giving it back. "Tomorrow you take this tent down and choose another place for it. I want them to know what they are looking for."

Rain began while the lamps were being put out. Hennet heard it moving through the grass before it struck the canvas. He drew his feet farther into the blanket. Water whispered in the little channel outside; his bedding remained dry. Across the lane a man swore loudly enough to wake Sixth, and somebody called that he ought to have fetched his boots.

At the first change of watch, one of First's sentries came back alone. He had heard the relief being called and left his place before the next man reached it. Heward met him between the tents with his cloak over his nightshirt.

"Who has your post?"

The man pointed towards the tent from which the next watch was coming.

"That is not the post." Heward sent Tomas's nearest guard to stand there, then took the sentry to Hewyn. He had Malcolm fetched as well.

Jon came out with his cloak round his shoulders. Heward named the empty entrance and its temporary guard; he had checked that the other approach's relief was complete.

"I heard my replacement called," the sentry said.

"Called out of bed," Hewyn answered. "You left before he reached you."

Malcolm admitted that he had not walked the post with the new men. He had told them the length of the watch and where to stand.

Jon took them back to the entrance. He called the relief forward and stood between the two men while the first showed where the path disappeared beneath the trees.

"You leave when he has taken your place," he said. "Now tell him what you heard before you came in."

The man named a loose horse beyond the stream, then corrected himself. He had heard hoofs; he had seen nothing. Jon made the new sentry repeat it before dismissing the old one.

Hewyn kept him beside the entrance. "No leave for a sennight when we return. Malcolm will go with you at the next changes until you can be trusted to complete one." He turned to the decanus. "Show every man in your ten. Not just these two."

Heward brought the other duty decani to witness the next change. Jon and Tomas checked the remaining posts, hearing each sentry's report before he left.

Morning brought wet canvas, stiff fingers and no cookhouse to hide in. Jon had the tents opened to air. Malcolm moved his shelter, walking the ten along its new outfall before bedding went down. Lew tested the corner pegs; Hennet kept his blanket rolled until the pole pins were in.

Over breakfast Jon asked Hennet where he would put the tent in the next field. He pointed uphill, then stopped to look towards the stream.

"I should walk it first, my lord."

"Do that." Jon held out his bowl for the pot. The barley was softer this time.

When they struck camp, the men filled the pits and ditches and laid back the turf. Jon walked the pasture with the owner before they left. Two rails needed replacing. Hewyn paid the agreed damage from the journey purse and kept the reckoning for their return.

At the Old Watch, Hewyn asked when the whole cohort would go out again.

"In three moons. Different ground, two nights at least. Each time, change the men who dig, cook and keep the stores." Jon looked through the open barrack door, where Hennet was setting his cup upon its dry shelf. "Keep the shorter marches between. They have plenty left to learn."

Hewyn went to tell the centurions. When Malcolm brought the news, Lew fell backwards onto his bed and covered his face with a stocking. Hennet rubbed his sore shoulder and listened to the rain upon a roof somebody else would have to mend.

 

[aiwonder]

Oldtown was falling astern when Osric took his eldest son's letter from inside his coat.

The Hightower still rose above the roofs, pale in the morning haze. Somewhere high upon it, the clock he had brought south was counting out another hour. Its keeper had signed the final report. The money had been sent north, the smaller clocks delivered, and nine men waited aboard on the strength of promises Osric had made in Jon's name. For the moment, there was nothing he could do about any of them.

He unfolded the letter against his knee.

Lachlan had written that they were all well. Finlay had torn his good breeches climbing onto the byre roof to fetch Ailsa's ball, and seemed to think retrieving it excused the tear. Their little sister wanted to know whether her father would be home for her nameday. Osric counted the days again. If the crossing went well, he should have time enough.

Farther down, Lachlan wondered whether Lord Jon would be taking more men. His last letter had asked whether the soldiers were paid while they learned. Osric had answered that question, then filled the rest of his reply with news of Oldtown. He had carried this letter for a fortnight without answering it at all.

He had meant to take Lachlan with him on the next wool buying journey. The boy had a good head for figures, and Osric had already spoken of him to a merchant in White Harbor. They would have to talk when he got home. He wanted to hear his son ask for himself, and know what had drawn him to soldiering beyond the black coat and a wage of his own.

Finlay had added a crooked line at the foot of the page, asking for something from the ships. That, at least, Osric could manage. A little painted cog lay in his chest, wrapped against the rubbing of his boots.

Under it lay soft blue wool for Ailsa, bought in an Oldtown market. She had wanted a blue gown when he left. He hoped she still did; he had spent long enough feeling cloth between his fingers while the draper brought out dearer bolts. Wrapped inside was a small silver necklace with a bead of blue glass. Ailsa liked to fasten his cloak clasp beneath her chin and parade about in it. Now she would have something of her own to show her brothers.

A few years ago, a good price for Winterfell's wool had meant bringing home honey cakes, if there was enough left after the journey. He had paid for the necklace without borrowing from his next cargo. There was money set aside for all three children now, and their winter clothes were bought. Lachlan had mentioned that Finlay's sleeves were already too short. Osric had thought the new coat would last him longer.

Osric had once waited outside counting rooms while richer men finished their business. Lord Leyton's steward now answered his letters. At the king's feast a knight who had scarcely acknowledged him had shifted along the bench to make room. Osric could still remember trying to eat his beef while three great houses asked him for things he had no authority to promise.

Jon had since offered him a regular wage, his road expenses and the hire of whatever men he needed. Osric had accepted before his lord could think better of it. He was buying for House Black as well as carrying its goods now. There would be work for him when Jon went to Dragonstone; more than enough to keep him away from home for half the year unless he made some arrangement for the children. He would need to see the island, and ask the children what they thought of living beside the sea.

He folded the letter along its worn creases. Near the hatch, Lucan was trying to persuade Cadan to eat. Mallin had secured a place out of the wind and was telling a sailor where to put his chest. Henly and Emrick were examining the fastening of the ship's boat.

Osric had gone south with clock cases. He was going home responsible for nine young men.

Finding men had taken longer than settling the clocks.

Jon had wanted tradesmen's sons, young men who might learn his ways of working without a family quarrel whenever they dirtied their hands. Crofters' sons would do. So would bastards with an education and nowhere to use it. Osric had kept the younger applicants longest at his table in the Scribe's Hearth. A knight's nephew had arrived with two letters and asked which servants would attend him. Osric had sent him away with both letters. Others withdrew when they heard of Dragonstone, or wanted a lord's wages while they finished a chain and prepared to leave him.

He had gone back to their masters, their employers and, in Henly's case, the forge where he had learned his first trade. Luwin's recommendation had opened doors at the Citadel. It had not told Osric whether a man would turn up when promised.

By their third morning at sea, the men had begun bringing their questions to him as soon as he appeared on deck.

"Master Osric?"

Otho had come to stand beside him at the rail. The mason's son was little more than twenty, with broad hands scarred by work done long before this voyage. A narrow yellow-gold link hung from the cord at his throat: mathematics, the study that had taken him from his father's building sites into geometry and the measurement of watercourses. His drawings travelled inside a worn leather roll. He had wedged it above his berth, away from the spray that sometimes reached the hatch.

"The clock in the Hightower. You said a weight drives it."

"It does."

"Then what prevents the weight from running down at once?"

Osric shifted to give him room. "Something checks the wheels. A tooth at a time. Callum could tell you more, if his lordship permits it."

"And that governs all four faces?"

"They show the same hour. I stood in the square and checked."

"I saw them. I wanted to know how." Otho glanced towards the hatch. "And the northern wheelhouse—does he devise its machinery too? The drawing you sent me showed the building and its channel. Nothing of the drive."

"Because that was what he wanted you to work upon."

Mallin joined them, his cloak falling clear of boots that had cost more than Osric's whole riding kit. The third son of a wealthy Oldtown wine merchant, he had earned yellow gold too. His former master praised his sums; his father's clerk confirmed that he had kept the warehouse books. Osric had brought him for those reasons, though he wished the young man would sometimes let another finish asking a question.

"Does Lord Jon truly devise these things himself?" Mallin asked. "My father sells wine under his own name. He does not tread the grapes."

"Have you been told otherwise?"

"I have been told he is eight."

"He is."

Mallin waited. A sailor came between them with a coil of rope, and Osric moved aside to let him pass.

"After the king's clock was delivered, I told him a packing wedge had shifted at sea. He drew me a different block while I was still explaining it. The next cases went out with that block fitted. Woods could tell you who drew the clocks. So could Ewan, who made the ironwork."

"His father is Lord Stark," Abel said from behind them. "How does that make him lord of an island?"

Abel's own gold link had slipped beneath the mended collar of his coat. A Duskendale wool factor's son, he had helped Osric untangle a charge for fodder. They had spent half an evening over the receipts; Abel had wanted to see the tally kept by the man who fed the horses.

"The king granted it to him after the war," Osric said. "Lord Stark has men holding it until he is ready to go."

"And these works belong to the boy?" Mallin asked.

"House Black pays me. You will hear the terms from its lord."

Otho was still looking towards the hatch, where Callum had stowed his tools. "Would he let us study the mechanism?"

"Ask him."

"You say that often."

"You keep asking what he will do."

Abel laughed. Otho smiled reluctantly and went to Henly, already describing the question about the falling weight.

Henly listened with his head bent. Smallest of the party, he had a burn across one thumb and split skin beside his nails. His dull iron link marked warcraft, learned at the Citadel through bridges and siege engines; the forge work had come from four years in his father's shop. Beside him Emrick wore the same metal openly against a robe too tight across his shoulders. The Gulltown armourer's son had a flattened ear and a habit of asking how anything was fastened. He had helped repair scorpions upon his city's walls. Henly knew the Oldtown engines. They had spent the previous evening comparing them.

Osric could not promise either man a place. That troubled him more now than it had across a tavern table.

Nyles waited until the others were occupied before approaching. He was the youngest, with a black iron link small enough to disappear when he closed his fingers round it.

"You said he might need someone for his ravens."

"He may."

"I have only the one." Nyles opened his hand. "Lorren has two. Half the others have gold."

The black iron meant ravenry. His keeper had spoken well of his care of the birds; Nyles himself seemed to think Osric had brought him by mistake.

"Gold would be little use if the bird flew to the wrong castle. Tell him what you have done."

Nyles looked out across the water. "Would there be a place in the North? When the others went south?"

"I told you at Oldtown. He means to take his household with him."

"I remember."

Osric would have to make certain he remembered when the time came to swear. He watched the young man go to sit beside Lorren upon a spare spar lashed to the deck. Lorren Flowers had two pale silver links for healing, earned through further study and work with patients. Osric had spoken to the physicians named in his letters. His knightly father had given him little beyond the bastard's name; his crofter mother had found the means to send him to Oldtown. When Cadan had rubbed his heel raw aboard ship, Lorren had dressed it and made him stop wearing the offending shoe.

Cadan was still limping. Lucan moved to let him sit beside them and rescued the bread he had been about to put down in a wet patch. Copper showed at Lucan's collar, reddish beside the gold of Cadan's single link. History for one, numbers for the other; both had kept themselves by copying the Citadel's accounts. Osric had seen the smallness of their bundles when they left their lodgings.

"Five places," Lucan said, watching Mallin return to his sheltered seat. "Nine of us."

"You knew the number."

"It seems a smaller number now we have sailed."

"There was no one offering you a place at home," Cadan said. "Nor me. We might as well be cold where someone is willing to look at our work."

Osric had promised their passage back, and a month's wage for coming. He reminded them of both. Lucan thanked him without much warmth. He wanted employment, not another journey.

They talked of the work throughout the voyage. Otho filled spare scraps with questions. Nyles was ill whenever the sea rose, and Mallin discovered that no payment would buy him a berth which did not move. At White Harbor, Garrick arranged wagons for the empty Hightower cradles and mounts for the men. Osric sent word ahead, then took the road he had travelled with wool for years.

Six days later his knee was aching and the traffic had begun to thicken. A cartload of hides held them at a narrow turning; beyond it he could hear the Black Yard's hammer. He sent Garrick on with the cradles. A guard at the fork told him that Lord Jon was at the Old Watch, and the nine followed him up the rise.

Emrick reined in first.

The timber fence enclosed a long rectangle with rounded corners. At its centre stood the old stone fort, its crooked walls at odds with the straight roads Jon had laid out around it. Osric could see through the open gate to the crossing beside the old curtain wall. Low barracks stood in rows along the approach, their fresh shingles yellow beside roofs already weathered by rain. Beyond them, cords marked the ground for more buildings. Masons were still at work upon the old tower.

"Is this an army camp?" Henly asked.

"His men live here," Osric said.

Henly looked along the bank. "There is room to form inside the fence. And get to the gate without passing between the sleeping quarters."

"The roads cross square," Otho said. "He has left the same space for the next buildings."

Emrick watched a file of men carry spades through the gateway. Their shields were stacked under a shelter beside the lane. "Are those his soldiers doing the digging?"

"They were when I left." Osric scarcely recognised the place himself. Jon was only in the sixth moon of his lease. The circuit had been a line upon the ground then. The upper walk still lacked boards, and carpenters were working upon one gate tower, but it could now be closed at night.

Mallin had stopped smoothing his cloak. A command carried across the enclosure; beyond the barracks, spearheads rose together and settled. Lucan stood in his stirrups to see.

"How many men?"

"Ask the man with the roll when we get inside. I have been in Oldtown."

They waited at the gate for a stone cart from Lord Cerwyn's quarry. Osric recognised the driver, who had carried his wool when there was little other work to be had. The man raised a hand to him and turned towards Ormund's heaps.

Jon came from the tower with Arthur beside him. His black coat was brushed, though lime marked his boots, and a white lock lay loose across his forehead. Osric had carried his handwriting half the length of the realm. Seen again beside Arthur, he was painfully small.

Osric dismounted carefully. Jon noticed the leg and sent a boy for a stool before asking for the recommendations.

"Nine worth bringing before you, my lord. Their letters are in the chest."

"And the bell chambers?"

"Measured. I checked them myself."

Jon greeted the men by name as Osric introduced them. Emrick's bow came a moment late. Mallin looked from the child to Arthur, who had taken the reins and was listening like any other man awaiting instructions.

When Otho came forward, Jon asked for the watercourse section.

"You brought the outfall farther down the run than I marked."

"The fall was better there, my lord." Otho fumbled with the wrapper. "I explained in the letter—"

"I read it. We will walk it tomorrow. Harlon knows how high the water comes."

Otho had freed the roll but did not open it. "You read the working as well?"

"I have questions about it. After you have eaten."

A crow landed upon the fence behind Jon and began picking at the wood. Three white feathers showed in its folded wing. Nyles watched it while Osric found Callum's report.

Jon gave them three days' work to begin with. Each would work beside the people whose duties he hoped to share; afterwards Jon would hear from both. There were rooms waiting at the Black Yard. Osric was to eat before they opened the clock accounts.

He had intended to insist upon that himself. He let the boy help him up from the stool.

At the late meal in the Black Yard, Osric sat by the window with Jon and Arthur. Henly's washed hair was wet round his ears. Abel waited for Jon to take bread, while Mallin examined the cloth laid beneath the serving dishes. Osric asked whether the cookshop by the Citadel gate had truly changed hands.

"The daughter has it now," Henly said.

"And waters the broth," Lucan added.

"You always went when she was scraping the pot," Lorren said. "I ate well enough."

That started an argument about what one could expect for a copper. They had lived in the same streets for years without knowing one another, and soon found half a dozen people in common. Osric ate while they talked. Later he gave Jon Ethan's letter: Qavo had reached Dragonstone with his family and apprentices. They were lodged near the shipyard, and the receipts for their release were enclosed with Pello's account.

Ewan's hammer sounded outside. Henly paused with bread halfway to his mouth, listening to the change in its beat.

"Would you rather see the forge?" Jon asked.

"If it pleases your lordship."

"Finish eating. I will take you round afterwards."

Before dusk Jon took them through the hall and packing yard. William was closing the cases; Jon asked him to show Emrick the hinges while Otho unrolled his drawings upon a clear bench. Osric left them there. His knee had stiffened again, and the stool beside the kitchen hearth was empty.

* * *
​

Otho spent his first morning with Jon at the wheelhouse's open foundations. Before showing him the drawing, Jon took him down the proposed lower race to its return into Miller's Run.

Harlon the miller came down with them. "That hollow fills when the run is high." He pointed to a silt line above the alder roots.

Otho took the height against Jon's cord, bracing a knee upon the slope to write. He examined the gravel beyond the bend and paced back along the proposed channel.

"Carry it out there," Jon said, pointing to the gravel. "We have more room to discharge. Keep the wheel where it is."

"More cutting," Otho said. He put the figure beside the first. "Less stonework."

Jon spread the drawing on a stump. "Show me the section."

Otho drew the bed and sides, making the deep part distinct from the ground above. Jon added the clearance beneath the wheel. They worked with their heads close to the paper while Harlon walked the length again. When the miller returned, he asked for steps on the near side, where a man could reach the channel to clear it without climbing past the shaft.

"Here," Jon said, leaving space on the plan. "And the bank must let him bring a barrow down."

By noon Otho had drawn the section and falls and counted the cutting. His sums held, and the steps left the channel's width intact. Harlon took the section to Woods; Jon kept the plan of the holding.

"Put the heights on this as well."

Otho entered his heights. Jon joined two equal ones with a charcoal curve, then took him back up the muddy bank to find more with the level. The curve passed through each. As Jon began another below it, Otho reached for his dividers, then stopped. He bent closer to the drawing.

"The ground falls sharply here," he said, indicating where the curves drew close. "But this shelf is nearly level."

"Aye. Keep the same fall between each line. We shall carry them across the holding."

Otho followed the wider-spaced curves down from the fort's bank towards the run. "I have spent days drawing sections across ground like this." He looked up at Jon. "And I had the heights all along."

"Harlon's hollow comes back almost to the bank." Otho laid two fingers beside the watercourse. "We could show where the flood reaches."

"If we measure the marks it left," Jon said. "Find Harlon tomorrow. He can show you what the run does in winter." Jon rubbed his cold fingers together. "When we survey Dragonstone, we shall make plans like this. The builders will need them when I am elsewhere."

Otho turned the paper to study the slope from the other side. "May I keep this one, my lord? I should like to try it on the ground beyond the bank."

"Of course. Finish it. Bring the places you are uncertain of, and we shall measure them together."

At Harlon's call, Jon left Otho with the rolled plan and went to show Woods where the steps would enter.

* * *
​

On the second morning Jon brought Henly and Emrick to the old drainage cut above Miller's Run. Hewyn had lent them men from the six centuries. Woods's short bridge frames lay upon sledges beside the bank.

The acolytes spread their drawings. Henly had carried his proposed abutments back beyond the scoured earth; Emrick's diagonals brought the weight into sound timber at the joints. Both had studied bridges at the Citadel. Jon went through their sums before showing them his own sheet.

"Keep your seats there," he told Henly. "We shall use the longer frames. Emrick, these crosspieces come out when we move it."

Emrick examined the iron shoes. "Each loose joint will work when a wagon crosses."

"Fit this one." Jon handed him a wedge. When it was seated, he had the men lift and turn the frame. The joint held. "Now take it apart."

Henly watched the pieces return to the sledge. "We would usually fit and mark each timber for its own place."

Jon took a crosspiece from the other heap. "Try this."

It fitted. Emrick tried another, then compared both with Woods's gauge. A broken crosspiece could be replaced without cutting its neighbours loose.

"Keep the gauges with you," Jon said. "I want another crew able to put this together after you have taught them."

They drew the assembled span across on rollers. When one corner led, Henly halted the pull and corrected the ropes. By afternoon both ends rested upon their prepared seats.

Emrick reached for the empty cart. Jon stopped him and had weighted sledges drawn onto the deck by rope. They watched the joints against a stretched cord, checking after each unloading how much movement remained.

One shoe had begun to fret against its timber. He made them unload the span and open it. Emrick found the poor bearing before Jon spoke and asked Woods for a broader seat. They tried it again next morning.

When the bridge had carried the proof loads, Jon crossed with Henly, who kept looking beneath the deck.

"Strip it after dinner. Hewyn's next party will build it from the same load. Watch where they need your help."

* * *
​

While Otho measured the race, Abel began on three clock accounts Perkin had left unreconciled amongst wages and stores. He wedged a stool's short leg with a scrap and spread the accompanying letters.

Near noon he brought two pages to Perkin. "The lion's earnest appears twice. This entry is the promised sum from the letter. This one is the coin you actually received."

Perkin looked at the dates, then reached for the receipt. "The copy should have been struck through."

"The felt may have been charged twice as well. I shall ask William what he packed."

By dusk the duplicate was cancelled and the felt traced to a second delivery. Abel had separated promised payments from coin received; Perkin was copying outstanding orders beside the costs still owed, with carriage letters tied to each.

Jon asked how long the copying would take and put two young scribes at Abel's disposal.

"My father could not abide a clerk who remembered a thing but could not find it," he said.

"He would get on with Poole." Jon explained who Winterfell's steward was, then put the household roll, grain account and barrack estimates beside the clocks. "Tell me what I can spend upon those roofs. The men must still be paid and fed."

Mallin brought his reckoning while Abel was out with the storekeeper. His columns were straight, his additions correct. He had put the unpaid balances against the cost of the next barrack range and allowed for timber Jon had not yet bought.

"You could begin both roofs, my lord. The merchants will give time against debts of that quality."

"How much time?"

"My father commonly settles at the end of a moon."

Jon drew the nearest clock order towards him. "This balance is due after delivery and seven days' running. It is still on William's bench. What will you promise the timber merchant if a wheel cracks during the trial?"

Mallin looked at the order. "A short extension."

"At what price?"

"That would have to be agreed."

"Then find the price before you tell me I can afford it. I will hear an offer of credit. I will not spend it while we are still guessing its terms."

Mallin glanced at Perkin, who had stopped copying. Jon waited until the acolyte looked back at him.

"Abel has gone to check the stores. Go with him tomorrow. Some of the sound timber is already promised to the bridge work."

"Surely the storekeeper can send his tally. My father employs men for that."

"So do I. You would be responsible for what you advise me to spend." Jon returned the reckoning. "Learn what is there."

Abel returned with the storekeeper's tally checked against the timber itself. He had set aside what Woods needed for repairs and separated the wages due from the coin available for building. They could buy the first roof timber now; the next range must wait for balances still owed upon clocks. Jon heard him through and approved the timber.

Mallin accepted the sheet with both hands. He asked Osric that evening whether there was another post, one concerned with buyers and correspondence. Jon had Osric for that work. By morning Mallin had decided to take the promised passage home. He made his farewells courteously, though he sought out Arthur to deliver them. Osric went with him to settle the travelling arrangements.

Lucan and Cadan kept their figures neatly, but neither had Abel's experience of buying and selling wool. Jon told them he had chosen Abel for the accounts. Lucan asked when a ship might take them south. Cadan began folding the spare sheets, smoothing each with the side of his hand.

Perkin's evening pupils arrived while they were there. Cadan sat beside Murch, breaking an unfamiliar word into sounds. Lucan caught a spearman reciting from memory and changed the order of the words. Jon brought fresh lines the next evening. This time both pupils could read without their teachers speaking first.

"Could you do this regularly?" Jon asked when the men had gone. "Perkin has begun the officers. I want the soldiers taught as well."

Lucan looked at the slate Murch had left. "I thought you meant a few men chosen for command. You want schoolmasters for the whole company, my lord?"

"For all six, as we can make room. Letters, and enough reckoning to read an order for grain without fetching Perkin."

Cadan put down the sheets he had folded. Lucan was still looking at Jon. "I have copied muster rolls for captains. They kept clerks for that. I have never heard of a lord teaching all his soldiers."

"I mean to promote the men who prove themselves," Jon said. "But they must be able to read and write before I give them command. I won't have a good man passed over because he was never given the chance to learn."

Cadan nudged Lucan's arm. "We might as well hear him."

"I am hearing him."

"What else have we? We crossed half the realm to get here. I've no work waiting in Oldtown."

Lucan rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Neither have I. But I had hoped—" He stopped, conscious of Jon watching them.

"For the accounts," Jon said. "Abel has them. Your passage home is still paid for if you want it."

Cadan turned the slate over. On its back Murch had written his own name, pressing hard enough to chip the chalk. "He asked whether he could write to his father when he'd learned enough." He put it down beside the folded sheets. "How many would we be teaching at once?"

"Tell me what you can manage."

"Ten beginners apiece," Lucan said. "To start with. More than that and I'll spend the whole lesson finding who has lost his place."

"Those who can read a little should sit together," Cadan added. "They need different work."

Jon agreed. He offered a year's wages, meals and quarters, with time outside the lessons for their own studies. They could renew the arrangement each year. If they remained when he left the North, their work would go with him to Dragonstone.

"And books?" Cadan asked.

"Show me what you need. Perkin has primers. I can lend you histories."

Lucan looked towards the door through which the soldiers had gone. "If they are sent out, are we paid while we wait for them?"

"You are paid for the year. There will be work to prepare, and boys in the household who need teaching."

"That is better than being paid by the sheet," Cadan said to Lucan. "And warmer than the room I left."

Lucan studied Murch's slate a moment longer. "A year, then." He faced Jon. "I will do it, my lord."

Cadan agreed before Jon could ask him. Perkin brought the wage book and sat with them over the duty groups. Lucan began separating the men who knew their letters from those who had only learned to write a name. Cadan went looking for the primers.

Hollan brought the household boys' work next day and stayed while William read. He showed Cadan where the boy now corrected himself, then let William finish without help. Perkin paid what Hollan was owed. He left the primers and returned to letter-writing in Winter Town; his pupils kept their midday lessons, apart from the soldiers' evening groups.

* * *
​

Branoc's chisel gave Lorren work before the trial was over.

The carpenter came into the infirmary with a rag twisted around his hand and blood running to his elbow. Lorren sat him down, his broad face composed as he loosened the rag and pressed a clean cloth over the wound. Wylla brought water and held the basin while he washed. He asked Branoc to move each finger, testing what the cut had damaged before reaching for his needle.

"Look at me," Wylla told Branoc when he began to sway. "Not at that." She kept him talking about his little girl while Lorren worked.

When the bleeding had stopped, Lorren dressed the hand and settled Branoc by the hearth. He stayed until the carpenter could drink without spilling.

When Jon entered, Branoc tried to rise. Jon kept a hand upon his unhurt shoulder.

"Show his lordship," Lorren said.

Branoc moved each finger. His mouth tightened with the effort. Jon waited for Lorren's examination before asking what work he could safely do.

"Nothing that pulls upon the hand, my lord. Let it rest first. I shall look again tomorrow."

Jon sent word to Woods. Branoc looked towards the door as the message went.

"Your wages continue," Jon told him. "Let Master Lorren tend it."

Wylla brought Branoc broth and showed Lorren the linen. He held a clean fold to the light and asked who washed it; she answered while separating the bloodied rags.

Nyles came to Jon on the third evening, turning his black iron link upon its cord. He asked again whether there might be a place for him in the North.

"I need a keeper who will go to Dragonstone," Jon said.

"Master Osric told me. I thought there might be birds to tend here as well."

"There will be. But I am choosing the men I shall take with me."

Nyles let the link fall against his robe. "Then I should not swear, my lord."

Jon agreed and sent him to Osric for his trial pay and the promised passage. At the door Nyles stopped to ask whether he could have a letter saying he had left freely. Jon wrote it himself.

* * *
​

The five chosen for the specialist posts stood in the repaired lower room of the Old Watch on the fourth morning. Their links remained upon leather. Lucan and Cadan had agreed their separate teaching terms with Perkin; they would draw household wages without entering the companies.

Lorren would tend the works and companies, consulting Luwin on difficult cases; Wylla kept charge of linen, meals and washing. Otho would lead the fabri in building the bridges, engines and works he designed with Jon; his own lessons would begin with watercourses and foundations. Henly and Emrick would command and train the engine crews in use, maintenance and field repair. Jon would choose able lads passed over at the next muster. Abel took House Black's wages, provisions, rents and building money into one account with the island's returns. Perkin retained the clock books and reported their earnings and costs to him.

Jon stood beside the table in a fresh black wool doublet, the little square badge sewn flat over his heart. He named the posts, wages, quarters, and limits before any man knelt.

"Seven years, unless I release you sooner," Jon said. "You will keep the guarded work of my house, account honestly for what I put in your hands, and teach the apprentices assigned to you. If you cannot settle a disagreement about the work, bring it to me."

Before they swore, Abel declared a small debt to an Oldtown bookseller. Osric had already recorded it; Jon had the sum advanced against Abel's wages so the claim could be settled. The others owed nothing.

He gave them time to read the terms, including the provision for injury in his service. Then he called Lorren forward.

Lorren swore by the Seven. Otho followed by the old gods, and Henly, Emrick and Abel took their oaths in turn. Jon heard each man, then bade them rise.

Osric paid their promised wages. Henly tucked his link away and followed Perkin to find Hewyn: the bridge frames needed moving for Otho's afternoon work. Emrick asked to send for tools left with his father in Gulltown.

"Give Osric the list," Jon said. "And a letter to go with it."

Lorren asked Wylla to show him the barrack beds. Jon called Abel back beside Perkin's old household book.

"This goes to Abel, with the two young scribes. Keep the clock book, Perkin. William needs someone who knows what each buyer ordered."

Perkin drew the thick book out from beneath a tied packet. A bent quill had been trapped between its leaves. "And who remembers when he changes his mind."

"You have the letters for that."

"Three from the same man this moon. He began with pine and now wants oak, for the price of pine." Perkin handed the book to Abel. "The tenants' rents are towards the back. Gerren brings his own tally. Ask for it before you set down what the miller says."

Abel opened to the place and kept a finger there. "When will you bring me the clock money?"

"At the week's end, with the receipts."

"And the wages and materials paid out," Jon added. "Make sure Abel has the earnings before I promise them elsewhere. Bring any new undertaking to me before you agree to it."

Abel offered to go through the unpaid bills that afternoon. Perkin handed him the sheaf, then snatched back a small square of paper.

"That one belongs with the clocks. Two keeper's keys and a new cord."

Abel shifted his stool for Perkin. Otho was sorting his measured sections from the sketches made beside the run.

"Bring your roof drawing after breakfast," Jon told Otho. "Keep the working beside it. We shall choose with Woods before he begins."

Arthur walked with Jon down to the run. Otho had stopped at Woods's timber pile; Emrick was looking back at the bridge frames. Below the bank, hammering covered their voices.

"Your father would have wanted to speak to Otho," Arthur said.

"About the bridge?"

"About what he had read, and why he had left it for this." Arthur stopped beside the alder. "He liked men who could answer his questions."

"Did he like their answers when they disagreed with him?"

Arthur looked at him. "He listened to Aemon. I thought he listened to me." He was quiet for a moment. "I cannot tell you how much of my counsel he took."

Jon looked north beyond the new roofs. Aemon's counsel had interested him even when he knew the man only from the books. Here he could ask his own questions. The thought of speaking with someone whose years exceeded his own held a private appeal too, though the maester could never be told why.

"I want to hear what Aemon says of him," Jon said. "I still mean to make that journey."

"Then write to Benjen when we have the time." Arthur looked towards the new men crossing the yard. "Tell Aemon something of what you are doing here. He will have questions of his own."

Ewan had hired two northmen while Osric travelled inland: Noll, an armour fitter from White Harbor, and Bennard, who brought his Cerwyn bloomery's furnace book wrapped against rain. Jon examined their work before accepting them. Noll took the armourers; Bennard worked under Ewan at the furnaces and heavy hammer.

A shout rose from below. The grinding wheel had begun to turn. Jon went down with Arthur while Bennard opened the sluice farther.

Inside the shelter Ewan held a rough blade against the wet stone. The changed sound drew Noll from his bench. Jon watched the bearing under pressure, then signalled Ewan to ease the blade away. The stone ran freely.

"Bring the tools from the wall men first," Jon told Bennard. "They will need them before morning."

Noll took Ewan's place with a chipped chisel. Sparks scattered over the wet boards. "My father would have put me at the handle. Half a day, when his tools had got ahead of him."

By the last chisel, Noll's sleeves were soaked and three carpenters waited outside. He asked about driving more stones. Jon uncovered the larger wheel's drawing for him; Ewan stood grinning beside the empty basket.

After supper Otho brought his roof drawing to Jon's workroom. Henly and Emrick followed with thin ash strips and two trestles. Jon moved one clear of Wylla's sewing and examined the longest beam upon the plan.

"Why this depth?"

"My father used it over a hall of that width. His carried slate; yours carries less."

"And if the merchant cannot give us that section?"

"We can deepen it and narrow the face. Within reason—a narrow beam needs keeping upright."

Jon chose a straight strip twice as broad as it was thick. Henly weighed equal amounts of sand into four small bags while Emrick set the trestles. With its broad face uppermost, the ash bent visibly under a bag hung from the middle. Otho measured from a taut thread. They took the bag off and watched the wood return, then turned the same strip upon its edge and hung the weight again. This time the bend was much smaller.

"How much for the same bend?" Jon asked.

Otho examined the end. "Twice, I should say. Perhaps a little more."

"Three," Emrick said.

Henly wanted to measure again. Jon waited, then had each man write his guess. He set his own beneath them and pushed the sheet to Otho.

"Four?" Otho asked.

"Four bags in all. Try it."

Emrick added the weights. At the fourth, the strip had bent almost as far as it had under one when laid flat. Otho held the rule while Henly checked the line of the thread. They unloaded it and tried once more. The difference was small enough to lose beneath the edge of Otho's thumbnail.

Emrick stared at the four written upon the paper. "You had that before we touched it."

"The measurements give it to us."

"I know a beam stands better upon its edge," Otho said. "I have never been taught how to reckon the difference. Is there a book?"

There had been books enough on the shelf beside his old desk. Jon could recall the diagrams readily; the name on the spine would not come. For a moment he wanted to put the volume into Otho's hands and let him argue with that.

"I can write the working for you."

Jon drew the two ends. "Use the same measure for both. Multiply the breadth by the depth, then by the depth again, then once more."

Otho set down the figures. With the strip on edge, its breadth was halved and its depth doubled. He went through the multiplication twice, then divided one result by the other.

"Four." He drew the figures closer to the lamp. "That is all?"

"For comparing these two, with the same wood and the same distance between the supports. Change the distance and we must account for that too." Teaching without the notation Jon had used for decades took care. He had to let them finish one calculation without filling the margin with three more.

Otho rested a hand upon the roof drawing. "My father keeps the sizes he has used for years. When a hall is wider, he goes to see one of that width. He would not believe this from a letter."

"He could test it for himself."

Henly gave a short laugh. "Mine would fetch his own timber and try to prove it wrong."

"Let him." Jon put a fresh sheet beside Otho. "Now keep the breadth. Double only the depth."

Emrick drew his stool closer. Otho worked more quickly, stopped at the answer and looked back at the first calculation.

"Eight times as much weight?"

"For the same small bend, using the same kind of sound timber. The length must stay the same, and the deeper beam must be kept upright."

"With twice the wood." Otho laid his palm beside the section upon his roof plan. "Could I bring you another drawing?"

"Bring three, with the timber each would take. Woods must be able to buy what we choose."

Henly had picked up a second strip, where a dark knot broke the grain. "This could break before it bent so far."

"It could. Keep that piece apart." Jon laid it beside the clear ash. "We have measured how far one strip bends under a weight. We have not found what will break it. Nor can it tell us every fault in a great beam."

Emrick turned the knotted piece over. "A wagonload will never be all of one quality."

"Then we allow for poorer timber than the best we tried. We choose it carefully, and we test what we build." Jon moved the roof drawing between them. "Begin with the least we will accept."

Henly asked about a longer span. They shifted the trestles along the same strip and marked the new distance, keeping the weight in the middle. Emrick had stopped guessing aloud; he wanted the working first. When Jon showed how doubling the clear span could give eight times the bend under the same weight, Otho took another sheet.

They were still measuring when the lamp began to gutter. Henly reached for the oil. Emrick had his coat off and a smudge of charcoal across one cheek; he had forgotten to call Jon "my lord" for the last three questions.

"After breakfast," Jon said when Otho asked about bringing the roof sections. "We will choose with Woods."

"May we keep the apparatus tonight?" Emrick asked.

Jon let them take it downstairs. Otho lingered to copy the last calculation, crossing out a sum when his haste led him wrong.

"Will you let me study the wheel's machinery as well?" he asked. "I have been trying to understand the drive from what Callum told me."

"You will be working upon it. Bring your questions when we have chosen the roof."

Otho gathered his sheets, then came back for the ruler he had left beneath the drawing. Emrick was calling from the stair. He went down to join him, still reading.

* * *
​

The next morning Jon brought Woods to the pegged ground beside the barracks, well inside the new bank and timber fence. He stretched a cord across the grass and waited while Woods counted the paces.

"A schoolroom," Jon said. "Large enough for sixty at the benches. Perkin needs his workroom back."

Woods looked towards the exercise hall. "I could divide one end."

"Leave that for the weights. This stands apart from it and the sleeping rooms." Jon moved the corner peg to clear the barrack path. "Windows along both sides. A hearth here, and room for benches with tables before them."

Woods shortened one side of the cord. Longer beams would mean another timber purchase; two rows of posts could carry the roof with what he had. Jon walked between the proposed rows, then brought Cadan and Lucan to judge the light. They asked for a cupboard that would keep the books dry and a lectern at each end. Jon had Abel pay for both, with slates, chalk and lamp oil.

Five weeks passed before the schoolroom was ready. Jon saw the posts raised between journeys to the Black Yard and helped hang a shutter. Woods widened benches too narrow for a man working at a slate. Rain delayed the roof; the teachers kept taking turns at Perkin's table.

The first pupils came after supper. Hewyn had arranged reliefs for two lessons a week per group, with two other groups due next evening. Officers sat among common soldiers according to what they could read. Murch and Hennet took the window bench; across the room Lucan lit a lamp for the men still learning their letters.

Cadan changed a grain order from the west gate to the well. Murch began with the remembered words, stopped and bent nearer the slate. Hennet waited for his turn. When the lesson ended, Murch asked to keep the slate; Cadan gave him fresh lines to practise. Jon went out to Hewyn while Lucan brought three latecomers to the other bench.

"Keep an evening for me as well," Jon told Hewyn. "Every fortnight. You and the other centurions, with Malcolm when you can spare him."

"Here, my lord?"

"After the last reading group. Henly and Emrick will come. We have spent long enough teaching men how to stand together. Their officers must learn where to take them."

Jon left Hewyn to arrange the reliefs. Heward asked to attend; he had taught these men their drill and wanted to hear what Jon expected of them as commanders.

Rennick arrived with the last of his supper wrapped in a cloth. Brus made room for him beside the hearth, where Arthur was drying one damp sleeve. Henly had cleared the long table. Upon it Jon set six pale counters, then four red ones.

"Each stands for a thousand men. You command the pale army."

Rennick stopped chewing. Hewyn looked at the counters again.

"Six thousand?"

"Someday you may have that many. Tonight they will fit upon the table."

Jon placed four pale counters abreast and two behind them. Opposite stood the red army, its centre pushed forward, its wings farther back. He had borrowed the shape from Cannae, leaving out the cavalry and much else. There was enough here for a first evening. In his former service he had sat through exercises ruined by an instructor determined to include every difficulty he could remember.

"You have met upon open ground. No woods, no river. Your men are pressing their centre, and it begins to give way." He drew the middle red counters back a little. "Their wings are still where you first saw them. Gerralt?"

"Go after them. Break them while they are wavering."

"With whom?"

"The men fighting them. Bring the others in from the sides." Gerralt leaned over to show him. "We have more. They cannot stand against all of us."

Rennick nodded. "Send the fresh men through as well. No use leaving them to watch."

Hewyn studied the narrowing space. "Keep them together. No man runs ahead for plunder. Once you are through, turn upon the rest."

He spoke with more care than the others, but Jon had heard the same answer. Hewyn was arranging a few dozen men in his mind, men he could reach with his voice. The others had spent their fighting lives watching the shoulders ahead of them. Choosing where an army fought had belonged to a lord upon a horse.

Jon moved the pale counters as they had asked. The outer bodies bent inward to join the advance; the two from the rear followed into the same space. He let the red centre yield farther. Then he turned its waiting wings against the exposed sides of the pale army.

Rennick put his supper down.

"I would turn those men outwards." Gerralt touched the crowded counters.

"Which men hear you?" Arthur asked.

"The ones upon the side."

"And the men behind them are still trying to get at the enemy in front." Arthur set his hand across the pale counters. "I have been pressed so close I could scarcely draw my sword arm back. A man behind you shoves because he cannot see what has stopped you. Tell that man to turn, and he may understand you well enough. He still needs somewhere to put his feet."

Hewyn drew the two rear counters away.

"You sent those in too," Jon reminded him.

"Aye." Hewyn left them where they had been. "I did."

"The men in their centre may truly be beaten," Jon said. "Their wings are not. You have brought your whole army after the part that was already giving ground."

He restored the lines. This time he left the outer pale counters facing the red wings. The middle pair advanced only far enough to remain level with them; two thousand stayed behind, with room to move towards either side.

"Here. The centre keeps its men together. These go against the wings instead of crowding in after it. If either wing turns inward, it gives these men its side." He moved one red counter to show them, then put it back. "Your fresh men can still reach whichever part needs them."

"They could get away," Gerralt said, looking at the red centre.

"They could. You might have to let them. You have an army to command while they are running."

Hewyn rubbed at his jaw. "Stopping our middle will be the hard part. They will think they have won."

"Give their captains a limit," Arthur said. "Keep abreast of the men beside them. They must know you mean it, even with an enemy's back in front of them."

"And leave someone able to see whether they obey," Jon said. "You cannot spend the whole battle fighting beside the foremost man."

He pushed the counters towards Hewyn. They went through it again. Gerralt still wanted to pursue, but this time asked where the enemy's wings stood. Rennick kept his two thousand back. When Brus suggested sending them against the left, Hewyn asked what was happening on the right and waited for an answer.

By then the fire had sunk below Arthur's boots. Henly reached for the counters, but Jon stopped him.

"Leave them."

He waited until the men looked up from the table.

"No noble's son is coming to take your place. When we have more men, I intend you to lead them. I chose you knowing what you had done. I also know how much you still have to learn."

His gaze went from Rennick to Gerralt, then rested upon Hewyn.

"There are no better men being kept somewhere to do this for you. You will have to become better at it. I will teach what I can, and Arthur will help me. Every fortnight, you will sit here and make mistakes where we can mend them." He touched the pale counters. "Out there, men will die for some of those mistakes. Men you have eaten with. Men who trust you enough to follow when you tell them to advance."

Rennick had folded the cloth over his uneaten bread. None of them was looking towards the door now.

"I expect you to study. Ask when you do not understand. If you think I am wrong, tell me why. What you are willing to learn here will matter to every man we put under your command. Will you do it?"

"Aye, my lord," Gerralt said.

The others answered with him. Hewyn remained looking at the table a moment longer, his mouth set. Then he bowed his head.

"We will not fail you, my lord."

"I will see you in a fortnight," Jon said. "Talk this over among yourselves. If you think of something we have missed, bring it to the next lesson."

"Yes, my lord."

Jon left them around the table. Arthur followed him into the passage, drawing the door closed behind them.

"You have laid a great deal upon those men," he said. "A lord's son has years with a master-at-arms, a maester, his father's captains. Most of these men were taught to do as they were told and keep out of the way."

Jon slowed beside the stair. "I know. And if I keep making every decision for them, that is all they will ever know."

"An oath will not give them those years."

"No. I shall have to give them time. Hewyn must have hours for study, as well as drill and duty. So must the others." Jon looked back at the closed door. "I mean to trust them with more than this. I owe them the chance to learn it."

* * *
​

At Winterfell two days later, Jon waited in Luwin's chamber with the Valyrian chronicle open upon his knees. The maester was finishing a letter for Eddard. When he had sealed it and set it aside, he looked towards the book.

"Pikīptā?" Luwin asked.

"Pikīptan. The harbour has two names. I have marked both."

"Leave the slips in. I will find you an older copy."

When the lesson was over, Jon asked about keeping ravens at the Old Watch. Woods had mended the loft shutters and moved the wool baskets out, leaving a room large enough for cages.

"I want birds for Winterfell and Dragonstone," Jon said. "And birds of our own that can bring their answers back."

"Who will tend them?"

"I mean to hire a keeper. Could you recommend someone?"

"Clem helps me with the birds here. He has been asking for paid work." Luwin drew the chronicle towards him. "He will need more teaching. That must be here, where I can show him as we work."

"I will pay him while he learns," Jon said. "If he is willing to go south when I leave, I would like to speak to him."

"I will tell him."

Clem arrived at the Old Watch with a patched leather glove tucked through his belt. He was a pigeon keeper's son, broad across the shoulders, and read the line Jon gave him slowly but without stumbling. He listened to the terms, asked whether his lodging came with the wages, and agreed to go south with the household when the time came.

In the weeks that followed Clem divided his days between Luwin's rookery and the Old Watch. Jon found him scraping a sill while young ravens complained. Winterfell's birds could already fly home; those raised here would take longer to trust with letters.

"Do not hurry it," Jon told him. "I want the letters to arrive."

Clem lifted his scraped hand. "So does the maester, my lord. He made me bring the first one up the stair myself when I tied it badly."

Jon examined the message tube. At Woods's call for a shutter hinge below, Jon returned the tube and went to help before the light failed.

* * *
​

Gawen slipped Bracken's leading rope free on a clear morning after the acolytes had settled into their work.

Aries did not notice for six strides. He was watching the space between the gelding's ears, with his heels quiet and the reins gathered as he had been shown. At the corner he turned, found the knight standing at the mounting block, and gripped too hard.

"Ease your hand," Gawen called. "He has not changed because I stopped walking."

Bracken tossed his head. Aries eased the rein and brought him round at a walk, Jon watching from the rail. He halted late, corrected with a touch instead of a pull, and grinned down at them.

"Again?"

"After you dismount," Gawen said.

The knight steadied the saddle while he came down. Aries landed upon the block and took Bracken's rein before reaching the ground. He ran a hand down the damp neck, talking too softly for Jon to hear.

"You may keep him," Jon said.

Aries turned. "Keep him where?"

"In my stable for now. Beside my horses when we travel."

The boy stared at the rein in his hand. "Mine?"

"Bracken and the saddle you have been using. Gawen says you can be trusted to look after him, with help where you need it."

"He is old," Aries said, as if someone ought to find the fault before the gift could be taken back.

"He is sound. You have ridden him often enough to know whether you like him."

"I do." The answer came loudly. Bracken turned his head at it and began searching the boy's sleeve.

"You have more to learn before you ride beyond the town," Gawen said. "Owning him will not spare you the lessons."

Aries nodded, stroking the same patch of neck. After a moment Jon had him walk Bracken before unsaddling.

Wylla appeared at the gate carrying his new cloak. Mairi had cut it to fit the black page's coat, with a plain fastening the child could manage himself. Wylla put it about his shoulders and reached beneath his hair to settle the collar.

"Stand still."

"He's mine."

"I heard."

"And the saddle."

"Then you had better eat before you spend the whole morning polishing it. Elspeth has your bowl."

Aries looked towards the horse. Gawen took the rein and promised to remain there. Only then would the boy go indoors.

At breakfast Aries asked whether Bracken would sail to Dragonstone too.

"Aye," Jon said. "What will he need?"

"Hay. Oats. His brushes." Aries considered the spoon in his hand. "Water."

"Enough for the crossing. No grazing when his hay runs out. The captain must leave room for all of it."

"And me."

Jon pushed the bread within his reach. "You already have a place."

"Beside him?"

"We shall see where the horses go first. You can help Gawen decide what must come."

Aries began with the saddlecloth. He wanted to know whether it must be kept over the saddle at sea, and whether Gawen had ever taken a horse aboard. Before Jon had answered, he was asking whether a gelding might grow too old in four years.

"Eat," Wylla said when his porridge began to set.

He swallowed three hurried spoonfuls and reached for his cloak. She took hold of its corner without looking up from her sewing. He sat down and finished the bowl.

That evening Wylla found him with the saddle on his knees and Bracken nosing his bright hair. Gawen had checked the girth and put the brushes away. Still the boy stayed.

"Bed, love."

Aries put a hand against the gelding's muzzle. "In a moment."

Wylla gave him one. When he followed her out, he took her free hand without seeming to notice that he had done it.

 

[aiwonder]

The last readers were leaving the schoolroom when Jon came in from the rain. One of them held his book beneath his coat; another followed him towards the barracks, still disputing a word. Light showed beneath the infirmary door.

Inside, Lorren had drawn the bench close to the hearth. A quarryman sat with his boot off and his breeches cut above the calf, gripping the edge of the seat while Lorren held linen against his shin. His muddy stocking lay upon the floor. Beside the door his mate stood crushing both their caps, too broad to leave much room for anyone passing.

Jon left his sword against the wall and slipped past him. He had ridden from the Black Yard in the rain, and his wet coat clung coldly between his shoulders. Wylla took it from him and spread it over a chair well away from the clean linen. The room smelled of damp wool and the soap she had used upon the table. On the shelf above it, Lorren's jars still bore the little ties that had kept their stoppers in place all the way from Oldtown.

"Woods sent him straight here," Wylla said.

Lorren looked up. "It has slowed, my lord. I am waiting before I lift the cloth."

Jon crouched beside him. The quarryman tried to draw his foot back beneath the bench.

"Leave it where he has put it," Jon said. "What is your name?"

"Bors, my lord."

"Did the stone fall upon it?"

"No, my lord. The sledge shifted. I was getting clear."

"He had his leg out," his mate said. "Only the back of his stocking caught, and then—"

"I felt it," Bors interrupted.

His mate fell silent. Lorren asked Bors to move his toes again, then described what he had found beneath the torn stocking. He spoke to Jon without taking his eyes from the injured man.

"Is my wife coming?" Bors asked.

"I sent word to the wool hall," Wylla told him. "She knows where you are."

"She will think it worse than it is."

"Then she will be pleased when she sees you." Wylla put another stick upon the fire.

His naval training had taught him to keep a man alive until better help came. Lorren had spent years with patients, and had already found the position in which Bors could keep his leg still without trembling. Jon waited until he had finished his examination.

When Lorren eased the linen aside, the wound had ceased to bleed freely. Grit remained along its edge. He reached towards a jug upon the stool.

"What is in that?" Jon asked.

"Water, my lord. Wylla had it boiled."

Jon touched the outside of the jug. It had cooled while Lorren worked. At the basin he worked Wylla's soap around his nails and between his fingers. Beside Lorren's open book, thread and the knife used upon the breeches crowded the lamp.

"Wash again before you clean the wound," Jon said.

"I washed when he came in."

"Before you cut away his stocking?" Jon glanced at the mud beside the bench.

Lorren looked down at his fingers. He had wiped them upon a cloth; nothing remained upon the skin that Jon could see. Bors was watching them both.

"The stocking was filthy," Lorren said. He set the jug aside and came to the basin. "Keep your leg where it is, Bors. I shall only be a moment."

Jon took his place beside the bench. "How long have you been working with the stone gangs?"

"Since hay cutting, my lord. There is more earned at it."

"And you will need another stocking."

"My wife will tell me." Bors looked towards the door, then down at his ruined clothes. "The little one keeps stealing her shoe. He has only just found his feet, and now he wants to be shod."

Jon laughed. His own daughter had rejected an expensive toy for its box; he could still hear his wife laughing at the price. "Was it at least an old shoe?"

"Her good one. She keeps giving him the other, but he will not have it."

Lorren returned with his sleeves turned back. "This will sting, Bors. Keep looking at his lordship."

Wylla held a basin beneath the leg. Lorren poured clean water over the wound, taking his time with the dirt. Jon steadied the man's knee when he flinched. A fold of clean linen lay ready upon a separate stool. The muddy stocking went into a bucket beside the door.

The quarryman's mate reached for a cloth to wipe the bench.

"Use the one by your foot," Jon told him. "Those are for the wound."

The man dropped his hand. "Beg pardon, my lord."

Lorren glanced at the untouched linen, finished cleaning the cut and examined it by the lamp. Bors let his breath out as Lorren wound the bandage.

"Come back tomorrow," Lorren told him. "Earlier if the pain grows worse, or you feel feverish. You are to keep off the stone gang until I have seen you again."

"I could stand at the light end."

"You can scarcely stand here."

Bors looked at Jon.

"Master Lorren decides when that leg is fit for work," Jon said. "You will keep your wages while it mends."

For a moment Bors seemed more troubled by that than by the bandage. He looked at the mate still holding his cap.

"There is work I can do sitting, my lord. Woods has pegs waiting to be trimmed."

"Ask him in the morning, if Lorren lets you go. Tonight you are going home."

His mate helped him to the door. Outside, a man from Hewyn's century took his other arm. Their voices dwindled along the passage, with Bors insisting that he could manage the last stretch himself.

Lorren waited until they were out of hearing. He gathered the used cloths, leaving the clean folds upon their separate stool.

"I would have washed again if I had seen dirt upon my hands," he said. "You think wiping them was not enough?"

Jon pulled a stool to the table. "Sit down. I have been meaning to speak with you about this since Branoc cut his hand."

Wylla brought him a bowl of stew. He had forgotten supper. She placed it upon the far end of the table, away from the healer's tools, and remained to hear.

"Do you believe that so little dirt can corrupt a wound?" Lorren asked.

"Less than we can see." Jon broke a piece of bread into the stew. "Some sickness is carried by living things so small that our eyes cannot find them. They pass from a sick man in his waste, in what he coughs out, or upon hands that have touched him. There are others in dirt and spoiled matter. Some do us no harm. Some grow in a wound and make a man gravely ill."

Lorren's hand remained beside his book. He had been ready to open it; now he studied Jon instead.

"Living things. In a man who has no worms?"

"Far smaller than worms."

"Within the pus?"

"They help cause it. They need not wait for a wound to look foul before they are there."

The healer pushed the lamp nearer. In its light his two silver links shone against the throat of his robe. "A wound may fester beneath a clean dressing. I have seen that often. We take the dressing away and find it hot and swollen, though nothing foul could have touched it."

"It may have been carried in when the man was hurt. Or upon the hands that dressed it."

"Mine, then."

"Possibly." Jon let him consider that. "You can clean a wound and still lose the man. I cannot give you a way to save every one of them."

Lorren frowned at the basin. "We would look to his food, or the air of the room. If the dressing was clean, we would begin elsewhere."

"Attend to those too. But do not take clean cloth for proof that nothing harmful reached the wound."

Lorren thought about that while Jon ate. Beneath the window, rain tapped upon the sill. Somewhere outside a horse struck its stable door, followed by a groom's weary complaint.

"Can you see these creatures with a lens?" Lorren asked.

"With sufficiently good glass and enough enlargement, some of them. I do not have such an instrument here."

"Yet you are certain."

"I am."

"Did Maester Luwin teach you this?"

"No."

"Then where did you learn it?"

Jon put his spoon down. There had been a time when the answer would have needed no care at all. He could have named the place, described the room, complained about the man who had taught him. Some of those details had grown dim; the instruction remained. None of it would explain him to Lorren.

"I have had good teachers."

"Could I read what they wrote?"

"I have no book of theirs to give you. You will have to question me."

Lorren glanced at the little hand beside the bowl.

"At the Citadel I would be asked for more than my word," Lorren said.

"So would I. Keep your accounts of the patients. Write down what you do, and what follows. We will go through them together."

"You are asking me to change how I tend them before I have that answer."

"Would washing your hands again have harmed Bors?"

"No." Lorren looked towards the bucket by the door. "But if your explanation is right, that rag could carry his sickness to another man."

"It could. So could the hand that wrings it out. That is why I want clean cloth kept apart, and hands washed between patients."

"Boiling the water kills them?"

"Many of them. It does not excuse leaving blood or dirt upon a tool. Those must be cleaned off first. And a pot over a fire cannot make every instrument fit for every operation."

Lorren nodded slowly. "I have seen a man scrub a blade, heat it and wipe it upon his apron. He was particular about the blade. He would not have let me use it uncleaned."

Jon waited. The healer did not name the man who had taught him.

Wylla took away the empty bowl. "And I have watched a woman rinse a sick child's cloths beside the water she meant to cook with. She thought the water was clean because she could see through it."

"Boil what she means to drink," Jon said. "Keep the washing water away from it."

"The infirmary linen can be washed apart. But I cannot have the kitchen kettle missing whenever Lorren needs water."

"Ask Abel for another. And tell Woods I want a cupboard here, with doors that close."

Wylla looked at the shelf. "Those jars can go higher. I need the dry place for the linen."

Lorren moved his book to let her measure the space with her hands. When she had gone, he opened it at a page crowded with additions. The first question concerned bleeding a patient whose wound was swollen. Jon answered that one readily; the next brought him to a halt.

The healer had fetched a jar of dried northern root. He described how it was prepared, then waited for Jon to tell him whether he should continue using it.

"You must teach me that," Jon said. "I have never used it."

"But you know what causes the wound to fester."

"I know something of it. I do not know every remedy on your shelf." He turned the jar to read its label. "Tell me what it does, and what you have seen when you give it."

Lorren drew his stool nearer. For a while Jon listened. When he could not answer a question, he said so, and they put it aside to ask Luwin. The healer's book lay between them now, its lower corner weighted with the jar.

Later Lorren returned to his patients with flux. Jon wanted clean drinking water, waste kept clear of the well, and close watch on what the sick could swallow and retain. He had seen men withhold drink until the stools ceased. Patients must not dry out while the illness ran through them.

"How many can you watch at once?" Jon asked.

"I cannot watch them all." Lorren rubbed his eyes. "Bors's mate did not know what to do when he reached the door. If I had been in the barracks, he would have stood there waiting."

"Then we shall teach them something to do. Hewyn can send you steady men."

"I can show them. Keeping them useful when they are frightened is another matter."

Jon knew that too. He had heard instruction given calmly in a room like this and struggled to recall it when someone was bleeding in front of him. "We can practise that. I will bring Henly after dinner tomorrow."

Lorren marked his place but did not close the book. "There is more of this than one lesson, my lord."

"Then we shall have more than one."

* * *
​

By the following afternoon the rain had cleared. Through the infirmary's open window came the thud of practice shafts striking wicker. Lorren had moved the bench against the wall to clear the floor. He was putting away the broom when Jon arrived with Henly, two poles and a roll of strong canvas.

Two spearmen waited by the hearth. The broader had scarcely room to straighten beneath the beam and watched Henly lay out the canvas with growing interest.

"Are we carrying that, my lord?"

"One another, once we know it will bear you."

His companion looked him over. "I should have come before dinner."

Henly passed the poles through the sewn sides. Jon had asked Hewyn for steady men who listened when frightened. Every century would need them, and Lorren would have to teach them. Today they could make their mistakes without an injured friend at their feet.

He put one man on the floor and had the other kneel beside him. A folded cloth stood for the dressing. Jon described the wound they were to imagine, then watched the soldier press the cloth into place.

The man lifted it almost at once to look beneath.

"Keep it there," Jon said. He crouched beside him and put his own hand over the soldier's, showing the firmness he wanted. "Let Lorren judge when you can move it. You do not help by lifting it every moment."

They changed places. The broader man gave a theatrical groan until Lorren told him he would have breath enough to complain after the lesson. Jon moved back to the bench and let the healer take them through the next attempt.

Lorren began with an explanation of where to put the dressing. Halfway through, the kneeling soldier glanced towards Jon.

"Ask him," Jon said.

"Do I fetch you first, Master Lorren, or stay here?"

"If you are alone—" Lorren stopped and looked at the room as though seeing the man upon its floor afresh. "Call for help. Tell whoever comes to fetch me. You keep your hand there."

Jon tested the canvas seams while they practised again. Henly had left the poles long enough for a good grip at either end. Jon lay upon the carrier and folded his hands over his belt.

The men lifted one end ahead of the other. His heels slid towards the foot of the canvas.

"Down," he said.

They lowered him at once. The broader soldier had been watching Lorren; his companion had taken his word from Henly, who was pointing to a twist in the canvas.

"Choose who calls the lift," Jon told them. "The other waits for him. Look at one another."

The next attempt brought him up level. Jon had them set him down and let the broader spearman take his place. Lorren took one end while the other soldier carried the foot. Henly went ahead to hold the door and guide them through the narrow passage. A pole end scraped the post; the man upon the canvas seized its edges.

"Where does it hurt?" Lorren asked when they set him down.

"It does not. I thought you would tip me out."

Lorren looked back at the doorway. "You could not see where we were going."

"I could see the ceiling. That was enough."

They tried it again, with the healer telling him when they meant to turn. Henly marked the scraped handle so he could smooth it later. By the time they came back, Jon had laid out the padded wooden support beside the bench.

Lorren examined the poles afterwards. "We can keep these with the tents."

"And a set here," Jon said. "A cart will not reach every place a man falls."

Henly lay down for the last trial. Lorren showed the soldiers how to steady his uninjured leg upon the padded support without wrenching it. When they carried him, the healer walked beside them and asked what moved and what rubbed. After the soldiers had left, Henly knelt to examine the edge that had pressed beneath his heel. Jon sent him for Woods's plane.

"I shall need helpers of my own," Lorren said. "For the room as well as the field."

"Hewyn will send you men in turns, beginning tomorrow. Teach them what you need done here as well as in the field. When we next take boys for the household, you shall examine those who fail at weapons but show sense and steadiness."

"For carrying?" Lorren asked.

"The soldiers will do that. Your youngest lads can begin with the linen, water and dressings, under your eye."

"And their letters?"

"Alongside the work. I want them able to read what you leave for a patient, and tell you plainly what has changed."

Lorren drew the bench back beneath the window. "I have had grown men tell me a patient was better because he had stopped complaining. Sometimes he was too weak to speak."

"Then that is something you must teach them to notice." Jon stood and stretched his cramped knees. "Choose boys who will come and ask you when they are unsure."

Lorren straightened. "And you will continue the lessons?"

"Bring your questions after supper twice a week. If I am at Winterfell, have them ready when I return."

At the door Jon found Munin perched upon the stone ledge. The crow had worked a straw loose from the thatch of the shelter opposite and seemed unwilling to surrender it. Jon held out his wrist. Munin stepped onto the leather, straw and all, while Lorren watched from within.

"She will not be coming into this room," Jon said.

Lorren laughed and put the cover over his clean linen. He bowed as Jon went out.

Four days later Jon met Bors upon the path to the timber shelter. Woods had given him seated work, smoothing pegs. He carried his little boy upon one arm and his dinner in the other hand. The child held a shoe by its heel.

"I see he kept it," Jon said.

"His mother wants it home before supper, my lord." Bors shifted the boy higher. Small teeth had left marks upon the leather strap.

When Jon went to the infirmary that evening, Lorren had already examined the leg. The cut was closing without redness, though he meant to keep Bors off the quarry. His notes lay open beside the lamp.

"One man," he said. "I have had wounds mend cleanly before."

"Of course."

"I should like to follow the others as closely." Lorren turned the page to the next patient's name. "And I have questions about the men with flux."

Jon drew up his stool. From the yard came the changing guard's footsteps, and above them Munin called once from the roof. Wylla brought a second lamp before the room grew dark.

 

[aiwonder]

By the second year of the lease, Mairi could tell where Lord Jon had been by looking at his boots.

Grey grit belonged to Winterfell's inner yard. Yellow chips and brass dust came from the Black Yard. Black peat, crushed fern, and bone-pale lime meant the Old Watch. On fitting days she sometimes found traces of all three. Ralf kept a fresh horse ready after dinner, though the hour Jon arrived varied.

One overcast morning he entered her cutting room with black mud on his heel and brass caught in his cuff. Beneath the hired wool hall's windows, four women cut bolts, three quilted linen over fleece and tow, and five wrestled with half-finished hemp tents. Iron shears clacked; beeswax rasped along linen thread.

None of the cloth was truly the same black.

The best cloth had grown dark upon the sheep. Alder bark deepened a brown bolt; oak galls and iron liquor made another midnight-dark. After three soakings that handsome cloth parted in Mairi's hands. The ruined practice cuff hung nailed above her table.

Jon looked from the failed cuff to the waiting coats. "I asked for one colour."

"The strongest bolts differ, my lord." Mairi brought him the torn cuff. "I can darken them all with this dye, but it weakens the cloth. These others have held through washing."

Cob the tailor snorted from the far table. His white beard rested upon the tape around his neck. "Soldiers should look as one."

"Not if the cloth tears, Master Cob." Mairi laid the ruined cuff beside his bolt.

Cob held his own bolt against the rejected strip. "This dye has not weakened it."

Jon tested the edge where Mairi indicated. It held. "Use it, then. The cut must match; the shade may vary. Put the strongest dark cloth aside for the household, where mail and saddle will wear it."

"We can cut the rest to the same patterns, my lord," Mairi said. At Jon's nod, Cob spread the sound bolt across the table.

Beside the soldiers' patterns lay smaller ones for the pages. Nibs needed his sleeves let down; Geth's shoulders had outgrown his coat. Wylla had marked changes for all seven. Jon wanted sound dark wool and a matching fit, with none of the officers' distinctions.

Cob bent over the coat before him. "The left shoulder wants another finger."

Mairi measured and found he was right. She shifted the pattern, and Cob cut the cloth.

Jon laid his sword belt beside the drawings weighted under Mairi's shears and river stone. His coat had a close waist and riding skirts, with a sleeveless outer garment in long panels and little shoulder caps. Cob had disliked those until he saw them in cloth.

"The collar sits better, my lord," Mairi said as Wylla helped Jon into it. She eased his hair from beneath the standing edge. Midnight-black strands caught upon a basting thread; the pale lock at his left temple fell free across his cheek.

He turned his head each way. "Lower it here." He touched the place beneath his jaw. "I need to look behind me without the whole coat coming round."

Mairi folded the edge and pinned it. The figured black wool upon the breast showed its leaf pattern only when he moved towards the window. Below it the skirts hung plain. He had chosen small square clasps of blackened iron, refusing Cob's silver ones after laying both against the cloth.

Jon settled astride the low bench, reached forward as though gathering reins, then twisted to take his sword belt from the table. One of the shoulder caps lifted from its stitching.

"There, my lord," Cob said. "That is where it pulls."

"Give it room under the arm. Keep the waist." Jon stood and lifted his arms while Wylla tried the sleeves. The right stopped above his wrist; the left covered two knuckles. He showed Mairi the pulling seam and held still for her pins.

"Hold your arm there a moment, my lord, if you please," Mairi said.

"How much longer?"

"Only this sleeve, my lord." She eased it away from his wrist.

Wylla drove a pin through the loose fold. Jon hissed when it found cloth close to skin.

"I shall have Noll make the next one," Jon said.

"Then he may wash it too." Wylla shifted the pin. Outside, a Cerwyn carter went east with rough stone, baskets of wall pinnings and Deepwood oak chained along his cart. White Harbor iron bound its hubs. Jon bought nothing south of the Neck that he could get nearer.

"More coats for Hewyn?" Mairi asked, chalking Jon's elbow.

A year of marches and ditch work had worn through the six centuries' first coats. Some men had patched one elbow twice.

"For Martyn's swordsmen next," he said. "Both centuries. Fit the men on the morning drill first, then those coming off the works. The spears can follow when their next bolts arrive."

"May the men come here to be measured, my lord? I would rather fit each one myself."

"Martyn will send them in tens." Jon kept his arm raised while Mairi finished. "How are the women finding the work?"

"They can keep their looms going, my lord. But the wool grows dear."

"How dear?" Jon asked.

Abel stood beside the door with a wax tablet crowded from edge to edge. "The lower market price rose another copper the ell. Torrhen's Square has three hundred ells of sheep-black cloth if we take the coarse weave. Barrowton offers two hundred finer, dearer by half. The White Harbor factor offers dyed black for less than either."

Mairi held up the torn cuff. "The White Harbor factor offered this."

"Leave that cloth. Ask the Torrhen's Square and Barrowton men for samples before you order. Mairi, put them through the same washing. We shall use whichever lasts."

"And the tents?" Abel asked.

Mairi pointed to the narrow canvas panels. "White Knife flax in the first four. Hornwood hemp in the rest. The hemp is heavier and swells tighter in rain. It also fights the needle like boiled hide."

"Have the men use both. Tell me how they carry and whether either leaks. We shall order the next lot from the better maker."

Wylla bit off her thread. "There. Equal sleeves."

Wylla brushed the brass shaving from his cuff and gave him a scrap from the ledge. Arya had drawn him riding three horses at once.

"She says you cannot be too busy to ride with her if you can manage this."

He looked again at the enormous spurs. "Tell her after lessons tomorrow."

"Tell her yourself. She waited for you last night." Wylla gave him the drawing. He folded it into the pocket of his new coat.

Next afternoon, fetching Winterfell linen, Mairi found Jon and Arthur in the stable court. Arya came through the arch calling that her lessons were finished. Her pony waited; Jon held the drawing.

"You have given me more legs than a horse," he told her.

"You need them for the spurs."

"I do not need those either." He folded the paper before she could take it back. When she was settled, he mounted and brought his horse alongside the pony. "The lower road first. We shall go past the apple trees."

Arya explained which gate would take them round the outer wall as well. Jon heard her out and agreed, Arthur following them through the arch. Downhill later, Mairi glimpsed them through the trees at the pony's pace. Arya pointed beyond the wall; Jon turned to look.

* * *
​

At the lower well, the bellman was reading Lord Black's call again.

The bellman named the trades wanted at the Black Yard, then the new places: forty spearmen and twenty swordsmen, aged sixteen or seventeen, for Hewyn to try at the Old Watch. Six further farming families could apply to Abel for holdings at Miller's Run, with seed and first provisions supplied.

Mairi waited by an onion barrel while a cart squeezed past. Jon's carters had carried the new calls out after sowing; wool merchants and hinge buyers spread them farther. Within a fortnight strangers came to the well with bedding as well as tools.

A carpenter had his saw wrapped in his spare shirt. Behind him a woman held a hen under one arm and a little boy by the other hand; an older girl carried their cooking pot. Two young men with spears were trying to see over the cart. A grey-haired woman asked Mairi whether the sewing work truly paid at the end of each week.

"Mine does," Mairi said. "What have you sewn?"

The woman opened a bundle and showed her a winter coat, much patched but neatly joined at the shoulder. Her daughter had quilted the lining. They had come from beyond the White Knife after a wool carter told them there was work through the cold months.

"Come with me when this cart has passed."

Jon stopped his horse beside Arthur's to hear the carpenter's account of Cerwyn roofs, then sent him to Woods at the western stair next morning. Mairi had cloth for another sewing table. He told her to fill it and give Abel the names before pay day.

A man beside the onion barrel lowered his cap when Jon turned towards him. His wife stood behind him with a bundle against her hip.

"The land, my lord. Is there still a place?"

"What have you farmed?"

"Rye, mostly. Hay on the lower ground. My wife keeps the cattle."

Jon asked how many beasts they had wintered and heard the woman's answer as well as her husband's. Mairi could see the woman weighing each word before speaking.

"Bring your family to the byre tomorrow," Jon told them. "I shall be there after the morning drill. You will see the fields before I choose."

"We heard your lordship means to sail south."

"You stay on the land. Lord Stark takes my place when I go." Jon waited while a carter backed clear of the narrow turn, then rode on towards the works.

The woman with the hen watched him go. "That was Lord Black?"

"Aye," Mairi said.

"My husband said he would be older."

Her husband was still holding his cap. He put it on and lifted the saw back onto his shoulder.

An alewife called for more bowls; men were eating on the wall beyond her full benches. Mairi found room for the women's bundles and led them to the wool hall. Next door, an owner was dragging hay from a loft he had left empty all summer.

Not every hand found Jon's coin. Two carpenters whom Woods refused drank beside the lower well and explained nightly that a boy lord preferred boys he could command. A tanner lost three apprentices to higher wages and raised the price of every harness strap. The washerwomen complained that black dye fouled their runnel. Within one moon three landlords had raised their rents.

William's aunt found Mairi outside the candle shop and held up four fingers. "Four coppers more for the same roof, and rain still enters above Beth's pallet."

"Mine rose six before I took the room behind Elspeth's stair."

"You receive a room with the wage. My landlord wants more coin and will not even mend the roof." Behind her, little Beth dipped scraps of wick into cooling tallow and counted each beneath her breath.

"William sends silver."

"And my landlord knows it."

A week later Jon walked Mairi's room in the finished coat, his sword belt threaded between its long panels. The shoulder pieces moved cleanly; the black skirts parted above his boots and fell together when he stopped. She had never made this cut before. Cob already wanted a tracing.

Perkin came to fetch him while Mairi pinned Mallador's coat. A year of bread and ditch work had broadened the man's shoulders beyond his old pattern. She asked leave to speak of William's aunt.

"Her landlord has raised the rent, my lord. There are others in the sewing room with the same trouble."

Mallador kept his arms up and looked at the wall.

Jon looked to Perkin. "Whose houses?"

Mairi named them. Perkin knew two without opening a book.

"Two stand upon Winterfell ground," he said. "One belongs to the brewer. The last is held from a Cerwyn steward."

"Poole hears the first two," Jon said. "For my workers, we shall take the six empty lofts beside the south store by the year. Fixed rent for each loft, not by the head put inside it. Woods adds a lodging row to the next timber count."

"There are more families than that, my lord. Could the new rooms be ready before the rain?"

"Have Woods price the lodging row for Abel," Jon said.

Mairi thanked him. Perkin took the women's names for Abel before Jon left for the works.

Mallador lowered his arms too soon and took a pin in the shoulder. He cursed.

"Hold still," Mairi told him. "Lord Jon managed it."

Mallador raised his arms again.

* * *
​

That afternoon Mairi wrapped the Karstark sunburst in grey felt while Jon rode into a yard crowded with deliveries. Highgarden's rose stood beside Casterly Rock's lion. The empty Hightower frames had already gone for timber.

Plainer clocks awaited an Oldtown cloth merchant, a Barrowton wool factor and two White Harbor brothers sharing one between their warehouses. Woods had chosen clean oak for their visible doors; one buyer paid extra for brass. The merchants expected work worth showing their customers.

Perkin told Mairi which cases must be wrapped first. The southern clocks would leave together; the Karstark one would take the eastern road with Lord Rickard's carrier.

The Glover and Tallhart clocks had gone with the last northern wagons; Hornwood's keeper had sent acceptance. Two cases awaited passage south and upriver. Bracken's steward had ordered after the royal gift, Blackwood's after Bracken—with a bell to carry at least as far. Perkin had charged for the difference. Neither wanted a plain case.

William showed the lion's little paw train before closing its case, then had an apprentice demonstrate where the keeper's hands must stay clear. At the ordinary benches he assigned work and sent faulty pieces back. He scarcely looked up when Jon finished his inspection and went to Ewan.

A merchant came with a wool bill for Abel. While a boy fetched him, the man's wife toured the clocks, keeping her two sons' hands clear of the carvings.

"That one," she said when they reached the smallest pine clock. "You could hear it from the kitchen."

Her husband looked up from the account he had brought. "We came to collect the wool money."

"I know why we came." She bent nearer the dial, examining the little hand. "Master Lewyn's wife says hers keeps the whole house to order."

"Two hundred and forty dragons for the pine case," Perkin told her husband when he came over. "Another twenty if you want oak, with your device above the dial."

The man rubbed his beard. "My device?"

"Send a drawing. Lord Jon must approve the work before I promise it."

His wife glanced at him. "You said the new hall looked bare."

"The roof cost enough." He examined the clock from the side, bent to look beneath it, then straightened when Jon came across from the next bench. "Might I have oak, my lord? A fleece above the face. No beasts moving about."

"Woods will draw it for you. The next place we can promise is three moons hence."

The merchant asked Perkin for the order sheet. Mairi heard his purse loosen as she folded felt around the sunburst. His younger son began counting clocks; the elder told him to count theirs too.

A White Harbor factor found Mairi behind the felt screens and offered half a silver stag if his master's case could leave with the next wagons. Karhold's clock was ready; his own still waited for its final run.

"The clerk can call it a packing fee," he said. "No need to trouble his lordship."

Mairi looked at the coin. It was more than the rise in William's aunt's rent.

"You had better ask him." She pulled back the screen. Jon stood at the next bench with Ewan, close enough to see the open purse.

The factor shut it. "My master would pay for haste, my lord."

"You have his place in writing. It has not changed."

"Other customers have had delays."

"And yours will be among them if the clock is not ready." Jon called Perkin. "Write to his master. Future business comes through another man."

The factor tried to explain his fee. Jon heard him out and had Tomas show him out. Later Perkin brought Mairi the delivery list: Karhold still headed it.

* * *
​

There was one finished clock which Perkin kept off the sales list.

William had made it in a plain oak case while the great commissions filled the benches. Jon checked the first fitting; William kept it running for the last seven days, recording windings and corrections.

"Castle Black," Jon said when Mairi asked how she should wrap it. "The one I promised Benjen."

William opened the case. There was room for a man's gloved hand at the winding, and the screens lifted clear for cleaning without taking the movement apart. Jon put on his thick riding gloves and tried the handle. Neither cuff caught.

"Callum?"

Callum had spare pins, cord and common bushes packed. Oldtown had left him with a firmer opinion of stairs. Now he and Garrick would take the clock north with Winterfell's grain wagons.

"Seven days under the keeper's hand before you leave," Jon told him. "Have him fit a spare bush as well as wind it. Bring back his questions." William passed over the winding roll.

Perkin brought the cost, with a copy for Abel: oak, movement, carriage and fitters' wages, entered as a gift from House Black.

"Enter it," Jon said. "And tell the grain carters not to put the ironwork beneath wet sacks."

Two mornings later the covered cases left between flour and lamp oil, a black brother riding beside the fitters. Garrick had separated the loads. Callum's mother waited at the gate until he found room for her food beside the tool chest.

Jon sent a letter of his own with the gift, addressed to Maester Aemon. He asked after the old man's health, wrote a little of the men he was teaching and said he still hoped to visit. Arthur read it at Jon's invitation and suggested no alteration.

"Give the letter to Maester Aemon himself," Jon told Callum.

Callum put the letter inside his coat. William handed up the last oil horn and stepped clear as the convoy moved.

* * *
​

A fortnight later Mairi rode the coat cart to the Old Watch near sunset. The mare knew the road better than she did and objected whenever the wheels left its crowned centre. Side ditches carried brown water towards Miller's Run. At the fork below the byre, two carts had drawn aside to let her pass.

The man from the onion barrel led a cow; his wife carried a churn beside their cart. Behind came the other families Jon had chosen over three mornings in the unlet fields, asking about their work and putting them beside Gerren. Six new families had places. The first six helped unload their tools and bedding.

Mairi checked her mare while a girl ran after a rolling wooden bowl. Above the gardens, the new cottages stood in a row along the dry rise. Their thatch was finished, though one door still lay across the carpenter's trestles. Merra led the woman with the churn towards the nearest hearth.

Jon sat his horse beside the field gate, his black coat dusty at the hem. He called the newcomers together and showed them the ground beyond the drainage ditch.

"Begin there with Gerren tomorrow. Keep the lower meadow for hay and grazing. The cattle need it as much as you need the grain."

One man kept a hand upon his son's shoulder until the boy remembered to bow. Jon sent them to their carts and rode uphill. Mairi followed the dry road round the hollow below the granary, hearing the cow behind her.

The Old Watch had gained straight streets and long roofs. Grass covered most of the enclosing bank. Ormund's masons raised permanent barrack walls beneath the saved roof frames, working there when rain kept them off the tower. As each range was finished, its plank walls went to stores and work sheds. Along the bank, joists projected from new posts, ready for the wallwalk.

Beside the nearest barrack, Ormund levered a newly delivered Cerwyn stone round to inspect its bed. The carter waited. "These will do. Take your tally to Abel," the mason told him. "And tell the quarryman I can use another load."

Below the fall, a timber race reached towards an unfinished wheelhouse. Jon had put the grinding stone on the first shaft while Woods prepared the heavier gear. Hand bellows still served the hearth. A broken paddle hung over the door after the first little wheel had shed it in flood.

Jon was still dismounting inside the gate when he asked Hewyn, "The western drain?"

"Running, my lord. That length of bank is nearly turfed." Hewyn pointed to the men pressing sods into the slope.

Jon glanced over. Two men were still grinning at a decanus whose knees had sunk deep into the bank. Beyond them, the newest recruits had begun arriving from the washing trough with their hair wet and their coats over their arms.

Mairi knew most of them by their measurements. Hewyn had spent four days trying the men who answered the bellman, and Jon had chosen sixty. She had fitted the last coat that morning. Now they stood in six small groups beneath the eaves while their new companions waited across the yard.

Jon took his cloak off and gave it to Mairi. "Bring them forward, Hewyn."

The recruits crossed the yard. One was still working his thumb into his sleeve when the man beside him pulled his hand down. Jon waited until they were still, then called the oath. Their answers came unevenly at first; by its end Mairi could hear the lads beneath the farthest eaves.

"Your centurions will give you your places," Jon told them. "You begin with their men at dawn."

Rennick led his ten beneath Second's sign. Forty spears and twenty swordsmen joined the six centuries, bringing each to sixty. The new bays smelled of pine; Woods had finished them during Hewyn's trials. A merchant's clock delivered the week before had paid the carpenter.

A tall lad stopped before a bed chest and looked back for the companion with whom he had travelled. Symon caught his eye and pointed to the empty place beside his own.

"Here. He is in Third."

The lad put his bundle down. Through the open door Mairi saw Symon show him the shelf for his bowl.

Heward named the men who had fallen behind. They would take Jon's short circuit and begin on lighter stones; Hewyn wanted them at the spear field after breakfast.

Mairi laid Jon's cloak over the nearest railing and went to loosen the first canvas bundle.

Six new tents waited in the inner yard. Mairi showed Mallador how the upper seam shed rain before Hewyn set the men to the ropes. Under the first roof she felt a corner patch pulling upon one row of stitches.

"I shall turn this before they take it out, my lord."

Jon tried it and asked for a broader patch clear of the eyelet. Rain came while the other five were being pitched. Mairi stayed beneath the first to watch for leaks; outside, Mallador pulled his hood over his ears and fetched the last bundle.

The cohort now camped out every third moon. Its newcomers would pitch beside men who remembered the wet pasture. Jon still walked the ground before the baggage came in, but each centurion now brought him a fault: Malcolm had moved a tent uphill; Gerralt kept his men at their posts until relieved. The new canvas gave them more room.

Darkness caught him at the Old Watch. He ate barley, onions, and mutton neck at Hewyn's long table and asked after the two men too ill to work. Then he went to the fresh grey waiting beneath the stable lean-to.

"Winterfell?" Mairi asked.

"The Black Yard first. William has a proof train losing one beat in four hundred. Father has the Cerwyn boundary hearing at dawn."

Arthur brought out Jon's gloves. "William sent word. He found the bent pin. You need not go back tonight."

Jon stopped with one hand in a glove. Beyond the gate, both roads lay dark. "He is certain?"

"He has it running again. He wants to watch it through the night."

"Then Winterfell." Jon mounted. Arthur brought his horse alongside, and they took the road up to the castle.

Their lamps climbed towards Winterfell. Mairi's assistants sewed broader patches over the tents' weak corners, teaching two men from each ten the stitches. The others took the dry bedding in.

* * *
​

Two mornings later Jon found applicants outside Woods's shed, bundles at their feet. They had failed Hewyn's infantry trial and stayed for the engines. Across the yard, the sixty chosen men carried turf to the bank.

"Have they been told?" Jon asked Henly.

"That there are twelve places, my lord. And that you will choose in three days."

Jon took off his coat. "You will serve under Henly and Emrick. There will be wages and an oath, as there are for the soldiers. The work will include hauling engines, setting them up and keeping them fit to use."

A broad-faced lad raised his hand a little, then lowered it.

"Speak."

"Would we have another trial for the swords afterwards, my lord?"

"You would be learning this trade. If you mean to leave it as soon as Hewyn has an empty place, go to him now."

The lad considered it, looking past Jon towards the bank. "I'd stay, my lord."

"Then put your bundle inside."

At Otho's windlass, the first pair drove their loaded sledge into an uneven plank. One pulled harder; the other looked beneath it. Jon packed the hollow and made them walk the route before trying again. Henly noted their names while Emrick changed the pairs.

One lad knelt to turn the sledge's leading rope clear of a splinter before it caught. Jon stopped him as he rose.

"Your name?"

"Kester, my lord."

"How old?"

"Seventeen."

Kester had dragged timber from wet ground where his father cut wood near Torrhen's Square. He could count a load, but not read. Jon sent him to coil rope with Emrick and called the broad-faced lad.

Merrit was eighteen. He had driven his uncle's cart for three years and been turned away from the swordsmen for his age. He looked at the windlass before answering Jon's questions.

"We back the cart away and lay fresh boards when a wheel sinks, my lord. My uncle has lost a horse trying to pull one out loaded."

"Show Emrick where you would lay them here."

Merrit hesitated over the drawing Otho offered. Jon turned it until the shed lay on the same side as the building beside them. The lad's brow cleared. He pointed to the soft ground at the end of the plank way.

On the second day Merrit found a bad crosspiece Henly had planted in the bridge frame and fetched a rasp. On the third, with partners changed and the model hidden, Kester recovered the arrangement by laying the pieces out. Others waited for instructions. Jon chose twelve, aged sixteen to nineteen; the rest received trial pay and a meal.

He heard their oaths in the tower yard. Abel entered them upon a separate roll and paid their first wages. There were still three hundred and sixty infantry. These twelve went with Henly and Emrick, six under each.

"Libritors," Jon told them when Merrit asked what Abel had written above their names.

Merrit repeated it carefully. Kester tried it under his breath while putting his silver away.

Their first lesson as sworn men began after dinner. Jon spread a drawing of a bolt-thrower upon the worktable. Beside it stood his unfinished model, its arms lying loose beside the frame. The lads leaned closer when he fitted them into place.

"Otho will lead the fabri who build these. You will learn to set them up, shoot them and keep them working. Henly and Emrick will teach you what you can mend yourselves. A broken frame goes back to the builders."

Kester looked from the small frame to the dimensions on the paper. "How big will it be, my lord?"

Jon had him hold one end of a cord and walked the other end along the bench. Merrit moved a stool out of his way. At the full length Kester looked back towards the door, measuring the passage with his eyes.

"We'll need the other doors open to get it through."

"Aye. Fetch the pieces. We shall begin with the carriage."

Letters with Cadan and axe practice would follow: Emrick must teach them to defend themselves and their engines. For now Jon knelt amongst all twelve, set the drawing within sight and put the first timber into Merrit's hands.

A sennight later Jon found Emrick teaching them with wooden axes behind the shed. The blades were stained blue at the edges. Kester had blue upon his sleeve, his neck and the end of his nose. Merrit had only a stripe across one knuckle and was pleased enough with himself to lose the next exchange while glancing at it.

After washing off the blue, they drew a worn windlass part with Otho and Jon, looking for its failure. Merrit glanced towards the sword centuries' shouting, then bent to his page as Henly laid a sound part beside the worn one.

* * *
​

Ten days later Jon climbed the southern gate tower with a mallet in his belt and pegs knocking against his knee. First and Third passed up floorboards. His left forearm ached from Arthur's sword lesson, after the new men's morning circuit.

Otho and Woods stood upon the first flooring. The paired towers faced east, joined above the gate leaves by a great beam. The gates had closed for moons; now each would have a fighting platform.

Jon and Otho took the planks Malcolm passed up. Woods bored the holes; Jon drove the pegs. Beneath them a shingle cart passed towards Second's hall, where men were stripping the temporary walls from beneath a propped roof.

Otho wanted those men for the wallwalk before the next rains.

"Hewyn can lend two tens," Jon told him. "Ask which. The others are marching with Martyn."

Otho had learned to ask; drill had emptied his work gangs too often.

At the wallwalk junction Jon held a brace while Otho fitted its foot. The stair rose clear between the inner posts.

"Show me how you set this out," Jon said.

Otho flattened his drawing beneath Jon's hand. Stair, supporting frame and their heights shared the sheet; he laid a rule along the bearer.

"The stair ends here, my lord. Two men can pass on the landing."

Jon looked down through the open framing. "Leave the inner rail loose until Woods has laid the last tread. We shall bring men up with shields before we finish it."

"Shall I bring the stair at the far corner into this drawing as well?"

"Make a sheet for each corner. Put the joining lengths of walk beside them, with the beams counted. Tomorrow you can go through the timber heap with Woods."

They pegged the brace and took Malcolm's next plank.

By dinner they could walk from the gate platform onto the first length of wallwalk. Its outer side still awaited the broad breastwork boards; Woods had a temporary rail across the open end. Jon went as far as it and looked back into the enclosure. The lanes met squarely below him. Water ran in a stone gutter beside the granary, beneath a little bridge made from three saved slabs. Beyond the roofs, the old tower rose taller than their work, its repaired corner pale against the weathered stone. Smoke from Ewan's hearth drifted above the alders outside the bank.

Malcolm brought bowls for Jon and Otho, then went for his own. Jon sat upon stacked boards and found bacon beneath the peas. Woods and Otho counted joists; below, the relieved men washed and fetched their shields. Drill began while he was still eating.

"Norren! Bring that last ten through together!"

Third's rear men had cut round stacked timber while the front went through the gate. Norren brought them back and slowed the turn. Heward waited for the last pair, then called the next ten. Jon returned to his broth. He liked hearing faults corrected without everyone looking up for his decision. A ship's captain could not settle every task on deck; his youngest officers needed that habit too.

* * *
​

When Mairi next brought liners, Robb's horse stood outside and his practice coat hung inside Jon's door, familiar from her last two visits. The brothers ate upon the bench, wet from washing. Jon's black hair clung to his neck, the silver lock damp against his cheek. His sleeve was torn; Robb had a red patch beneath his jaw.

Wylla came out of the guardroom carrying the old bed linen. She stopped beside Jon and took his wrist.

"Let me see."

He turned his arm for her. Beneath the tear, the skin was unbroken.

"Robb caught the seam."

"You caught my chin." Robb moved his jaw experimentally, then took another bite of bread.

Wylla let go. "There is a clean shirt on your bed. Put that one with the washing when you have finished."

Theon appeared from the horse line with a loaf under his arm. He had combed his black hair and fastened his cloak with a gold clasp; the dust on his boots had received less care. He unwrapped the loaf and set it between the brothers.

"There was cheese in the kitchen, too. I could not find anything to carry it in."

"Your mouth," Robb said.

"Some of it." Theon sat beside him and reached for Jon's knife.

Jon passed it hilt first. He shifted his bowl onto his knee to make room while Theon cut the loaf. Robb reached for the largest piece and found Theon's hand resting upon it.

"I carried it up the hill."

"You carried it from the kitchen," Robb said.

"And the kitchen is below us." Theon cut the piece in two and gave Robb the smaller half. Jon took the other before the dispute could grow.

Robb opened the cyvasse box he had brought back from Winterfell and began setting his ground behind the screen. Theon leaned over and had his hand pushed away.

"You play him afterwards," Robb said. Jon smiled and waited while they settled it.

Mairi left the liners beneath the eaves and joined Wylla at the beds. Fresh rushes lay beneath the turned mattresses; Arya's meadow flowers stood in the slit above Jon's chest. Outside, cyvasse pieces clicked and Robb told Theon to keep his advice to himself.

Mairi caught the clean sheet's far end as Robb asked to ride after tomorrow's lessons.

"Come here first," Jon said. "I must finish with Woods."

"I shall bring my bow."

"Bring mine," Theon said. "If Rodrik lets me go."

Wylla tucked the sheet beneath the mattress. "He eats better when they come," she said quietly.

Mairi looked through the doorway. Jon was reaching across Robb for another piece of bread.

* * *
​

A fortnight later Mairi was pinning a cover on the same bed when Jory brought Bran into the yard and passed him down to Jon. Sansa followed with a basket and a neat auburn braid. Arya was already off her pony, tugging a strap caught under the saddle flap, while a guard helped the nurse dismount.

"Lady Stark asks that they be home before supper," Jory said. "Bran has been telling me where to turn since the market."

"You went past it." Bran pointed towards the road.

"That was the cow lane."

"It came here."

Jon set him down. "You can show me from the stair. Come and see the room first."

"Which bed is yours?" Bran asked inside.

Jon lifted him onto it. Bran bounced once, making the straw crackle.

"Mine is softer."

"You may keep it." Jon pulled the folded blanket beneath his brother's legs so his boots would not touch Mairi's work.

Sansa opened her basket. Six small honey cakes lay beneath a cloth. One had lost a corner.

"Arya dropped it."

"Only that one." Arya took the damaged cake before anyone could assign it elsewhere.

"Did you bring them for Jon or for yourself?" Sansa asked.

Arya held it out to him. He took a bite and gave it back. Bran pushed another into his hand before he had swallowed.

Mairi gathered her pins; the children left little room to work. Wylla brought cups and sent her for the small jug. When Mairi returned, Sansa sat upon the clothes chest, feeling the wall.

"Does it get wet here?"

"It did before Woods mended the roof," Jon said.

"Where will people dance?" Sansa asked.

"In the hall, when the tables are cleared," Jon said. "You will have to tell me how much room you need." Sansa looked through the doorway again, judging it with considerably more interest.

Arya had gone to the doorway. "Where is the other room?"

"Up the stair."

"Show us."

"Finish the cake first." Jon caught Arya's loose crumbs. Mairi took her sewing outside; he followed with Bran and Arya, Sansa bringing the covered basket.

Beneath the eaves she stopped to look at the liner Mairi was sewing. "Is that for a coat?"

"A sleeping blanket, my lady. It goes inside the canvas."

Sansa touched the quilted edge with one finger, careful of the needle. Across the yard Arya had found the dressed timber figure used in the household's drill. She pulled at its black sleeve.

"Why has he got your cloak?"

"It is an old one." Jon came to stand beside her. "The men practise getting him onto a horse."

"He has no feet."

Jon drew the coat aside so she could see the padded wooden body beneath it.

Bran wanted to try lifting him. Jon took the weight from behind while the little boy clasped both arms round the padded middle. The figure rose clear of its resting blocks. Bran looked at Arya over its shoulder, red-faced with effort.

"Put him down gently," Jon said. They lowered it together, and Bran patted the wooden head as though he had rescued a living man.

From her sewing Mairi heard the children climbing with Jon and Jory. A carpenter passed with his mallet and wished the little ladies good day. Bran reached the rail and pointed to the lane.

"There. It does come here."

Jory looked where he meant. "Across the byre. You would have brought us through the cows."

Bran considered that route with evident satisfaction. Sansa had turned towards the window above the guardroom.

"Will you put glass there?"

"A shutter first," Jon answered. "That room is Wylla's."

"It had better be," Wylla called from below. "I have been looking at the same curtain for a year."

Sansa leaned against the rail. "May we see it when she moves in?"

"You may help her choose the curtain."

"I shall choose one she likes," Sansa said, with a glance at Arya, who had already begun suggesting colours.

By the time the light left Mairi's sewing, the horses were ready. Bran protested that he had missed the river; Jon promised to take him when the ground dried. Sansa gave him the last cake at the gate. Arya held his sleeve until he agreed to come to supper.

* * *
​

Back at the Old Watch after supper at Winterfell, Arthur found Jon beneath the tower window. A small fire burned in the hearth behind him. He had laid a history of Robert's war across the new rooms' account, a strip of black cloth marking his page.

"Who wrote this?" Jon asked.

Arthur read the heading. "A man who survived on the winning side."

"He gives the great lords a page apiece. Darry has three lines."

"Then he has missed a good deal." Arthur frowned at the page before pulling up the stool. Wylla was taking Aries up to bed; they waited until her voice had passed the stair before Arthur closed the door.

"Jonothor Darry was my sworn brother. He died at the Trident. Raymun lost three elder brothers in the war. Afterwards his house lost half its lands and most of what made it powerful."

"And Willem took Viserys and Daenerys away."

"He was master-at-arms in the Red Keep before the war. He could have bent the knee and asked to remain. He chose the children." Arthur smoothed the corner of the page.

Jon moved the cloth to Darry's three lines, his lips pressing together as he read their names again. "And Hoster Tully came out of it with the North and the Vale tied to Riverrun. He sold his daughters for a place beside the men who would rule."

"Catelyn had been promised to Brandon long before the war."

"And when Brandon died, Hoster made certain the new Lord of Winterfell took his place. Then he gave Lysa to a man old enough to be her grandfather. What did it matter what she wanted, so long as he could call the Lord of the Eyrie his son?"

Arthur glanced at him. "Ned needed the riverlords' swords."

"I know he did. Aerys had murdered his father and brother and was demanding his head. Hoster knew how badly he needed them too. That is what disgusts me." Jon pressed the cloth flat between the pages. "House Darry lost three sons keeping faith. Tully made sure his family gained from changing sides."

For a moment he looked towards the door. He had eaten at Catelyn's table that evening, with Hoster's grandchildren arguing over who would sit beside him.

He turned back to Arthur. "Who else stayed loyal?"

"Myles Mooton. He was Rhaegar's squire, a fine young knight. Robert killed him at Stoney Sept. His brother William holds Maidenpool now. Their house stood against its own liege for your father's house."

"Against Hoster Tully."

"Aye. As the Graftons stood against Jon Arryn at Gulltown. Lord Marq died there fighting Robert."

Jon found Gulltown in the book. He knew it through bills, hatch widths and carriage costs; the men who had fought in its streets had seldom entered those reckonings.

"Gerold rules there now."

"So Ethan's letters say. He has a city to hold, and Arryn is still his lord."

"Do you know whether he shares Marq's loyalties?"

"I do not know him well enough to say."

Jon left the book open. "Then I shall learn what happened before I decide who is useful."

Arthur named Velaryon ships, Celtigar wealth, Sharp Point and Sweetport Sound: sea houses long bound to Dragonstone, now under Robert's peace. Some he knew himself, others only through their fathers. He distinguished them carefully.

"They would have reason to prefer a Targaryen on Dragonstone," Jon said.

"They might. They have made their peace with Robert. You would be asking them to stake land, ships and sons upon Aemon Targaryen."

"I intend to give them more reason to do so than a dead prince's name."

Arthur glanced down at the account trapped beneath the history. "These rooms?"

"These rooms first. Then rooms enough on the island, ships that can carry what we make, and soldiers who are not sent home because some lord needs his harvest brought in." Jon freed the account and laid the two documents side by side. "A man who wants his lands back may serve me until I give them back. I need men who will still serve afterwards."

"The lord whose father died for yours may serve for more than land."

"I would rather find out while we are buying timber than while he holds my flank."

Arthur considered him. "That is fair. Do not forget to learn what he fears as well."

Jon turned to the Trident. The paragraph below Lewyn Martell's name gave the size of the Dornish contingent.

"Ten thousand." Jon's finger stopped beneath the number. He looked up at Arthur, a crease deepening between his brows. "Doran had more men than that."

"He did not empty Dorne."

"His sister was in King's Landing with her children. Aerys had them under guard. What was he saving the rest for?"

"Doran was angry with Rhaegar. He had cause."

"Then he could have cursed Rhaegar to his face after we won. Elia was still his sister." Jon pushed the book towards Arthur. "He sent enough men to claim he had done his duty and kept enough to survive losing. Tell me I am wrong."

Arthur left the book where it was. "I was not at his council. And Lewyn died at the Trident with men who had done all that was asked of them."

"I am speaking of Doran. He mourns her now. Where was that love when she needed every spear he could send?"

Arthur looked towards the shutter. Miller's Run sounded through the gap beneath it.

"I have asked myself that."

"And Mace Tyrell." Jon pulled the book back and turned the leaves until he found Storm's End. "Feasting beneath the walls while my father went to the Trident. How much of the Reach did he need to watch Stannis starve?"

"Reachmen fought at Ashford. Some joined Rhaegar."

"While Mace sat with the rest. Robert broke my father's chest with a warhammer, and that fat bastard was still at his table." Jon was leaning across the table now, colour high along his cheekbones. His voice had risen. He saw Arthur glance at the door and lowered it with an effort. "When Ned came, he knelt. All that strength, and he used it to keep himself comfortable until he knew whose boots to lick."

Arthur's mouth tightened. "Your father needed those men."

"Then say so. I am sick of hearing how much cause these men had to do so little."

"I just did."

Jon stopped. Arthur was looking directly at him now.

"You think I have made my peace with it because I can speak of it without shouting?"

"No." Jon glanced down. "No, Uncle."

He found the account of the sack. Tywin's arrival occupied most of the page; the children's deaths took a few lines near the bottom. His hand covered them.

"He waited too. Until he knew Rhaegar was dead. Then he found the courage to march."

Arthur read past Jon's fingers. "Aerys opened the gates to him."

"And he sent Clegane and Lorch to the children." Jon moved his hand. "You would not tell me all of it before."

Arthur's eyes left the page.

"Tell me now."

For a while Arthur said nothing. Then he drew the book away from Jon and shut it.

"Clegane killed Aegon in front of his mother. Smashed his head. Ned said there was scarcely anything left of his face." He swallowed. "Then he raped Elia and killed her. Lorch took Rhaenys. She had been stabbed over and over."

Jon knew. He had read it years before this life, and the worst of it had stayed with him when whole stretches of those books had faded. He had once been able to put the book down and go to bed. Now Arthur sat across from him, struggling to speak about a child he had held.

"How old was she?" Jon asked.

"Three."

Three. Jon had lived years beyond the age his sister would ever reach. He tried to imagine her standing beside Arthur's stool and found Arya there instead, demanding that he keep his promise to come to supper. He looked away, his jaw aching with the effort of keeping silent.

"Lorch kept stabbing her." The words came out thick. "A grown man with a blade, and he kept—"

"I heard you."

Arthur had risen. The stool scraped behind him, catching on a joint in the boards. He left it tilted against the table and went to the window.

Jon watched him grip the sill. He had wanted Arthur to share his anger. Now he wished he had stopped a sentence sooner.

"She used to pull at my cloak," Arthur said. "If I was speaking to someone and she wanted me. Never waited for me to finish."

He rubbed his face with one hand, hard enough to redden the skin beneath his eyes.

"Elia would tell her to leave me be. I told her I did not mind."

Jon could hear the water below them. He waited, but Arthur said no more.

"I am sorry."

Arthur shook his head. "You asked what happened. You ought to be able to ask me."

"Tywin had them wrapped in his own cloaks." Jon could hardly bear the thought of men arranging the bodies for presentation, folding cloth around what had been done. "He carried them into the throne room as if he had brought Robert a wedding gift. And Robert took them. He let those men live."

Arthur turned from the window. "He let them keep their spurs."

There was such loathing in his voice that Jon scarcely recognised it.

"And married Tywin's daughter," Jon said. "A king's marriage for that. Darry loses half his lands, and Tywin Lannister gets his blood upon the throne." He shoved the history away. It struck the account and sent a loose sheet sliding to the floor. "I will not have someone tell me years from now that I must forgive him because I need his gold. Or that Clegane and Lorch were overzealous servants. He chose them. He brought what was left of my brother and sister to Robert, and he took his reward."

Arthur came back to the table. He put the stool upright but remained standing beside it.

"They think House Targaryen is finished," Jon said. "That they can grow old with what they have done. We will give them their due, Uncle. I swear it."

"They should answer for it. And I want to stand beside you when they do." Arthur rested his hands upon the back of the stool. "But you will need allies to reach them. Men who can bring an army, or feed one. Some will have married their daughters into those houses. Others will have prospered under Robert. They may offer you the strength to take your throne and ask you to leave an old grievance buried."

"My brother's smashed head is an old grievance?"

"To them." Arthur held his gaze. "You know what it is to me. I am asking what you will do when punishing a man costs you the lord whose soldiers you need. You may have to compromise, however bitter it tastes."

"That is where you are wrong."

Jon rose. The loose sheet lay beside his boot. He picked it up, smoothed it upon the table and pushed it towards Arthur.

"You see this every day. You have watched me build it. Yet when we speak of a crown, you still look to the great lords for the armies and gold to win it."

"There is a great deal between this yard and a kingdom."

"I know how much work lies ahead. I intend to do it." Jon laid his hand upon the account. "The clocks paid for men I could never have raised from my lands. At Dragonstone I shall have a harbour to send my goods across the narrow sea. Every venture that succeeds will pay for the next. I have plans enough to keep us at work for years."

Arthur looked down at the figures.

"And an army large enough to face them?" he asked.

"Our centuries are a beginning. I will raise legions of my own. Men trained by my officers, paid from my purse, with homes on my lands. When I give an order, they will obey me. Mace Tyrell will have no harvest to call them away to, and no son to put over them."

Jon came around the table. He wanted Arthur to understand this as much as he had wanted him to share his anger.

"I will make alliances. Men who have kept faith with us will find that I can keep faith too. But I will build enough of my own strength to refuse a bargain. If a lord wants a murderer pardoned for the use of his swords, I mean to be able to send him home with them."

"Even if it costs you years?"

"Then it costs me years. They have made me live under another name. They will not decide what sort of king I become as well."

Arthur studied him. Jon could see that he was still troubled, but he no longer looked as though he were waiting for the anger to pass.

"I shall help you build it," he said.

"You already are." Jon's mouth curled into a slow, hard smile. Candlelight shone in his purple eyes beneath the fall of his white forelock. He kept his gaze fixed on Arthur. "But understand what we are building. The old way of Targaryen rule is done."

A log cracked in the hearth behind him.

"I will make the wealth that sustains my crown, and raise the legions that defend it. With my own hands, if I have to."

He drew the account back towards him.

 

[acid29]

The last readers were leaving the schoolroom when Jon came in from the rain. One of them held his book beneath his coat; another followed him towards the barracks, still disputing a word. Light showed beneath the infirmary door.

Inside, Lorren had drawn the bench close to the hearth. A quarryman sat with his boot off and his breeches cut above the calf, gripping the edge of the seat while Lorren held linen against his shin. His muddy stocking lay upon the floor. Beside the door his mate stood crushing both their caps, too broad to leave much room for anyone passing.

Jon left his sword against the wall and slipped past him. He had ridden from the Black Yard in the rain, and his wet coat clung coldly between his shoulders. Wylla took it from him and spread it over a chair well away from the clean linen. The room smelled of damp wool and the soap she had used upon the table. On the shelf above it, Lorren's jars still bore the little ties that had kept their stoppers in place all the way from Oldtown.

"Woods sent him straight here," Wylla said.

Lorren looked up. "It has slowed, my lord. I am waiting before I lift the cloth."

Jon crouched beside him. The quarryman tried to draw his foot back beneath the bench.

"Leave it where he has put it," Jon said. "What is your name?"

"Bors, my lord."

"Did the stone fall upon it?"

"No, my lord. The sledge shifted. I was getting clear."

"He had his leg out," his mate said. "Only the back of his stocking caught, and then—"

"I felt it," Bors interrupted.

His mate fell silent. Lorren asked Bors to move his toes again, then described what he had found beneath the torn stocking. He spoke to Jon without taking his eyes from the injured man.

"Is my wife coming?" Bors asked.

"I sent word to the wool hall," Wylla told him. "She knows where you are."

"She will think it worse than it is."

"Then she will be pleased when she sees you." Wylla put another stick upon the fire.

His naval training had taught him to keep a man alive until better help came. Lorren had spent years with patients, and had already found the position in which Bors could keep his leg still without trembling. Jon waited until he had finished his examination.

When Lorren eased the linen aside, the wound had ceased to bleed freely. Grit remained along its edge. He reached towards a jug upon the stool.

"What is in that?" Jon asked.

"Water, my lord. Wylla had it boiled."

Jon touched the outside of the jug. It had cooled while Lorren worked. At the basin he worked Wylla's soap around his nails and between his fingers. Beside Lorren's open book, thread and the knife used upon the breeches crowded the lamp.

"Wash again before you clean the wound," Jon said.

"I washed when he came in."

"Before you cut away his stocking?" Jon glanced at the mud beside the bench.

Lorren looked down at his fingers. He had wiped them upon a cloth; nothing remained upon the skin that Jon could see. Bors was watching them both.

"The stocking was filthy," Lorren said. He set the jug aside and came to the basin. "Keep your leg where it is, Bors. I shall only be a moment."

Jon took his place beside the bench. "How long have you been working with the stone gangs?"

"Since hay cutting, my lord. There is more earned at it."

"And you will need another stocking."

"My wife will tell me." Bors looked towards the door, then down at his ruined clothes. "The little one keeps stealing her shoe. He has only just found his feet, and now he wants to be shod."

Jon laughed. His own daughter had rejected an expensive toy for its box; he could still hear his wife laughing at the price. "Was it at least an old shoe?"

"Her good one. She keeps giving him the other, but he will not have it."

Lorren returned with his sleeves turned back. "This will sting, Bors. Keep looking at his lordship."

Wylla held a basin beneath the leg. Lorren poured clean water over the wound, taking his time with the dirt. Jon steadied the man's knee when he flinched. A fold of clean linen lay ready upon a separate stool. The muddy stocking went into a bucket beside the door.

The quarryman's mate reached for a cloth to wipe the bench.

"Use the one by your foot," Jon told him. "Those are for the wound."

The man dropped his hand. "Beg pardon, my lord."

Lorren glanced at the untouched linen, finished cleaning the cut and examined it by the lamp. Bors let his breath out as Lorren wound the bandage.

"Come back tomorrow," Lorren told him. "Earlier if the pain grows worse, or you feel feverish. You are to keep off the stone gang until I have seen you again."

"I could stand at the light end."

"You can scarcely stand here."

Bors looked at Jon.

"Master Lorren decides when that leg is fit for work," Jon said. "You will keep your wages while it mends."

For a moment Bors seemed more troubled by that than by the bandage. He looked at the mate still holding his cap.

"There is work I can do sitting, my lord. Woods has pegs waiting to be trimmed."

"Ask him in the morning, if Lorren lets you go. Tonight you are going home."

His mate helped him to the door. Outside, a man from Hewyn's century took his other arm. Their voices dwindled along the passage, with Bors insisting that he could manage the last stretch himself.

Lorren waited until they were out of hearing. He gathered the used cloths, leaving the clean folds upon their separate stool.

"I would have washed again if I had seen dirt upon my hands," he said. "You think wiping them was not enough?"

Jon pulled a stool to the table. "Sit down. I have been meaning to speak with you about this since Branoc cut his hand."

Wylla brought him a bowl of stew. He had forgotten supper. She placed it upon the far end of the table, away from the healer's tools, and remained to hear.

"Do you believe that so little dirt can corrupt a wound?" Lorren asked.

"Less than we can see." Jon broke a piece of bread into the stew. "Some sickness is carried by living things so small that our eyes cannot find them. They pass from a sick man in his waste, in what he coughs out, or upon hands that have touched him. There are others in dirt and spoiled matter. Some do us no harm. Some grow in a wound and make a man gravely ill."

Lorren's hand remained beside his book. He had been ready to open it; now he studied Jon instead.

"Living things. In a man who has no worms?"

"Far smaller than worms."

"Within the pus?"

"They help cause it. They need not wait for a wound to look foul before they are there."

The healer pushed the lamp nearer. In its light his two silver links shone against the throat of his robe. "A wound may fester beneath a clean dressing. I have seen that often. We take the dressing away and find it hot and swollen, though nothing foul could have touched it."

"It may have been carried in when the man was hurt. Or upon the hands that dressed it."

"Mine, then."

"Possibly." Jon let him consider that. "You can clean a wound and still lose the man. I cannot give you a way to save every one of them."

Lorren frowned at the basin. "We would look to his food, or the air of the room. If the dressing was clean, we would begin elsewhere."

"Attend to those too. But do not take clean cloth for proof that nothing harmful reached the wound."

Lorren thought about that while Jon ate. Beneath the window, rain tapped upon the sill. Somewhere outside a horse struck its stable door, followed by a groom's weary complaint.

"Can you see these creatures with a lens?" Lorren asked.

"With sufficiently good glass and enough enlargement, some of them. I do not have such an instrument here."

"Yet you are certain."

"I am."

"Did Maester Luwin teach you this?"

"No."

"Then where did you learn it?"

Jon put his spoon down. There had been a time when the answer would have needed no care at all. He could have named the place, described the room, complained about the man who had taught him. Some of those details had grown dim; the instruction remained. None of it would explain him to Lorren.

"I have had good teachers."

"Could I read what they wrote?"

"I have no book of theirs to give you. You will have to question me."

Lorren glanced at the little hand beside the bowl.

"At the Citadel I would be asked for more than my word," Lorren said.

"So would I. Keep your accounts of the patients. Write down what you do, and what follows. We will go through them together."

"You are asking me to change how I tend them before I have that answer."

"Would washing your hands again have harmed Bors?"

"No." Lorren looked towards the bucket by the door. "But if your explanation is right, that rag could carry his sickness to another man."

"It could. So could the hand that wrings it out. That is why I want clean cloth kept apart, and hands washed between patients."

"Boiling the water kills them?"

"Many of them. It does not excuse leaving blood or dirt upon a tool. Those must be cleaned off first. And a pot over a fire cannot make every instrument fit for every operation."

Lorren nodded slowly. "I have seen a man scrub a blade, heat it and wipe it upon his apron. He was particular about the blade. He would not have let me use it uncleaned."

Jon waited. The healer did not name the man who had taught him.

Wylla took away the empty bowl. "And I have watched a woman rinse a sick child's cloths beside the water she meant to cook with. She thought the water was clean because she could see through it."

"Boil what she means to drink," Jon said. "Keep the washing water away from it."

"The infirmary linen can be washed apart. But I cannot have the kitchen kettle missing whenever Lorren needs water."

"Ask Abel for another. And tell Woods I want a cupboard here, with doors that close."

Wylla looked at the shelf. "Those jars can go higher. I need the dry place for the linen."

Lorren moved his book to let her measure the space with her hands. When she had gone, he opened it at a page crowded with additions. The first question concerned bleeding a patient whose wound was swollen. Jon answered that one readily; the next brought him to a halt.

The healer had fetched a jar of dried northern root. He described how it was prepared, then waited for Jon to tell him whether he should continue using it.

"You must teach me that," Jon said. "I have never used it."

"But you know what causes the wound to fester."

"I know something of it. I do not know every remedy on your shelf." He turned the jar to read its label. "Tell me what it does, and what you have seen when you give it."

Lorren drew his stool nearer. For a while Jon listened. When he could not answer a question, he said so, and they put it aside to ask Luwin. The healer's book lay between them now, its lower corner weighted with the jar.

Later Lorren returned to his patients with flux. Jon wanted clean drinking water, waste kept clear of the well, and close watch on what the sick could swallow and retain. He had seen men withhold drink until the stools ceased. Patients must not dry out while the illness ran through them.

"How many can you watch at once?" Jon asked.

"I cannot watch them all." Lorren rubbed his eyes. "Bors's mate did not know what to do when he reached the door. If I had been in the barracks, he would have stood there waiting."

"Then we shall teach them something to do. Hewyn can send you steady men."

"I can show them. Keeping them useful when they are frightened is another matter."

Jon knew that too. He had heard instruction given calmly in a room like this and struggled to recall it when someone was bleeding in front of him. "We can practise that. I will bring Henly after dinner tomorrow."

Lorren marked his place but did not close the book. "There is more of this than one lesson, my lord."

"Then we shall have more than one."

* * *
​

By the following afternoon the rain had cleared. Through the infirmary's open window came the thud of practice shafts striking wicker. Lorren had moved the bench against the wall to clear the floor. He was putting away the broom when Jon arrived with Henly, two poles and a roll of strong canvas.

Two spearmen waited by the hearth. The broader had scarcely room to straighten beneath the beam and watched Henly lay out the canvas with growing interest.

"Are we carrying that, my lord?"

"One another, once we know it will bear you."

His companion looked him over. "I should have come before dinner."

Henly passed the poles through the sewn sides. Jon had asked Hewyn for steady men who listened when frightened. Every century would need them, and Lorren would have to teach them. Today they could make their mistakes without an injured friend at their feet.

He put one man on the floor and had the other kneel beside him. A folded cloth stood for the dressing. Jon described the wound they were to imagine, then watched the soldier press the cloth into place.

The man lifted it almost at once to look beneath.

"Keep it there," Jon said. He crouched beside him and put his own hand over the soldier's, showing the firmness he wanted. "Let Lorren judge when you can move it. You do not help by lifting it every moment."

They changed places. The broader man gave a theatrical groan until Lorren told him he would have breath enough to complain after the lesson. Jon moved back to the bench and let the healer take them through the next attempt.

Lorren began with an explanation of where to put the dressing. Halfway through, the kneeling soldier glanced towards Jon.

"Ask him," Jon said.

"Do I fetch you first, Master Lorren, or stay here?"

"If you are alone—" Lorren stopped and looked at the room as though seeing the man upon its floor afresh. "Call for help. Tell whoever comes to fetch me. You keep your hand there."

Jon tested the canvas seams while they practised again. Henly had left the poles long enough for a good grip at either end. Jon lay upon the carrier and folded his hands over his belt.

The men lifted one end ahead of the other. His heels slid towards the foot of the canvas.

"Down," he said.

They lowered him at once. The broader soldier had been watching Lorren; his companion had taken his word from Henly, who was pointing to a twist in the canvas.

"Choose who calls the lift," Jon told them. "The other waits for him. Look at one another."

The next attempt brought him up level. Jon had them set him down and let the broader spearman take his place. Lorren took one end while the other soldier carried the foot. Henly went ahead to hold the door and guide them through the narrow passage. A pole end scraped the post; the man upon the canvas seized its edges.

"Where does it hurt?" Lorren asked when they set him down.

"It does not. I thought you would tip me out."

Lorren looked back at the doorway. "You could not see where we were going."

"I could see the ceiling. That was enough."

They tried it again, with the healer telling him when they meant to turn. Henly marked the scraped handle so he could smooth it later. By the time they came back, Jon had laid out the padded wooden support beside the bench.

Lorren examined the poles afterwards. "We can keep these with the tents."

"And a set here," Jon said. "A cart will not reach every place a man falls."

Henly lay down for the last trial. Lorren showed the soldiers how to steady his uninjured leg upon the padded support without wrenching it. When they carried him, the healer walked beside them and asked what moved and what rubbed. After the soldiers had left, Henly knelt to examine the edge that had pressed beneath his heel. Jon sent him for Woods's plane.

"I shall need helpers of my own," Lorren said. "For the room as well as the field."

"Hewyn will send you men in turns, beginning tomorrow. Teach them what you need done here as well as in the field. When we next take boys for the household, you shall examine those who fail at weapons but show sense and steadiness."

"For carrying?" Lorren asked.

"The soldiers will do that. Your youngest lads can begin with the linen, water and dressings, under your eye."

"And their letters?"

"Alongside the work. I want them able to read what you leave for a patient, and tell you plainly what has changed."

Lorren drew the bench back beneath the window. "I have had grown men tell me a patient was better because he had stopped complaining. Sometimes he was too weak to speak."

"Then that is something you must teach them to notice." Jon stood and stretched his cramped knees. "Choose boys who will come and ask you when they are unsure."

Lorren straightened. "And you will continue the lessons?"

"Bring your questions after supper twice a week. If I am at Winterfell, have them ready when I return."

At the door Jon found Munin perched upon the stone ledge. The crow had worked a straw loose from the thatch of the shelter opposite and seemed unwilling to surrender it. Jon held out his wrist. Munin stepped onto the leather, straw and all, while Lorren watched from within.

"She will not be coming into this room," Jon said.

Lorren laughed and put the cover over his clean linen. He bowed as Jon went out.

Four days later Jon met Bors upon the path to the timber shelter. Woods had given him seated work, smoothing pegs. He carried his little boy upon one arm and his dinner in the other hand. The child held a shoe by its heel.

"I see he kept it," Jon said.

"His mother wants it home before supper, my lord." Bors shifted the boy higher. Small teeth had left marks upon the leather strap.

When Jon went to the infirmary that evening, Lorren had already examined the leg. The cut was closing without redness, though he meant to keep Bors off the quarry. His notes lay open beside the lamp.

"One man," he said. "I have had wounds mend cleanly before."

"Of course."

"I should like to follow the others as closely." Lorren turned the page to the next patient's name. "And I have questions about the men with flux."

Jon drew up his stool. From the yard came the changing guard's footsteps, and above them Munin called once from the roof. Wylla brought a second lamp before the room grew dark.

Click to shrink...

Missing threadmark

 

[aiwonder]

Missing threadmark

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thanks for the lookout

 

[aiwonder]

Once Woods had finished the upper chambers, they carried the beds out of the guardroom. Jon and Arthur had adjoining rooms, with Wylla's below them and a narrow sleeping place for Aries beside hers. The boy brought his blanket up himself. Wylla took the trailing end before it caught on a splinter, but left him to carry the rest.

Jon set his books beside the new window. From the guardroom he had looked out upon boots and the legs of passing horses. Here he could see over the nearest barrack to the enclosing bank, where carpenters were fitting planks to the wallwalk. Beyond it the fields sloped towards Miller's Run. Smoke rose from the cottages on the farther rise, thinning in the damp air.

He stood there while Arthur brought the last of his things upstairs. Below, a soldier had stopped carrying a pail of mortar to watch a pair of men struggling with a shutter. Ormund called him back to work. Jon leaned out far enough to see the mason take hold of the pail himself and carry it beneath the barrack roof.

"He has been waiting for that stone all sennight," Jon said.

"It came while you were at Winterfell." Arthur set the book chest down. "Woods wants the men for the walk as well."

"I gave him two tens. He will have to finish with them. Ormund has half Second sleeping round his props."

Arthur came to the window. For a while they watched the pails passing into the hall. Fresh stone showed beneath its weathered roof; farther along, planks still closed the walls. A man emerged from the doorway carrying his bedding, shook white dust from it and looked indignantly towards the mason. Ormund pointed him out of the way of the next pail.

"Have them move their beds to the finished end while he works," Jon said. "I will speak to Rennick."

The conversation with Arthur had left him thinking of armies large enough to break the power of the great houses. Now he watched a man find somewhere to put his blanket. Three hundred and sixty infantry, every one of them needing a dry bed, good bread and his pay. He knew what their mouths cost him each moon. Raising another cohort would mean finding the same money again, and officers he could trust with it.

The thought scarcely diminished his pleasure in the view. He had ordered the first cord stretched across a slope full of bracken. There were men living along that line now.

After dinner he left Aries at his letters and returned upstairs. He had promised Ewan the late afternoon and left his work coat ready upon the chest. Hugin stood upon the sill, turning his head between Jon and the bread in his hand.

Jon gave him the last piece and drew his chair towards the window.

"Will you stay?" he asked Arthur. "I want to take him over the holding."

"As far as the river?"

"And round the bank. I have been looking at the place a wall at a time for a year." Jon glanced towards the long roof cutting off his view of the lower yard. "I should like to see the whole of it."

Arthur shut the door and brought his own chair within reach. Jon settled his feet upon the floor and rested his hands upon his knees. Hugin swallowed, wiped his beak against the sill and stepped out towards the light.

For a moment Jon felt the wood beneath his claws and the chair beneath his thighs together. The room fell away. He sprang from the sill, spread black wings and dropped past the tower wall. Air caught beneath him. A few hard beats took him above the stable, then higher, until the nearest roof no longer hid the street beyond it.

He turned over the bank.

The Old Watch lay below him, its long enclosure bending round at the corners. The ditch showed dark outside the turf, broken at the ways in. Within stood the crooked remains of the older fort, hemmed by the straight roads he had laid out around it. Barracks faced one another across the main approach. The crossing beside the old curtain lay open, with the store doors turned towards it and the smaller paths leading away between the buildings.

Jon banked again, unwilling to pass over it so quickly.

He knew those proportions. He had studied plans of Roman forts long before he had ever held a sword, following their streets with a finger, imagining what it would have been to arrive with a marching column and find a familiar place waiting for each part of it. Here the slope had forced him to alter a corner. The old curtain robbed him of ground he would have preferred to leave clear, and the tower stood where no Roman surveyor would have chosen to put it. Yet the arrangement he had worked towards was there beneath his wings. He could follow a century's road from the entrance to its hall without losing it behind another building.

He had spent so long with a cord in his hand, arguing over the width of a passage or moving a doorway on a drawing, that seeing it joined together caught him unprepared. He made another circuit. The dark rectangle turned slowly beneath him, smoke trailing across one corner, a wagon creeping along the road towards its gate.

His fort.

He wanted Arthur to see it from here. Looking from the window would give the knight only another piece of it, and Jon knew how little a drawing conveyed of the pleasure of finding his own plans occupied by men.

A gust lifted his left wing. He corrected too sharply, dropped and recovered with the tower sliding sideways past him. Hugin's alarm drove the thought of Arthur out of his head. Jon steadied the wings and took a lower course along the bank, attending to the air against his feathers until the bird settled.

The western turf had rooted well. Grass covered the slope where he remembered carrying sods with his arms shaking from the digging. The fence rose above it, with stretches of new walk showing pale along its inner face. Beyond the carpenters, bare joists waited for their boards. Woods had laid a stout pole across the last finished stretch to keep men from stepping out onto the unfinished work.

Jon settled upon a fence post near the gate. From here he could see the pegs in the new flooring above the entrance. His palm had blistered driving some of them. One carpenter knelt with a board across his thighs while another held its far end; they shifted it, tested the fit and lifted it away again. Woods shaved a little from the edge. This time it settled into place, and he reached for the pegs a younger hand was carrying in his cap. The lad tipped the cap too far. Woods caught it against his chest, laughing as the boy scrambled after the pegs that had escaped.

Jon recognised the laugh. The carpenter had not sounded like that when they first opened the tower and saw the fallen floors.

Below the gate platform, the wagon came in loaded with stone. Its wheels sank a little where the road had been churned beside the entrance, then found the firm centre. The driver brought it almost to Second's hall before a mason waved him towards a new heap beside the street. Two soldiers began lifting stones from the back.

Jon watched the pile grow. The earlier load had been set against the hall; this one spread beyond it. A stack of the old wall planks stood opposite. There had been room for two carts to pass along that stretch when he and Woods measured it. Now the wagon took up most of what remained.

From the field outside came Hewyn's command.

First's flag moved towards the gate. The men behind it came at a steady walk, shields upon their arms and practice spears upright. Second followed, with Rennick walking along the flank. Jon hopped to the end of the post and watched the head of the column pass beneath him.

They had been ragged enough upon this road once. Men stopped to pull at a boot or turned when somebody called from a window; the ranks behind found the delay by walking into them. Now the First came through with room between the files, the men keeping their pace even where a carter's horse tossed its head towards the moving spears. A decanus checked one new lad with a hand against his elbow. The lad corrected his place without bringing his neighbours to a halt.

Hewyn saw the wagon. His arm went up. The halt passed back along the First, then Rennick stopped Second clear of the entrance. Men near the middle turned their heads to see what had delayed them. Their decani put them straight again.

"Leave it standing," Hewyn called to the driver, who had begun gathering his reins. "We will come round you."

He sent the First through by tens. Each turned past the wagon and formed again beyond it, where Malcolm waited. One file came out crooked; Malcolm shifted it while the next ten cleared the wheels. Rennick held his men until Hewyn beckoned.

Jon remained on the post, pleased to have nothing to do with any of it. Hewyn spoke to the carter, Rennick brought his men through, and the men who had been unloading kept their hands upon the stone until the last shields passed. When the road was clear, they went back to work.

The two centuries formed across the yard. Hewyn had them turn, then move off towards the lower field again. Jon watched Second cross the open space beside the curtain without a man wandering towards his own hall. Their newer coats were easy to pick out among the faded wool. He was pleased by how quickly those wearing them found their places.

He would have the timber stack moved. Ormund could keep stone beside the wall he was raising; the rest must wait in the stores yard. The broad road was doing the work Jon had intended for it, and he wanted its whole width back.

He took wing as the men passed out. Beyond them, the sword centuries were working under Martyn. Jon heard a burst of shouting and turned towards it, settling in a tree above the practice rail.

A man from Sixth had slipped. Two companions stood over him with their shields forward while Fifth pressed close, their wooden swords striking the rims. Brus called the halt. Martyn made the fallen man stay where he was. The lad was trying to pull his elbow clear of a boot.

"Mind his head." Martyn tapped the upper edge of the nearest shield with his practice blade. "Get that over him. You too. Now give him room to get up."

They tried it again. This time the fallen man came to his feet behind the shields, red-faced and grinning when somebody from Fifth called to ask whether he meant to spend the afternoon down there. Brus silenced them and brought the lines together once more.

Heward watched from his garron a little farther uphill. He shifted in the saddle to ease his bad knee, then rode along the flank as Martyn started the next exchange. His whistle cut through the shouting when the rear rank crowded too close. Men in the rear were pushing shields into their companions' backs. At the front they had scarcely room to draw back their swords.

He stayed through the correction. From the ground he would have been watching a shield, a pair of feet, the man immediately before him. Here the whole line narrowed and widened beneath his gaze. He saw how an eager man pushed his companion aside, and how the shove travelled until somebody on the far end lost his place. Heward stopped them, made them step back and began again more slowly. The next advance held together.

There would be much to talk over at the officers' next evening lesson. Jon wanted to hear what Heward and Martyn had seen from their places beside the ranks. He would come back to this perch after working beside them and see whether the same faults appeared.

The garron cropped the grass when Heward let his reins fall. Hugin saw something move beneath its hoof. Jon had to turn him away from it, and the bird complained in his throat before lifting from the branch.

Beyond the training ground, the holding opened towards the water. Jon followed the road downhill. Its ditches carried the morning's rain away from the fields; at the ford a woman waited with two baskets while a pair of cattle crossed. A small boy stood in the path to keep them from turning into a garden. The last beast stopped to nose the woman's basket. The boy came to help her, pushing its muzzle away with both hands.

That path had been there when Jon first rode the bounds with Eddard's woodward. Men from the neighbouring holdings still brought their beasts down it. Jon had marked its turns for Woods before the first building went up. The woman could still get her baskets through without carrying them into the cattle's hooves.

From above he could see the worked land reaching farther from the old crofts than it had the previous summer. Uneven strips of cleared earth remained along the edges, with roots heaped where the men had dragged them out. The new cottages stood on dry ground above their gardens. One woman shook bedding from an open door; near another, children were carrying stones to an older girl building a ring round the hearth outside.

He came lower over Gerren's fields. The clover moved beneath him, dark and thick after the rain. Near the byre a man was mending the end of a hurdle while another held it upright. Jon recognised Gerren only when he landed upon the gate and the farmer turned his face towards the sound. Gerren scarcely glanced at him before bending to the broken weave again.

For a little while Jon watched his hands. There had been a time when he could have put his own beside them and worked until supper. He still expected that strength when he took up a tool, then found the short reach and narrow wrists of this body waiting for him. The two men lifted the hurdle. Gerren tested the mended part with his knee, nodded, and carried his end towards the byre.

Jon had asked these people to bring their families here. Looking down from the tower, he thought first of the fields he meant to reclaim and the harvests he would need. At the gate he found himself watching a child trail after her father, carrying the strip of willow he had dropped. She offered it to him as soon as he put the hurdle down. Gerren tucked it into his belt and let her take his free hand.

When Jon sailed south, they would still be here. He had told the new tenants so himself. He wanted to leave Eddard good farms, with cattle enough and roofs that held; men applying for his next cohort ought to be able to come here and ask what service to Lord Black had brought their neighbours.

Hugin stirred. The bird had been patient through a great many things of no interest to him. Jon let him drop into the grass, peck twice, and swallow what he found there. The hunger eased a little. He rose again and followed the run towards the fall.

Water flashed between the alders. The timber race led towards the unfinished wheelhouse, where the little wheel turned the grinding stone while the heavier work waited. Two men stood beneath the open side of the roof. One bent over the stone; the other held a piece of iron towards the light. Jon knew better than to try to judge its edge from a moving bird, but he watched the wheel complete another turn before passing on.

He would be down there with Ewan later, close enough to hear where the shaft complained. For now he followed the bank uphill, passing the drain's clear outfall and the men coming in from the fields with tools over their shoulders. The tower rose ahead. Its new window stood open, Arthur's figure dark within it.

Jon meant to return to the sill. Hugin turned towards the stable instead.

There was a scrap caught near the gutter. The sight of it brought a sharp, familiar desire, and Jon let the bird have his way. He spread his wings, caught the ridge with both feet and settled, feeling the rough timber beneath his claws. Below lay dark thatch, a strip of wet paving and the white linen Wylla had hung upon a line. He worked the scrap free, swallowed it and shook rainwater from his beak.

The stable's half-door moved. Jon turned his head towards it.

Something moved in the shadow below. For a moment Jon thought it a folded stocking dragged by the wind. Then it raised a blunt little muzzle. A puppy, brown along the back, with a pale patch at the throat and paws too broad for its thin body, stood upon a rolled saddlecloth.

Aries came through the door with a bowl hidden beneath his coat.

Instead of finishing his lines, Aries knelt behind the half-door. The puppy scrambled over his knees; he caught its belly, lowered it to the hidden bowl and steadied the rim while it ate.

Hugin clicked his beak. The boy looked up sharply. He pointed at the crow, whispered a fierce warning and drew the edge of the saddlecloth farther round the little nest. The puppy licked his thumb.

Jon returned to the chamber with the scrape of claws still in his hearing. Arthur's hand rested against the chair back until his eyes had settled upon the window. He flexed his fingers, feeling them close against the wool upon his knees.

"The old planks opposite Second need moving," he said. "They are narrowing the road. I will speak to Woods when I go down. Ormund can have one load of stone beside the hall at a time."

"Did the wagon get through?"

"The wagon did. Hewyn had to bring two centuries round it by tens." Jon accepted the water Arthur offered. "They managed well. I watched the swords too."

Arthur waited while he drank. Below the window Hugin called once from the stable roof. Jon glanced towards it, and Arthur followed his gaze.

"Something wrong?"

"I have found another mouth in my stable."

"A cat?"

"A dog. Aries has hidden it behind the loose half-door."

Jon set the cup down and rose. On the way through the yard he stopped Woods and told him where to put the timber. Rennick was outside Second's hall; Jon spoke to him about moving the beds, then went towards the stable with Arthur.

Aries met them outside the stable with his hands behind his back. The bowl had disappeared. Milk shone on one black cuff.

"Where are the lines I gave you?" Jon asked.

"Upstairs."

"Finished?"

"Nearly."

Jon looked past him towards the half-door. "Bring it out."

The boy's face changed. He put himself between Jon and the opening.

"I haven't got nothing."

A squeak came from behind him. Arthur looked at Jon, who waited.

Aries crouched at last and lifted the puppy. He held it high against his chest, one small hand cupping its hindquarters. Mud had dried along his own sleeve where it had slept.

"Where did you find it?"

"Behind the dyer's. In the nettles."

"Does it belong to him?"

"No. There were two. The other was dead."

"How long has this one been here?"

Aries looked towards the beam. "Three nights."

The puppy thrust its nose beneath his chin. His arms loosened just enough to let it turn. Jon had seen him wrench away from men who meant to help him; here he waited patiently while sharp little claws found a place upon his coat.

"Where have you put it when you go to bed?"

"With me."

"Wylla's clean bedding?"

"It was cold."

Jon knelt and held out two fingers. The puppy sniffed them, then buried its face against Aries again. A fresh scratch marked its ear. Its ribs could be felt without pressing.

"Have Gawen look at the place you found it. We will ask the dyer and the nearest houses whether someone lost a pup."

"You'll give it away."

"If it belongs to someone, we must find that out. If it does not, you may keep it."

Aries had begun shaking his head before Jon finished. He stopped. "Here?"

"Here. Not under the clean linen, and not on stolen milk. Elspeth will tell you what scraps you may have. Farlen will look at the ear and show you how to feed it."

"I know how."

"Then listen when he tells you what else it needs."

Aries lowered the squirming puppy. It circled his boots and followed him to the half-door, where he fetched the bowl and a cloth stained red from the dyer's shed.

Wylla arrived while they were clearing the nest. She took in the dog, the milk and the corner of her missing blanket without asking which child had done it.

"That is why you would not let Mairi make your bed."

Aries's chin came up. "He is staying."

"Then he can stay clean. And so can you." She pointed towards the pump. "His cloths first. Afterwards you will help me change the pallet."

"He needs me."

"He will have you after the washing. Jon can hold him that long."

Aries looked at his lord before surrendering the puppy. It wriggled against Jon's hands, whining after the red head. Jon moved it to the crook of his elbow, where it quieted, though it kept its nose towards the pump.

Farlen came that afternoon. No one at the dyer's claimed the litter. He brought a little strap and spoke to Aries about warm shelter, clean water and keeping the pup clear of cart wheels. The boy listened to every word. When a larger yard dog thrust its head through the door, Aries put himself between it and the puppy, spoke once, and waited. The dog backed away without showing its teeth.

"He has always been good with the strays," Gawen said quietly. "They come nearer him than they do me."

Jon watched Aries fit the strap with Farlen's help. The boy had noticed it catching the scratched ear and turned the fastening before the kennelman reached to do the same. There was nothing in that which could not be learned by watching dogs closely. Jon kept watching nevertheless.

"What will you call him?" he asked.

"Patch." Aries put one finger beneath the pale mark at the puppy's throat. The small mouth caught it and began to suck. He let the dog have it a moment before gently working it free.

By evening Patch had a dry box outside the hot kitchen and a bed beside Aries's pallet. Wylla made the boy finish his lines. He spoiled the last letter when the puppy chewed his bootlace, then asked to try again. Jon heard the correction before going to Ewan, who had kept the piece for him. Rain was running from the forge roof when they finished.

Back at the tower, Hugin landed upon the sill with something dead in his beak and shook rain over Jon's supper.

Wylla looked from the crow to the bowl. "That one is yours now," she told Hugin.

She took the bowl. Hugin hopped after it, the three white feathers showing in his left wing. Wylla shut the inner shutter in his face.

From outside came a hoarse, aggrieved "Hold."

Arthur laughed.

Wylla brought fresh broth and barley bread. Outside, the works men splashed towards their halls; Elspeth was arguing about a missing pot. New timber, wet wool and onions scented the tower. Jon's roof had held through two storms. He had returned the basin to the kitchen moons ago.

"There were three waiting when you came home," Arthur said.

"The young cock from the river."

"He follows the others farther now."

Jon tore the bread. "He sat on my hand yesterday."

The young bird had arrived earlier that second year, thin and noisy, begging from Hugin until he was chased off. Munin tolerated him at a distance. With food left on the sill he slowly lost his fear of Jon. Anyone might see that. What happened with Arthur watching was harder to explain.

After supper Wylla took away the dishes and warned them against letting the fire die. Jon waited until her footsteps reached the room below. Arthur moved his chair beside the bed.

Outside, the young crow had taken shelter beneath a stone lip. Water dripped past his head. Jon could feel his irritation as faintly as a prickle beneath his own hair. He leaned back against the bolster and closed his eyes.

The cold came first. Then stone beneath his feet, rough enough for claws to grip; his belly settled over them, keeping them warm. The rain seemed louder here, each drop on the sill a sharp, separate sound. Hugin perched farther along beneath the eaves, his head tucked backwards into his feathers. At the lower window Munin worried something pale between her toes.

The young crow's head turned. Jon recognised a bucket carrier's coat below, but scarcely saw the face beneath his hood. Rain gleamed between the barracks and upon the gate's planked platform. Beyond the bank, three lanterns moved through the alders. He had left Ewan and Bennard there; from here he could not tell which lights were theirs.

A familiar voice spoke in the room behind him. Jon withdrew. The stone vanished from beneath his feet; his heels pressed into the mattress. He opened his eyes to Arthur watching him over the guttering candle.

"I heard you."

"I only said your name."

"That was enough." Jon rubbed his warm fingers. Months of practice let him keep some feeling in his own hands, even at the window. He still entered one bird at a time, returning before trying another.

Arthur pushed the cup into his hand. "Will you try the hen?"

"Tomorrow. She has found something worth keeping."

He drank, then went to the shutter. Munin flew up from the lower window with the pale end of a bone spoon. Jon held out his hand; she dodged it and flew towards the kitchen roof.

"Elspeth will blame me," he said.

"She will be right."

Jon shut the shutter and drew the curtain. Arthur went to his own chamber only after the fire had caught again. Jon lay listening to the rain until the sound became the hiss of arrows passing through leaves.

* * *

The archers wore grey.

White bows rose above the grass, facing straw butts dark at the centre. Cloaks lay folded behind the archers, spare strings wrapped against damp. One man inspected a feather; another rubbed knuckles thickened by years at the string. A boy gathered spent shafts and ran clear at the master's call.

Jon knew the pale wood. A crow moved along the bank, picking between the spent shafts. He followed it towards the elm.

Bloodraven waited beneath the elm. His white hair lay against the weirwood bow at his shoulder; his one red eye followed Jon. When Jon looked back at the bank, the crow was gone.

"Have you forgotten archery?" he asked.

Jon looked back at the butts. "I have been occupied."

"So you have told me." Bloodraven held the bow where Jon could see the string. "How often do you take one of these in your hands?"

"Less often than I should."

"My Raven's Teeth would have welcomed an enemy who made the same choice."

At an order the bows bent. Strings sounded together, then arrows struck. The captain walked behind the reloading men, touching an elbow, speaking quietly. Their next flight landed closer.

"I remember what your archers did at Redgrass," Jon said.

"You remember the killing. This occupied more of their lives."

Bloodraven held out the bow. Jon took it. The grip fitted a larger hand than his, and he could not draw it to his cheek. He stopped before the effort spoiled his stance.

"Too strong."

"At present."

Jon handed it back. "How long could they keep that pace?"

"Watch."

An archer lowered his bow and shook his shoulder. At his captain's word he went to the rear; another stepped into the gap with an arrow ready and loosed with the next flight.

"And you?" Bloodraven asked.

"I said I had neglected it. I will remedy that."

"Yet you count the turns of every wheel you make."

"Is that what you brought me here to tell me?"

The archers blurred. Sunlight narrowed to a strip between red walls, and the elm's shade became a gatehouse. Gold cloaks closed around a silver-haired man. He had a paper in his hand. One guard struck it aside; another caught him above the elbow. Jon heard him demand the Lord Hand. His accent was strange, but the name was plain.

Aenys Blackfyre.

Jon turned. Bloodraven stood beside him in a dark cloak, older now, his mouth a thin line. The captive's boots scraped the cobbles as the guards took him away.

"You gave him safe conduct."

"I did."

"He came to put his claim before the council. You had his head instead."

"Another Blackfyre king would have meant another war."

"You could have opposed him before the lords. You chose to promise his safety because that brought him within reach."

"And Aegon sent me to the Wall for it."

The gate vanished. Snow blew between black pines. Jon could smell horses, old leather and men sleeping too many nights in wet clothes. A column passed beneath the trees. Pale bows stood above rolled bedding; grey cloaks had been exchanged for black. Some of the archers were old enough to remember the practice field. They had followed their lord into banishment.

For a moment Jon saw his own men on that road: Tomas beside the packhorses, Hewyn counting those who passed.

"Do you regret it?" he asked.

Bloodraven watched the black-cloaked men. "There was no Blackfyre king."

"That is not what I asked."

The wind drove snow into Jon's face. He lifted an arm and found a branch there, white beneath his sleeve. Roots had begun to press through the frozen ground.

"You know these men too readily," Bloodraven said. "Whose histories have taught you to question mine?"

"You brought me here and showed me these men." Jon pulled his arm free of the white branch. "Shall we finish with your archers?"

Jon met his gaze. He knelt with Eddard before the heart tree for his father and his people. In another life he had settled quarrels without trusting gods; a sorcerer whose trees answered him would not command that trust.

"You learn to see through three birds," Bloodraven said. "You might learn more."

"Then teach me. Speak plainly for once."

The old man looked towards the men disappearing among the pines. "Attend to the one you enter. You bring the others with you in your thoughts." Above the road a young crow beat towards an alder. Jon knew the crooked perch beneath it; he had sought Munin's roof while looking through that bird before falling asleep. "That one knows its own roost."

Jon watched the bird settle. Its hunger and the feel of rain upon its back came with it, faint but familiar. Bloodraven had followed his gaze to the alder. Jon could not tell how much else the old man had seen.

"How often are you there?"

"When there is an eye to look through." Bloodraven turned from the alder. "I have need of you in the North. The dead are stirring. You would spend the realm upon another throne."

"The Others," Jon said. Snow filled the road behind the last black cloak. Something moved between the trees, too far away for a face.

"You know the name."

"Old Nan knows it. So does every northman who has sat through one of her winter tales."

"Her tales will not hold them. Nor will a crown."

"Men will. Men with food, weapons and somewhere to stand." Jon faced him. "I mean to rule, and to have those things ready."

"A war between Robert and Rhaegar's son would give the dead another army. Your claim can wait."

Bloodraven spoke as if Robert's peace would last without Jon. Varys had a claimant; Littlefinger prospered by turning lords against each other. Ned had trusted him, once, in the story Jon knew. Cersei had put Jaime's children into Robert's succession. Arthur lived, other events had changed, yet Robert's death would still expose it. Quietly keeping Dragonstone would leave the realm to men already preparing to tear it apart.

"The realm has fought two wars within my lifetime," he said. "I did not begin either. Leave Robert his throne and you still have lords who will take their chances when he dies."

"And you would take yours."

"Yes. I will not put my family back into his hands. Nor will I leave the Watch to beg at one lord's table after another. I mean to have a Crown strong enough to send what it needs."

"The lords will fight you for that strength."

"Some will. I shall need to win." Jon looked down the empty road. "You want me to fight the Others. I intend to. My family will have a future in the realm we save."

Bloodraven's face seemed to recede into the pale wood. "Will you set the crown aside if I ask it?"

"No."

The silence lasted until Jon could hear rain striking the shutter beside his bed. He waited, resisting the pull towards waking. At last the old man said, "We will speak of this again."

"I expect we shall." Jon felt his own fingers close upon the blanket. The pines faded, and he opened his eyes to the dark rafters of his chamber.

* * *

Arthur sat beside the window while Jon dressed. The door was shut; below them, Heward's whistle called the household from their beds. Jon spoke of the archers he had watched in the night.

"Bloodraven again?" Arthur asked.

"Aye. One of them lowered his bow and shook out his shoulder. The captain sent him to the rear and brought another through before the next flight. Their line never broke."

"What did you make of that?"

"I want officers who notice when their best men have had enough, and men trained to take their places."

"And what else were you shown?"

Jon shook his head. "I am still thinking about it." Arthur did not press him.

"And the bows?"

"I shall ask Harwin to look at my shooting." Jon drew his belt through the buckle. "And I shall need a body of archers of my own. Men who train together, with officers who know how to use them."

"You mean to raise them now?" Arthur asked.

"Not yet. The men already sworn to me come first."

Arthur lifted Jon's cloak from the chair and handed it to him.

Hugin followed them down by stair window, wall and roof. The young cock stayed at the tower. Munin came for breakfast and stole a strip of skin from Arthur's bacon.

After the run and sword lesson, Jon rode to Winterfell and sent for his bow. He had outgrown its draw. Harwin found a stronger one in the bow room and watched him try it before they went to the butts. Jon loosed six shafts while the castle's pages finished their riding turns. Five struck the straw. The sixth cut low into the turf.

"You are holding too long," Harwin said. "By the last, your arm had begun to shake."

Jon lowered the bow. "Show me."

Harwin took his place and drew in one smooth movement. The string touched his cheek; he loosed. Jon watched the hand afterwards as closely as he watched the shaft. When Harwin returned the bow, he drew again and let the arrow go before his shoulder tightened. It struck the lower painted ring.

Theon arrived with Robb as they were fetching the shafts. He looked at Jon's butt and chose the one farther away.

"How charitable of you," Robb said.

"He has had the nearer one all afternoon."

Theon's first arrow struck near the centre. His second came so close beside it that Jon heard wood scrape wood. Theon looked back with a grin.

Jon held out his last shaft. "Your bow, then."

Theon let him try it. The heavier draw brought him up short. He gave it back without loosing and took his own from Harwin.

"In time," he said.

Robb divided the gathered arrows, six each. They shot until the riders had left and the painted rings dimmed. Before going inside, Jon asked Harwin for another hour later in the sennight.

Hugin rode home on Bucephalus's saddle behind Jon, his claws hooked into the rolled cloak. The stallion turned an ear towards the scratching, then settled. Munin flew ahead from tree to tree. When they reached the tower she was already upon the sill, waiting for supper.

 

[aiwonder]

Gerren had begun mowing before Jon reached the field. His scythe made a soft, tearing sound through the clover, followed by the whisper of his feet. Purple flower heads fell into the swath. Beyond him the lower meadow shone silver with dew, and cattle stood against the alder shade with their tails moving.

Several weeks after the new families came, washing hung between their cottages and every chimney smoked. Beans grew beneath Merra's new window. Jon drew rein at the gate.

"Leave the horses here," Jon told Arthur. "I want to see how far they have cut."

Jon opened his coat as he walked. His shirt was damp from the recruits' short morning run; he had breakfasted on bread and ridden down while Hewyn took their drill. Commands reached the field on the changing wind.

At the end of his swath Gerren stopped to whet the blade. Dannel, one of the new tenants, stood beside him holding a rake. He was a narrow man with pale whiskers and enormous hands. His wife had brought the cow Mairi passed on the road.

"My lord." Both men took off their caps.

"Carry on, Gerren. Is the upper length ready?"

"Flowers opening all through it, my lord."

Jon parted the clover and bent a stem. Its lower leaves were green. Farther in, he checked beneath the growth before returning to the cut edge.

"Take this field today. Leave the meadow until we have these swaths spread."

Dannel looked towards the byre. "Gerren says your lordship means to keep it apart from the other hay."

"Until we know how much this ground has given us." Jon drew off his gloves. "Have you cut clover before?"

"Among the grass, my lord. Never a field sown with it." He hesitated before adding, "There is good barley land under this."

"There will be rye here after the clover has had its time. You saw the crop order when you took the holding."

"I did, my lord. I meant no complaint."

Jon watched Gerren begin another swath. "You brought a cow. How many did you leave behind?"

"Two. My brother kept one. The other we sold to the butcher."

"For want of fodder?"

"Aye."

"Then help me bring this in. We can keep beasts through the lean months if we have something to feed them."

Dannel bowed his head and returned to the cut swaths with his rake. Arthur set Jon's coat upon the gate, where it would stay clear of the cut grass.

Gerren's eldest brought Jon's scythe with its shortened handle, keeping its blade clear of his legs, then stayed to watch.

Jon's first sweep left a tuft. He shifted his foot and took the next cleanly, turning at the hips with the edge low. Hugin hunted insects along the cut, flashing three white feathers as he hopped clear. The smell brought back Jon's father's mower, grass packed under its raised deck. Here he heard Gerren's whetstone on the blade.

His shoulders began to tire well before Gerren's. Jon finished the length, stood the scythe against the cart and drank. He had the movement in his head; his body still made him pay for using it.

Arthur offered him the water again. "There is more field than there is of you."

"Gerren can have the rest." Jon pushed the white lock out of his eyes. "Send the men with forks across when they have finished carrying stone. I want this spread before dinner."

Six men from Third came with forks. Jon showed them how to loosen clover without beating off the leaves, then a practised mower took the next swath. By noon it lay pale in the sun. Wylla brought Jon broth while Merra and Hesta, Dannel's wife, served the men.

Gerren sat only after Jon beckoned him. He kept his cap upon his knee while he ate. His eldest had two strips of linen spread across a flat stone, with rye grains sprouting along them.

"Dannel's seed," Gerren explained. "He brought some from home."

Jon put his bowl down and looked. The grain from their own store had sent out stout white roots. Much of Dannel's remained swollen and still.

"Both cloths wetted together?"

"Same morning, my lord," the boy said. "Same place by our window."

Dannel crouched beside the stone. "It looked sound when we bagged it."

"Some seed dies in store," Jon said. "You could sow more of this and still leave gaps. Use ours for your first sowing. Keep these cloths another few days, lad. Show him what comes up."

"Aye, my lord."

Gerren's son folded the edges back over the grain, careful of the roots. Dannel watched him do it. When they went back into the field, the new tenant asked the boy how long Lord Jon had been having him try the seed that way.

* * *
​

They had four clear days for the hay. Jon rode down each morning before going to the works, stooped to twist a handful of stems and turned over the grass where it lay thickest. Gerren needed no lesson in judging dry hay. What caught him was how much longer the heavy clover stems held their moisture after the leaves felt ready.

"One more afternoon," Jon said. "Bring it in when the damp has gone from underneath."

Wagons came the following day. Hesta and Merra raked behind the loaders, their children gathering tufts from the tracks. Jon and Gerren's eldest watched the clover fill its separate dry bay in the barn, rising above the boy's head.

Gerren climbed the ladder to look along the top. He stayed there long enough for Merra to ask whether he meant to sleep in it.

"We have the meadow still," he said.

"Aye. I can see it from the door."

He came down slowly, smiling at Jon. "I should never have put seed upon that field for hay, my lord."

"Now you have seen it, show Dannel how you will feed it with the other fodder. I do not want hungry cattle turned straight into the standing clover."

Hesta nodded at that. Her father had lost a cow swollen upon rich grazing. She went with Gerren to look at the space left for meadow hay, asking how many beasts the byre could hold once Woods had finished its farther end.

The dry weather lasted. Dust rose behind the stone carts. At the Old Watch the masons covered fresh mortar against the sun; below it the run showed bare stones where brown water had passed a fortnight before.

Back from the hay, Norren's men rammed earth under the northern bank's cross-timbers. Jon helped, then joined Otho and Woods setting wallwalk bearers. Hay wagons reached the barn below. He left them for the gardens.

Dannel waited at the garden feeder with his hoe. Hesta wanted water for the wilting cabbages. Jon scraped beneath them: the older rows still held moisture, but the newly planted ground was dry beneath the surface.

He opened the hatch a little and watered only the new rows, keeping the bottom drain clear.

"All that digging to get the water out, and now we bring it back," Dannel said.

"After rain, the roots sat in it for days. Dig beside the plants before you open anything. Your hand will tell you more than the leaves at noon."

Dannel tried both patches, then followed the feeder with his eyes towards the river.

"Who showed your lordship how to bring it round there?"

"I laid it out with Gerren." Jon took his gloves from his belt. "Ask him where the fall lies. You will both be keeping it clear."

The man bowed. His eyes went once to Jon's face before returning to the water.

Hesta came with her youngest. Jon showed her which opening to close; she told Dannel, set the child well clear and fetched a hoe.

Jon sent the byre's rotted bedding to the sowing ground and left the fresh heap to rot. Beyond Hesta's garden, the lower meadow stayed unploughed for the oxen and the run's floods.

* * *
​

Two moons later, Arthur found Jon at the barley field with a sickle in his hand.

The tenants had begun at dawn. Sheaves stood in rows across the stubble, and the newly cut straw scratched through Jon's breeches whenever he knelt to bind one. Gerren's eldest worked beside him. His younger brother drove the cart along the headland, keeping the oxen at a pace that let the loaders follow.

"Ewan is looking for you," Arthur said.

"He has the drawing. I told him I would come after dinner." Jon twisted the straw band and tucked its end beneath itself. "Has something changed?"

"He wanted you to look at it again."

Across the river Fourth hauled squared timber to a carpenter on the wallwalk. The northern side had stood finished since haymaking; now its breastwork turned east towards the tower. Under the hammer shed's open roof, the frame waited for Ewan's gear.

"I shall see him after dinner. We shall finish this side while it is dry."

Arthur took off his cloak. He had helped with harvests as a boy in Dorne, though Gerren's eldest looked astonished when the knight asked for a sickle. Jon sent him to the next uncut strip and resumed his place.

By noon Jon's back ached, and he was glad of Merra's call. Children gleaned behind the cutters. Hesta caught her smallest pulling a bound sheaf apart for her basket.

They ate brown bread, cheese wrapped in dock leaves and boiled eggs in the cart's shade. Dannel cut his family's smoked pork and offered Jon a slice before taking his own. Jon accepted with thanks.

Merra had brought butter in a covered crock. She was taking another to Winter Town when the field work allowed it. The new alehouse bought from her, and two soldiers had asked for some to carry home on leave.

"You bought the cow, then," Jon said.

"Hesta found her for us, my lord. A good beast." Merra looked at her husband. "Gerren spent so long looking into her mouth that I thought he meant to eat her."

Gerren swallowed his bread. "I meant to keep her."

The women laughed. Dannel looked across the stubble.

"My brother wants to see your plough, my lord. I told him what ground we have opened. He thinks I am boasting."

"Bring him after the grain is in. You and Gerren can show him." Jon reached for the butter crock.

Drying and threshing still lay ahead. Seed and food for twelve families came before Jon's due; even then Abel would have to buy grain for the barracks. But the hay would keep more cattle alive, their dung feeding the fields in turn. His father would have asked about that before admiring the barley. Jon had heard the question often enough to ask it himself. Here winter might last years.

Jon washed at the bucket and mounted, straw clinging to his knee. As he and Arthur rode for the wheelhouse, Gerren called the workers back and the cart moved along the sheaves.

* * *
​

A few days later Perkin caught Jon before the afternoon's riding with three letters of receipt. Abel was beside him, his own folded account tucked beneath one arm.

"Karhold has paid. Highgarden's twelve dragons came with the steward's apology, and the Rock's keeper has sent his mark. All three clocks are accepted."

The steward had withheld twelve dragons for widening a socket the masons had cut short of the agreed measure. Osric had sent back the drawing, and the mason had withdrawn his claim against House Black.

"And the merchants?"

"The Oldtown cloth seller, the Barrowton wool factor and the White Harbor brothers have theirs. The next work is for Gulltown and Lannisport. William has the cases matched to the orders."

Jon took Perkin's account. Since the previous reckoning, eighteen hundred and sixty dragons had come in against completed deliveries. Six hundred and twenty had gone in making and carrying that work, including the fitters' wages. Abel opened his own sheet beneath it. Eight hundred more had been spent on the household and the new sleeping bays. He had added the four hundred and forty remaining to the older coin.

"Two thousand one hundred and forty in the chest," Abel said. "Apart from the earnest for clocks we still owe. Six hundred must stay for the next wages and the grain already ordered."

"Leave it there. Bring me the price for Woods's additional benches after William has told him how much room he needs."

Abel kept one folded letter in his hand. "And the two cogs Denys has found?"

The sellers were ending a partnership. Denys had examined both hulls out of water and sailed with their masters. He wanted room for grain, wool and clock cases that galley benches denied him.

"Buy them at the price he has agreed. Keep the masters and any crew willing to stay." Jon handed the letter back. "Tell him I want cargo earning their keep on the return passage as well."

Abel went to arrange payment. The cogs would belong to House Black, carrying island fish north and grain south, with clocks raised clear of the damp holds.

William had been at the ordinary movements all morning. Jon and Arthur found him showing an apprentice why a clock that ran freely upon the bench caught after its case was closed. The boy reached for a heavier weight. William stopped his hand and made him open the door again.

"Look at the back of the shaft."

The apprentice found the bright mark where it had touched the timber. William waited while he corrected the clearance, then had the movement put back upon the proof frame.

"You remembered the Oldtown report," Jon said when the boy had gone.

"And Barrow Hall. The wall is not always as straight as the man who measures it says." William wiped the shaft and set it aside. "The next two should be ready to pack tomorrow."

At first Jon had checked every count and fitting with William. Then he saw only the finished movements and working; now William brought him the departures from established patterns. New designs still needed teaching. Common clocks no longer waited for Jon.

"Call Ewan and Woods," he said.

William looked at the clock he had just examined, then went to fetch them.

Jon took the large work-hall key from his ring. When the masters were beside the bench, he put it into William's hand.

"From tomorrow you command the clock rooms. Choose the work, pass the clocks and teach the next hands, whether I am here or away. Perkin keeps the buyers' letters and accounts; his receipts and charges go to Abel each sennight."

William turned the key over. "The new orders as well, my lord?"

"The common work, at the prices and terms we have agreed. Take only what your benches can finish. Bring a new great commission to me before you bind the house to it."

"And if a promised clock is not fit to send?"

"Keep it and put it right. Tell Perkin who must wait. You need not find me to stop bad work leaving the yard."

William went to one knee. "I will keep your trust, my lord."

"Rise, Master William."

Ewan offered his hand first, pulling William up before the younger apprentices could crowd round him. Woods took the other. One of the boys called him master twice, enjoying the sound until William sent him back to cover the open movement.

Arthur leaned nearer Jon. "You will have to ask where he keeps your tools now."

"I already do."

"Only when his lordship leaves them inside the cases," William said.

He reddened when Ewan laughed, but did not take the words back. Jon smiled and handed him the tool he had been holding.

His aunt arrived before the hall closed. Eda had brought candles and expected to find him at the bench. Instead an apprentice called him master, and she stopped with the basket against her hip.

William showed her the key. Eda looked from it to his face. "Master William? Is that what I must call you now?"

"Not you."

"What about Beth?"

"Especially not Beth."

Eda laughed and kissed his cheek. William glanced at the apprentices, but none dared smile until Ewan did.

"Beth wants you at supper tomorrow," Eda said. "She has a dry corner in the loft now and means to show you."

"After we close." William set her basket clear of the tools and opened a finished clock. He answered Eda's questions until he forgot the other benches.

* * *
​

Lady Stark summoned Jon next morning. He left Arthur with the horses and found her by her sitting-room window, a letter upon her lap. Luwin waited at the table with a fresh sheet.

"My father wishes to purchase one of your clocks," she said after Jon had bowed.

"For Riverrun, my lady?"

"For his hall. Lord Bracken has entertained guests beneath his, and Lord Blackwood apparently thought it necessary to tell my brother how well his own keeps the hour." Her mouth tightened. "Visitors have begun asking when Riverrun will have one."

Jon sat. Perkin had received the two keepers' reports within days of each other. Jon had wondered which neighbour would write next; a summons was new.

"William can send drawings of the cases. We shall need the height of the room and the place for the bell."

"A trout, naturally. My father leaves the arrangement to your judgement." She glanced at the letter. "He felt it would be better to settle this through me."

Luwin dipped his quill. "Have his steward's measures come with the letter, my lady?"

"He will send them. There is also the price. My father would expect some consideration for a purchase within the family."

Within the family. Jon kept his eyes upon her. She had never offered him those words when there was nothing to be gained by them.

"What consideration does he ask?"

"The same size as Lord Bracken's, with a sixth allowed off the charge. The balance at the year's end, after his steward has seen how it serves. Riverrun would give your work a place before many important guests."

Luwin's quill paused above the paper. Jon could hear children in the courtyard below; someone was calling for a ball to be thrown back.

"The ordinary trial is seven days," Jon said. "If the keeper cannot manage it, our fitter stays until he can. Lord Bracken paid on those terms."

"My father is Lord Bracken's liege."

"Yes, my lady. I would be pleased to have my work in his hall." He let that stand before continuing. "But I cannot give him the same clock for less and leave the other man to learn it from his guests."

"You are being offered more than another customer."

Jon could have asked what else Hoster offered. He could imagine how little she would enjoy answering. A quarrel might cost the sale and hurt Robb.

"Then I ought to give him something suited to Riverrun," he said. "If he wishes to spend less, Woods can draw a shallower case with the trout carved upon it. The movement will keep the same hour. I can quote for both, and your father may choose."

Catelyn folded the letter along its crease. "He does not wish for a lesser clock."

"Then I will send the price for the larger one. Half upon agreement, the rest when his keeper accepts it. The fitter and his instruction included."

"And when would it be ready?"

"William must give the season. I will not put another house back after taking its earnest."

For a moment Catelyn looked as though she would dismiss him. Then she turned to Luwin. "Set down both designs. My father may prefer the plainer carving."

Luwin read the terms back. Jon answered about carriage and rose at Catelyn's small nod. She did not mention family again.

Arthur was walking the horses when Jon came down. He listened as they rode through the gate.

"A sixth off," he said. "And your coin left in Riverrun until the end of the year."

"He asked through his daughter. He hoped I would find it harder to refuse."

"Did you?"

Jon glanced back towards the keep. "I found it harder to refuse politely."

Arthur's expression eased. Jon meant to earn from the riverlords for years; Hoster could pay what they paid.

* * *
​

The answer from Castle Black arrived while William was showing a fitter how to open one of the new cases.

Perkin brought Mormont's thanks from Winterfell, written by a steward at Aemon's dictation and signed by the Lord Commander. Callum's report had come on the same raven: seven days under the keeper's hand were complete, and Garrick was packing the cradles for home.

Jon read the fitter's account first. They had placed the movement in a sheltered lower room rather than leave it beside an exposed stair. One cord had been shifted to keep it from rubbing upon a beam. Nothing in the train had needed remaking.

Castle Black was setting reliefs by the bell. Men coming off the Wall no longer quarrelled over whose glass had been turned late. Mormont thanked him for the grain too, making sure the new clock did not eclipse his hungry men.

Aemon added that he heard the bell from his chamber. Callum had described the movement and brought a small wheel for Aemon to examine by touch. He hoped Jon would tell him more in person when the northern roads brought him there.

"Read that part," Jon told William, giving him the sheet.

William took it by its clean edges. His lips moved over Aemon's account before he looked up.

"He liked it, my lord?"

"He asked Callum to show him the escape wheel twice. I think so."

William read it again. Behind him the fitter waited with the open case, unwilling to interrupt.

Arthur arrived from the yard while Jon was reading Mormont's closing lines aloud. The Lord Commander's raven had begun calling for corn whenever the new bell sounded. Mormont wondered whether it would ever learn that the clock did not summon men to every meal.

"Benjen will blame you for the bird as well," Arthur said.

"He should blame whoever keeps feeding it."

Jon handed him Aemon's note. The knight read it quietly, one thumb held clear of the old man's words. When he returned it, Jon put it with the other letters rather than the delivery accounts.

Perkin settled the fitters' road purse and sent Abel the gift account, with nothing charged to the Watch. William asked to copy the passage about the keeper, then returned to his waiting fitter with the letter.

 

[aiwonder]

The following afternoon, Jon stood between the unfinished hammer frame and its drive shaft, sleeves rolled above the elbow. A leather apron covered his coat; his hair was tied clear of the machinery. The sluice was shut. Ewan waited beside the disengaging lever while Bennard turned the shaft by hand and Woods watched the new bearing settle beneath its weight.

It moved a quarter-turn and tightened. Bennard stopped.

Jon worked the shaft backward, then sighted along the bearing seat. The far timber had settled. He levered it up while Bennard turned the shaft; Woods slipped oak packing underneath until it ran freely. They left room for later adjustment and moved the disengaging handle within reach of the hammerman's place, clear of the falling head.

By supper Jon had grease beneath both cuffs. He washed and joined Arthur over cold beef and mustard while Wylla examined his coat.

"Does it turn?" Arthur asked.

"Freely. We will couple the hammer after Woods finishes the braces."

Wylla held the coat to the light. "You have grown through this one as well."

"The sleeves were short before today."

"Aye, and you told me they were handier for working." She folded it across her knees. "Mairi shall have it tomorrow."

"I may be late for dinner. William wants a hand with the Waynwood clock before they close the case."

"Then send word before we carve the beef," Wylla said.

Jon leaned back while she told him of a kitchen maid's wedding. Arthur knew the groom's father and asked after his broken leg. For a little while no one wanted a drawing or a decision. Later Jon fell asleep listening to the run through his open casement, before Wylla put out the lamp.

A fortnight later, Jon brought the hammer under load.

The first blow flattened the orange end of the bar. The second jarred soot from the rafters. Jon felt the timber shift through the soles of his boots and saw the leather guide pull sideways.

"Disengage."

Ewan pulled the lever. The hammer fell once more, then lay still while the wheel turned on. Bennard drew the bar clear, and his mate shut the sluice. Across Miller's Run, men had stopped their mattocks to listen.

Jon waited for the wheel to still. "Woods, bring the lifting bars. No one under the helve until it is shored."

Jon knelt beside the anvil block. One corner stood clear of its bed, and a thin thread of water ran from the gap.

Otho crouched beside him and pushed a sliver of wood into the seam. It came out wet. They had drained the wheelhouse floor; seepage had found the softer clay beneath the block instead.

When they lifted the block, Jon and Otho dug down to firm ground. They carried a drain beneath the new bed to the lower channel, beginning at the outlet. Woods widened the bracing while Ewan and Bennard repaired the displaced guide and checked the disengaging lever.

Jon had Otho set a cord from sound stone beyond the excavation and measure down to each corner of the new bed. They loaded it with stone. Otho calculated the weight from the carters' weighed blocks and brought his figures to the pit, clay drying upon his sleeves. Jon put down his rammer and climbed out to read them.

"I would have made the bed broader," Otho said. "This tells us how far we need to go."

"It tells us how this ground bears it. Keep the weight there tonight. Take the heights again before the men move anything."

"And when the hammer falls? The same weight dropping will strike it much harder."

"We try that separately, with the head raised a little at first. Let me see your figures before we couple it." Jon wiped a smear of clay from the page with the side of his thumb. "You will watch the bed. I shall watch the drive. Woods keeps his men clear until we are satisfied."

Otho went back to the cord, and Jon held the rule for his last measurement. They returned before breakfast. Two corners had settled slightly; Otho entered both upon the drawing. After another day under the stones, neither moved.

Nine days passed before the repaired bed was ready for a loaded trial. Otho stood beside the fixed cord while Jon watched from the frame and Ewan turned the hot bar. The bed held firm through every blow. When the drive stopped, Otho checked each corner before bringing Jon the unchanged heights.

The men who had dug it out stood along the open wall. At first they watched the bracing, expecting the lurch that had stopped the earlier trial. Then the bar lengthened beneath Ewan's tongs. The hammer rose and fell, rose and fell, the blows so close together that a man had to shout to be heard. A striker standing beside Bennard slowly lowered the hand hammer he had brought.

Ewan drew the bar clear. Bennard had the next ready. Scale broke from it in dark flakes; beneath the dull crust the iron shone yellow. Jon sent Bennard to lower the sluice a little, then stood beside Ewan until he found the stroke he wanted. The smith worked the bar along the face of the anvil, turning it between blows. His first grin vanished as he concentrated.

Woods laid the rule against the drawn length, then looked at the iron waiting beside the hearth.

Ewan checked it and caught Bennard's sleeve. "Fetch the heavy stock. My lord, stay for that one."

Jon remained to help him find the stroke. When the hammer stopped, the striker asked Ewan for the tongs. Ewan showed him where to stand, then kept his hand on the disengaging lever as the man tried the next bar.

Bennard caught Jon at the door when they broke for food. He bowed before speaking, flushed and eager. "My lord, may I write to my father? Only to tell him what I have seen. He will scarcely credit it."

"Write about the work. The drawings stay here."

"Aye, my lord."

Jon wiped his face upon his sleeve and called Ewan to eat. The smith had put another bar into the hearth. He took it out reluctantly, still looking back at the hammer as he followed them.

By then carters were asking whether their charcoal went to the clock yard or the Blackworks. The name had begun at the alehouse: Lord Black's works beside the black water. Jon heard it at the gate and took it up himself.

The Blackworks occupied both banks below the Old Watch. Ore and old iron entered at the northern gate; charcoal came by the eastern lane to a raised dry store. Beyond the ore shed, roasting hearths stood downwind of the yards. The tall furnace had its own stone enclosure. Finery hearths, hammer house, armour room, file benches and proof court followed the water, with a ditch and bare strip separating every hot roof from the timber stores.

A carter's shovel exposed Walder's fraud. Rich red stone filled the upper sacks; underneath lay wet rubble and earth. Ewan emptied the rest beside the wagon and sent for Jon.

"There is always waste," Walder said.

Mikken, visiting from Winterfell, picked up a grey lump and broke it with a hammer. There was little in the fresh face that interested him. He set it beside the red stone without speaking.

Jon picked up one of the wet stones. "You sold me iron ore. You will not be paid for earth."

"The carters have crossed half the North."

"Their wages come from your bond. Return my earnest and take your load away."

Walder appealed to Eddard, who had stopped by the scale on his way to the armour room. Eddard looked into the emptied sacks and told Poole to inspect the trader's last delivery to Winterfell.

Before sunset Walder had agreed the repayment with Abel. Jon barred further purchases from him and went back to the furnace.

In the weeks that followed, the furnace men rejected another poor load and sent for better ore from the western hills. Empty stalls in the ore shed filled again before the first full casting.

Before the tall furnace was lit, Jon laid the intended stages out beside it: ore, brittle casting, refined iron, steel. Ewan had handled the little trial pieces often enough to know why the first metal would not go straight to the armour bench. What he doubted was how much sound material they could carry through all four stages.

Bennard was less certain. He picked up the brittle casting and set it beside the bar. "My father would never have paid for this, my lord. He would have sent the seller away."

"So would I, if he sold it as bar iron." Jon put the refined piece into his hand. "That came from the same trial. You worked it yesterday."

"Aye." Bennard turned it over. "But why make it brittle first?"

"To get more iron out of the ore than Ewan's hearth can give us. We can change it afterwards. You have seen that." Jon pointed past him to the finery hearths and the hammer house. "Each must keep up with the one before it. A heap of casting is no use to Noll."

Ewan looked up at the baskets waiting on the platform. "Nor will it be a little heap if this works."

Jon showed them the space he had left for another hearth. Bennard paced the passage to the hammer; the furnace foreman sent two charcoal men round by the farther door to clear it.

"Keep the trial pieces," Jon told Bennard. "Set pieces from the full charges beside them. I want you to know what changed when we made more."

Bennard laid each beside the entry for its heat in his furnace book.

Sweat shone on the faces of the two men waiting with baskets upon the charging platform. Below them, Jon followed the bellows rods through a slow turn of the wheel, then climbed to check the heaps. Roasted ore stained his fingers red; limestone dust lay white in the charge man's apron.

"Use these baskets together," he told him. "Do not add ore because there is room at the throat. Bennard will tell you when the next load is wanted."

The man repeated the amounts. Jon went down and ordered more blast. The paired bellows boards rose and fell without the slowing that came when tired men worked the levers. The hammer crew, watching from across the yard, drew back.

Through the opening hours Jon went between wheel, hearth and sinking charge. Sweat cut a clean path through the soot at Bennard's temple. When the relief arrived, Jon kept the first charge man to watch his replacement fill the baskets, then sent him to eat. Elspeth's boy had brought onions and bread; Jon took his share to the wheelhouse, where Bennard explained the blast he had settled upon.

Near midnight Ewan called him to the lower opening. Slag had run first. Now the metal followed, filling the branching sand channels with a light that painted the men's faces orange. One of the hammermen stepped forward before the heat stopped him. He had held iron in tongs all his working life; he watched it run past his boots and said nothing.

Jon stood beside Ewan until the last channel filled. The old burn at the smith's mouth showed pale against his blackened skin.

"Smith preserve us," Bennard whispered. His hands had come together against his chest.

Ewan wiped his mouth and leaned towards Jon. "We shall need the finery men working in turns when this has cooled. I can take the first."

Jon drew him back as the heat strengthened. His own heart was beating hard. He gripped the smith's shoulder, and Ewan looked from the casting to him and laughed.

Ewan took off his leather cap. He looked suddenly tired, and older without it. "I shall want more room by that hearth."

"You shall have it. Show Woods where before he lays out the next bench." Jon looked along the cooling branches. Kept working, this furnace could supply all Noll's benches. He wanted to stay until the glow had gone, but the night crew were ready. He checked them with Bennard and left.

In the morning Bennard broke one of the thin branches with a sledge. The pale fracture was coarse and brittle, just as the trials had been. The men carried the pieces to the finery hearths. There Ewan worked them under the blast, burning away much of the carbon they had taken up in the tall furnace, gathering the softened iron and drawing out the slag beneath the water hammer.

The refined bars went to a low masonry furnace behind the finery. Bennard packed them in its long fireclay chest between layers of crushed charcoal, and Jon checked the spacing before they sealed the lids with clay. The iron needed carbon restored in a controlled charge. Days of heat would carry it in; trial bars drawn through small openings would show how far it had reached. A second chest was still drying beside the furnace.

Ewan watched the last lid lowered. "And then we cool the whole thing before we see most of it."

"Which is why the next charge must be ready when this one comes out." Jon pointed to the empty drying rack. "We need the second chest fit before we need another hammer."

That first full charge came out blistered. Bennard cut a trial bar and found the outside harder than its heart. Left as it was, the steel would vary across every plate they drew from it. They cut the bars into lengths, stacked the lengths into bundles, welded them under the hammer, then cut and worked them again. The powered blows made possible in an afternoon what would have worn out their strikers.

Jon kept the grades apart. Plate did not want the hardness of a cutting edge. The smiths compared each trial with their retained pieces, until they could repeat the treatment and obtain the same result.

There were failures: a leaking chest, a weld that opened, bars softened by too much working in the fire. Bennard repaired the chest lining; Ewan shortened the later heats and opened the doubtful welds before they reached Noll. Five weeks after the first casting, Ewan laid three selected bars across the trestles in the armour room.

Noll cut pieces from each. Mikken chose the files and watched the hardening. The first piece bent far before it tore. The second took a harder edge without chipping under the blows they gave it. A strip drawn for plate came through its quench whole and sprang under pressure instead of staying bent.

Bennard had stopped writing. "My lord, what did you read to learn this? If you could give me the title, I might have a copy sent from Oldtown."

"I have no book to give you that will teach you these furnaces," Jon said. "I shall teach you myself."

Bennard glanced from the pinned drawings to his half-filled page. Jon put the strip back into his hand.

"Keep your notes. I want you able to teach the next man."

Bennard left room beneath his drawing for another trial.

Mikken chose his own bars for the following week's trial. Afterwards he counted the bundles Noll had passed for plate. "Good steel comes to Winterfell in a little chest. We put it aside for the work that deserves it." He turned the last trial piece over. "You mean to give this to every lad with a spear?"

"To every man I have sworn to arm," Jon said. "Noll is making their helms now."

Mikken looked towards the armour room and asked whether his eldest apprentice might spend a few days at the forge.

"He may learn at the armour bench," Jon said. "Noll can use another pair of hands."

Mikken bowed his head. "I will send him tomorrow, my lord."

Ewan tapped the stacked bars. "The water never asks for ale."

"It asks for bearings," Woods replied from the doorway. "And you ask for ale often enough for both."

Jon grinned with the others, but stayed by the bars. In the smaller furnace beyond the wall, their potter was still trying clays for the covered crucibles Jon wanted. Melting selected steel completely would give him finer, more uniform stock for delicate tools and springs. Two pots had slumped in the heat; a third had survived empty. That work would continue. The armourers already had enough sound steel to begin.

Jon allotted the output to the waiting benches. Sound soft iron went to nails, hinges, buckles, wagon tyres, tools, and shield rims. Tougher bars became spear sockets, bosses, helmet bowls, and the long narrow shanks of Jon's weighted javelins. The closest steel went beneath the armourers' hammers or into edge stock. The water hammer drew bars quickly, but shaping and tempering the finished blades still occupied the smiths for days.

The first hundred helmet bowls stood in five rows outside the armour room, dull grey beneath oil. Their edges, liners, nasal bars and cheek pieces were unfinished. Rodrik Cassel stopped his horse to count them, dismounted and leaned forward to count the rear row.

"All for your men?" he asked.

"For the next two spear centuries," Jon said.

Rodrik lifted one bowl. Noll had left it thicker over brow and crown, thinner behind the neck. "My father armed men with boiled leather when steel caps could not be found."

"Take one to Winterfell," Jon said. "Have Mikken fit it and tell me what your men make of it."

Rodrik turned the bowl in his hands. "They will want the other ninety-nine."

Rodrik tried the bowl over a quilted cap and asked which measures Noll needed for Winterfell's men, and how many a cart could carry without crushing the rims. Jon brought him to the armourer before he rode home.

The finished foot harness was plain by design. A thick quilted jack bore the sweat and kept iron from skin. Over it came a darkened breast and back plate, with short overlapping lames guarding belly and hip without shortening the stride. The helm had a broad brim or a simple nasal according to the man's work. Shield, spear, sword, belt, and weighted javelin followed. Mail collars and sleeves went first to the officers, front ranks, and men whose posts exposed the neck and arm. The armourers could raise plates faster than their ringmakers could finish mail shirts.

The household received better. Their mail shirts were repaired link by link, then fitted beneath shaped breast and back plates, shoulder cops, arm defences, and splinted protection for thigh and shin. Not every man wore the same pieces. The men tried each piece with sword and shield and in the saddle before Noll finished the straps. Dark wool, blackened fittings and the armourers' close work gave the household its common likeness.

Tomas tried the completed harness in the saddle and upon the stair, then dragged a weighted sack through the gate. The right shoulder caught when he cut overhead. Jon stopped the blow and showed Noll the meeting edges; the armourer marked the alteration in chalk, keeping the protective overlap below.

Tomas peeled off the breast and mail, leaving his linen wet enough to wring. "Will every spearman have a fitting like this, my lord?"

"Every household man receives a fitting," Jon said. "The foot receive three measured cuts adjusted at the straps." He turned to Noll. "Start with the men who fall between those sizes; you can alter the patterns before we cut the next lot."

Tomas put his arm back through the loosened harness so Noll could check the chalk line. Beyond the door, the first men for the foot fittings were coming up from the river.

Visitors who had come to hear the clocks began stopping at the armour racks. Lord Cerwyn arrived with his master-at-arms and found Jon sitting upon a low stool, holding a breastplate against a swordsman while Noll judged its lower edge. Jon finished before rising to greet him. The man remained at the bench in his quilted jack, uncertain whether he should bow with half his harness unfastened.

"Stand easy," Jon told him. "Lord Cerwyn has come to look at the iron."

"And its price," Medger said. He set his gloves beside a row of unfinished bowls. "Fifty helms, if you can have them ready before harvest."

Medger's master-at-arms asked Noll for a fitted cap. He examined its turned edge and liner holes while the swordsman moved his head beneath it. Medger glanced from the man to the waiting rows.

"I have seen armourers' shops with less iron in them than this bench," he said.

"There will be more benches," Jon replied. "Abel keeps my accounts. He can give you the terms. I will promise the helms when Noll has set aside the issue for my own men."

Medger sent for Abel before he left. His master-at-arms stayed through the next fitting, asking how the cheek straps could be replaced by a man upon the road.

Wyman Manderly's armourer came the following week. He spent a whole day watching plate emerge beneath the hammer and offered twice the stated price for the next hundred. A Bolton factor asked Woods what wage would tempt him east.

"Would I choose my own men?" Woods asked.

"The yard would be yours."

Woods heard him out, his rule idle between his hands. At last he said he was in Lord Black's service and took the man to Abel.

Jon sold nails, tools, hinges, bars, and a limited number of helms once his own men had theirs. He kept the furnace designs and trained smiths in his service. Requests for ironwork gathered on Abel's desk.

Abel brought him the Manderly offer before sealing the reply. "Enough to add another bench. Shall I name a later delivery?"

Jon read the figure twice. "Once three of our centuries are armed. Tell him I will set a date when Noll can give me one."

"His armourer also asks for a drawing of the hammer." Abel held out the second sheet.

"Not for sale."

Abel amended the reply and Jon signed.

By the first hard frost, forty-seven people drew regular wages from the Blackworks. Eleven were smiths or armourers. Six kept furnaces, charcoal, and ore. Woods divided carpenters between wheel, cases, shafts, and buildings. Women from Winter Town cut liners, quilted jacks, waxed thread, and set rivets at benches made to their height. Boys fetched charcoal, worked the files and learned to keep their hands clear of the hammer. At the armour benches, the masters turned their pieces towards the light before passing them on.

The alehouse complained of soot upon its washing and doubled its stew pot. Two crofters abandoned poor strips of land to earn winter silver and discovered the Old Watch still required them to return for harvest service owed to Winterfell. A widow named Bessa took three lodgers, bought a second goat, and threatened to skin the next armiger who wiped lampblack upon her wall. As charcoal grew dearer, Jon put his forester in charge of opening new coppices and protecting the young growth. On pay days the bread stalls stayed open later, and the alewives filled benches that had stood empty a year before.

Along the road to Winter Town, empty houses filled before new frames rose on plots where sheep had grazed among fallen stones. A smith from the Cerwyn lands was moving in with his wife and children. The smaller child followed their household chest through the doorway, carrying the iron pot in both arms.

A bootmaker had set a glazed window above his bench, with children's shoes upon the lower shelf. Farther on, a woman from Mairi's cutting room stopped Jon's horse to thank him for giving her eldest work. It had paid for her roof before the rains. Her youngest called from the new upper window; she looked up sharply, remembered to curtsey and hurried home.

Jon's horses knew the stops now. He spent the morning at the Black Yard on a striking train, ate at Winterfell with Bran arguing beside his chair, and reached the Blackworks in time for Noll's inspection of the next helms.

Two bowls showed seams after raising. Noll split them open for the smiths to see, then put the rest of that iron aside.

Hewyn arrived with the fitting list for the next spear century. "Does this hold up their issue?"

"Only these helms," Jon said. "Keep the old caps until Noll has sound steel. The men know their drill."

"And the field march?"

"On the day appointed."

Hewyn folded the list and went to the gate. The men waiting for their fittings were eating beneath the outer lean-to; their old caps hung from belts or lay beside the bowls.

Twelve days later the new helms were ready. Noll hung one over a clay form in the proof court. Hewyn's poleaxe dented the crown but did not split it. Two spearmen waiting by the rail leaned forward to see the inside.

One took off the old leather cap he had brought from home. He turned it over in his hands before putting it away.

That morning Mairi brought six women, a wrapped pole and a roll of wool broad enough to cover Jon's table. Beneath the armour-room lamps she shook out a plain black field.

"The borders are doubled, my lord. Tomas asked for a stronger hoist."

Jon tested the edge between his fingers. "Good. Bring the pole."

Tomas helped the women spread it clear of the floor while they fastened it. Mairi had brought new cloth for the six century flags as well. Their purple edges had faded through marches and wet drills; the white numerals and spear and shield badges would be sewn onto the replacements.

Mairi nodded to the women. They opened the second bundle: fifty narrow sable shoulder cloaks, each cut to clear a sword arm and backed at the clasp. Beside them, Noll's benches held the first six complete household harnesses—dark steel from helm to sabaton, mail filling throat, armpit, and groin, the plates shaped for saddle and foot rather than tournament display. Round shields rested against the wall, black-faced and uncharged.

Ewan came in with the proof pieces wrapped for Noll, but stopped at the harnesses. He lifted two breastplates in turn and examined their insides.

"Noll made me cut pieces from each charge," he told Jon. "I thought he was being wasteful." He unwrapped the bent strips and broken ends, marked to match Bennard's book. "They answered alike. Even the ones Mikken chose."

"They worked alike under my hammer," Noll said. "I could keep the same allowance when I raised them."

Ewan looked along all six suits, smiling. "I could have stood in a lord's armoury and wondered who had paid for these. We made the steel here."

Jon set two tested strips beside one another. "Different charges. This one needed more working before it matched. Show me where you changed the heat."

Ewan fetched the book. As Jon explained why he had altered one stage and left the next alone, the smith compared the strips' thickness. Noll pointed to the trial he wanted repeated for the thinner arm plates.

"Will you come before the next chest is filled, my lord?" Ewan asked. "I have been wondering about the thinner bars. If they take the change sooner, we could keep them apart. I want to try it while we still have these to compare."

"Lay out the two charges with Bennard. Keep everything else alike, and leave room for the trial bars."

Ewan closed the book upon his thumb. He called for Bennard, then turned back before the foreman arrived. "And the clay pots, when one holds. I want to be there for that as well."

When the new banner rose above the proof court, workers and their children filled the gate without a bell calling them. Candidates waiting for Hewyn joined two Winterfell guards at the racks; one guard called the other to see the shoulder joints. Jon came over. "Fit Tomas again," he told Noll. "At first bell tomorrow, the armour goes to the yard."

* * *
​

That night Wylla found Aries asleep outside her chamber with Patch across his feet.

He had brought his blanket and folded it too narrowly to cover his knees.

Wylla crouched beside him. He woke at her touch and came up with both arms over his head.

"It is me," she said.

He let the arms fall. For a moment he could not look at her.

"Bad dream?"

"No."

She waited. Patch stood, stretched and pressed his nose into the blanket.

"I heard you go," Aries said at last.

"To the linen room. Mairi needed help with the blankets."

"You were gone long."

Wylla sat beside him on the stair. He moved nearer without lifting his face. She put the blanket over his knees and tucked the cold foot beneath it.

"You could have come and found me."

"I wasn't looking."

"No?"

He shook his head. She let him have that. After a little while he leaned against her arm, and she gathered him close enough that his cheek rested upon her shoulder. The puppy lay down again.

Jon came to the landing carrying an unfinished letter. He stopped when he saw them. Aries made to straighten, but Wylla kept her hand at the back of his head.

"He will have his sleep before any more errands," she said softly.

"I came for the spare candle."

"On the shelf."

Jon took it and withdrew. He had lain against that same shoulder after waking frightened, and had no wish to make the boy explain himself before his lord. In the morning Aries arrived early with Jon's boots and said nothing of the stair. Before going out he set Wylla's little footstool beside her chair, where she could rest her feet while she sewed.

 

[aiwonder]

Tomas hated the sabatons.

He crossed the Blackworks yard in forty-three pieces of darkened steel and complained only of the two upon his feet. Plates slid at his shoulders and mail whispered beneath his arms. His round black shield rode upon his back; the sallet's open visor stood above a mail curtain and fitted gorget.

"They catch when I turn," he said.

Noll knelt to feel the plate above his left toe. "Walk to the post and turn again."

Tomas obeyed, taking the corner more carefully. The steel caught once more.

Arthur circled him once. "Run."

Tomas ran.

The practice course took him over the low wall and through the narrow turns of the yard. A low rail required him to vault. Three close-set posts forced his shoulders sideways. He climbed the tower stair, ducked beneath a beam, mounted a horse from either side, dismounted into wet gravel, rolled, rose, and cut at six hanging billets. At the last post Gawen struck him from behind with a padded poleaxe. Tomas stumbled two paces, turned behind his shield, and put the blunted sword against Gawen's throat.

Tomas came back to the bench. Jon had seen the left toe catch.

"The stair and the roll once more. Slowly."

Jon watched the feet this time. The right sabaton cleared every turn. The left caught once upon the stair and again when Tomas rose from the roll. Noll had shortened both to the same measure because Tomas's bare feet differed by less than a finger. The difference became larger inside wool, hose, and leather.

"Cut the left lames back," Jon said. "Give the toe more rise."

Noll chalked the new edge. Tomas lifted the foot to let him reach beneath it, then sat gratefully on the bench. Sweat had darkened every strip of linen visible beneath the plates.

Jon looked to the men waiting behind him. "Strip it. Jorren next."

The close-fitting steel had been polished to expose cracks, then darkened with heat and oil to the colour of a rain-heavy sky. Breast and back plates turned blows from the ribs; faulds covered waist and belly, tassets the thighs without closing the saddle. Articulated plates protected the limbs, with mail at their openings. Out of combat a short black mantle lay over one shoulder, clear of the sword arm.

Each man received his harness as his fitting came. Jorren needed more steel at the chest and less at the waist; Rylas needed shorter tassets to crouch behind his shield. Olyver's right pauldron locked when he raised his arms, so Noll cut it to a different arc. Gage's sack-drag left a chalk crescent where the back plate bruised him.

"In most armouries, a common guard takes what fits least badly," Rodrik Cassel said.

He had come before breakfast and remained through the third fitting. His fingers kept returning to the sliding rivets of the shoulder piece Tomas had taken off.

"In most households, a common guard does not receive this much steel," Catelyn said.

She stood above the proof yard with Eddard, Robb, Luwin, Lady Dustin and Lords Manderly, Umber, Bolton and Cerwyn, who had come for the petitions after harvest. Theon sat on the gallery stair, his cup between his boots; Jory waited below. Catelyn's grey cloak was still clean from the road. Beside her, Robb had her auburn hair and blue eyes. Jon looked down at his muddy boots.

"They will be at my side in a breach," Jon said. "I want them properly armed."

Catelyn watched Noll ease Tomas back into the harness and loosen the shoulder straps. "Some of them had never owned a pair of boots when they came here."

"I remember."

Robb reached for a loose vambrace Noll had laid on the gallery ledge. Catelyn stopped him before he could fasten it. "You have your own armour. Leave the man his work."

She drew Robb a little nearer and asked whether his new cuffs had rubbed on the ride. Jon turned back to Noll. She had not asked after his. He knew better than to wait for it.

Jon pulled off his glove to help Noll with a fastening. The strap dragged across the red groove on his wrist. Mairi saw, took it from him and let it out a hole. "Wear it loose today, my lord. I shall move the strap when you have finished." He thanked her and bent to Noll's work.

At the rail the women disputed whose seam held best, loud enough for the watching lords to hear.

Eddard stepped down from the gallery to examine Tomas's harness. Catelyn stayed above with Robb until the covers came off the foot armour.

The retainers made a second audience along the rail. Wyman's man held his cloak; Smalljon had been left with Greatjon's. Catelyn and Barbrey leaned close to hear one another over the hammer.

Jon saw Eddard looking towards the tower above the works. Fresh mortar showed beneath the repaired battlements. A cart was climbing towards the granary, and on the cleared slope two plough teams moved in adjacent strips. His father had known the place when a man could shelter sheep in its hall. Jon waited until he looked back, then called Mairi to the covered racks.

The foot armour waited beneath sailcloth along the south wall. At Jon's signal, Mairi's women pulled the covers free.

Fifty sword-and-shield harnesses filled the first racks. Black quilted coats showed beneath dark breast and back plates, short overlapping lames protecting belly and hip. Mail covered neck and upper arm; plates guarded shoulder, elbow, forearm, knee and shin. The rounder, open helms let men hear commands in a crush. Each round shield had an iron rim, deep boss and three replaceable hand straps adjustable for gauntlet or bare hand.

The spear harnesses stood beside them. Their brimmed steel caps shed rain and downward cuts. Mail collars covered throat and shoulder. Breastplates and short steel skirts guarded the front; black quilted sleeves remained free enough to level a long spear or cast a pilum. Their shields were longer than a man's torso and curved enough to share blows with the shield beside them, black-faced, iron-rimmed, and bare of beasts. Spear, short sword, and two weighted pila completed the issue.

Mairi showed how the jack kept plate from chafing and where a man could fit spare straps upon the road.

Greatjon Umber lifted one of the long shields, his enormous hand closing over its upper rim. "Too tall for running hills."

Hewyn stepped from the weapon rack. "You carry it higher when you run, my lord. Here, above the knee." He showed Greatjon the straps.

Greatjon put his arm through the straps and discovered the shield had been fitted for a smaller man. He ignored that, planted it, and demanded a spear. Hewyn gave him an ash stave with a padded head.

"Come, Smalljon."

His son grinned and took a second stave. Smalljon had his father's breadth coming into his shoulders, though he still had to look up to meet the older Umber's eye. They struck until the yard rail shook. The shield swallowed the first thrust, turned the second, and caught the third upon the rim. Greatjon attempted to rush. He brought the shield across to shove his son back, but its curved rim jammed against his own shoulder. Smalljon skipped clear before he could get the shield forward again.

Greatjon lowered the shield and rolled his shoulder. "I would not carry that on a hunt. Bring me five of your men; I want to see them use these together."

Hewyn called five spearmen from the waiting First Century. They came at a run, took shields from one rack and spears from another, and formed upon the painted line. One man wore boiled leather because his coat plates were still at proof. The other four carried steel upon head, throat, breast, and hip.

Greatjon walked around them. His amusement faded at the rear, where shield edges still overlapped and spear butts remained clear of one another. "Now move."

At Hewyn's nod the decanus gave the command. Five men crossed the packed earth together, opened at the ditch plank, closed beyond it, and turned with their shields facing the rail.

Greatjon followed them to the far end of the rail, watching their feet. One man shortened his stride over a rut; the others kept beside him.

The Umber laughed and handed back the practice spear. "I like them. Your flag is still ugly."

Jon smiled. "You are welcome to pay for the next one."

"Plain black. Did the painter charge by the beast?" Greatjon went to look at the helmets, chuckling to himself.

Roose Bolton had said nothing. He stood beside his thin master-at-arms, touching neither armour nor weapon. His pale grey gaze moved from fifty racks to six completed household harnesses, then to the hammer sounding below and the ore carts entering the gate.

"How many of these can you finish in a week?" Roose asked Noll, touching the edge of a foot breastplate.

Noll glanced at Jon before answering. "Twelve harnesses in a good week, my lord. Seven if too many pieces fail."

"Twelve," Wyman repeated. He looked along the racks again.

"The common issue," Noll said. "Not fitted household suits. We draw the rough plate in batches, then several benches work on it at once."

Wyman's smile remained. He folded his great hands over a belly clothed in blue-green velvet, but his pale blue eyes were intent upon the hammer. "Even so. White Harbor could furnish ore, charcoal, hands, and a better road to the sea."

"Send the offer to my accountant, Abel," Jon said. "My men come first, but there will be bars and finished harness to sell once they are armed."

Roose asked whether his armourer might visit the lower furnace.

"He may inspect what we sell," Jon said. "The furnace work is closed."

Roose let his hand fall from the breastplate. He asked no more in front of the other lords.

Barbrey Dustin turned a brimmed cap to examine its lining. "The clocks bought this."

"The furnaces and the men to work them," Jon said.

"I shall have to tell Willam what else his clock bought." She set the cap down and went to join Eddard.

Lord Cerwyn's master-at-arms asked to see the plate proof. Mikken wanted it as well. Noll led them behind the stone wing of the proof court.

In the proof court, Noll hung two breastplates over layered wool and packed clay. One had passed the armourers' trials. The other had been rejected because its lower edge showed a faint seam after raising. Both looked equally sound beneath oil.

Mikken took the measuring jaws. He checked the crown of the breast, the ribs, and the thinner metal at the belly. Noll showed him the same measurements on the pattern hung beside the rack. The greater thickness lay where the direct blows were expected; the turned edges and curve stiffened the rest.

"Choose the bow," Jon told Rodrik.

Rodrik selected Winterfell's heaviest crossbow from three upon the bench. Greatjon cocked it with a goat's-foot lever and asked for a quarrel with a narrow hard head. Noll paced out the shooting distance. Everyone withdrew behind the stone wing.

The bolt struck the accepted plate with a flat iron crack. The breast jumped upon its straps. Clay burst from the open neck. When Noll lifted it down, the quarrel hung bent beneath a deep bright dent. It had not passed through.

Noll worked the quarrel loose and gave it to Greatjon. The Umber held the bent point towards the light; its shaft had split at the head.

Wyman beckoned his armourer to the bench. Mikken felt around the back of the dent and the small raised tear where the steel had come closest to failing. Behind the outer rail men pressed forward until a Stark guard held the plate up for them. Several began speaking at once.

Roose stepped closer once the crossbow had been laid down. "The seam in the other one?"

Noll showed it to him, then hung the rejected plate back on the frame. The next quarrel entered beside the seam and tore through. When he lifted it down, Wyman put the sound plate beside it himself.

"The first would still hurt a man," Rodrik said. "Break ribs, perhaps stop his breath."

"Better than the quarrel through his chest," Jon said. He pressed his fingers against the back of the dent.

Catelyn looked towards the waiting soldiers. "And every one of them receives the first plate?"

"Steel from a tested charge," Jon said. "Then Noll checks each plate as it is shaped. That seam would have kept the second one off a man's back."

Catelyn touched the back of Robb's sleeve. "I would have Mikken inspect yours again before you hunt in it."

Robb was looking at the waiting shield line. "He can look at it tomorrow."

Fifty of Gerralt's sixty swordsmen took the yard after the proof. Martyn had armed them in stages so no man learned new weight upon the day of display. Their dark breastplates showed less steel than the household harness, but more than most northern levies saw outside a lord's retainers. Round shields locked across the lane. At Martyn's command the leading pair struck, covered, and passed rearward while the pair behind filled the place. No man swung wide enough to open his neighbour.

Robb leaned over the rail. "They look slower than your first boys."

"The armour is new to them," Jon said.

"Those pieces below the knee too?"

"Aye. Watch how much the shield leaves uncovered when a man steps forward."

Martyn heard him. "Lord Robb, take an ash sword and find the knee."

Robb looked to Eddard, received a nod, and went down. Martyn gave him a practice helm and a shield. He fought one man, then two, then a closing four. Against one he touched the shoulder twice. Against two he reached a thigh and was struck across the helm. Against four, the line yielded, closed around his advance, and laid three padded blades upon him before he found a knee.

He returned red-faced and grinning. "I had the first one."

"And then the other three had you," Theon said from the stair. He moved his cup to let Robb sit beside him.

Martyn stayed by the rail until the four had returned to their places. "I am having to unteach them things I spent years putting into boys," he said quietly to Jon. "Reach farther. Take the opening. Fine advice until it leaves the next man uncovered."

"They need that reach when they fight alone. Keep giving them their bouts."

"I do." Martyn glanced towards the four. "Will you let them face your household again? I have a few things for them to try."

"Ask Gawen for a day," Jon said. Martyn beckoned the four forward again. This time he stood behind them, watching the men who waited to replace the leading pair.

Eddard watched the shields reset. "How many northern lords could put one hundred men in so much steel?"

Rodrik answered before Jon. "Few without stripping their knights, my lord. Fewer could replace it."

"The Manderlys," Wyman said pleasantly.

"And now he need not buy it from you," Barbrey said.

Jon looked beyond the rail. Only fifty shield harnesses stood ready. The other sword century was drilling at the Old Watch in its old leather and mail while Noll finished the plates. "I cannot arm both centuries in it yet."

Eddard turned to him. "But you will."

"Yes."

Roose looked from the ready harnesses to the empty racks. Catelyn kept her eyes upon Jon.

Medger drew Eddard a little aside while the men reset their shields. "I could call more men than this from my lands," he said. "Keeping them here through harvest, buying every coat and feeding them all winter—my steward would have something to say."

"So would mine," Greatjon said. "Loudly."

Medger watched a charcoal cart pass the gate. "The soldiers, these buildings, the horses. How much gold must those clocks bring him?"

"Enough to pay for what you see," Eddard said.

"And he is still taking orders," Wyman added.

"I saw the men waiting with purses," Barbrey said. "None looked likely to leave."

Roose stood beyond her, his hands hidden within his sleeves. "And when the rest of the armour is finished, the furnaces will remain."

Greatjon stopped testing the bent quarrel with his thumb and put it down.

Jon went to Noll for Tomas's measurements. Behind him Medger asked how soon he meant to fill the next barrack. His father turned and let Jon answer.

"With the next muster. The case makers have their benches; Woods can spare more men for the roof now."

Before the visitors left for the Old Watch, First Century's families gathered outside the armour room. Some had walked since dawn. A mother from the wolfswood rapped her son's steel cap with a knuckle. Two boys begged to lift a long shield and nearly fell beneath it together.

Mallador came from the armour room dressed as no one at his old holding had ever seen him. His jack was black wool over linen and tow. Steel covered crown, throat, breast, belly, and hip. The long shield rose from ankle to shoulder. A spear stood in one fist; two pila rested against the wall.

His elder brother stared longest at the boots. "They pay you to wear all that?"

"They pay me to carry it fifteen miles and dig before I take it off."

"You will drown in the first bog."

"Then you had better bring a rope." Mallador grinned and set the spear against the wall.

Their father did not laugh. He touched the breastplate, then removed his cap when he saw Jon beside the rack. "My lord, if he falls in your service…"

"His wages come to his family, and the death silver besides," Jon said. "We have the name he gave us in the wage book."

"Your name, Father," Mallador said. "I gave them yours."

The old man's fingers rested on the plate a moment longer before he let it go.

"Thank you, my lord." The man looked back at his son, still taking in the breadth of his shoulders. "He eats well here?"

"Ask him."

Mallador's brother pinched his upper arm. "He eats."

"Too much," their father decided, satisfied.

At the Old Watch, the banner rose at noon.

Finnan carried it from the tower gate. Once the narrowest of Tomas's boys, he had grown into his harness; only his face betrayed his youth. Blank black wool hung from the crossbar, its divided lower edge letting wind pass without wrapping it round the staff.

Tomas formed the household beneath it in four files, the first half of the intended fifty. Six wore fitted plate; the rest had their older mail beneath black mantles. Round uncharged shields covered their left sides, their swords riding high to clear the saddle. Lances stood behind. In a break of sun they looked closer to landed men-at-arms than the hungry children who had entered Jon's yard.

Arthur and Gawen mounted them. Tomas held command. Jon rode at the centre upon Bucephalus, in black wool and a lighter fitted breast because his body would outgrow expensive limbs within a season. The silver streak above his left temple showed beneath the edge of his open helm. He turned once to check the files behind him. The standard stood one horse behind his right shoulder.

They passed beneath the gate, wheeled upon the road, and returned at a canter. At the horn the outer files opened. Jon drove through the lane. They followed in two ranks, then closed behind him before the banner crossed the painted mark. A second horn broke the charge. Every horse returned to the starting line without a rider chasing applause.

A man beside the road took off his cap as they passed. His son rode in Gage's file, close enough for him to hear the stirrup leathers creak. He raised a hand; the young guard kept his shield up until Tomas called the halt.

Roose Bolton left before the second charge. His master-at-arms remained until the household dismounted and watched which men removed their own armour and how readily the younger men helped one another with the straps. Jon sent Gawen to escort him to the gate. Before dinner he told Abel to bring him any order from the Dreadfort before agreeing a price. He would sell Roose a clock readily enough. Steel was another matter; he knew whose men it might one day be used against.

Before the visitors rode back to Winterfell, servants brought bread and ale to the trestles beside the tower. Robb asked Jon for his chessboard and sent a boy inside to fetch it. Smalljon sat opposite him while Greatjon went on describing the breastplate proof to Rodrik.

"These all begin in the same places?" Smalljon asked.

"Every time." Robb put the last pawn in its rank and began showing him the moves. Smalljon reached for his queen as soon as he heard how far she could go; Robb made him look at the men standing in her way.

Wyman drew a chair nearer. He watched Robb move a knight over its own pawn, then asked to see it done again.

"Where did you find this game?"

"Jon devised it." Robb looked up at his brother and grinned. "He taught me."

Wyman turned the rough-cut knight between his fingers. "Will you have a set made for me? Wylis would enjoy this."

"Woods cut these," Jon said, sitting at the end of the trestle. "I shall ask for another set, with the rules."

"Let us finish the moves," Smalljon said. "Then Robb can try beating me." Robb grinned and turned the board to give him the pale men. Wyman stayed beside them, his cup clear of the pieces.

At Winterfell that evening, Jon stopped outside the family hall to unfasten his cloak. Catelyn was speaking beyond the partly open door.

"…you saw how those lords watched him, Ned. Only the gods know what some of them might be plotting…"

Her voice dropped. Jon slipped the clasp free and looked through the opening. She stood beside the hearth, facing Eddard, her brow drawn. He caught only a few more words.

"…but what if Robb…"

Robb and Theon came up behind him, still arguing over the afternoon's swordplay. Jon pushed the door open, but their voices covered Eddard's answer. His father shook his head once. He spoke briefly, with the same unyielding look Jon knew from a refused request. Catelyn's lips tightened. She said nothing more as Eddard turned to greet the boys.

Robb brushed past Jon, smiling as he called to their father. Jon followed him to the table.

Wylla made room for him beside Bran. The little boy had built a crooked rank of spoons across Jon's place and would not let anyone clear it until Jon had inspected the army.

"No horsemen?" Jon asked.

"Arya took the forks."

Across the table Arya hid her hands. Robb began to laugh. Catelyn called for the servants to bring the first dish, and the spoons went back to their places one by one. Bran surrendered the largest last, insisting that it was the captain. Jon put it beside his bowl.

Wylla set duck with onions and prunes before Jon, and he discovered how hungry he was. Eddard cut the pie while Robb leaned across Bran to describe Greatjon with the shield. It grew as he told it; by Smalljon's first thrust, Arya was standing to see over the table.

"Sit down," Catelyn said. "You may hear him from there."

"Did he fall?"

"No," Jon said, before Robb could improve upon it. "He asked to see the spearmen use it."

Theon held up a hand to show how much strap had remained beyond Greatjon's arm. "You should make one for him. Then no one else would steal it."

Sansa looked up from the pie. "Would it have his giant on it?"

"I expect so," Theon said.

"Your men ought to have something," she told Jon. "Even little silver stars would be pretty."

"They have cloaks for looking pretty." Robb reached for the mustard, still pleased with the men he had fought. "I want another turn against those four when we go back."

Eddard passed him the pot. "Then ask Martyn. He will be glad to keep you occupied."

Jon ate while the talk moved to the following day's hunt. Bran pushed the captain's spoon against his wrist and asked for more sauce. Across the candles, Catelyn cut the meat upon Arya's trencher. She had said little beyond calling for the dishes and correcting Arya. When Eddard turned to ask her something, she did not answer until he repeated her name. Then she set down the knife and looked up, her brow still drawn. Jon knew this table well enough to follow three conversations without joining any of them. He stayed until Bran grew heavy against his shoulder and Wylla came to take the little boy to bed. He had missed this sort of noise after his wife died. Then he had found the quiet tolerable, even useful, until a visit from the grandchildren reminded him what he had been tolerating. Bran's weight against his arm was welcome.

Wylla found him fetching his cloak and caught sight of the reddened skin above his glove. She brought out Lorren's salve. Jon sat while she worked it into the sore place at his wrist.

"Those lads' fathers could never have bought them what you showed us today," she said. "I saw how they looked at their sons outside the gate."

He smiled and gave her his other hand.

Wyman Manderly sent a new offer the following morning.

Greatjon sent six barrels of ale and a note demanding that the black shields learn to drink without breaking formation.

Jon returned to the Blackworks that morning to find Tomas waiting in the altered sabaton. The captain crossed the yard, turned sharply, climbed the stair and came down without catching either foot. At the bottom he drew his sword.

"That is better." He tried one last turn.

"Keep that cut with his pattern," Jon told Noll. "He will need another pair before we leave the North."

Outside, the plain black standard pulled once in the north wind and settled above the gate. Beneath it, First Century lifted its shields for the afternoon march.

Two mornings later Otho brought a wet rope and his notes to the schoolroom. Before the hammer crew began work, they had used its drive to raise a weighed load through a measured height. Emrick had timed each lift with a clock from the packing yard while Henly watched the sluice. Now all three followed Jon in to work through the figures.

Their wet coats filled the pegs ordinarily used by soldiers. Jon set the clock upon the lectern and opened a shutter, letting rain-scented air into the stale peat smoke. Otho spread his channel measures beside the morning's figures.

"You allowed for the speed changing beneath the surface?" Jon asked.

"Aye, my lord. I took the flow at three places. I would not swear to the last figure."

"Neither would I. Keep the range."

Jon drew a long rectangle upon the board. Beneath it he set down the estimated weight of water passing the wheel in the time of one lift, and the height through which it fell. Otho supplied the multiplication. Jon drew a shorter rectangle beside it for the work their hanging load had received. A motor's rating had once supplied a number he could read from a plate. Here they had to find what the wheel delivered under load. He kept the losses in the calculation; forgetting them had made too many elegant designs useless long before he came to Winterfell.

Emrick studied the space between them. "The wheel does not take everything the stream gives it."

"No. Where does the rest go?"

"Water spilling before it has descended," Otho said. "Water striking badly. The bearings."

"And the teeth," Henly added. "I can feel that pair bind when we turn the shaft by hand."

Jon gave him the chalk. "Show me which pair you would change."

Henly drew the drive as it stood, then moved one wheel. Emrick objected that the new shaft would cross the passage used to bring in long iron. Henly rubbed out its end with his sleeve and tried a shorter shaft. Jon waited while they settled the arrangement, then had Otho put the altered drawing beside the first.

"Now tell me how we find whether it is better."

"The same lift," Otho said. "With the water at the same height above the sluice."

"And the same opening," Henly said.

Jon added both beside the drawing. "Take several times. Keep the slow ones as well as the quick."

Emrick leaned upon the bench. "We could draw the load faster with another pair of wheels."

"A lighter load," Otho said. "Unless we find more from the stream." He turned to Jon. "But the bearings may waste more under a heavier pull. The easy lift will not tell us what the hammer leaves for another machine."

"That is what I want you to find next. Begin with the drive carrying its usual work. Change one thing at a time, and record which."

Jon sat beside Otho as he planned the trials, crossing out one that would change sluice and gearing together. Henly drew a way to disengage the shaft without stopping the wheel; Emrick asked to compare the grinding-wheel drive.

When Lucan arrived, Jon cleared him one end of the crowded board and moved his pupils to the window. Otho was calculating what they could still drive in dry weather. He proposed keeping the grinding stones working while the heavy hammer rested between heats.

"Ask Ewan how long those intervals are," Jon told him. "Stand through a charge. Then bring me the arrangement you would build."

"Tomorrow morning, my lord?"

"After the run."

Henly and Emrick went out discussing bearings. Otho stayed to copy the figures for the next trial; beneath his first arrangement he had added another and was counting the shafts it would spare.

* * *
​

In the last moon of the lease's second year, the carpenters took the lifting frame from the final barrack roof and brought it to the eastern gate. Fourth's men carried the ropes. They had dug that reach of ditch, rammed its bank and hauled the wall timbers up from the stacks; now they brought the beams for the roof between the two gate towers.

Jon came after drill and climbed with Otho. Below them Rymond set his men on the hauling ropes. At Woods's call the first beam rose slowly above the passage. Jon and Otho guided the nearer end onto its seat while Woods watched the farther joint. A mallet sounded from the other tower, and the beam settled.

After the next lifting, the haulers went to eat. Jon held a brace while Otho marked it from the fitted joint, then cut to the mark with the engineer supporting the offcut. Woods tried it and handed Otho the auger.

"Follow that face," Jon said, holding the square for him. Shavings curled over their boots. By afternoon the braces were pegged and Rymond brought a fresh ten up with shingles, passing the finished watch on the stair. Jon stood against the rail to let them by. A sentry was already walking to the corner tower along the completed timber way.

Three mornings later Jon was riding out with Otho when his father's banner appeared beyond the gate. Robb came up the road first, with Theon at his shoulder and Eddard beside Ser Rodrik behind them. Jory followed with the Stark guards. Jon had expected them after dinner. He turned Bucephalus beneath the new roof and waited for his father to come through.

The great black leaves stood open beneath the paired towers, their iron straps dark against the oak. A guard saluted Eddard, then waved a grain cart after the last of Jory's men.

"I could see the whole eastern side from the road," Eddard said. "Even the spaces between the buildings."

"Nothing to hide behind at the ditch," Rodrik said, rain clinging to his white whiskers.

Jon brought Bucephalus alongside his father's horse and led him down the main street. Water whispered through the gutters, but the crowned gravel was almost dry beneath their hooves. Six stone barrack ranges stood under rebuilt shingle roofs, purple edging the century boards above their black doors. Eddard looked through the nearest open shutters while a man brushed mud from the step.

At the crossing Jon held Bucephalus to one side while the grain cart passed a century returning from practice. Neither had to stop. Robb watched the last rank turn into its lane.

"That was why you left so much road. I thought you had wasted it when it was all string."

"And the kitchen is close," Theon said. "Robb should like that."

Beef and onions scented the air. Robb looked towards the cookhouse, then grinned when he found Theon watching him. The hammer sounded from down by the run. A lad carrying a basket of slates hurried into the schoolroom, where older soldiers waited beneath the eaves.

Eddard slowed beside the empty ground behind the barracks. "You have left a good deal here."

"For the next sleeping bays," Jon said. "Woods can begin when the timber comes." He pointed to the lane to the stores. "Keep that clear, Otho."

"Without moving the bank?" Eddard asked.

"There is room for the rest of the men inside it."

They left their horses with Jory and two of the guards beside the inner lane. Jon took the stair to the eastern corner tower, where a man from Rymond's hauling party now stood sentry. Robb rested a hand upon the breastwork and looked down farther than he had expected.

From here the ditch could be followed along both adjoining sides. It enclosed the fort in a broad rectangle with gently turning corners, the turf bank rising to a timber breastwork and a sheltered walk between the towers. Beyond lay the ground cut for hay, with the crofts and fenced gardens farther down.

Eddard said nothing for a while. His eyes followed the wallwalk to the gate roof they had ridden beneath, then returned to the old watchtower's crooked windows above the straight new roofs.

"Three hundred acres, a ruin and a road almost lost beneath the grass," he said. "I knew what you meant to build. It looks larger now that it stands."

Jon had spent two years going home with clay on his boots or shavings in his hair. The men who had hauled the timber now kept watch from it, with dry beds waiting below. He was looking towards the new gate roof when Eddard laid a hand upon his shoulder.

His father studied him in silence, then bent towards him and lowered his voice. "Where did you learn all this, Jon?"

Jon thought of the camp plans in the books he had owned, their gates and barrack rows marked in black. None of them stood on Luwin's shelves.

"Some of it from books," he said. "Hewyn told me where his old camps went wrong. I had room here to lay the roads out properly."

Eddard held his gaze a little longer. Then he took his hand away. "Show me the rest."

At the granary Eddard examined the open space beneath the raised floor, then joined Jon at the back. Water ran past the foundations towards a covered channel below the lane.

"You have taken the washing water down separately," Eddard said.

"It enters below the well and the gardens. The road drains join it farther along." Jon showed him the stone covers that could be lifted. "We can reach the whole length to clear it."

Eddard asked whether floodwater could come back through. Jon led him out through the second entrance to the outfall beyond the bank, where old flood stains marked the lower rocks. Rodrik came down beside them to examine the fall.

"Have you the plan here?" Eddard asked, brushing grit from his glove.

"Otho keeps a copy in the tower."

"Fetch it. I should like to see the ground beneath these roads."

Otho went ahead while they walked back through the barracks. Eddard asked where the men kept their spare gear; he knew how readily they could block a passage with it. Jon took him into one of the narrow yards behind, where shafts stood beneath the eaves and wet coats hung in covered recesses, clear of the lane.

Arthur met them at the old tower stair. Upstairs Otho had spread the drawing upon a trestle beneath the window. Eddard laid his gloves beside it and bent over the lines. Rodrik followed the crossing with one thick finger while Jon showed his father where the new work joined the old walls.

"Let me have a copy before you sail," Eddard said. "A new holding need not grow as Winterfell did. I should like to consider where else this arrangement would serve."

"Otho will make you one." Jon drew the edge of the sheet flat for him.

His father stayed over the drawing until Wylla leaned from her window and called that their dinner was getting cold. Robb was already on the stair. Theon followed, asking whether she had known they were coming. Eddard looked up at last, but left his gloves upon the plan. Jon fetched them for him on the way down.

 

[aiwonder]

After dinner, Robb followed Jon down to the armour room instead of fetching his horse.

"Father says we may stay until supper." He reached for the small breastplate hanging beside Jon's black jack. "Are you riding?"

"Swords first."

"Good."

Jon looked round. Robb had already begun unfastening his belt.

"You can use the spare jack. Ask Tomas for a sword."

Wylla met them with the bread Jon had left at dinner, folded round cold beef. He ate it on the way to the racks, breaking off a crust for Hugin.

The rain had passed. Along the eaves, water still fell into the gutters, but the practice ground had dried enough for swords. Twenty-five household men waited beside the racks, some in their new dark plate, others wearing the mail they had used through the building of the fort. Arthur paired them while Gawen took the youngest along the rail. Jon wiped his fingers and drew on his gloves.

Tomas bowed before raising his round shield.

The sleeves that had once hung loose now strained across Tomas's shoulders. His practice sword struck Jon's shield hard enough to make his elbow ache. Jon gave ground, caught the next blow upon the sloping face, and stepped outside the captain's sword arm. His own blade reached the ribs.

Tomas drew back at Arthur's call. They began again. This time he kept his shield nearer and crowded Jon before the younger boy could turn. Jon's heel slid in a damp patch. He recovered behind his shield, but Tomas's sword was already against his shoulder.

"Again," Arthur said. "You are watching his blade, Jon."

Jon settled his feet. Beyond Tomas he could see Eddard and Rodrik at the rail, with Theon lounging between them. Robb had found a partner beside Gage and was grinning as though getting hit had improved his afternoon.

Arthur came behind Jon and touched his elbow. "You were making room for the sword before there was an opening. Let him come."

Tomas came willingly. Jon took the first blow through his forearm, waited through the second, then turned his shield against the captain's wrist and got his short stroke in. Arthur had them repeat the exchange slowly before moving down the pairs. Jon shook the ache from his wrist and waited for Tomas, smiling.

"Four years," Eddard said, watching Tomas. "He was scarcely more than skin when he first came."

"He has eaten a good deal since," Rodrik replied. "And he makes Jon work."

"He is paid to." Jon lowered his shield. Sweat had loosened the tie in his hair; the white lock clung to his temple. He pushed it back with a gloved wrist.

At Arthur's call Jon offered Tomas his hand. The captain took it, still explaining where the turn had caught him. Arthur listened with a small smile.

When the bouts ended, Gawen had the quintain ready beyond the worn track. Jon checked Bucephalus's girth while Theon chose a lance.

"Those are for the older men," Gawen told him. "Take the lighter one beside it."

"I can carry this one."

"You must aim it as well. Take the lighter one."

Robb laughed and was given a lighter lance of his own. Jon mounted, settled the butt beneath his arm and brought Bucephalus down the track at a canter. The shield swelled before him. He struck it high, felt the lance kick against his ribs, and passed while the weighted arm swung behind. At the far end he eased the horse down and came back with his arm aching pleasantly.

Gawen pointed to a dark knot near the centre of the wooden shield. Jon brought his next pass lower and struck it. Tomas and Jorren followed with heavier shafts, their dark armour clattering at the turn.

Theon hit the outer edge and sent the quintain spinning. Robb missed altogether, swore, remembered his father, and looked towards the rail.

Eddard's expression did not change. "Try again."

Theon had seen the bow hanging beside Jon's saddle. "Have you been keeping at it?"

"Each morning."

"Then I shall bring mine next time." Theon grinned. Jon's last arrows had grouped more closely, but Theon could still outshoot him with ease.

By the time Robb struck squarely, the foot were leaving their barracks. Gawen took Jon's lance and kept the household at mounted work, Arthur watching the older pairs pass with shields raised and blunted lances lowered. Jon washed his face and went to Hewyn.

Across the lower field the six flags had risen. Their new purple borders were still bright. White I and II showed above spearhead badges at the front, III and IV beyond them. Upon the black cloth of the sword centuries' flags, white round-shield badges lay beneath V and VI. Even when the cloth hung still, the short crossbars held the badges open to the eye.

Theon came down from the horses with Robb. "Which one is fifth?"

Robb pointed before Jon could answer. "That one. The V."

"You have been learning his letters."

"The men know them," Robb said. "I thought I ought to."

Three hundred and sixty men stood beneath the six vexilla. Where the ground rose towards the fence, Jon could see all four spear centuries, sixty men in each, their long shields resting beside their boots. More breastplates had appeared since the proof at the Blackworks. The men waiting for theirs still wore bought mail or quilted jacks and old caps; the equipment differed, but every man carried the weapons he used upon the march. Most of Gerralt's swordsmen wore their new plate. Brus's century remained a mixture of iron and leather.

Eddard was following the breadth of the front. "You have made them deeper than they were at the armour yard."

"Four ranks today. Hewyn, bring Second beside you."

Rennick brought Second out in a narrow column, then spread it upon First's right. The nearest decanus set the pace while the farther men hurried into place. Spear shafts rattled as the last rank settled. Rodrik leaned upon the fence.

"Good enough on clear ground. Have them turn towards the ditch."

Jon looked to Hewyn and gave the direction. The two centuries changed front separately, each following its own vexillum, and dressed beside one another again. First finished sooner. Its optio walked along the rear while Second closed the last space.

"If they turn as one great body, the outside men have too far to go," Jon said. "I want the officers to move their own sixty."

"A captain would do the same with his men," Rodrik said.

"Mine must do it with any of the other five. Norren, bring Third forward."

Third fitted beside them without rearranging the line. Rodrik glanced towards the three centuries still waiting. "And you can keep those back."

"Until I need them," Jon said.

He sent First to the target rail while the others worked the turn. At Hewyn's command the front rank cast their practice javelins together. Shafts struck the old shields along the rail, some high, some low. Before the last had stopped bouncing, the men had their spears. Jon walked beside them as they advanced, watching the points come level above the long shields.

At the rail they halted. The men in front shortened their grips to work close. Malcolm thrust between the hanging shields; Coll turned his own shield against one and found the gap beneath it.

"They will not always have room for the spear," Rodrik said.

"No." Jon called three men clear of the rank. He had Malcolm press a hanging shield against the foremost man's shaft. The spearman held it for a moment, then let it go and drew the short sword at his belt, keeping his shield between them. "They practise that too. I will not have a man dragged out of line trying to save a piece of ash."

Robb went nearer the rail. "Could they all throw?"

"Before closing, if I have the time. I will not leave the front bare to get another cast away." Jon sent the men back for their javelins, then called Martyn over from the sword centuries.

Rodrik's gaze kept returning to the empty ground before the shields. Jon had heard the same doubt in his questions: who would stand still and let them do this?

"Give him opponents," Jon told Martyn. "Fifth against First and Second. Press either one when you see your chance. Third supports them."

Martyn smiled beneath his beard. "Gerralt."

The swordsmen exchanged their weapons for wood. Practice spears came down from the rack. Eddard moved with the boys to the bank, clear of the ground the centuries would use. Jon remained beside Hewyn until the last sharp head had been carried away.

Fifth began against First's outer end. Its men came on behind their round shields, forcing Hewyn to turn his end files towards them. Second advanced far enough to threaten their side. Martyn drew Gerralt back, changed his approach and drove between the two spear centuries before they could close.

"Hewyn, hold there," Jon called. "Rennick, turn upon him."

Second's nearest ranks came round. The sword century checked, its front crowded by spear points from two directions. Gerralt kept his men together and worked back out of the narrowing space. Nobody chased him. First's edge straightened at Malcolm's call.

The next attack came harder upon First. Shield rims knocked, men grunted and boots churned the wet earth. Jon waited until Martyn had committed Gerralt's rear files, then sent Third forward against their exposed side.

"First, retire. Behind Norren."

Hewyn drew his century back as Gerralt turned to meet the fresh spears. The men closest to Fifth gave ground last, their shields still raised. One caught his heel and stumbled; the man beside him held long enough for him to recover. First passed behind Third and formed again beneath its flag. Malcolm stood at the near end, his face red above his collar, calling the last files into place.

"I thought he had them caught," Theon said from the bank. He had stopped lounging against the fence and was following First as it formed behind the fresh spears.

Jon ended the bout before Martyn could renew it. The men lowered their practice weapons. He walked through the gap First had used, then called Hewyn and Norren to him.

"Norren came forward early enough. You waited too long to bring your last ten away," he told Hewyn. "They were nearly left there."

"I saw it, my lord. Malcolm had to fetch them."

"Let Malcolm give the word from that end."

On the next withdrawal, First's last ten moved as Third took the pressure. Jon watched from beside Eddard.

"Let us see Hewyn command them," Eddard said.

Jon called across the field. "Hewyn, take all six this time. I shall watch from here."

Hewyn gathered the centurions and gave the two sword centuries their work. As the officers returned to their flags, Robb climbed a root to see the widening front.

"You knew how you wanted this before you called for the men," Rodrik said quietly. "I remember arguing about how many lads could be kept at the Black Yard."

Jon watched Rymond place Fourth behind the threatened wing. "I have had time to improve it."

"Where did you begin?"

"With what I had read. And what you and Arthur taught me."

Rodrik looked at him. "You have not told me much."

"No," Jon said. "But I do want your judgement of the drill."

Rodrik turned towards the field. "He has both sword centuries now. I want to see where he puts them."

The horn sounded. Across the field, the black shields moved. Jon leaned upon the rail beside his father, following Hewyn's choice of ground.

Eddard stayed through two more exercises. When they ended he went down to speak to the officers himself, asking how the younger men had borne the longer marches and which centuries still lacked armour. Theon fetched the horses while Robb remained beside Jon.

"Would you show me where you would put the household?" he asked. "Against those spears."

Jon pointed towards the rise beyond the ditch. Robb studied it, then shook his head and named another approach. They were still arguing about which ground a horse could cross when Eddard called them in for supper. Arthur was already waiting at the tower door, carrying Jon's forgotten cloak.

* * *
​

At the next change of moon, Heward gave each of the six pages a different centurion to serve. Timm was to leave Rennick's Second Spear Century for Norren's Third Spear Century, but after breakfast he went back to Rennick's barrack.

Heward stopped him at the door. "You are with the Third Spears this moon."

"Master Rennick said I was useful."

"You were. Now you are to help Norren."

Timm glanced past him into the barrack. "I know where Master Rennick keeps everything."

"Then show the boy taking your place." Heward waited until Timm looked at him again. "You must learn the other centuries too. When you carry an order, you need to know which man is to receive it and where to find him. Norren will show you his work as Rennick showed you his."

"Do I come back here after?"

"When you have served the others."

Timm considered that, then went inside to show his replacement where Rennick's things belonged. The campidoctor waited for him to finish before sending him across to the Third Spears' barrack.

Aries remained Jon's own page, but joined the six for their reading and figures. Whatever work the centurions found for their boys, that hour belonged to their lessons. When one arrived saying he had been told to finish oiling a belt, Cadan put him on the bench with the others and went to speak to the officer himself. The boy finished the belt after his letters.

Geth could now read a short order without stopping to sound every word aloud. Nibs still lost his place when a line ran long, so twice a sennight Jon sat with him and Aries for extra practice. He wrote short notes about errands they had already done, giving them familiar names and places to read.

Nibs copied carefully, but a neat copy did not always mean he understood it.

"Read that back to me," Jon said, turning the boy's own work towards him.

Nibs followed the line with his finger. At the end, Jon asked whom he was meant to find and what he was meant to take. When the boy had to look again, Jon let him. Neither page carried a written message away until he could read it back correctly and explain the errand.

Their weapons lessons continued as well. Gawen worked on their balance and taught them the beginnings of riding. Heward drilled their steps and turns, while Fifth and Sixth, the two sword-and-shield centuries, took turns supplying a man for the short afternoon bouts.

One afternoon Jon found Colin of Fifth Century teaching them under Gerralt's eye. Colin was showing Nibs a feint, but the boy had brought the wrong foot forward while watching the sword. When he tried to copy the movement, his feet tangled.

Gerralt tapped the earth beside his shoe. "Show him how to stand first."

Colin lowered his practice blade. He stepped beside Nibs and set his own feet where the boy could see them.

"This one forward. A little less. There."

He had Nibs step towards him and back again, slowly enough to keep his balance. Only then did he ask him to lift the sword.

Aries watched from the rail with Jon's cloak over his arm. When Jon called, he shook the dust from the hem and brought it over. Behind him, Nibs looked down at his feet.

Colin waited while he put them right, then raised his wooden blade for another try.

* * *
​

Two evenings later, Jon and Arthur were crossing the yard on their way to supper.

"Brus wants more time against the household," Arthur said. "His Sixth Sword-and-Shield Century managed better today, but the younger men still follow an opponent when they should hold their place."

"Does he stop them?"

"He stopped the bout twice and made them repeat the turn."

"Then give him another afternoon. Gawen can spare a file."

Shouting came from the stables, followed by several hollow thumps and Patch's excited barking.

"Hold it, Geth! Hold it!"

"I am holding it!"

Something fell with a clatter. The boys burst out laughing.

Jon turned towards the open doors. "What are they doing?"

Arthur followed him beneath the eaves.

Baskets blocked most of the stable passage. The larger ones had been overturned and pushed together, with straw packed between them and a narrow gap left for a gate. Geth knelt in that opening, bracing a round shield while Timm tried to squeeze past its edge.

"Back!" Nibs shouted from behind him. "You're not through yet!"

His iron cap slipped over his eyes. He shoved it up with the heel of his hand, exposing a flushed little face beneath the broad rim. The quilted jack he had taken reached almost to his ankles; its sleeves had been rolled into thick bundles, one already coming loose over his sword hand.

Aries stood outside the baskets with Tob beside him and Patch bouncing at his heels.

"Timm, come back! We're meant to go together!"

He stepped forward to fetch him, caught his boot against the long scabbard hanging from his belt, and had to grab Tob's shoulder to keep from falling.

"You're pulling it off!" Tob protested.

The collar of his borrowed jack had slipped over one shoulder. He caught it beneath his chin while Aries freed his boot, then tried to hitch it back into place without dropping his wooden sword. The padded gloves he wore made this almost impossible; their empty fingertips folded whenever he tried to grasp the leather.

Aries let go of him and dragged the scabbard round to his other hip.

"Then stand still."

"I was standing still."

Inside the gate, Timm had become wedged between Geth's shield and a basket. His breastplate was strapped over a thick quilted coat, but even with the buckles drawn tight, the steel stood well away from his chest. Its lower edge caught against his thighs when he bent. He tried to straighten and pushed the basket backwards instead.

Nibs struck his shoulder with the flat of his wooden sword.

"You're dead."

"I'm stuck."

"You can be both."

Geth began laughing. He had to put the shield down to help Timm out, exposing Wrenn behind him in a faded leather jack whose armholes gaped around his narrow shoulders. Wrenn immediately crouched to cover the opening, stepped upon the hem of Nibs's coat and brought his little commander down onto a basket.

"Get off me!"

"I'm not on you."

"My coat!"

From behind the far tower, Hake laughed so hard that he had to hold his helm in place. Someone had packed its lining with straw. A few stalks protruded above one ear; the rest fell into his eyes whenever he shook.

Arthur leaned a hand against the doorpost. Jon glanced up at him and found the knight pressing his lips together.

Aries had managed to free his scabbard. He stood with his boots apart, the stiff shoulders of his leather jack jutting well beyond his own. The coat had once fitted one of the younger household men. Upon Aries, its skirt nearly reached his knees, and the doubled belt gathered the loose leather into great folds around his waist.

Timm backed away from the gate.

"They have four. We only have three."

"We have Patch."

The dog sprang against Aries's leg at the sound of his name. His forepaws struck the hanging leather, and his tail swept straw against Tob's shins.

"He won't do what you tell him," Tob said.

"He follows me."

"He follows everyone."

"Yield!" Aries shouted towards the baskets. "Lord Aries gives you one more chance!"

Nibs had regained his feet. He planted his wooden sword upon the wicker, with both hands upon its pommel.

"No."

"We'll knock your wall down."

"You'll have to put it back up."

Aries reached for the sword at his hip. The scabbard rose with the hilt until he clamped it between his knees and pulled harder.

Steel scraped free.

Jon straightened.

"Aries."

The boy turned, delighted at first.

"My lord! Look, we've—"

"Put that sword down."

Aries's smile faltered. He lowered the blade, but its weight carried the point farther than he intended, brushing Tob's padded sleeve before striking the floor.

"Carefully."

Arthur stepped past Jon and closed his hand over the blade near the hilt. He took it without resistance.

"All the weapons," he said. "On the bench."

The boys began obeying in an untidy clatter. Timm tried to bend for a fallen wooden sword and had to spread his knees to make room for the breastplate. Geth unstrapped his shield. Without the excitement of holding the gate, he could scarcely keep its weight upon his arm.

Nibs remained behind the baskets until Arthur beckoned him through.

Jon took the steel sword from his uncle. It was a broad, blunted practice blade, heavy enough that Aries had needed both hands merely to draw it.

"Who gave you this?"

Aries swallowed. "No one."

"Where did you find it?"

"In the practice shed."

"You know which swords you are allowed."

"It's blunt, my lord."

Jon looked from the blade to Tob, who was rubbing the place it had brushed.

"You nearly struck him while turning to speak to me. A blunt sword can still break his arm."

Aries's eyes followed his. Tob stopped rubbing.

Jon laid the weapon upon the bench, well beyond their reach. Beside it stood an empty helm with a broken chin strap, two wooden swords and the gloves Tob had finally managed to pull off.

"Did anyone give you leave to take the armour?"

No one answered.

Aries removed his cap. His red hair clung damply to his forehead, flattened beneath the worn lining. One ear was folded over; he rubbed it absently, watching Jon.

At the far entrance, a horse snorted.

Ralf stood outside with a groom and two geldings. The nearer horse stretched its neck towards the loose straw, but the groom held it back from the baskets.

"I sent the boys for bedding, my lord."

Jon looked along the stalls. Three stood empty, their floors swept but bare.

"How long ago?"

"Long enough to have those done. I told them where to spread it."

"We brought it," Aries said.

Ralf's gaze moved over the castle.

"Aye. I can see where you put it."

Aries's cheeks reddened. Behind him, Geth shifted his weight.

"I told him we had to finish first."

The red head turned sharply.

"Aries," Jon said.

The boy faced him again.

"What did you tell Geth?"

"That we could finish after."

"Did Ralf say the work could wait?"

"He was out with the horses."

"Did he?"

"No, my lord."

Jon waited until Aries looked at him.

"Then why did you tell the others to leave it?"

Aries held the cap against his stomach. His fingers tightened beneath its rim.

"I'm your page."

There was still some certainty in the answer. He glanced towards the six boys gathered beside the bench.

"They serve the centurions. I serve you. I thought that meant they had to do what I said."

The corners of Jon's mouth flattened.

"No."

Aries looked back at him.

"I have not put you in command of these boys."

"But when you send me—"

"When I send you with an order, they obey the order. You do not gain the right to make up another one."

Aries drew his shoulders in. The broad leather seams scarcely moved with them.

"Ralf has charge of these stables," Jon continued. "He gave them work to do. You had no leave to take them from it."

"I only wanted—"

"I know what you wanted. Geth reminded you of their work, and you told him he must obey you instead."

The boy's lips parted, but nothing came out.

Jon's voice had grown quieter. His eyes remained fixed upon Aries, cold enough that the boy stopped trying to meet them. He looked at the cap, then at the floor. The flush had spread down his neck.

Behind him, Hake held his helm by its loose straps. It knocked against his shin once before he caught it against his leg. Wrenn had begun picking straw from the front of his jack, dropping each piece beside his boot. Nibs stood close to Geth, one small hand gripping the older boy's sleeve.

"Did you tell them I would allow it?" Jon asked.

Aries nodded.

"Speak."

"Aye, my lord."

"You had not asked me."

"I thought you would."

"Next time, ask. You are not to give anyone leave in my name unless I have told you to do so."

"Yes, my lord."

Jon turned to the others.

"When a message is unclear, ask. Serving me does not forbid Aries from being questioned."

Geth nodded first. The younger boys followed.

"Take off the armour and leave it upon the bench. Finish the stalls Ralf gave you. When he is satisfied, you may wash and go to supper."

Timm glanced at the equipment already piled there.

"Do we put these back first?"

"No. Aries will see to them."

Aries raised his head.

"You will stay after the others have gone," Jon told him. "Ralf will show you the empty end stall. Clean it, then sweep this passage. Everything taken from the shed is to be cleaned and returned. Ser Gawen will count it."

The boy looked along the passage towards the feed room.

"All of it?"

"All of it. There will be no games for you tonight."

Aries glanced at Geth, then Nibs. Neither looked back.

"Only me?"

"Only you."

His mouth tightened. For a moment Jon thought he would argue. Instead he lowered the cap onto the bench, so carefully that it made no sound.

Arthur began helping the boys out of their borrowed armour. Timm could not reach the breastplate's side buckles beneath the folds of his coat. When the knight freed the last strap, the boy let out a long breath and rubbed both thighs.

Nibs had pulled his jack halfway over his head and become trapped inside it.

"Stop pulling," Arthur told him.

"I can't see."

"I know. Lower your arms."

Geth held the hem while Arthur worked the heavy quilting free. Nibs emerged red-faced, his hair standing up, and immediately looked towards Jon as though being caught in his coat might count as another offence.

Jon pointed him towards Ralf.

"The bedding."

The boy hurried away.

Aries was still struggling with his belt. He had knotted the spare length behind the buckle, and each tug made it tighter. The empty scabbard knocked against the bench. He caught it, tried again and bit his lip.

Arthur held out his hand.

"I can do it."

"Let me see the knot."

Aries hesitated before turning. Arthur loosened the leather and drew it free. Without the belt, the old jack hung open over the boy's fitted black coat. Its collar had rubbed a red patch beneath his chin.

Jon waited until it was off.

"Tell Ralf why his work was left."

Aries faced the groom.

"I called them away." He swallowed. "I told them they could leave it because I was Lord Jon's page."

Ralf listened, one hand resting upon the nearest stall door.

"And whose idea was taking the gear?"

"Mine."

"Then begin with those baskets. I need room to bring the horses through."

Aries bent to the largest. Patch came nosing beneath his arm, tail moving hopefully.

"Not now," he whispered.

He dragged the basket aside with the dog following at his heel.

Jon remained until the passage was open and the six other pages were carrying bedding into the stalls. Then he went out with Arthur. Aries kept his back towards them as their footsteps crossed the threshold.

* * *
​

By dusk, the horses were feeding quietly behind their half-doors. The last light lay in narrow strips beneath the high windows, catching dust whenever Aries shook his cloth.

He sat on a low stool beside the stable bench, with Geth's shield propped between his knees. Ralf had inspected the passage and the empty stall, but found straw lodged behind the shield's grip. Aries had spent several minutes trying to work it free with the corner of a rag.

Most of the gear had already gone back to the shed. One cap stood beside his rinse bucket, its lining turned out to dry. An old apron covered his coat; Ralf had knotted its neck loop short enough for him, but the hem still lay across his shoes.

Patch slept beneath the bench.

Wylla came in carrying a bowl beneath a folded cloth.

"Aries."

He pulled the rag through the grip again.

"I've nearly finished."

She set his supper down and came beside him. His hair was full of dust, and a dark smear ran from one cheek towards his ear. The skin beneath his chin was raw where the borrowed collar had chafed.

"Let me look at you."

"It doesn't hurt."

"I have not asked what hurts."

She tipped his face towards the window. His eyes were red. He tried to blink before she could see how wet they were.

Wylla's expression softened.

"Oh, love."

"I'm not crying."

She drew him against her waist. For a moment he held himself stiffly, the rag still stretched between his hands. Then his forehead pressed into her gown.

"He was angry."

"Aye."

"I've never seen him look at me like that."

Wylla put one hand upon the back of his head and stroked the tangled red hair.

"You frightened him with that sword. Ralf told me."

"I wasn't going to hit anyone hard."

"You could not know how hard it would land."

Aries said nothing. She felt him swallow against her.

"And you should not have taken the boys from their work."

"I know."

She let him lean against her a little longer, then crouched beside the stool.

"Show me what is left."

He pointed behind the shield's grip. She held it steady while he worked the rag through from the other side. A last twist brought the straw free.

Ralf came to inspect it. He ran a finger beneath the strap, looked at the cap beside the bucket and nodded.

"Take those back. Ser Gawen is still in the shed. You are finished here."

Aries rose with the shield held against his chest. Wylla took the cap as far as the doorway, then settled its strap over his wrist so he could manage both.

When he returned, she had uncovered his broth and broken the bread. He sat beside her on the bench without being told.

"Hands," she said.

He showed her.

She wiped the dirt from his knuckles with a damp cloth, then gave him the spoon. He took two mouthfuls while she untied the apron and drew it over his head.

"I thought he would like it," he said at last.

"The castle?"

He nodded.

"We made the gate narrow. So they couldn't all come through together."

Wylla smoothed his collar away from the rubbed place.

"Then you should have found somewhere you were allowed to build it."

"Ralf would have said to finish first."

"There was your answer."

Aries bent over the bowl.

For a while she let him eat. The broth held barley and onion, with a piece of mutton she had cut small enough for his spoon. He left the meat until she nudged his hand towards it.

"Your lord had plenty of people telling him to finish his work before he began something else," she said.

Aries looked at her.

"He still does. Usually me."

That almost drew a smile.

"He did not get those first boys merely by asking. Lord Stark wanted to know who would feed them, where they would sleep and who would teach them. Jon had to give him proper answers."

"He always knows the answers."

"Does he?" Wylla lifted an eyebrow. "I remember him sitting over an account with Master Poole because he had forgotten how quickly boys wear through their boots."

Aries glanced at his own.

"He learned. And he listened when someone knew more than he did." She put her arm about his shoulders. "You see him in the yard giving orders. You see less of the work that keeps those men fed and clothed."

"I was going to help Ralf afterwards."

"I believe you. But Ralf had horses waiting, and Geth had already told you that. Being eager does not make you right."

He scraped a little broth from the side of the bowl.

"Will he still want me with him tomorrow?"

Wylla turned him gently towards her.

"He has spent too many evenings teaching you to decide you are no use after one foolish afternoon."

His mouth trembled. She kissed his brow.

"He expects much of you, love. I have seen him put aside a letter because you wanted something explained. He wants you to understand his work. As you grow, there will be more he can trust you with, and—"

"Aries. Come here."

Jon stood inside the doorway.

The boy rose abruptly. His spoon struck the bowl, and Wylla steadied it while he wiped his palms against his coat. He crossed the passage with his head down.

Two paces from Jon, he stopped.

His hands folded together, separated, then folded again. He began rubbing one thumbnail over the other.

"Have you completed the work I set you?" Jon asked.

"Yes, my lord."

"Ralf has inspected it?"

"Aye. The passage and the stall." Aries swallowed. "Ser Gawen counted everything. I took the shield back last."

"Good."

The boy's fingers went on moving.

"Do you know why I punished only you?"

Aries glanced up.

"Because I began it."

"The others wanted to play too."

He looked down again. Behind Jon, the evening yard had grown quiet. A man crossed the gravel carrying a lantern, its light passing briefly over the door.

"Because I told them they had to listen."

"Yes."

Jon waited until the boy's eyes returned to him.

"They thought you had the right to let them leave their work. When Geth questioned you, you used your place beside me to silence him."

"I thought I could."

"I know. But you chose for all of them. I would not punish them for trusting an authority you claimed to have."

Aries pressed his lips together.

"You wanted them to follow your decision. When it proved wrong, you had to answer for it."

The boy nodded. His chin shook with the movement.

"I'm sorry, my lord."

Jon looked at the small, bent shoulders and the hands working restlessly beneath them. The defiance was gone. Aries had done the work without attempting to hide any of it, and now he seemed scarcely able to stand still beneath his lord's attention.

Jon put a hand upon his shoulder.

"Leave your fingers alone."

Aries let them fall.

"Look at me."

He raised his head slowly. His eyes were wet and red-rimmed, the lashes clinging together at the corners. He blinked hard. A tear slipped down the cheek Wylla had just cleaned.

Jon's voice gentled.

"I expect a great deal of you, Aries."

"I'll do better."

"I believe you will."

The boy drew an uneven breath.

"I am hard on you because I see the makings of a great man in you. You learn quickly. You have courage. And those boys trusted you long before you wore my coat."

Aries held his gaze now.

"I remember the night they came here. You slept beside them and left your new coat over Nibs."

"He was cold."

"Aye. You saw that without anyone telling you. I want you to show the same care when they look to you for a decision."

Jon's hand remained steady upon his shoulder.

"One day I mean to give you work I cannot stand beside you to watch. I want to know you will hear advice, judge carefully and tell me when something is beyond you."

"I will, my lord."

"You have years to learn. I intend to teach you as much as I can, and I expect you to make good use of it. Begin with your friends. Help them do their work properly. Let Geth speak when he thinks you are wrong."

Aries nodded.

Jon gave his shoulder a small squeeze.

"I know you can become a man I am proud to have beside me. Can you do that for me?"

Aries sniffled and rubbed his fist across his eyes. When he lowered it, he looked straight at Jon.

"Yes, my lord."

"Good. Finish your supper, then go to bed."

Jon released him. He exchanged a glance with Wylla and walked out into the yard.

Aries stood where he had left him until the footsteps faded.

Then Wylla came to him.

She gathered him against her before he could try to hide his face again, one arm around his shoulders and her other hand cupping the back of his head. His fingers caught in her gown. She bent to kiss his hair, holding him close while he pressed his wet cheek into the familiar wool.

 

[aiwonder]

The next spear century came to the Blackworks for its helms with straw still clinging to the old leather liners. One man had folded a rag beneath a cap that had belonged to his father. He took it out before Noll measured him. Another laid a split cheek strap upon the bench and asked whether the new one would last longer.

The third year of the lease had begun. Hewyn kept the men moving between the fittings and the practice lane. Most had sworn in the first year and worn those caps through two years of marches, building and drill. The sixty taken the following year were less weathered, though they no longer needed leading through every turn. Jon watched one file advance, halt and cast, then sent its men back to Noll wherever an edge caught the collar.

Cressen came to the bench with a stores order folded in his glove. Noll reached for the bundle he carried, but the guard held it back.

"Six collars to the proof yard," Cressen read. "Two to stay here for the new pattern. Which two, master?"

Noll pointed to the red-bound pair. Cressen left those and wrapped the other six. Jon remembered Olyver writing "bread" and "board" for him beneath the eaves. Before the second year ended, Cadan and Lucan had heard all twenty-five read unfamiliar orders and letters in several hands. Some were slow; none needed a clerk. Tomas now posted watch changes as well as calling them. On Jon's ships, reading an instruction had scarcely been remarkable. He watched Cressen close the bundle, pleased by how ordinary it was becoming here.

"Take the receipt back to Abel," Jon told Cressen.

"Aye, my lord." Cressen tucked the order away. "He says the last two went into the issue book before Noll had finished them."

"Then he can enter these when the proof is done." Noll put the red-bound pair beneath his bench and called the next man forward.

The third call brought more applicants than Hewyn expected. They waited below the practice field, some with spears, others with bundles of clothes, all watching the black steel. Behind the six barrack ranges, clock money had paid for new sleeping bays within the finished bank. Gangs levelled the outer field; Woods had lengthened the exercise room for another set of bars and Ewan's weights. Clock wagons left so often that carters complained when anyone blocked the loading space. One White Harbor load had carried Wyman's chess set, Jon's rules tucked inside.

Perkin and Abel met Jon beneath the armour-shed eaves with the completed year's accounts. He held his bread and cold chicken clear of the pages.

"Ten thousand two hundred dragons received for the year's completed clocks," Perkin said. "Two thousand eight hundred for the timber, metal, wages, fitting and carriage. Seven thousand four hundred clear from the trade."

Perkin had marked the larger commissions in the margin: Hornwood, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen's Square, Stone Hedge and Raventree Hall. Beneath them came Riverrun. Hoster Tully had chosen the larger case; his agreement and earnest came through Catelyn, his balance after the keeper's trial, without the longer credit he had sought. Jon lingered over that entry.

Abel showed where the earnings had gone. The men, works, stores and four new merchant hulls had taken more than half the profit. Two cogs joined Denys first; two broad roundships followed before the year ended. He now had four merchant hulls beside the ten warships, their White Harbor calls frequent enough for Garrick to know which masters would keep a clock chest dry. With the older money carried forward, four thousand six hundred dragons remained: three thousand reserved for wages, grain and the next intake's first issue, leaving sixteen hundred unpromised.

"What is William making now?"

"The second falcon, for the Gates of the Moon, and Lord Tywin's smaller clock. Merryweather's order is almost completed; Redwyne's case is still with Woods. The other benches are on merchant work. Two Gulltown buyers, the Lannisport cloth house, and another for the White Harbor brothers. They want this one inside their own hall."

"They have paid their earnest?"

"All of them," Perkin said. "Their earnest is kept apart from the completed sales. Abel has my return; none of that money is in the sixteen hundred."

Gawen came from the stable carrying a bridle. He had been to look at another horse dealer's string.

"Twenty-five geldings I would put the new boys upon, my lord. A hundred and eighty dragons for the lot. He will keep them until Ralf has tried the last four."

"Buy them if Ralf agrees. Have them sent in small groups." Jon returned the household account to Abel. "And have the hundred and twenty foot's wages and first issue ready for the oath."

Gawen went to find Ralf. Perkin drew two letters from the back of his book. "Osric sent these with the accounts. Neither man lives in Westeros."

A Pentoshi merchant who had seen a clock in an Oldtown wine house wanted one for his reception room. A Braavosi merchant's factor had seen the White Harbor clocks. His letter asked the price of two clocks, gave the measurements of both rooms and asked about fitters, shipping and repairs across the narrow sea. Jon read it twice.

"Have William price the making," Jon said. "Osric can find the cost of the passage. No promise of a delivery season yet."

"From White Harbor?"

"For the reckoning. Give me a second price from Dragonstone."

Perkin looked up.

"We mean to move the work there," Jon said. "Ethan needs William's requirements before he sets out the rooms. Send copies of these letters with them. He should know who is beginning to ask."

Arthur read the Braavosi's letter. "This one has thought about what happens after the clock arrives."

"That makes him worth answering." Jon wiped his fingers. "Perkin, let the eastern offers stay letters until we agree the work. Abel has what the men need without waiting for those answers."

He left Perkin to fold them with William's commissions and went to meet Martyn on the path.

Four crows picked through the earth beyond the waiting men. The grey-throated hen had joined the others that summer. She still flew off at a sudden movement, but in the evenings she came to Jon's sill. Twice he had sat with Arthur and looked down from her perch, returning to his own body before the candles burned low.

Jon went down to the practice lane with Martyn. A lad in a good leather jack had just knocked the practice sword from his partner's hand. He grinned towards the waiting men. When Martyn put them together again and told him to keep behind the shield, he lowered it to try the same stroke.

"Enough," Jon said. "Give Gerralt the sword."

Gerralt held out his hand from beside the rack. The grin vanished. The other lad was still rubbing his knuckles.

"You stay," Jon told the other lad. "Pick it up. Ser Martyn will show you where your hand went wrong."

For six days Jon came after the morning run, heard the officers' choices and tried the doubtful men himself. Good listeners often outlasted lads with finer weapons. By the last evening he had chosen a hundred and twenty who had seen enough of the work to know what they were swearing to.

After the oath each centurion received twenty men, bringing every century to eighty. Jon mixed them with seasoned soldiers; no decanus received a whole ten who had never held a shield in line.

The new men marched to the lower ford after drill, in plate or their old leather and mail as issue allowed. Jon went in his armour and had little breath left at the gate, where Arthur waited with his horse for Winterfell.

Over the following weeks Hewyn lengthened the road: first half a day, then from before sunrise, bedding and food on carrying forks and shared loads on pack beasts. An officer brought the newer tens home early. Jon walked the level stretches with the rest and rode the longer rises, falling back to watch the rear. They came home late, dust white on their coats, and were back in the shield lanes next morning.

* * *
​

For a fortnight Otho's fabri had been fitting a travelling catapult with Henly and Emrick. They brought it in pieces to the upper ground before the rain. Henly's six libritors took the engine while Emrick's six helped Otho bed it on firm ground above the ditch. Stones waited sorted by weight.

Jon knew Henly's mechanism. The changes were in the short frame lengths that fitted army wagons, gauge-matched iron shoes and bearing blocks removable without dismantling half the engine. The clockworks' fine boring tools had served those last.

Henly held up the spare bearing. "It fitted on the bench, my lord. I have not tried it in this frame."

"Then change it now."

They supported the arm and took out the first block. The spare went into its seat without a chisel touching it. Emrick turned the shaft while Henly tightened the fastening. When the arm moved freely, Jon called the crew forward.

The first stone struck the bare ground beyond the ditch. Hewyn watched from the rail with Martyn and Gerralt. Another followed, then a third. They fell close enough together for the men at the rail to begin laying wagers on the next.

Emrick looked to Jon. "Farther?"

"Keep the same setting. Bring the relief crew."

The relief crew knew the drill but had not assembled this frame. Jon let them take their time over the winding, then stepped beside the caller.

"Ask each man. Do not let the whole crew answer at once."

The replies came down the line. At Emrick's signal the stone struck beyond the first group, well inside the cleared ground. Henly noted the setting and the ground beneath the supports. When he asked to try a heavier stone, Jon agreed, but left the calling to the new crew.

By late afternoon they had a dozen shots recorded with charge and setting. Henly laid the sheet against his drawing; the next frame would begin with measured ranges, not his memory of the Citadel yard.

"Take it down," Jon told them. "Tomorrow the same men carry it round the hill and raise it again. Keep the pieces together upon their own wagon."

Emrick gave the order. Henly went to the carter to settle the load while Jon rode down to see how the youngest swordsmen had managed without Gerralt beside them.

* * *
​

The rolling frame was ready that same moon. Its Blackworks shed had stood unfinished through the end of the second year while Ewan and Woods built the machinery. Bennard cast the short, heavy iron rolls; Jon and Ewan's stout powered bench turned their faces and necks true. Hand-fitted bronze bearings held them in a forged-iron frame. Ewan had taken more pains over the two screws governing their gap than over any armour he had made.

Now he stood beside the finished machine with Noll. A broad billet of iron waited in the reheating hearth. Jon had drawn its intended length upon a board, and Ewan kept looking at the line.

"The hammer would do it," he said. "I know what the hammer asks of the iron. I cannot see those taking hold of so much at once."

"They will take a little with each passage." Jon set the screws while Ewan watched. "We keep the rolls apart enough to catch it, then bring them closer."

Otho came in from the new wheelhouse with his book. They had spent the previous afternoon measuring the water through its channel. He pointed to the marked opening on the sluice drawing.

"The hammer and grinding wheel must wait while this runs, my lord. The bellows can keep their water."

Jon followed the figures with his finger. "Leave their sluice as it stands. Ewan, have your men bring the next billets to heat while we work this one."

Jon tied back his hair, pulled on his apron and took the long tongs. Otho raised the sluice. As water struck the wheel, the rolls turned towards their gap, filling the shed with a low grinding unlike the hammer.

Ewan helped lift the iron onto the feeding support. Jon brought its end forward until the rolls caught, then opened the tongs and drew them clear. A longer flat emerged onto the receiving bed, shedding black scale.

Ewan leaned forward. "Gods."

Ewan fetched the second tongs. They reheated the flat when it cooled, matching the screw turns to keep the upper roll level. He set the next billet himself. By the time the waiting iron was worked, all three flats took the same gauge.

Noll had gone to fetch a billet of their plate steel. "My lord, will you try this while I am here?"

Jon took it to the hearth. "We can draw the blank for an arm defence. You will still raise it to shape and give it its final heat."

"I know what remains." Noll looked at the three flats. "I have men spending half their morning getting stock ready for it."

Ewan stayed at Jon's shoulder through the steel's passages, asking how much narrower they could set the rolls and whether wider ones would require another wheel. The blank came out long enough for Noll to lay his arm pattern along it. He held the pattern clear of the hot surface, smiling broadly.

Ewan pulled his apron round and sat upon a stool beside Jon's drawings. "Show me how you chose their breadth, my lord. Before we make another pair." He called Bennard back. "Bring the sizes the benches keep asking for. And the cartwright's list. We shall want those here."

Jon sat beside him and turned to a clean page. Noll remained standing with his pattern in his hand, waiting to have his own sizes entered first.

* * *
​

Later that moon rain drove Branoc and his six new barrack signs beneath the hall's eaves. White letters shone on black, four spearheads and two round shields; the weathered planks lay face down in the mud. The centurions sheltered beside their replacements while the sword centuries trotted home with shields over their heads.

Malcolm was still working First. Its rear rank had been slow on the turn; he made them repeat it, called the others back and tried the whole line. This time it held. He dismissed them and came under the eaves, water running from his beard.

"Hewyn has spoken for you," Jon said. "You will command First Century."

Malcolm glanced at the captain.

"You have been doing most of it already," Hewyn said. "The other five keep me busy enough."

"Centurion, my lord?"

"Aye. The pay goes with it. Bring me your choice of an optio after supper."

"I will, my lord." Malcolm straightened, then seemed to remember the rainwater dripping from his hair onto Jon's boots and stepped back. "Thank you."

Jon called Rennick and the other centurions over. They made room for Malcolm among them. Gerralt clapped his shoulder; Brus asked whether this meant First would arrive before Sixth at tomorrow's march.

"We have been waiting for you all week," Malcolm said.

Hewyn grinned and held out his hand for the First's sign. "You can quarrel about that when you are dry."

Abel joined them under the shelter and unrolled the larger establishment. Ten cohort spaces filled the page. Only the first had been entered.

"The First Legion," Jon said.

Robb had ridden down after lessons. He came closer to read the empty spaces, Jory waiting at the shelter's edge. "You mean to fill all that?"

"In time, if I have land and work for them. This is the beginning."

Jon held the sheet until Robb had read the names, then rolled it at Jory's reminder about supper.

The signs were hung when the rain eased. Men ducked beneath the familiar names without pausing, more concerned with dry stockings and supper. Malcolm stopped at the First's door to speak with Mallador, then followed his men inside.

Jon left Hewyn to the centuries and rode up to Winterfell with Robb. At the Great Keep stair they parted. Robb went to change his wet coat; Jon carried the list of unfilled places to his father's solar.

Eddard had the shutters open despite the rain. A mason had left a loose piece of facing stone upon his desk, with grit scattered over the corner of a letter. Jon moved his own paper clear of it and set down the list.

"First's new centurion has his command," he said. "I shall begin choosing for the household next."

Eddard read down the six centuries. "How many places remain before you reach the six hundred?"

"A hundred and twenty. Twenty in each century, to be taken next year. The household will have its fifty this summer."

"Then I shall want to see them together before you sail."

"You shall. I want the household call read in the town and at the nearer holds. Tomas can begin the trials as soon as they come."

"Send Luwin the words. The same terms as before: no sworn man without his lord's release." Eddard folded the list and set it beside the stone. "Will you stay to eat?"

Jon unfastened his damp cloak. "That was my intention."

His father set a clean sheet over the unfinished letter and rose. They went down together; Robb had changed his coat and kept the place beside him.

Next morning Jon ran with First and joined Malcolm at the lifting stones. Heward was watching a man favour one shoulder. Murch noticed, took away the heavier weight and sent him to Lorren; the man had admitted nothing before the work began. Heward left the decanus to conduct the next row. When they had stretched and loosened their shoulders, Jon fetched his shield for drill.

Robb joined him at the trough after drill, flushed from his ride and carrying his coat. Jon sluiced his neck and wrung out his loosened hair.

"You are nearly as tall as I am," Robb said.

"Stand straight, then."

Robb did, at once. Jon laughed and gave him room. His brother still had the broader chest, though Jon felt his own shoulders filling his shirt as he pulled it over his head.

They followed the first file to breakfast, Robb asking to try the heavier stones. Jon stopped him at the door to scrape his boots. Elspeth could see them from the hearth.

During the afternoon's weapons drill, Jon heard the weighted javelin given its old name again. Some men still preferred it.

"Heavy dart," someone muttered behind the second rank.

"Pilum," Jon corrected.

"Aye, my lord." The man picked up another shaft.

The pilum's long iron shank drove its hardened point through hide and wood. Old shields sagged beneath lodged shafts along the target rail. A man who survived the cast might still have to drop his shield, opening him to the spears. Jon had argued over pila in books and museum reconstructions for pleasure. Here he watched each strike; a mistake in his memory had to be found before a man trusted his life to it.

The new weapons flew differently from their padded practice shafts. Hewyn kept the men behind a rope while Jon watched where each batch fell. He altered the balance of the shafts that consistently landed short and sent a split socket back to the forge. By the end of the week the first ranks were putting their casts into the shields, and few men still needed reminding of the name.

* * *
​

Martyn had trained both sword-and-shield centuries since their first oaths beneath the ruined tower. While the armourers worked, he kept making the lanes less forgiving. The first of them took its new plates through the same turns it already knew in leather and mail.

The gate narrowed to four shields. The stair turned unevenly; an alley bent twice before opening onto a platform that shifted upon buried timbers. High sword strokes struck the ash rods Martyn fixed overhead. Wide cuts hit a neighbour's shield. Men learned to stab around rims, punch with the boss, and replace the front pair without showing their backs.

Their armour changed the drill. A shifting coat rubbed one man raw beneath the arm; others loosened their collars gratefully when Martyn called a rest. Lorren went along the bench with water while the men retied their points. Martyn showed them how to lift a senseless comrade out of his harness, and had each pair practise before returning to the lane.

"A naked man is faster," one swordsman said while Lorren dressed the raw skin under his arm.

"Try the march naked, then," Lorren said. "See what the midges leave of you."

The Blackworks altered the armholes and sent Mairi new measures. By the second month the century could run five miles in armour, fight ten minutes in the lane, withdraw and pitch shelter before taking it off. Men still cursed the weight, but knew where to find oil rag, spare thong, rivets and repair wire.

Fourth and the second shield century received their steel through the following months. Between fittings Jon rode to the clock rooms, where William's work might take him through three rooms.

One wet afternoon William was directing two men through the covered passage with a case. He had laid an old sail over its open movement while the joiners finished the door.

"The Rock's smaller one. I want it on the proof frame before the lamps are lit."

Jon held the workroom door for them. The second falcon stood wrapped to the neck, its wings upon a shelf. Three plain cases and trays of unfinished wheels filled the window benches. At the far end a fitter worked beside a White Harbor clock's chipped oak door.

"Have you room for that repair?" Jon asked.

"If I keep the new work off this bench. They put a nail through the back to hang a lamp." William showed him the bent piece the nail had caught. "I have sent the keeper a drawing of where to put it next time."

A laugh came from the doorway. Perkin was bringing in a cloth factor from Lannisport. The man had come north with a shipment of wool and meant to inspect his master's clock before returning to White Harbor. He shook the rain from his cap, bowed to Jon and went straight to the case Perkin showed him.

"He asked for darker oak."

William lifted the little sample which had travelled with the order. The factor held it against the door, then took both nearer the window. Beneath the wet grey light they matched. He rubbed the case with the side of his thumb, trying the smoothness of the finish.

"It looked darker by his hearth."

"So will this," William said, and sent an apprentice for a lamp.

By lamplight the oak warmed to brown. The factor asked to hear it strike; William showed him the winding first. Jon watched the cord settle evenly on the barrel. When the bell sounded, a man at the next bench kept filing through every stroke.

The factor paid the remaining hundred and thirty dragons from his travelling chest. Perkin wrote the receipt while William named the next morning for collection, once he had tried the spare parts in the movement.

Perkin sent that receipt and two other balances to Abel that evening. Jon found Abel checking a grain wagon at the tower. The rye was dry, the load complete and the quarter's wages still reserved. Jon authorised payment and went in to supper.

Fourth's issue was seven helms short. Those men kept their old caps and marched in their usual places until Noll could fit the last bowls after drill.

Men accustomed to the plates checked their comrades' straps. The others listened when they showed where their own had rubbed.

Hewyn wiped the old tallies from the board beside the drill ground. The six white numerals stood above clean spaces. Martyn watched Jon lay cords across the new practice lanes.

Two crooked lanes opened into a square barely broad enough for ten shields abreast. Jon walked one approach, moved a stake where the turn favoured the left-hand side, and tried the other.

"Ten against ten," Jon told the centurions. "A different ten each time; every century meets the other five. Whoever holds the square at the last horn earns the stroke. If neither holds it, neither earns one."

The winning century would have its chosen supper and an afternoon free, divided by Hewyn so the gates kept their guards.

Malcolm glanced towards Gerralt. Fifth's centurion had already begun choosing men.

Martyn sent them apart before either could study the other's order. First waited in the western lane, shields braced at the turn. Fifth's men came from the east, their wooden blades held low.

At the horn, First rushed the square. Its leading pair reached the middle while the men behind were still turning. Fifth came through together. A shield caught First's foremost man sideways; his neighbour stepped back to cover him, and the narrow opening filled with black shields.

"Bring them through!" Malcolm called.

The rear pair pushed forward, but there was no room left. Martyn blew the last horn with Fifth across the square and First crowded against its own corner.

Gerralt took the chalk. One white stroke appeared beside V.

Malcolm took his leading pair back to the corner, first without shields, then with them. Jon watched their second passage before going to Third's helms. Behind him Fifth's men discussed which pies Elspeth made best.

After Fifth's first victory, Gerralt kept two of his younger men at the rail while the others went to the water. Colin put their shields beside one another and showed where First's leading pair had separated at the turn. He had learned to make the lesson with his feet as well as his mouth. When one of the lads crowded him, he stopped and brought him through the corner again.

Gerralt watched without helping until Colin began explaining a third time.

"Let him try it."

Colin stepped back. The other lad made the turn badly, tried again and found the space.

Jon came from the armour bench with Arthur. Colin, who had once lunged at every opening, now waited while his partner learned to keep up.

"You have given him men to teach," Jon said.

"Two for now," Gerralt answered. "More when he stops telling them everything at once."

"Do you mean him for a ten?"

"I do, my lord. Not yet. He must learn to hear a complaint without taking it for an argument." Gerralt raised his voice. "Colin. Fresh pair."

Colin fetched his shield. Across the field Heward halted the household's next pairs; after Rylas finished, Arthur brought the serjeant to Gerralt's lane.

"Try him against someone he does not teach."

Gerralt sent Colin in. His grin had gone by the time Rylas settled his shield.

The household serjeant gave him no broad stroke to turn. Short thrusts pressed Colin towards the hurdle; Rylas caught his shield rim and touched above the knee. Colin backed clear before the return reached his chest. On the next passage he waited, freed his shield and caught Rylas's forearm as the serjeant changed his grip.

Rylas glanced at the place, then raised his sword again. Colin lost the last exchange. He came out breathing hard, with a red mark below one knee and no claim that the hurdle had hindered him.

"Again tomorrow?" he asked.

"After Gerralt has finished with you," Rylas said.

Gerralt took Colin's wooden sword and tried a nick with his thumb. "He has two lads to bring along before he goes hunting better opponents." He kept him to hear Rylas explain the final opening while Jon watched beside Arthur.

"He is quick enough for the household," he said.

"With a sword," Arthur answered. "Gawen would want to see more of him on a horse."

"Have him ride with the spare mounts twice a week. Gerralt can release him after the morning drill."

Gerralt came over when Jon beckoned. The centurion of the Fifth Sword-and-Shield Century listened to the order, then looked back at Colin.

"He has a place to earn here too, my lord."

Jon understood his reluctance. Gerralt had helped make Colin one of his best swordsmen and had begun trusting him to teach the younger lads. He meant to keep him in his own ranks, not lose him to the household just as that work was bearing fruit.

"I know," Jon said. "His century comes first while he serves in it. I want to know what else he can do."

Gerralt inclined his head. At the rail Colin was settling a borrowed shield on the younger man's arm, showing him where the strap had twisted. His centurion watched until it lay flat.

Matches continued between ordinary drills. Second beat Fourth and lost to Sixth. Third held Fifth to a draw, then lost the rematch. Men stopped before the board on their way to breakfast and counted with a fingertip.

During Second's bout against Third, a bearded recruit struck again after Martyn's halt. His opponent had lowered his shield and stepped outside the cord. The wooden blade caught him above the eye. Martyn seized the recruit's wrist; Hewyn pulled him clear before he could swing again.

Jon stopped the next pair at the lane. "Ten strokes for striking after the halt. At morning muster."

Lorren took the injured man inside while two veterans held the recruit and Jon dismissed the other tens. Before supper Jon found the cut stitched. The eye was unharmed, but the man's head ached; Lorren kept him overnight.

At morning muster Hewyn counted ten strokes at the oak block. Jon ordered the recruit released to Lorren and kept on light duties until his back healed.

The games resumed that afternoon. The injured spearman watched with his head bandaged; Lorren kept him from weapons for a sennight. He returned with the swelling gone and the cut closing cleanly.

When each century had met the other five, First and Fifth alone had four wins. Jon ordered a last bout between them. Malcolm sent a ten that had watched its comrades lose from the rail. This time the front pair waited at the bend. Their shields entered the square together; when Fifth drove against them, the men behind took the weight without crowding the turn.

The last horn found First holding the ground.

Malcolm handed the chalk to the decanus who had led the winning ten. The man added a fifth stroke beside the numeral I on the tally board, recording another victory for the First Spear Century. First now had five wins to Fifth's four. The waiting spearmen roared; they had won the moon's contests and the supper that went with them.

Gerralt, centurion of the Fifth Sword-and-Shield Century, studied the two tallies before turning to Hewyn.

"When do we wipe those clean and start counting again?"

Elspeth came out to hear what First wanted for supper. Eighty men began answering at once.

Roast pork came down their tables that night, with apples baked beneath it. Jon gave Malcolm the afternoons Hewyn had agreed for their leave, two tens at a time. Across the yard, Fifth's men called that they would see them hungry next moon. First answered by holding up the bones.

 

[aiwonder]

Hey everyone, I appreciate all the bookmarks and likes. I know some of you have been eager to get this story out of the North. Well, I've got news. We're only eight chapters away ( possibly even less as i plan to cut and/or merge chapters), and at my current posting pace, that's about three days.

Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me on this journey. I hope you've enjoyed the slow build, because it's been key to Jon's future plans. He won't be staying put on Dragonstone the way he has in the North. I gave him a naval background in his past life for a reason.

Jon will sail!

P.S. If you have any ideas for Dragonstone or Essos that could make this fic better, drop them below. I'm always eager to hear suggestions from anyone willing to help.

 

[LuckyRobert]

He's going to need a lot of people to develop his lands. Maybe he can swing down to king's landing to get a letter of marque from Robert to raid some slave ships.

 

[aiwonder]

Jon met the first of the boys on the road below the tower.

A man was leading a lame cart horse uphill while his son pushed at the tailboard. A smaller boy followed with two bundles hung from a stick. Jon drew Bucephalus aside and pointed towards the byre.

"Leave the cart there. The road is steeper beyond the turn."

The man took off his cap. His eyes went from the black horse to Arthur, then back to Jon.

"We have come about the places, my lord. My eldest. And my sister's boy."

"Tomas is waiting at the yard. Tell him where you have left your things."

The boy pushing the cart straightened. Mortar whitened the creases of his hands; he had his father's broad shoulders and an anxious frown. His cousin was all wrists and ankles. Both watched Jon ride past, then looked towards Arthur as though the knight might confirm that they had spoken to the right lord.

The call for twenty-five household boys, aged twelve to fourteen, had gone out a sennight earlier. Bundles now filled the gate's shade. A mother was cutting bread for her son, each slice thinner as she neared the end of the loaf. Beyond her, applicants craned to see the black-armoured riders crossing the upper yard.

"Seventy-three," Tomas told Jon. "More have been coming since breakfast."

"Have them fed while they wait. We begin with the first group."

Jon dismounted and went among them. The mason's son arrived before Arthur had brought the practice swords. Ellard was thirteen; his cousin Tevan was twelve and had spent much of his childhood among the horses at the stable where his mother washed. Andren, a narrow-faced fourteen-year-old with large ears, knew pack ponies and stripping willow bark. He had brought no weapon.

"Arthur will show you where to stand," Jon told them. "Listen when he corrects you. I want to see whether you can learn."

Ellard planted himself as though bracing a stone. Gage stepped around him and touched his shoulder three times before the boy moved his feet. On their next passage Ellard turned sooner. He still lost, but Jon called him back for the afternoon.

Tevan needed a smaller shield. Olyver fetched one while a lad at the rail sniggered. Tomas looked towards him, and the laughter stopped. Andren watched Arthur so closely that he missed his partner's first stroke; his ears reddened, but he kept his shield up when they began again.

Farther along, Bram squeezed his eyes shut whenever a blade approached. He was thirteen, earnest and terrified of the very work he had walked here to seek. Jon watched him endure another bout before asking what his father did.

"Mends carts, my lord."

"Have you helped him?"

"Aye." Bram wiped his nose upon his sleeve. "I can try again."

"Rest first."

There were boys Jon dismissed without another hearing. One struck his partner across the mouth after Arthur called them apart. Another was caught tormenting a smaller applicant behind the stable. Gawen regretted losing the second, who had good hands and sat a horse well.

"He can learn elsewhere," Jon said. "I shall have to sleep with these men outside my door."

Gawen looked back at the boy, then crossed his name from the roll.

The choosing lasted six days. More than a hundred came before them. At the horses, Tevan recovered the confidence he had lost behind the shield. Gawen sent him round upon an old brown mare with one stirrup crossed over the saddle. He found his balance and brought her back grinning.

"You have done that before."

"The leather broke, ser. At the stable."

"Often?"

"Twice."

Ellard held his reins so tightly that his gelding backed towards the gate. Jon rode beside him until his hands eased. On the uphill run Andren passed boys who had outpaced him upon the flat, keeping the same short stride while their breath failed. Afterwards Ellard took three shields from Tevan without being asked. A quicker swordsman sat upon the trough and left his partner to finish carrying.

Jon kept those things beside his notes on their swordwork. He had already lived long enough to distrust a man who became helpless whenever the work ceased to interest him.

On the sixth evening he chose his twenty-five.

They knelt before the tower with the old household standing along the yard. Parents waited beyond the mounting rail. Andren's little brother had fallen asleep against their mother's skirt; Ellard's father held his cap against his chest.

"I swear my sword and my service to Jon of House Black," Andren said. His voice shook upon the name. "I will keep faith with him, guard his person and obey those he sets over me."

Jon held his hands until he looked up.

"I take your service. You shall have your place, your keep and the wages promised to you. Rise, Andren."

The others followed. Tomas brought the roll with twenty-five new names beneath the twenty-five Jon knew. Abel paid each recruit two silver stags for his first sennight, twice the ordinary foot's pay. Andren closed both hands around the coins before remembering to thank him.

At the meal Mairi measured Ellard's shoulders twice.

"He will eat enough for two," Tevan murmured.

"Then let him have your bowl."

Tevan drew it closer. Mairi laughed and went to the next boy.

Andren ate half his bread and slipped the remainder inside his coat. Olyver saw.

"For tomorrow?"

"My brother."

"Bring him over. There is more in the kitchen."

The little boy woke crossly, but a bowl of mutton and barley settled him between the new guards. Their mother stood behind the bench until Wylla found her a seat. Jon watched Andren put the hidden bread beside his brother's bowl, then turned to answer a father's question about sailing.

That night the boys carried their bundles to the waiting beds. Tevan sat as though expecting to be moved. Ellard hung his father's coat upon a peg. When Jon entered, Andren sprang up and the others followed.

"At ease. You will be up early enough."

At the door he heard Tevan ask Olyver whether they would receive steel swords in the morning.

"You will receive porridge."

"After that?"

"Ash swords. Steel when Ser Arthur says you are ready."

* * *
​

On the morning after the oaths, Bram waited beside his father's cart while the chosen boys went to drill.

His bundle lay at his feet. He watched Tevan pass in the coat Mairi had pinned for alteration, then looked away. Torr stood with him, a wheelwright's helper a year older and no happier about the journey home.

Jon called them before their fathers had harnessed the horses. Six other unsuccessful applicants joined them beneath the stores roof. All had worked hard and obeyed; none had shown enough with horse or weapons to earn a household place.

"Master Otho needs help," Jon told them. "So do Abel and Lorren. I make no promise until they have seen you work."

Bram's father put the harness down.

A small timber frame stood loose upon the bench. Jon pushed it sideways and asked Bram to brace it. The boy tried a crossbar first. The frame still leaned. His father stirred, about to speak, but Bram reached for a diagonal offcut and held it across the corners.

"Like the cart," he said.

"Show me where you would fasten it."

Otho came nearer as Bram pointed. Beside them Torr turned two pegs over and rejected one whose grain ran across the head. Emrick split it with a light blow, exposing the weakness Torr had seen.

Abel's test cost less timber. He set thirty copper pennies beside a firewood bill and asked payment for six bundles at four pennies each. Perrin made six heaps, counted the remainder and looked up.

"Six back, my lord."

Perrin could reckon readily but knew little beyond tally strokes. Halren, twelve, read the bill and copied a cramped line, checking it himself to restore a word he had missed. Abel took both names.

Lorren had a carter waiting for his forearm to be dressed. Denner brought the basin without splashing the man's boots. He had been too slight to hold his shield against the household, but now he watched the carter's face rather than the wound.

Willen, a washerwoman's son with an old burn beside his thumb, kept the clean linen off the bench. When the carter complained that the binding pulled, he stopped and looked to Lorren.

"Hold it there." Lorren felt beneath the turn and guided his hand. "Less tightly."

The man flexed his fingers. Willen watched until the healer nodded.

"I can use these two," Lorren told Jon. "They will need teaching from the beginning."

"Then begin there. They learn their letters with the others." Jon looked at the boys. "You ask before touching a wound or giving anyone physic. Master Lorren decides what you are ready to do."

Both answered. The remaining two had found neither the sums nor the work to their liking. Jon gave them food for the road and their answer before their families lost another day waiting.

Bram and Torr would learn building from Otho, moving parts from Henly and Emrick. Abel took Perrin and Halren; Willen and Denner went with Lorren. That evening the six knelt to swear, hearing their duties, keep and apprentice wages before Abel entered their names apart from the fighting rolls.

"Should he bring his blanket?" Torr's father asked.

"And his spare shirt," Jon said.

"I washed both, my lord."

Torr studied his boots. Bram was still holding the little drawing Otho had made him copy. His father touched the diagonal line.

"Same as the cart."

"Henly says they use them for bridges too."

The man looked towards Henly, then back at his son. He folded the drawing carefully rather than stuffing it among the boy's things.

Mairi arrived with black wool over her arm. Jon asked Otho to put on the short works coat she had brought, then had him reach across the bench to see whether it pulled.

"Black at the collar," Jon said. "A pair of axes in silver thread upon the sleeve. For all the fabri."

Bram glanced at Otho.

"Craftsmen," Otho told him. "Engineers, here. Men building bridges and engines must be easy to find when someone needs them."

"Henly and Emrick's crews take the same cut, with a silver bolt," Jon added. "Libritors. The men who serve the engines."

Mairi entered the two commanders above the twelve names on their roll. Abel's apprentices would have clerks' coats. Lorren wanted something a frightened soldier could recognise through a crowd.

"White linen upon both upper arms," Jon said. "Broad bands."

"And loose enough to remove for washing," Wylla added. "Blood need not ruin the whole coat."

Lorren agreed. His two would be capsarii, carrying the dressings and learning to tend the injured under their medicus. Jon had Ewan make lighter axes for the engineers' apprentices and properly sheathed long knives for the medical boys.

Bram had spent six days watching swords pass him. Now he stood patiently while Mairi measured his sleeve.

Next morning Jon found him beside a bridge frame, arguing that the crosspiece was too short. Otho checked the drawing. Bram had fetched the piece for the narrower frame standing next to it.

His pleasure vanished.

"Fetch the other," Jon said. "You have found the mistake before we fastened it."

They measured across the corners together, then Torr drove the wedges while Emrick steadied the timber. Bram stepped back to look at what they had assembled.

"I thought I would have to go home, my lord."

"You have work here. Learn it."

Jon went along the timbers with Otho. Behind them, Bram asked Henly how to remove a wedge without splitting its head.

* * *
​

By the end of their first sennight Tomas had divided the household into eight files of six, old guards among the new. He and Alasdair stood apart as captain and deputy. Andren went to Olyver, Tevan to Gage. The four new file leaders came from Jon's first intake.

It made fifty riders, but a slower escort. Boys followed Jon through a gap and left his other side open. Horses crowded at turns. Rylas complained about repeating work he had mastered years ago; Jon heard him through the stable door.

"He will be beside you when we sail. Teach him now."

"Aye, my lord."

Letters cost the new boys more pride than riding. Tevan could settle an uneasy mare, but could not find his own name upon Cadan's page. Andren broke his chalk pressing too hard. Jon sat beside him with another piece and guided his first letter.

"Must we write as well?"

"You may need to send me a message when you cannot bring it yourself."

At the far end Tevan whispered each letter under his breath. Ellard moved his primer nearer so they could compare the two. Olyver waited while Andren tried again, resisting the urge to finish the shape for him.

While the new boys learned to wear armour, Jon was drawing his own. Arthur found him at the chamber table after drill, setting the view of a shoulder beside its separate plates. Below the window, Noll's men were calling the next household file for measurements.

"Noll has seen these?" Arthur asked.

"He helped me change the elbow. This order goes to Tobho Mott."

"You have armourers here."

"And I want to see work they have never learned. Mott was trained in Qohor. He can colour steel without painting it." Jon turned the breastplate towards him. "Black, with the edges bright. I have asked how he would close this gap without hindering the arm."

Arthur reached across his breast, testing the movement against the drawing. Jon remembered the forge where Ice had become two swords. The Blackworks could equip an army; it could not yet match everything one Qohorik knew. He wanted Mott in his service when he went to Valyria. A commission would let him judge the man's work first.

"It will be dear."

"I have asked his price."

Arthur moved the third sheet nearer. They were still discussing the shoulder when Wylla came for them. She saw Jon hide his ink-stained hand against his sleeve.

"That is the good coat."

He checked the black velvet. Its silver buttons had escaped. She took his wrist and cleaned it before allowing him near the drawings again.

Next morning the order went through his factor. Ethan received a request to send sound dragonglass from Dragonstone to Mott's shop. Jon wanted to know whether the armourer could give steel its shifting lustre; he offered to pay for the trials, with no demand that an impossible finish be promised to please him.

Once those drawings were folded, Otho brought a wooden model to the cleared table. Henly had made it from the scorpions he studied at Oldtown. Emrick knew similar engines from Gulltown, where his father's customers had included the men tending the weapons upon the walls.

Westeros already knew how to throw a heavy bolt. He wanted an engine that could travel with his men and be brought into use without consuming half a day.

Otho bent behind the model. Its middle upright hid much of the window beyond it.

"You cannot see what you are aiming at."

"That is why I have taken it out of mine." Jon put another drawing beside it.

"An open frame." Otho followed the curve with his finger. "Iron across here, then."

"We can make it now."

Bram and Torr had been copying tool names at the table's end. Both had stopped. Jon beckoned them nearer and held the model while Otho traced where the force would pass into the stand.

"A bow is easier to carry," Torr said.

"Much easier. This needs a wagon, tools and men who know it. It must earn all of them."

In his former life Jon had drawn Roman engines for pleasure. Here he would have to pay for every failed piece and feed the men hauling it. He wanted a clear view along the bolt, a mounting that could turn without dragging the whole stand round, and fittings his smiths could replace away from home.

Otho looked towards the carriage sketched beneath it.

"You mean to take it south."

"Two, if the first proves worth taking. We have another year here after this one." Jon drew a stool beside him. "What will trouble you most upon the road?"

"Getting it off the wagon in mud. Then finding where to put it."

"Begin there."

Woods, the carpenter, entered to fetch his apprentices and stopped behind Otho. After a moment he pointed to one joint.

"Which timber have you allowed for that?"

"The seasoned stack."

"Come and see it before you settle the drawing, my lord. You cannot put the grain wherever the ink goes."

Jon gathered the papers. Bram and Torr carried the model after them, trying to keep its little arms clear of the door. Below, the household was beginning another mounted turn. Tevan looked towards the model and let his mare drift towards Ellard's gelding. Gage called him back into place.

Henly laid the model upon a timber between the boys. Bram held it down against the breeze while Torr fetched the measuring cord. The next drawing was made with Woods beside them and the chosen wood beneath Jon's hand.

* * *
​

Mairi delivered the coats in the fourth sennight after measuring. By then the first engine lay in pieces across three benches, and Bram left his tools lying there when he saw the clothing basket.

He stood beneath the stores roof fingering the crossed axes upon his sleeve. Torr pretended to examine his own hem, but kept looking at the badge. Around them Otho's older craftsmen tried the same short black coats, their collars left entirely plain. Henly wanted a shoulder seam let out. Emrick reached for a heavy piece and found he could move comfortably enough to keep his on.

"Hang it up before you go beneath the frame," Henly told Bram. "You have spent a moon waiting for it."

The boy took it off reluctantly. His new axe had a lighter head and shorter haft than Otho's, but it still caught the bench when he turned. Henly showed him where to put it down.

At the infirmary door Wylla fastened broad white bands about Willen's upper arms. Lorren watched, then sent him inside to fetch a dressing. Denner remained holding his knife sheath against his thigh as though it might wander away.

A spearman approached with one swollen finger held stiffly before him. He saw the white linen and stopped beside Denner.

"Is the healer here?"

"Inside. I'll take you."

The boy forgot his knife at once. Jon followed far enough to see him bring a basin when Lorren asked for it. Willen kept the new dressing clear of the table while the old one came away.

Aries watched from the step, an empty clothing basket against his hip.

"Should I have white bands?"

"You are Lord Jon's page," Wylla told him. "Those tell an injured man whom to call."

Aries watched Denner set his basin beside the stool. Then Patch nosed towards a bowl beneath the bench, and he drew the dog away with a hand upon its neck.

"Come on. That isn't yours."

Jon left them with Mairi and crossed to the forge. After drill he worked beside Ewan whenever the armour orders permitted it. Woods's men shaped the engine timbers; Henly bought prepared spring bundles through Osric from a maker of ordinary scorpions. Emrick's six kept examining the travelling catapult, bringing each worn part to Otho with the man who had found it.

At the powered boring bench, Bram leaned towards the turning tool until Otho caught his coat.

"You can see from here."

A bright curl of metal fell. Jon stopped the tool, changed the blank in its holding frame and checked the next opening against Otho's gauge. Bram watched the second fitting take the same place as the first.

Ewan rubbed his beard. "I could use that frame for the mill fittings."

"With a different face," Jon said. "Draw it."

Otho reached for the charcoal. Ewan took it first.

"I know what the mill asks for."

He sat, his broad fingers nearly hiding the charcoal. Otho bent beside him to put the measurements in order. Jon left them arguing amiably over the drawing and went to see what Woods had changed beneath the engine bed.

A knot lay beside the place where Jon had meant to cut the joint. Woods had lengthened its bearing into sound timber.

"There was enough wood," the carpenter said. "There wasn't enough good wood."

Jon traced the altered joint. It would take the strain without making the frame too heavy for the men. He crawled out, changed his drawing and told Woods to keep the shape for the second engine.

Bram was grinning at him.

"What?"

"Your hair, my lord."

Woods offered a brush. Jon had collected half the shavings beneath the bench in his white forelock.

When the engine stood assembled, Otho walked around it twice. The dark iron frame left the middle open. From behind it, Jon could see the far doors without leaning sideways. He turned the mounting and beckoned Henly to try.

Henly moved it, crouched at the bearing, then stood again.

"What shall I put in the stores book? They are calling it the open scorpion."

"Ballista."

Bram repeated the word as he wrote it, squeezing the last letter into the space left upon his slate.

For the first shooting Jon chose a hollow beyond the practice ground, with an earthen bank behind the targets and no crofts or grazing animals beyond. Household guards held the paths. Henly's six worked at the engine while Emrick's crew watched; Bram and Torr laid out the trial book where the wind would not turn its leaves.

Jon checked the ground with Otho before taking his place. The separate assemblies had passed their tests in the shed.

At his command the release cracked through the hollow.

The bolt vanished too quickly to follow. A plank jumped from the distant screen, and something struck the bank behind it. Bram's slate fell from his knee. He stared towards the target without reaching for it.

Once the engine was safe, Jon walked down with Henly and Otho. The bolt had pierced the rain-dark wood. Fresh pale edges showed around the hole.

Ewan came after them, his forge apron still on. He put his fingers against the split plank, then looked back along the distance they had walked.

Jon returned to the engine for a second shot and gave Henly the third. All three reached the screen, but the holes moved farther apart. Henly frowned at the mounting.

"I have kept the same setting."

Jon crouched beside the stand. One foot had settled into softer earth.

"Bring the first drawing, Otho."

They measured what had moved before lifting anything. The ironwork held; the ground beneath it had shifted enough to spoil the aim. Henly stood beside them, rubbing a thumb along his jaw.

"Then the wagon timbers go underneath."

"Try them."

The afternoon went into lifting, packing and shooting again. This time the scars grouped closely enough for Ewan to spread one hand beside them.

"Leave that plank whole when you take it down," he said.

While the crews packed, Otho and Jon knelt over the trial sheet. The supports must travel with the weapon; another wagon merely to carry what kept it steady would be a poor answer. Bram held the paper against the breeze. By the time Arthur brought their cloaks, the boy was pointing to a place upon the carriage where a timber might ride.

* * *
​

Rain kept them under cover for much of the next sennight. Otho read the trial book with Bram and Torr while Hugin shook water over their slates. Wylla rescued Jon's dinner from the crow and made them clear an end of the table for their bowls.

"Henly could have the second frame ready next sennight," Otho said.

"If the armour benches release the iron. We finish what Noll has been promised first."

Whenever the ground allowed, they returned to the hollow. Henly learned what wet weather changed; Emrick found what a journey loosened. The second engine's spare fittings went into place without Ewan's file, though its chest had to be repacked when the most useful pieces proved to be beneath everything else.

Mott's answer arrived while they were doing that. Seventy dragons for the harness and black-finish trials, with no promise about the dragonglass. Fresh measurements must precede the final fitting; the first set would not serve a growing boy.

Jon took the returned drawings to Noll. Mott had lengthened the shoulder overlap and changed the way the upper arm hung. Noll followed the plates with one finger, slowly bending his own arm.

"Seventy dragons for one suit." He read the letter again. "I should like to see it when he is done."

"You shall. Tell me what he has done better."

Jon accepted the price. Thirty-five dragons would go south in earnest, the rest upon delivery and fitting. He asked for the harness before his departure in the fourth year.

That evening he wrote to Ethan about rooms for William's clockmakers. The first workshop drawing allowed one room; William now needed several benches, space for cases and somewhere to teach. Jon copied the changes in the Common Tongue, keeping the English notes inside his black book.

Jon turned back to the pages he had set aside for Dragonstone. Printing would need a steady supply of cheap paper; he had sketched a mill beside the first drawings of a press. Farther on were glass furnaces and stills, with gaps where his memory had failed him. Clear panes and good mirrors would find buyers among the wealthy. A spirit worth drinking might bring the same merchants back year after year. He wanted whole trades established on the island, each with men who could teach others as William was learning to do.

He added a request for Ethan to reserve ground for more workshops. Some of the masters he needed would have to be sought in the ports of the narrow sea, and paid enough to bring their families and apprentices. The clock sales would be sufficient at first. Once they were settled on Dragonstone, he could reach buyers in King's Landing and the eastern ports far more readily than he could from the North. That wider market should pay for the first workshops and give their men time to learn.

Beside his reckoning for a royal household and standing army he wrote Royal monopolies, in English. The works he founded would remain his, run by masters he appointed and could replace. Merchants might buy the right to sell the finished wares; he would keep ownership of the workshops and control of their methods. When he took the throne, he meant to secure those privileges for the Crown. Their profits, after wages, materials and upkeep, would help maintain his fleet and pay men who served throughout the year. He would need far more of both to face what was coming. He had no wish to sell away that income and then find himself asking a great lord or a banker for the money to fight.

Once he would have asked what prevented such a ruler from abusing his power. Believing he would use it well was an uncomfortable answer. He kept that page in the black book.

Time troubled him more. If events followed the books, he would be fourteen when Robert rode north. By then he needed more than workshops beginning to earn their keep. Training soldiers and building ships took years, and both consumed money long before they were of any use. Either he found a way to delay the struggle for the throne, or he would need a fortune well beyond what the clocks could earn in the time left to him.

His thoughts returned to Valyria. Even a small part of the wealth buried in its ruined cities might pay for years of work on Dragonstone. His stomach tightened as he imagined taking a ship full of his people into those waters. The books had given him no safe passage through the Doom; he could lose the ship and every man aboard her. He sat with the quill idle in his hand. He dreaded making that choice, but the voyage might still offer his best chance of being ready.

When he returned to Ethan's letter, he added a secure room for the clock patterns, then checked that William still had the space he had asked for.

Clem sent the letter from the tower. Months of carrying birds between Dragonstone and the North had finally given them a direct exchange; Jon no longer needed every question passed through Winterfell.

When the rain cleared, the household rode beyond the crofts in eight files. Gage had to remind Tevan of his distance, but all fifty returned through the coppice without leaving Jon's flank uncovered. Rylas spent the last stretch speaking quietly to the younger man beside him. Jon could not hear the correction, but the boy's shield moved closer.

Before supper Arthur helped him upon the tower roof with Hugin and Munin. The crows knew the bundle of old wool upon the practice staff, though it held no meat that evening. Jon urged Hugin towards it without leaving his own body. The crow struck; Munin followed, beating her wings against the cloth.

"Both?" Arthur asked.

"Only Hugin. She followed him."

He called them back, his own hands still upon the parapet. Directing every turn would mean going into the bird. An urge was enough for this. Arthur raised the staff again, and Jon brought Hugin away before his claws touched the wool.

After supper the officers gathered over Henly's camp drawing. Jon had borrowed the difficulty from his reading of Caesar at the Sabis: a victorious wing pursuing while the other struggled and the camp lay threatened.

Six black counters represented their six centuries of eighty. Two had pursued across a brook on the left; two fought below the camp's right flank. The last pair waited by its unfinished bank. Malcolm commanded. Hewyn would advise only when asked.

"Rennick, bring the left back across the brook," Malcolm said.

"They are running. Another push might finish them."

"Norren needs help."

Jon moved an enemy counter towards the camp. "Your messenger has not reached Rennick yet."

Malcolm sent one reserve to the Third Spears and kept the other above them. When Jon delayed Rennick further, he drew Norren's wing uphill to join the remaining reserve beside the camp's bank.

"You have given up the slope," Jon said.

"I cannot hold it and help Rennick. He can find us here."

Rennick brought his men back by turns, one century covering the other. Malcolm began moving them behind the enemy, then stopped when Jon asked whether they could see across the ridge.

"To the camp first," he decided. "Rymond can send them where they are needed. He need not wait for me."

The officers disputed the lost ground long after the counters had met again. Jon let them. Across the table, Henly had begun tracing where he would place the engines to cover a withdrawal.

Eight weeks after their first drawings, Arthur found both ballistae being taken apart for a journey over the ridge. Kester wrapped fittings while Emrick's six bound the second engine's timbers. Jon stood among them eating cold bread.

"Your father ought to see them shoot," Arthur said. "Rodrik too. I have served beside wall scorpions, but never crews who could bring a pair out with the baggage and work them like this."

"Ask them for tomorrow. Robb and Theon as well."

Arthur returned from Winterfell that evening with their acceptance and Arya's demand that she be allowed to come. Eddard had written it beneath his own answer. She had added a black thumbprint beside it.

* * *
​

Jon rode over the ridge early. In the dew-bright hollow Otho guided the first wagon to its supports. Bram and Torr carried drawings under oilcloth; the libritors pulled their short black coats clear of the wheels to reach the lashings.

Beyond the plank screen stood three straw-filled wicker figures with round shields, one slanting. White cloths marked the backing bank. Household men held the paths and Hewyn sent a pair to the ridge.

Jon bent beside Henly to sight along the nearer engine. Its support held as the crew turned it. Otho examined the ground, nodded and took his pupils to the second.

Jory appeared on the ridge with two Stark guards. Robb followed, eyes fixed on the engines; Eddard had Arya before him, her brown hair blowing into his beard. Rodrik rode beside Theon, who was splendid in a dark green doublet and boots too clean for the hollow. Four more guards followed.

Arthur guided them down. Jon lifted Arya from the saddle before she slid beneath the pommel; Jory left two men with the horses.

"You came early," Jon told her.

"I was dressed before Sansa." She looked at his tied hair, then at the nearest ballista. "Is that yours?"

"Aye. Come up here with Father. You will see it better."

Arya held two of Jon's fingers up to the rise, where Wylla spread a blanket beside her apples. She sat only when he promised to return. He called Robb and Rodrik back from their questions at the engine.

Kester read Henly the last trial entry. He had needed help with his own terms at the muster; now his finger moved steadily along the line. Emrick raised a hand after his crew answered.

Both engines stood ready.

Jon gave Henly the first shot. The crack was louder than Robb expected; his head jerked round after the bolt had gone. Across the hollow a plank burst backwards from the screen. Splinters scattered against the bank beyond it.

Arya clapped her hands over her ears. "Again!"

Wylla drew her back onto the blanket. Henly's men were already at work. One reached for the next bolt while Kester entered the shot; the others moved about the engine without calling across one another. Jon went to Emrick.

"The shield upon the left."

Emrick bent to look, made his correction and straightened. At his command the second ballista struck. The shield kicked sideways. Its iron boss flashed as it turned, then the whole wicker figure sagged against the frame behind it. A bundle of straw slid down its legs.

Theon lowered the apple he had taken from Wylla's basket.

"Did it go through?" Robb asked.

"We shall look when they have finished," Jon said.

Rodrik watched Merrit at the engine. "The same lads you took after the muster?" Jon nodded. Merrit glanced round at his name; Emrick called him back before he could bow.

At the farther figures Henly's first bolt missed. Kester entered it in the book while Jon spoke to the commander beside the sight. The next tore away the wicker shoulders, drawing a shout from Robb.

"Could they turn upon horsemen?" Eddard asked.

"On open ground, with room to see them coming. Hewyn's spears would keep riders off the crews." Jon watched Emrick's men ready their next bolt. "I would put the engines where men must come towards them: a road, a ford, the approach to a gate. I can move them when I move the army."

"And upon a rough road?" Rodrik asked.

"They have crossed the ridge twice now. Today Otho will take them back by the lower track and examine what the wheels shake loose."

Rodrik rubbed one white whisker between finger and thumb. "I should like to see that too."

Emrick's last shot caught the slanting shield near its rim. It split the edge and glanced into the earth beyond. The shield remained hanging, badly crooked. Theon pointed to it as Jon called the trial to an end.

"That one kept his head."

"Go and see what else he kept," Arthur said.

When Henly and Emrick had finished at the engines, Jon led the visitors down to the targets. Damp grass brushed his boots. Robb went ahead with Theon; Eddard took Arya's hand while Rodrik lingered beside the planked screen.

The first bolt lay buried in the bank beyond the broken boards. At the wicker figures, Robb knelt to look through the hole left in the shield. Theon tried to raise the one that had turned the last shot. It came away from its straps, and he had to catch it against his knee. Two planks hung loose from the boss.

"You may have that one," Jon told him.

Theon looked at the ruined shield, then towards the long slope back to the horses. He set it down carefully. "I shall admire it here."

Eddard examined the torn wicker, then looked back to the engines. Henly's men packed while Merrit showed his crew a loose fastening. Otho checked the support while Bram held the drawing.

As they returned to the engines, Eddard stopped beside Bram.

"You helped build them?"

"Only the work Master Otho gave me, my lord."

Bram showed him the drawing of the first stand and explained why they had changed it. He stumbled over one word, but Lord Stark waited. When Eddard nodded, the boy's fingers strayed to the silver axes upon his sleeve.

Arthur turned a shield splinter in his fingers. "I have spent most of my life learning to reach a man before he strikes me. I would want a great deal of ground between myself and those. And men I trusted beside me when I tried."

"Write down what fails on the road," Rodrik said. "I want that as well as the shooting."

"Otho will bring you the book." Jon turned as Arya began hauling at her father's hand with both of hers. Wylla had folded the blanket.

* * *
​

By the time they reached the tower, Arya had decided she wanted a ballista.

"A small one," she told Jon, holding her hands apart. "For my room."

"What would you shoot?"

"Peas."

Theon laughed behind them. "Do not encourage her," Wylla told him.

"You have a spoon already," Jon said.

Arya considered that. He regretted saying it before they reached the stair.

Wylla had set cold fowl, bread, peas and Winterfell strawberries in the tower room, both shutters open to the breeze. Jory sat by the door; a platter went down to the guards with the horses. Eddard held Arya's sleeves while Wylla scrubbed soot from her knuckles.

Jon found a matching handprint on his coat. He laid it over a chest and caught Wylla looking.

"I shall brush it."

"You shall bring it down." She brushed dust from his white forelock. "Now eat."

Arya climbed beside him. He tucked a strand behind her ear; she shook it free. Across the table Rodrik questioned Arthur while Eddard turned his cup. Robb gave Jon the loaf's end and took the next slice without quarrelling.

Jon felt something touch his knee.

Arya's spoon held a single pea. She had braced it against the edge of the bench. Her thumb was drawing it back.

He took the pea and ate it.

"Jon!"

"Next one as well."

She looked at his mouth, appalled by this defence, then hid the spoon beneath her thigh. Robb had watched the whole thing. He bent over his plate with his shoulders shaking.

Wylla carved Jon more fowl. For a little while they only ate, the wagon going to the engine shed rattling beneath their window.

Arya leaned against Jon, then sat up again.

"Sing the maiden."

"With my mouth full?"

Arya watched his mouth until he swallowed.

"You know it," he said. "Begin."

Arya drew breath and stopped. She knew the hounds. She knew the robber, whom she had made much worse since Sansa last told the story. The beginning escaped her entirely.

Jon wiped his fingers and sang it for her. His voice was still clear and high, carrying easily through the open room.

She came upon the black gate,
With frost upon her nose;
She gave the hounds her oatcake,
And warmed her frozen toes.

Arya joined him upon the last word, much too loudly. Eddard's cup came to rest. Arthur glanced at him; then Arya seized Jon's sleeve because he had reached the robber before she was ready.

"He takes her cloak," Robb reminded her.

"She bites him."

"She needs him to open the gate."

"On his bottom."

Theon put down his cup. Jon tried to continue, lost the tune, and laughed with him. Arya laughed because they were laughing, showing the little teeth she meant the maiden to use.

"Sansa will never let you keep that," Robb said.

"Sansa isn't here."

She scrambled onto her knees to sing her part. It contained no tune that Jon recognised, and more biting than was needed to open any gate. Wylla laughed into the cloth she was folding. At the window, Eddard's stern mouth softened.

Jon caught Arya sliding off the bench and settled her against him. He sang the next verse softly, giving the robber torn breeches and a long run home. Her cheek reached his sleeve before the maiden came back to the gate. She lasted through the hounds; the last oatcake went uneaten.

He shook his head when Wylla rose to take her and shifted his arm beneath the warm weight.

 

[aiwonder]

With Arya asleep upon Wylla's bed after the demonstration, Jon fetched his coat from the chest. Robb followed him down into the yard.

The horses were coming round while Eddard finished with Arthur. Robb took Jon up the bank. Beyond the palisade two women spread hay the rake had missed, and a boy led a laden donkey towards the crofts.

"Will you build all this again on Dragonstone?" Robb asked.

"Some. There is a castle already."

"Will there be a stream for your wheels?"

"I shall have to see what I can use." Jon leaned upon the rail. "I want the harbour enlarged first. There is little sense making more than I can load and send away."

Robb picked at a rough place in the timber.

"Father asked how you would use them, and you knew. Ser Rodrik asked about the men, and you knew that too."

"I had been working on them for eight weeks."

"You know what I mean."

Jon looked at him. Robb's face had reddened beneath his freckles.

"At petitions I sit beside Father. A master starts talking about the land he inherited, and I think I understand. Then Father asks something I never thought of, and the whole thing is different. When he asks me afterwards, I have hardly anything to say."

"What did the man want?"

"An iron mine opened again. Master Merewood had barred the entrance. Wold wanted Father to make him take his men away."

"And Father?"

"Asked what they had agreed before they found the new seam." Robb looked out over the hay. "I thought it was a question of whose land it was. I had not asked about the money Wold had put into it."

"Ask him to let you hear both men before he gives judgment. He may let you ride out with Jory and see the mine for yourself."

"He might let me."

"Ask him."

Robb scraped a curl of wood free with his thumbnail. "I want something of my own to do. Something he needs done."

"Tell him that. He gives me work readily enough."

"You ask for three hundred acres."

"You could begin with the mine."

Robb shoved him. Jon shoved back, and they stood grinning at one another until a groom called up from below. Eddard had come out upon the stair, with Jory behind him and the six Stark guards mounted in the yard.

As they walked down, Robb asked, "Will you show me the clock you are sending to White Harbor?"

"Come tomorrow. You can help put the case on."

"I want to see inside."

"Then come before I put the case on."

Robb caught his arm. "Tomorrow, then. After I speak to Father."

Wylla appeared carrying Arya, who had woken cross and was searching the yard for Jon. He went to her before she could call. She caught his white forelock in her fist and pulled his head close enough to whisper.

"Don't tell Sansa."

"About the robber?"

Arya nodded against Wylla's shoulder.

Jon kissed the soot he had missed beside her ear. "You had better remember which song to sing when you get home."

* * *
​

Next morning Jon took Otho's trial account to Winterfell. Rodrik sent him from the training yard to leave it in the solar, where Robb sat with the Rookscar petition and the masters' agreement beside Eddard.

"Merewood says his ground gives him the right to close the entrance," Robb said. "Wold says he paid for the work under both their lands."

"What does their agreement give each of them?" Eddard asked.

"Half the yield, after the costs are paid." Robb glanced from the petition to the other sheet. "Neither man's complaint mentions that."

"Keep the agreement beside you when they speak." Eddard looked up as Jon approached the desk. Jon laid Otho's leaves clear of the petition.

"For Rodrik. The rough-road trials are in the middle. He asked to see what failed."

Eddard read the dirty-edged account of shifting loads and packed timbers. "This is what I wanted Robb to hear yesterday. The work behind the shooting."

"Henly's men spent longer packing than at the targets." Jon sat beside Robb. "When are you hearing them?"

"This afternoon." Robb put a finger upon the petition. "Tomorrow I am to go with Jory to Rookscar."

"And bring what you find to me," Eddard said. "Jory has separated their men. I want you to hear the villagers as well as the masters. Let them finish before you decide which questions to ask."

Robb put the petition inside his coat while Eddard finished the trial account. They discussed the hollow's rain and a wagon sunk when its driver cut the edge. Jon traced the next march on the map; his father showed him the spring crossing the ford's northern approach.

At the stair Robb stopped him. "You have not put the case on?"

"William knows you are coming."

They rode down with Arthur and Jory. At the Black Yard Robb drew aside for a case carried past a waiting cart. He had expected one clock; three open movements filled the window benches, their parts in separate trays. Olyver showed an apprentice where to smooth a spindle. Another lad turned a wheel while his partner listened for a catch.

William had the White Harbor brothers' clock running within its bare frame. Its oak door lay upon a folded cloth on the next bench, the brass hinge screws in a little wooden bowl.

"I have left the back loose, my lord," he told Jon. "You wanted to see it working before we closed it."

Jon moved aside to let Robb follow the catch as it held and released the wheel.

"It is much quieter than the first one."

"William has better parts to work with now." Jon showed him the finer teeth and the small movement of the bar.

"Why have the brothers bought another?" Robb asked. "The first one works."

"The first stands between their warehouses. They want this one in the hall where they eat."

Robb looked at the oak door. "So their guests can hear it."

"Their neighbours can hear the other one already." Jon lifted the door to show him the opening through which the dial would be seen. "Hold this end."

They helped William and the joiner lower the case over the frame. Robb held the door while Jon fitted the hinges, then opened it for one last look. William had already gone to the next clock and its waiting apprentice.

Jory came to fetch Robb while Jon wiped the oil from his hands.

"We should go, my lord. Your father will be waiting to hear the masters."

Robb glanced once more at the finished clock, then checked that the petition was still inside his coat. Jon walked them to the horses. Robb was still asking Jory which master had brought men to the mine first when they rode out.

* * *
​

Three mornings later, a rider from Winterfell found Jon at breakfast in the Old Watch. Eddard wanted him in the Great Hall for the judgment on the Rookscar dispute. Jon finished his bread while Arthur called for the horses.

Robb met him outside the hall with several folded sheets in his hand. The top one was crowded with writing, with additions squeezed down one margin.

"What did you find at the mine?" Jon asked.

"They took me round the boundary twice. Merewood wanted me to see where his grandfather had cut the entrance. Wold kept bringing me back to the new workings." Robb shifted the papers into his other hand. "Jory made sure I saw the village as well."

"And?"

"Benn, the village elder speaking for Rookscar, took us to the injured carter. The two masters' men had fought a skirmish on the mine road. Two of the armed men were wounded, and an overturned cart had broken the carter's leg. His wife had put his leg up on a bench. He kept asking when the mine would open." Robb looked towards the hall doors. "I could not tell him."

From within came a burst of angry speech, followed by Luwin's quieter voice. Robb smoothed a bent corner of his notes against his palm.

"Father read my account last night. He asked what I would do, but he has not told me what he means to give them."

Jon pushed the door wider and went in beside him.

The tables had been cleared after breakfast, leaving the two masters and the villagers facing the dais. Merewood stood with his hands clasped behind his back; Wold turned as the boys entered. Their voices fell silent. Robb straightened beneath their scrutiny and climbed the steps with his notes held close against his coat.

He moved towards the smaller chair where he usually sat beside his father. Eddard laid a hand upon its back, stopping him. The high seat was empty.

"Father?"

"You have heard both masters and visited the mine with Jory. Sit."

Eddard took the smaller chair beside it. Luwin waited below the dais with two parchments spread upon a table. Jon stood on Robb's other side.

"You too," Eddard told him, indicating a stool. "There are men earning their bread on your land now. You should hear what happens when their masters quarrel."

Robb sat forward, his hands resting upon the carved wolves.

Master Alaric Merewood of Merewood Hall stood below the dais, broad in the chest and grey in the beard, his nose crooked from a badly healed break. A silver heron clasped his green cloak. Master Edwyn Wold of Briarfield wore finer russet wool with three white thorns. His trimmed beard could not disguise his clenched jaw.

Behind them waited Benn, Rookscar's headman, with two miners. Jory had admitted the villagers first and now stood by the hearth. Luwin's parchments flanked the short bar Robb had brought back, beaten from the new seam's first ore.

"My son will hear your dispute," Eddard said. "I shall confirm the judgment."

Merewood bowed. Wold followed, though his eyes lingered on Eddard's chair.

Robb read from his notes.

"The entrance and upper workings lie upon Merewood land. Master Wold paid for the old passages to be cleared and the new work begun. You agreed to share the yield equally after paying the cost."

"The yield of the old workings," Merewood said.

Luwin put a finger upon the longer parchment.

"'All iron reached through the workings at Rookscar.' Those are the words beneath your seal."

"My father's men dug that entrance. The road is mine. So is the timber above it."

"And the new seam runs beneath my side of the ridge," Wold said. "He was content to take half when we were hauling out rubble. Now there is iron worth selling, he discovers that the whole hill belongs to his grandfather."

"You both knew where the boundary lay when you made the agreement," Robb said.

"We did not know what lay beneath it," Merewood answered.

"Neither did I," Wold said. "I paid to find out."

Jon watched Robb find the passage he had marked.

"The agreement does not give either of you a greater share if the mine proves richer than expected."

"And it does not give Master Wold leave to put armed men on my road," Merewood said.

"After you barred the entrance."

"To keep you from stealing what was mine."

Wold stepped towards him, then stopped as Jory left the hearth.

Robb's fingers tightened upon the arm of the chair.

"Your men fought on the mine road," he said. "Father had to send Jory to separate them. A carter's leg was broken, two men were wounded, and the village has had no work for nine days."

"He might mention whose men overturned the cart," Wold said.

"Yours were shooting across the road!"

"Enough." Louder than he intended. Robb steadied his voice. "I saw the cart. I spoke to the man it had fallen on. Neither of you asked after him while you were showing me which stones marked your land."

Benn lowered his eyes; Merewood glanced at him. Robb put his notes aside.

"You should honour the agreement. Half to each, after the work has been paid for. Your armed men will go home, the entrance will be opened, and the village will return to work. You will make good the injuries and damage you have caused."

"There is enough to enrich both your houses. You should not need Father to keep you from fighting over it."

"I will swear to keep the peace, my lord," Merewood said.

"So will I," Wold said, looking nowhere near him.

Eddard waited a moment.

"Jon?"

Jon had been watching Wold's hands. They had relaxed as soon as Robb restored the equal division.

"I agree that neither should take the whole mine," he said. "But I would change the shares."

Merewood turned. "To what?"

"Forty parts in a hundred to Merewood Hall. Forty to Briarfield. Twenty to Winterfell."

Wold's hands stilled. For the first time he looked directly at Jon.

"Winterfell has put no gold into that mine."

"It has already had to send men to it."

"Eight men for a few days."

"They were sent to stop your men fighting," Jon replied. "You both called up armed men against another of Lord Stark's bannermen without his leave. If the mine is returned to you exactly as it was, who keeps it open when you quarrel again?"

"We have offered our oaths," Merewood said.

Robb glanced at the sealed agreement. "You gave your seals before."

Merewood's mouth closed.

"Winterfell should guard the mine," Jon said, "and appoint the man who records its iron, sales and divisions. Neither master chooses him or pays him privately. The guards answer to Father."

"And for this," Wold said, "we surrender a fifth?"

"For that, and for having brought armed men against each other under his peace."

Jon waited. In his first life he had settled disputes over expensive work, with people depending on his decisions. A man controlling a road, machinery or payments could make an agreement worthless. These two used bows instead of letters, but he recognised the wish to obstruct a partner without suffering the greater loss. Merewood had the entrance; Wold, the money.

"And the cost of working the mine?" Eddard asked.

"Paid before the division. Wages, timber, tools, hauling—what keeps it working. The clerk records those too."

"Some costs cannot be foreseen," Wold said.

"Then show him why they are needed."

"I will not have a clerk who has never held a pick telling my men how to dig."

"He can ask the men who have," Jon said, turning towards Benn. "Who oversees the work below?"

Benn glanced at Eddard.

"Answer him," Eddard said.

"My brother, my lord. He worked there before Master Wold had the lower passage cleared. There are six others who know the workings nearly as well."

"Then the clerk will have someone to ask."

Robb turned to Benn. "How long has Rookscar worked the mine?"

"My grandfather took ore from it. His father before him, when there was enough worth digging."

"And these are the same households working it now?"

"Most of them."

"The right to work it should remain with Rookscar," Jon told the masters. Merewood frowned.

"The men are already there."

"For now," Jon said. "What stops either of you sending for other workers when the village asks to be paid what it is owed?"

"If a man will not work for the wage offered, another may," Wold said.

Robb watched Benn twist his cap. "Have you threatened that?"

"I have said I cannot wait upon every man's demands."

"What demands?" Eddard asked.

"The wages agreed before the quarrel, my lord," Benn said quietly. "We have asked for those. And for payment to the men who hauled out the first loads. Some have still had nothing."

Luwin drew a clean sheet towards him. "Give me their names before you leave."

"The working right should be in the new grant," Jon continued. "It belongs to the village of Rookscar, and passes to the households that come after them. Neither house may bring in outsiders to take their places or force them to accept less pay."

"And if they refuse to work?" Wold asked.

"Then hear why," Robb said.

Wold looked towards the high seat.

"You stopped the mine while you argued over your share," Robb said. "They were waiting for money they had already earned."

"Pay them every seventh day," Jon added, "at no less than the agreed rates. Before any of our shares. They must not wait for the masters to settle accounts."

"Our shares?" Eddard asked.

"Winterfell's too, Father."

Eddard held his gaze, then turned to Luwin. "Write that plainly."

"My lord," Merewood said, "I have no wish to injure my own village. But a right granted without an end—"

"Will prevent your heir from having this quarrel with theirs," Jon said. "They will know what work belongs to them. You will know what share belongs to your house. Master Wold will know that you cannot close the entrance upon him, because it will be guarded in Lord Stark's name."

"And he cannot bring bowmen up my road again?"

"No armed retinue from either house at the mine," Robb said, looking to Eddard. "The guard should be Father's alone."

Eddard inclined his head.

Wold considered that for longer than he had considered anything said about the villagers.

"Who holds the keys to the ore store?"

"The man Winterfell appoints," Jon answered. "Both houses may have someone present when the iron is weighed and the accounts are read. So may the village. All three should receive a copy."

"All three?" Merewood repeated.

"The villagers should know what has been set aside for their wages," Robb said.

Benn looked up sharply. Jon felt a brief warmth towards Robb.

Eddard went down to Luwin's table and turned the iron bar in his hand.

"Master Merewood, what did you intend to do if Wold refused to withdraw?"

"Hold the road, my lord," Merewood said, watching the iron.

"With armed men."

"Yes."

"Master Wold?"

"I had paid for work he was preventing."

"That does not answer me."

Wold swallowed. "I meant to open the entrance."

"By force."

"If necessary."

Eddard set the bar down.

"You came close to beginning a war between two houses sworn to me. Over a mine neither of you had thought worth a quarrel a year ago."

Neither answered. At his father's glance, Robb continued.

"The mine will be held under a new grant from Winterfell. Once the workers have been paid and the necessary costs met, two parts in five will go to Merewood Hall, two to Briarfield, and one to Winterfell."

He slowed for Luwin's quill. "Winterfell will guard it and keep the accounts. Neither house may bring armed men or obstruct the work. Rookscar alone holds the working right. Its people receive the agreed wages every seventh day, before the shares."

"Before reopening, the two houses must pay all money owed, the cost of the damaged cart and care for the injured." Robb turned to Eddard. "That is my judgment."

"I confirm it," Eddard said.

Wold drew breath, but Eddard faced him.

"You keep two-fifths of the yield, secure access, accounts you can inspect and no need to hire men against your neighbour. Do you wish to reopen the matter?"

"No, my lord." Wold bowed; Merewood followed.

"You will remain at Winterfell until the grant is ready," Eddard continued. "Jory will carry my orders to your men today. The villagers' wages will be reckoned this afternoon."

Luwin beckoned Benn to the table. Passing the masters, the headman held his cap loose in his hands.

* * *
​

When Jory had taken the masters from the hall, Robb sat back in the high seat.

"I thought they would be ashamed."

"They were," Eddard said.

"Not enough to agree until Jon took a fifth from them."

"They had agreed already," Jon said. "Neither told us what he would do differently at home."

Robb looked towards the doors.

"I would have kept my word."

"I know."

For a little while Robb said nothing. Below the dais, Luwin asked Benn for the name of the injured carter. One of the other villagers leaned over the table to help him count the days for which wages were owed.

"Will twenty parts be enough for the guard and the clerk?" Robb asked.

"For a modest guard, if the mine earns anything like what those two expect," Eddard said. "Luwin will examine the figures. We shall not build a new castle because two masters could not behave themselves."

"And if there is money left?"

"It belongs to Winterfell," Eddard answered.

Jon watched his brother consider the revenue. In his first life he had known how wages and open roads could bind power to a treasury. Robb was beginning to see those connections for himself.

Eddard handed Robb the original agreement.

"Read this beside the new grant when Luwin has finished. You will go with Jory when the mine opens again."

Robb accepted it.

"On the day the men are paid?"

"That would be a good day."

Robb rose and went down to Luwin's table. He waited for Benn to finish speaking, then asked how far the injured carter lived from the village.

 

[aiwonder]

Hennet counted his wages upon the pay table, then bent to sign beside his name. Abel waited for him to sand the fresh ink before calling the next man.

Outside, Lew had washed his hair and was trying to flatten it with both palms.

"Leave it," Murch said. "The wind will mend it."

They had leave until the evening horn. Hennet was eighteen, Murch and Lew nineteen. Their armour hung upon its pegs. Hennet buttoned his clean black coat—the shoulders had needed letting out—with a letter inside and his purse close beneath the belt. Murch's father was buying salt before taking his timber wagon north. Hennet meant to catch him.

Beyond the workshops, new shops filled the lane where Hennet had waited for his trials. Murch led them past three spearmen eating sausages from split rolls. At the corner a cloth seller shook out blue wool, striking Lew across the face.

"There," Murch said. "Your hair is flat."

Lew ducked beneath the wool, laughing. The cloth seller apologised, then recognised their coats and called her daughter out with the new caps. At twenty-two the daughter did most of the selling. Hennet had seen her refuse men credit, but she came round to straighten Murch's collar.

"Your friends bought the brown ones," the older woman told Murch. "These were finished this morning."

"Does your wife mend this?" her daughter asked him, touching the worn edge of his cuff.

"I have no wife."

"Nor a sweetheart to sew for you?"

Murch shook his head. Lew studied the ceiling.

"The sewing rooms pay me better than mending my brothers' shirts," she said. "But I might find time."

A man in a faded green coat had been waiting beside the wool. He put down the cap he held and went outside.

Her mother watched him go. "He has asked after my daughter twice. His father keeps his wages."

"I keep mine," Murch said.

The daughter smiled. "So I hear."

Hennet paid for a grey cap, then felt a fold of undyed wool upon the counter. He bargained for enough to make his mother a warm shawl. While the daughter counted his change, Murch bought a belt next door and had it shortened.

They found Murch's father behind the baker's, tying a salt sack beneath his wagon tilt. He straightened when his son called. Sawdust lay thick in his beard. Murch took the rope from him and pulled the knot tight while Hennet brought out the wool parcel.

"For your mother?" the man asked.

"And this." Hennet gave him the small purse he had tied apart from his spending money, with the letter tucked through its cord.

Murch's father turned the folded sheet. "Who wrote it?"

"I did."

He had begun it twice. In the finished letter he had asked after the barley and described his new armour. At the foot he had written that he was eating well. She still asked whenever anyone came south.

The man looked at the address again, then put the letter and purse deep inside his own coat. "I shall take them to her door."

Hennet thanked him and asked him to eat with them. Murch's father began to refuse, but Murch had already gone beneath the baker's awning to find a bench.

The baker's wife brought pork, onions, four ales and a loaf with its crust still cracking. Lew burned his tongue upon the pork. Murch pushed his cup across without sparing him the laugh. Hennet gave the largest piece of bread to the older man. He could pay for this meal and still hear coins in his purse.

When Murch's father tried to pay, Hennet covered his coins and settled the bill. Murch walked beside the wagon to the turning. His father felt the thickness of the new belt before going to his team.

They went on to the alehouse by the well.

Hennet had eaten beneath its eaves on his first journey, counting the few coppers his mother had given him. This time the keeper moved a stool and called for clean cups. Four black coats hung upon the wall. Their owners made room upon the bench, a veteran from Sixth rubbing the shoulder Brus had worked all morning.

"Shields off, packs on, then back up the slope."

"Malcolm makes us wear both," Hennet said.

"And can you still lift your cup?"

Hennet raised it with them. The keeper brought another loaf, and Murch moved his elbows to let it pass.

"Are you putting your names down for the next reading group?" Hennet asked the two men opposite. Both had come in with the latest intake.

One shook his head. "I've had enough of being told I've done something wrong by supper."

"Nor me," the other said. "My brother can read. I'll send my letters through him."

"You'll need it if you want a stripe," Hennet said. "Or to be made an optio. Lord Jon won't have a centurion's deputy who cannot read an order or write out his men's names."

The second man lowered his cup. His companion looked towards the stripe on Murch's shoulder.

"They begin with your name," Murch said. "Mine took me long enough."

"Who do we ask?"

"Cadan. He'll find you a place."

"Optio," the first man repeated. "Where did Lord Jon even find that name?"

"One of his books, I expect," Murch said.

The veteran from Sixth leaned back to let the keeper set down their jug. "A strange lord. Has peasants taught their letters like lordlings."

"Aye," Murch said, reaching for it. "But he's our strange lord."

The newcomers were asking how long it took to learn. Hennet smiled into his cup. His father had warned him about soldiers coming home with nothing. He wished the man could hear Murch now, who had once needed Malcolm to read his sister's letter.

Lew got to his feet. "Three cheers for Lord Black!"

The first shout brought the keeper round from his casks. By the third, all seven of them were standing, Murch still holding the bread he had been about to eat. The keeper raised a finger for quiet as they sat down again. Hennet was laughing when he noticed the man in green watching from the next table. Six men sat with him. A red-capped carter at the far end raised his cup in a mocking echo, and the others laughed.

Two women from the sewing rooms stopped at their bench on the way to the yard. One had sewn Hennet's coat. She was a widow, scarcely older than Murch, with brown hair pinned beneath a yellow kerchief. She sat beside Hennet and asked whether it was true that Woods would make rooms available to married soldiers.

"You would have to ask him," Hennet said.

"Have you asked him?"

He looked at her, then down at his cup. She had rested her hand beside his upon the table.

Lew hid his mouth in his cup. From the next table a bench scraped back.

The man in faded green stood beside a thickset carpenter. Hennet knew them both: Brus had taken the failed recruit's practice sword amid much shouting. The carpenter had refused Woods's first offer, expecting better work for his own shop. His cousin had taken the place and seldom let him forget it. The carter rose beside them. Their other four companions left their cups upon the table and came nearer.

"Rooms as well," the failed recruit said. "Fine coats, full bellies. Can any of you earn it without a little boy holding your hand?"

Murch lowered his cup. "We are eating. Leave us."

The carpenter looked at the women. "My cousin thinks himself a master now because he makes the same damned box all day. He has a new roof while I wait for work."

"He is paid for making it sound," Hennet said.

"Aye, you would know. A lord's man now." The carpenter leaned across the space between the benches. "When the clocks stop, that little bastard will send you back to the peat."

The woman nearest him stepped away. "Leave them be."

"Perhaps he pays you too."

Lew stood so quickly that his cup tipped. "Mind your mouth."

The man in green shoved him in the chest. Lew struck him across the jaw. Hennet was up before the man hit the bench. The carpenter caught Lew from the side, and Hennet drove his shoulder into him. Cups fell. Murch caught Lew's sleeve and tried to pull him back.

At the other end of the bench, the red-capped carter swung at the veteran from Sixth. The three newer soldiers scrambled up as the carter's companions crowded in. A townsman in a leather apron seized Hennet's coat from behind; another struck Murch full in the mouth. Murch lost his hold on Lew.

Hennet trapped the hand upon his collar, turned beneath the arm and sent the man in the apron over the bench. The carpenter's fist caught him beneath the ribs as he straightened. For a moment he could not breathe. He stumbled against the table, dragging it sideways, and saw his new cap crushed beneath a boot.

The failed recruit came up with a stool in both hands. Murch struck him before he could swing it. The stool hit the fallen bench, one leg breaking beneath the man's weight. He rolled clear with blood running from his nose.

The veteran caught the carter's next swing against his forearm and drove him back against his own table. Beside them a new recruit went down on one knee, holding his assailant's wrist clear of his throat. One of his comrades hauled the townsman off him while the third fought free of a man clutching his hair. There was scarcely room to turn between the tables.

"Stop!" the keeper shouted. "Get back, all of you!"

The veteran pushed the carter away and opened his hands. "Back to the wall. Leave them." He caught the sleeve of the soldier who had gone down and brought him with him. The other two followed, one with a swelling cheek, the other wiping blood from his ear. Their opponents stayed beside the overturned table.

Hennet heard the keeper. Then the carpenter caught his belt and tried to drag him down. Hennet drove him against the bench and struck him. The grip came loose. He struck again, with the ache beneath his ribs sharpening each breath.

"Leave him!" the keeper called. "He's had enough!"

"Enough!" Murch shouted. The man in green rose with the broken stool leg in his hand. Murch drove a fist into him. The wood fell. Murch hit him once more.

Lew had followed the carter towards the door. He caught the man by the collar and drove him against the post, then struck him across the mouth. The keeper shouted for a third time. Someone outside screamed for the guards.

Harwin came through the door with four wolf-badged guards.

"Lord Stark's peace! Stand away from him. All of you."

Hennet let go of the carpenter. Lew released the carter, who sagged against the bloodied doorpost. Murch stood over the man in green, breathing through his split lip, until Harwin laid a staff across his chest and made him step back.

Nobody reached for steel. Hennet put out his hands when the guard took his belt. Across the room the veteran kept the other three soldiers beside him. The keeper pointed them out as the men who had obeyed him, then showed Harwin the broken bench, the stool and the blood upon his doorpost. The carpenter tried to speak over him.

"You will have your turn," Harwin said.

The guards took the seven townsmen's belts and bound their hands. Two guards marched them to the reeve. Harwin left the four soldiers who had stopped with orders to wait where they were. The keeper came with him and the three black coats up the road to the Old Watch. Hennet's wrists were bound before him. People who had made room for his coat earlier came into their doorways to watch it pass.

Lord Jon heard them in the lower hall. A drawing lay rolled beside his chair. Arthur stood behind it; Hewyn waited near the pay table.

"Kneel," Hewyn said. A guard pressed Hennet's shoulder down.

His knees struck the boards. He could see the dusty toes of Lord Jon's boots and the keeper's hand trembling against his own cap.

Harwin gave his account: seven townsmen and seven soldiers, with the three kneeling before Jon still fighting when he arrived.

"The man in green shoved this one," the keeper said, pointing at Lew. "He answered with his fist. Then they were all at it. But those four stood back when I called. These three went on."

A guard had fetched the veteran from Sixth. He admitted striking the carter and pulling his own men clear. Questioned by Jon, he described Murch calling a halt, then striking the man in green after the stool leg fell from his hand.

Jon had listened without touching the drawing. Now he leaned forward, forearms upon his knees, and fixed his eyes upon Murch.

"Murch. You are a decanus."

"Yes, my lord."

"You called the halt and struck again."

Murch bowed his head. "He had the stool leg."

"And when he dropped it?"

"I struck him again, my lord."

Jon looked along the three kneeling men. "You took my coats into Lord Stark's town and made his guards drag you home. An honest man has lost his furniture and his evening's trade."

"They insulted your honour!" Lew burst out. "Called you a little boy bastard, my lord. We could not sit there and hear it."

The hall grew quiet. Lew's voice had risen on the insult; he looked almost hopeful that saying it aloud would settle the matter. Jon rose and came close enough that Lew had to lift his face. When he answered, his voice was lower than Harwin's had been.

"Your loyalty pleases me. But you knew my rules," Jon said. "You heard the keeper call for peace and went on."

"Yes, my lord."

"Six strokes each at morning muster. Murch, ten. You held rank and knew better. Then a sennight upon the latrines. No leave."

Hennet swallowed. Beside him Lew's shoulders sank.

"Abel will have the damage valued," Jon told the keeper. "You will be paid tomorrow. The cost of what these three broke will be taken from their wages."

The keeper bowed so low that his cap brushed the floor.

Jon turned to Harwin. "Tell Lord Stark I have heard them and given sentence. His reeve shall have whatever testimony he requires."

Harwin inclined his head. Hewyn called for the bindings to be removed and sent for Lorren to examine the bruises.

Jon took the rolled drawing from beside his chair and went towards the stairs. At the first step he stopped and looked back.

"At least you won."

He went upstairs before any of them could answer. Arthur followed him.

Hewyn took them to the guardroom. Lew leaned towards Hennet. "Did you hear?"

"I heard ten strokes," Murch said.

At the door the decanus turned sideways to let the other two pass, his split lip dark beneath the dried blood.

At dawn the cohort formed around the square. Hennet took off his coat when his name was called and went to the block. He counted the first strokes in spite of himself, lost the count and waited for Hewyn's voice to finish it. When he was released, Lorren put a hand beneath his arm and led him aside.

Lew followed; Murch went last, standing straight until Hewyn told him to bend. They began their sennight on the latrines with brooms, clean ash and scrubbing brushes. Others emptied the tubs until Lorren allowed them to lift. Lew barely answered men who asked how they had enjoyed their leave. At the far bench Murch worked with his sleeves above his elbows.

Abel showed them the keeper's paid account before taking the first deductions. Hennet read his share twice, then folded the page into his chest beside the next letter for home. The money already upon the northern road was safe.

At the end of the sennight, Lorren examined their backs again. Hennet stood still under his hands and asked when he might wear his harness. He wanted to be among his ten when they went out, instead of watching them march past with a brush in his own hand.

"Another few days," Lorren said. "You will not hurry it by rubbing the skin open."

Hennet nodded. He had already tried his coat that morning and put it away again.

* * *
​

On the following market day, Beth came home from the cobbler's without her shoes.

Eda was hanging candles in the coolest corner of the shop. She looked down from the stool at her daughter's grey stockings, then at the empty hands tucked behind her back.

"Where is the basket?"

"With the shoes."

"And the candles?"

"He took them out. He said to come back when the soles were on." Beth put one foot behind the other. "He wanted both shoes."

Eda climbed down and examined the stockings. "You might have waited."

"There were men sitting everywhere. I kept to the edges."

Eda sent her to the stool with a damp cloth. Three men waited beneath the cobbler's eaves with boots in their hands. She would fetch the shoes when she took the candles to the Black Yard.

The candle-master came down from the loft with an armful of wicks. His newest boy had left to carry boards for Woods a fortnight ago, though the master still spoke of him as if he had stepped out to piss.

"We ought to have had these away," he said. "The lane will be full."

"They are nearly cool."

"They were nearly cool when I went up."

Eda nodded at the shutter he had closed against the glare. He opened it, and a little air moved through the shop. Beth bent over her stockings before he could see her face.

He had bought another mould and rented the salt-fish woman's old room. A second woman helped fill orders now—from the castle, the inn, the shops and the Black Yard, where lamps burned long after supper. Eda no longer waited for a visiting lord's household to bring extra work.

She let Beth cut the candles apart. Her elder girls were still washing wool and sewing for Mairi. Since the turn of the year they had lived above the back of the shop, in two rooms with their own hearth. The girls could dress without stepping over bedding. Eda had bought a chest with a lid that fitted; for the first few nights she woke thinking someone might take it. William still sent money. Some of it stayed in the chest now.

A woman with a baby stopped outside. She had a bundle upon her back as well as the child, and the hem of her gown had worn through in two places.

"Do you know where they take women for the sewing?"

"Ask for Mairi at the Black Yard."

"My husband said there was a house with a broken red shutter. I cannot find it."

"The draper bought it and the one beside it." Eda stepped into the doorway and pointed. "The tall front, there. You go past it."

The husband had come from near Last Hearth the year before. At last he had sent for her and the children. Eda watched two older ones emerge from behind the waiting cart, each with a bundle. Before they were ten paces away a sawyer asked the way to Woods, his blade wrapped in sacking. She sent him uphill.

William came while they were tying the second basket. He carried the money in a little purse and wore a clean apron rolled beneath his arm. There was a black smear upon one cheek.

"Your face," Eda told him.

He rubbed the other cheek. Beth pointed with a candle, then made him bend so she could wipe it away.

The candle-master counted the payment. William had once needed Eda to tell him when to speak to a master. Now he asked for the receipt, checked the change and put both away without looking to her.

"You can take the barrow," she said. "I will help you round the corner."

The brewer's dray forced them into the passage behind the baker's. A fresh foundation narrowed it further. Beyond the trench, a woman shook a quilt from a new window. Eda had watched that frame go up; the house had become somebody's home while she was busy in the candle shop.

The passage smelled of bread, wet mortar and the privy behind the alehouse. More people had not made that part of the town sweeter. A man was digging another pit beyond the fence, with two waiting barrels beside him. William tilted the barrow to keep a wheel clear of the filth along the wall, and Eda held the upper basket steady.

They came out beside Woods's rooms near the store. A little girl watched two men carry a bedframe upstairs, shouting that they were scratching it. Eda knew her mother, who had left a damp lodging across the market for the room above. The former landlord had come to the candle shop looking for someone to take it, speaking more pleasantly than Eda had thought possible.

At the Black Yard the porter came for the first basket. Men were fitting lids to three felt-cushioned clock crates. One bore a merman.

"Another for Lord Manderly?" Eda asked.

"For two brothers in White Harbor. Their first stands between their warehouses. This one is for their hall." William turned the hanging label so the porter could check it. "They have paid for an oak door this time."

Her nephew's work would travel farther than anybody in her family had ever been. From inside, a bell struck twice, paused, then began again. An apprentice counted aloud until a man told him he could hear perfectly well without the help.

"Was that yours?" Eda asked.

"One of ours. A cloth merchant in Gulltown has bought it. The lad cut his first wheel for it. Now he wants everyone to hear."

"Will you show me one before they pack it away?"

"Come on your rest day. I will have a lid left off."

She touched his sleeve before taking the barrow. He was already turning towards a man calling from the bench, but looked back to ask whether Beth wanted to come too.

On the way home Eda bought a brown wool remnant, enough for a cap for Beth and something left for the elder girls. The cobbler's wife asked whether either girl wanted work binding leather edges. Eda promised to ask. They had work now; they could decide.

Beth put her shoes on beside the candle-shop stool and stamped twice to hear the sound. When Eda showed her the wool, she held it against her cheek, then carried it upstairs with both hands.

* * *
​

Colm stopped where the road came out of the alders.

The candle-shop woman and a charcoal carter had both pointed him this way. There was no mistaking the grey tower with its steep new roof and black banner. He had been told to look for a ruin.

Below it stood a fort, a deep ditch and grassy bank enclosing timber walls. Barley moved beside the road. Farther downhill the river turned a broad wheel, and from the roof beside it came the steady striking of a hammer. Colm had heard a forge before. He had never heard one keep that pace.

At Torrhen's Square, the wool carrier had promised a broken tower and a young lord spending coin upon it. Colm had hoped for a season's roofing, perhaps a place in a carpenter's shed after. He shifted the saw upon his shoulder and went up to the gate.

"What do you want?" the soldier asked.

Colm took off his cap. "Work. I'm a sawyer. They told me to ask for Master Woods."

"Straight up, then left at the crossing. Stay clear of the wagons."

Stone gutters flanked a street wide enough for two laden wagons. Men oiled armour beneath the whitewashed barrack eaves. A fellow with one bare foot and a hole in his stocking was polishing a breastplate better than Colm's brother had in Lord Tallhart's service.

At the carpenter's shelter Branoc laid down his plane to inspect the saw.

"You brought a partner?"

"My brother held the other end at home. I am to buy his half if I stay."

"Sensible of him." Branoc held the teeth towards the light. "Who set these?"

"I did."

"Tell Woods that. He may like you better."

Woods listened to the places where Colm had worked, sighted along his blade and handed it back. Beyond the shelter men were fastening lifting ropes to a roof frame.

"Take a rope for now. You will try the sawpit after."

A soldier passed him the end. His black coat lay upon the new wall.

"You build as well?" Colm asked.

"Aye. This end will be ours when it is roofed. I dug half the damned ditch before Woods found out I could use an axe."

"Half?" said a red-haired man beside him.

"My half was harder than yours."

They were laughing when a black horse came from the upper yard. Woods took off his cap. Colm turned with the others and saw a boy dismount beside an older swordsman. The boy's coat was black, well cut across the shoulders, with a plain black collar. A white lock had escaped his tied hair and lay against his cheek.

"My lord," Woods said.

Lord Black studied the drawing, then the wall. "This is the second?"

"Aye, my lord. The first is braced. We can have the other four ready when you return from the exercise."

Jon gave his coat to the swordsman and joined the men at the windlass. Colm had seen barn timbers lifted with every spare shoulder in his village upon the ropes. Here two men turned the handles while the iron teeth clicked steadily beside the drum. He could hear Woods's orders. When the frame's feet settled upon the wall, Jon climbed the ladder to hold a brace while Branoc pegged it.

Colm eased his rope. The lord came down and stood beside Woods while the master examined the second brace. Colm could see the young lord's eyes clearly now. They were purple. He had believed that tale less than the one about the roofless tower.

"The new sawyer, my lord. From Torrhen's Square."

"You have worked roofs before?" Jon asked.

"Barns and a storehouse. Never with a wheel like that."

"You will learn it here." Jon touched the brace. "Woods will show you what must be left for the joiner. We need the next building ready before the new men arrive."

At the pit Harl asked only whether Colm could follow a line. It was cool below, with a close smell of pine. Fine dust sifted over his head at the first stroke. When the length came free, Woods crouched to examine it.

"A little close here. There is room to dress it. Keep the next one true." He straightened. "With Harl at dawn, then."

Colm smoothed the cap he had twisted between his hands. "Thank you, master."

At the clerk's table he listened closely to the wage and the charge for meals, and made the man repeat the second. What remained would let him send something home while buying out his brother's saw. His work that afternoon would be paid at the sennight's end. He accepted the trial.

The work loft had shutters that closed, a straw bed and places for his boots. At supper he found pork in the barley broth without stirring the whole bowl to look for it. Branoc asked whether anybody would follow him.

"My sister might. Her husband died a year ago. She does mending."

"Ask at the sewing rooms. Take her word of a place before you fetch her."

Colm nodded, and later wrapped the saw's teeth before laying it beneath his bed. He would ask the clerk what it cost to send a letter. His brother thought a lord's work might last a moon. With the timber he had seen waiting below, Colm meant to stay and find out.

* * *
​

The western oven smoked whenever the wind came across the yard.

Jon found Nesta outside the bakehouse, eyes streaming above a cloth held to her nose. Ormund stood beneath the open hood, glaring at a hearth which drew perfectly well now that the gust had passed. They had dried the masonry with small fires, raised the heat by degrees and tried both chambers. Nesta had been ready to put in the first bread when the smoke rolled back into her face.

"Put it out," Jon said. "We shall try the outlet higher."

He had drawn the bakehouse between ballista trials and helped Ormund lay its hearths. Four hundred and eighty men had outgrown the cookhouse. Elspeth had made him move the doors so that women carrying dough would not meet barrows of wood; Wylla had asked for covered bins and a place to cool the loaves. Now the roof was sending wind back across one flue. All his care over the work below would not make a baker willing to stand in smoke.

Ormund went up the ladder first. Jon followed with the cord and a strip of cloth, holding it above the roof while they watched the next gust. The mason measured the height they needed. Nesta stood below with her hands on her hips.

"Will that be today, my lord?"

"The eastern oven draws. Use that while we work. Keep the other dough cool."

By the next full baking day, the raised outlet cleared the eddy. Nesta's face stayed free of smoke as Jon helped load the broad, low chamber. In the other oven a fresh fire snapped beneath the brick vault. Her new helper, hired through Elspeth, brought the loaves from their covered boards while the first crusts began to colour.

Gerren had brought flour from the last harvest's rye. Some belonged to Jon as rent. The rest had been bought from the families after they kept their seed and their own food. Beneath the store awning, Perrin weighed the sacks and gave Gerren the last of the agreed silver.

Merra brought onions and a tied bag of turnip seed. "That is our rye going in?"

"With some bought wheat," Elspeth said. "You shall taste it."

In the kitchen, Wylla and Merra stripped greens while Elspeth stirred barley into broth. Hesta brought fresh curds; with the cows fed through the lean weather, the kitchen could buy milk and cheese below the gate. Jon fitted the oven door, then stood back from the heat. He still missed turning a tap for hot water. Here every pail had to be lifted by somebody, and he had carried enough that morning to feel it in his shoulders.

Nesta cut a loaf while steam rose from its grey-brown crumb. She pressed it with one floury finger before sharing it out. Jon tasted rye, a little sourness and the crisp edge of the crust. Gerren took his piece outside to watch the second oven fill.

At dinner the men had barley broth with onions and greens, and curds at every bench. Jon sat beside a spearman who had helped clear the lower drain. The man tasted the bread and called to Gerren's son.

"Your field?"

"The rye beyond the byre."

The soldier tore off another piece. "Better carrying it this way."

His neighbour had been in the same digging gang. He laughed with his mouth full, and Elspeth set the kettle between them before their bowls were empty.

Abel brought the grain account after the meal. Two market loads had come off the week's order; the local purchases cost silver but little carriage. He showed Jon the baker's wage, her helper's, and the wood.

"The building is still against us."

"Keep it there until it has earned it back. I want the true saving."

Beyond the gate another merchant's wagon climbed towards the granary. Four hundred and eighty soldiers ate every day. The twelve families must eat too, and much of the holding was wood, pasture and fodder ground. Jon watched the wagon through.

"Pay the carter. We shall need him again."

When Nesta called that the second bread was out, he lifted the oven door for Elspeth's covered pots. The beans could cook in the remaining heat. She had made him put shelves beside both ovens for that, and would not have the fuel wasted.

* * *
​

In the charter's third year, the last foot century received its full issue of new steel. Two sennights had passed since Hennet's leave. Parallel benches had let one line make helms and breastplates while another fitted lames, collars and limbs; every line still sent its work through the same proof yard.

Lorren had returned Hennet, Lew and Murch to full duty. Hennet eased his harness into place, waited for his neighbour to pull the last strap, then joined his ten. At the gate Murch counted them twice. He would not be missing anyone today.

Three hundred and twenty spearmen stood in four centuries. Every man had a quilted black jack, mail collar, dark steel helm, breast and back, skirt plates, long shield, spear, short sword, and two pila. The front files received the fullest arm defence first. One hundred and sixty sword-and-shield men stood in two centuries with round shields, swords, mail at throat and shoulder, breast and back plates, steel at elbow, forearm, knee, and shin. Centurions and optiones wore fuller mail beneath the plates.

Fifty household riders formed behind them in the darkest steel the Blackworks made. Their articulated harness held close upon horse or foot, mail closing every moving gap. Round shields, swords, and lances carried no sigil. A short sable mantle marked the body more clearly than any painted beast.

Six century flags stood before the tower, plain black squares hanging from their crossbars. Their white numerals ran from I to VI above the spear and shield badges. Men who had needed the meaning explained at their first muster now found their places with scarcely a glance. Above and behind them Finnan raised the great sable standard of House Black, uncharged and unmistakable.

Their boots struck the yard together. The sound echoed beneath the gatehouse.

A Cerwyn guard called the name of a cousin in Second Century. The spearman's jaw tightened, but his eyes stayed upon his centurion. Along the gate, Winterfell guards stopped comparing armour and began watching the ranks.

"First Cohort," Hewyn called.

Six centurions answered in order.

"Armour."

The optiones passed along the rear rank, checking straps and weapons as the six centuries formed. Hewyn brought Jon the strength of the cohort.

"Four hundred and eighty present, my lord."

Jon looked down the waiting line. "Bring them through the gate."

Hewyn turned, and the first century moved.

Eddard waited on horseback beside the gate, grey cloak over white velvet, Jory and the Stark guards behind him. Catelyn had stayed away. Robb and Theon had brought half the Winterfell yard, and more smallfolk lined the road than anyone had invited. Arya watched from the wall with Wylla.

"All four hundred and eighty in your own steel," Eddard said.

"And fifty household."

"And you have drilled them together in this weight?"

"By paired centuries so far. Tomorrow the whole cohort goes across the ridge."

"In all that steel?" Theon asked.

"With its baggage," Jon said. "All six leave the road, build a camp, answer a night alarm, and fight the return. You may watch from the ridge, if you can bear to stay on it."

Theon glanced towards the ridge. "I shall require a comfortable rock."

Robb scarcely heard him. "May I come?"

"If Father agrees. You may watch; you do not borrow a century."

"I would lead it better than Theon."

"A turnip would lead men better than Theon," Arya called from the wall.

Theon bowed. "Then give the turnip a horse."

Eddard's mouth moved before he mastered it. "I shall bring Rodrik. Cerwyn wants to see the camp with his master-at-arms. Bolton's master-at-arms has come to ask about harness; he wishes to watch as well."

"Bring both," Jon said. "Otho has the ground measured. Lorren takes the physic, and the centuries provide their own cooks and carrying parties."

The centurions turned back to their men. Eddard watched four hundred and eighty shields come square without Hewyn raising his staff.

"Tomorrow, then," Eddard said. "Theon may join Rodrik's men for the night attack. Robb stays with me."

At the gate, Finnan lowered the sable standard. Six century flags turned towards the barracks. Cooks weighed grain while the muleteers divided thirty pack beasts among the centuries and laid out their harness.

When Eddard's party had gone, Jon watched the last long shields pass into the armoury. Hewyn waited beside him with the morning's roll.

"We shall need archers alongside them," Jon said. "Pila will serve when the lines close. They cannot answer bowmen on a hillside."

"Are you calling for more men, my lord?"

"Not yet. These six centuries must be ready for Dragonstone. We will come to the bows later." Jon returned the roll and let Hewyn go to the waiting centurions. Heward remained with Tomas to settle the household's place in the column.

Jon stopped at the Blackworks to speak with Noll, then rode to Winterfell. Wylla had kept his place at supper. Bran wanted to know whether the men slept inside their armour, and Robb had questions enough about the camp to keep Jon at the table after the dishes were cleared.

* * *
​

Arthur rode back to the Watch with him. The keep windows were still lit behind them; ahead, the century cooks were banking their fires for an early start. Jon gave Bucephalus to the groom and went upstairs with the camp drawing beneath his arm. His shoulders ached from the harness. Below the window, men carried the last food sacks beneath the wagon tilts; a driver called for someone to hold his lantern steady.

He was loosening his sword belt when Arthur said, "You will need more than these centuries."

"For the exercise?"

"For what you mean to do afterwards."

Jon looked towards the door. It was shut, and Aries was at Winterfell with Wylla for the night. He laid the belt beside the lamp.

"I know."

"Do you mean to raise every man yourself?"

"As many as I can pay and train properly. Men who know their officers. Officers who have spent more than a morning learning to give orders." He spread the drawing upon the table. "This is not the whole army I intend to have."

Arthur drew off his gloves. "Mace Tyrell has a daughter."

Jon stopped smoothing the parchment. Arthur had offered the name evenly, but his eyes stayed on Jon's face.

"I know the bargain."

"Then consider what it brings. Harvests your island cannot match, horses, knights, towns enough to arm them. Men speak of a hundred thousand swords if the great houses of the Reach unite. I would not swear to that number or pretend they all belong to Mace. A smaller host could still decide your war."

"And afterwards? Could I dismiss him without wondering whether my army would go home?" Jon pulled out a stool for Arthur. "My father had their banners. He died while Mace sat outside Storm's End. I will not ask the same man how much of a king he will allow me to be."

Arthur sat. "You will not have a choice free of risk. Your enemies have marriages as well as swords. Robert has the Lannisters at his back, Arryn beside him, and your uncle's friendship. You may despise the Tyrell bargain and still find yourself needing to break that strength apart."

"I mean to break it apart. I do not mean to put Highgarden in its place."

"Refusing to consider her will not make Highgarden harmless."

"No. Nor does it require me to insult her. She has done nothing to me." Jon leaned his forearms upon the table. "I can deal with her father without marrying his ambition. He can sell grain, offer ships or swear when he judges it wise. He will not choose my officers or buy a right to rule in my name."

"The great houses still hold their people's oaths," Arthur said.

"And Robert holds theirs. I need men of my own when I ask them to change sides."

Jon pushed the camp drawing aside and fetched Ethan's harbour plan from the chest. A curl of parchment sprang up at one corner. He set his cup upon it.

"Dragonstone must be ready to withstand a siege. I need the stores filled and the ships sound. The clocks bring coin now; other work will bring more as we enlarge the port. I will bring in craftsmen and train more men. The workshops must keep earning while I am away finding new markets."

"You speak of going east."

"For trade, ships and craftsmen. I cannot let one bad harvest empty my purse." He paused. "And there are two people I should have found already."

Arthur looked towards the lamp. "I know."

"Viserys may call himself king. What happens when he learns about me?"

"I cannot tell you what a boy I last knew before the war will say as a man. Nor what the men feeding him will put into his ear."

"Then we find where he is and whose bread he eats. We do not send him a letter announcing a rival."

Arthur nodded reluctantly. At the mention of the children his mouth had drawn tight; now he rubbed his thumb across a crease in his glove. "I would sooner go myself than send a stranger to them."

"And leave Dawn's place at my shoulder empty just as a rumour reaches court? We need someone who can ask after Ser Willem's household without the whole harbour noticing."

"Ethan has men in the ports. I can give him the names of people Darry knew."

"Privately, when we reach the island. Nothing of my birth on the same page as a price for wool."

Arthur put a finger upon the harbour mouth.

"You must consider what happens if Robert summons you before all this is ready. He has only to send a letter. Refuse it, and every friendship you have made becomes a question for the king."

"I shall need a reason to be useful to him until I am strong enough not to be at his mercy. A prosperous port is not a declaration of war. Neither is a lord keeping a paid guard."

"An army may look different."

"Then I will not pretend an army is a guard. I will grow it as my lands and voyages require, with the cost in my own accounts. I have time to make lawful strength before anyone knows what claim stands behind it."

Arthur rubbed at the old scar beside his thumb. "Ned will not march against Robert merely because you ask."

"I will not ask now."

"And later?"

Jon looked back towards Winterfell. Its highest light showed through the narrow window. Bran had fought sleep through the last of supper, determined to hear how the horses would get inside the camp.

"I would rather he never had to choose with a sword at his throat. I will give him time and a position he can defend. But he will not decide the rest of my life because he loves Robert."

The knight sat quietly after that. Jon returned the harbour plan to the chest. He had studied enough of Rome to know what happened when soldiers could no longer look to their commander for their pay.

"I will hear bargains and take advice," he said. "But I will not win a throne only to be kept upon it."

Arthur stood and picked up his gloves. "Then you must build well enough to bear the price of saying no. It will be dearer than this." He tapped the chest lid.

"I expect it will."

"Good. Tomorrow you still have to get six centuries through a gate without the baggage blocking it."

Jon returned to the camp drawing. Arthur drew his stool alongside him, and together they moved the wagons back from the entrance.

 

[aiwonder]

Before dawn Hennet sat upon his bed chest and pulled dry woollen hose over his heels. He rolled his blanket tightly and tied it to the wooden carrying fork with his food bag and cup. A tug at each knot, and his pack was ready to go over his shoulder. Beside him, another man counted out the tent pegs. The ten men who shared their tent also shared its spades and axes; Hennet took the spade allotted to him and bound it where it would not knock against his leg.

Six wagons waited under their tilts, grain low beside the hand mills and spare ironwork, canvas bundles within reach. The drivers Ralf had trained stood at the team heads, shields behind the seats and swords at their belts. Thirty mules in five strings took the lighter canvas, sectional poles, cooking gear and supplies needed at a halt ahead of the wagons.

Jon walked the line with Hewyn. Each century's baggage carried its own mark. The leaders of the tent parties checked their loads before the muleteers tightened the ropes; a missing kettle was easier to find here than after a day's march.

Hugin travelled along the wagon tilts above them. At the last wagon he leaned down to examine a loose cord, and Jon lifted him onto his forearm before he could pull it free. Munin followed from the gate as the first mules moved.

Tomas had the household ready at the horse line, with fodder and spare tack checked by Ralf's pack handlers.

The seven pages stayed for lessons with Wylla and riding with a groom. Aries had stabled Bracken and brought Patch to see them off. Jon promised to hear his letters on returning, then mounted beside Tomas.

The First Cohort marched around the baggage, one century before, one behind, and four divided along the road. The household rode beyond the column where folds of ground could hide an approach. At midday Jon changed horses, then walked with First Century. Carrying forks rose over dark helms; wrapped pots hung silently beneath. When Hewyn called a rest, the men reached for water before sitting.

Otho's bridge pieces lay upon the last wagon. The two dismantled ballistae travelled with their working parts wrapped and their chests easy to reach. Henly and Emrick kept the libritors beside those wagons to check the lashings. The larger catapult remained at the Old Watch for further work upon its carriage.

Willen and Denner wore white linen bands high on their black sleeves. They would stay with Lorren and the baggage, where dressings, splints, slings and a basin lay in a covered basket beside the roll of blades and needles. Two men from Fifth secured the litter within reach. Lorren had taught them to lift together, supporting a wounded man instead of dragging his arms.

"My spare blanket went with Fifth Century," Mallador complained at the water halt. "I put it down beside the wrong stack."

"Ask them for it when we make camp," his optio said. "They are carrying our salt as well."

"I know which I would rather sleep under." The man beside Mallador laughed and passed him the waterskin.

The road climbed through pine, crossed a stony brook, and opened upon a long sheep field below two low ridges. Otho had inspected it with Jon the previous week. There was dry, gently sloping ground for the tents, a spring for water and a clear view of anyone approaching. A crofter's stone wall enclosed one side. Jon had paid for the field and forage and promised to make good any damage before they left.

Eddard arrived from the east with Robb, Theon, Rodrik Cassel, Medger Cerwyn and thirty Winterfell guards. The Cerwyn and Dreadfort masters-at-arms dismounted on the ridge, keeping the approach clear as the column passed. Eddard drew back his hood to study the field.

Master Edran Venn of Alderbank came up from the lower path with Master Osmer Rusk of Greybeck, two young men and four mounted retainers. Forage carters had told them of the exercise. Neither had seen Jon's whole force away from the Old Watch. Eddard made room upon the ridge. Venn dismounted stiffly, his green coat worn smooth beneath the sword belt; Rusk watched a soldier turn the mule string away from the standing crop. Their sons tethered the horses and joined them, falling quiet at Venn's glance.

Tomas sent his household riders out towards the woods and ridges while the foot halted at the field's edge. Otho had gone ahead at the last rest with Bram and Torr, his two apprentices. Stakes already marked the camp's corners and entrances. Otho sighted along his wooden frame to check that the lanes ran straight and met squarely. He waved Torr a little farther left, then nodded for him to drive in his stake.

Bram stretched a cord from the eastern entrance to the western one. Another crossed it near the middle of the field, marking the two main lanes. Smaller pegs showed where the rows of tents would stand, with room inside the boundary for men to reach the defences. Jon walked the eastern entrance with Otho and checked the space set aside for the wagons. They would unload beside the stores, well clear of the gate.

The leading centurion planted his standard at the centre mark. Each of the six centuries had a place around it, in the same order they used at every camp. Fifth and Sixth would sleep nearest the gates they were to defend. The other four spread out behind their officers, following the pegged lanes. Hennet recognised First's ground before Malcolm pointed to it.

"Packs beside your tent marks," Malcolm's optio called. "Keep the lane clear. Shields and spears together; swords stay on."

Hennet lowered his carrying fork and rolled the ache out of his shoulder. Around him men set their bundles in small heaps, one for each tent, and laid their weapons within reach. A newcomer dropped his blanket across the line of pegs. The optio tapped his boot and pointed him farther in; a mule string was already coming up behind them. The wagons used the other entrance, so neither had to wait for the other to unload.

Hewyn gave each centurion a stretch of the boundary to fortify. The centurions passed the work to their optios, who gathered the leaders of the ten-man parties and pointed out their tasks. Malcolm's deputy sent four parties to dig and carry earth, two to unload the baggage and raise tents, another to fetch water and firewood. The last ten kept their shields and took the first watch beyond the diggers.

"Murch, your men start at that peg," the optio said. "Take the baskets with the spades. Mallador, help with the canvas. You relieve the diggers next."

Medger Cerwyn watched the parties separate. His horse had scarcely begun cropping grass when the first spades broke the turf. No one came to Jon to ask what he should do.

Murch took Hennet and the rest of their ten to the marked boundary. They cut the ditch outside the cord and carried the loose earth to the inside, where other men piled and stamped it into a bank. An attacker would have to climb down into the ditch, then scramble up the bank to reach them. Hennet filled a basket while Lew carried the full one away; when his shoulders tired, they exchanged places.

Along the edge of the field, armed sentries watched the trees. Farther out, Jon could see Tomas's riders passing between the pines. The men with spades could keep their backs to the wood.

Mallador's party fetched canvas and poles from First's mules. Two men held each tent upright while the others pegged down its ropes. Jon stopped to steady a pole as Mallador drove the last peg, then made his way along the row. The optio checked that the ropes left the lane open before sending those men to relieve Murch's party at the ditch. The change spread from one century to the next as their own officers called it; no digging party left until fresh hands arrived.

Hennet came back to a standing tent and pulled his pack beneath the canvas. He laid out his blanket with his helm and weapons beside it. Men returning in darkness would find their gear in the same place as at the Old Watch. Outside, Malcolm showed two recruits how to cut a shallow gutter around the canvas and give the rain somewhere to run before it reached their bedding.

By the spring, Jon marked the place to fill drinking vessels. The horses and mules would be watered farther downstream. Lorren chose ground for the latrines downhill and well away from both the spring and the tents; an optio sent a party with spades to dig them.

The little stream ran out of the field through a hollow in the boundary. Jon crouched beside it. They would have to leave a break in the earth bank to let it pass, wide enough for a man to crawl through.

"Put a barrier across here," he told Bram and Torr. "Leave room for the water."

They drove posts into either side and wove stout branches between them. Water trickled through the gaps. Otho pulled hard at the finished barrier, then made Torr tighten a loose binding before they went on.

By First's tents, two men had dug a cooking hollow clear of the ropes. One lit the fire while the other fetched barley from the century's storekeeper, who levelled the measure before pouring it into his sack. Soon onions and salted meat were in the pot. When Hennet's ten took their next turn at the ditch, they could smell supper beginning to cook.

Venn pointed towards the woods. "Who watches that wood?" he asked Hewyn. "These men have both hands upon a spade."

Hewyn pointed out a rider between two pines, another moving beyond the ridge.

"Tomas's household riders. Their relief goes out before they come in."

Venn stayed to watch the change. Rusk had gone towards the stores, where men with swords at their hips were grinding the next morning's grain.

"Do they bring no lads to do that for them?" he asked Jon.

"Not on the march. Each ten divides its own work."

Rusk watched a man hand over the mill and take his turn carrying water. "I brought four men to mend a boundary ditch last spring. By dinner three had found a reason the fourth should do the digging."

"Did you let them?"

"No. I stood there until they had finished." He looked down the long row of tents, where several parties were working beyond Jon's sight. "You would need a great many hours to do the same here."

"That is why I teach the officers as well." Jon called Malcolm over to show the master how the turns were kept, then went on to Third's unfinished bank.

By the second horn, the separate stretches of ditch had joined around most of the field. Inside it stood the bank made from the earth they had dug out. Men brought sharpened stakes from the wagons and set them along its crest. Only the two guarded entrances remained open. Behind the defences, rows of oat-coloured tents faced lanes wide enough for men to pass with their shields.

Third Century was slower. On a patch of damp ground, the bank had begun to slump back into the ditch. Jon pushed his staff into the crumbling side, then pointed to the narrow foot of the mound.

"Spread it farther in. It needs a wider base."

The centurion's optio drew a party from the digging and sent them to carry earth where Jon had pointed. Others stamped it firm and laid the saved turf over it to hold the loose soil. Jon left Hewyn watching their progress and went towards a shout from the southern line.

Mallador's spade had struck a buried boulder. Four men had cleared its edge, but they could not shift it. Otho knelt beside the exposed stone, then moved the nearest marking peg a pace towards the tents.

"We can dig round it," he said.

Malcolm looked along the cord. "That puts a bend in the ditch."

"A small one," Jon said. "Leave the stone outside the bank. We need the ditch finished before dark."

Mallador moved his spade to the new line. The men beside him followed, cutting a short curve round the boulder, while their optio sent the spare hands to help Third. By the time the cooks called, even the damp stretch had its row of stakes. Jon washed grit from his nails at the trough, his shirt sticking to his back, and carried his coat to Hewyn's fire. He sat on a split log, glad to lift his boots out of the mud. The barley-and-beef stew almost held a spoon upright. Medger Cerwyn sat opposite, mud to his knees after walking the bank with Eddard.

"How often have they done this?" Medger asked. Beyond the fire, men took their places without hunting for dry ground or arguing over a pot.

"Every third moon," Jon said. "The ground changes. This is their first march and camp with the whole cohort in the new steel."

"My men would still be finding somewhere to tether the horses."

"Yours ride farther before they stop." Jon passed him the bread. "I need mine able to work after a day on foot."

Medger tore a piece and looked back towards the bank. His master-at-arms was walking the inner lane with Otho, measuring the tent intervals by his stride. The Dreadfort man sat with the men of First Century. He had begun by asking about the ditch and stayed to eat.

Jon watched the Dreadfort's master-at-arms question a spearman about their training. Roose Bolton would hear about the armour, the camp and how quickly the men obeyed. Jon remembered what Roose had done to Robb in the books. A few years of changed events were no reason to forget it.

Still, he wanted the man watching. Deterrence had mattered in his old world: an enemy who understood the strength facing him might decide the fight was not worth its cost. Let Roose hear what he had seen here. Jon meant to make attacking his people an expensive choice. He would deal with Bolton later, once he had established himself on Dragonstone and had the strength to act.

Robb brought his own bowl, Theon following with a stool borrowed from the nearest tent party. Eddard sat down beside Medger and made room for Robb. A song rose from the western tents. Men farther down the lane took up the refrain before the first singers had finished.

"I know that one," Theon said.

"Then spare them," Robb replied.

Theon gave him a wounded look and sat. Jon laughed. By the spring one of the household riders was hanging wet saddlecloths upon a rope, lifting each corner clear of the earth. Smoke drifted beneath the first stars. In Jon's drawings the lanes had seemed wide; now men edged past fires and stretched legs, carrying bowls back for more.

Lorren joined them after dressing a blister, leaving Willen to put away the linen. As the bowls emptied, Medger told of a stag driven through his kennels. Rodrik, who had been upon the hunt, broke in to describe the scattering hounds.

"What became of the stag?" Eddard asked.

"Got away. We spent the rest of the day gathering hounds."

"And ate after dark," Rodrik said.

Medger offered him the pot.

Before turning in, Jon went round the bank with Tomas. Beyond the stakes, the sentries called softly to the men coming to relieve them. The practice spears and ash swords for the night exercise lay ready beside the men's bedrolls. The voices at his father's fire continued, quieter now.

* * *
​

The alarm came during the deepest watch. Three horn notes broke sleep, followed by a shout from the eastern gate.

Jon came awake with his hand searching for the edge of his bed. Damp canvas brushed his knuckles. He heard running feet, a shield fall, then the horn again. Arthur held the tent flap open while Jon dragged on his helm and buckled his sword belt. Outside, the last embers of the cookfires glowed beneath their ash.

A padded arrow struck a shield with a heavy thump. Men were shouting beyond the eastern ditch, beating wood against wood. Jon could see figures running through the darkness outside the stakes, too many to count. Ser Rodrik had taken thirty Winterfell guards out of camp after midnight. With Theon among them, they had to reach a wagon, the horses or the central standard without being marked by a defender. Heward and the two visiting masters-at-arms would judge the attempt.

"First! To the bank!" Malcolm's voice carried above the noise. An optio caught a man turning towards the wrong entrance and thrust him back towards his own century.

Tent flaps flew open along the lanes. Men ran with their helms unfastened and their jacks hanging loose, shields knocking against their knees. The veterans found their places and called the others in beside them. Fifth was forming across the eastern gate; Sixth's men were still running towards the west. At the horse line Tomas kept his household on foot, sending four of them to Jon while the rest spread out with their shields.

Robb stumbled from Eddard's tent with one boot unlaced. "Where?"

The nearest optio was counting his men. Robb followed the sound of blows towards the east, but his father caught his arm and drew him clear of the running files.

Jon started towards Fifth. Through a gap between the tents he saw movement at the other entrance: a low rush of men, shields held close, coming on without a shout.

"West!"

Rodrik struck before Sixth had closed the opening. His leading guards drove their shields into the first pair, and the men behind shoved with them. One defender lost his footing. The next caught him under the arm, but their shields parted and an attacker forced his way between them. Brus threw himself into the gap. A practice sword cracked against his shield as he roared for the men still running from their tents.

The old knight's white whiskers showed beneath his helm as he leaned into the press. "On! Keep them back!"

Jon ran towards the western lane with Arthur close beside him and his four guards at his flanks. Two of Third's men had already turned from the bank to follow the shouting.

"Hold your ground!" Jon called. "Norren, keep them there!"

The centurion drove them back into place. Beyond their stakes, three attackers were feeling for a way across the bend around the boulder. Mallador saw a shield rise over the stone and brought his practice spear down against it. The men beside him closed the gap. A visiting master-at-arms called the foremost attacker out; the others drew back into the dark.

At the stream, two more had crawled as far as Bram and Torr's barrier. Branches creaked as they pulled at it. A sentry heard them and called for a light. One man tried to wrench a post free, then swore as the lantern found his face. Neither had reached the inside of the bank.

Rodrik's guards were still gaining ground at the western entrance. Theon slipped behind a shield, ducked a thrust and came through with another man at his shoulder. They broke away from the press and ran down the lane towards the wagons.

"Gawen! Across that lane!" Jon pointed between two rows of tents. "Tomas, hold the horses!"

Gawen took the household guards from Jon's side. Arthur stayed with Jon as the four men ran to cut off the attackers. At the animal line a man in a borrowed black cloak was hurrying towards the tethers, calling that he had orders to move the horses. Rylas stepped into his path and demanded the night word. The stranger gave a hurried answer. Rylas drove him back with his shield, and the man went down in the mud with a practice sword against his chest. Behind them a frightened mule pulled its rope taut and kicked at the air.

Theon had seen the four guards coming. He swerved between two tents, a guy rope catching his shin, and stumbled almost to his knees. He recovered without stopping. A wagon stood just beyond the last tent. Jon saw him stretch out his hand towards its tailboard.

Gawen caught his belt from behind.

Theon twisted, still reaching. His fingers fell short of the wood. Gawen hauled him back against his shield and laid the edge of his ash sword across Theon's ribs.

"Dead."

"I was through the gate!" Theon was breathing too hard to make it sound triumphant.

"Aye. Stay where you fell."

The second attacker checked at the sight of the waiting household shields. He tried to turn back, but two guards caught him between them and marked his sleeve. Theon sat down hard in the lane, glaring at the wagon. After a moment he began to laugh.

At the gate, Brus caught a blow on his shield and drove forward with his shoulder. Fresh men closed on either side of him. A second rank braced behind the first, and Sixth began to push Rodrik's guards back towards the ditch. An attacker tried to slip past the end of the line; the last pair turned together and drove him out. Jon watched their feet, waiting for someone to follow too far.

"At the stakes!" Brus shouted. "Hold there!"

The line stopped. Rodrik pulled his men clear, breathing heavily, and looked along the bank for another opening. The eastern shouting had dwindled. Fifth had held its gate, and helmed heads now showed above the full length of the earthwork. He raised his hand to Heward.

The horn sounded the halt.

Jon let out his breath. Around him men were still gripping their weapons, peering into the dark as though the attack might begin again. Heward called for lanterns and the officers' counts. Theon got up slowly and rubbed his side. None of the attackers had reached the wagons, horses or standard.

Brus lowered his shield. One of its straps had torn, and blood showed where the rim had struck his mouth. He spat into the grass and went to the man who had fallen in the first rush. The soldier was sitting with his back against the bank, flexing his ankle. Brus offered his arm and pulled him up carefully. Beside them, two men began arguing over which had knocked down a Winterfell guardsman. The guardsman settled it by pointing to the shorter of the two.

Rodrik came over with his helm beneath his arm. Sweat had flattened his hair against his brow. He looked from the cleared lane to Jon.

"Greyjoy almost had your wagon."

"I saw."

"So did Gawen." Rodrik held out his hand to Brus. "I thought I had you when you went backwards. You made me fight for every step after."

Brus took his hand. Jon waited until Sixth had been dismissed before returning to his tent. Arthur walked beside him. Somewhere ahead, Theon was explaining how close he had come; Gawen's answer was lost beneath the men's laughter.

At breakfast the men were still telling the fight over their bowls. Ralf examined a broken shield strap while Rylas made the younger household guards repeat the night word. Heward heard Brus and his optio describe Rodrik's first rush, then called Gawen over to hear how the attackers had been stopped inside the camp.

Venn and Rusk joined them at breakfast. Their sons ate quickly and made for the horses; Rusk called them back to return their bowls.

Robb brought his bowl to Jon's fire. "Theon says he got through."

"Gawen caught him by the belt."

"He says that was after."

"It generally is, when Theon tells it." Eddard sat down beside them. He had watched the alarm from the central lane, fully armed before Robb found his second boot. Now he looked past Jon towards the men oiling their steel.

"They went where you expected them to go."

"Most of them."

"You kept Third on the bank." Eddard waited until Robb went back for more oats. "Are you satisfied with them?"

Jon watched Brus sit among his men, holding a cold cloth to his swollen lip. "With the men, yes. With how quickly they can arm in the dark, not yet."

"They have given you a good deal already."

"They have. I want to keep them alive."

"So do I." Eddard rested a hand upon his shoulder. "That includes you."

Jon looked at him, then nodded. "I heard you, Father." Eddard stayed while he finished eating. He asked which road they would take home and how Bucephalus had settled among the new horses.

* * *
​

At midmorning the camp became a battlefield.

Old shields hung upon a rail across the northern field. Some were hide over wood. Some carried thin iron facing. One had been built twice as thick for proof. Behind them, straw men wore discarded leather and rejected plate clearly marked with white crosses.

The four spear centuries advanced in two lines. Dark steel caps and breastplates repeated beneath the sun. Long black shields covered them from shoulder to shin. Each front man carried a pilum above the rim; the second ranks held the long spears.

The first drumbeat raised the pila.

Rodrik Cassel stopped speaking.

The second beat cast them.

A hundred and sixty heavy shafts crossed the short distance. Iron struck hide, wood and earth in a broken roar. Some points passed through the targets. Others lodged, pulling shields crooked beneath their weight. One hit the reinforced shield and fell short of the rail.

"Intervals!" Malcolm called.

The leading files separated. Men passed rearward without turning their backs. Fresh long shields closed. Spears came level above them in four dark rows.

"That is new," Rodrik said.

"The cast?" Medger asked.

"The relief. Levies press tired men forward because no one trusts the gap."

Rodrik tugged his whiskers. "I taught him to hold a wooden sword."

When Jon came down for his horse, Rodrik caught his arm, smiling beneath the white hair.

"You have made soldiers of them, my lord."

Jon returned his grip before joining Tomas. Rodrik watched the last shields pass.

Martyn brought the two sword-and-shield centuries from the eastern gate. They entered the narrow lanes in four-man fronts, round shields touching, swords working beneath and around the rims. Ash staves beat down upon them from platforms. The men did not chase the strikers. They cleared one turn, closed, and made room for the century behind.

Robb watched a man above the lane beat at the passing shields. "Can they go up after him?"

"Their orders are to reach the gate," Martyn said. "Watch the rear pair."

Two shields turned towards the platform while the men ahead cleared the bend. The pair followed, covering one another until the last swordsman was through.

The household waited beyond the western ridge. No steel showed until Finnan's sable standard rose above the crest. Then fifty dark riders came over in two ranks.

Their armour caught no bright colour. Articulated plate moved at shoulder and knee. Mail filled the gaps. Round black shields rode high upon the left. Tomas held the centre with Finnan one horse behind; Alasdair measured the outer files. Arthur and Gawen rode apart from the body, instructors and judges rather than two more captains.

Jon lowered his visor.

Bucephalus gathered beneath him as they came clear of the ridge. Jon checked the distance between the files and settled his lance while Tomas lifted the horn.

One note.

The household advanced at a walk. Two brought trot. The plain black flag strained behind Finnan. At the third, Jon drove through the opening between the files.

Hooves struck hard ground. The outer household files opened to give his horse room, followed his passage, and closed behind the sable standard as a moving guard, shields angled outward and lances forward. The nearest men watched Jon; the next watched what approached him.

Gawen led the thirty Winterfell guards, armed with padded lances, against the flank. Jorren's file turned without taking Jon from the centre. Rylas struck the first attack aside. Alasdair refused the second rider's bait and kept his outside file upon the banner. Arthur entered late from the opposite slope. Tomas saw Dawn's pale scabbard, ordered one file to receive him, and continued the charge.

The household crossed the line with forty-seven riders still around Jon. Rodrik's judges had called three men out; they drew aside and waited for the horn.

Tomas's horn sounded halt.

Every rider shortened his reins.

Bucephalus fought the rein. Jon let him take two hard strides, turned him within the guard, and returned behind the standard. The three marked riders rejoined at the reset, and all fifty formed before the last horse stilled.

Medger Cerwyn looked from the riders to the foot waiting behind the bank. "How many men could this cohort and your household hold off?"

"On that ground? A good many," Rodrik said. "And the horses would punish anyone who tried to go around them."

Medger followed the approaches from the spear points to the ridge where the horses had waited. He had stepped over the ditch that morning. Now his mouth tightened as he looked back at the riders, steam pale above their black shields.

"I thought well of them when I saw the armour," he told Eddard. "I had not understood what he meant to do with them."

Eddard's eyes stayed upon Jon beneath the uncharged banner. The boy had pushed up his visor to speak with Tomas. He was flushed from the charge, the pale lock damp against his cheek; one gauntlet lay across his saddle while he worked the ache from his fingers. Then he drew it on again and turned towards the foot.

Robb called down to ask whether there would be another charge. Medger stepped back from the ridge to give the judges a clear view, and remained standing through the next exercise.

At the final joined drill, the household feigned an attack on the spear hedge. The long shields closed. Horses turned before the points; the sword centuries came through the gates to take the flank. Jon sounded the halt. Two spear files followed the retiring riders beyond their mark before their optio called them back.

Jon showed their centurion the gap. The next file had turned to cover it, exposing its own flank.

"Work those two with the horn while the rest eat. Then we repeat the withdrawal."

By sunset the last rank was inside the stakes before the horn ended.

After the drill, Jon waited with Arthur while Ralf checked beneath Bucephalus's saddlecloth. Venn and Rusk came down from the ridge, their sons close behind.

The dark-haired boy caught his father's sleeve. Jon heard the low "Now, Father," before Rusk freed the cloth and beckoned both boys forward. The taller one nudged his companion for speaking loudly enough to be heard.

"They have been asking since the first charge," Rusk said. "I told them to wait until you had finished with your men."

Venn put a hand upon the taller boy's shoulder. "Murdo, my third son. The other is Davie Rusk. Osmer's second. They have been in and out of one another's halls since they were small enough to ride upon the same pony."

"Not willingly," Davie said. "He always put me behind."

"You pulled the reins."

Rusk cleared his throat. Both boys bowed properly. Murdo was eighteen, broad through the chest, with a nose which had healed a little crooked. Davie was a year younger, leaner and dark-haired. Both wore well-kept swords, with smooth hollows in the grip leather where their thumbs rested.

"They wish to enter your household," Venn said. "They have asked us to speak for them."

"Together?" Jon asked.

"We should like to, my lord," Murdo said. "We have trained together most days. My father's men in one yard, Master Rusk's in the other."

"Since they were six and seven," Rusk said. "There are a few shields in my hall which show it."

Jon glanced at the two sword belts. "Whose men teach you now?"

Murdo named his father's oldest sworn sword and described the work without boasting of his victories. Davie added that Master Venn still took them himself when the weather kept the horses indoors. Venn said he had found the space rather smaller as the boys grew.

"What would you leave at home?" Jon asked.

"My eldest brother will have Alderbank," Murdo said. "The next helps Father keep the men. There is a place at their table for me, but little work that one of them does not do already."

"And Greybeck?"

"My brother is wed, my lord. He has a son of his own." Davie looked briefly towards his father. "I could remain with them. I would rather find service while I am young enough to rise in it."

Rusk did not rebuke him. Venn took his hand from Murdo's shoulder.

"Neither is being sent away hungry," he said. "But I cannot divide Alderbank three ways and leave any of them enough to keep it. They have chosen to ask here."

"Because I have coin?" Jon asked the boys.

"Your men are paid," Murdo said. "Everyone knows it. I also saw them stop when you called, though they could have ridden those spearmen down. I should like to learn to ride with them."

Davie had been looking at Tomas. "Your captain began with no land either. He commands men older than himself."

"He earned his command," Jon said.

"I would ask for a place to earn mine, my lord. Not his."

Arthur drew two ash swords from the rack beside him. He examined their edges before offering them to the boys. "Have a few passes while Lord Jon speaks to your fathers. Olyver, a pair of sound shields."

The boys looked to their fathers. Venn nodded, and they set their sword belts beside the post. Olyver brought the shields and called Keir over. A few of the household stayed to watch.

Murdo met Olyver's blow without giving his arm away. His return drove the serjeant back a step, but on the next exchange Olyver caught him beneath the shoulder. Murdo touched the place and reset his feet instead of disputing it.

Davie yielded ground to Keir, turned a cut over his shield and struck the nearer wrist. Keir shook his hand and came on more carefully. Arthur changed their opponents, then had the visitors face each other. Murdo's mouth twitched when Davie refused a familiar feint; he changed the stroke and caught his friend's shield instead of the arm behind it.

"They have had good teaching," Arthur said to Venn. "Whoever works them is not letting them choose only the bouts they win."

"I have sons enough to prevent that," Venn answered. He had watched the shields rather than the swords. "They will want harder work after today."

At Arthur's halt both boys stopped. Davie returned his shield while Murdo freed a strap from his sleeve.

"I have fifty household guards," Jon told them. "I am not increasing the number. You have seen the foot and the men still learning their work. I mean to finish what I have begun before taking on more."

Murdo's face fell. Davie looked towards his father, but Rusk waited for him to answer.

"May we ask again if a place opens, my lord?" Davie said.

"You may. Keep working at your weapons and your riding. You would still have to earn the place."

Murdo bowed. Davie followed, less hurriedly this time.

Rusk thanked him for hearing them. Venn asked Arthur which of Murdo's turns had left the shoulder open. The knight took a sword and showed him upon the ground, with Murdo listening beside his father. Davie stayed too, until Venn made him take the other place and demonstrate the cut himself.

At Eddard's fire that evening, the boys sat quietly over their first bowl, then began arguing in low voices about Olyver's last pass. Rusk let them finish before asking how the household would manage a narrow road. Jon answered until Tomas came for him.

Next morning the optios sent men to pull up the stakes while the tent parties shook out their blankets and tied their packs. Canvas and poles went back to the mules; the stakes were loaded onto the wagons. The last work parties pushed the bank's earth into the ditch and laid the turf back over it. Hewyn paid the crofter for a broken wall cap, three rails and grass trampled beyond the hired ground. The man claimed two missing hens; his wife brought one down under her arm, so Hewyn entered the other.

Behind the last wagon the latrines were filled and the fires out. The crofter tested the repaired fence, put away his silver and asked when they would return.

"We shall ask before bringing our spades back," Hewyn said.

The man raised a hand to the column and went for his sheep.

At the fork Eddard's party turned for Winterfell with Medger and the visiting masters-at-arms. Venn and Rusk rode with them as far as their own turning. Their sons kept looking back at the sable standard. Jon had hired ground for two more nights. His men would carry their shelters farther, raise them again and come home fit to work.

On the third afternoon, the wagons took the cart road with a guard while the foot and loaded mules climbed the ridge path. Hennet softened hard oatbread beneath his tongue as he walked; cheese and water completed the meal from his bag. Between the trees he could see the grain carts creeping along a road that had seemed good when he rode it.

Otho, Bram and Torr had already marked the next camp on dry ground above a small spring. The men followed the stakes to their places and lowered their packs. This time the optios put First on the digging and Third on carrying the earth to the bank, while other parties raised tents and Tomas's riders watched the ridges. Work was well advanced when the wagons arrived before dusk. Ralf hung the damp saddle pads to dry, examined the beasts' backs and sent for the hay he had bought; there was little grass for them on the ridge.

Rain brushed the canvas that night. Jon woke to its tapping. Water ran in the lane drain, and outside a man swore softly as he pulled on a wet boot to take his turn at the bank.

On the fourth morning Henly, Emrick and the libritors assembled the ballistae opposite a bare bank. Merrit helped Emrick repair a joint whose cover had rubbed loose in transit. Both engines fired; Jon entered the trials while Otho checked beneath their supports.

They kept wet canvas apart from food and bedding as they loaded. At the final camp nearer Winterfell, there was light enough to open the tents and dry them. By the fifth morning, one reserve grain sack remained tied. Hewyn showed it to Jon while Ralf inspected a repaired girth, then the six centuries formed for home.

A black cloak waited beside the road ahead.

Benjen Stark sat a rangy bay beneath the pines, his long legs hanging easily in the stirrups, his cloak grey with Wall dust to the knee. He was leaner than when he had left; the sharp planes of his face showed above the high black collar. Two black brothers waited behind him. The column recognised the cloak before the face. No century broke formation to greet him.

Benjen watched all six standards pass. His gaze caught upon the amount of steel, then upon the men carrying mattocks beside spears, then upon the plain sable banner approaching behind them.

"I stay away," he said when Jon drew rein, "and you put half of Winter Town in plate."

Jon grinned and reached for his uncle's arm.

Benjen clasped his forearm and looked past him. "Four hundred and eighty foot."

"Three hundred and twenty spears, one hundred and sixty sword and shield."

"And the iron riders?"

"Fifty household."

"Your first boys have grown." Benjen watched a spearman adjust his neighbour's strap without leaving step. "I hardly knew Tomas."

"You will know him when he starts giving orders," Jon said.

Benjen glanced towards the distant town. "Your bell at Castle Black has made Bowen Marsh a less popular man than he was already."

"Has something failed?"

"Only a few good excuses. The relief hears the same stroke as the men it replaces. No blaming the steward's glass now." He shifted the rein. "In thick mist they hear it from the nearer stair when they can scarcely see the yard. So do the cooks. The night relief comes down to hot broth."

"And Maester Aemon?"

"He asks no one the hour now. He likes that. Mormont likes finding the men where he ordered them, and his raven has learned to demand food when the door is opened for winding."

"William will want to hear that."

"Put him at supper," Benjen said. "I can give him news enough for an evening."

"You saw the camp?"

"I saw your last camp before dawn. I thought someone had raised a new holdfast." Benjen leaned forward to look at Jon properly. "Maester Aemon asks after you. I told him you were still more interested in making things than sleeping."

"Tell him I mean to visit." Jon had wanted that meeting since Arthur spoke of the old maester's letters. Looking at Benjen's weathered face, he knew he had let another year go by without arranging it.

"Come before the snows, then. First I want those fine riders in the woods."

"You still want the wolfswood test."

"Aye. Let us see how they manage on the charcoal tracks. We leave the lances here."

Tomas had heard. He brought the household roll without being called. Eight files stood beneath his hand, six men in each, with Alasdair as his second.

"Half," Jon said. "The cohort returns to the Old Watch. This exercise belongs to the household."

Tomas named Jorren, Olyver, Rylas and Gage. For the woodland exercise he drew twenty-four guards from the eight files and divided them among those four leaders, bringing familiar shield partners together again. He would ride as the twenty-fifth.

"Alasdair keeps the rest, in four files," Tomas said. "At the Old Watch until we return."

"Food for four days," Jon said. "Benjen asks for three. The fourth answers rain, a lame horse, or a blocked ford. Lighter plate where the branches close. Mail at throat and arm. Round shields in hide covers. No great standard."

Finnan lowered the sable cloth with a look of disappointment.

"Take the small pennon," Jon told him. "We shall be close together on those tracks."

The chosen twenty-five sorted canvas, food, tools, physic and spare tack for four days in the woods. Heward took the cohort home to its ordinary training; Alasdair's remaining riders would work from the Old Watch. As Benjen led Jon's party towards Winterfell, Heward was calling a lagging baggage party back into place. Jon's riders would exchange their heavy gear at the castle and leave at first light.

 

[aiwonder]

House Black passed beneath Winterfell's gate while the last harvest pavilions still stood. At the Old Watch, Hewyn kept the four spear centuries and two sword centuries at work with Martyn and Heward, the campidoctor. The household's task lay in the wolfswood: scouting, movement through close timber and camping on unprepared ground.

The chosen twenty-five rode in Tomas's four temporary files. Alasdair's half covered the Old Watch, Black Yard and Winterfell road. The riders wore wool over mail, steel caps and lighter breast and back plates. Covered round shields hung behind their saddles; their swords rode clear, and every third man carried a light spear.

Benjen's two black brothers stayed to oversee the Wall stores. Five Stark guards rode with Eddard and Robb; Benjen led, Arthur stayed near Jon, and Gawen brought up the rear behind Ralf, Garrick and the packhorses. Robb looked back as the Old Watch vanished among the pines. "We ought to have taken the cohort. Six centuries make a proper army."

"We have just had five days with them," Jon said. "This ground needs different work."

"They stood well enough on the field, even when the line turned."

"Now Tomas must manage where he cannot see the next file."

Benjen laughed. "Your brother wants to learn how much noise trained lads make while striving for silence. All those spearshafts would empty the woods of deer from here to the kingsroad."

"Twenty-five will do that," Robb said.

"Twenty-six, if you mean to count the lord leading them," said Jon.

Benjen turned in his saddle. "Two young lords make the noise of six. I counted kindly." The rain found them before noon. It began as a grey veil between the pines and thickened until the path ran brown beneath the horses. At a swollen beck the old ford had lost half its bank. Ralf dismounted, waded in to his thighs and sounded each step with an ash spear while the water tugged the skirts of his coat downstream.

The crows kept low beneath the branches. By the time the rain thickened Hugin had settled beneath the edge of Jon's hood, claws gripping the cloak at his shoulder. Munin followed them across the beck, then vanished into a fir to shake the water from her feathers.

"One at a time," Ralf called. "Let the horse in front find the stones before you ask the next to stand upon its tail."

Olyver led the pack animals. A grey gelding balked at the cold water and dragged one of his men sideways. Olyver took the rope, brought the animal behind two saddle horses and followed them across. Gawen helped them up the far bank while Ralf went back for the next beast.

By dusk wet wool clung like a second skin. Benjen chose an old charcoal burn above a spring, firs breaking the west wind and alders crowding the water below the southern bank. Robb's spear butt found a moss-covered burn pit. Harwin probed ahead and uncovered two more.

Jon and Tomas placed the sleeping canvas clear of the hollows. Ralf and Olyver tethered the horses on the eastern ground, away from young birches, while Jorren's men marked the pits with crossed stakes. The shallowest took their fire beneath a low awning.

The stew tasted of ash because Fergus had blown too hard upon the fire. Iain complained, then scraped his bowl clean. At the lord's fire Eddard was trying to dry one sleeve without setting the other in the mud. Jon passed him a stick to hang it upon and shifted closer to Arthur beneath the awning.

"I have had worse," Benjen said, examining his spoon.

"If you say that loudly enough, Fergus may take it for praise," Eddard replied.

"It is praise. There are no stones in it."

Robb lowered his spoon. "Are there usually stones?"

"Only when your uncle cooks," Eddard said.

Benjen pointed his spoon at him. "Careful, Ned. I choose where you sleep." Robb laughed and reached for the bread before either brother could claim the last piece.

Jon pushed another loaf towards them. Robb shifted his stool to give Arthur the dry corner beneath the awning. The knight thanked him; Benjen promptly claimed the warmer place he had left by the fire.

After supper Jon took each file through the dark camp. They went from the tents to the horses and back by the spring, finding the routes they would need if the alarm sounded. Finnan caught his shin against a root and swore under his breath. Jorren moved a peg that lay in the path.

Rain pattered on the canvas. When Jon returned to the fire, Robb had taken Benjen's place and refused to move. Eddard watched their argument with his boots stretched towards the embers. Hours later, hoofs thrashed through the beck. From the eastward watch Gawen called, "A single horseman. He wears the wolf."

Arthur was awake before the second call. Tomas kept the boys beneath canvas until the rider gave Winterfell's outer watchword. Then Porther came between the pines upon a chestnut white with sweat. Mud reached the mare's belly. One corner of the grey wolf on his cloak had torn loose, and his sword belt was buckled over a nightshirt. Eddard met him before he had both feet on the ground. "Who is dead?"

"None when I departed, my lord." Porther braced both hands upon his knees, gulped air, and forced himself upright. "Two Hornwood sheep were found in a Cerwyn carter's keeping down in the lower yard. A shepherd named him thief. Then the carter's brothers answered with their fists, a Hornwood knife came out, and one man's cheek was cut to the teeth. Thirty men were buckling mail as I came away."

"How have you kept them apart?"

"We penned the Cerwyns in the eastern stable and kept every Hornwood outside the inner ward. Lady Stark has separated their lords. Jory trusts the barred doors, yet neither man will hear judgement from a captain while his neighbour shouts 'craven' through the stones."

Robb emerged with one boot on and the other in his hand. "I can stay."

"You ride with me," Eddard said. "You will hear why upon the road."

"Father, Jon has the files. I know the boys. I could—"

"Cley and Daryn are your friends," Eddard said. "You will hear their fathers' quarrel with me. Put your boot on." Robb obeyed, though his mouth hardened.

Eddard chose three guards to return; Harwin and Desmond would stay. Ralf gave Porther a pack gelding and rubbed down his blown mare while Tomas brought Robb's horse. Arthur checked the cloth around Dawn's hilt.

"Finish the exercise," Eddard told Jon. "But if you find raiders' sign, bring your men home. Do not follow it."

"We will send word if we find anything." Jon turned to Tomas. "Give them a man to the ford. He can bring back the state of the crossing."

Eddard mounted and looked towards Benjen. "Take care of them."

"I will."

Leaning from his saddle, Robb gripped Jon below the elbow. "See that the grey does not devour Cressen."

"Ralf will keep Cressen out of its reach. He has no wish to lose a groom."

"I heard that," Cressen called from the canvas.

"Keep your fingers clear of its teeth," Ralf told him. At first grey light Eddard took Robb, Porther and three guards across the beck. Porther led his spent mare from the pack gelding. Their household escort returned to Tomas while the grey cloaks were still in sight.

Benjen spent the next day teaching them to follow sign across broken ground. He led a trail over rock and through a stream, leaving one grey thread on a hazel branch. Gage followed his footprints past the turn. Jon stopped at the branch and waited while Gage came back to find what he had missed.

Arthur made the lesson harder. He set the four files above a slope broken by three beeches. Six men abreast could not pass between the trunks, and a long sword was as likely to bite a friend as a foe. "Shields up," Arthur said. "Steel stays sheathed. Ash swords only."

Fergus looked between the trunks. "Two abreast, my lord?"

"Aye," Jon said. "Jorren and Olyver first. The other files follow."

Tomas blew one note. The leading shields went down the slope in pairs. At the narrowest trunk, Olyver's third man leaned out to see past the men ahead. Arthur stepped from behind the beech and tapped his uncovered ribs.

"Out." Arthur moved aside as the lad climbed back uphill.

On the second descent Jon kept the rear pair close behind the front shields, a hand against each man's shoulder. The touch helped them stay together where they could not see one another's feet. Arthur struck from the left; the foremost shield caught him and Jorren's short thrust stopped at his sleeve.

"Change," Jon called. Jorren touched two shoulders. The front pair withdrew while the rear pair closed without turning their backs. One man slipped, caught his neighbour's arm and recovered his footing behind the shields.

Rylas lost three men around a beech and called them forward too quickly. "Hold," Jon said.

"My front is bare if those three do not come."

"Hold until they reach you." Rylas steadied the front pair. Keir and Edden came around the trunk shoulder to shoulder and filled the gap.

Arthur struck wherever a shield turned aside. His ash blade rapped wrists and knees; once he drove a shoulder between two shields and forced them apart. Jon drew Rylas's file back uphill, leaving a passage beside Jorren's.

"Gage, through that gap!" Jon called. "Jorren, hold there!"

Tomas carried the order down the slope. "Gage through the middle before Arthur turns. Close on him."

"Closing!" Gage answered. He brought his file through to join Jorren's. Twelve joined shields met Arthur beneath the beeches. He lowered the ash sword.

Finnan grinned over the scar in his shield. "Did we get you?"

"You did," Arthur said. "Try it again."

They worked until every file could pass the trunks and change front without stumbling over its fellows. When Arthur retreated beyond the last beech, Tomas halted them at Jon's mark and brought the files together. Then they could eat.

Wolves came to the horse lines after nightfall. Bucephalus screamed before the sentry glimpsed grey among the trees. Men tumbled out from under canvas, reaching for belts and shields. Gage sent a burning brand beyond the firepit. Five pairs of eyes shone between the trunks, disappeared and returned lower and nearer.

The stallion hurled himself against his rope. His terror brushed Jon's mind—teeth in darkness, fire, restraint, bodies pressing too near. Jon thrust it away before it seized his own limbs. He and Ralf gave Bucephalus a wide circle rather than trying to hold his head against a fixed post. "Files to the horses," Jon called. "Shields out. No one beyond the fire."

Tomas bore the order all around the camp. Blades hammered bosses with a ragged thunder. Benjen hurled fire, and Arthur met one lunging muzzle with the iron tip of his scabbard. Grey bodies became watching eyes; the eyes then melted into the dark. A baggage gelding had broken its tether. From the west came one last shriek. Finnan made to run after it, but Rylas caught the rear of his belt. "You do not chase," said the serjeant.

"It is one of ours, and wolves are tearing it."

"And leave the line open? Stay here." At dawn they found the gelding with a shattered hind leg and torn flank. Ralf sent the youngest guards away before using his knife. Two saddle horses took its load, leaving their riders to walk home. Jon moved the tethers inside the tent line and doubled the watch. Benjen and Harwin searched for another crossing that afternoon, returning with wet boots and no easier ford.

Near dusk Benjen found a snare beyond the trail of the slain gelding. Twisted gut ran from a bone toggle to a bowed hazel, with fresh sap showing upon the cut. Below it a bootheel had bitten into the slope. Harwin crouched beside him.

"A poacher?"

"I have seen that knot beyond the Wall." Benjen lifted the toggle without putting his hand inside the loop. Three shallow grooves crossed the bone. "Someone has been here since the rain eased."

Finnan looked past him into the pines. "How many?"

"One print will not tell us." Jon turned towards the camp. "Back together. No one follows the trail."

Tomas brought the files in while there was still light between the trunks. He wanted to leave at once, abandoning the heavier canvas and putting two riders upon each packhorse.

"The beck took us an hour in daylight," Benjen said. "We shall be crossing in the dark before the last horse reaches it."

"One rider could get through," Harwin said.

"And come upon whoever made that print alone," Arthur replied.

Beyond the clearing the eastern track scarcely held two horses abreast. Their slowest pack beast would hold up every man behind it.

"Keep the saddles ready," Jon told Tomas. "Watch the western edge while we find out what is on the road."

He caught Arthur's eye and went beneath the awning. The knight followed, lowered its side against the rain and sat where he could see anyone approaching. Jon settled against a pack. Hugin was upon the fir above the tether line; Munin had gone after the ravens at the dead gelding.

He entered Hugin first. The clearing fell away beneath wet black wings. He kept low along the beck, where the water made a pale path between the trees. The ford appeared around a bend: broken bank, brown water, the stones over which Ralf had led them. Nothing stood in the open.

Jon put the crow upon an alder rather than passing overhead. From there he could see beneath the opposite bank. A man crouched behind a fallen trunk with a short spear across his knees. Farther back, a second was plaiting a loose length of rope. Both watched the track from the camp. Jon held the perch long enough to make certain of the second man, then brought Hugin home.

Arthur's hand rested upon his shoulder when he opened his eyes.

"Two beyond the ford," Jon said quietly. "A spear and rope. They are waiting for someone."

"Can you see the western hollow?"

"Through Munin."

He drank before reaching for her. The crow stood upon a root near the carcass, angry at a raven which had taken her place. Jon turned her uphill. Through gaps in the firs he found a man fitting a string to his bow, and another with arrows laid upon a scrap of hide. Beyond them a woman stood with a small round shield against her leg. A red hand had been painted upon its face. She pointed south. Men began moving towards the alder bank below the spring.

Munin flew from one low branch to the next. Jon counted six men before the ground hid their feet. Two carried long spears, one an axe. The woman followed them far enough to look up towards the camp, then went back to the bowmen. A plain sword swung from her belt. Its scabbard was better kept than the hides she wore.

Jon returned before the last light failed. For a moment he still felt the root beneath Munin's claws; then the pack was hard against his back and Arthur was waiting.

"Bows to the west. At least two. Six going below the spring, and a woman sending them there. A red hand upon her shield." He wiped rain from his face, though it was dry. "The ford is no way out tonight."

Arthur drew the side of the awning higher. Through the opening they could see Gage bringing his men to the water.

"There is a fork below that bank," the knight said. "A man who holds the stream bed cannot see the other path until it is behind him. I walked it when we arrived."

"Show me."

* * *
​

The burn was seventy paces across from the western trees to the eastern track, half as wide from northern stones to spring. At the lower bank Arthur showed Jon and the file leaders the two approaches: one along the water, one climbing a shelf beneath the tents. Men using both could strike the spring file from either side.

"Gage holds above," Jon said. "Arthur, take Desmond and Gared below. Keep them this side of the fork."

Arthur placed Gared, Gage's steadiest shield, at the upper root. The boy had faced only practice rushes. Watching the second path meant exposing his side.

"Hold this one," Arthur told him. "I shall take what comes round it."

Desmond brought two spare spears down from the tents. They dragged a fallen alder across the lower run, leaving its tangled branches towards anyone climbing. Above them Gage set Finnan and Cressen together, with Donnel on his right. Struan would keep the alarm shield until the watch changed.

Rylas took the west. Jon set his six behind the low charcoal bank, where their shields would cover them without having to stand against the trees. Keir held the end nearest the middle pit. Olyver kept his men with the horses. Harwin watched the northern rise, and Jorren's six remained beside Jon as the reserve.

"No one follows a man into the trees," Jon told them. "They want horses. They may loose one and wait for you to run after it. Let it go."

Ralf had Bucephalus at the eastern end. Jon helped clear a lane from the tethers to the track and had Olyver put spare shields beside the saddles. Ralf brought a quiet grey next to the stallion. Garrick checked the ropes; Iain set out the halter knives within reach in darkness.

Benjen returned from the western edge as Jon was testing the lane. He had gone to look beneath the firs Arthur described, without needing to know how the knight had chosen them.

"Bowmen," he said. "I saw one drawing a string. There are men farther along, but I could not count them without showing myself."

"Keep outside our shields," Jon said. "From there you may get a shot at them. From the camp we shall only see the trees."

Benjen looked across the open strip between the bank and the firs. "They will have to watch me as well as you."

"And if they find you?" Arthur asked.

"I know where the charcoal cut comes back to Rylas. I shall not stay in one place and trade arrows." Benjen checked the knife at his belt before taking his bow from beneath his cloak. "Keep a place for me at the western end."

Struan brought out his bone whistle. One long call would recall Arthur; two short meant that the camp still held and he was to keep the lower approach closed. The knight went down while Struan tried it. He raised his hand from the alders to show that the sound reached him.

Jon returned to the middle pit with Tomas. They shifted the sleeping canvas north, making a clear way between the western line and the spring. Harwin and Jorren pegged branches across the dead ground behind the tents. Men could still crawl there, but they would have to cut through something first.

"Keep Jorren here until I call," Jon told Tomas. "If I fall, you command. He follows you."

Tomas nodded. He sent a man to move the pegs that might catch a running foot, then went to hear each file leader repeat his place.

Every man ate in his boots. Finnan worried at the old axe scar in his shield until Tomas took it from him.

"Leave that alone."

"Will it hold iron?"

Tomas examined the rim and the back, pressing his thumb along the repaired split. "It held at the last proof. Keep the point off that scar if you can." He returned it. "You will have a new one when we get home."

Keir showed Iain the knots closing the toes of his spare stockings. "Better than sewing."

"The knots are larger than the holes."

"They will hold until I can find a needle."

Struan tried his whistle again. Its shriek set three horses pulling. Tomas held out his hand.

"We have all heard it."

"So have they," Olyver said from the horse line.

Struan gave it up, grinning too broadly. Tomas put the cord around his own neck and left him the alarm shield. Jon watched the boy set his slate beside its post. The north and the horses had all the shields he could spare.

Benjen came in near midnight for dry arrows from the covered bundle. He had heard movement beyond the hollow but found no clear shot. Jon slept for a short while with his sword belt fastened, woke when a horse stamped, and lay listening until Tomas touched his shoulder.

"The sky is lightening. Rylas heard something beyond his stakes."

"Wake the files quietly. No fires."

Arthur came up, leaving Desmond on the lower watch, and closed the awning. Jon settled against his pack. In the first light Hugin found the two men from the ford approaching the eastern track with two others, one sheltering an unlit brand.

Jon brought him back and reached for Munin. Two bowmen knelt beside the carcass trail. A third had moved north; the fourth crawled towards a pale stump overlooking the western shields. Below the spring, men were slipping round the fallen alder.

The woman with the red hand waited behind the northern stones. Her sword was drawn.

Jon came back and caught Arthur's wrist. "Four bows now. One going round the northern end. The six below you are splitting at the fork. Four at the horses' track."

"Get your helm." Arthur was already rising.

Jon fitted it and took his shield. He sent Harwin to warn Benjen about the stump and told Rylas to turn his end pair north. The crows settled behind camp, Hugin above the horses and Munin near the awning. They would have to stay there now.

"Keep low," he called. "Shields up."

Struan struck the alarm shield. Men who had been reaching for belts turned at the iron clang. The boy raised his arm for a second blow. An arrow crossed above the low bank and took him at the base of the throat.

Keir caught him before his head struck the post. The iron striker fell. Arrows hit the tents behind them, one passing through both sides of the awning where Jon had been sleeping.

"Keir, join Rylas. Take your shield!"

Keir stayed on his knees. Tomas caught his shoulder and turned him towards the western end.

"Rylas needs you. I have him."

He put the shield into Keir's hands. Keir went, looking back once. Tomas pressed folded linen against Struan's wound and felt beneath his jaw. When Jon looked towards him, the captain shook his head. Beyond them the first men were crossing the western ground.

* * *
​

The warning had given Olyver time to put his shields between the eastern track and the horse posts. A man in goatskin struck them with a stone axe and found six waiting instead of a sleeping groom. Gawen cut across his face as he recoiled. Olyver thrust beneath the falling axe and the man went down between them.

A spearman came behind him and drove a short spear under a mare's neck. Gawen stepped away from the animal rather than swing into it, and the point caught the outer flesh of his thigh below the mail. His leg buckled. Olyver turned the second thrust with his shield while Gawen trapped the shaft beneath his arm. He hauled the man close and drove his sword down between neck and shoulder.

"Ser Gawen—"

"Hold your place." The knight took the dead man's spear and braced himself upon it. Blood ran into his boot. "I can stand."

The last two tried the posts while Olyver's men were occupied. One thrust his brand beneath the saddle cover. The other sprang for a red mare and was thrown against the tether when she wheeled. Ralf pinned his thigh with a spear; Garrick caught his wrist before he could draw his knife.

"Drop it," Garrick said. Ralf pressed upon the shaft. The knife fell, and Garrick bound the man's hands.

Jon had kept Jorren's file beside him. The shapes coming down the northern rise met Harwin's spear and the branches pegged behind the tents. They could not get past without breaking cover. One crouched to hack a stake loose while the others waited with their shields raised.

"Jorren, three with Harwin. The other three stay here."

The serjeant took two men and went behind the tents. Jon stayed at the middle pit, where he could see the western shields and the horse line. Arrows struck the charcoal bank in front of him. Rylas's men had their heads down; every time a shield moved to answer a spear, a bowman tried the gap.

Tomas sounded two short notes on Struan's whistle before following Jon towards the horses.

At the far end Keir's sword rattled against his own shield. Rylas touched it with the flat of his blade.

"With me. One pace when they strike."

Four wildlings came behind the arrows. The leading spearman thrust across two shield rims, expecting men to give way separately. Rylas's file yielded together. The man followed too far. Keir cut his wrist; the next pair came through and struck beneath his shield before he could recover. He fell against their feet. Rylas held the rest at the bank, refusing the room the dead man had left him.

"Do not follow. Change."

Keir and Edden passed behind the rear pair. A second spearman tried to catch them as they moved. His point hit a fresh shield, and he had to withdraw before it was trapped. Jon saw Keir reach his new place. Then another arrow made him lower his own head.

Beyond the bank, Benjen had found the archer at the pale stump.

Behind a fallen pine, Benjen drew while the archer watched Rylas's northern pair. His arrow took the man beneath the raised arm and drove him against the pale stump.

Benjen rolled away. One answering shaft struck the roots he had hidden behind, another the fern ahead. He crawled into the old charcoal cut, pulling his bow after him. Of the other archers he could see only the one behind a forked birch—a hand and part of a cheek each time he drew. Benjen waited for more.

An arrow struck a mare. Its scream brought Jon upright, and the third archer began to draw at him.

Benjen rose to one knee and loosed. He missed the man, but the shaft struck the branch beside his face and spoiled the shot. The answering arrow buried itself in the earth short of Benjen. He dropped into the cut again. Across the clearing Jon had reached the horse line beneath Tomas's shield.

* * *
​

Below the spring, Arthur met the rush at both branches of the fork.

Desmond thrust through Gared's cover and caught the first spearman beneath his raised elbow. The man fell backwards over the alder, taking the blade deep into the roots with him. Desmond let go rather than be dragged across. An axe struck his forearm as he withdrew it. Mail held, but his hand opened uselessly before he could reach his knife.

Arthur stepped across him. Dawn caught the axe haft close to the head and sheared through it. Before he could finish the man, a spear came from the other run towards Gared's uncovered neck. Arthur turned the point aside with the lower part of his blade and drove the wielder back.

"Your shield against the root, Gared. Desmond, behind him."

Five remained below them. They had seen the pale sword and did not press in a line for it. Two worked along the water, two climbed the shelf, and the man with the broken axe drew a long knife and came under the roots. Arthur had room to cut at any one of them. Each opening lasted only until another weapon reached one of the men beside him.

Gared turned towards a spear upon the shelf. A second slid beneath the lower edge of his shield and cut his shoulder along the strap. He cried out and his elbow dropped. Arthur struck the shaft down, caught the boy by his mail and pulled him upright against the root. The knife scraped across Arthur's backplate while he did it.

Two short whistle notes reached him from the camp. Tomas was keeping the others at their posts. Arthur turned with his elbow close and put Dawn through the knife man's throat. The body dropped into the shallow water. Desmond had his own knife out now, his injured hand braced against Gared's back.

"Hold him up," Arthur said. "Gared, look at me. Keep the rim above your collar."

Gared obeyed, teeth clenched. He could hold the shield but scarcely lift it. Arthur shortened his stance across the opening. He turned one spear into the alder and cut the fingers on the other. Its owner stumbled back, then climbed towards Gage.

"Man on your left!" Arthur called.

Gage turned his rear pair in time. Finnan's shield met the climbing spearman while Cressen came close beside him. Without the warning the man would have reached their backs.

Arthur could hear Jon at the horses. He could not look that way. The two spearmen still before him were trying to draw his sword to the water while the axeman upon the shelf reached over Gared. Arthur beat the axe back, let a spear scrape along his side plate and cut its wielder across the thigh. The man fell to one knee without letting go of the shaft.

"Stay behind me," Arthur told Desmond. "There is a spare spear above your left hand."

Desmond reached for it with his sound arm. Arthur held both approaches while he pulled it free.

* * *
​

Fire ran along the saddle cover. The torchbearer had thrust it between the posts before Olyver's last pair could reach him. Horses pressed away from the flame, dragging the line towards the western trees.

Jon caught Bucephalus's terror as he came beneath the awning. For a moment the ropes bit his own chest and the men around the stallion seemed too close. He kept hold of Tomas's sleeve, fixed his eyes upon the clear eastern lane and pressed that direction into the horse's panic.

Bucephalus turned. Ralf threw the loose end of the tether around a sound post while Olyver opened the gap Jon had made for them. Fergus was too close. The stallion struck his shield, knocking him to one hand, and Olyver hauled him clear before the hind feet came round.

"Water on the cover," Jon ordered. "Iain, keep that knife clear of the ropes until Ralf calls."

Ralf caught the torchbearer with his spear. Olyver's two men closed as he recoiled, killing him beside the burning cover. Garrick held the captive under a shield while buckets passed behind him. Once the flames were out, Ralf led the quiet grey across Bucephalus's sight. The stallion stopped fighting the tether.

The western axeman came through while Jon was watching the horse. He had left the other two at Rylas's bank and worked around the end of the tents. Jon saw the movement over Tomas's shoulder and turned before the axe reached him.

Its stone head struck his shield near the rim. He let the weight slide past, stepped inside the shortened haft and thrust beneath the man's arm. The blade entered at the edge of a patch of mail. Tomas pulled the falling body aside before it trapped Jon's sword.

"Back to the middle," Jon said. "The horses are held."

A woman stepped clear of the northern stones as they returned. Bone beads clicked in her black hair. Her sealskin coat had been slit above the knee, leaving her legs free, and the sword in her hand was narrow, bright along both edges. She gave a short call towards the rushes.

"Torwynd!"

The grey-braided man there sounded his horn. At the horse line the captive lifted his face.

"Sygga!"

Jon knew the shield. "The woman with the red hand," he told Tomas. "She is directing them."

Sygga pointed her sword towards Harwin. The three northern men struck at the branches together. One climbed over while the others pulled. Harwin drove his spear into the first man's chest, but the falling body brought two stakes out with it. Jorren and his pair filled the gap before the others could follow.

Jon's remaining three started towards them. He stopped them with his shield arm.

"Stay here."

The horn sounded again. Sygga watched Jon's reserve. He kept it close. The horses and the northern stakes had held; she would have to draw him out herself.

At the spring Finnan changed places with Cressen as they had practised beneath the beeches. The wounded spearman tried to follow the turn. Gage struck his shaft aside; Finnan lifted his shield beneath it and caught the iron in the old axe scar. The haft cracked under the strain.

"Now, Cressen."

Cressen thrust into the man's belly. The wildling let go of the broken spear and came against them with his knife already drawn. Finnan had his shield high, holding the iron. The knife entered below his arm.

He folded around it without falling away. His free arm trapped the man's wrist against his body.

"Again."

Cressen stared at him.

"Again!"

The second thrust went through the exposed side. The man sagged, and Finnan went down with him. Tomas reached them before Cressen could pull out the knife.

"Leave it. Cloth around it. Press hard." He turned to Gage. "Cover them."

Gage and Donnel set their shields before the two boys. Below them Arthur still held the fork with Gared and Desmond. Cressen knelt in the mud, trying to keep his hands where Tomas had put them.

Jon saw the spring line shorten and called the captain back. Sygga saw it too. She ran west behind her shield while Torwynd raised the horn again.

* * *
​

Benjen had worked along the charcoal cut until the forked birch no longer covered the second archer's body. He drew below the lip, rose and loosed. The man fell across his arrows.

The nearest bowman threw his bow down and came at him with a short sword. Benjen had no room for another shaft. He dropped the bow into the cut and drew steel as the man cleared its bank.

Benjen yielded along the muddy cut, keeping below the last archer's view. The swordsman followed from higher ground. Benjen's heel struck a stone; he braced against the bank, caught a cut near the guard and thrust. His point dragged across hide. The answering stroke opened his sleeve but glanced off mail.

Above them, the archer turned towards camp. Benjen gave another step to bring his opponent off the bank, caught the next stroke and seized his wrist. He drove him into the roots and thrust beneath his ribs. The wildling's fist struck Benjen's brow before his knees gave way.

Benjen tore the sword free, stooped for his bow and heard a shout from the western shields.

* * *
​

Keir had turned his shield towards the last archer. The surviving spearman at Rylas's bank saw his throat above the tilted rim. He drew his arm back.

"Keir, down!" Jon shouted.

Keir bent as the spear came. It struck high beneath his collar, drove him into Edden and carried both boys against the end of the file. Edden struggled clear. Keir did not move.

"Three to Rylas," Jon ordered the reserve. "Close that end."

They ran behind the tents. Rylas caught Keir's shield and covered the gap until the first arrived. Sygga was there before the other two had settled. Her sword touched the incoming guard's rim, drew it outward and darted for the space beneath his chin.

Jon met the point with his own blade. He had come round the middle pit while the three reinforced the west. Sygga withdrew at once, took a short step to his left and thrust beneath his shield. He turned it down. Her point was already coming high again.

He caught the second thrust upon the steel over his shoulder. It skidded past his neck. She had seen how he lowered the shield and was testing whether he would do it twice.

"Eight shields west!" Rylas called behind him.

"Hold them there." Jon brought his own point between himself and Sygga. "Tomas, keep the middle."

Sygga cut at his hand. Jon drew it back and thrust towards the painted palm, finding only her shield's edge. Her next cut opened his sleeve above the elbow. Mail held, but she was beside him already. He turned with her. Arthur's hands were faster in the yard; here arrows struck behind him and calls came from three sides.

He drove his shield forward to crowd her. Sygga slipped away instead of receiving the weight. Her point caught beneath his rim and forced it up. The red-painted shield struck his mouth.

Jon tasted blood. He gave ground around the charcoal lip, keeping his right foot clear of the hollow. She followed without rushing. The quick cuts had made him lift his elbow; now she sent the point towards his ribs and changed it for his hand when he closed the shield.

Tomas shouted for room behind the western file. The last archer sent a shaft across the passage between him and Jon. Tomas dropped behind the bank. Something cracked beneath his coat as his chest struck the stone. Sygga used the moment to step close, press her shield against Jon's and turn him towards the pit.

His rear foot struck the rim. He sank to keep his balance, but her shield caught his sword arm. A thrust came over their guards. He turned his wrist and felt the point split his glove between thumb and forefinger as it passed his ear. Sygga drove him down the shallow slope with her shield. His shoulder hit stone; breath left him. His own shield caught on the bank, wrenching its strap across his elbow.

He tore his arm free and came onto one knee with the sword still in his cut hand. Sygga stepped down after him. Her point remained before his face; she did not give him a wild blow to turn aside.

* * *
​

Arthur heard Tomas call Jon's name.

He could see the top of the middle pit beyond Gage's shields, but not Jon. The axeman before him heard the cry as well. He came off the shelf while the two spearmen thrust from the water, all three within reach at once.

Dawn turned one point past Arthur's hip. He stepped into the second man's reach and struck him across the face with the pommel, but had to break away before he could use the edge. The axe was coming down towards Gared's wounded shoulder.

Arthur caught it near the head. The blow jarred his arms. He drove the haft back, put his body between the axeman and the boy, and felt Desmond's borrowed spear pass beside him. It kept one attacker back. The other began climbing towards Cressen, who still knelt over Finnan with both hands upon the linen.

"Donnel, left!" Arthur shouted.

Donnel turned, leaving Gage alone over the wounded. Arthur slashed the climbing man's fingers and drove him off the root. Gared tried to follow, but his shield sagged. Arthur seized its rim and thrust it up against an incoming spear.

"Stay where I put you."

The boy was crying without sound. Desmond could barely feel his left hand. If Arthur crossed to Jon, three weapons would reach Finnan and the men protecting him. He set himself across the lower run, struck the axe away and turned his intended thrust into another parry above Gared.

A crow screamed overhead.

* * *
​

Hugin stood upon the fir beyond Sygga's shoulder. Munin had come lower, hopping along a branch over the awning. Jon had felt their alarm while the swords were ringing; now he reached for it without leaving his own eyes.

He could not take flight and fight her too. He gave Hugin the short, fierce urge he had practised at the tower, fixing it upon the woman coming down towards him.

Drive her away.

Sygga thrust. Jon beat the point aside and rose inside the next cut, nearly losing his footing in the wet charcoal. Hugin came down at her head. She ducked without taking her eyes from Jon and cut towards the beating wings. The crow climbed, a black feather turning behind him.

Jon stepped towards the root Finnan had struck upon their night walk. There was firm ground beside it. He had to reach that before she pressed him back against the stone.

Munin dropped from the other side, claws catching in Sygga's hair. She shook the crow off and cut at the wings. Hugin came at her face again; her shield rose to meet him.

Jon went under its rim. He struck her returning sword outward, drove his good shoulder against her arm and thrust beneath the sealskin. Sygga twisted. Her shield caught his cheek and her blade scraped his backplate, but he stayed close, tore his sword free and thrust again.

Her knees struck charcoal. Jon went down with her and held on until her weight slackened. Her sword fell against his boot. A hand caught at his face, then dropped.

He pushed clear and stood with blood running inside his torn glove. Hugin had landed upon the pit rim. Munin flew back to the fir as Tomas reached the other side.

"Sygga has fallen!" the captain shouted.

"Keep the west closed." Jon had to draw breath before he could make the rest carry. "Rylas, three paces. No farther."

Eight shields moved over Keir's body. The two wildlings before them retreated, one holding his empty spear hand close. The last archer drew as the line came forward. Benjen's arrow took him through the upper arm. His shot went high into the tents.

At the spring the axeman looked towards the pit. Arthur struck while his attention was gone. Dawn passed beneath his lifted arm; before the man fell, the knight turned the nearer spear and thrust its wielder back into the water. The last tried to scramble across the roots behind Gared. Desmond checked him with the borrowed spear, and Arthur finished him before he reached the boy.

"Hold!" Jon called. Rylas stopped at the third pace.

The wounded archer ran for the western trees. The two men before Rylas followed him, abandoning a fallen shield. The two raiders at the northern stakes broke the other way. Harwin took one step after them before Jorren caught his sleeve.

"Leave them," Jon ordered. "Faces out. Keep your shields."

Five had gone. Benjen followed only far enough to watch the western three reach the trees, then returned with his bow drawn. Torwynd stood beside the rushes, his horn lowered. Desmond came up behind him with the spear; Tomas approached from the middle behind his shield.

"Put it down," the captain said.

Torwynd looked from Dawn to Benjen's arrow and dropped his own spear. Tomas made him kneel. When Desmond reached for his wrist, the man twisted and bit through the guard's glove. Desmond struck him once with the spear butt. Tomas forced his face to the ground and bound him.

"Alive," Jon said. "Keep him apart from the other one."

At the horses Garrick still held the wounded captive. Ralf had cut the burning cover away and laid it in the mud. Gawen leaned upon his spear until Olyver brought a saddle for him to sit upon.

"Tomas, count the files. Arthur holds the spring. Benjen, watch the trees. No one goes out to the bodies."

Jorren answered first. "Six."

"Olyver, six. Fergus hurt."

Rylas stood above Keir, looking at the blood beneath the spearshaft. "Five standing."

"Gage?"

"Four standing. Gared cut. Finnan down."

"Struan down," Tomas said. He counted himself last. Around them horses shifted against the ropes; someone was coughing behind a shield. Jon stayed upright until Benjen came back from the edge of the trees with a cut across one brow.

"Five running," his uncle said. "One has my arrow through his arm. I heard no others close."

"Keep the outer shields up," Jon said. "Gage, go to Finnan. Donnel and Jorren's nearest pair hold the spring. Gared comes back with Arthur. The rest stay armed."

Arthur crossed at last. He looked at Jon's empty shield arm and the blood running over his hand.

"Your side?"

"After Finnan."

Gage knelt beside Cressen, holding a folded cloth beneath Finnan's arm. The knife was still there. Finnan tried to raise his head when Jon came down beside him, but had to let it rest again.

Jon took his uninjured hand. "I am here."

Finnan looked past him towards Cressen. The other boy bent nearer at once.

"He is here too," Jon said.

Arthur slipped another fold of linen beneath Gage's hand. Gage pressed where he was shown. Finnan drew a shallow breath and tried to speak. Jon leaned close enough to hear him beneath the frightened horses and Tomas calling the files.

"Did I do well, my lord?"

"You did, Finnan. You held him for Cressen. I saw you."

The fingers in Jon's hand tightened a little.

Arthur lowered himself beside the boy's head. "You gave Cressen his chance. He took it."

Finnan's eyes moved to him, then back to Jon. He seemed to be waiting for more, so Jon told him again.

"You did well."

Cressen began trying to wipe Finnan's face with his sleeve. There was blood on that too. Arthur passed him a clean corner of linen and kept his other hand over Gage's.

They stayed that way while Ralf quieted the horses. Finnan's grip loosened. Jon bent near his mouth once more, but there were no further words. Arthur remained over him after the breathing stopped, waiting before he took away his hand.

Cressen was still holding the clean linen.

"Leave it with him," Jon said.

Keir did not wake. Struan had been dead before Tomas reached him. At dawn the running horn stayed silent.

* * *
​

Daylight showed sixteen free folk dead: Sygga in the charcoal hollow, six along the spring approaches, three at the horse posts and one before Rylas's shields. The axeman Jon had killed lay by the tents, Harwin's spearman across the broken stakes. Benjen showed him the three dead bowmen, two shot and one stabbed in the charcoal cut.

Torwynd was tied to a birch. Fenn, the horse thief, sat with his thigh splinted while Ralf gave him water. Desmond flexed the bitten fingers inside his bloodstained bandage and turned away.

"Let him swallow," Jon told Ralf. "A mouthful at a time."

Benjen and Harwin followed the five fugitives as far as the stony ground. Three tracks joined beyond the dead gelding, then turned west. Two climbed north. Blood showed upon fern and pale stone along one western trail, but not enough to promise that the wounded man had died. "Five away," Benjen said when he returned.

Tomas counted upon his fingers. "Sixteen dead, two taken, five fled. Twenty-three."

Hugin came to Jon's sound wrist when he called. Arthur spread the crow's wing while Jon held him; one black feather was gone, but there was no blood. Munin landed beside them and pulled at the loose edge of Jon's cloak. He eased the wool from her beak and gave both birds water from the hollow of a cup.

Torwynd understood the Common Tongue. His face changed only when Benjen showed him the notched bone toggle. "Your snare?" Benjen asked.

The captive glanced towards Sygga. "She cannot answer."

Benjen knelt in front of him.

"How many crossed the Wall with you?"

Torwynd smiled through split lips. "No Wall in the Gorge."

"Are there others south of the Wall?" Jon asked.

"Kneeler boys ask many questions." Tomas stepped forward. Jon stopped him with one raised hand.

"Answer this one."

Torwynd's eyes lingered upon Jon's white forelock and the soot across his face. "White-head lord," he said at last. "Your black bird eats carrion."

Benjen answered in the Old Tongue, too fast for Jon to follow. The captive's smile faded. "What did you say?" Jon asked.

"That the ravens have begun." Benjen tucked the toggle away. "He can keep the rest for your father."

The dead carried Thenn bronze, Frozen Shore walrus teeth and cave paint beneath the mud. Two wore black wool cut from an old Watch cloak. Several peoples had joined the band; amid patched hides they had kept good iron spearheads and short bows suited to the trees, each bowman's reserve arrows dry beneath his cloak.

"Mance Rayder?" Benjen asked Torwynd.

The captive spat between his own boots. "A crow may call himself king. He is still a crow."

"Did he send Sygga?"

"Sygga went where she chose."

"Why south?" Torwynd looked past Benjen at the wet trunks and said nothing. Benjen rose. They would question him again at Winterfell.

They fashioned the road home from whatever battle had left them. Harwin and Garrick felled straight saplings and made three low travois. Rylas bundled Keir's purse and tied stockings within the dead boy's coat. Tomas drew the borrowed whistle from beneath his coat. A crack ran through its side where he had struck the bank while avoiding an arrow. He laid it beside Struan's stained slate. Cressen tugged at the iron lodged in Finnan's shield; when it would not move, he snapped off the haft and left the iron embedded in the wood. "Let his father see what the shield turned aside," he said.

Benjen marked the free-folk bodies for Eddard's riders. Gawen sat against a pine. Arthur cut away the bloody hose, washed the torn thigh and bound a pad over it, leaving the stitching for a healer. Gawen gripped a root as Ralf fitted support for the journey.

"Finnan remembered your turn," Tomas said. He stood close enough that Gawen need not raise his voice. "At the spring. He changed places with Cressen. The way you taught them."

Gawen looked towards the covered body. "I was forever putting him right on that turn."

"He got it right this time."

Gawen nodded, his hand still closed upon the root. When Arthur asked him to ease his grip, he did not hear until the knight repeated it.

They divided the sound horses among the injured. Gawen refused a litter. When his leg buckled, they lifted him onto the grey; Ralf supported the leg with a folded blanket and led the horse at a walk. Fergus could barely lift his shield against the bruises from Bucephalus. Gared's shoulder and Desmond's bitten hand throbbed. At the spring Cressen scrubbed until his fingers burned, but Finnan's blood stayed beneath his nails.

Jon stopped the whole column before anyone entered the beck. "Jorren goes over first, then turns his shields east. Olyver leads each horse across alone, and only when Ralf gives word. Rylas and Gage will share the travois. Harwin keeps his eyes westward until Benjen reaches the far side. Bring the prisoners at the end. Keep one on this bank until the other is across."

Rylas looked at the burden behind his four standing boys. "Keir belongs with us."

"He crosses with you." Cold water rose around the dead. The horses walked, each file waiting for the far bank to clear. Rain began as the last travois crossed, thickening until it hid the old burn.

They reached the cart track beyond the trees while the morning was still grey. Benjen walked its edge with Harwin before letting the wounded horses onto it. The road ran straight towards the outlying crofts, shortening the wide circuit they had followed into the woods.

Jon called Garrick and Harwin forward. Neither had a wound that prevented a hard ride.

"Ride together as far as the fork. Harwin, tell Heward what has happened. Three household dead, twenty-two coming home. Name the wounded and have Lorren ready at our hall. Heward is to send for Luwin. Garrick, go on to Father: two captives, one badly hurt, and five raiders still loose in the woods."

Harwin repeated the wounded names and the count; Garrick, the warning. They would send fresh men and litters to the town road.

"Keep to the cart track," Jon said. "No cutting through the trees."

He watched them pass the first croft. Ralf had stopped to adjust Gawen's leg support. The column waited for him.

* * *
​

Heward was beside the training shed when Harwin rode into the Old Watch. First's youngest men were carrying the lighter stones along the marked lane. The campidoctor had just sent a decanus back to correct a lad who kept turning with the weight held away from his chest.

Harwin reined in so sharply that Heward left the lane before he spoke.

"Three dead. Finnan, Keir and Struan. Lord Jon is coming with the rest."

Heward held the bridle while Harwin gave the wounded names. At Gawen's he called for Lorren; at the report of the captives he sent the nearest decanus to find Hewyn.

"How many household coming back?"

"Twenty-two, with Tomas. The others who went with them are living. Garrick has gone to Lord Stark."

Heward repeated the count. He knew where each boy had stood at the last muster. He handed Harwin's reins to a soldier and sent another to find Luwin, wherever he was, and bring him to the Black Yard.

Lorren came with his chest. Heward named the men unable to walk and called for Fifth's trained litter-bearers. Willen and Denner fetched dressings, splints and blankets.

"The hall needs clearing," Heward told Hewyn. "And hands for the horses."

Hewyn sent Alasdair's four files down to the Black Yard. Heward followed with Lorren, had the trestles set in the light and the old store opened for the dead. Elspeth heated water; Wylla fetched linen and clean clothes for the boys. A Stark rider brought word of Hallis's relief party, and Harwin took the spare litters to meet it.

* * *
​

Winterfell's horn sounded above the town before the noon bread. Elspeth heard the two long notes from her kitchen and laid her knife flat beside the last onion. Alys stood in the doorway with a broom in one hand.

"Black cloaks," Alys said. "Stark men before them."

The water was hot. Elspeth lifted a covered kettle while Alys cleared her path to the hall. Outside, Heward had four of Hallis's guards at the gate; Lorren's chest lay open beneath the eaves, with Willen and Denner keeping the dressings and blankets dry.

"Alys, tell the castle the wounded are here," Heward called. "Bring Luwin if the first runner has not found him."

She ran. Harwin led Hallis's returning relief party through the gate, then reined aside for Ralf and the grey. Gawen sat with his bound leg rigid along its flank, his face the colour of candle grease.

Lorren went to him before the horse had stopped moving. "How often has he lost his senses?"

"Twice," Ralf said. "The binding has bled through twice as well."

"Keep his head towards you." Lorren put a hand against Gawen's neck, then beckoned the bearers closer. Willen brought another folded pad. "Do not make him stand."

Heward cleared the entrance with his staff. The boys came behind, sodden cloaks clinging to wool and mail. Mud obscured their black shields save for pale gouges where rock and blade had scored the wood. Alasdair's men met the horses and took their reins. Fergus tried to unfasten his saddle roll. Alasdair lifted it down for him, handed the gelding to another guard and brought Fergus beneath the eaves.

"Tomas. Your count."

Smoke and rain had stiffened the captain's hair. A long knife hung in linen at his belt, its sheath lost.

"Twenty-two living, with me. Jorren and Olyver have six apiece, Rylas five, Gage four. Fergus cannot lift his arm. Finnan, Keir and Struan are coming behind."

"Stay until Lorren has seen them," Heward said. "Alasdair has the horses."

Lorren and the bearers had Gawen clear of the saddle. Arthur steadied his shoulders while the healer supported the hurt leg. They lowered him onto the waiting litter together, then carried him straight through the open hall doors. Denner went ahead with a blanket and came back for the next man.

The prisoners followed under Stark guard. Fenn lay upon a second litter, his splinted leg covered against the rain. Torwynd walked between two grey cloaks, grey braids stiff against his neck. Heward directed the bearers towards the hall and sent the unhurt captive beneath the far shelter, with a guard between him and every man who had come from the woods.

Behind them, three low travois came through the gate. Blankets covered what they bore, but a narrow hand had slipped free of the second. Peat-black earth lay beneath its nails.

Heward took off his cap. Rain ran over his maimed left ear and down his neck. Harwin had given him the names at the Old Watch; until this moment he had seen only the places they would leave in the yard. He stood bareheaded until the last of them was inside.

"The old store," he told the waiting men. "The trestles are ready. Lift them clear at the threshold."

Elspeth had come out with the kettle. She saw the hand and stopped beside the kitchen step. Wylla took the kettle from her before it tipped.

"I have found their clean tunics," Wylla said quietly.

Elspeth nodded. She went beside the second travois and drew the blanket back over the hand. Then she returned to her kitchen for the other kettle.

Jon rode in with dried blood beneath one glove and a split in his sword sleeve. Arthur was back beside him before he dismounted. His bruised side failed him for half a breath and his knees bent. The knight caught his sound arm.

"Slowly."

"I can stand."

Arthur supported Jon until he steadied. Lorren felt the torn glove, then opened his coat to examine the bruised side, watching him breathe.

"Inside, my lord. The maester will see you as soon as he comes."

Jon looked towards the old store. Heward followed his glance.

"All three are there. Wylla has their clothes. The families have not yet been called."

"Father will send to them. Keep the belongings with each man."

"They will be kept." Heward turned to two of Alasdair's guards. "No one crowds that door. Let their fellows come when the healer has finished with them."

Elspeth appeared with a basket of loaves. Jon caught the warm smell beneath blood and wet wool.

"There is broth," she said.

"Keep it ready," Lorren answered. "I will tell you who may eat."

Hewyn brought First down from the Old Watch and halted it outside the gate. As he named the dead, Malcolm and Mallador bared their heads. The gesture passed through eight ranks. At Heward's call, Malcolm sent men for water; the rest kept the road open.

Alys returned with Luwin and the soldier Heward had first sent for him. Luwin's medicine bag knocked against his knee as he crossed the yard. Lorren met him at the hall door and named Gawen first, then the wounded captive, Desmond's bitten hand and Jon's side. The two went in together. Willen was already cutting fresh strips of linen beside the table.

Eddard came down from the castle with Ser Rodrik, Jory and Hallis Mollen. Robb followed half a pace behind. At sight of the covered bodies he stopped so suddenly that Catelyn, behind him with Bran, nearly struck his back.

Heward gave Eddard the returned count. "Lorren has begun, my lord. Maester Luwin is with him."

Eddard looked into the hall before turning to Hallis. "The wounded prisoner remains with the maester under guard. Put the other in the First Keep, away from any man who can carry words between them. They share neither cup nor message."

Torwynd smiled from beneath the shelter. "Saving us for the rope?"

"For questioning. Take him to the castle."

Benjen handed Eddard the notched toggle and the black cloth. "Keep these from them."

Eddard closed his hand around both. "Jory, riders to the three families. They hear the names from men in my cloak, not from market gossip. If the kin wish to come, give them horses or carts."

"Aye, my lord."

"Hallis, six fresh riders to the burn. Recover the dead and search the trails as far as the stony ground. Do not chase into trees after dark. Hear Benjen before you send them."

Only then did Eddard go into the hall to Jon. His gaze took in the torn glove, soot and the blood that belonged to several men.

"How many attacked?"

"Twenty-three."

"And escaped?"

"Five. One wounded by an arrow."

"Tell me the rest after Luwin has seen you." Eddard rested his hand lightly upon Jon's sound shoulder and stayed beside his bench. Robb followed them in, but his father sent him back outside to give the bearers room.

Beneath the hall windows Luwin bent over Gawen while Lorren supported the leg. Used bowls went out with Alys; clean linen came from Wylla. Willen set the needles within reach and caught a bloodied dressing before it touched the fresh pile. Along the walls, cloaks dripped from pegs and spearshafts laid across stools.

"Twice he lost his senses on the road," Ralf told Luwin. "I had to hold him in the saddle."

"I slept," Gawen muttered.

"You may sleep after I have seen this." The maester eased off the field wrappings. Lorren washed the wound with boiled water Wylla had left to cool, and the basin reddened. Willen passed fresh linen.

Gawen gripped the table edge. Fergus watched from the next bench until the knight noticed. "If I cry, you may tell every maid in Winter Town."

"I was watching the maester." The needle passed. Gawen swore once with exquisite care.

"Now I shall tell them you know courtly words," Fergus said.

Luwin wrapped Gawen's leg from the knee almost to the hip. "You will sit no horse, enter no practice yard, and put no weight upon this until I permit it. If the wound grows hot or the flesh darkens, fetch me before you fetch any holy man."

"How long?"

"I shall know more in a few days. Until then, keep it still."

The wounded captive came next, lifted from his litter by Lorren's two bearers. Hallis's guards stayed at either shoulder. Desmond's bitten hand closed when Luwin ordered the captive laid upon the second table. "He came to kill us."

"And failed," the maester said. "If he dies before speaking, he carries every answer away. Hallis's men hold him. You need not."

Fenn refused the leather strap until Luwin touched the torn thigh. Then he took it between his teeth. Olyver stood at the foot of the table and watched the maester wash splinters of ash from the wound. "Why are you here?" Jon asked Olyver.

"To help, my lord." Olyver took the lamp while Luwin bent over the wounded thigh.

"Higher." Olyver raised the lamp and held it through Fenn's cries. At the next bench Lorren cleaned Desmond's bite and called Luwin to inspect it. The maester checked the bruised forearm too, warning Desmond to send for them if the hand grew hotter or more swollen. Gared's shoulder took six stitches. Benjen waited until the boys were seen to have his brow washed. Fergus's ribs were bruised; Lorren found no sign of a break. Heward brought the remaining names; when each had been accounted for, he returned to the gate.

Lorren had kept Jon beside the clean-linen table, within sight between patients. Luwin came last to slit the ruined glove and peel it from the cut between forefinger and thumb. Charcoal and someone else's blood caked the wound. As he washed it, Jon's vision narrowed.

"Were you struck on the head as well?"

"Shield to mouth. Stone beneath the shoulder. I remember both."

Luwin felt along his scalp, then pressed the ribs until Jon's breath caught. "There," Jon said.

"Bruised, I think." Luwin felt along the next rib before returning to the hand. "Let this close before you take up a sword. I shall see it again tomorrow."

"The others?"

"Gawen keeps his leg if fever does not take it. Desmond keeps his hand on the same condition. None of the other wounds threaten life." Luwin tied the last linen. "I shall see them both again tonight."

Arthur took Jon upstairs long enough to strip off wet clothes and force bread into him. The chamber above the counting room smelled of lamp oil and damp ash. Through the boards came ordinary noises—the pump handle, boots in the yard, a basin dropped and cursed. Each time Jon shut his eyes, the spear that struck Keir opened the line again.

"We would have met them at the ford, with the horses filling the path," Jon said.

Arthur sat beside Dawn. Mud had dried along one side of his face. "And no room to turn the rear file. You kept us where the men could close their shields."

"I still placed them."

"Yes."

Jon worked a crumb between his fingers until it fell apart. He brushed the pieces onto the plate and looked at Arthur.

"Skoros otāpā?" Jon asked in High Valyrian.

"The alarm shield should have been lower. Struan had to lift his arm above the bank to strike it. We turned the western file towards that bowman and left the post exposed."

Jon nodded. "He should have been able to sound it from cover."

"Gared turned towards the second approach and uncovered himself. After the spear cut him, he could hold the shield but scarcely move it."

"We have practised changing a tired man. Not keeping a wounded one in place until he can be moved." Jon looked towards the door. "We will work on that when they are fit."

Arthur drew the plate away from the wet edge of the table. "Not everything at once. I want to hear Gage and Rylas before I tell you what happened at places I could not see."

"I am asking what you saw."

"Gared kept trying to raise his shield after the arm had failed. Desmond had lost his sword and could barely use his left hand, but he held the boy against the root until I could give him a spear. Neither tried to run." Arthur paused. "Cressen told me Finnan held the man who had put the knife into him. I have taught grown knights who would have let go."

Jon rubbed the loose end of his bandage between finger and thumb. Luwin had tied it clear of the cut.

"He asked whether he had done well."

"I heard."

"I told him."

"Yes." Arthur leaned forward, forearms on his knees. "He heard you too. He looked at you when you answered."

Jon sat without speaking for a while. Below the window, someone was taking a horse across the yard. He followed the sound until it stopped.

"Bring the file leaders tomorrow," Jon said. "I want each account and the places drawn before we hear them together. They will not contradict you readily. Tell them what you could not see."

"I shall." Arthur reached for the water. Jon covered the cup with his good hand.

"You have hardly said anything since we came back."

"I have been trying not to ask you a question every time you move."

"Ask it."

"Does the side hurt more than you have told Luwin?"

"No. It hurts when I turn. I told him that."

Arthur looked at the discarded coat. "I heard Tomas call for you. All I could see was the rim of that pit."

Jon let go of the cup.

"I thought she had killed you," Arthur said. He poured the water. Some struck the rim, and he wiped the spill with his thumb.

"She nearly did."

Arthur set the jug down. "Then I heard the crows. By the time I could look, Tomas was calling that she had fallen."

"They gave me room," Jon said. "I urged Hugin at her without leaving my own eyes. Munin followed. The woman was fast enough to turn Hugin aside, but not both."

Arthur glanced at the linen around Jon's hand. "Did she strike either of them?"

"One feather. I looked." Jon took the cup. "I will not have them stay within reach longer than they must."

Jon pushed the plate nearer him. "Eat something yourself. You have given me half that loaf and taken none."

Arthur broke a piece from the remaining heel. For a time they ate without discussing the camp. When Jon shifted to ease his side, Arthur watched, but did not ask him again.

Aries was waiting outside when Arthur went to the door for more water. He held Jon's clean gloves against his chest, though no one had asked for them. Patch stood behind his legs.

"Come in," Jon said.

The boy stopped at the torn coat. His eyes went from its stiff sleeve to the white cloth about Jon's hand.

"Ser Gawen is asleep."

"Lorren gave him something for the pain."

Aries's mouth tightened. "Will he wake?"

"Yes. The maester has left men with him." Jon set down his cup. "Put the gloves there. Sit while I finish this."

Aries came near enough to touch the sound sleeve. For a moment he gripped it hard, looking at the bandage rather than Jon's face. Then he released the cloth as though he had been caught doing something forbidden.

"You may ask after him," Jon said. "You need not wait outside the door."

Aries nodded and took the stool Arthur offered. When Wylla called, he went to her. She put an arm around him, asking which pages had eaten, and took him down with Patch at their heels.

She returned after feeding them, clean hose over her arm. At sight of the coat on the floor she put them down. Jon watched her lift it by the sound shoulder, its torn sleeve stiff with blood.

"I shall mend what I can," she said.

"There is another in the chest."

"I know where your clothes are." She laid the coat across the chair and came to him. Her hand stayed at the back of his neck while he swallowed the last of the bread. He had washed, yet she found charcoal beside his ear and wiped it away with her thumb.

Neither asked him to speak. Arthur poured more water. Wylla pulled the dry hose over Jon's feet, working gently when he moved his bruised side. He let her. When a footstep sounded on the stair she stood, brushed his loose hair from his eyes and went to the door.

Eddard knocked before entering. The bone toggle lay in one hand.

"Benjen and I have questioned the hornman," Eddard said. "He admits the Gorge. He will give us nothing about the men still loose. The wounded man says horses and food; Luwin would allow no more questions. Now tell me what you saw."

Jon told him of the snare, the four bows and the two paths Arthur had held. He described Sygga trying to draw his reserve, then forcing him into the pit. Eddard stopped him over Keir's gap and the fugitives' routes. When Jon reached the crows, he described their attack on her face and the opening beneath her shield; he said nothing of the urge he had sent Hugin. At Finnan's last words he had to stop.

Eddard let him finish. "Poole has sent a warning to Mormont, and birds to Last Hearth and Deepwood Motte. Riders are warning the Cerwyns, the Tallharts and the charcoal burners. There is coin for news of strangers or tracks, but no one is to follow them." He set the bone toggle down beside Jon's cup.

"Jory's men have gone to the families," he said. "Finnan's father will be cutting peat. Keir's mother dwells beyond the road to the mill. Struan's aunt earns her bread down by the washerwomen's water."

"They hear how from me."

"They will know before they come. Tell them the rest here." Jon rose, pain pulling beneath his ribs. He leaned for one breath into the palm Eddard rested on his hair, then went down with him. Yesterday the old storehouse had held turnips. Three bodies lay there now.

Elspeth had washed the mud and charcoal from their faces. Wylla dressed them in clean black tunics. Alys tried three times to smooth Keir's cowlick before giving up. Belts, purses, cloaks and arms lay beside them. Finnan's father arrived with peat black to his elbows and two grown sons behind him, one in their good cloak, the other crushing a cap. He did not bow.

"Show me which one."

Jon brought the scarred shield to the table. The broken spear iron still stood in it, caught where the old axe mark had weakened the wood. "This was his."

The father touched the iron with two earth-black fingers. "Did it fail?"

"No. It caught the spear. Finnan held the man while Cressen, the guard beside him, struck."

"Where did the knife enter?" Jon showed him beneath his own arm. The man nodded, his jaw clenched.

Poole, Winterfell's steward, came in with two purses and placed them on the oak. "Earned wage and road silver. The second holds a year's wage from House Black for those he leaves."

Finnan's father looked at the larger purse. "Blood price?"

"Finnan's earnings," Jon said, touching the smaller purse. "The other is for you and his brothers. His wages will not stop because you have lost him."

The father's hands began to shake. He set them flat. "I did not sell him."

"No."

The elder brother drew the purse aside before it fell. "Peat does not cut itself, Da."

The younger brother had been staring at Cressen's scrubbed hands. "You killed the man?"

Cressen stood against the wall, too stiff to be at ease. "Finnan trapped his spear. I thrust. Then the man drew the knife and Finnan told me again."

"Again?"

"I thrust again." Grief twisted the brother's face so fiercely that Arthur shifted half a step. Then the man crossed the room and put both arms around Cressen.

"You were beside him," he said into the boy's hair. "Good."

Cressen remained rigid within the embrace. When his face broke, Elspeth led him through the kitchen door. Finnan's father turned the shield over. "Did he call for home?"

"He asked whether he had done well," Jon said.

Finnan's father stopped turning the shield.

"What did you tell him?"

"That he had. He held the man so Cressen could strike. I told him I had seen it."

"Did he hear you?"

"Yes." Jon looked at the hand lying flat against the shield. "He squeezed my hand when I answered."

The father rubbed his thumb over the wood, away from the broken iron. His eldest son moved closer, but left him room to stand.

The old man nodded once. "His mother lies above the peat hollow. He goes beside her. The earth stays dry there."

Keir's mother arrived after dark in a muck cart with a cracked wheel, a neighbour leading its mare. Rope held the axle together. Rain and smoke clung to her goat-wool shawl. She passed the purses on Poole's table.

"Take me to my son."

Elspeth stayed with her behind the storeroom door while half a log sank into the hall embers. Keir's mother came out with his belt wound twice around her hand.

"Did he try to run?"

"No."

"Do not polish him for me. I birthed him. He feared thunder until he was nine."

"His sword struck his shield before the men reached him," Jon said. "His file leader, Rylas, laid his own blade against it until the noise stopped. Keir kept the open end of the western line. He wounded one man and changed places when Rylas called."

"You saw him?"

"I saw."

"Did he call for me?"

"He never woke after the spear." Elspeth brought Keir's pack from the storeroom and set it beside his mother. His mother opened it and found the knotted stockings on top. She lifted them and pressed the rough wool to her mouth.

"I meant to mend these when he came home," she said after a time. The fire settled behind her with a soft fall of ash.

She chose oats, lamp oil and salt meat with the wage, then nodded towards the neighbour waiting in the rain. "His cart broke bringing me."

"Winterfell's wheelwright will mend it," Eddard said.

She looked at Eddard. "Thank you, my lord. The south rut near the mill nearly took the other wheel."

"I will send men to it."

She took Keir's belt but left his sword. "Give it to a boy whose mother cannot buy iron. It is too good to hang above my fire."

Struan's aunt came last with an older washerwoman on one arm and a thin girl on the other. Lye had split every knuckle of the aunt's hands. The little girl's eyes fixed on the broken whistle beside the blood-marked watch slate. "The slate," the aunt said. "They told me Struan wrote upon a slate."

Tomas brought the slate. An arrow had split its wooden frame. The word at the head of the watch list was still legible beneath the stain. She put a cracked finger below the word. "What does this say?"

Tomas had carried orders through arrows without losing his voice. It failed him now. He swallowed and tried again. "First."

"He wrote it?"

"Copied the watch himself. Read it back too."

She sounded the letters after him, one by one, until they became the word. "First."

The child held out her hand for the whistle, and Tomas laid it gently across her palm. "He lent it to me," he told her. "I cracked it in the fighting. Your brother sounded the warning when the arrows came."

"Can it sound now?"

"Not yet."

Struan's aunt folded his spare shirt around the slate and tucked the whistle inside the cloth. "He used to steal sheets off my drying frames and crawl beneath them for the warmth. Was his bed warm in this place?"

"Yes," Jon said.

"Did he eat?"

From the doorway Elspeth replied, "Two meals before noon whenever he failed to escape me, and more before dark."

"He claimed you gave him no food if he came late."

"I served the punctual lads before him." Struan's aunt managed one laugh before it broke apart into a sob. The elder washerwoman caught her beneath both arms.

The little sister looked towards the bread at the hearth. "May he take one?"

Elspeth wrapped two hot bread heels in linen. "One goes with him. The other will feed you on the way." Struan's family had no land. His aunt chose the high bank above the washerwomen's stream, safe from spring floods and within sight of the women at work.

Jon followed them into the cool storeroom. Finnan's father brushed his son's cheek; Keir's mother chided her boy's open mouth until Elspeth shut it. Struan's sister held his fingers between hers, trying to warm them.

He remembered his wife beneath clean linen, their children waiting beyond a hospital door. He had sat through other nights like this. His hands still shook. When his ribs grew too painful, he asked Arthur for a stool and stayed beside the table until the last family was ready. There was no familiar office he could send them to in the morning. He asked who would accompany each body and who would stay with the kin waiting here. The rest could be settled afterwards.

That night Elspeth had the household sit together. Alasdair's men made room for those who had come back from the woods, moving along the benches without waiting to be asked. Gared could not lower himself without help. The man beside him put an arm around his waist and took his weight, then remained close after he was seated. Across the table Cressen stood behind Finnan's place with both hands upon the bench.

"Here," Gage said, touching the space beside him.

Cressen looked at the three trenchers someone had laid out. Finnan's spoon rested across his bowl. Keir's cup had a chip near the lip; Struan's stood upside down, as he had kept it since Gared dropped a beetle into his drink.

"He'll want that," Cressen said.

Nobody answered. He stared at the bowl until his face changed, then sat where Gage had shown him. He dragged his sleeve across his nose, angry and hurried about it. Gared was looking at Struan's cup. His injured arm rested in a sling against his chest.

"He never let me forget it," he said. "The bloody beetle. Every time I took my cup—"

His voice failed. He bent over his good hand. Someone near the other end of the bench gave a short laugh which sounded almost like a cough, and then covered his own face.

Jon stood in the doorway with Arthur. He had seen the same men jostling for space while their supper cooled, complaining about a sore shoulder or a horse which had stepped on a boot. Tonight they kept their bodies turned towards one another, knees and elbows touching where ordinarily someone would have objected. Alasdair's men looked from the bandages to the empty places, still trying to understand the hours they had missed.

Elspeth put the broth down. The steam carried the smell of onions through the hall, but no one reached for a bowl. She looked at the three trenchers. Her mouth tightened, and she took one a little away from the edge, where it might have been knocked down.

"I shall keep theirs here," she said. "For tonight."

Jon went to Cressen. The young guard tried to stand. Jon put his sound hand upon his shoulder and kept him seated.

"My lord, I—"

"Stay there."

"I should have struck sooner." Cressen was staring at the table. "When he caught the spear. I saw the opening. I struck him, but he still had the knife. If I had gone higher—"

"You struck when Finnan gave you room."

"He would still be here."

The words came out so loudly that a servant carrying bread stopped behind them. Cressen's shoulders rose beneath Jon's hand. Gage leaned nearer, but the boy shook his head hard.

"I was beside him. You put me beside him."

Jon could still feel Finnan's fingers tightening around his own. He had tried to think beyond it all afternoon: to the men in the infirmary, the families on the road, the questions Eddard must ask. Here was Cressen, who had been beside Finnan while the blood ran through their hands. There was no order which would make him stop seeing it.

"Look at me."

Cressen lifted his face. His eyes were swollen, the skin beneath them raw from rubbing.

"Finnan knew you were there. When I took his hand, he looked for you. Do you remember?"

After a moment Cressen nodded.

"He saw you. He heard you. You stayed with him until he died." Jon's hand tightened upon the shoulder. "You killed the man who hurt him. You could do no more with a sword."

Cressen tried to answer. His mouth twisted and he bowed his head again. Gage put an arm about him, drawing him against his side. This time he let himself be held.

Jon stayed until Cressen's breathing had slowed. When he straightened, the movement pulled beneath his ribs. He rested his hand on the table and waited for the pain to pass.

"I need you to hear me," he said.

Tomas looked up. Farther along the benches, Iain nudged a man who had turned away. Arthur remained near the door. He had let Jon walk the length of the hall without following, though Jon could feel him watching.

"Finnan asked me whether he had done well."

The hall grew still. Jon had told the boy's father. Saying it here, before the men who had eaten and trained beside him, brought back the little movement of his eyes as he waited for an answer.

"I told him he had. He heard me." Jon stopped. He could hear the catch in his own breathing, and took a little time before going on. "I want all of you to know why I said it."

Cressen raised his head.

"He caught the spear in his shield. When the man drew his knife, Finnan held him there so Cressen could strike. He was frightened. He was hurt. He kept thinking of the man beside him."

Jon looked towards Rylas. The serjeant had not touched his bowl.

"Keir held the end of your line. His sword was shaking against his shield, and he stayed. Struan saw the arrows and struck the alarm. Men were still reaching for their belts when he warned them."

Tomas closed his eyes. He had taken the whistle from Struan, and Jon knew he would be thinking of that as well.

"Their names will be spoken here for as long as I have a household. Their families will have what I promised them. I will go to each grave with you. But I will not have any man who came home believe that he has failed them by living."

Alasdair looked down at his hands. Along his side of the table, a lad's face crumpled. He pressed his lips together so hard that they whitened.

"Some of you were here," Jon said. "I ordered you to remain. You kept the holding and the road, and there were men ready to take our horses and lift our wounded when we returned. Do not ask forgiveness for obeying me."

"We should have been with them," Alasdair said. His voice was thick.

"I chose who went." Jon met his eyes. "I chose where we stood when the attack came. Those choices belong to me. I will hear every man who thinks I should have done something differently, and Arthur will hear him with me. I expect the truth, even when it is something your lord would rather not hear."

He turned back to the men who had ridden into the woods.

"You have spent your days learning to keep your shields together. I have woken you in the rain and made you do it again when you were tired. There were days you hated me for it. I know that."

Gage looked up then. Jon held his gaze.

"We trained so that when men came to kill us, you would know what to do for each other. At the spring, under those arrows, you knew. Gared could scarcely move his arm and still tried to raise his shield. Desmond held him up. Rylas closed the place where Keir fell. When Sygga had me in the hollow, Tomas came for me."

Tomas shook his head a little, as though he did not want the others looking at him.

"You did," Jon said. "And I remember it."

He moved his bandaged hand from the table. The linen had pulled against the cut, leaving a small red mark between his fingers.

"Twenty-two of you who wore this cloth into the woods came back alive. We brought our wounded with us. We brought Finnan, Keir and Struan home to their families. That cost courage after the fighting was done. I saw men wade into that beck who could hardly lift their own arms, because they would not let go of a friend."

At the far end of the table Rylas covered his mouth. Keir had crossed with his file, as he had demanded. He looked down at his lap until he could look at Jon again.

"I am proud to lead you." Jon let them see his face as he said it. "I was proud when you took your places before the northern lords. I am proud of you tonight."

The words left his throat aching. He had raised these boys into the men before him. He had fed their ambitions, put steel in their hands and accepted their oaths. They had wanted a life with him, and three of them would have no more of it.

"There will be dangers beyond these woods. You know where I mean to take you. I cannot promise that every one of us will grow old there." His voice was quieter now. "I can promise that your lives will never be a thing I spend carelessly. I will learn what this cost us. So will the men who teach you. We owe that to those who died, and to every man who will stand beside us again."

He looked at the three places. Finnan's spoon had begun to slide against the edge of the bowl. Jon set it down upon the table.

"For tonight, stay together. If a man needs to speak, hear him. If he cannot bear to lie alone, make room. The guards at the gate have their orders; none of you needs to prove anything to me by standing there until you fall asleep."

Gage moved along the bench, and Jon sat beside Cressen.

"And when you can, tell me something about them. Something I did not know."

Nobody spoke at first. Elspeth took the ladle and filled the nearest bowls. Jon passed one to Gage, who had kept his arm around Cressen throughout. Alasdair reached across for the bread and began breaking it.

"Keir could mend a stocking," Iain said at last.

Jon looked towards him.

"His mother had shown him. I saw him mend the lining of his glove once. Little stitches." Iain held his thumb and finger close together. "He would not let me look until he had finished."

Jon watched him try to smile at the memory. His hand remained raised a moment, then dropped to the table.

"He could have done those stockings."

Iain bent his head and wept. The guard beside him moved closer. Across the table Gared was still trying to finish his story about the beetle; Tomas leaned towards him to hear.

They ate slowly. Cressen managed three mouthfuls before going out to be sick. Gage went with him. Finnan's elder brother, returning to sit beside the body, found them in the passage and stayed until Cressen could stand. When they came back, Alasdair had moved Cressen's bowl closer to the fire to keep it warm.

At the high table Catelyn's food lay untouched beside silent Robb. When Eddard joined them, he beckoned Jon over. Catelyn looked at Jon's hand as he set down his bowl.

"Robb says he begged to remain."

"He did," Jon answered.

"And you would have let him?"

"No. Father had already ordered him home."

Robb flushed. "I could have fought."

"Your place was with me," Eddard said. "I sent you home."

Catelyn's fingers tightened around the stem of her cup. "We allowed children to serve as guards, and men watched for the grown swords to leave them."

Benjen set down his cup. "Ned left them with me and men who had fought before. We could not take the packhorses across that ford in darkness. Jon had his shields ready when they came. The bows cost us dearly."

"And next time?" Catelyn asked.

"Robb will not ride into danger on my order," Jon said.

"He would follow you without one." Catelyn looked towards her eldest son.

"And I would send him home, as Father did."

"He would have wanted to stay."

"Cat," Eddard said.

She looked down at her untouched meal. "I know what he would have wanted."

Robb began to speak, then stopped when Eddard laid a hand on his arm. At the servants' table Gage laid a hand upon Struan's upturned cup. Jon watched the small movement and said no more.

* * *
​

They buried Finnan in peat-dark earth beside his mother. His brothers bore him from the road while smoke crawled low across the hollow. The iron spearhead remained fixed in the shield upon his breast; his father had refused to let Woods pry it loose. "It came home with him," he said. "It may go into earth with him."

The nearest heart tree stood half a day away in ground too wet for a grave. Here Eddard commended Finnan to the old gods, and his father answered. His brothers lowered him on rain-dark ropes. The household stood in eight files with three places empty. Cressen brought Finnan's sword wrapped in black wool. At the father's nod he gave it to the younger brother.

"Let it never go dull."

"You stayed with him until the end?" the brother asked.

Cressen nodded. "I could not stop the blood."

The man took the sword and touched Cressen's forearm. "You stayed. I am glad he had you."

Jon laid the first block of peat upon the shield. Tomas laid the second. Gawen watched from a cart at the edge of the cut, wounded leg straight beneath a grey cloak. "He learned the turn cleanly," Gawen said.

Finnan's father looked up from the grave. "He never turned a furrow straight in his life."

"He had other gifts," Gawen said.

Next day they buried Keir above his mother's croft. Cloud lifted from its chimney as the grave filled. Rylas stood at the head, unable to meet her eye.

"I put him on the end," he told her.

"Was it the proper place?"

"When we formed, yes. Once the arrows changed, I might have moved a shield behind him."

"Would you have known before the spear?" Rylas looked at Jon. Jon gave him no refuge.

"No," the serjeant said.

Keir's mother closed her hand around the dead boy's belt. "Then I cannot tell you what else you should have done." She looked at the fresh earth. "I wish I could." Rylas remained after every clod was down.

Struan went into the firmer rise above the washerwomen's stream. The women left wet linen upon the stones and stood in two silent rows with red hands empty. His little sister wore the broken whistle upon a cord. It knocked against her chest as she walked. "Can it be mended?" she asked Tomas.

"Woods will try."

"You must try as well." The elder washerwoman began their work song. The others joined, singing every verse twice while the earth covered him. His sister left a bread heel on the mound. It had soaked dark by the time they reached the road.

The next morning Eddard questioned the captives separately beneath the First Keep. A single arrow slit chilled the room. Benjen stood at his right, Luwin had his quill ready, and Hallis guarded the door. Jon had refused Luwin's order to stay abed: he had seen Sygga's signals and meant to hear what the captives said of her orders. Wrapped in a dry cloak, he accepted a stool and kept his weight off the bruised side.

Torwynd still withheld his people. Benjen addressed him in the Old Tongue. "Your dead wear Thenn bronze, walrus ivory from the Frozen Shore, and cave paint. Which people are yours?"

Torwynd answered in the Common Tongue. "None claims a bound man."

"How many crossed?" Eddard asked.

"Your own eyes gave you the tally."

"Say it."

"Twenty-three."

"Where?"

"The Gorge. Your Wall runs out before the mountains do."

Benjen laid the notched toggle upon the table. "How long did you watch the camp?"

"One night."

"You knew Lord Stark had ridden away." The captive said nothing.

"One dawn, then, and the day before it," Benjen said. "Who placed the watcher above the eastern path?"

"Sygga placed whom she pleased."

"Mance Rayder sent her?"

Torwynd laughed. "The crow who wants a crown calls everyone. Sygga knelt to no crow."

"What drove her south?" Jon asked.

"Fat horses."

"Why come this far for them?"

Torwynd scowled at him. "Hunger drove us."

"You killed three of my son's men for their horses and stores," Eddard said. "You will answer for it."

Fenn came on crutches and claimed seventeen had crossed. Eddard gave him the tally of twenty-three without naming his source. Fenn cursed Torwynd and admitted it. He claimed one night's watching too, until Benjen described crushed pine needles above the path; then he admitted a second. Sygga had wanted twelve mounts, mail, cured meat and iron spears to carry north by another track. Wolves had drawn her watchers closer. After the snare was found she left two men at the ford, recalling them before dawn to attack the horses.

"Are there other bands below the Wall?" Eddard asked.

"None belonging to us."

"I did not ask only for yours."

Fenn kept his eyes upon the splints around his thigh. "A man walks where his feet choose."

Benjen asked a question in the Old Tongue. Fenn's head jerked up before he mastered it. "What was that?" Eddard said.

"I asked whether dead men drove them south." Luwin's quill stopped.

Fenn bared his teeth. "Kneelers put walking corpses in their tales whenever the hearth needs feeding."

"He did not like that," Jon said.

"He does not like much in this room," Hallis replied.

Eddard told Luwin to set down the question and the answer. The same sheet would carry their separate accounts of the Gorge, the missing Watch men, and the plunder they had meant to take. Jon watched the quill move. He knew what might be beyond the Wall; he did not know what this man had seen.

Eddard sent the fuller accounts to Mormont. Six days later an answer came: two small patrols were missing near the Gorge, one during foul weather, one without trace. Six rangers would search the western approaches. When Fenn could travel, Benjen was to bring both captives north with the Watch wool and toggle. Had either spoken Mance Rayder's name?

By then Woods had mounted three slim blackwood tablets above the barracks hearth.

FINNAN.

KEIR.

STRUAN.

Nothing hung from the pegs below the tablets. Keir's blade stayed in the armoury for a guard who could not buy his own. Finnan's sword had gone to the peat fields. Struan's knife and slate went home with his aunt. Woods helped Tomas mend the cracked whistle with an ash splint, glue and tight-wound linen. When they took it to the washerwomen's stream, Struan's sister tried it twice before producing a clear, high note.

She put the cord over Tomas's bowed head. "You can use it. Aunt says I shall frighten the hens."

"I will look after it," he said.

Three mornings later the Watch took the captives through Winterfell's lower gate. Fenn rode in a cart with fresh wool under his splint; Torwynd walked bound between mounted brothers. Eddard handed Benjen the toggle and sealed cloth. Behind waited the Wall supplies: grain under tarred covers, lamp oil, salted beef and six remounts.

"Five remain loose," Benjen said.

"Hallis keeps the roads," Eddard replied. "Your rangers keep the north."

"I will keep looking west," Benjen said. He clasped his brother's arm and rode after the cart.

Training had begun while they waited for Mormont's reply. For the first three mornings after the fighting, Heward excused the twenty-two survivors from early drill, and Tomas put older men beside them on short watches. On the fourth Jon joined them for a walk, his ribs still too sore to run. Afterwards Tomas brought the files together.

They set two rails across the riding lane to match the narrow woodland track. Ralf strung a tether between posts and laid knives beside it. Jon and Tomas left a second way around the rail, wide enough for three men to pass. From a stool beneath the eaves, Gawen watched with his bandaged leg stretched out before him.

The first drills were slow. Jon kept the commands quiet and let each file walk its route before they tried it in darkness. When wet canvas dropped across Cressen's shield, he went still and called Finnan's name. Gage steadied him while Jon lifted the edge. "Here, Cressen. Cut this cord." He waited until the boy had his knife out. The canvas fell clear, and Gage brought the file through together.

A week later Tomas sounded the alarm after dark. Twenty-two shields turned outward while Ralf's men secured the horses. Jorren kept three in reserve. When Harwin retreated beyond the rail, nobody followed him. Jon went through the lane with Tomas afterwards, using a peeled switch in place of his sword. They widened the turn at the tether posts and moved a bedroll that blocked the second entrance.

Tomas made Jorren repeat the new turn with his file, then dismissed the men. In the hall he hung the repaired whistle beneath Struan's name before taking his place at supper.

 

[aiwonder]

Three moons after the skirmish, Jon still woke before the whistle. Sometimes Sygga stood above him; sometimes Finnan called from a place Jon could not reach. That morning he sat against the bedhead until he knew the room. Wylla brought a lamp and the shirt he had left over a chair, opened the shutters a finger's width and waited while he drank. This wakefulness had followed him home from the sea long before Winterfell existed for him as anything but a name in a book. He knew to wait for the room to return. It was no easier for knowing.

Munin tapped the shutter. Jon held out his hand, and the crow stepped onto his wrist. She had spent his first evenings home from the woods on the sill beside his bed. He stroked the feathers above her beak while Wylla drew a stool forward for Lorren.

"You have pulled the glove too tight again," Lorren said, easing it from Jon's hand.

"It loosens once I am moving."

"Then move your fingers for me."

Jon swallowed. Dawn had not yet reached the shutters. "How long was I calling?"

Wylla sat upon the edge of the bed. Black wool circled her wrist, faded by grease and wash water; she had worn it since the burial. "Not long." Lorren unwound the linen around Jon's hand. A pale ridge crossed the palm and disappeared beneath two stiff fingers. He rubbed warmed goose grease into the scar, working gently until Jon could straighten them.

"I had better dress," Jon said.

Wylla handed him his shirt. In the lower hall, the twenty-two survivors of the ride west kept one end of the household's bench. The other twenty-five guards, who had stayed behind with Alasdair, filled the places farther down. Finnan had always taken the burnt crust from the porridge pot. Keir left his water cup in everyone's way. Struan drummed his spoon until Gage threatened to feed it to him.

Elspeth still set aside one black crust before remembering. That morning she stared at it, her mouth working. When she broke it into the slop pail, the crust made almost no sound. She struck the wooden rim with the spoon and turned away before anyone could speak.

Jon sat beside Tomas. Oats, fried onions and damp wool scented the steam. Aries brought him water, then reached for an empty platter although his own breakfast waited untouched.

"Leave that. Come and eat."

The page glanced towards the guards. "I can help, my lord."

He had said that in the woods, with a hand on his little dagger. Jon remembered Keir's shield coming down over the page.

"You have helped. Sit beside me." Jon made room on the bench.

Aries obeyed. When Rylas passed him the bread, the boy thanked him without quite meeting his eyes. Jon let him eat in silence, then carried his own bowl to the order table. Above the fire hung three blackwood boards.

FINNAN.

KEIR.

STRUAN.

Their pegs held no belt, shield or cloak. Struan's repaired whistle lay upon the order table below them, its ash splint bound in pale thread.

* * *
​

Tomas came to Jon after supper with the household roll folded in one hand. He did not open it at once. Gage sat beside the hearth, turning Struan's mended whistle by its cord. Arthur sat beside Jon while Tomas spoke.

"Hewyn has men asking for the three places, my lord."

"Have the centurions put them forward. Arthur and Martyn will see them at the Old Watch."

"Spears as well as swords?"

"If their swords are good enough. I need men who can join the household's work now."

Tomas opened the roll. Three spaces interrupted the names he had entered himself.

"A moon on trial," Jon said. "Arthur chooses who begins it. You and the file leaders tell me whom to keep."

Gage laid the whistle upon his knee. "And if we find only two?"

"Then we take two. We have managed with forty-seven; we can manage a little longer."

Eddard came in as Tomas refolded the roll. When Jon told him all six centuries might put men forward, his father looked towards the three boards.

"Do not strip the centuries of instructors for the sake of the household wage."

"I need those men where they are. It is the younger ones I want."

Eddard nodded. He asked after Jon's hand before leaving, and Arthur moved the unused salve pot into Jon's reach.

* * *
​

Nineteen young men waited beside the Old Watch's practice lanes, drawn from all six centuries. Most had cleaned their coats as carefully as their weapons. One kept testing a borrowed round shield, trying not to let his neighbour see.

Martyn set two veterans against them. One nominee lost control of his sword whenever it was beaten aside; another fought well until his partner went down, then left him exposed. Jon needed men who could guard him when a line broke.

Gawen watched from a stool by the rail, his wounded leg stretched before him. When the second man came off, Gawen called him over and showed him where his shield should have been. He tried to rise for the demonstration, winced and sat again. The young man crouched beside him to listen.

Gerralt, Fifth's centurion, had Colin beside him when Jon reached their names. The lad's dark hair was still wet from the pump.

"Colin asked me for leave," Gerralt said.

"Do you recommend him?"

"I do, my lord."

"You do not look pleased about it."

Gerralt glanced at his pupil. "I had hoped to give him command of ten men before the year was out."

Colin looked down. "You never said."

"I was waiting for you to earn the last part."

"What still needs work?" Jon asked.

"Teaching a man who learns slowly. He thinks being shown twice ought to be enough." Gerralt looked at Arthur. "His own sword is ready. I would not send him otherwise."

"And when he is tired?"

"He keeps his shield. That took longer."

Colin's ears reddened, but he did not deny it. Arthur sent him to the lane.

The veteran drove Colin back with a blow upon his shield rim. Colin kept his feet and his point steady, then caught the next opening beneath the sword arm. Paired with Rylas, he was late covering a second attacker; Gage's wooden blade touched his shoulder before he recovered. Gerralt watched from the rail until Martyn called for water.

"He can stay for the horsework," Jon said.

"His place in Fifth remains until you decide?" Gerralt asked.

"It does."

By the second evening Colin was the only candidate Arthur kept. He was slower in the saddle than the household's best, but held his place when another horse pressed close. The rest needed too much work with either horse or sword.

Jon stayed beside the rack after they had gone, watching Martyn's veteran turn a heavy cut with scarcely a movement of his wrist.

"That is the hand I need."

"He has carried a sword for twenty years," Arthur replied.

"And we need the other veterans teaching our centuries." Jon put the wooden sword back. "Who else is ready?"

"Murdo Venn and Davie Rusk asked at the field display. You had no places then."

"I remember. One fought Olyver."

"Murdo. Davie fought Keir." Arthur's eyes went briefly towards the empty lane. "Both have been taught since childhood. They need to learn your calls and your way of riding together."

"Then keep the trials open to men outside the cohort. Colin begins tomorrow."

Across the field Gerralt was waiting for his pupil. The two walked back to Fifth together.

* * *
​

The friends arrived two mornings later, with bedrolls behind their saddles and their fathers following. News of the trials had reached Greybeck with a returning carter. Master Osmer Rusk said he had never known his son Davie so quick to get out of bed.

Jon received Rusk and Murdo's father, Master Edran Venn of Alderbank, in his workroom while Tomas took the boys to the stables. Arthur remained beside the window. Abel brought cups and the written terms of service.

"You understand why there are places now," Jon said.

Venn inclined his head. "We heard the names. My son remembers the men he fought on the field."

"So does Davie," Rusk said. He looked towards the yard before sitting. "He has asked to come all the same."

Jon slid the terms towards them. "They would serve under Tomas and his serjeants. Their birth earns them no command."

"Murdo knows," Venn said. "He gave me the whole order of your household on the road home. Twice."

Rusk smiled briefly, then bent over the sheet. "And when you sail?"

"They go with me. They give their service to my house, not for one northern summer."

"They have been speaking of little else." Rusk ran a finger beneath the provision for a wounded man. "Abel will read this with us before the oath?"

"Every word."

Venn had not touched his cup. "Would you accept one and refuse the other?"

"If only one is fit."

"Good. Tell them. Friendship can make a boy slow to admit the other's faults."

Jon called the candidates in. Murdo stopped just inside the door; Davie checked his stride to avoid striking his shoulder.

"You will be tried separately as well as together," Jon told them. "If only one earns his place, I take one."

"We understand, my lord," Davie said.

Murdo nodded, his mouth firm beneath the crooked nose. "We would rather come together. We did not ask you to take either without trying him."

"Then report to Tomas. Leave your fine coats here; there is mud enough at the Old Watch to spoil them."

They went out to change. Through the open window Jon heard Davie asking whether Murdo had remembered the spare glove he had left upon Greybeck's hearth. Venn took up his cup at last.

* * *
​

Arthur tested their weapons and Ralf their riding. Both had improved since the display, and Tomas admitted them to the month's trial beside Colin.

Their faults soon showed. Murdo looked for Tomas instead of listening for his call. Davie, the better rider, hesitated when two men threatened him on foot. Colin called so much that nobody could hear the captain. Arthur changed their partners and worked them after long rides, when weariness made those habits harder to hide.

Colin went back to Fifth for a whetstone and returned late for supper. Gerralt had kept him to teach a recruit the close thrust.

"Did he learn it?" Gage asked.

"By the time I left."

"Then you have had a useful afternoon. Come and eat."

Once, at the water cask, Gage began to call for Finnan. His mouth stopped on the name. Davie took the second bucket and waited without speaking. They carried the water in together.

At the end of the fourth week, the three returned from a long training ride to find Arthur waiting in the practice yard. Rain had softened the ground; their horses stood steaming as Ralf's men led them away. Jon waited inside a marked square with Gage and two guards. Each candidate would join them in turn and help bring Jon clear of an attack.

Murdo wiped rain from his brow when Arthur called him forward. His first breath came loudly through his nose. Rylas drove into him hard enough to move his shield back against his chest, then offered his sword arm beyond the square. Murdo started to follow, checked himself and turned with the file. Jon felt the shield settle at his flank.

Arthur called Davie next. Two attackers divided towards him. This time he named the man on his left loudly enough for Gage to hear, committed to the other and held his ground. Gage met the second without having to look behind him.

Colin came last. When Gage fell, an opening appeared beyond the men pressing them. Colin could have reached their exposed backs in two strides. He stayed over Gage instead, shield slanted to take the descending stroke. Jon and the rear guard hauled the serjeant through. They left the square together; their attackers reached it empty.

Arthur changed their partners and sent them through once more. By the finish Colin's hair lay flat against his temples, and Murdo had mud from wrist to elbow. None needed a familiar voice to tell him where to stand.

Jon heard each file leader before entering the names. Murdo went to Rylas; Davie and Colin to Gage. He saw Colin draw breath when Tomas called him into the formed household, then swallow whatever he had meant to say and hurry to his place.

* * *
​

Their families came to the evening oath. Venn stood beside his wife and eldest son, folding his riding gloves. Davie's mother kept straightening his new coat until he caught her hand and kissed it. Colin's sister carried a spare shirt over one arm.

She asked Jon what would happen if her brother were wounded.

"He remains in my keeping while he heals. If he cannot fight again, he will still have a roof and food. If he is killed, his earnings and belongings go to the person he names, with a year's wage besides. Abel, my clerk, has written you as his kin."

She looked towards the three boards bearing the dead boys' names. "He has told me."

She thanked him, then caught her brother's sleeve to straighten a fold Mairi had already straightened.

Gerralt arrived while Tomas was forming the files. Colin saw him and stood a little taller. His old centurion inspected him without touching the new coat.

"Have you chosen someone else to command those ten?" Colin asked quietly.

"Not yet."

"I could still come over when—"

"You will have enough to do here." Gerralt took a loose thread from Colin's shoulder. "When the household next comes against Fifth, I shall put the lads you taught opposite you."

"With you behind them?"

"Aye. I would like to see how much they remember when you are the man pressing them."

Colin smiled. Gerralt gripped his shoulder for a moment before stepping back among the watching men.

The three knelt and swore to guard Jon, obey his officers and keep faith with the men beside them. They rose as household guards, at a guard's wage.

Venn embraced Murdo; his eldest son promised to see his letters carried. Rusk spoke into Davie's ear until his mother drew the boy close. Colin's sister gave him the shirt and told him not to bring it back black with horse sweat. Gerralt waited by the gate to give him a last nod.

At supper the benches had been moved closer to the fire. Murdo sat beneath Finnan's name with Rylas beside him. Davie found a place across from his friend, leaving room for Tomas beside Gage. Master Rusk listened while the guards argued about which horse had made the last turn worst.

Colin named Murdo's mount. Murdo pointed out that he had remained in the saddle.

"For most of it," Davie said.

"You were looking behind you."

"At you."

Rusk laughed. Venn had been watching his son wait while Rylas spoke, the new black sleeve beside the serjeant's worn one. When the bread reached him he broke it and passed it on without interrupting the table's talk.

Jon had barely touched his stew. Arthur moved the bread basket within his reach.

"Is the hand troubling you?"

"No." Jon broke a piece. "They have done well."

Across the room, Rylas moved along to let Murdo's elder brother sit. For a moment Jon had expected Keir to claim the space. He watched the stranger settle there, then dipped his bread into the stew. Arthur stayed beside him while Davie persuaded the table that Murdo had lost only the argument, not his stirrup.

* * *
​

A moon later, six wagons under black tilts came up the road below Winter Town. Garrick had met the returning fitters at White Harbor. Callum and Mors had come from the western coast aboard a trading cog; every clock had been accepted, and Osric had sent the receipts.

Linen circled Callum's hand. He saw Jon looking and lifted it. "A rope burn. We were lifting a case into a Lannisport merchant's upper hall."

"Have Lorren look at it."

"My mother will take me there before I get my coat off."

She was already crossing the yard. Jon left them together. Beside William stood Mors, an instrument maker with half his left earlobe missing and a black chest at his feet. Osric had employed him to measure rooms and fit clock cases; this was his first visit to the northern workshops. William had him unfold the returned drawings before Elspeth could bring their bread.

That afternoon Jon took the buyers' letters and accounts to Winterfell. Eddard would need a keeper for the land and buildings when the lease ended; Jon's craftsmen and their tools were going south. Arthur, Hewyn and the masters came with him.

In Eddard's solar, Robb drew a stool beside Jon as William laid out the receipts. Nearly three years had passed since the Hightower clock was accepted and the acolytes came north. Those great commissions were long paid. Now merchants filled more pages than lords.

Lord Tywin's smaller clock had brought a second offer with its payment. He would pay another thousand dragons for a clockmaker to teach his smiths the making.

Robb read the sum over Perkin's shoulder. "For one man?"

"For what he knows," Jon said.

William rested his hands beside the receipts. "I have three men fitting movements now. He can have a man to teach his keeper, but I will not teach his smiths the making."

"His keeper has been taught what we promised," Jon said. "Perkin, decline the offer."

"He may write to William himself," Eddard said.

William's jaw tightened.

"Then bring me the letter. I will hear what he offers." Jon looked along the table at Callum and Mors too. "There will be greater posts as the work grows. Ask for the wage your work deserves; you need not wait for another lord to name it. But none of you has my leave to set up his shop with what he learnt in mine."

"I want to see my apprentices take their own benches here, my lord," William said. His hands relaxed upon the table.

"Tell the fitters," Arthur said. "They should know what to say when a steward puts a purse before them."

"His smiths can watch them work," Eddard pointed out.

"And open the clock afterwards." Jon touched the little brass gauge beside William's papers. "We cannot prevent that. We can refuse to teach them, and keep the patterns and gauges they would need to make their own."

Perkin set aside the offer. The unfinished orders would keep the benches busy until the move. New buyers in Pentos and Braavos would have to wait until William knew what he could promise from Dragonstone.

"The year's money," Jon said.

"Fifty clocks delivered and paid for, mostly smaller cases," Perkin said. "Twelve thousand two hundred and forty dragons received; three thousand two hundred and forty spent on making and delivery. Nine thousand clear. The old Hightower payment is not in that, nor earnest for unfinished work."

Ewan stopped breaking his bread. Robb leaned closer to the figures.

"And how much remains?" Eddard asked.

"Eight thousand in the chest," Abel said. "Four thousand six hundred at the year's beginning, and nine thousand earned. We have spent five thousand six hundred on the household, the foot and the works, including the last two roundships."

Jon checked the reckoning. Of that eight thousand, thirty-six hundred was already promised for wages, provisions, the last recruits and the move. Forty-four hundred remained free. It must feed his people while the workshops stood idle between Winterfell and Dragonstone.

"Six merchantmen now?" Eddard asked.

"Four roundships and two cogs. Denys will send them north with Black Tern to escort them. His other warships will stay off the island."

William asked for a roof over the loading bay and another man to teach the fitters. Jon told him to have Woods price the roof; any larger building must wait for Dragonstone.

"Mors can teach them," he added. "Will you take the work?"

"Gladly, my lord. Once Master William has shown me how he wants it done."

"You will help him set up the new workrooms too. Send Ethan the measures he needs."

William shifted his stool to make room for Mors. Between them they unfolded the island's plan.

* * *
​

Winterfell's horn sounded before Perkin finished tying the letters. Dywen had brought an ox-drawn wagon, two black brothers and a letter from Lord Commander Mormont. His wooden teeth clicked through the greeting, then stilled as Eddard read.

Searchers west of the Shadow Tower had found one lost ranger's bones. Five rangers remained missing. Two steadings in the Gift had been plundered.

The report also gave the answers of the prisoners Benjen had taken north months earlier. Both admitted that Sygga had led twenty-three raiders south for horses, grain and iron. They spoke of people gathering round Mance Rayder, but would not explain the empty villages they had left behind.

Damp wool and oxhide soured Jon's stomach. He pressed his scarred palm flat upon his knee beneath the table.

"What of the five who escaped the burn?" Eddard asked.

Hallis had followed Dywen inside, pale road-mud drying on his boots. "We lost their trail among the old charcoal pits. West of there stand three camps and a trapper's hut. A woman there, Barra, refuses to tell any lord's horseman how many sons share her roof."

Poole moved the clock drawings aside for a map. Dywen bent over it.

"If they found the Gorge, they may already be north. If they stayed, hunger brings them to smoke."

"What did the prisoners say of the empty villages?" Jon asked.

"One said hunger. One said Mance," Dywen said. "Both laughed when Mormont asked of dead men."

"Ask what the rangers found there. Was there a sudden frost? What happened to their horses?"

Eddard's eyes rose from the map. "You think something frightened them out?"

"Mance could have done it. I want to know if the rangers saw anything else." Jon kept his finger beside the Gorge. He remembered what the books had placed in those woods; none of the men in this room had seen it yet.

Dywen nodded. "I will ask."

"Hewyn can spare four quiet men for the western road," Jon told Eddard. "Hallis knows the country."

"I shall send two of mine with them," Hallis said.

Eddard agreed. "Warn the crofts before you go. I want word of missing stock or unfamiliar fires. Nobody follows armed strangers into the woods."

While Poole prepared the ravens, Jon arranged grain and dark wool for the Watch, with one of Garrick's carters to return the borrowed wagon. William added the clock spares Bowen Marsh had requested. The keeper could fit them himself; Callum could stay home this time.

"You are not riding with Hallis," Arthur said quietly as the men rose.

Jon looked at the map and then at his stiff hand. "No."

Eddard heard. His shoulders settled against the chair; he lowered his eyes to the charcoal burns without speaking.

The Watch went north on the fourth morning. Jon watched the wagons pass beneath tarred canvas, Dywen beside the leading oxen. Among the sealed letters was one for Maester Aemon in Jon's own hand. He had thanked him for his last account, written of the household's losses and asked after his health. Arthur's mention of Rhaegar's letters had stayed with him. What had the prince written about? What counsel had Aemon given him?

"He will be glad to hear from you," Arthur said.

"I shall try not to leave so long between letters again."

Jon watched until the last cart vanished beyond the alder bend. Behind him Tomas sounded Struan's repaired whistle. The note carried across the yard, and Jon turned towards the forming files.

* * *
​

The fourth and final year of the lease began with the call for another hundred and twenty men. Colin's place in Fifth had been filled, bringing Hewyn's cohort back to four hundred and eighty. Twenty more in each century would complete the six hundred.

The clock money had paid for their harness and the extra sleeping bays. Beside the barracks, masons were finishing rooms for married workmen; a child's shirt already hung by one door.

On the first morning of the trials, Jon went among the applicants waiting along the ditch. Two had come from Hornwood land; a miller's son brought a letter from his brother in Sixth. All took their places when he called for shields. He was still beside the practice ranks at noon, eating the bread Arthur brought him while Hewyn named the men he wanted to see again.

By the end of the choosing, each century had its twenty. After they had sworn, Hewyn brought the full cohort onto the field. The ranks reached farther along the wall than the first three hundred ever had. Eddard had ridden down to see them, with Robb already leaning forward in his saddle to count the standards. Jory kept the Stark riders behind them clear of the forming ranks.

"Six hundred," Eddard said.

"Four hundred spears. Two hundred swords." Jon watched Malcolm bring First to a halt. "The last of them will have a year here before we go."

"And the men you took at the beginning?"

"Four years when we leave. They are teaching the rest now."

At the rear, a decanus stepped out to correct one of the new men's shields. His ten waited until he returned to his place. Eddard watched, then nodded to Hewyn to continue.

Jon mounted Bucephalus and rode along the ranks. The newest men held their heads higher as he passed. Beside Sixth he halted and called the first ten forward; there was time to work before supper.

* * *
​

While Mairi fitted the recruits' coats, the masters settled what they would take south. William's whole workshop would go, and Ewan's smiths down to the last apprentice. The northern furnaces and wheelhouses would remain for Eddard's keeper; tools, bellows and removable ironwork would travel with their makers. Ethan already had the hearth plans. Jon wanted fires ready when the smiths landed.

The Braavosi buyer had written again. This time William could lay Ethan's measurements beside the order and tell Perkin which clocks would be finished here and which on Dragonstone. Osric would handle northern repairs, sending south anything beyond a keeper's skill.

Outside, a recruit protested that Mairi had measured his shoulders too narrowly. Her answer reached every man at the table. William smiled without looking up and wrote Dragonstone beneath the workshop drawing.

* * *
​

By the third moon of that last year, turf had thickened the Old Watch's bank beneath the grey wall timbers. Jon rode the ditch with Arthur, then climbed to where Otho was overseeing repairs to a wooden stair.

"Bring Henly and Emrick tomorrow," Jon told him. "Draw how this frame fits together. I want to know which pieces we could carry on wagons and which we would have to cut at a new camp."

"For another gate?"

"A gate, a bridge trestle, a platform for an engine. Start with the pieces we can use for all three."

From the landing he could see all six barrack ranges, the newest roof still yellow beside weathered brown. Sixth's men were carrying tables outside for supper. A blanket aired at Wylla's open shutters in the restored tower.

Eddard came with Robb and the grey-cloaked escort. As Jon went down to meet them, his father looked from the tower to the long barracks.

"I shall have to choose its keeper carefully."

"Bring him while Woods and Otho are here to teach him," Jon said. "Especially the sluices. A man who guesses with those could flood the works."

Eddard looked along the watercourse, then back at the barracks. "I will send him before you begin loading."

Robb wanted to ride out through the barley. Jon turned Bucephalus towards the lower gate and went with him.

Before that moon ended, Lord Leyton ordered a smaller clock for the Citadel's gate court: four hundred and fifty dragons, half in earnest. William assigned it a free bench. He and Perkin could settle ordinary orders at the agreed prices now; only the larger commissions needed Jon.

As the last harvest approached, word reached them that Captain Hareth Voss had brought all six merchant ships into White Harbor, with Black Tern as escort. Rookscar iron and the first grain cargoes had gone south on earlier voyages. Now the holds were being cleared for Jon's people and their work.

He took the letter to William. The clockmaker read it beside the master bench, where an apprentice waited with a wheel between finger and thumb.

"Keep that level," William told the lad. He read the letter again, then called for Perkin.

"Garrick can send the spare benches ahead. These stay until the last clock is ready." He laid a hand on the worn edge beside him. "I shall need a day to take this one down."

Jon had made drawings for the move, bought ships for it and counted the gold it would cost. He had not pictured William's place standing empty.

"Tell Garrick what you need," he said.

William nodded and turned back to the apprentice. Jon stayed in the doorway a moment, listening as the wheel began to turn.

 

[aiwonder]

In the first year of the Old Watch lease, Pello secured passage out of Myr for Qavo Ryndoon's household. Three days before they sailed, Daenerys was helping Salla mend a merchant's sail on the Split Net's roof, above a harbour white with summer glare.

"Keep the stitches straight," Salla said.

"I know. Yesterday you made me unpick six crooked fingers of seam."

The roof hatch lifted. Viserys climbed out, Ser Willem's sword knocking against the frame, and held a parchment clear of the canvas. Qavo followed with his family and three apprentices. "Read it," he said.

Pello had settled the claims of the lenders who had taken Qavo's yard. Jon Black's letter promised passage, bread and lodging for all eight of them, and wages for Qavo and his apprentices on Dragonstone. Daenerys looked from its plain black seal to little Tala, asleep in her mother's arms. "Will she have a berth with you?"

"We have a cabin," Qavo's wife Anara said. "Small, the captain tells me, but it has a door. Naella and I will keep her between us."

Salla added spare sailcloth to their bundle. "For beneath the berth, if the deck leaks." Daenerys helped Qavo's elder daughter Naella tie it in place.

Qavo folded the agreement and tucked it inside his coat. Then he looked at Viserys's silver hair and the old sword at his hip. "Your island, is it? Shall I leave him my tools for you?"

Viserys's fingers tightened upon the hilt and eased. "No. Make Lord Black pay dearly for good work."

Qavo bowed before going down. Anara pressed Daenerys's hand between hers; Tala slept against her mother's collar.

The roof felt much larger. Daenerys took up the needle. Below, someone laughed as a basket caught against the stair.

"They will be well enough," Salla said.

Daenerys nodded. Naella said rooms waited on the island. She tried to imagine entering because someone expected her, with no argument over what Viserys owed.

Her brother remained by the hatch until the voices below had faded. Daenerys watched him rub a thumb over the worn leather of Ser Willem's sword grip.

"Qavo will have work," she said.

"For Stark's bastard."

"Would you rather he stayed here with nothing?"

Viserys looked sharply at her, then away towards the harbour. "Stark was the usurper's dog. Now his bastard is to have Dragonstone. A prince's seat, given to a boy who had to be handed a name."

"Lord Black paid for all of them to go."

"Then they may thank him. I shall not." His voice had risen; he lowered it when Salla looked up from the sail. "He has no right to that island. Nor did Robert have the right to give it away."

Daenerys bent over her stitches. Viserys waited a moment, but she could think of nothing to say that would not anger him further. At last he went below.

Daenerys spent three coppers from her sail work on red pigment for the hatch. She painted while the light held, kneeling upon a scrap of canvas to keep the colour from her skirt. Viserys stepped over the wet edge when he came in. He looked at her stained fingers, then fetched the lamp from the shelf and set it where she could see her work.

That night Viserys counted five jewels into a scrap of wool and hid them again beneath the loft boards. The colour dried thin and uneven. It was not the door she remembered, but no landlord had chosen it for her. Before the week ended, Qavo's household sailed west. Daenerys and Viserys remained in Myr.

* * *

Years later, as Jon prepared to leave Winterfell for Dragonstone, Obara's spear struck the rim of Rhaenys's shield and drove it against her mouth. She tasted blood. The butt caught her above the hip before she recovered, and she went down hard enough to lose her breath.

"You were watching the path," Obara said.

Rhaenys lay still, looking through the branches of an orange tree. The Water Gardens were waking around them. A broom scratched along the arcade. Somewhere beyond the pool a little girl objected to having her hair combed. Nothing moved on the path from the outer gate.

"I saw your spear."

"After it hit you."

Nymeria laughed from the shaded bench, her long braid laid over lilac silk. Beside her Tyene cracked green almonds between two stones. Rhaenys got onto one knee and tested her teeth with her tongue. All still there.

"Again."

Obara waited for her to find her breath. Sweat darkened her leather coat; this had scarcely warmed her. This time Rhaenys watched the spear. She let the thrust glance away, stepped close and swung beneath the shaft. Her blunted sword left a chalk streak under Obara's ribs.

"You might congratulate me," she said.

"I shall when you do it twice."

Rhaenys grinned, and her lip stung. On the next pass Obara drove her towards the wet marble, struck her thigh and caught her upper arm before she fell into the pool.

"Enough."

"You said twice."

"I did not say you had to manage it before breakfast."

Joss brought water, favouring his bad leg as he crossed the sand. Rhaenys drank while Tyene examined her mouth. Her cousin's fingers were cool and her face mild until Rhaenys tried to pull away.

"Hold still. You will live long enough to complain at supper."

A page appeared under the arch before Tyene had finished. "Lady Deria, Prince Doran asks you to attend him after breakfast. Prince Oberyn has returned."

"From Planky Town?"

The page nodded. Rhaenys was already standing. Obara caught the sword she had left against the bench; Nym followed her beneath the arcade, brushing sand from her sleeve.

Breakfast smelled of frying peppers and the river fish Mellario liked crisp enough to eat whole. Trystane flew a wooden dragon beneath the table while his mother read Quentyn's letter. Arianne moved her cushion to make room, then saw the cloth at Rhaenys's mouth.

"Obara?"

"I touched her once."

"Tell Father. Obara may forget to mention it."

Mellario lowered the letter and beckoned Rhaenys close. She turned her chin gently towards the light. Her fingers smelled of rosewater; years of being held through fevers and bad dreams made it difficult to resent the inspection.

"Ask Caleotte for something before you see Doran. Now sit and eat."

Balerion came from beneath her chair, white showing about his jaw, and hooked a claw into Rhaenys's gown until she gave him a fish. She had scarcely taken a mouthful herself when Oberyn arrived in his dusty yellow robe. He kissed Ellaria, answered Trystane's questions about the cut beneath his eye and sat beside Rhaenys.

"What struck you?"

"A shield."

"Was Obara holding the shield?" he asked.

"I was."

"Ah."

"You need not say anything else."

He kissed her forehead. Orange-blossom oil clung faintly to his hair beneath the dust of the road. For a moment she was very small again, with someone smoothing blankets over her knees. She caught his sleeve without meaning to.

Oberyn looked at her hand. His teasing expression softened, and he stayed while she ate. Rhaenys wanted to ask about Myr, but servants crossed with dishes and Trystane kept bringing the wooden dragon to his uncle. When Oberyn rose, she followed him to the arch.

"Is there news?"

"There is a letter. We will read it with Doran."

"From Myr?"

"Come after you have washed." He brushed a grain of sand from her braid.

Nym helped her into a clean gown and combed her hair while Caleotte's salve stung her lip. Through the window came splashing and a child's delighted cry. Rhaenys kept looking towards the door.

"I shall find you afterwards," Nym said. "We can swim when the heat goes."

Rhaenys nodded, holding still for the last tie.

* * *

The western gallery was shaded with reed screens. Sea air slipped through them, stirring the tassels of the awning and bringing a little relief from the heat. Doran sat with one foot propped on a low stool. Red flannel swathed the swollen joint; the other foot, in a loose slipper, rested carefully beside his chair. His face looked tired.

"Has it been bad?" Rhaenys asked.

"Caleotte tells me it will improve if I keep still."

"And have you?"

"I have been sitting here since dawn." He glanced at the empty cup near his hand. "I had hoped to be right by now."

Rhaenys joined Arianne on the cushioned bench. Oberyn pulled aside a screen to look at the water; Joss settled by the door, checking that its latch had caught.

Five river stones held Doran's papers against the breeze. She and Arianne had found them by the Greenblood years ago and quarrelled over which was prettier. Doran had offered to keep them until they agreed. Two letters lay beneath them today, held by Arianne's pale, egg-shaped favourite and the dark stone Rhaenys had wanted.

"This came by way of Lys," Doran said. "It was written in Myr more than a moon ago."

Rhaenys took the offered page. Twice the writer had squeezed a word above the line. She went back to the description of a youth with silver hair and an old sword.

"He saw them?"

"He saw two people who may have been them. He did not speak to either."

"The girl was sewing."

"That is what he was told."

The writer had seen the youth arguing with a merchant on a quay. A girl waited a little way off with a bundle under her arm. Men at a wine stall said they lodged in a loft and that she brought sail work home.

"What was the quarrel about?"

"He did not hear enough to know," Doran said.

She wanted a face to go with the words. Viserys was almost beyond memory, a pale boy among grown people; Daenerys had been born after Rhaenys escaped King's Landing. The girl on the page had no Mellario to make her sit down and eat.

"There is talk of them leaving," Oberyn said.

She looked up sharply. "Where?"

"A shipmaster told Aron, our trader in Planky Town, that Viserys had asked about passage to Tyrosh. A wool buyer said they meant to go to Pentos, but he had only heard it at supper." Oberyn let the screen fall. "I trust the shipmaster more. Asking a berth's price does not mean taking one."

"The next ships may bring word," Doran said.

Beyond the screen gulls cried. Rhaenys pictured a girl on the quay, waiting for a quarrel to end as the bundle grew heavy in her arms.

"Why do we not bring them here?"

Oberyn said nothing. Doran rested his hands on the arms of his chair.

"Because your uncle calls himself king."

"He can call himself whatever he likes in a room."

"He will not be content with a room."

"Do you know that?"

Doran looked at her for a moment. "I know what he has asked of men who received him before. He wants ships, gold and soldiers. If I bring him to Sunspear, every lord in Dorne will hear of it. Some will expect me to give him an army. Others will write to the king before his ship has made fast."

"Then not Sunspear."

"Rhaenys."

She turned towards Oberyn. "You have houses. Friends. There must be somewhere."

He drew a chair beside the table, careful of Doran's foot, and sat. "There may be. First we must find him, and then someone he trusts must persuade him to come quietly. I have not seen Viserys since he was a boy. I do not know whether he would listen to me."

"Daenerys might."

"She might. I would rather she had someone near her than another letter making promises from across the sea."

That was better than Doran's refusal, though she could not tell how much better. She picked up the page again. The stranger had found room for the colour of a merchant's sail and three lines about a harbour due. He had not thought to describe whether the girl looked well.

"Can you send them money?"

"If we find a safe hand to carry it," Doran said. "A purse sent carelessly may buy more trouble than food. There are men who would be interested to learn that I am paying for Aerys's children."

"You cannot wait until there is no danger at all."

His fingers tightened on the chair. For a moment she thought she had angered him. Then he shifted his foot, slowly, and let out a breath through his nose.

"No. I cannot." His voice had grown rough with the effort of keeping still. He looked down until the pain passed, then met her eyes again.

Rhaenys hated that she had made him answer while he was hurting. She also hated the relief she felt at hearing it. Arianne reached past her to move a cushion within his grasp.

"Let her read the next word you receive from Myr," she said.

"You shall," Doran told Rhaenys. "Whatever it says."

She folded the letter and left it beneath the pale stone. Oberyn waited while Doran settled the cushion behind his back, then filled Doran's cup.

Oberyn set down the jug. "There is nearer news. Our northern clockmaker is preparing to leave Winterfell."

"Jon Black?" Arianne asked.

"Unless Lord Stark has another hidden away. Two captains lately in White Harbor told me: men booking passage, carters engaged, merchants asking where to send their repairs."

"To Dragonstone?" Rhaenys asked.

"A Gulltown captain took water there last moon. He saw rooms being prepared for Lord Black's household. They expect him before the year is out."

Rhaenys looked down at the dark stone. She had known about Robert's grant for years. It had been easier not to think of it while Jon Black remained in the North.

"It should have been Aegon's."

Oberyn's face hardened. "Yes."

"Father's, and then his. Robert had no right to give it to Lord Stark's bastard." The last word came more harshly than she intended. She kept her eyes on the stone. "They murdered my brother, and now they are making rooms ready for someone else."

Aegon had never been old enough to ride a horse, much less rule an island. Jon Black would arrive with ships and servants to open the doors for him.

"We have not forgotten whose seat it was," Doran said.

"Everyone else seems willing to."

She looked up at Oberyn. "And Arthur will go with him."

"I would expect so."

For years she had known Arthur lived. Once, being told he believed her dead had almost answered why he never came. Now she wanted to know why he stayed with Eddard Stark, what he thought of her father, whether he spoke of the children left in King's Landing. Winterfell had been impossibly far away. Ships came from Dragonstone to Dorne.

"Would he know you?" she asked Joss.

"Yes, Princess."

The answer was immediate. She pictured the two men meeting on a quay, Arthur seeing the scar and recognising him before he spoke.

"If you went to him—"

"He would ask where I had been. And whom I had brought out of the city."

"You could tell him."

Joss looked towards Doran but did not ask him to answer. "I could. Then he would want to see you."

"Would you like to see him again?"

"Yes, Princess." Joss drew himself a little straighter. "I would be honoured to stand before Ser Arthur and report that you are safe."

"I want to see him too." Rhaenys glanced at Doran. "But Uncle Doran is right to be careful. Arthur serves Jon Black now. If he leaves his lord and comes here, people will ask why."

Oberyn's chair creaked as he leaned forward. "Arthur would come if he knew. He might swear himself to silence and make every promise we asked, but I would not wager on his remaining in Dragonstone once he had heard your name."

"We need a way for him to come without leading those questions to you," Doran said.

Rhaenys turned back to Oberyn. "He knew my father." The words came out smaller than she intended. "You knew him as my mother's husband. Arthur was his friend."

Oberyn looked down at his hands. The signet on his little finger had turned inward. He straightened it before answering.

"Yes. There are things he could tell you that I cannot."

She had expected an argument. His agreement left her with nothing to push against. She wanted to ask Arthur what her father laughed at when he was among friends, whether he had talked of her, whether he had ever meant to come back. None of it belonged in a letter carried openly across the sea.

"Let us hear when he arrives," Arianne said. "There will be merchants calling at Dragonstone who have no reason to hide it. Uncle, what of Aron? Is he still in Planky Town?"

"He means to sail with the Green Gull," Oberyn said. "Morys is looking for a cargo north."

"Then send him with something to sell."

Doran considered it. "Oil should sell to a household preparing for a large arrival. Tiles too, if they are repairing the roofs."

Rhaenys touched the dark stone. "He could tell us whether Arthur is there."

"He can tell us what he sees," Doran said. "I will not have him wandering the castle asking questions about Ser Arthur."

"No letter to him?"

"Not yet."

Arianne found her hand beneath the table and squeezed it. Oberyn let the silence lie a moment, then reached for a date.

"There is another reason to write to Lord Black. I could not finish my supper in Planky Town for hearing about his clocks. A merchant there believes that knowing Arthur entitles me to demand one for him."

"The man with the pearls?" Arianne asked.

"Three fingers' worth. Hightower has a clock, Tywin has a lion at the Rock, and now our friend cannot keep his accounts without one."

"He told Mother the cost of new sails would ruin him."

"He appears to have recovered."

Rhaenys began to smile, then winced as the cut pulled. Arianne drew a clean sheet towards her.

"We should ask for one for Sunspear," Arianne said. "Above the lower court, where it could be heard from the hall."

"Must we buy it from him?" Rhaenys asked.

Arianne lifted her pen from the paper. "Who else makes them?"

Rhaenys had no answer. Across the table, Oberyn hid a smile behind his cup. She looked away before he could tease her.

"You have chosen the place already," Doran said to Arianne.

"I have thought about it before today."

"And the price?"

"I shall ask."

Oberyn leaned back. "A sun, surely. With a spear through it."

Rhaenys could see the golden rays against the pale stone, high above the crowd at an audience. "High enough to see from the steps."

Doran looked between them. "Ask for a drawing as well. I should like to see what I am buying."

Arianne dipped her pen. Rhaenys watched the words Lord Black take shape. Great lords paid him fortunes for his work; merchants pestered her uncle for an introduction. She wanted to see the clock herself, to hear it strike and look inside the case. That admission annoyed her. Arthur taught this boy and rode beside him, and he would soon live in her father's castle. She still had to answer to Deria when a servant entered the room.

"Let us take the letter to Planky Town," she said.

Doran's eyes lifted. "Why?"

"To see the ship. And because I should like to go."

"There will be a good many people at the quay."

"They will see Deria Sand with her cousin."

"I can speak to Aron about the cargo," Arianne said. "I should like to choose it myself."

Doran glanced towards Oberyn, who spread his hands. Joss came away from the door.

"I can take them with an escort, my prince. We need not remain on the quay after dark."

Rhaenys held still. Doran shifted his heel upon the stool, considered her, then nodded.

"You ask no questions about Arthur before strangers. Joss decides when you return, and you do as he says."

"I will."

"You may dislike his answer at the time."

"I still will."

Doran settled back in his chair. Arianne resumed writing, and Rhaenys kept the dark stone enclosed in her hand.

* * *

After the girls had gone, Oberyn laid another report beside the Myr letter. Joss stayed by the door. There was still no name they could be certain belonged to the little girl murdered in Rhaenys's place.

"A woman in King's Landing remembered a Myria," Oberyn said. "A scullion, near forty when the city fell. No child of that name."

"No one who knew the girl?" Doran asked.

"Nor saw how she entered Elia's rooms."

"The sailor said the name once," Joss said. "I can give you no more."

"I know." Doran read the account. "We may have been asking after the wrong person."

Oberyn rubbed the cut beneath his eye. "Varys could answer."

"And ask why we want to know. My order stands."

"I have not approached him. There are still servants who left after the sack. I shall ask them."

"Ask after the child as well as the name. We promised to look for her mother." Doran returned the page. "Keep this with the other accounts."

Oberyn put the report away. At Doran's dismissal Joss went to find Rhaenys.

When the door had closed, Oberyn drew the Myr letter from beneath its stone. "Your answer about Viserys was not all for Robert's sake."

"No."

"He will expect us to support him."

Doran watched the doorway a moment longer. "I mean to see Rhaenys crowned. If Viserys comes to Sunspear calling himself king, some of our own lords may swear to him before she can show her face."

"Many would choose Aerys's son over Rhaegar's daughter."

"Then I shall not help him gather them." Doran reached for his cup, found it empty and set it down again.

"Elia and her son are dead." His voice remained low, but Oberyn put the letter down. "Her daughter should have what they took from her. I want our blood on that throne. If I ask Dorne to fight again, it will be for her. I will not have my sister's murder end with us serving Viserys and her only living child still hiding here."

He looked towards the door. "We must know what he would do if he learnt she lived. We cannot assume he would welcome a rival because she is his niece."

Oberyn folded the letter. "Elia's daughter would have my sword. You know that. But I want those two found and fed, whatever Viserys thinks he is owed."

"So do I. Find someone who can remain with them, if they will allow it. He may promise money for their keeping. No ships, and no soldiers." Doran leaned forward despite his foot. "And he is Prince Viserys in our letters. Neither king nor rightful heir."

"I will choose the man myself."

Doran nodded. Oberyn reached for the jug and filled his brother's cup before taking the letter away.

* * *

Nymeria found her putting spare linen into a saddlebag. She stood in the doorway until Rhaenys looked up.

"You might have sent someone to tell me."

"I only just came back. I am sorry." Rhaenys put down the linen. "Come with us."

"Ellaria is taking the youngest to Sunspear tomorrow. Someone has to keep the others from drowning." Nym's eyes dropped to the bag. "And you cannot put your good gown beneath those boots."

She crossed the room and began taking things out. Rhaenys let her. The boots went into a separate wrapping, and Nym fetched a scarf to keep the dust from her hair. When Rhaenys thanked her, she tugged the knot a little too tight.

"Bring me something."

"What?"

"You are the one going to market. Choose it."

"Will you tell Obara I shall miss the morning practice?"

"She will say you have chosen a very long way to avoid her."

Rhaenys smiled, then caught herself before it hurt.

They rode in the long afternoon shadows. Arianne's copper skirts divided over a chestnut sand steed; each uneven stride of Rhaenys's grey awakened the bruise in her thigh. Joss went ahead with two guards at the forks, four more following behind. They stopped at an inn, then reached Arianne's friends' house upriver from Planky Town the next day.

At dawn a poleboat took them down between washing lines and barges. A woman rinsed a pot over her side; children peeped from behind wet shirts. Arianne called a greeting to their mother and passed Rhaenys cold chicken from the basket. For a little while Rhaenys watched the boatman's bare foot turn whenever his pole bent and forgot to look for a ship that might have brought news.

Moorings thickened into Planky Town's knot of boats, houses and stalls. Fish and river mud gave way to hot bread, then pitch warming in a pot. Rhaenys gathered her skirts at the landing. The plank dipped beneath her; Joss offered his arm without looking at her feet.

The Green Gull lay beyond the smaller craft, fresh paint shining on one side and weathered wood showing through the other. Men were carrying onions aboard in loose hampers. Captain Morys came down to meet them, a purple sash at his waist and a patch of sunburn where his collar usually covered his neck. The trader Aron of Lemonwood followed, smaller and more quietly dressed, his cuff mended with thread a shade too dark.

Oil jars were already being bedded in straw aboard the Gull, with roof tiles laid low amidships. In Aron's chamber above the cooper's shop, Arianne settled the price and quantity. Each hammer blow below shook the water in their cups.

The pearl merchant came in before they had finished, bowed to Arianne and immediately asked whether she had word of his clock.

"Have you paid an earnest?" Arianne asked.

"Not yet. They wanted the width of the wall, and someone to learn to tend it. Now they say they have work promised already."

"You changed the case twice," Aron said.

"Once. The second drawing was to show what I meant the first time."

"Shall I tell them you no longer wish to buy?"

"Certainly not." He looked at Arianne, who lowered her eyes to the account. "A word from your uncle would be much appreciated, Princess."

When he had gone, she turned towards the open window to laugh. Rhaenys pressed a finger to her lip. She had counted four pearl rings; apparently the merchant's fortunes had continued to improve since Oberyn's supper.

When they returned to the ship, Arianne gave Aron the sealed enquiry for Sunspear's clock, addressed to Jon Black or the man who managed his clockwork. If Jon had not arrived, his household on the island was to receive it.

Aron took them into his cabin and wrapped the letter in oiled cloth. Once Captain Morys had left them, he spoke of Doran's other instructions.

"I can send word when their lord comes. A great household arriving is difficult to miss."

"And whatever else you hear worth telling," Arianne said.

He glanced at Joss. "There is nothing for Ser Arthur?"

Rhaenys felt the stone through her purse, among Mellario's coins. There was paper on Aron's table. A few words would be enough for Arthur to know she lived. She looked at Joss, then back at the letter already sealed.

"No," she said before Arianne could answer. "Only the enquiry."

Aron waited. Rhaenys kept her hand closed about the stone until he put the packet in his sea-chest. Only then did she stand.

On the way back she bought Nym a glazed bowl with blue fish about the rim. She had it wrapped twice and carried it herself.

The Green Gull left on the morning tide. Morys shouted at a poleboat whose owner shouted back and moved only when the Gull's bow turned. The sail filled; its newly painted side shone against brown water. Aron stood near the stern, the letter stowed in his sea-chest below.

Rhaenys watched until she could no longer tell the people apart. Then Joss touched her sleeve. Their boatman was waiting, and Arianne had begun crossing the wet planks. Rhaenys took up Nym's bowl and followed.

 

[aiwonder]

By the last harvest of the lease, most of the household had packed twice. Chests stood beneath the barrack windows; spare cloaks hung over them to keep off the dust. More than a year had passed since the wildling attack. Jon could close his injured hand around a sword again, though damp mornings stiffened the scar and he still sometimes woke reaching for men who were dead.

The last barley was coming in when Ethan's raven stopped the wagons.

Jon had been in the practice yard. Wylla caught him at the rail to pin a split beneath the arm of his coat, while Arthur used the pause to show him where he had left his guard open. Beyond them, Robb rode a red gelding through the hanging rings, his red-brown hair flashing copper in the sun. One flew from its hook, and Theon stepped smartly aside.

"You might have warned me."

"You were watching," Robb called.

Clem brought the letter down the tower stair. Arthur took Jon's practice sword while he unfolded it.

My lord, the lower cistern is losing water through its wall. The upper basin serves those already here, but it cannot supply your people and horses as well. Keep the convoy north until the repair is proved. Tobin asks for lime and two experienced masons. I will write as soon as we can receive you. Ethan.

Jon read it twice, his thumb whitening against the parchment. A teamster was backing his horses towards a loaded wagon by the gate.

"Leave them unharnessed," Jon called. "Hewyn, halt the loading. We are staying."

Robb had stopped laughing. Arthur held out Jon's sword, then lowered it as the boy folded the letter.

They rode to Winterfell that afternoon. Eddard cleared a place on his desk for Ethan's letter, and Luwin sent for two masons whose work had held through years of northern frost. Abel would arrange their passage from White Harbor. The ships waiting there could carry another cargo while Jon's people remained ashore.

"Could you land part of the company?" Arthur asked.

"Five hundred men already draw that water, besides the island families." Jon laid a finger on Ethan's warning. "He cannot take six hundred more. They stay here until he says the basin is sound."

Hewyn stood with one hand upon a chair. "Some of the men said their farewells this morning."

"Give them leave by turns. Their pay continues. When Ethan is ready, they will hear it from me."

Aries brought the wax for his reply. On the ride back the page kept looking at the letter case strapped before him.

"Can Ethan tell you not to come? It is your castle."

"It is. I left him there to keep it ready for us. I expect him to tell me when something is wrong."

"You are not cross with him?"

"I am cross that we cannot leave. He did not crack the wall to vex me."

Aries took the answer up to Clem when they returned. Jon went into the yard to tell the men himself. Some swore; one sat down upon his bedroll and laughed without much pleasure. They had spent the morning enduring their mothers' embraces and their brothers' advice. By evening they would be knocking upon the same doors again.

* * *
​

On the morning Ethan sent his warning, Blackburn's village head stood beside the lower cistern with wet mud upon his boots. Qavo had been arguing with Tobin over a stack of timber when the older man caught the mason's sleeve.

"Here. Come and look at this."

He led them to a patch of soaked earth below the wall. Naella followed with the castle account book tucked under her arm. The ground sucked at her shoes, though no rain had fallen since she last came this way.

"It used to run out here when the basin overflowed," the headman said. "My father kept this channel clear. There has been water coming through for three mornings, and the basin is nowhere near full."

Tobin crouched where he pointed and scraped away the mud. Water seeped between the buried stones, pale with crumbling mortar. He called for shovels. Qavo looked from the wet ground to the timber barring the way and stepped back to let the men through.

Ethan arrived as the first stones were lifted. The headman showed him the trickle and explained where it ran beneath the yard.

"You were right to bring us," the castellan said. He turned to Tobin. "What do you need?"

"Room to dig. Until we uncover the wall, I cannot tell you how much must come down."

Ethan gave Qavo six men to shift the timber and sent for a water cart. While the basin was emptied and repaired, the castle would draw from the upper cistern and the workmen from Cold Spring. The headman went with the carter to show him the best approach.

Naella remained to write down who had been sent where. Two carters had already waited a fortnight for their wages because each master thought the other had paid them. She laid both tallies before Ethan and showed him the missing sums.

The castellan listened, then took a key from his belt.

"Use the account room. Have the masters bring their bills to you there, and send Abel your reckoning with my letters."

She accepted the key, surprised by its weight. Qavo caught her eye as he passed with his men. The irritation had gone from her father's face; he gave her a short, pleased nod.

When Anara brought supper, Naella took hers into the account room. She had spent weeks following men from quay to workshop with their bills pressed against her chest. Now she had a table to spread them upon, and a door they would have to knock on.

* * *
​

Six mornings after Ethan's warning, Lord Royce's invitation reached Winterfell. He had named his tourney well ahead, leaving time for guests to come by sea. A page found Jon beside the riding field with a letter beneath the Royce seal and two others for Arthur and Gawen.

Robb was still mounted when Jon broke the wax. At the word Runestone, he brought his gelding so close that its nose almost brushed the parchment.

"Is he holding a tourney?"

"Rings, archery, a melee for unknighted youths—"

"Let me see." Robb swung down and caught the reins over his arm. His eyes ran ahead of Jon's finger. "And jousts. Father is invited. He will take us."

"You might ask him first," Arthur said.

Robb scarcely heard. "We could enter the melee, Jon. Think of it. Men who have never seen us fight. We would not know everything they were going to do."

Theon took the loose end of the letter to read the archery terms. "Lord Royce had better offer a good purse. I am not crossing half the realm for a handful of coppers."

"You have not won them yet," Robb said.

"I shall be sure to count them where you can see." Theon released the parchment and looked towards the butts, already judging the distance. "I ought to take another bowstring."

Arthur was smiling over his own letter. Bronze Yohn had offered him three passes in the lists, in a hand vigorous enough to have driven the quill through the page.

"Will you ride?" Robb asked.

"Yohn would never let me forget it if I refused."

That settled something for Robb. He turned back to Jon, flushed from riding and grinning openly.

"We have to go. You cannot send Arthur to fight Bronze Yohn and stay behind counting barrels."

"There are rather a lot of barrels," Jon said.

"Ethan has someone to count them. You told me so." Robb lowered his voice, though he was still smiling. "Come with us. Once you are on Dragonstone, you will find something else that cannot wait. We could have these few days together."

Jon looked down at the invitation. He had been considering the passage from White Harbor and how much longer he could keep his household from the island. Robb was imagining himself in the lists, with Jon beside him. It had been a long time since Jon had allowed himself to want a journey for so little reason.

"Hewyn could take the legion and the workshops straight to Dragonstone," he said. "My household could sail with you to Gulltown."

Robb caught him by the shoulder. "Then you will?"

"If your father agrees, and Ethan can receive the men in time."

"He will agree." Robb was already looking towards Winterfell.

Gawen had said little. His faded blue cloak had hung in the stable through four years in the North; he wore Jon's black to teach the household, but his service still ended with each paid year. Now he stood with his own letter open in both hands.

"Strong Sam asks me to come," he said. "Kennet Coldwater and Pate Shett will be there." He smiled at something his friend had added beneath the invitation, then folded it carefully.

"Do pages go?" Aries asked.

"You go," Jon told him.

The boy glanced at Gawen. "Geth says some pages ride in the rings."

"You may watch this time," the knight said. "When we find quiet ground afterwards, you can show me what you have learnt."

By supper Robb had told every Stark child who could understand him. Bran wanted to know whether knights fell out of their saddles as they did in Old Nan's stories. Sansa wanted the names of the ladies who would be there. Arya wanted to know why Robb had decided she was not coming when no one had asked their father yet.

Eddard's invitation lay beside his cup in the smaller hall. Catelyn shifted in her chair, one hand supporting the weight of her belly. Robb waited only until his father had finished speaking to the servant.

"Have you answered Lord Royce?"

"I shall write tomorrow. Your mother is close to her time. I am staying here."

Robb's smile faltered. Across the table, Theon suddenly became occupied with breaking his bread.

"May I go in your place?" Robb asked.

"You would go as my son. That does not yet give you leave to accept."

Robb glanced at Jon, then sat straighter. "You know Lord Royce, and the Redforts, and Lord Arryn's household. I only hear their names. I would like to meet them."

"And enter the melee," Theon added.

Robb kicked him beneath the table. Eddard saw it and raised an eyebrow.

"And enter the melee," Robb admitted. "Jon would come with us."

Catelyn turned towards her husband. "Who would have charge of him? Jon has his own people to move."

"Ser Martyn Cassel could take the Stark escort," Jon said. "Hewyn will have my legion. My household can travel with Robb, and one of my roundships can wait to bring him home."

"I should like my uncle with them," Catelyn said. "Brynden knows Yohn's household."

"Lord Arryn must release him."

"I can ask."

Eddard considered his eldest son, who had stopped pretending to be interested in his supper.

"Martyn commands our escort. You will obey him on the road, aboard ship and at Runestone. If Brynden cannot meet you, Martyn brings you home from Gulltown."

"Yes, Father."

"Then you may prepare."

Robb's grin returned at once. Beneath the table he caught Jon's sleeve and squeezed it hard.

Theon set down his bread. "May I go with them, my lord?"

"In Martyn's charge."

"Thank you." The careful politeness lasted until Robb nudged him. Then he leaned over to murmur that they would need another chest for his winnings. Catelyn heard; her look sent him back to his supper.

Arya slid off the bench. "I have a bow."

"You are not going," her mother said.

"I have not asked yet."

"You asked in the gallery. Sit down."

"I could watch. Aries gets to watch."

Jon felt his page go still behind his chair. Before he could speak, Catelyn pointed to Arya's abandoned place. Arya returned to it, dragging her feet, and would not look at Robb when he passed her the peas.

Sansa waited for the muttering to cease. "You must tell us what it is like," she told Jon. "Robb will only remember who won."

"I remember other things."

"Then you can both write." She began asking Robb which coat he meant to wear. By the time he had answered, she had decided that he and Jon would each need a favour.

Bran came round to pull at Robb's sleeve. "Will you bring back a broken lance?"

Robb looked down at him, delighted to have someone who thought the journey entirely wonderful. "If I can find one."

After supper he fetched ink for his mother before she could ask. When Jon left, Catelyn was writing to Brynden, with her eldest behind her shoulder finding still more that his great-uncle ought to be told.

* * *
​

The letters went south, but Ethan's permission to sail did not come back with the answering birds. Coats were taken out of chests again; William put his apprentices to work upon the orders he had expected to finish on Dragonstone. A moon after Royce's invitation, Catelyn's pains began.

By the time Jon and Arthur reached her chamber, Old Nan had put Eddard out and Luwin had gone in with the women. Arya sat on a bench in her shift and one stocking. Sansa had dressed and braided her hair, but her mouth was white, and she kept pulling a needle through the same fold of cloth.

A cry came through the door. Robb caught his father's sleeve.

"She is hurt."

"Your mother has good women with her." Eddard drew him close, his eyes upon the closed door. Robb stood stiffly for a moment, then leaned into him.

Jon remembered his own wife crushing his hand during labour, then apologising afterwards as though he had done the difficult part. Years later their daughter had given him her first child to hold. He could remember the baby's weight more clearly than the name of the nurse who had placed a chair behind him.

Arthur touched his elbow. Jon looked up, and the knight glanced towards Sansa.

He sat beside her and took the needle before she pricked herself.

"Wylla will tell us how she is," he said. "We shall hear from her soon."

Sansa pressed against his sleeve. Jon stayed where he was while servants passed with steaming water and fresh linen. Across the passage, Theon held Bran, who had exhausted himself trying to reach his mother and now slept with one fist caught in Theon's collar.

Wylla came out near noon. There was blood upon her sleeve. Eddard crossed the passage so quickly that Robb rose after him.

"The child was turned badly," she told him. "Nan has put it right. Lady Catelyn is strong."

"May I see her?"

"Soon, my lord. Let us finish."

She squeezed Jon's shoulder on her way past. Aries, waiting with a tray of untouched broth, followed her with his eyes until she disappeared inside again.

Rickon's first cry brought them all to their feet.

The baby lay against Catelyn's breast, a red face above cream wool. Damp hair clung to her temples. Eddard held her hand while the children crowded near; Arya counted fingers until Rickon caught one of hers.

Jon stayed at the foot of the bed while Robb bent over his new brother. Catelyn was exhausted, and he would not make her ask him to stand back. Eddard put a hand behind his neck.

"Come and see him."

Catelyn glanced up and gave a small nod. Jon offered Rickon a finger. The tiny fist closed over his scar with surprising strength, and he bent nearer, breathing warm wool and the milky smell of the child's skin. His grandchildren had gripped him so. For a moment he could do nothing but watch Rickon's fingers move against his own.

Four days later Brynden's answer came. Lord Arryn would release him. He would meet the boys at Gulltown and see them safely aboard their northbound ship when the lists were done. Catelyn read the page beside Rickon's cradle.

"He says I have given him more commands than Lord Arryn."

"Have you?" Eddard asked.

"I have told him what he needs to know."

* * *
​

Rickon was seven weeks old when the waiting ended. In the early days of the delay, William had sent Callum, Garrick and Mors north to finish work at Castle Black. They were already on their way home by then. The household had returned to its lessons, the workmen to their benches; even Robb had stopped asking Clem about every bird that reached the tower.

Ethan's letter found Jon at breakfast. The repaired basin had held its water through a full moon. The island could receive them.

Jon took the letter straight to Winterfell. There was still time to reach Runestone for the appointed day, if they left promptly.

"Four mornings," he told his father.

Robb's shout woke Rickon. Sansa looked in dismay at the unfinished sewing in her lap. Catelyn hushed the baby, watching her eldest son as he began telling Theon what they ought to pack first.

Eddard read the letter again. Jon stood beside his chair, still smiling, until he saw that his father had reached the signature and was making no move to put it down.

* * *
​

The fitters returned the following dawn. Their horses came through the gate steaming, with dried mud upon their fetlocks and the dust of the road ground into the men's cloaks. Callum carried Mormont's letter inside his coat. The repaired clock was keeping its hours, and its keeper had learnt to clear the grit that had troubled it.

By breakfast William had him upon a bench with bread in one hand, answering questions between mouthfuls. Mors set his instrument chest beneath the table; Ethan had work waiting for him on Dragonstone. Callum would join Qavo's men at the shipyard.

Gawen came in while they were eating. He wore his old blue cloak, faded almost grey across the shoulders. Three pale patches showed where its silver stars had once been sewn. Jon had not seen him wear it for months.

The knight laid a small purse beside his plate.

"My year is served, my lord."

Jon put down his bread. Across the table Tomas stopped speaking to Alasdair.

"Abel has paid you?"

"Every copper." Gawen loosened the purse and tipped out a little silver. "This is what he allowed me for the journey home. The wages are in my chest."

"You have earned both."

"I shall not be riding home." Gawen looked towards the younger men at the table. Several had turned to listen. "I would ask you to take my oath."

Arthur came between the benches and stopped beside him.

"For life?"

"For life." The knight faced Jon again. "I have taught these men. I know their faults well enough, and they have had four years to learn mine. I would stay with them."

"You may stay as you have been," Jon said. "You need not give up the right to leave."

Gawen's thumb rested upon the worn edge of his belt. "I know what I am asking. I mean to guard you, obey you in honour, and tell you when you are making a fool's choice. Until death or release."

He had good arms now, money of his own, and friends waiting in the Vale. Jon had seen his pleasure at Strong Sam's letter. There would be other lords seeking swords at Runestone.

"Then I will receive your oath before the household at noon," Jon said. He pushed the silver back towards him. "Keep what we agreed. I will not have you pay me for the honour."

Gawen bowed his head. When he sat, Arthur put a hand briefly upon his shoulder.

While Elspeth found Gawen another piece of bread, Jon drew Tomas aside beneath the window.

"I mean to give him command of the household when he swears."

Tomas's gaze flicked towards Gawen. He said nothing for a moment, and Jon waited until he looked back.

"As captain, my lord?"

"Yes. He has served in other lords' households and travelled roads neither of us knows. We will need that experience. I want you as his first lieutenant, with Alasdair after you."

Tomas rubbed his thumb along the seam of his belt. "Have I given you cause to doubt me?"

"No." Jon kept his voice low. "You have brought these men further than I could have asked. I shall still look to you for their training and their conduct. Gawen will answer for the whole household."

"Then I had better show him what I have arranged." Tomas's voice was steady, though he did not smile. "For the road."

Jon beckoned Gawen and told him of the command. The knight listened, then turned to Tomas.

"Will you go through it with me? You know where each man is best used."

Tomas fetched the drawing from beside the window. When Gawen bent over it, he moved the lamp so that both could see. Jon left them there.

At noon the work stopped throughout the yard. Men came from the forge wiping their hands upon their aprons; women stood beneath the gallery with half-folded clothes over their arms. Tomas formed the fifty household guards before the six centuries. Eddard had brought Robb and Theon to witness the oath, and Jory kept the space beside them clear.

Gawen waited in black. His blue cloak lay folded upon the rail. For four years Jon had known him with mud upon his boots, a practice lance beneath his arm, or a mouthful of curses for someone who had forgotten what he had been taught. Now the knight stood very still, watching Chayle set the septon's crystal upon a cloth.

Aries gave Jon his gloves, then stepped back. The new black coat fitted closely across Jon's shoulders; he eased the cuff clear of his scar as Gawen approached.

The knight drew his sword. A few conversations died at the scrape of steel, and by the time he knelt the yard had fallen quiet. He offered the hilt to Jon, with the point turned towards his own breast.

"I, Gawen of Willow Creek, knight, give Jon of House Black my faith and truth, my sword, my horse and counsel unsoftened. I will guard his life, keep the honour of his house, and obey him in all service that does not shame gods or knighthood. I shall not desert him for hunger, fear or richer service. I swear until death, or until he releases me before men who know my oath, by the Father who judges, the Warrior who lends courage, and all the Seven who are One."

Jon received the sword across both palms, fine black wool brushing its worn grip. "I receive your faith, Ser Gawen. While you keep it, you shall have bread at my table, wage from my purse, a sound horse beneath you, steel fit for your hand, and judgement beneath my roof. I will hear the counsel I have asked you to give. Rise as my sworn sword and captain of my household."

Gawen rose, and Jon returned the sword. Arthur clasped the knight's forearm. He spoke too quietly for the watching men to hear, but Gawen's grave face broke into a smile. Then the household began striking their shield rims, the noise spreading along the ranks until Tomas raised his hand.

"Ser Gawen commands my household," Jon told them. "Tomas is his first lieutenant, with Alasdair beside him. Your file leaders keep their places."

Gawen faced the men. His first order carried easily to the back of the yard, in the same voice that had sent them round the riding field through rain and frost. Tomas brought them to attention, then dismissed them to the meal Elspeth had waiting.

Wylla caught Gawen beside the rail. She picked up the blue cloak and turned back its frayed lining.

"You are keeping this?"

"Aye."

"Then I shall mend it while there is light."

He ran his hand once over the faded cloth before letting her take it. At the tables, Tomas moved along the bench to make room for him.

* * *
​

That evening Arthur found Eddard alone in his solar. A candle had burnt nearly to its socket beside the unused quill. Through the open window came the sound of Robb in the yard, calling to Jory about a horse.

"Close the door," Eddard said.

Arthur did so. The lord of Winterfell kept his eyes upon the window until the voices moved away.

"I must tell him."

Arthur drew out the chair opposite. "Yes."

"I had hoped to find a better time."

"He leaves in three days, Ned." Arthur sat. "And he is going to his father's seat. Men there remember Rhaegar. They will look at Jon, and at me beside him."

Eddard's mouth tightened. "I know what they may see."

"Then let him hear it from you."

For a moment Arthur thought he would be sent away. Eddard had drawn himself up behind the desk, one hand flat upon the wood. Then Robb laughed outside the window, and his father turned towards the sound.

"I have spent his whole life trying to keep him safe."

Arthur waited. Beyond the window, the voices receded across the yard.

"I have tried to begin. He asks about ships or the harvest, and I answer him. Afterwards I tell myself I should not spoil a good day." He pushed the letter away. "When he lay hurt after the woods, I sat beside him and thought of all the times I had put it off. Then he woke, and I was so grateful that I put it off again."

Arthur's gaze dropped. Jon had made him promise to keep their confidence, though Arthur had warned him this concealment would hurt Ned. The promise was still Jon's to release.

"He will hear you."

"Will he?" Eddard asked. His voice had roughened. "You speak of Rhaegar and remember a friend. I must tell him I called him my bastard and let him bear every slight that came with it."

"You brought him home."

"I promised Lyanna he would never be ashamed of being hers." Eddard stared at the candle. "I have scarcely let him hear her name."

"Then tell him about her. Let him ask what he wishes."

"And afterwards? He has six hundred men, ships, money enough to turn lords' heads. He is already impatient with any man who tells him to wait." Eddard looked sharply at Arthur. "You cannot put Rhaegar's name into his hands and pretend you do not know what he may make of it."

"No. Nor can you settle what he does by refusing to speak of it."

Arthur spoke more gently, and Eddard turned away from it. He was silent long enough for the candle to gutter.

"At Winterfell I hear when someone comes asking after him. On Dragonstone I shall read of it weeks later. I will not even know if he is ill until he is well again—or worse." His fingers closed on the edge of the desk. "The last time Lyanna went south, I brought her bones home."

Arthur lowered his eyes. He remembered too much of that journey to offer an easy reassurance.

"I will be with him," he said.

"I know." Eddard looked at him at last. "It is the reason I can let him go."

Arthur leaned forward. "He will have questions you can answer better than I can. Give him the chance to ask them."

Eddard nodded. His gaze had gone to the empty chair beside the hearth where Jon usually sat.

"I will take him riding."

* * *
​

The following afternoon Jon rode to the holding for the last time before they left. Eddard came with him, Poole carrying the new keeper's accounts. Arthur and Aries followed close behind. When a harvest cart filled the road, Jory led the Stark escort into the stubble and waited while the driver coaxed his oxen past.

Thorns had choked these fields when Jon first saw them. Now rye stubble lay pale beside the dark green of the turnips, and the clover beyond was thick enough to hide a hare. Chaff drifted from Gerren's barn. They had kept a bowl of the fullest barley heads for seed; Poole rubbed one between his palms and examined the grain.

"I have compared the returns where the accounts allow it, my lord. Barley by the acre. None of the northern harvest letters gives a better yield."

Gerren stopped with his hand upon a sack. Beneath the onions hanging from the eaves, Merra looked from the steward to her husband.

Jon could still remember following the plough through ground that clung in heavy slabs to the share. His father from the old life would have walked straight past these sacks to inspect the wet corner, then admitted over supper that the rest looked well. He wished he could have brought him here.

"We still buy grain," Jon told Poole.

"Considerably less than last year."

At the headland Gerren's younger son held the plough steady while Jon crouched beside the share. Its edge was blunt but evenly worn.

"Dress this before the next field. You have kept it true."

The boy brightened. His elder brother, who had made him begin again whenever a furrow wandered, waited beside a sea chest. He was going to help lay out the fields on Dragonstone. One hand rested on the chest as though someone might forget to take it.

Merra touched its corner with her foot. "Lord Stark's steward has been. Same rent, as you said."

"The agreement stands," Eddard told her.

She curtsied, then turned to Jon. "And the lad writes when he gets there?"

"He will have ink and someone to help him. You will hear from us."

"Mother, you asked—"

Gerren looked at his son. The young man closed his mouth and let her tuck bread beneath his coat.

At the bakehouse, Nesta stood aside while the new keeper's baker judged the heat of the ovens. She waited for his answer, nodded, and took her aprons from their peg. At the granary, the keeper had his keys and Otho's drawings of the field drains. Hewyn's men were showing his labourers where to keep the channels clear. In the loft above, Clem was showing Eddard's raven keeper a bird that pecked whenever a hand approached its perch.

Jon found excuses to linger. He asked after a roof he could see had been mended and stopped to watch grain pouring into the mill hopper. At last Arthur brought the horses round. Eddard remained with the keeper while Jon mounted, and was still watching from the granary door when they turned onto the road.

* * *
​

On their last full day, there was scarcely room to cross the Black Yard. Open chests stood beneath the galleries, blankets hung over rails, and every few moments someone shouted for a man who had just gone elsewhere. Elspeth guarded her pots beneath the kitchen arch. Ewan had loaded his spare iron onto a bedding cart; Mairi stood beside it with an armful of blankets, asking him where he proposed the children should sleep.

Abel had taken shelter beneath an awning with the travelling coin. After the latest clock payments, and with money set aside for unfinished work, Jon had a little over eight thousand dragons. The crews, passage stores and northern bills were paid. He read the sum twice, then returned the reckoning. It would feed his people while Dragonstone began to earn more of its own costs.

Fifth Century helped the smiths dismantle the forge pieces. Beside the work hall, William watched men from Sixth lift a covered clock case and told them sharply to keep it upright. Jon assigned the same groups to those wagons all the way to the ships. By White Harbor they ought to know their loads.

Garrick caught Jon and Robb as they passed and called them over to help with a heavy chest from the work hall. Theon took the other end with him. They carried it out through a passage made narrow by bundles of bedding, Robb warning them each time a child darted across their path. At the wagon, all four had to heave together. The chest landed with a thump that drew William to the door.

"Have I earned my supper?" Theon asked, rubbing his palms.

"Ask Elspeth," Jon said. "She has been trying to find someone to carry her flour."

Theon glanced towards the kitchen arch. "How many sacks?"

Hewyn found Jon at the horse lines. First Century would lead, Third bring up the rear, the rest march among the families and workmen. At White Harbor, Hewyn would take the six hundred foot directly to Dragonstone; Jon and his fifty household guards would sail for the Vale.

"Keep the families together when you board," Jon told him. "And have someone meet each boat when you land. I do not want children wandering about the quay looking for their mothers."

Hewyn nodded and went to find the men who would help the families aboard. Near the gate, a young smith was trying to explain the journey to his wife. She listened with her youngest upon her hip, then asked the same question again: how many days would they be at sea? Jon stopped beside them and answered what he could.

By the time he reached his chamber, the shelves above his table stood empty. Wylla and Mairi were folding his coats beneath them. Black braid followed the slanting breast of the velvet one, its silk lining slipping through Mairi's fingers as she turned up the skirts. She had left cloth beneath the hem and at the shoulders for him to grow into.

Aries came in carrying his own coat. Wylla held it against him and shook her head at the sleeves. Four years of good meals had made him harder to fit than the child who had arrived beneath a stolen cap.

"You stay with Jon and Gawen at White Harbor," she told him, smoothing a red curl that would not lie flat. "I go ahead to Dragonstone to put the rooms in order."

His eyes left the coat.

"Only for the tourney," she said. "Then you come to us."

"You will be there?"

Wylla set the coat down. "I will."

He bent abruptly and pressed his face against her shoulder. She caught him with one hand against his back, the other still in his hair. His shoulders shook once. Wylla said nothing more, only held him until he was ready to straighten.

Jon bent over the strap in his hands. He had finished checking its buckle some time ago. Across the table, Mairi folded another coat, slowly, and left Aries room to stand beside Wylla.

* * *
​

Catelyn chose the smaller hall for their last supper. Fresh mint scented the rushes, and the servants had put lamps at both ends of the table. Rickon's cradle stood beside her chair. Bran kept lifting its cover to see whether the baby was awake, until his mother caught his wrist and guided it back to his plate.

There was capon glazed with honey, buttered peas, and a cherry tart Elspeth had refused to let anyone cut in the kitchen. Wylla set it beside Jon with the knife turned towards him. He smiled up at her, then served Arya first because she was already edging her plate towards his.

For most of the meal he let the others talk. Robb and Theon were arguing about horses again. Sansa objected whenever either put an elbow too near her sewing. Beneath their voices he could hear the small wet sounds of Rickon feeding, the scrape of a chair, Arthur asking for the salt. Tomorrow he would be listening for the last wagon through the gate. Tonight he found himself noticing where everyone sat.

Catelyn turned to Robb. "Your second boots are in the road chest?"

Robb looked down at the boots upon his feet, as if he might have packed them by mistake. "The first are sound."

"Put the second pair in the chest tonight."

Theon carved an onion. "He will borrow mine."

"Your second shirt is still over the chair in your chamber," Catelyn said.

The knife stopped. Robb smiled. "He will borrow mine."

"We have the same shoulders," Theon said.

Jon looked from him to Robb. "You called him broad as an ox last week."

"I meant in wit," Theon said. Eddard drank to hide his mouth. Catelyn saw and struck his boot lightly beneath the table.

When the capon was cleared, Sansa put a pouch beside Jon's hand. It was black wool outside, lined with oiled silk. One seam wandered slightly before reaching the gathered mouth.

"For your seal," she said. "Mairi says this will help keep the wet out."

Aries fetched the seal box from Jon's chest upon the bench. Sansa watched as Jon slipped it into the pouch and drew the cord tight. She had put lavender inside; the scent rose when he opened it again.

"It fits," he said.

"I measured it." She looked pleased, then hurried to unfold something else. "And this is for the lists."

The favour was grey-blue silk, with a direwolf worked at one end. Its forelegs were unequal. Jon turned it carefully beneath the lamplight.

"For the rings," he said. "I will wear it when we ride out tomorrow."

"Where the Royce girls can see it," Sansa corrected, and glanced at Robb. "I have made you one as well. Yours took longer."

"Because mine is better?"

"Because you would not hold still while I measured your arm."

Theon leaned across to inspect Jon's wolf. Sansa covered it with her palm before he could speak.

"You may make your own."

He sat back, smiling. Jon folded the silk around the pouch cord so it could not be lost. Sansa watched until he tucked both inside his coat.

Arya came round to whisper that there was still room beside Aries, and that she could take her own horse if only someone would ask her mother again. Jon drew her close enough to answer quietly.

"She would tell me what she told you."

Arya's mouth trembled with anger. "You could have tried."

"I shall miss you too."

She pulled away, refusing to look at him.

Bran climbed onto the bench beside Arthur and asked whether he might be his squire one day. The knight turned to hear him, one arm ready when the child nearly tipped a cup into his lap.

"You must learn your pony first. Can you saddle him?"

"Harwin does it."

"Then ask Harwin to teach you. And keep at your letters. I shall want you to write and tell me how you fare."

Bran appealed to his father at once. Eddard promised he might begin the next day, after breakfast. That settled, the boy returned to Arthur with several urgent questions about the pony's equipment.

Rickon began crying. Eddard took him and paced beneath the smoke-dark beams, rubbing his back while Catelyn ate the rest of her supper. Jon watched his father bend his head to hear something Bran was telling him. The baby quieted against his shoulder.

After cheese, Sansa came round to show Jon the little fastening that would hold her favour to his sleeve. She stood close while he tried it, her red hair brushing his shoulder. When he thanked her, she put her arms about his neck and held him longer than he expected.

Arya was waiting behind her. She embraced him hard, then pushed away and went to tell Robb something that could apparently admit no delay. Jon saw her wipe her nose upon her sleeve before she reached him.

Catelyn called Jon to the hearth. "Ser Brynden will advise Robb," she said. "Martyn will command the grey cloaks."

"Aye."

"But he listens to you when he has already decided not to hear older men." She watched her eldest son laughing at something Arya had said. "Do not encourage him to take risks because you have survived them."

"I will not."

Her eyes moved to his scarred hand. "And if he decides he knows better?"

"Then I shall fetch Martyn. Robb is my brother, my lady. I want him home safely too."

She considered him for a moment before inclining her head. "See that he remembers to write."

"I will."

The exchange ended there. Catelyn turned to remind Theon that his spare shirt was still drying by the nursery hearth. Jon went back to help Sansa put away her needles. Bran had fallen asleep on Robb's cloak beneath the table. Above him, Arya was trying to persuade Robb that the last honey cake had been hers all along.

At the hall door Wylla pressed a small crock into Jon's hand. Comfrey salve, for the scar. She had wrapped it in linen so that it would not knock against his other belongings.

"In the morning, before the glove goes on," she said. "You will say you are too busy once the horses are out."

He tucked it inside his coat. "I shall use it."

Wylla brushed a crumb from his collar, then left her hand there a moment.

"Your father is waiting in the stable."

Jon sent Aries with her to check his bedding. The page insisted that Patch's blanket was already right; Wylla asked about his boots, and he hurried after her.

* * *
​

Eddard waited with Bucephalus and a patient grey gelding. Lamplight caught the oil upon Jon's saddle and the new holes in its longer leathers. Sansa had left a folded letter across the seat, with OPEN ON THE ROAD written carefully upon it.

Jon turned the letter over. A small blot marked the place where Sansa had pressed too hard upon the quill. He slipped it into his new pouch without breaking the seal.

"Ride with me," Eddard said.

Arthur opened the stable door. Jory and a few Stark guards followed them through the lower gate, keeping well back. Winter Town was still awake. Lamps shone beneath roofs Jon remembered as sagging thatch; a woman held a light while her son carried a sea chest into the street. Outside the Black Yard, Garrick was crouched beside a wagon wheel. He called for a hammer without looking up as they passed.

They turned from the road towards the hot pools. Steam moved among the pines, pale beneath the moon. At the fork Eddard reined in and waited for Jory.

"Remain here. No one is to follow us."

Jory glanced down the path, then back at his lord. "Within call?"

"Aye."

Jon rode on beside his father. He had suspected what Eddard meant to say when Wylla sent him to the stable. Now that they were alone, he could hear the leather creak beneath his father's hand each time the gelding picked its way over a root.

At the largest pool they dismounted and tied the horses beneath the pines. Jon's sore hand slipped upon the saddle bow. Eddard caught his arm until he had his footing.

"Still troubling you?"

"Only when I have been lifting too much. Wylla gave me salve."

"Give it here."

They sat upon the broad stone beside the water. Eddard took the crock and worked the ointment into the white seam across Jon's palm. Comfrey and rosemary rose through the damp mineral smell of the pool. His thumb moved carefully over the thickest part of the scar.

"Do you still dream of the fighting?"

"Sometimes. Keir turning his shield towards the archer."

His father's thumb stopped.

"I remember men I lost in the war. Things I might have done, had I been quicker." He bent his head over Jon's hand again, though the salve had already been rubbed in. "One begins to think a little more time would have saved everyone."

A drop fell from a pine bough into the water. Jon waited. His father closed the crock, set it on the stone, and kept hold of his hand.

"When I found your mother, she was dying."

Jon looked up, and let the answer he had prepared go unsaid.

"I have let you believe things I knew were false. I have stood beside you while other men said them. You have the right to be angry with me for that. But I must ask you to hear me through."

"I will."

Eddard nodded once. He seemed to need the answer.

"There was a tower in the Red Mountains. You have heard us speak of it. Arthur and the others were there, and for a little while I thought we would have to kill them to reach her." His eyes lowered to their joined hands. "Then she called my name. I could hear her from the yard."

The grip about Jon's fingers tightened. He did not move.

"I had been looking for my sister since the war began. Every rider who came from the south, every prisoner who might have seen her. By then Father was dead. Brandon was dead. I thought if I could only find Lyanna—"

He stopped. Beyond the water the pines stirred, shedding cold drops from their needles.

"There was a woman upon the stair carrying a basin. I remember stepping aside for her. Such a small thing. She was coming down and I let her pass, as though there were no hurry." His mouth pulled tight beneath his beard. "The water was red."

Jon could have supplied what came next. Wylla beside the bed. Arthur in the doorway. The names and the dying promises. He had carried scraps of that room since infancy and fitted other men's accounts around them. But he had never heard his father describe the stair.

"She knew me. She even tried to make a jest of how long I had taken. I began talking of horses and litters and fetching a maester. Wylla had to tell me she could not be moved." Eddard swallowed. "I had brought men all that way, and there was nothing for them to do."

"Father."

"Let me say it." His voice was unexpectedly harsh. His hand eased at once. "Please, Jon."

Jon went still.

"They brought a child to her. She could scarcely lift her arms, so I helped her hold him. I had not yet seen Robb. Catelyn had written that I had a son, but I did not know how to support a baby's head." A breath escaped him, almost a laugh and too painful to be one. "Wylla showed me."

He looked up. His grey eyes shone in the moonlight.

"That child was you. Lyanna was your mother. My little sister."

Jon felt the warmth of his father's hand against his own. He had known what Eddard had come to tell him. He had not prepared himself for the way he would say my little sister.

"She told me who had fathered you. I asked her plainly, and she answered me." Eddard's voice had become very level, each word deliberate. "You are Rhaegar Targaryen's son."

Eddard watched him without blinking.

"I brought you north as my bastard because I could keep you alive that way. I called you my son, and afterwards Robert gave you a name of your own. But your mother named you Aemon."

Jon put his free hand over Eddard's.

"I know, Father."

For a moment nothing changed. Then Eddard's fingers loosened beneath his.

"What do you know?"

"Whose son I am. The name she gave me."

Eddard withdrew his hand. He rose so abruptly that his boot struck the crock and sent it rolling against Jon's thigh.

"Who told you?"

Jon caught the salve. "Arthur confirmed it. I knew before I asked him."

"Before?" Eddard looked towards the path where he had left the guards. When he turned back, the grief in his face had sharpened into alarm. "How? Has someone approached you?"

"No. No one." Jon stood. "I dreamed of the tower. Of her. I knew things I could not have learnt at Luwin's table. I took them to Arthur because I knew he had been there."

His father studied him. "What things?"

Jon hesitated. Bloodraven had no place in this conversation, nor the books he had read in a life Eddard could never understand. The room itself had been real. So had the woman dying in it.

"She asked you to keep me safe. She made you promise as her brother." His voice lowered. "And she asked you not to let me be ashamed of being hers."

Eddard looked away.

Water lapped against the stone. Jon heard his father take a breath, hold it, and release it slowly through his nose.

"You heard her?"

"Pieces. I cannot call them back whenever I wish."

"Her voice?"

"Sometimes."

Eddard shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he was looking at Jon's face as though searching for something there.

"How long have you known?"

"Years."

His father's jaw set. "And Arthur knew you knew."

"Yes. He wanted me to speak to you. I asked him to wait."

"All this time." Eddard took a step away, then stopped beside the pool. "I spoke to him about it only the other evening. He sat across from me and let me wonder how I was to tell you."

"That was my doing."

"He should have told me."

"I asked for his word."

Eddard turned. "You went to Arthur with this. Why could you not come to me?"

The question struck harder than anger would have done. Jon had imagined this often enough, and in those imagined conversations he had always found an answer that spared them both.

"I trusted you with my life."

"Then why did you not tell me?"

Jon looked down at the little crock in his hand. The lid had picked up grit from the stone. He brushed it clean with his thumb, aware that he was delaying as surely as Eddard had delayed.

"At first I wanted to know what was true. Arthur would answer me. You would speak of something else whenever I came near asking about my mother." He looked up. "Afterwards, I thought you should choose when to tell me. I knew you were afraid of it."

"And you let me go on thinking you knew nothing."

"I thought I was being kind." Jon could hear how poor it sounded. "And I did not want you to think I had been looking for another father."

Eddard's anger faltered, but it did not vanish.

"You should have come to me."

"Yes," Jon said. "I should." He put the salve inside his coat. "You should have come to me too. Knowing why you would not speak did not make it easier to sit beside you and wait."

At last Eddard sat again. He rested his elbows upon his knees and rubbed both hands over his face. When they fell away he looked exhausted.

"I saw Rhaegar's children after the sack," he said. "Tywin had them laid before Robert. Rhaenys was a little girl. Aegon was still a babe."

Jon knew their names. He knew what had been done to them. He had thought of those murders often when planning walls and training men. He had seldom thought of Eddard standing in that hall.

"I told Robert what I thought of it. We quarrelled. Then I went south, and when I came back I had another of Rhaegar's children in my keeping." He stared across the water. "You know Robert saw you when he judged Arthur. Has Arthur told you he held you?"

"Yes."

"Your eyes were open," Eddard said. "He looked straight into them. Then he said you had Dayne eyes, and Arthur agreed with him. Robert began to jest about Ashara. The others laughed. I stood there thanking the gods that he thought me faithless."

A muscle worked beside his mouth.

"Then you caught his hair. Just here." Eddard touched the side of his own head. "He swore, and then he laughed. I stood close enough to take you from him. I had to keep telling myself not to reach."

Jon's hand moved towards him, then stopped.

"I watched his hands," Eddard said. "I knew how strong he was. I had seen him break a man's breastplate with his hammer. You were lying in his arms, pulling his hair, and I could not make myself look at anything but his hands."

He fell silent. Jon sat beside him.

"I understand why you called me yours," he said.

"I do not regret that." Eddard turned towards him at once. "Whatever else you think of me, do not think I regret bringing you home."

"I don't."

"Catelyn believed I had betrayed her. I let her. Men praised my honour while you bore the name of my supposed dishonour." He pressed his lips together. "I kept telling myself you were safe. When you were older, I would explain. Then you were older, and I found another reason."

Jon sat with him until his father could look at him again.

"Tell me what she said about Rhaegar."

"She said she chose him."

"And you believed her?"

"She was dying, Jon. She could barely speak. Yet when I asked whether he had taken her against her will, she found strength enough to be angry with me." His gaze went to the water. "Aerys had learnt who wore the laughing-tree helm at Harrenhal. She said his men had come for her. Rhaegar reached her before they could take her."

Jon had heard the account from Arthur. He wanted to hear what his father had made of it.

"Did she say why she stayed with him?"

"She loved him," Eddard said reluctantly. "She told me they had sent word. I never received it. I had questions enough to keep us there until dawn, and she was struggling for breath."

Sent word.

Jon's attention sharpened.

"To you?"

"She did not say. Only that they had tried to reach us."

"By raven? Or a messenger?"

Eddard looked at him. "I did not ask."

Jon glanced down at their hands. His father had been sitting beside a dying sister. Of course he had not asked which rookery she had used.

But someone else might know.

Arthur had been there. He might remember who carried the letters, where they were meant to go. Until Jon knew that much, he could not even tell where to begin looking.

Varys?

The Spider had served Aerys. Rhaegar's movements would have interested him, and Jon knew how readily the man could help a king discover one secret while keeping another buried.

Petyr Baelish came to mind as well. Jon remembered what Brandon's name had meant to him, and what he would later do to the Starks. But Petyr had been young then. Had he possessed any means of reaching those letters? Jon would have to establish that; knowing the man he became was not enough.

A messenger could have died upon the road. A raven could have fallen. There were innocent explanations, and Jon would examine them.

He would also find out whether anyone had deliberately kept his mother's words from reaching her family.

"You are very quiet," Eddard said.

"I was thinking about the letters."

"So have I."

The weariness in his father's voice stopped Jon from asking anything more. There would be time to question Arthur privately.

He would begin there. However long it took, he meant to learn what had happened.

Jon looked at his father again. "You were angry with her."

"Yes." The answer was immediate. Eddard looked at him squarely. "With her for going where I could not find her. With Rhaegar for taking her there. I had ridden half the realm wanting answers, and she was dying before I could ask for them." His voice roughened. "Then she needed help to hold you, and I could not go on."

Jon watched a thread of steam thin above the pool. "What was he like? When you saw him yourself."

Eddard took time over that.

"I scarcely knew him. Arthur can tell you how he spoke among friends. I heard him sing at Harrenhal, and watched him ride." He rubbed a thumb along the edge of his sleeve. "Your mother wept at one of his songs. Benjen caught her at it and made certain she knew he had seen. She emptied her wine over his head."

Despite himself, Jon looked up. "All of it?"

"Enough that he smelt of it through the feast." For an instant the memory softened Eddard's face. "He tried to pretend he had spilt it himself. She would not let him."

Then his gaze fell, and Jon could see the rest of Harrenhal returning to him.

"When Rhaegar won the joust, he rode past his wife to give Lyanna the roses. Robert had been laughing a moment before. I remember how suddenly he stopped." Eddard drew one hand across his beard. "I thought the prince had insulted them both. Perhaps I should have looked more closely at my sister."

"Had she wanted to marry Robert?"

"No." Eddard's answer was quieter now. "She knew he had a daughter in the Vale. She asked what reason she had to expect him to be faithful. I told her he would love her." He looked towards the horses. "She had not asked me whether he could love."

Jon had read that conversation in a book. He had never imagined Eddard remembering it with such shame.

"That does not excuse Rhaegar," Eddard said. "He was already married. Elia had borne him children. Whatever he felt for Lyanna, those people were still his responsibility."

"I know."

"Do you? Arthur loved him. He will remember good in him that I never saw. There may have been much of it. But three of the finest swords in the realm stood outside that tower while his wife and children were left with Aerys."

"I am not asking you to praise him." Jon met his eyes. "I wanted to know what you remembered. You need not make him better for my sake."

Eddard considered him for a moment. "Your mother believed their vows made her his wife. Arthur brought out the papers while she was still alive. He has told you about those?"

"The vows on the Isle of Faces. Howland keeping the papers."

"She said Rhaegar's forebears had taken two wives." Eddard's mouth tightened. "I cannot tell you what a king or a High Septon would make of that. I can tell you that she believed him."

"Did she have much time with me?"

Eddard looked at Jon's hand, resting upon his knee.

"Very little."

Jon had known that too. His throat tightened nevertheless.

"Was she able to see me properly?"

"Aye. Wylla brought you to her. She saw your hair and your eyes. She knew whose child she was holding." Eddard's voice grew unsteady. "She made certain we heard the name she wanted. Rhaegar had wanted a conqueror's name, but she chose Aemon. For the maester at the Wall."

Eddard looked down at Jon's hand. "She said he might have been king, but chose to serve instead. She was determined we should hear her. Aemon. She would not let us call you anything else."

Jon swallowed. "I wish I could remember it better."

Eddard's hand settled over his, warm and heavy.

"She told me you had my frown."

Jon stared at him.

"I said you had no frown. She said I could not see it from where I was sitting." His father's mouth tried to form a smile. It failed. "She had strength left for that. To tease me about a child I had scarcely learnt to hold."

For a little while Eddard could not go on. Jon turned his hand beneath his father's and held it.

"Her breathing changed afterwards. I kept thinking the next breath would be easier. Wylla changed the linen. Howland stood by the window. Arthur held you where she could feel you against her." Eddard's voice dropped until Jon had to lean closer. "I held her, Jon. She was not alone."

Jon bent his head.

He remembered his wife's last illness, and the helpless attention with which he had watched her breathing. He had believed that experience would prepare him to hear this. Instead, he found himself trying to recover a woman's face from the heat and blurred light of his earliest memories. All his knowledge of the world had given him so little of her.

"I know," he said, but the words came badly this time.

Eddard drew him close. Jon gripped the wool at his father's side. For a while he could feel Eddard trying to master his breathing, and then the effort ceased. His father's cheek rested against his hair.

Neither hurried to move away.

When Jon lifted his head, the skin beneath Eddard's eyes was wet. He wiped it with the heel of his hand, making no attempt to hide what he had done.

"I took you when she was gone," he said. "You were crying. You caught your fingers in my mail, and I was afraid I would hurt them getting you loose." He looked down at Jon's hand. "I had promised to keep you alive. I did not know what to do when you were hungry."

"Wylla told you."

"Aye. She has been telling me what to do about you ever since."

Jon managed a small, unsteady smile. His father watched it, then looked away.

"Does it trouble you?" Eddard asked. "To call me Father, knowing?"

Jon turned fully towards him.

"No. I called you that before we rode out," he said. "I knew then. When I was hurt, it was you I wanted beside the bed. Knowing about Rhaegar never changed that."

Eddard bowed his head. When he reached for Jon's hand, Jon gave it to him.

"You may ask me about her," his father said. "At any time. Even when it is hard for me to answer."

"I will."

The horses shifted beneath the pines. They had been away from the castle a long while. Still Eddard made no move towards them.

"Who else knows you have learnt this?"

"No one I have told. Arthur, and now you."

Eddard nodded. His eyes went to the black coat upon Jon's shoulders.

"You are going to Rhaegar's seat with his closest friend beside you. You have soldiers of your own. Men will offer you things when they learn whose blood you carry. Some will have loved your father. Some will want a grievance settled at your expense."

"I know what men may want of me."

"You know what they may want of a wealthy young lord. This is different." Eddard faced him. "Do you mean to claim his throne?"

Jon had expected the question. He had hoped it might wait for another night.

Beyond the pools lay Winterfell, with his brothers asleep beneath its roofs. Farther north lay a wall whose defenders could not find enough men to hold their castles. The books in his memory offered him a realm tearing itself apart while the dead gathered strength. He had no intention of letting events run their course merely to spare himself a difficult answer now.

"I mean to make Dragonstone strong. I will not spend my men's lives avenging a man I never knew."

"And if someone offers you a crown?"

"I would want to know what accepting it would cost."

Eddard's face closed. "That is not a refusal."

"No." Jon held his gaze. "I will not give you a promise I may be unable to keep."

"Robb loves you," his father said. "Have you thought what it would mean to ask him to choose between you and his king?"

"I have not asked it."

"You must think of it before anyone else asks him."

Jon looked down. He could defend his plans for hours; he had done so often enough. His father was asking him to imagine Robb receiving a raven and reaching for his sword.

"I will," he said. "And I will not let men use my mother's name to hurry me into a war."

Eddard searched his face. He remained troubled.

"You are my son," his father said at last. His voice had regained some of its firmness. "If you are in danger, send to me. Do not decide that you must face it alone because we have spoken of Rhaegar tonight."

Jon nodded, then found he had to clear his throat to answer. "I will send."

They gathered the horses. Eddard held Bucephalus's bridle while Jon mounted, watching the sore hand upon the saddle bow. On the rise above the pools Jon turned to look back. The stone where they had sat was already lost beneath the steam.

Jory was waiting at the fork. He took one look at Eddard's face and asked nothing, merely turned his horse towards Winterfell. The others fell in behind them.

As the Great Keep came into view, Jon thought of the rooms being shut for the night, of Wylla folding the last of his things and Arya asleep after declaring she would stay awake until dawn. For years he had measured the distance to Dragonstone impatiently. Now he found himself watching the light in a window until the turn of the path hid it.

At the stable Eddard stayed beside him while he loosened Bucephalus's girth. He took the saddle when Jon lifted it down. There was still more to say; Jon could feel both of them searching for a way to remain a little longer.

"Come south when Rickon is older," he said. "I will keep rooms for you."

"When the North permits." Eddard put the saddle upon its stand. "And you may come home whenever you wish."

Jon looked at him across the horse's back.

"Write to me about her," he said. "When you think of something."

His father nodded. Then he came round Bucephalus and held Jon once more, the horse warm against their shoulders, and this time Jon did not try to find anything else to say.

* * *
​

Arthur was waiting upstairs. Five crows stirred upon the sill as Jon entered; Hugin protested when he closed the shutter against the night air.

"He knows," Jon said. "That we have been speaking of my parents."

Arthur set down the buckle he had been mending. "Was he angry?"

"Yes. With both of us." Jon put the salve beside his bed. "He told me about Robert holding me. How he stood there watching the king's hands."

Arthur's face tightened. Jon began to unfasten his coat, missed the fastening, and tried again. The knight rose to help him with the sleeve caught at his wrist.

"I will speak to him before we ride," Arthur said.

Jon sat upon the bed and watched Arthur fold the coat. For a while he said nothing. Then he looked up. "Once we are settled on Dragonstone, I want to speak to Ethan about Oswell and Gerold."

Arthur's hands became still upon the folded coat.

"We have relied upon other men's letters for too long," Jon continued. "Ethan can tell us which reports he believes. Denys knows shipmasters we have never spoken to."

"There has been very little we could trust."

"Then we begin with what there is. Quietly. I shall not send an open letter asking two unpardoned Kingsguard to return."

Arthur looked down at the coat. "They may still be protecting the queen's children."

"I am not asking them to leave anyone. I want to know whether they live, and whether we can get a message to them."

The knight's thumb moved over the folded collar. "Oswell would laugh himself sick. Searched for by a boy he once held in one hand."

"He can tell me that himself, if we find him."

Arthur smiled, though his eyes had reddened. He folded Jon's sleeve again, more carefully than it needed.

"When we are settled," he said. "We will speak to Ethan together."

Jon nodded. There was nothing more they could do that night. Arthur banked the fire and returned to the loose buckle. Jon lay with his sore hand beside his face. The salve smelled of rosemary. He fell asleep listening to the knight at work.

* * *
​

Sunlight lay upon the kitchen table.

Jon knew the scratches beneath his hand. One ran almost to the edge, made when his younger child had dragged something sharp across the wood. His wife had refused to replace the table, even after the children had homes of their own.

The cupboard door was shut. That was wrong. He had spent years meaning to mend it, and it had never closed so neatly.

Behind him, a woman drew breath to speak.

He gripped the table. He had not heard her voice since the life in which he had buried her. Even knowing what had happened in the first dream, he almost turned.

"You are leaving the North."

Bloodraven stood in the doorway. White roots ran through the frame beside his head. His red eye moved from Jon's hand to the cupboard.

"Tomorrow," Jon said. "You have seen the wagons."

"I have."

"I have not changed my mind."

The old man seemed scarcely to hear him. "What is wrong with the door?"

Jon let go of the table. "You made this. You tell me."

Bloodraven touched the doorpost. "I have only what you remember."

The cupboard opened a finger's breadth as Jon recalled the fault. One corner hung lower than the other; the light caught the worn place where his wife had pushed it shut with her hip.

The old man watched the change. Jon went cold. He had answered without speaking.

Jon tried to think of his bed. He could remember the room upstairs, but he could not feel the blanket or the pillow beneath his head. Behind him came the beginning of a laugh, too brief to tell whether it sounded right.

"Where is this house?"

Jon could have put every map in Winterfell before him and never answered. He kept his eyes upon the roots winding through the doorframe.

"Let me wake."

"Who is waiting for you here?"

"No one."

The answer caught in his throat. Behind him a chair scraped the floor. He knew precisely how she would be sitting, with one foot tucked beneath the other leg, turning something in her hands while she listened. He wanted to look so badly that he shut his eyes.

"Yet you will not look," Bloodraven said.

Her sleeve brushed his arm. His hand moved before he stopped it. Jon pressed his palms together instead, driving his thumb into the scar until it hurt.

Comfrey. Rosemary. Eddard had rubbed the salve into his hand beside the hot pools. Arthur was sitting by the bed, mending his belt. Jon pictured the needle between the knight's fingers and tried to hear it draw through the leather.

"The woman," Bloodraven said. "What did she call you?"

Jon opened his mouth. For an instant the answer was there, as easy as turning when she spoke.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

The kitchen shuddered. A hand closed upon his shoulder, and Arthur's voice reached him. Jon followed it, dragging a breath into his chest.

He woke sitting up. His hands were clenched together beneath his chin. Arthur eased them apart.

"You called me," the knight said.

Jon had not heard himself. He touched his tongue to the sore place inside his cheek, then looked at the shutter. It was still dark outside.

"He came again."

Arthur laid the unfinished belt aside. "What did he want?"

Jon could still hear the question. He had almost answered it aloud.

"Things I will not tell him." He looked at Arthur. "If you hear me speaking in my sleep on the road, wake me. Make me answer you."

Arthur drew the chair close enough to reach the bed. "I will."

Jon lay down again. The crock of salve stood where he had left it. After a while he took off its lid.

 

[aiwonder]

The wagons stood ready in the Black Yard before sunrise. Morning mist drifted under the open gate, hiding the wheels and the feet of the folk who had come down from the winter town. Jon waited beside the mounting block while Garrick and Callum finished repairing a wheel.

"Hold the lamp nearer," Garrick said. "I cannot see a damned thing."

Callum straightened from the wheel. His mother stepped out of the crowd, caught his face between floury hands and kissed him before he could turn aside. "You have eaten nothing."

"I had bread." He tried to escape without dropping the hammer.

She thrust a warm bundle inside his coat. The men nearest laughed; Callum went red and hurried back to the wheel. Behind him, craftsmen were settling their children among the bedding on the freight wagons. Six hundred foot waited beyond the baggage, packs upon their shoulders; nearer the wall Tomas held the fifty mounted household guards beneath the sable banner. The engine crews and Otho's builders travelled with their equipment, their apprentices walking beside the loaded carts.

Jon looked along the mounted files. Three younger riders wore black where Finnan, Keir and Struan once had. He still searched for the dead boys before he remembered. His hand tightened upon the rein, and Bucephalus tossed his head.

Arthur brought his horse alongside. He watched Jon ease the glove away from his scar, then lowered his voice. "I spoke to your father before dawn."

Jon looked up. "What did he say?"

"He wanted to know why I had let him wait so long. I told him I was sorry." Arthur looked towards the castle. "He heard me out."

"Is he still angry?"

"Yes." The knight's mouth tightened. "I gave him cause."

Jon settled the rein in his other hand. Through the mist he could see a groom leading Bran's little grey pony down from the castle, with his brother running beside it. He thought of Eddard holding him beside the hot pools, trying to speak through his grief. There had been time for another visit that morning, if Jon had gone up sooner.

"They are waiting for us," Arthur said.

Jon nodded and called to Rylas to bring the grey as a remount. Gawen checked Aries's girth, then sent the page and his dog clear of the moving teams. The six centurions' pages were already by the service wagon, receiving Heward's last instructions.

Beyond the gate, seamstresses stood with their children; smiths came black-handed from banked fires; carters shouted counsel at sons who had heard it all night. A small girl wore a scrap of black wool pinned to her cap. When Olyver's mother warned him not to let a Vale maid steal his good cloak, the girl laughed louder than anyone.

"I have no good cloak," Olyver protested.

"Then marry before she sees it." Even Tomas smiled. Olyver stared between his horse's ears while red climbed above his collar.

William came out of the work hall carrying its keys. He stood a moment with his hand upon the door before giving them to Lord Stark's keeper.

"Everything aboard?" Jon asked him.

"The four unfinished clocks, and every tool worth taking." The clockmaker glanced back through the doorway. Pale patches showed where the benches had stood; a heap of curled shavings remained beneath the window. "It looks larger empty."

Jon knew which bench had stood in each place. He had meant to go inside once more. Garrick called for the gate to be cleared, and William pulled the door shut.

The first team moved. Iron rims ground over damp stone; chains tightened down the line. Mors walked beside the instrument wagon while Abel rode with the travelling coin beneath his boots. Wylla helped Mairi secure a loose bundle, then climbed up beside her. Jon waited for their wagon to pass, then rode through the gate.

The Stark riders waited beyond the bend under grey direwolves. Martyn Cassel commanded them, with Jory at Robb's right and Hallis behind. Theon rode at Robb's other side, his fine cloak and carefully arranged collar still untouched by the road. Neither boy commanded so much as a pack pony; Martyn had made that plain. Jon could have followed the wagons towards the kingsroad. Instead he turned Bucephalus towards the family waiting below the castle. Robb and Theon followed him and dismounted. Rickon slept against Catelyn's breast beneath a river-blue cover. Sansa stood with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel; Arya's tight braids pulled at the corners of her eyes, and mud already stained one knee. Bran wriggled down from the little grey pony Harwin was holding before Jon had both boots from the stirrups. "Runestone has seven towers," he said into Jon's belt. "Cley told me."

Jon steadied Bran with a hand on his shoulder. "Then I shall count them for you."

"And the stairs. Cley did not know how many stairs."

"If Lord Royce lets me wander about his castle."

"He will. Tell him I want to know." Bran pointed at Winterfell's broken tower. "See if theirs is as high as that one."

Jon pulled his little brother's hood straight. "Keep off that roof while I am gone."

Bran looked aggrieved. "I was only showing you." He hugged Jon again before running to Robb. Arya waited until Jon crouched.

Arya put both hands upon Jon's shoulders. "Mother looked in the wagons."

"Did she find you?"

"I was looking for Patch." Jon raised one brow. She held his gaze for a moment, then kissed his cheek so quickly that he felt only the cold point of her nose. "If Robb falls, you must catch him before you laugh," she told Theon.

"I shall do my best," Theon said, gathering his fine cloak clear of her muddy boot.

Arya looked past him. "Jory, you watch them."

Jory bowed from the saddle. "Aye, my lady."

Sansa gave Jon a proper kiss and smoothed the sleeve upon which she meant him to wear her favour. "Bring me a Vale song that no one knows here."

Jon brushed a fleck of road dust from Sansa's pale blue sleeve. "If I hear one worth carrying, I shall make Robb remember the tune."

Sansa lowered her voice while Jeyne listened openly behind her. "And discover whether Royce ladies set bronze beads in their hair or only upon their gowns."

"I shall ask," Jon said. Jeyne whispered something to Sansa, and both girls laughed.

She caught Robb's hand before he mounted. "Bow before asking a lady to dance."

"I know how to bow."

"Then remember to do it before you take her hand."

Robb looked towards Jeyne for support and found her smiling at the ground. Theon laughed.

"You had best practise too," Sansa told him.

Catelyn put Rickon into Septa Mordane's arms and drew her eldest son close. She held him long enough that his face changed against her shoulder. When she stepped back, her hands remained on his arms.

"Listen to my uncle," she said. "And write to me when you reach White Harbor."

"I will, Mother."

She drew his collar straight, though it was already straight. "If you are hurt in the squires' melee, tell him. I know you, Robb."

"Only bruises, Mother. I shall be all right."

Catelyn looked at Theon. "You will tell Ser Brynden if he will not?"

The careful face he had worn on his first days at Winterfell came over him, though it no longer fitted as well. "I will, my lady." Catelyn's gaze moved to Jon. She did not open her arms. She looked at his scarred hand, at the new black cloak, and at the boys waiting beneath his banner.

"Luwin has copies of the letters for Gulltown and Runestone," she said. "Send a raven if the road changes. Do not let Robb decide a change is too small to trouble us."

"I will write, my lady."

She nodded and turned back to Robb. Jon stepped away to let her have him for the few moments that remained.

Eddard had taken Martyn and Gawen aside. He clasped each captain's forearm, then spoke briefly to Tomas as the last loaded team passed.

"I shall ride with Robb once we clear the town," Jon told Arthur. "Tomas will bring the household close at the bridges."

Arthur nodded. Martyn called the Stark riders into line, and Wylla leaned from the wagon. "Excellent. We may leave before somebody remembers another instruction."

Eddard smiled despite himself.

Eddard embraced Robb first and spoke something into his hair that Jon did not hear. He gripped Theon's shoulder next. When he came to Jon, his hand settled behind the boy's neck. Jon noticed the breadth of it, the old scars across the knuckles. Last night those hands had trembled as Eddard told him about Robert holding him.

"Write from the harbour," his father said.

"I gave Lady Stark my word, and I mean to keep it."

Eddard's hand remained behind Jon's neck. "In your own hand. Luwin will send me the accounts whether I ask or not."

"Even if all I have to tell you is that Theon snores?"

"You do not need to tell him that," Theon said from beside Robb.

Eddard's mouth moved beneath his beard. He drew Jon close. The leather of his surcoat smelled of woodsmoke and horse. Jon remembered holding his own grown son at a gangway while his daughter laughed because he would not let go.

Jon put both arms around Eddard and held on. "Come north before the next harvest, if you can," Eddard said quietly. "Bring Wylla and Aries."

"I will try. You need not wait until then to write to me either."

"Luwin will complain of the ravens." Eddard held him a moment longer.

When they parted, Eddard touched the pale lock in Jon's hair once, as if he had forgotten how many eyes were present. Arthur saw. His face did not soften, but when Eddard held out his arm, the Dornishman clasped it. "Bring him back," Eddard said.

Arthur's gaze followed Jon among the waiting files. "I will keep him as well as I know how."

Eddard's voice fell below the creak of harness. "He is my son, and neither crown nor island alters that."

"I know." Arthur held his gaze. Eddard kept his hand upon the knight's forearm for another moment before releasing it.

Pate waited by the mounting block with his cap in his hands. He had oiled the winding handle until its grip shone. "I checked both pins before dawn, my lord."

"And your apprentice?"

"Can do it without my standing over him."

"Then let him, sometimes." Jon clasped the bellman's hand. "You have earned a morning in bed."

Pate laughed, clearing his throat before he could answer. Behind him, a woman pressed a linen parcel into Jon's hand: the small honey cakes he used to eat on the workshop stair. She had brought enough for Robb too.

Jon loosened the cloth enough to see the cakes. "With the nuts in them. You remembered."

"Your favourites, my lord." She tucked the cloth over them again. "I have been baking those for you since you could barely reach the bench."

He smiled and thanked her. She stood back to let a groom through with a greeting for White Harbor; Jon repeated the name and asked which quay.

Wylla watched from the wagon. One of the women who had whispered outside his nursery was telling a younger maid that he always remembered a kindness. The younger woman nodded; she had known no other Jon. Arthur kept the lane clear for them. Eddard waited without calling the boy away.

Old Nan made Arthur bend so she could kiss his cheek. "See that he eats."

"Wylla has already told me."

"Then you cannot plead ignorance." Mikken gave Arthur two newly riveted straps for Dawn's harness and told him to oil the buckles before the crossing. Arthur thanked him as Garrick raised an arm from the lead wagon. They mounted. Winter town children ran beside them as far as the last croft, touching stirrup leathers. Murdo's mother rode with him to the rise, where Master Venn and Rusk waited while Davie said his last words to his father. The two boys rejoined their files at Tomas's call, each looking back. Ewan raised his hammer from the moving freight wagon; William rode behind, counting his apprentices once more. Bran had climbed onto his pony and waved both arms. One pale tower sank, then another. The last was lost behind the pines. Jon's eyes stung as Bucephalus carried him down the farther slope.

* * *
​

At their first halt south of Winterfell, Elspeth uncovered the honey loaves she had baked for Jon's twelfth nameday. The household gathered round beneath an ash tree at the roadside. Hewyn's men beat spear butts against shield rims until Garrick shouted for them to stop frightening the teams. Robb held up twelve fingers, borrowing two from Theon. "There. A man grown."

The men crowded round with warm honey bread. There was no hall or proper table, only an upturned grain measure beneath the ash. Arthur brought out a long bundle wrapped in oiled wool.

The leather scabbard beneath was plain. So was the sword: castle steel, straight and clean, a narrow channel down the blade, a blackened crossguard and round iron pommel. Ewan had forged it to Arthur's measurements, shortening the blade and bringing its balance back to suit Jon's reach. Jon drew a handspan. The edge gleamed cold in the morning light.

"Try it," Arthur said.

Davie peered around Tomas. "What is its name?"

"Sword," Arthur said.

"Dawn has a name."

"Then you may think of another," Arthur said. "I have none for it."

Jon belted it on, the point clearing the earth exactly, and drew once more to feel the balance. Arthur watched his wrist.

"How is the grip?"

"Better than the old one." He opened and closed his hand before sheathing it. Robb stepped forward with a broad road dagger, its antler grip dark from use.

Wylla folded her arms. "If the presents are finished, the bread is cooling."

"It was Jory's," Robb said. "He robbed me for it."

"I named a fair price," Jory called.

Jon turned the dagger in his hand, testing the grip before thanking Robb.

Arya had sent a small whetstone wrapped in torn russet wool. Her letters climbed across the page: FOR THE TRUE SWORD. Jon tried the stone with his thumb and put it in his belt pouch. Sansa's favour was already safe in her seal bag, ready to wear in the squires' melee.

Tomas cut another honey loaf while the men crowded round Jon to inspect the dagger. "Let him eat," Wylla told them. "You may admire the edge after he has finished." Olyver surrendered his place with a bow and took a larger piece of bread on the way past.

Eddard's letter waited in Sansa's oiled pouch. Jon broke the grey wax beneath the ash. The page within bore only a few lines. Robert made you a lord when you slept inside my bent arm. Twelve years seemed a long road then. Learn from the Vale. Do not spend horse or man to prove you have learned. Write of good days as well as ill ones. Winterfell is your home while its stones stand.

Bran had drawn towers along the foot of the page. Sansa had labelled one RUNESTONE. Across another, Arya had drawn a rider falling headfirst and then scratched it half away. Rickon's small hand had smeared the corner near the seal. Jon read the letter twice. The bread had cooled before he remembered it. Wylla said nothing, only broke off a fresh warm piece and traded it for the cold one in his hand.

"I was eating that," Jon said.

"It is cold." Wylla rested a hand on his shoulder, then left him with the letter.

Robb waited until Wylla moved away. "What did Father write?"

"He wants me to write of something besides the work." Jon passed him the letter. "You may tell him you saw me eat my nameday bread."

Robb read it beside him. He smiled at Bran's towers, then grew quiet. Beyond the ash tree the men were packing away their bowls and bringing up the horses.

"When you come north again, I shall ride out to meet you," he said, handing the letter back.

"I shall hold you to it."

"You should. Otherwise he will send me," Theon said. "And I mean to be comfortable at Winterfell by then."

Jon folded the page and put it carefully away. He finished his bread while Robb described what their father had written to him. Most of it concerned his temper, his mother's letters and the money he had lost at archery.

* * *
​

Castle Cerwyn's squat towers rose before midday. Robb still knew two of the shepherds by name. Garrick called the planned halt after thirteen miles, leaving daylight to inspect the wagons, ease the teams out of their first day's collars and make camp. Jon rode forward to hear where Lord Medger's steward meant to put them.

Lord Medger's steward led them to a field beside the stream. It looked broad until the wagons, beasts, soldiers and craftsmen's families began filling it. Hewyn placed his centuries beyond the baggage road. Tomas took the horse lines, while Martyn set the grey tents on the dry rise. Together they walked the stream bank and posted a pair of men below the alders, where the bend was hidden from camp.

By supper the tents were up and the horses fed. Elspeth served barley, ham and peas from a great pot over the middle fire, feeding Stark men as readily as her own. Davie fell asleep over his last spoonful. Gage shook him awake and sent him to bed, where Murdo shifted his blanket to make room.

At dusk Cley Cerwyn came down from the castle and demanded news of the Vale from men who had never seen it. Olyver told him of roads cut into sheer mountains and ladies with moonstones braided through their hair. Murdo added that a silver chain held the Eyrie beneath the moon. "It stands on a mountain," Cley said.

"The chain holds up the whole mountain," Murdo replied gravely.

Cley looked sidelong at Robb, suspecting that he was being made a fool of.

Robb put grave thought into it. "Sansa told me much the same."

"Sansa has never seen it either," Cley said, but less certainly. Lord Medger's steward arrived before Murdo could improve the moon. The lord expected Robb, Theon and Jon at his table.

"We have eaten already," Theon said, looking at his empty bowl.

"There is roast capon," the steward told him.

Theon stood, brushing grass from his breeches. Martyn sent all three to wash and change their muddy cloaks before they went up to the castle. Arthur and Gawen accompanied Jon, with Aries following close behind; Tomas remained in charge of the camp.

Cerwyn's hall was warm after the damp evening. Servants carried roast capons to the high table, their skin glistening in the candlelight, while Lady Cerwyn questioned Robb about his mother and the younger children. Medger let his wife have the first of the family news before turning to the knights.

"Will you be entering the joust at Runestone? The Vale breeds good riders. Every second son with a horse seems to think a fortune awaits him in the lists."

"I mean to try my luck, my lord," Gawen said.

"Then guard your purse as well as your ribs. Some of them have been paying for their suppers with other men's horses for years." Medger glanced at Martyn. "And you, Cassel?"

"Lord Eddard has entrusted these boys to me. I shall have enough to occupy me."

Theon opened his mouth, caught Martyn's eye, and reached for his cup instead.

"And you, Ser Arthur?"

"I shall not enter the joust, but Lord Yohn would like a pass against me. I will oblige him. It would be discourteous to refuse our host."

Medger gave a rueful shake of his head.

"Dayne against Royce. I would have enjoyed seeing that."

"Then let us go," Cley said at once.

His father looked towards him. Cley leaned forward, warming to the chance.

"We could ride with them. There is still time."

"I cannot leave now. You know that."

"I could go with Robb."

"Cley. We settled this."

The boy's eager expression faded. He sat back, looking down at the bread beside his plate.

"Yes, Father."

Medger watched him for a moment, but Cley had turned towards Robb.

"You will have to tell me about it afterwards," he said. "All of it. Not only your own bouts."

After supper, Jon had barely risen when the steward approached. He waited for a pair of servants to pass with the empty platters before speaking.

"My lord, might I trouble you for a moment?"

Jon followed him a few paces from the table. Arthur remained nearby while the steward drew a folded sheet from inside his coat.

"It concerns the windmill beyond the village. We replaced one of the arms last autumn, and now the new timber has split. The carpenter blames the wood. The miller says the whole thing has shaken worse since it was fitted."

He opened the sheet to reveal a rough drawing.

"Lord Medger thought you might be willing to look at it, with all the work you have done at your own mills."

Jon took the drawing towards the light.

"Did it shake before the arm was replaced?"

"A little, the miller says. Nothing like this."

"Have him meet me there in the morning. The carpenter too."

The steward's shoulders eased. "Before you leave?"

"If you can have someone show me the way after breakfast." Jon studied the drawing once more, then handed it back. "I should like to see the split timber. Ask them to keep it for me."

When they left the hall, rain was sweeping across the field. Martyn sent a guard ahead for their heavy cloaks and kept the boys beneath the porch until he returned.

Heward was at the camp entrance when they returned, listening while Norren dealt with two of Third's men. They had tried to leave for the alehouse without their decanus's leave. The campidoctor had stopped them before they reached the road and sent for their centurion.

"Back to your ten," Norren said. "No leave at tomorrow's halt either."

The men went without further argument. As Jon passed, the duty decanus was telling Heward who still had leave and when they were due back. Neither officer needed him to settle it. Heward went on to the next post; Norren returned to his century and the singing round its fire.

* * *
​

The next morning Jon visited the windmill with Woods and the steward. He stayed until Hobb, the carpenter, had taken down their advice for the repairs, then rode back to find the wagons ready and Martyn waiting at the road.

For two days the kingsroad became brown paste beneath iron rims. Water found the neck of every cloak and gathered inside Theon's costly boots. When they turned onto the road for White Harbor, the rain followed them. Drivers laid brush beneath the wheels where the wagons sank; at night the horses were stripped, rubbed dry and fed before the men. Black and grey cloaks steamed round the fires.

Aries rode beside Gawen where the ground allowed and led Bracken through the worst ruts. Patch went on foot at halts or rode upon the service wagon, on the blanket Wylla had spread for him. Each evening the boy dried the dog, then changed his own wet stockings at Wylla's insistence before taking the supper she had kept for him.

Jon's scar ached until holding a spoon hurt. Wylla moved his bowl to his left hand while Lorren worked salve into the tight scar. At the healer's urging he rode the quiet grey next morning. He wanted the use of that hand at Runestone.

Damp had found the swords as well. Jon discovered rust beside his guard and called Tomas over. Before supper the men sat drying their blades, oil rags passing from hand to hand.

Two days later, Martyn Cassel found an empty sheep market behind their inn. The ground had dried beneath its roof, and the captain had the trestles carried against the wall before calling for wooden swords.

"If you mean to enter the squires' melee, you can spare an hour for this."

Robb was already pulling off his cloak. Theon followed more slowly, rolling his shoulders after the long ride. Gawen brought practice shields while Arthur checked the binding around Jon's hand. The scar still felt tight when he closed his fist, but the deep ache had eased with the rain.

"Does it hurt?" Arthur asked.

"It is stiff. I can hold a sword." Jon tightened his grip upon the wooden hilt, then raised his shield. "Theon?"

The older boy smiled. "Are you certain?"

Jon walked into the open space. "Quite."

Martyn made them wait while he kicked a loose stone clear. Then he stepped back and lowered his hand.

Theon came forward behind his shield. His first stroke tested Jon's reach; the second came lower and faster. Jon caught it upon his shield and moved away before Theon could crowd him. The next cut passed close across his chest. He watched Theon's face above the shield rim, waiting.

Theon followed. Jon had watched him spar for years. He knew the little lift of his chin before he pressed an advantage, and saw it now. Theon cut towards his head, ready to turn the stroke if Jon raised his shield.

Jon stepped towards him instead. He caught the stroke close to Theon's hilt and drove his shield against the older boy's sword arm. His own wooden blade struck the exposed ribs.

Theon grunted and stepped back.

"Again," he said. His smile had gone.

This time he waited. Jon made him lift his shield with a cut towards the shoulder, then struck low. Theon caught that too and answered hard. Jon turned the blow aside, stepped past the edge of his shield and laid his blade across Theon's chest.

"Enough," Martyn called.

For a moment Theon looked down at the wooden sword. Then he huffed and lowered his shield.

"You have been saving that."

Jon smiled. "I enjoyed it."

Robb laughed, but stopped when Jon turned towards him.

"Your turn."

"I saw what you did." Robb took Theon's place and settled his shield close to his body.

Jon could see the resolve in his brother's face. Robb would not chase him. He met Jon's first strokes squarely, kept his feet beneath him and answered with a sharp cut that Jon caught upon his shield rim.

Jon changed the height of his next two attacks, making Robb shift his shield, then struck it high and held his sword there for a heartbeat. Robb pushed against it and came forward.

Jon went with the pressure, turning aside. His shield checked Robb's sword arm; his own blade slid free and struck beneath the raised elbow. He was clear again before Robb turned.

Robb stared, flushed and breathing hard.

"One more."

Martyn looked at Jon's hand. Jon opened and closed it, then nodded.

Robb came at him fiercely. Jon gave ground for three steps, stopped the fourth stroke against his shield and answered before Robb could recover. The wooden blade touched Robb's breastbone and stayed there.

Beyond Martyn, several of the guards had stopped oiling their swords. Jon lowered his weapon. He was breathing more quickly now, but he could have gone again.

"I thought I had you moving backwards," Robb said.

"You did. You came too far after me."

Martyn took Robb by the shoulder and moved him back to where he had begun his last attack. "Here. You were still well covered here." He glanced towards Arthur. "Jon barely let him finish the stroke."

Arthur was watching Jon with an open satisfaction he seldom showed in the yard. "He saw the shield drop."

Jon turned the practice sword in his hand. He had once needed Arthur to point out such openings after they were gone. Now he saw them as a man began to move, and his own answer came without hesitation. The years of bruises and repeated drills were serving him well.

Martyn called Tomas, Gage and Rylas over. "Now for the squires' melee. You will need to watch someone besides the man before you."

He put Tomas and Gage with Jon, Rylas with Robb and Theon. At his word the six closed. Theon tried to draw Jon away while Robb pressed Gage, but Jon stayed close enough to turn Robb's next stroke and send Gage forward against him.

"Rylas, on your left!" Martyn called.

Rylas turned to meet Tomas. Theon struck hard at Jon's shield, trying to stop him joining them. Jon held his ground through two blows, caught the third upon his sword and drove forward. Theon's shield turned; Jon touched his shoulder and went straight to Tomas.

Rylas yielded with two swords before him. Robb tried to turn out of Gage's reach, but Jon was already there. He stopped his blade against his brother's shoulder.

"That is the bout," Martyn said. "Robb, Theon, you let him keep his men together. Change sides. We shall try it again."

Robb pulled off his glove and wiped his face. He looked at Jon, then shook his head with a reluctant grin. "I would rather be on your side at Runestone."

"So would I," Theon said. He was looking at the mark Jon's wooden sword had left upon his coat.

They changed sides and fought again.

When Martyn called a halt, Aries hurried over with Jon's cloak. He draped it over his lord's shoulders, then lingered, watching Arthur return the practice swords to their rack.

"Why won't you enter the joust, ser?"

Arthur turned. "You heard us at supper."

"I know. But you could win it." Aries's face brightened as he said it. "You could win the whole thing."

Martyn chuckled. "There will be a good many knights at Runestone who believe that of themselves."

"But they would have to beat Ser Arthur."

There was no boast in the boy's voice. He looked towards the knight as though the answer ought to have been obvious, then remembered Martyn.

"Or you, ser. I've seen you ride."

"Then I must have been having a good day."

Aries smiled politely, but pressed on.

"You could win their horses and armour. And everyone would come to watch." His words came faster now. "I could carry your lance. Or hold your horse until they called you."

Arthur's expression softened.

"You are already attending Jon."

"I could do both."

Jon lowered his head to hide a smile while he worked at his shield strap.

"Lord Yohn will have his passes," Arthur said. "You may watch those."

Aries's eager look faltered. "Only those?"

"Only those. Jon is entering the melee. I mean to be free to attend him."

"And I have Robb and Theon," Martyn added. He rubbed a sore shoulder, glancing towards the pair as they disputed a blow beside the trestles. "Lord Stark expects me to bring them home whole."

Aries followed his gaze. His mouth tightened; plainly, neither seemed to require quite so much looking after.

He turned back to Arthur.

"I still think you would win, ser."

Arthur rested a hand briefly upon the boy's shoulder.

"Then I shall try not to disappoint you when I face Lord Yohn."

Aries straightened beneath his hand, his grin returning.

Gawen had been gathering the shields. He set the last against the trestle, then lingered beside Arthur, running a thumb over a worn buckle.

"Ser Arthur. If you have a little time before Runestone, I would be grateful for your advice." His voice had dropped; he glanced at the other men before continuing. "With the lance. It has been a while since I rode against anyone worth the trouble."

Arthur turned fully towards him. "Of course. What would you like to know?"

Gawen began to answer as they walked towards the stables. Martyn put down the practice sword he had been examining and caught up with them.

"I would hear this too, if you do not mind."

Arthur made room for him. They went down the passage together, Arthur's head bent towards Gawen. Jon heard the beginning of a question about the saddle; then a team clattered through the yard, and the rest was lost beneath the wheels.

They reached the ferry on the twelfth day. The ferryman waved the first wagon forward, but Jon held up a hand. The current had slewed the empty platform against its rope. As it rocked, the wet hemp dragged across the edge of a beam.

"Wait, Garrick. Look beneath that timber."

The ferryman took off his cap. "It carried Lord Manderly's wheelhouse in spring, my lord."

"When did you last replace the rope?"

The man hesitated. Garrick crouched with a hook and drew the hidden length into the light. Pale fibres hung from it; beneath them, the rope had worn nearly halfway through. Jon dismounted and ran his thumb over the damaged place.

"Bring the teams back," he told Garrick. "We shall put no one aboard until this is replaced."

The ferryman had a sound coil in his shed. While Garrick helped him fetch it, Martyn rode back along the waiting column, turning the Stark horses off the approach so the carters had room to unhitch. Jon sent his own men to water the teams and bring the children down from the wagons. They would lose half a day here; he could see two mothers staring at the frayed rope.

Once the new line was secured, Garrick crossed with the ferryman to examine the far fastening. Jon watched the empty platform travel steadily against the current, then called for the first wagon.

Two mornings later the road had hardened. At the midday halt they changed two sore-backed geldings for remounts; Gawen led the geldings for the rest of the day. That evening pads and girths hung along the inn hedge in a clear wind. Jon brought the geldings a handful of oats. One kept nosing his empty palm while, across the yard, Martyn showed Robb how to find the sore place beneath a saddle. Theon stood holding both horses, listening despite the mud drying upon his boots.

* * *
​

After supper they gathered beside the tea-brown stream below the inn, under rain-washed beech leaves. For once there was dry wood enough for two fires. Robb and Theon brought the last of the walnuts Cley had given them at Castle Cerwyn. Gawen sat on his folded black cloak, boots near the warmth. Three grey stitches inside the collar marked it as his in Wylla's hand. Robb cracked a nut with his dagger pommel. "Did you learn to ride at Runestone?"

"Aye. Strong Sam, the master-at-arms at Runestone, began teaching me while I worked in the stables. I had to finish with the horses before he would let me near a lance."

Davie wriggled nearer. "Did you live in Runestone?"

"In the lower yard. My father was a saddler at Willow Creek. He took me along when he brought work to the castle, and the stablemaster found a place for me. Strong Sam had me carrying his shield soon enough. He lent me my first horse for the quintain."

Rylas glanced at the old blue cloak beneath Gawen's pack. "Who knighted you?"

Gawen turned one boot between his palms. "Ser Uthor Pryor, upon the Trident. A spear had opened his belly and Robert's horsemen were forming for another charge. He had strength enough to strike my shoulder once and order me off the riverbank."

Jon leaned forward. "Were you with him when Robert's men charged?"

"Aye. We carried him as far as the trees. He died before we could find a maester." Gawen turned one of the empty walnut shells between his fingers. "I still had his blood on my sleeve when they told us the prince was dead."

For a while no one spoke. The fire crackled, and Davie pulled the blanket higher about his shoulders.

Robb glanced at the plain black cloak. "What will they say when you ride into Runestone in black?"

"Strong Sam will strike me for taking so long. Kennet Coldwater will ask for three stags I deny owing. Pate Shett will claim he always knew I would return a lord's man, though he once wagered I would hang in Gulltown."

"You can tell them you command Lord Black's horse now," Davie said.

Gawen smiled. "Kennet will still tell you how I was thrown out of a feast with half a capon in my cloak. He has been waiting years for a new audience."

Jon thought of Winterfell. He had missed his wife and children in much the same way during his years at sea. Loving this household had given him another place to miss. Around the fire, every boy had turned towards Arthur. "No," the knight said.

"We have not asked," Robb protested.

"Your faces have."

Theon chose his opening. "Did Bronze Yohn ever unhorse you?"

"No."

"Then you unhorsed him."

"Prince Rhaegar unhorsed us both at Harrenhal. Yohn first."

Robb leaned forward. "Was he as large then?"

"Too large for his first horse. The bronze made him seem larger. Half the young knights wanted to strike those runes so they could boast of it."

"Did you?" Gage asked.

"I wanted to unhorse him as much as anyone." Arthur shifted the wrapped sword across his knees. "We practised together before the lists. My ash lance broke through his glove. He rode the next day with two splinters still in his palm and was laid up with a fever afterwards."

Robb winced. Jon flexed his own hand inside the glove.

"He should not have ridden," Arthur said. "Yohn will tell you otherwise."

"Strong Sam never told me that part," Gawen said.

"He was trying to put you on a horse." Laughter ran around the fire. Theon waited until it faded.

"Did Rhaegar laugh when he put you down?"

Arthur's fingers became still upon Dawn's wrappings. "No." His gaze had settled beyond the fire. Jon saw the change in his face and waited; Theon looked down at the walnut shell between his fingers. When Arthur spoke again, it was to ask Gawen whether Strong Sam still kept the same old courser.

Much later, the stream woke Jon with a sound like rain. For a moment he expected the close ceiling of his old cabin, then recognised the canvas. Arthur lay across the tent mouth. His head turned when Jon sat up.

"Another dream?"

"No. The water woke me." Jon waited until the footsteps outside had passed. "There is something I meant to ask you. My mother told Father they had sent word. He never received it."

Arthur pushed himself onto one elbow.

"Do you know how it was sent?" Jon asked.

The knight was quiet long enough for Jon to hear someone coughing beyond the canvas. "I remember her saying it beside the bed. I cannot tell you who carried it."

"Did you see a letter?"

Arthur rubbed a hand over his face. "I cannot remember seeing one."

"Or hear Rhaegar order one sent?"

"Not clearly enough to give you an answer."

Jon lowered his eyes. He had hoped for more. A name would have given him someone to seek; a place would have given him somewhere to begin.

"When you remember those months, can you still separate what you saw from what you learnt afterwards?"

Arthur looked at him more closely. "Some of it."

"Then begin there. Where you were. When you were with them, and when you were away. Anything said about reaching her family." Jon drew the blanket over his knees. "Take time over it. If you are uncertain, tell me."

"You think the message was stopped."

"It may never have reached the road. I do not know." He kept his voice low. "Father did not even know whether she meant a raven or a rider."

Arthur's gaze fell to Jon's hand upon the blanket.

"He could scarcely bring himself to speak of her," Jon said. "Even now."

"I know."

The weariness in Arthur's answer checked him. He had heard it in Eddard's voice beside the pools.

"I am asking because you were there," Jon said more gently. "I need whatever you can remember."

"Gerold and Oswell may remember something I do not."

"If we find them, I will ask. For now, start with your own account. Keep it between us."

Arthur nodded, then sat up and reached for the lamp. "There are some things I can tell you now."

They spoke quietly while the camp slept. Jon let Arthur finish each recollection before asking him to return to the places where a name or a date was uncertain. When the knight could not remember, Jon left the question open. By the time they lay down again, the men outside had been relieved, and dawn was paling the canvas.

* * *
​

Three weeks after leaving Winterfell, they came within sight of White Harbor. Salt sharpened in the air as they rode on. First came smoke from herring sheds, then hot tar and the bitter oak used to cure fish. Carts pressed north with barrels; wool wagons creaked south; porters slept atop empty casks. Tomas closed four household files around Jon as the traffic thickened. Alasdair kept the other four around the wagons and remounts. Martyn did the same around Robb and Theon.

From the final ridge, White Harbor shone above the river mouth: whitewashed walls, grey-green roofs, cranes swinging over a thicket of masts. Davie began counting and lost himself at thirty-nine.

Colin's pony shied from a fish cart. At Tomas's call to keep the interval, he warned Gage, made room and let the pony look before walking it past.

"It dislikes the smell," Colin said when they were clear.

"The fish or the cart?" Theon asked.

"Both, I think."

"Then your horse has a sound nose."

Ser Wendel Manderly came from the rope sheds with two covered baskets. He lifted one in greeting, then put both down to shove fish creels out of Garrick's turning way. Sweat shone on his bald head; his broad moustache lifted with his grin.

"My father will charge you for every lamprey you crush," he warned.

Garrick leaned from his saddle. "I hope we have missed them all, ser. I have no silver left for fish."

"Then mind the next stack," Wendel said. Lord Wyman waited below a green awning, his blue-green velvet straining across his great belly. Ser Wylis stood beside him, larger than Wendel, bare-headed and unsmiling beneath a heavy walrus moustache. Osric stepped out from beside the harbour men when Jon dismounted, tar on one sleeve of his familiar brown coat. He bowed, smiling, and asked after the northern road. Dock boys stopped their work to stare at Dawn's pale hilt and the riders beneath the direwolf and black banners.

Lord Wyman gained his feet with effort and looked past Jon at the wagons. "Twelve years old, and you bring six black houses upon wheels."

"Garrick wanted twelve."

"Garrick may build his own port. Your Captain Voss has occupied seven berths and cursed me for every hour the carters kept him waiting. The tide favours departure the morning after next."

"We shall be ready," Jon said. "Osric, show Garrick where he can unload. Ralf will want to see the horse stalls before we bring the horses aboard."

"The eastern crane is yours, my lord. Captain Voss has had six more stalls fitted."

Wylis nodded. "There is room to spare if a partition breaks. The carpenters are still aboard; your horse master may speak to them."

Jon thanked him and sent Mors with Osric to inspect the instrument ship's hatch.

"Now you can eat," Wyman said. "Wendel, bring those baskets here."

Wendel obeyed with evident relief.

Wyman's eyes found the new sword. "Winterfell steel?"

"Ewan forged it. Ser Arthur had him make it to fit my reach."

"White Harbor must feed you, then." Wendel lifted the coverings. One basket held white loaves, smoked eel, preserved cherries and almond cakes. The other held onions and hard ship bread. Elspeth distrusted the cakes and approved the onions, which made Wylis laugh.

Wylis had kept something besides supper for him. A cedar chest waited in a room overlooking the quay, brought north by a King's Landing trader. Beneath its lid lay Tobho Mott's letter: the newer measurements had reached him before the final riveting. The colour had caused the delay. One finish dulled under polishing; another came uneven from the fire. He had used up Ethan's parcel of Dragonstone dragonglass, but gave no particulars of the Qohorik process. The returned drawings bore soot stains along their folds.

Jon set the letter aside and lifted the breastplate. The glossy black shone beneath his thumb; as he tilted it, a faint shimmer crossed the breast and was gone. Bright polished steel bordered it, following the curves he had drawn through three spoiled sheets. The throat caught the window in a thin white line.

Robb put his almond cake upon the chest and forgot it.

"You said you had ordered armour."

"I did."

"You did not say it would look like that."

Arthur helped Jon into the arming coat and mail, then closed the breastplate and snug gorget. Broad black pauldrons overlapped his shoulders; smaller bright-edged plates followed his arms, opening over grey mail as he bent an elbow. Arthur knelt to buckle the greaves beneath the angular knee plates. Between the articulated thigh defences, a long skirt of mail hung from the waist.

Jon lowered his head to see his own knees. He had spent so long drawing the harness that he had almost ceased to imagine wearing it. When he straightened, Robb was grinning at him.

"Father ought to see you."

"Help me with the other arm first."

Robb worked the gauntlet's fingers before helping Jon into it. Arthur fastened the last strap. Jon reached across his body; the shoulder plates shifted and settled without catching. Light ran along their borders as he turned towards the window.

Wylis brought Wendel and the trader in. Wendel bent to examine the overlap at the shoulder.

"May I?"

Jon offered his arm, raising and lowering it while Wendel tested the edge.

"I have worn dearer-looking work that pinched worse than a crab," Wendel said. "Mott made this?"

"From drawings I sent him. He altered the shoulder before he finished it." Jon turned enough for Wendel to see the back. "I had drawn it too close here. His letter says it would have caught when I reached forward."

Arthur laid two fingers where the old design would have bound. "He was right."

Wylis had been watching the light on the breast. "That is no paint."

"No." Jon ran his thumb over the black surface. The faint shimmer came and went as he moved beneath the window. "He tried several finishes before he sent it. I shall ask him about the work when I meet him."

He meant to do more than ask. Mott had found a fault in an unfamiliar drawing from a boy in the North and solved it without spoiling the shape. The dragonglass had given him a finish no northern smith had produced. Jon wanted to meet the man in King's Landing.

The trader cleared his throat. "Master Mott bade me say the rubbing cloths are in the bottom of the chest, my lord. He was particular that I should tell you."

Robb lifted the folded cloths, found another wrapped piece beneath them and passed it to Arthur. Wendel moved aside so Jon could take a few unhindered steps across the room.

"Will you sleep in it?" Robb asked.

Jon looked round and found Arthur smiling too. "Give me a little longer."

They did. Afterwards Robb rescued the cake from beneath a cloth while Arthur helped Jon out of the harness. Gawen called Aries closer to show him how its fastenings differed from the northern pieces. The page helped pack it with its helm for Tomas's baggage; he would practise with Gawen before fitting it alone. Jon sent for Perkin to pay the trader the remaining thirty-five dragons and take his receipt. Mott's letter stayed out for an answer that evening.

Back upon the quay, Black Tern rode low beside four broad roundships and two deep cogs. Fresh pitch made black scales along her hull. Men moved high in the rigging; cranes creaked above open holds; water struck the quay stones with a hollow slap. Captain Voss's horn sounded once. Upon the quay, Tomas lifted his hand. Fifty shields turned edgewise together and went down towards the seven waiting ships.

 

[aiwonder]

The first draught horse stopped at the foot of the loading ramp. The planks shifted beneath his hoof, and he pulled back against the halter. Ralf waved the dockmen away before their shouting frightened him further.

"Bring his team-mate," Jon said. "And spread more sand. He cannot get a footing there."

A groom led the quiet garron onto the ramp. Ralf covered the bay's eyes and brought him alongside. The horse shuddered, took a step, then followed his companion aboard. Jon stayed by the ramp while the next pair came up.

Beyond the ships, White Harbor climbed in white stone and dark slate towards the New Castle. Morning sunlight caught the upper windows while the quay remained in shadow. Fishwives were already calling beneath the gulls; a porter passed Jon with a basket of silver herring that dripped upon his boots. He had begun to know which bell belonged to which sept. Soon he would have to learn another harbour.

Captain Voss gathered the masters beside Black Tern. Five of the seven ships would sail straight to Dragonstone under Marrec of Broad Oak, carrying Hewyn's six hundred foot, their families and the workshops. Tern and the remaining roundship would take Jon's party to Gulltown. Ser Gawen kept his fifty household guards by the Vale baggage while Martyn arranged places for the Stark escort.

Loading took most of two days. Wagons came apart on the stones; children slept against bundles of bedding while their parents waited for the right ship. Jon went through the horse stalls with Ralf, then found Master Woods carrying a little girl aboard. She had refused the plank until he offered to let her steer him by the ears. Her mother followed with their blankets, laughing and trying not to cry.

Mors followed his instrument chest down into Broad Oak's hold before the crane had begun to lift the empty sling.

Wylla shaded her eyes. "He means to sleep upon it."

"Callum says he slept beside it in Lannisport."

"Then at least he will feel at home."

The engineers and their siege engines went with Hewyn. Lorren and Willen would tend the legion; Denner remained with Jon. Cadan and Lucan carried their lesson books aboard with the other pages, but Aries brought his bedding to Tern. He watched Cadan disappear below before he turned away.

William's craftsmen were among the last to board, still arguing over where to put their benches. Perkin had the buyers' letters inside his coat. As each ship filled, someone else vanished below its deck. Jon kept looking back to find one more person he had not spoken to.

The wicker mews for the five crows went beneath Black Tern's afterdeck, well away from the cookfire and the horses. Hugin bloodied one porter's thumb. Munin watched the man return in leather gloves and tried the other hand. "Your birds dislike sailors," Theon said. "Perhaps they object to the smell."

"Keep your hands away, then," Jon said.

Martyn pointed out Theon's berth beside Hallis. Theon regarded the guard's broad shoulders with dismay.

"Does he snore?"

"Dreadfully," Hallis said.

Olyver came up from the hold carrying his saddle, pale at the prospect of sleeping below the waterline. Gage took it from him.

"Come on. I found us a place near the hatch."

Bucephalus came last. The stallion had watched other horses vanish below decks until sweat darkened his neck. Jon removed the saddle cloth and led him to the foot of the ramp. Pitch, dung, bilge and river salt breathed from the open hold. A block squealed overhead. Bucephalus planted all four feet. "Let me," Ralf said.

"Stay beside him," Jon said. "He will follow me."

He eased his fingers round the lead and walked halfway up the sanded ramp. Bucephalus stretched his nose towards him. For a moment the stallion stood motionless; then he came forward in a rush. Jon stepped aside as Ralf caught the cheekpiece. Together they brought him through the hatch.

"I take the remounts straight to Dragonstone," Ralf said as they settled him. "The grooms know his feed. Gawen has their names, but it is you he will look for when they lead him ashore."

Jon nodded. He knew the arrangements, but it was harder to imagine the yard without Ralf in it. "Have Ethan show you the southern paddock wall before you turn the horses out. It needs mending."

"I shall, my lord." Ralf rubbed the stallion's dark forehead and began undoing his tack.

Elspeth served their last hot supper ashore from a brazier on the quay: cod cheeks browned in butter over barley and onions, with a jar of preserved cherries. Sailors ate after the household, except Voss, who chewed beside a piling while judging the water. Mairi had tied each serving spoon to its pot handle.

"I am not losing another one," she said when Callum watched her. He found seven oatcakes in the packet his mother had sworn held six. Mors reached across the barrel and took the spare before Callum could put it away.

Garrick left Tomas the papers for the two wagons going to the Vale, then sat upon an upturned bucket with his supper. For once there was nothing waiting to be loaded. Wylla made room for Jon between herself and Arthur as the bells sounded across the water.

"You have hardly touched the cherries," Wylla said.

Jon looked down. He had pushed one round the edge of his bowl until the syrup streaked the barley. "Bran will say they were his."

"Bran says that of anything he sees you eating." She put another on his spoon. "Go on."

He ate the cherry, then reached for another.

Wyman had offered chambers, but Jon slept aboard to settle the men and horses. Robb and Theon joined him with Jory and Hallis. Before they laid out their bedding, Voss showed them the open hatches and the sweep of the yard while Tomas kept the household clear of the running lines.

"If the watch calls for room, my lords, give it at once," Voss said. "Especially here." He pointed to the tiller.

Theon moved his bedding a little farther away.

* * *
​

Lord Wyman came down to the quay before dawn, with Ser Wylis supporting one arm and Ser Wendel burdened by two more baskets. The ebb already tugged Black Tern against her stern lines. Wyman caught William long enough to remind him of the smaller clock he had ordered, then let the craftsman go.

"Write to your father when you reach Gulltown," the Lord of White Harbor told Jon. "He will be waiting for news."

"I will, my lord."

Wyman rested a broad hand on his shoulder. "And give Ethan my greetings. He has been asking for hands and tools long enough. Now he shall discover what feeding them costs."

Jon smiled, though his throat felt tight. Behind Wyman, Garrick and Tomas clasped arms. Ralf was saying something to Bucephalus's groom that he had surely told him twice already.

Wylla found Jon beside Broad Oak's gangplank and drew him into her arms.

He held her tightly. On parchment it had been sensible to send her ahead. On the quay he kept finding reasons to delay her.

"If Ethan has given you a damp room, take mine," he said.

"I mean to inspect yours first. That is half the reason I am going." She straightened his collar. "Arthur will bring you after the lists."

"And you will write when you land."

"Before I unpack, if the maester will lend me his birds." He held her a little longer, then let her reach the gangplank.

Aries waited until Jon had let her go. Then he offered Wylla the small bone comb from his travelling bag.

"You packed yours," he said. "But this has smaller teeth."

She took it, looked at the red hairs still caught between them and put it in the pocket of her gown. "I shall bring it out when you arrive."

He tried to nod. She drew him against her instead and kissed the hair which would never stay brushed.

"Write to me. Cadan has left you paper."

"I can tell Jon."

"Write your own letter."

When she went aboard, Aries remained beside Jon with his hand tight upon Patch's lead. Jon stayed with him while the last baggage was carried up the plank. Neither tried to speak over the harbour noise.

Mairi gave Gage a bundle of shirts, pointing out which were his and which belonged to Rylas. Elspeth left the household onions, oats and the cook she had engaged in White Harbor. She was still telling the man how much barley the guards ate when Marrec called the last passengers aboard Broad Oak.

Jon went aboard to take leave of Mors and Callum. Their chest was dry and wedged fast. William checked his tools beside it; Perkin had put the accounts on a high shelf, and Clem settled the raven cages clear of the spray.

Hewyn met him back on the quay with the final count. Four hundred spearmen and two hundred swordsmen had embarked. Colin's place had been filled; all six centuries were going south at their full strength. The cooks, families, engineers and pages had been counted separately.

"Master Marrec commands the passage," Jon told him. "When you land, keep the centuries together until Ethan shows you their quarters. He knows you command them in my absence."

"Aye, my lord." Hewyn folded the roll. "We shall be ready when you come."

They clasped forearms. Hewyn went aboard, and the last plank came up.

Black cloaks lined the rails and quay as the ebb took the five ships. Olyver shouted to Murch, his words lost in the wind. Mairi waved from Broad Oak's stern, Elspeth beside her pots. Hewyn's men, the horses and the dismantled works were going south, and with them the woman who had carried Jon hungry through his first winter. He watched Wylla's hand upon the rail as Broad Oak passed the fishing boats.

"She will have found fault with the kitchen before you arrive," Arthur said.

Jon rubbed his thumb along the quay stone. "I hope so." He stayed until he could no longer distinguish her from the other figures aboard.

Arthur stood close enough that their sleeves touched. Voss called from Tern that they must come aboard. Jon put a hand upon Aries's shoulder and waited while the boy wiped his nose. Then they went together.

Robb nearly lost his hat while bowing to Wyman. Theon caught it against the crane post and handed it back.

"Thank you."

"Hold on to it next time." He helped Robb up Tern's gangplank. The roundship had warped out to wait for them; Voss brought Tern alongside. Only those two turned towards Gulltown. The Dragonstone ships were beyond the harbour mouth before Jon's sail filled.

Before land faded, Voss showed the boys the flags by which his ships spoke to one another: where to sail, when to draw close, when help was needed. The roundship answered Tern's signal. Beyond her, White Harbor dwindled to a pale streak beneath the hills. Jon looked until the separate houses were gone.

By night they had met the long open-water swell. Worse weather in another life had done nothing to prepare Jon's present stomach. He found air and a view of the horizon, kept one hand for the ship and drank sparingly. The habits returned more readily than his balance. He could let the younger men think he had read them somewhere.

He reached the lee rail, lost his supper, rinsed his mouth and stayed upright through pride. Robb found the next stretch of rail. Hallis suffered behind him with the stern silence of a man who feared vomiting near his lord's heir might be treason. Theon walked past with hard bread between his teeth. "Stark and Black have conquered all firm ground."

Jon held out one unsteady hand. "Give me that bread before I fall."

Theon passed it over. Jon broke off a corner for himself and gave the rest to Robb. Before he could swallow, Black Tern dropped into a trough. Theon seized a stay. The colour left his face.

"You were saying?" Robb asked faintly.

Theon disappeared down the ladder with one hand over his mouth.

Arthur caught Jon as another roll threw him towards the rail. "Sit down. You will feel no better for standing." He helped him against the bulkhead, where the deck still seemed to move inside his skull.

Aries brought his cup and a damp cloth, bracing himself before offering either as Gawen had taught him.

"Wylla says only a little at once."

Jon took the water. "How are you managing?"

"All right." The boy swallowed. "If I do not look down the hatch."

"Then sit here." Jon shifted to leave room on the sheltered side. Aries lowered himself carefully beside him, the cloth clenched in his fist. For a while they watched the rail lift against the darkening sky.

"Is it like this all the way?" the page asked.

"It will get easier. Tell Denner if you cannot keep water down."

Aries tucked the empty cup between their feet where it would not roll away.

Below, frightened horses struck boards. Tomas inspected the lashings with a bucket over one arm. Olyver lay where dung, bilge and his own sickness contended. "No window," he told Gage.

"Keep your eyes shut." Gage crawled down beside him, green about the mouth himself.

At dawn, buckets passed from cask to stall through a darkness full of stamping hooves. Gawen and the carpenter checked the slings. Jon carried water until the passage grew crowded, then sat outside Bucephalus's stall with salt bread and a cup. Two horses refused to drink; their groom kept offering water when the swell eased.

He slept there with his cloak under his head, waking at Bucephalus's calls or a hard drop of the hull. When Tomas found Gage nodding over an empty bucket, he sent him to his hammock and took the next turn himself.

* * *
​

In fair weather Voss kept the roundship close enough to read her signs. Sick men, damaged gear and thirsty horses kept both masters busy, but neither raised a call for aid.

Life narrowed to watches, hard bread in pea broth and the measure of a sleeping place. Grooms watered the animals first. Grey and black cloaks shared an awning too cramped for rank. Hallis learned that Rylas snored; Rylas learned that Hallis spoke softly to the sea when he thought no one listened.

Robb helped Jory stitch a split glove. Theon spent much of his time with the sailors. He knew sails and tides, though he was less familiar with Voss's broad-bellied ships than with the longships of his childhood. At noon he joined Jon and Robb beside the helmsman. The roundship was falling behind, and Voss had shortened sail to wait for her.

"She is slow," Robb said.

"Deep in the water," Theon answered. "Look at her stern."

By the fourth afternoon Jon could eat without regretting it. The sea had turned a hard blue, flecked with white, and Robb stood with him watching the roundship ride the swells. Theon had just begun an account of a voyage from Pyke when he stopped speaking.

"Her helm." He pointed. "Voss!"

The roundship was swinging across their wake. Her sail shook, filled with a crack, and drove her bow towards Tern. A man at the stern waved both arms. For an instant Jon could see the pale oval of his open mouth, but the wind took his shout.

Voss called to his helmsman and the deck tilted beneath them. Sailors ran for the ropes. Jon caught Robb's sleeve and pulled him clear of their path.

"Tomas, get our men forward. Leave the sailors room." He turned to Aries. "Find Denner. Bring him here, then stay by Arthur."

The page went at once, one hand sliding along the rail. Behind Jon, Arthur caught a guard's loose cloak before it dragged across a rope running through its block. The cloth jerked taut in his fist.

Tern turned away. Across the narrowing strip of water, men scrambled to lower the other ship's sail. A horse screamed below her deck. Then her bow began to fall behind them, close enough for Jon to hear someone shouting for an oar.

Theon remained beside the flagman, his face intent. "They're trying to steer her with the sweep."

Three sailors wrestled the long oar into place at the roundship's stern. Voss brought Tern clear and took in sail until both vessels had slowed enough to launch a boat. It dropped into a trough, vanished behind the swell, then rose with its rowers bent over their oars. Robb gripped the rail. Theon counted the strokes under his breath.

The boat returned with an injured sailor and word that an iron fastening at the tiller had broken. The freed timber had struck the man and thrown him against a post. He came aboard holding his arm to his chest, his lips grey beneath his beard.

"Here," Denner said, making room beneath the afterdeck. "Sit against this."

Arthur held the lamp while Jon steadied the sailor's good shoulder. Denner cut the sleeve away. The man swore when the cloth moved; at the sight of the swelling his gaze darted to Denner's face.

"Can you mend it?"

"I can bind it so the ship's movement hurts you less. A maester must look at the joint." Denner lowered his voice. "Move your fingers for me."

The sailor obeyed, watching his own hand. Jon stayed until the binding was done, then sent Tomas for dry bedding.

By sunset the carpenter had secured the tiller. Voss kept the roundship well astern, with less sail for the night. No man or horse had gone into the sea.

Robb found Theon beside the helmsman. "You saw it before any of us."

"She turned the wrong way." Theon shrugged, but there was colour in his face that had nothing to do with the wind. He began to explain how the sail had caught her. Robb listened without interrupting.

Jon left them there. For once Theon had forgotten to make a boast of something he did well.

* * *
​

Gulltown came out of the morning haze on their sixth day at sea. First Jon saw the watchtowers, then roofs climbing behind the walls, and at last the crowded harbour beneath them. A Braavosi vessel lay at anchor with great painted eyes upon her prow. Beyond her, red and yellow cloth stirred above a Pentoshi deck. Fishing boats threaded between the larger hulls, their crews shouting at men who answered in other tongues.

The air smelled of tar and drying fish. As Tern drew in, the sound of hammers reached them from a shipyard, quick and uneven beneath the harbour bells. Upon a stony island within the harbour stood the Motherhouse of Maris, its pale walls bright against the water. Jon remembered the name from Fire and Blood. Lady Jeyne Arryn had died there. A woman now stood at a low landing beating out a rug, too distant to know that anyone was watching.

Theon was naming the foreign ships when Robb caught his arm.

"There. The black trout."

Ser Brynden Tully waited beside the landing with six mounted men. He was tall and spare, his blue cloak faded at the shoulders, its lining the dull red of dried river mud. An obsidian fish clasped it above his mail. Wind had reddened his clean-shaven face and left deep creases beside his mouth; the grey in his stiff hair had nearly conquered the auburn. A roan horse snapped at the boy holding its reins. Without looking round, Brynden caught the bridle and drew its head away.

Jon had imagined the Blackfish often while reading about Robb's war. The man on the quay wore one glove with a badly mended thumb and looked impatient to be out of the port.

Then he saw Robb, and smiled.

Robb was first down the plank. Brynden held him at arm's length, his deep blue eyes narrowing beneath heavy brows as he studied the boy's face. Then he drew him against the black fish upon his chest.

"Cat's mouth," he said. His voice was rough, with a rasp that remained even when he laughed. "And her hair. Did Ned teach you that solemn look?"

"Mother says you are to keep us out of trouble."

"She used considerably more parchment to say it." Brynden released him and greeted Martyn. Theon bowed and received a courteous word. Robb turned as Jon joined them.

"Uncle, this is my brother, Jon Black, Lord of Dragonstone."

Brynden's smile faded. His gaze touched the white lock at Jon's temple before passing to the men behind him. He inclined his head. "Lord Black."

"Ser Brynden." Jon returned his nod.

Jon knew what Catelyn's uncle saw. Ned Stark had brought another woman's child home to his wife. Now that child held Dragonstone, with his own armed men and Arthur Dayne to guard him.

Jon turned to the knight beside him. "Ser Gawen of Willow Creek, my household captain."

"An honour, Ser Brynden."

"Vale-born?"

"Runestone, ser. I trained under Strong Sam, Lord Royce's master-at-arms."

"I know Sam." Brynden looked Gawen over more closely. "He will have had words about that new harness."

"He has not seen it yet."

"He will." The Blackfish watched the guards come ashore. One had his helm beneath his arm, exposing a face scarcely old enough to need a razor. Farther down the quay, Martyn's weathered men gathered round the Stark baggage.

"A young household," Brynden said. "How many?"

"Fifty, besides their captain," Jon answered.

Tomas sent the first arrivals clear of the landing. When a laden cart forced them aside, the guards moved together and left room for the next men off the plank. Brynden watched without comment. His eyes returned to a fitted breastplate, then to the mail beneath it.

"Expensive to arm so many. Whose purse keeps them?"

"Mine. The clock works paid for the harness and pay their wages."

"And if the buyers cease to come?"

"Their wages are put aside. I do not spend coin I have not earned."

Brynden's gaze rested on him a moment. Jon met it. A porter shouted for someone to move a barrel; neither looked towards the noise.

"And you mean to take them all to Dragonstone?"

"They have sworn to me, ser. I mean to keep them."

Robb stepped closer, still smiling. "Wait until you see them in the yard, Uncle."

"I have asked about their keep." Brynden's voice eased for him, though he did not smile. "Steel is the beginning of the expense."

"Jon knows. He pays them before he buys anything for himself."

The Blackfish looked from Robb to Jon. "My niece writes of the time you spend together. Her sons will feel the parting."

Her sons. Jon felt the old exclusion, made sharper by the farewell at White Harbor.

"I shall miss my brothers too."

Brynden drew off his mended glove. "Robb will have duties at Winterfell."

"I know where he belongs, ser."

Robb's smile had faded. Jon turned slightly to leave him room beside his great-uncle, and Brynden addressed his next question to Gawen.

"How long have you had these men?"

"The captaincy is new. I have trained with them for four years. Some have served Lord Black since he was six."

Brynden gave a short nod, then asked which road Gawen had last taken to Runestone. Jon remained beside them, listening. The Blackfish had finished with him.

Arthur came down the plank. Brynden's eyes went to Dawn's pale hilt, then rose to Arthur's face. He straightened and let Gawen's answer end before speaking.

"Ser Arthur."

"Ser Brynden."

For a moment neither offered more. Jon heard a sailor dropping the mooring rope behind them.

"Lord Royce will be pleased to have you in his yard," Brynden said at last.

"I shall be pleased to see him."

The Blackfish returned Arthur's bow, exact and unsmiling, then turned to the approaching harbour steward.

Grafton's steward received them beneath a banner showing a burning tower. The berths and a warehouse court had been reserved; fodder waited for the horses. Gawen and Martyn settled the unloading while Jon watched the direwolves go ashore. One older dockman touched a younger man's arm and murmured something that Jon could not hear. Both looked away when Robb passed.

"Lord Grafton will receive you this evening," Brynden said.

Jon thanked the steward. Gawen sent Tomas to see the court and went to the horse ramp himself.

* * *
​

Denner accompanied the injured sailor to the room Grafton's steward had found for him. The lord's maester would examine the shoulder. Gawen sent a guard with the medicine chest, and Jon asked for word before they left for Runestone.

Voss stayed ashore long enough to settle the next passage. The roundship would remain at her hired berth while Jon went to Runestone. After the tourney she would take Robb, Theon and the Stark escort back to White Harbor.

"I shall bring Tern to Dragonstone with your letters," he said. "Marrec should have your people ashore before we arrive. Once Ethan can spare one of the empty transports, I shall bring her back with me for your horses."

"Will you be here when we return?"

"If the wind allows it. I will not promise a day I cannot command."

"Then we wait here if we must," Jon said. "Send news ahead if you can."

Brynden set his cup upon the quay wall. "I shall see the Stark party safely aboard before I return to the Bloody Gate. Grafton's steward knows where to find us if your sailing is delayed."

By late afternoon the two wagons were ready in the warehouse court and the horses were feeding. Jon left three of the crows with a paid keeper. Hugin and Munin would travel to Runestone in covered baskets upon a quiet packhorse.

Aries found Jon beside them. "Will Wylla have got there?"

"Not yet, perhaps. She is sailing straight to the island. We have stopped here."

"She will be there before us."

"Yes."

The boy considered that, then took out the sheet Cadan had left him. He had written two crooked lines about Bracken and one about being sick. Jon helped him finish the last word before Voss collected the letters.

By evening the baggage was ready for the road. Brynden expected to reach Runestone in two days. Gawen stood by the inland gate for a while after the work was done, watching carts come down the street whose turn he still remembered.

Grafton's invitation found Jon washing salt from his hair. He dressed in black wool, tied the wet strands at his nape and rode up with Arthur, Robb, Theon and Brynden. Gawen came as captain; Martyn brought four grey cloaks. Aries followed on Bracken, sitting very straight in his clean coat, while Patch stayed behind with Gage.

They climbed away from the waterfront through streets where upper storeys leaned over the cobbles. A goldsmith was bringing in a tray of silver buckles. From an open bakehouse came the smell of hot pastry, soon lost beneath the sour stink of a gutter. Two women in a seamstress's doorway stopped measuring a length of blue silk to watch Arthur pass. One whispered to the other. Farther up, a dray of wine casks blocked the street, and even the Knight of the Gate had to wait while its driver backed a protesting mule out of their way.

Grafton's hall stood above the roofs, its windows catching the last of the light. Servants took their cloaks beneath the entry arch. Aries hesitated when a page reached for Jon's, then surrendered it with an earnest warning about the clasp. Jon touched his shoulder as they went in.

The hall was warm with people and candlelight. Tapestries hung between the windows, their ships and hunting parties almost lost in the folds; above the high seat, the burning tower of House Grafton shone in red and gold thread. A small fire stirred in the hearth. Jon smelled beeswax, roasting meat and the herbs crushed beneath passing shoes. Somewhere beyond the tables a harp was being tuned.

Merchants in fur-edged gowns sat among the knights. Their chains were heavier than some of the sword belts. A green glass jug stood before each group of guests, thin enough for the wine to shine through it. Jon had seen no such glass in Cerwyn's hall. Here a servant carried three jugs by their handles and set them down without a glance.

Gerold Grafton rose to receive them. Broad through the shoulders and shorter than Brynden, he had dirty-blond hair brushed back from a damp brow. He rested one hand upon his chair as his eyes settled on Robb.

"Lord Stark's heir is welcome beneath my roof."

His voice carried to the nearer tables. Robb bowed. "My father asked me to thank you for receiving us, my lord."

"Your father's friends were less courteous when they last came in strength."

A knight near Grafton's chair stopped turning his wine cup. The steward waited with a hand upon the back of Robb's seat. Jon saw his brother glance towards Brynden, who stood still, his mouth set beneath the lines of his cheeks.

Grafton smiled. "But we have had peace for years. I hope Lord Stark keeps well."

"He does, my lord. Thank you." Robb's ears had reddened, but his voice held.

Jon remembered what had happened here. Lord Marq Grafton had fought for the Targaryens; Robert had killed him beneath these walls. There would be men in this room who had fought beside him. No one had needed to name the battle.

"Ser Brynden, you shall sit beside our guest from Pentos," Grafton went on. "He says we serve his wine too cold."

"Then let us drink it before he has time to complain again."

The merchant laughed. The steward pulled out Robb's chair, and conversation began to return to the nearer tables.

Grafton offered Arthur his hand. "Ser Arthur. It is good to see you well."

"And you, my lord."

The greeting was lower, almost private. Grafton held his hand a moment, and the knight beside the chair rose far enough to bow. Arthur answered both with grave courtesy. Jon watched Brynden notice. The Blackfish's expression did not change, but he waited until Arthur had passed before taking the place beside Robb.

Grafton turned to Jon. "Lord Black. Welcome to Gulltown."

"Lord Grafton." Jon bowed. "I thank you for sending your maester to our injured man."

"He will be cared for while you are at Runestone." Grafton beckoned to the two boys beside his wife. "My sons, George and Gyles."

George gave Jon a proper bow. His younger brother, Gyles, was thirteen, lean and dark-haired, with ink beside one thumbnail. He made his courtesy carefully, then looked past Jon towards Arthur. Recognition widened his eyes; he glanced at Dawn and back at the knight's face. Jon greeted them both before asking George whether he would ride with them to Runestone.

"I am staying in Gulltown," George said. "Gyles goes with Father."

"I hope to offer your ships as good a welcome," Jon told their father. "There are repairs to make to my harbour first."

"Then you will find men here worth knowing." Grafton indicated the shipmasters. "We shall put you near them."

The first dishes gave everyone something to attend to: fish baked with fennel, mussels steaming in their shells and loaves whose thin crust broke beneath the knife. Aries took his place among the pages behind the chairs. When the Pentoshi merchant used a small silver pick to free a mussel, Theon watched and managed the next one without spilling broth down his sleeve. Robb asked a shipmaster about the painted vessel in the harbour, and gradually the stiffness left his shoulders.

Jon had scarcely tasted his fish before Grafton asked about the ships bound for Dragonstone.

"Men, stores and craftsmen," Jon said. "Hewyn commands the six hundred foot. My household stays with me."

"A great many mouths for an island." Grafton cut a piece from his loaf. "Your clock buyers will follow you south, I take it?"

"I hope so. We have written to them."

The Pentoshi merchant leaned past the wine jug. "Your factor has written to a kinsman of mine. He saw a clock in Oldtown and now he must have one for the room where he receives his guests. He feared his captain would have to sail all the way to White Harbor."

"Dragonstone will be nearer. Tell him to ask for William or Perkin when he puts in."

"A captain likes another cargo to pay for his voyage," said the shipmaster beside Jon. He had a thin brown face and a scar across two knuckles. "Your folk will need feeding while they build. What are you offering for provisions?"

Jon set down his knife. "That depends on what you bring, and when. We shall have need of more than one shipload."

The man began to name prices. Across the table, two merchants stopped their own conversation to listen. One had wool awaiting a buyer; the other knew a man with barrels of salted mutton. Jon asked about both. He remembered reading of the Vale's sheep, but had never imagined discussing their wool with butter cooling on his fingers.

"Ethan Glover governs for me until I arrive," he said. "Send him your terms. A ship bringing provisions to us can take clocks back to their buyers."

"Provided I can unload." The shipmaster held up a finger. "I have seen your harbour. I cannot lie there three days while men find me a berth."

"Nor can I pay you for three days' idleness. Write that into the agreement. Ethan will tell you what he can receive."

Grafton wiped his mouth, watching the exchange. "You shall have a place at my table whenever you pass through Gulltown, Lord Black. It appears my merchants will insist upon it."

There was laughter at that, and Jon answered with a smile. Beyond the jug, Brynden was asking Robb about the northern lords who would ride with him when he came of age. He had heard the trade talk; Jon had seen him listening. He offered no opinion of it.

The servants cleared the shells and brought capons glazed with honey, young onions and a haunch of mutton carved at the sideboard. Its fat hissed when the carver set the platter over a warming pan. The harp began in earnest. A lady farther down the table recognised the tune and sang a few words until her husband drew her back into their argument.

Beside Jon, Theon had persuaded Robb to try an olive without warning him about the stone. Robb bit down, stopped, and gave him a look of lasting reproach.

"Have you never seen one before?" Theon asked softly. "The lady opposite has noticed."

"Then stop telling her."

Jon pushed the dish towards Robb for the stone. Theon leaned nearer. "You rescue him from everything. Let the Vale see a Stark make one mistake."

"They have met you. They will allow for the company he keeps."

Theon's smile sharpened, but he left Robb to the next olive. His warm thanks to the servant pouring wine earned a dry look from Martyn.

Brynden asked for the olives and took two. The old knight beside Grafton had been listening to Robb describe their practice at Cerwyn.

"The squires' melee, then?" he asked Jon. "There will be lads at Runestone keen to measure themselves against Ser Arthur's pupil."

"I hope there will."

"They had best mind their feet," Robb said. "I did not."

The knight looked towards Arthur. "Is he so quick?"

Arthur's eyes rested on Jon. "He learns quickly. It has been some time since I needed to show him the same mistake twice."

Jon felt several faces turn towards him. Praise was common enough at a feast; Arthur gave little of it without meaning it. Gawen raised his cup to hide a smile.

Brynden looked at Robb. "Then you know what you must work on before the melee."

"We have been," Robb answered readily. "Martyn makes certain of that."

The Blackfish nodded to Martyn. When Jon glanced his way, Brynden was already asking Robb about his shield.

When the knight turned to another guest, Robb asked Brynden about Aunt Lysa.

"Well enough herself," Brynden said. "Though she frets over little Robert. Her last letter says he is still small and weak, and often ill. The maester has had little success with his shaking." He set down the olive he had been about to eat. "She has waited a long time for that child."

Robb's smile faded. Arthur asked whether Lord Arryn had sought another maester's counsel. Brynden regarded him briefly. "I have not been told, ser."

"Do you see them often?" Jon asked.

"They are in King's Landing. I have the gate to keep." Brynden turned back to Robb and asked whether his mother still received Lysa's letters regularly.

Jon turned his cup between his hands. In the books, Lysa had helped Petyr Baelish murder her husband. His death had brought Robert north; her letter accusing the Lannisters had drawn Eddard into the quarrel. Jon had set it all down beneath Jon Arryn's name in his black book years ago. The clocks had brought him buyers at the Gates of the Moon, but no one close enough to Lysa to tell him what was happening in her household. He still had no evidence he could put before Eddard. Across the table, Brynden bent his head to hear Robb over the music. This was no place to ask after his niece's servants.

By the time the pears arrived, the windows had gone dark. Their sweet wine syrup carried the scent of cinnamon. Grafton's daughter Rowena came down from her mother's place, drawing her skirt clear of a servant with an empty platter. She looked little older than Jon. A question for Brynden about a cousin travelling from the Gates was soon answered, but she stayed by Jon's chair to introduce the young knight who had been seated beside her.

"Ser Alester Arryn. He and his sister are riding to Runestone tomorrow."

Alester bowed, perhaps twenty, fair-haired, with a new sword belt and a silver falcon on his blue coat. His sister Rosamund wore green. A pearl came loose from her hair net; she caught it before it fell among the dishes.

"From the Eyrie?" Robb asked.

"Three streets below this one. The Gulltown branch." Alester spoke readily of his father and grandfather marrying merchants' daughters. His elder brother worked beside their father; Alester had spent the past few years in a kinsman's yard. Rosamund gave the pearl to their mother and blamed a saddlebag for the broken net.

"Your brother packed it beneath his spurs?" Theon asked.

"My brother knows what pearls cost. You need another culprit."

"I offer my sympathy, then."

"You may keep it. The thread is easily mended."

"Will you ride near us tomorrow, Lord Black?" Rowena asked. "Rosamund knows all the villages along the road."

"Gladly, if your father has no objection." Jon turned to Rosamund as well. "I have never been this way. You must tell me where to look."

"You can sit your horse beside mine," Rosamund said.

Rowena glanced at her friend. Rosamund returned the look without yielding her place. Jon's loose white lock had fallen towards his eye; when he pushed it back, Rowena's gaze followed his hand. He smiled at her and asked how long she meant to stay at Runestone. She had an answer ready, and several things she wanted to see there.

Theon straightened the silver fastening at his throat. "I have not ridden the road either."

"Then we shall be quite a party," Rosamund said, and turned back to Jon to ask whether his horse was the great black they had seen below.

Robb leaned towards Theon. "Try shaking it. Perhaps they haven't seen the silver."

Theon dropped his hand. "Have another olive."

Alester smiled across the exchange. "If my sister has promised to show you the road, Lord Black, let her finish naming the villages before you ask her another question. Otherwise we may still be outside Gulltown when the tourney begins."

"He is trying to say that he does not know their names," Rosamund told Jon.

"I know the ones with inns."

The steward called Rowena back to her mother's guests. She made Rosamund promise to wait for their party in the morning and gave Jon a parting smile. Alester and Gawen fell into talk about a bridge beyond the city. When another guest asked Alester about Lord Arryn's intentions, he corrected him readily.

"My lord cousin has not entrusted me with his counsels. You must ask the Hand, not his distant relation."

They left while the musicians were still playing. Cool air met Jon beneath the arch, carrying the smell of the tide. Aries held his cloak ready and fastened it with fingers sticky from the pears. Gawen brought the horses, but Robb chose to walk the first steep street beside Brynden.

"Was I meant to answer Lord Grafton?"

"What would you have said?"

"That Father had cause to fight." Robb looked back towards the lit windows. "He spoke as though I ought to be ashamed of him."

"He wanted to see whether you could be made angry." Brynden's voice was quieter now. "You thanked him for his hospitality. That was enough."

"I meant the thanks."

"You may mean them. The beds are dry and he fed you well. Neither obliges you to quarrel over the war for his amusement."

Robb considered that as they walked. Brynden slowed to keep beside him, one hand loose upon the reins. With his head bent and his rough voice lowered, he looked so much like a man Jon could have spoken to that the exclusion stung again.

Jon drew Bucephalus aside to let a woman with a basket pass. Arthur waited with him until the horse settled.

"Are you tired?" his uncle asked.

"A little." Jon looked down the street. Robb was asking another question. "I had hoped to hear him talk about the Ninepenny Kings."

Arthur followed his glance. He said nothing for a moment. "He has stories worth hearing."

"I know." Jon gathered the reins and went on. He would listen when he could. He would not trail after Robb to earn a place in the conversation.

The household slept in the warehouse court, where the smell of wool and pepper lay over the damp stones. Gawen and Martyn agreed the posts; Tomas placed Jon's guards before lying down. Beyond the wall, a ship's bell marked the changing watch.

At dawn the city gates opened. The grey direwolves and Jon's plain black banners passed beneath the arch, Brynden's black trout between them. Gawen of Willow Creek led the way. Behind came Grafton's riders with Alester and Rosamund Arryn, with servants, packhorses and a wagon whose driver was still eating his breakfast.

Rowena and Rosamund joined Jon beyond the walls. Rosamund began naming the villages ahead; Rowena wanted to know whether Bucephalus would let her feed him an apple. Aries watched her hand with anxious attention until Jon showed her how to hold it flat.

Lady Grafton called the girls back before they reached the first orchard. Brynden had drawn Robb to his side and was pointing out the road. Jon turned once in the saddle. The city had hidden most of the sea, but sunlight still caught the upper masts. Somewhere beyond them, five ships were carrying his people towards home.

He faced the road again as Arthur came level with him.

 

[aiwonder]

Theon looked over the apple trees, the stone-walled fields and the long green folds of the land, and found fault with all of it. "There is too much grass. Even that sheep has given up hope of finding rock."

Munin flew from an apple tree to the wall beside Jon. Hugin stayed on his saddle roll, picking at a cord until Jon moved it. Their empty baskets swung on the packhorse, ready for the crowded road ahead.

Hallis glanced at the sheep. "It looks well enough to me."

Robb laughed, startling his bay. "Close the space," Martyn called. "Jory could ride a cart between you." They let the grey cloaks catch up. Brynden drew his roan alongside Robb and resumed their conversation. At the head of the black column, Jon rode between Gawen and Arthur. Bucephalus had sweated through his saddle cloth despite the cool wind, salt-laden from a sea hidden beyond the hills.

The scar in Jon's palm had stiffened around the reins. He shifted them to his left hand and flexed his fingers. "How far to the next village, Gawen?"

"Three miles beyond the bridge." Gawen looked along the hedges. "Unless they have moved the village since I was here."

"How long has it been?" Jon asked.

"Twelve years."

At a path through the alders, a grey-bearded man carrying a rabbit stepped aside. He looked at Gawen, looked away, then turned back. "Mara's son?"

"Aye. Who is asking?"

Gawen took a moment to recognise him. The man had bought leather from Mara years ago; his sons now kept the business. They spoke of the old shop until Brynden called from ahead. Gawen wished him well and rode on. When Jon asked the Blackfish whether the bridge ahead would take their wagons abreast, he received a brief "One at a time." Brynden waited for Robb to draw level, then asked him about Bran. Jon gave the order to his own men.

They crossed the bridge one wagon at a time and reached the next village early in the afternoon. A flock was being driven off the road into an orchard; the last sheep balked at the gate until a dog came round behind it. Apples lay bruised in the ruts, and the wheels of the baggage wagons crushed their sweetness into the mud. A woman shook a cloth from an upper window as the riders passed. Somewhere behind the cottages a mill wheel knocked steadily beneath the sound of running water.

Lord Grafton took rooms at the inn for his family. Alester and Rosamund followed him inside while their servants carried up the travelling chests. Jon chose the fallow field across the stream for the two households. There was dry ground for the tents, grass for the horses and a stretch of close-cropped turf beside the wall. Martyn walked across it, testing the ground with his heel.

"Bring out the practice swords," he told Jory. "We have daylight enough."

Robb was already unfastening his cloak. Six days aboard ship had left them all restless. Jon gave Aries his sword belt and sent him for his padded practice coat. Jory brought shields and practice helms from the wagon.

Alester came across from the inn carrying his practice sword. Gyles followed with a small leather-bound chronicle beneath his arm, one finger marking his place. He shut it when Jory began handing out shields.

"Are you joining us?" Robb asked him.

"I came to watch. Alester said we should see nothing worth the journey until Runestone." Gyles looked towards Arthur, who was testing a wooden blade. "He was wrong."

"I said the roads would be dull." Alester offered Robb a sword. "Try that one."

Robb turned it in his hand. "Then we had better keep you entertained."

Gyles smiled and tucked his book inside his coat. He settled on the wall beside Jon as Theon pulled on his gloves. Across the field, Tomas had the household pairing off with practice swords; Gawen joined him when he had finished seeing to the horses. The guards at the road and bridge kept their posts.

Theon beckoned Robb onto the turf. "Come on, Stark."

His first cut caught Robb high on the shoulder. Robb swore beneath his helm, and Theon was still grinning when the answering blow knocked his sword wide. He threw up his shield. Robb struck it hard enough to make him stagger, followed him in and drove the rounded wooden point against his belly.

Theon doubled over with a grunt. "I felt that."

"Keep your shield down, then," Martyn said. He gave Theon time to straighten before waving them on.

This time Theon circled, making Robb turn after him. His blade flicked towards Robb's face, dropped and came in low. Robb caught it on his shield, stepped close and struck him across the chest before he could get away. Martyn called the bout. Theon lowered his sword with a look at the patch of turf his heel had torn up.

Robb's laugh came breathless through the helm. Gyles applauded from the wall. Faces had appeared at the inn windows; across the stream, Rowena and Rosamund settled beneath a pear tree with a maid carrying their cloaks.

Robb turned towards Jon. "Come on, then."

Arthur checked the glove over Jon's scar. "Do not grip so hard." Jon eased his fingers round the wood and raised his shield. Brynden stood near Robb's end of the field, one boot upon a low stone. Wind stirred the grey in his hair. He watched Jon take his place without a greeting.

Robb came straight at him. The first blow boomed against Jon's shield and drove its rim into his shoulder. Jon gave ground beneath the next. His brother had the stronger arm, and he knew better than to stand there trading blows with him. As Robb lifted his sword again, Jon darted in. His point caught the padded coat beneath Robb's raised arm, and he was away before the descending blade struck grass.

Robb looked down at the place Jon had hit, then back at him. The grin had gone. "Again."

"Keep after him," Brynden said. "He wants room."

Robb pressed closer this time. Their shields crashed together, and Jon felt his brother's weight drive him back a step. He let Robb come on, then sprang aside. Robb checked himself quickly, but Jon's sword was already coming round. Wood cracked against his ribs.

"There," Martyn called. Robb stopped with his sword halfway raised.

"You could have let me enjoy beating Theon a little longer." He pushed up his helm, damp hair sticking to his brow.

"You will enjoy it longer if you stop fighting me afterwards." Jon lowered his shield. His shoulder ached where its rim had caught him; Robb would be pleased to hear that, so he kept it to himself.

Gyles laughed. Alester was looking from Jon to Arthur. "Twelve?"

"On the road," Jon said.

The young knight shook his head. "At twelve I could scarcely get near my master."

"Neither can I." Jon glanced towards Arthur, who had heard and was smiling. Beyond him, Rosamund leaned close to Rowena. Both girls laughed when Jon looked their way. He returned a small smile, then turned as Theon stepped in front of him.

"My turn."

Theon used his reach well. His first thrust stopped short, drawing Jon's shield forward; the second scraped along its upper edge towards his face. Jon jerked his head aside and felt the wood brush his helm. Theon came after him, quick and eager, his sword arm stretching out again.

Jon struck it at the wrist. Theon hissed and snatched his hand back, but Jon followed the retreating blade, drove his shield against Theon's and laid his sword across the older boy's belly.

Martyn called them apart. Theon pulled off one glove to inspect his wrist.

"I prefer the bow."

"We know," Robb said. "You tell us after every practice."

Alester asked Arthur something in a lower voice. Jon caught the words quick hands.

"And he went in when Theon was drawing back," Arthur said. "The stroke was half the work."

Martyn took Theon's sword to show him where he had overreached. Brynden called Robb aside and made him advance with shorter steps, stopping him whenever his weight carried him too far. Jon turned to Alester. "Will you have a bout?"

The young knight was already reaching for his shield. He kept his cuts short, making Jon work to find an opening. Jon tried to draw him forward with a retreat. Alester followed only far enough to clip his shoulder, then slipped back out of reach.

Robb cheered. Jon rolled the stinging shoulder and looked at Alester afresh.

They met again with a crack of wood. Jon struck high, let Alester turn the blow and came back low so quickly that the young knight had to retreat. Jon stayed close. When Alester's shield dipped to protect his thigh, Jon's sword rose past it and stopped beneath his chin.

Alester went still, then stepped back. They faced each other for the last pass. This time he attacked before Jon had quite settled. Jon's shield flew up to catch the cut; his answering stroke caught Alester across the wrist. The sword jumped from the young knight's fingers and fell into the grass.

For a moment Alester stared at it. Then he shook out his hand and laughed. "I felt certain I had you after the first."

"So did I," Robb said.

Gyles brought the water. Jon took a long drink while Robb began explaining precisely where Alester had caught him.

"You remember my mistakes very well," Jon said.

"I have had to wait for one." Robb was grinning. Gyles laughed and moved along the wall to make room for them both.

Alester sat on the grass with his sword across his knees. He kept looking towards Arthur while Gawen spoke to him. At last Jon asked whether there was something he wished to say.

"I should like a pass with him." Alester rubbed a thumb along the wooden guard. "I have wanted that since I was younger than you."

"Ask him."

The young knight rose before his courage could fail him. He approached Arthur with a bow and made the request in a voice rather more formal than the one he had used upon the field. Arthur heard him out. "Before we ride tomorrow. Bring your shield."

Alester came back smiling. Gyles leaned forward. "You must wake me."

"You could ask for a turn yourself," Robb said.

"I should like to see what happens to Alester first." Gyles glanced at the knight's sword, then at Arthur. "I have read about Harrenhal. I never thought I should meet any of them."

Jon remembered the men the books had given him: their deeds settled, their deaths already written. Beyond Gyles, Arthur was laughing at something Gawen had said. "There will be plenty worth watching at Runestone."

"Will you be knighted if you win?" Gyles asked Robb.

"I do not know. Father never was." Robb loosened the strap of his glove. "Most of our lords keep the old gods. Smalljon Umber would think you mad if you told him he needed spurs to fight."

"I should not tell an Umber anything of the sort," Alester said. "But I waited years to hear someone call me ser. My elder brother will have our lands and most of Father's trade. A good showing here might bring an offer of service."

"Your father has ships enough to keep you busy," Gyles said.

"He has offered me work with them. My brother means to double their number." Alester smiled, though without much amusement. "He says we have made a place of our own in Gulltown and ought to be proud of it. He would rather buy another ship than wait for someone at the Eyrie to remember us."

"There is sense in that," Gyles said.

"Aye. He has a head for it, and he likes the work." Alester looked towards the practice swords. "I grew up hearing of the Falcon Knight. Of the kings our family put into the field. I wanted a part of that."

"Your brother never did?" Robb asked.

"He says our forebears would have been glad of his silver when their armies needed feeding." Alester laughed at that, briefly. "Perhaps they would. I should still like to be remembered for something I did with a sword."

Gyles nodded, his eyes following Alester's towards Arthur. When Robb asked which knights they should watch at Runestone, he put down his cup and began naming them. He knew who had won at the smaller tourneys as readily as Alester knew their horses. Robb disputed one of his choices, Jon asked about another, and neither noticed the light failing until Martyn sent them to wash.

By supper, the practice swords lay in a bundle outside Martyn's tent. Wylla's jar of mustard stood between Jon and Aries in the open doorway of Jon's own. She had packed wool shirts too, and enough dried apples for the tourney. The page wiped mustard from his thumb before sitting; Bracken was settled and Patch back from the horse line. Arthur cleaned his sword while Jon ate beef and bread. Gyles and Alester had gone back to the inn when Lord Grafton sent for them. Beyond the ropes, Robb was helping Jory hang the damp practice coats where the wind could reach them.

"Do you wish we had sailed with the others?" Jon asked.

Arthur looked up. "Do you?"

"No. I want to see Runestone. And there are men here I may persuade to come to Dragonstone." Jon reached for another piece of bread. "But I wish Wylla were here."

"She will be waiting when you arrive."

Jon pictured her walking through Dragonstone with Ethan, demanding to see the kitchens.

Martyn had them out again while the inn servants were carrying bread to the upper rooms. Mist lay in the hollows beyond the stream, and sheep called from a hillside Jon could scarcely see. He ate a heel of bread while Aries brought his padded coat.

"I want to practise in the new armour," Jon told Arthur. "Against you, if you will. I have hardly fought in it."

"After Alester. Fetch it out."

Aries hurried to the chest. He lifted the black breastplate in both hands and waited while Jon finished dressing. Arthur helped settle the weight upon him, checking the straps as the page fastened them. Jon raised his arms. The broad shoulder plates slid over one another with a soft scrape; bright steel bordered the deep black, and grey mail showed where his elbows bent.

"Turn a little," Gyles said.

Jon looked round. The boy had come across with Alester and Robb. All three were watching the breastplate. As Jon turned, a pale, smoky shimmer moved across the black and vanished beneath his arm. Gyles leaned closer. "I thought that was a reflection."

"So did I, when I first opened the chest." Jon buckled on his sword belt. Rowena called to her brother from the bridge, asking what had caught his eye; he waved her over. By the time Aries brought the helm, the girls had joined them and a pair of Grafton knights had left the inn steps to look.

Gawen and Martyn were already at work on the turf. Gawen drove the captain's shield up with a heavy cut and lunged beneath it. Martyn twisted clear, caught the sword against his own shield and shoved it aside. Gawen leapt back, but Martyn's point caught his chest before he could get clear.

"Again," he said, rubbing the place Martyn's point had reached.

He gave the same hard stroke, then pulled it short. Martyn's shield rose to meet a blow that never fell; Gawen's sword struck his side. The captain answered at once, catching Gawen across the shoulder before he could withdraw. They broke apart laughing.

"That would have hurt," Gawen said.

"Then stop admiring your work." Martyn lowered his sword. "You could have had your turn yesterday."

"The horses would have been grateful." Gawen handed his practice sword to Arthur and went to help Tomas, who was calling the next household pair onto the far end of the field.

Alester stood ready with his shield. He saluted Arthur, a little stiffly, then came forward. Arthur let him strike. His shield took the blow, his sword caught Alester's return, and a moment later the young knight was staring at a wooden point beneath his chin.

He tried again, more cautiously. Arthur walked him backwards with two brisk cuts, waited for him to set his feet and struck his shoulder while he was preparing to answer.

"You stop to choose the blow," Arthur said. He had Alester raise his sword again and showed him the shorter movement. "From there. Try it."

Alester did. Arthur caught it, nodded and made him repeat it. When they finished, the young knight bowed over his sword, red-faced and smiling.

Gyles leaned towards Robb. "All Gulltown will have heard about this by the time we get home."

"Will he mention being hit?" Robb asked.

"Often and by Ser Arthur Dayne," Alester answered. "I doubt anyone will be surprised." He offered Jon the sword. "Your turn."

Jon lowered his visor. The field narrowed to a strip of damp grass and Arthur's waiting figure. He rolled his shoulders once, feeling the plates settle, and raised his shield. Along the wall, Lord Grafton joined his children. His gaze travelled over Jon's harness before he said anything to Gyles.

Arthur's first cut struck the shield with a crack that rang inside Jon's helm. Jon answered low. Arthur turned the blade, stepped in and drove him back with a brisk stroke at the head. Jon caught it, felt the force run through his arm and sprang aside, as he had against Robb.

Arthur turned with him. The wooden point knocked against Jon's breastplate before he could bring his shield across.

"I saw that yesterday," Arthur said.

Jon drew a breath through the narrow opening in his visor. Beyond the wall, Robb was grinning. "So did everyone," Jon said.

Arthur lifted his sword again. This time Jon held his ground long enough to make him commit to a cut, turned it on his shield and struck towards the ribs. Arthur's blade met his with a jolt. For several blows Jon could do nothing but defend. Wood battered his shield; his breath grew loud inside the helm. He found room for a quick stroke at Arthur's upper arm and felt it land—just as Arthur's point struck his chest again.

"Better," Arthur said. "But where was your shield?"

Jon looked down. He had dropped it to reach farther with the sword. Arthur tapped its edge, then moved his own shield aside to show him the opening.

"Again. Keep it close."

They worked through the exchange slowly. Jon watched the point this time, lifted the shield as he struck and felt Arthur's answering blow stop against it. On the next attempt Arthur made him do it at speed.

By the time he called a halt, sweat was running down Jon's neck beneath the quilted collar. Aries took the shield while Jon pushed up his visor. Cold air touched his wet face. He could turn, crouch and strike freely in the armour, but fighting inside it left little room to forget his own breathing.

Brynden stood beside Robb, looking towards Arthur. "That is why you keep the shield up after you strike," he said. "A touch will please your friends. It will not stop the other man's sword."

Robb nodded. When Jon looked over, the Blackfish was already taking Robb's shield to show him. Arthur waited until Jon had caught his breath, then asked whether anything pinched.

"No. My shoulders are tired."

"They will be." Arthur helped him remove the helm. Along the far wall, Tomas sent two fresh men to relieve the guards at the bridge. The men coming off duty brought their shields to Gawen, who made room for them among the others practising.

Lord Grafton came over as Aries wiped the sweat from Jon's brow. "May I see that, Lord Black?" He indicated the breastplate.

Jon turned towards the light. One of Grafton's knights bent closer; the other asked whether it was enamel. Grafton shook his head slowly. A cloudy gleam moved across the black as Jon breathed.

"Who made it?" the lord asked.

"Tobho Mott, in King's Landing. I sent him the drawings." Jon lifted his arm so they could see the overlapping plates. "He made some changes of his own."

"Good work." Grafton studied the shoulder, then returned to the breastplate. "But I have seen blackened steel. I have never seen it take the light like that."

"He used dragonglass from Dragonstone in the finishing. Ethan sent him a parcel to try."

Alester looked up sharply. "Dragonglass?"

"The armour is steel," Jon said. "Mott has not told me how he worked the glass into the finish. Several trials failed before he was satisfied."

Grafton passed a thumb along his beard. "What did he charge?"

"Seventy dragons, with the trials."

The knight beside him let out a low whistle. Grafton only looked towards the girls and the men still watching from the bridge.

"There are men at Runestone who would pay that simply to be seen in it." He turned back to Jon. "Could Mott make another?"

"I can ask him."

"Do. Gyles will need a harness of his own soon." Grafton glanced across the practice field. The household's plainer steel was dark beneath the mist; none of it held the shifting lustre of Jon's breastplate. "Your men's armour came from your works?"

"Aye. My armourer Noll fitted them. The smiths and their tools are on the way to Dragonstone."

"Then perhaps there is more than one sort of buyer for you here. Knights who need good harness, and lords who must have whatever their neighbours have admired." Grafton's mouth creased. "I know men who bought your clocks for much the same reason."

"There is always something Jon means to make a profit from," Robb said. "You should see the letters he gets."

Jon gave him a sideways look and smiled. "Keeping fifty men in armour is expensive." He turned back to Grafton. "I mean to sell finished harness when the works are ready and my own men are supplied. You would need an armourer here to fit it properly."

"That can be arranged. My ships could bring it back from Dragonstone." Grafton looked again at the black breastplate. "And I should like to hear Mott's answer."

"So should I." Jon had thought first of the orders his own workshops could fill. Watching the older lord study the finish, he wondered how much a few wealthy buyers might pay for it. Dragonstone had no shortage of dragonglass. He would need to discover what Mott was willing to make, and on what terms.

"Send Gyles's measures to Ethan," he said. "Noll can see to a harness. I shall ask Mott about the finish separately."

Grafton offered his hand. "You shall have them."

At the inn door Lady Grafton called for her husband. Rowena stood beside her, ready for the road, and Rosamund was trying to tell Alester something while he watched the household. Jon bent to gather his gloves. When he straightened, both girls were looking his way. Rosamund said something that made Rowena hide a smile against her sleeve.

Gyles picked up the glove Jon had missed and handed it to him. "Rowena will ask about you all the way to Runestone."

"You can tell her I am riding just ahead."

Robb laughed. Alester called for their horses before Gyles could answer; Rosamund was beckoning impatiently from the inn door.

They were mounted before the mist had left the higher fields. The road climbed between orchards and sheep pasture, then turned along a ridge from which Jon could see the sea again, blue beyond the folds of land on the far side of the peninsula. Carts coming towards Gulltown were piled with fleeces. Their drivers drew aside for the mounted company, and the smell of lanolin lingered after the last cart had passed. Far inland, cloud lay across the mountain tops; closer hills were marked by shepherds' paths, white sheep scattered beneath the rocks.

Gyles rode beside Robb once the road widened, with Alester between Jon and the verge. The young knight asked about the games at Winterfell and wanted to hear how their mock battles were judged. Gyles interrupted to ask whether the visiting lords had stayed to buy clocks. Robb began describing the festival, Jon corrected his claim to have beaten everyone worth beating, and Alester insisted upon hearing who had beaten Robb instead.

At the next village the road narrowed between an alehouse and a low stone wall. A carter had drawn his mule aside, but there was scarcely room for Bucephalus to pass the axle. Jon brought him through at a walk. Children stood upon the wall to watch the horses; below them, a woman held a smaller boy by the back of his tunic as he leaned towards Jon's stirrup. Men in the alehouse doorway made room for Arthur, their talk fading beneath the clatter of hooves. Farther along, an old fellow kept cutting back his hedge, pausing only to lift a hand against the dust.

Beyond the cottages the riders spread out again, and Arthur drew alongside Jon. There was something Jon had meant to ask him since his last ride with his father.

"Father told me about Robert holding me. When he judged you."

Arthur glanced at him. "Aye."

"And what he said about Ashara." Jon kept his voice low; Martyn was only a few horse lengths behind them. "You had to stand there and listen."

"I wanted him to believe it." Arthur's thumb moved along the worn edge of his rein. "I had helped put the thought in his head."

"Does it still anger you? When people call me hers?"

"When they speak of her as though they knew her." He looked towards Jon then, and the tightness about his mouth eased a little. "Not with you."

Jon nodded. He had no answer that would make the lie easier for either of them. They rode on beside the hedge until the road climbed clear of it and Runestone came into view, its weathered walls high above the bright canvas spreading down the slope towards the sea.

* * *

The lane into the tournament camp was thick with horses. A groom backed into Jon's path with both hands on a destrier's bridle, cursing softly as the animal shied from a hammer ringing under a smith's awning. Through the drifting smoke Jon could see the white barrier of the jousting lists. Beyond it, men were driving stakes around the open ground for the melees, their blows lost beneath the smith's. Runestone rose above everything, grey walls streaked by rain, with bronze banners stirring from the towers.

"Brynden! Who have you left to mind the Gate?"

The Blackfish turned in his saddle. Ser Symond Templeton had risen from a bench outside a blue pavilion, leaving a cup in the hand of the man beside him. Nine stars had been sewn upon his breast. He came through the horse line smiling, though his gaze travelled past Brynden to the men still filing off the road. Alester straightened in his saddle.

"Men who can manage without me for a few days." Brynden reached down to clasp his arm. "Are you riding, Symond?"

"I am. I was about to ask you the same. Yohn has been rather pleased with himself, and now you appear with half the North."

"I have come to see my great-nephew fight." Brynden beckoned Robb closer. "This is Catelyn's eldest."

Templeton studied Robb with a smile. "Your great-uncle will have plenty to tell you afterwards, win or lose."

"He has already begun, ser." Robb brought his horse alongside Jon's. "My brother and I are for the squires' melee."

"Lord Black," Gyles supplied, leaning forward far enough for Templeton to see him. "We have been riding together from Gulltown."

"Ah. Young Grafton." Templeton greeted Jon with a courteous inclination of his head, but his attention caught on Arthur before he could say more. His brows rose. "Ser Arthur. I had heard you might come."

Behind him, the man on the bench lowered the cup he had been about to drink from.

"Lord Royce was kind enough to invite us," Arthur said.

"Then we shall see you in the lists?"

"Only in the practice yard. Lord Yohn and I mean to try each other with swords."

Templeton's smile widened. "He kept that to himself." He glanced towards the towers, then back at Arthur. "I shall look forward to watching."

Lord Grafton called to him from behind the wagon. Templeton raised a hand in answer, still looking at Dawn, while Brynden urged his horse through the opening beside the smith's awning. Alester lingered until Rosamund asked him to let her pass. Jon heard Grafton and Templeton greeting one another behind him; a groom shouted over them for someone to catch a loose mare.

The crowd thinned where the lane turned uphill. Along the castle wall stood broad pavilions with room between them for servants' fires and tethered horses; farther out, guy ropes crossed so closely that men had to stoop beneath them to reach their own tents. Robb was craning past a purple awning, searching for the Redfort colours and Domeric. Jon caught the smell of roasting onions as the wind shifted, then horse dung, and saw Aries turn in his saddle to look for the cookfire.

Beyond the last pavilion, hedge knights had made their camps beneath wagons and small patched awnings. A grey-haired man in a faded green surcoat was oiling his mail beside the road, with a brindled hound asleep across his boots. His younger neighbour had a blue cloak spread over his saddle to dry. Both stopped work when Dawn came into view. The younger man rose so quickly that he struck his head against the wagon.

Theon had fallen behind to peer at an awning where a woman was filling cups from an open cask.

"Before you ask," Martyn told him, "you come to me before leaving our camp."

"I was admiring the signs."

"Admire them from your saddle."

Theon obeyed with a small bow which made Jory look twice to see whether he had been mocked.

The steward had reserved ground beneath the Redfort rise for the Starks and a strip beside the eastern ditch for Jon. Aries followed him across it, carrying his cloak. Refuse had washed down from the horse lines. Above them, open ground adjoined Robb's tents.

"Where would you put ours?" Jon asked.

"Up there. Beside Lord Robb's."

"And if his tents were somewhere else?"

Aries looked back at the ditch. He scraped his heel through the dried wash, turning up a strand of fouled straw. "Still up there. That will come through our tents when it rains."

"Aye." Jon asked the steward for the higher strip. Gawen and Martyn made room by moving the Stark horses north. Aries led Jon up to the crest and stopped to stare at the painted pavilions and the white barrier of the lists.

"Is that where you ride?"

"The knights joust there. We fight in the squires' melee beyond that rope." Jon pointed to the wider field. "Stay this side of the horse line until the grooms have finished bringing them through."

Aries followed his pointing hand, trying to take in the whole field. "May I watch when they practise?"

"With Gawen. Find Tomas first and show him where I want my tent."

The boy ran back down the slope with the cloak held clear of the mud.

As the first tent rose, Robb sent a boy across the lane to Domeric's Redfort pavilion. Gawen remained mounted, watching the lower wall. Jon brought Bucephalus beside him.

"Will your old master be in the yard?"

"I would try the practice yard. He kept us there until every man had had his turn." Gawen smiled. "I wonder if he still does."

"Bring him to meet me. I would like to thank him for teaching you." Gawen nodded and rode beneath the bronze banners.

* * *

Domeric Bolton found them before the castle did. He came through the Redfort horse line with a harp case on one shoulder and a glove in his teeth. He pulled the glove free, a grin spreading over his long face. Robb was off his horse before Martyn could forbid it. Their forearms struck; then they embraced with the hard awkwardness of boys who had expected letters to be enough. "The Vale says you killed Jon and lost the flag. At least putting him in the mud first was a mercy; he is too pale."

"The flag survived, and so did Jon. Only two of your four letters managed the same," Robb replied.

Jon clasped Domeric's arm. "It is good to see you."

"And you." Domeric bowed to Arthur, then greeted Theon with the exact courtesy their acquaintance warranted. His warmth towards Robb did not extend to the ironborn.

A sandy-blond boy on a polished chestnut called, "Tell them how Lady Anya's granddaughters beat you at tiles."

Domeric sighed. "Harrold Hardyng, Lady Waynwood's ward and heir to everything he sees." Harry came down the slope in blue wool and bright mail. His deep blue eyes moved from Robb's direwolf to Jon's plain black badge, then stopped at the pale streak in Jon's hair.

"Which of you is best at anything worth winning?" Harry asked.

"You will have to find out in the melee," Robb said. He held out his hand. "Robb Stark."

Harry clasped it. Jon offered his hand next. "Jon Black. Domeric wrote of you."

"He has told me about you too. Those battles you hold, with the flags. Does everyone obey when you tell them they are dead?"

"The judges make certain of it."

"Even you?"

"Especially him," Robb said. "I made sure of that."

Dimples appeared when Harry grinned. "Domeric said you had. And your men went on fighting?"

"One of my men, Tomas, took the flag," Jon said. "He did not need me to tell him how."

"I was supposed to be keeping it," Domeric admitted. He shifted the harp case on his shoulder. "Harrion had gone too far from the flag. I should have called him back."

Harry looked from Jon to Robb with fresh interest. "I should like a turn at that."

"You will have both of us in the melee," Robb said.

Lady Anya watched from the rise, her green mantle close beneath its black-wheel clasp. She looked pleased to see her ward making friends with Winterfell's heir.

Donnel Waynwood arrived with dust on his boots and news from the Bloody Gate. He greeted the boys, but his voice fell as Brynden came within earshot. "Two pack mules gone from the eastern way. One driver found with a split crown. The clans took flour and left wool."

Brynden turned towards him. "Hungry men, then. How many tracks?"

"Nine. Perhaps eleven where the ground turned stony." Donnel dismounted to speak with Brynden as Martyn told Robb that Lord Royce was waiting.

Bronze Yohn received them at the court well. Age had greyed his hair and softened nothing else; even beside his sons he was exceptionally tall, the cup in his gnarled hand scarcely larger than a child's. His dark coat bore a square bronze clasp worked with signs older than the castle. Andar stood watchful at his right; Robar, broad-shouldered and rugged, kept looking towards the arriving knights. Yohn said, "Ned Stark sends two sons, a Greyjoy and enough steel to steal my supper."

"My father sends his greetings," Robb said, bowing.

"And you have your mother's face." Yohn clasped Robb's shoulder, then turned to Jon. "Lord Black. Welcome to Runestone."

"Lord Royce." Jon returned his greeting.

Yohn looked him over, taking in the straight back and the boy's face above the black collar. "I hear you have taken one of my master-at-arms's pupils into your service."

"Ser Gawen. He has gone to find him."

"Then Sam will want supper in the yard. We shall have to drag them both indoors." He turned to embrace Brynden. The two old friends began insulting each other before they had let go. Martyn received a warm greeting and a question about Ser Rodrik's health.

Yohn saw Arthur and handed his cup to Andar. Two squires stopped pretending to water horses.

"Ser Arthur. You received my letter?"

"I did, my lord. I have come prepared to disappoint anyone who hoped I had grown slow."

Yohn held out his hand. "Three passes in the practice yard at dawn. Sam will find us swords."

"At dawn." They clasped hands. The squires remembered their horses, though neither went far.

Behind the older Royces stood Waymar, slender in black wool edged with bronze. He was four or five years older than Jon, with a handsome face and an impatient expression. His eyes were grey like his father's, but they kept moving from Jon's badge to Dawn.

Jon knew the face from a description he had read in another life: the young knight in a sable cloak, defiant with a broken sword in his hand. He could almost feel the cold between those trees.

"Lord Black?" Yohn said.

Jon realised he had been staring. "Forgive me. I am tired from the journey."

"My youngest son, Waymar."

Jon greeted him and took the offered cup. Waymar answered politely, though he still looked puzzled.

Andar caught Waymar before he could escape towards the horses and introduced the ladies. Ysilla Royce wore bronze silk, a linen-chest key caught among her girdle beads and a servant waiting for it. Myranda had come from the Gates of the Moon and was disputing Andar's supper arrangements. Beside her, Jeyne Waynwood watched with the air of someone who knew how it would end.

Myranda put a finger on Andar's page. "Lord Tollett beside my father, please. They have been discussing those extra mountain patrols since the last wedding. Father would like to know when the riders are coming."

"Lord Tollett asked for a place near Belmore."

"He can have Belmore on his other side." She waited until Andar changed the name, then stepped back with a satisfied smile.

Ysilla gave the servant her key. "You have found room for your men, Lord Black?"

"Beside my brother's."

"Good. The lower strip floods. I told the steward yesterday."

Jon thanked her. She glanced at the white lock against his dark hair, clearly curious, then asked whether Lady Sansa had come. He explained that his sisters had stayed at Winterfell.

"Mine would never forgive me for leaving her behind," Myranda said.

"You have no sister," Jeyne observed.

"An advantage I appreciate whenever I visit Ironoaks."

Robb laughed. Ysilla asked about Rickon, whose birth Eddard had mentioned in his letter, but the servant returned with the key before Jon finished answering. She sent him to the right linen chest this time. Yohn had Andar take the travellers' chests inside and kept them by the well.

"Nestor tells me your clock has made the Gates of the Moon intolerable," Yohn said to Jon. "Every visitor asks to hear it strike. Does Dragonstone earn its keep as well?"

"The harbour brings in dues, though much of it needs repair. The island grows too little grain. My castellan, Ethan, has had to buy from the mainland."

"You will want good captains," Yohn said. "Gulltown has men who know those waters."

"That is one reason I came. Gawen knows knights here too. I shall need men to train horse as well as men to sail ships."

Yohn followed his glance towards the lower yard, where Strong Sam had begun shouting Gawen's name. "Then you have come at a good time."

* * *

Strong Sam, Runestone's master-at-arms, struck Gawen's shoulder hard enough to stagger him, then embraced him before either could pretend at dignity. Kennet Coldwater pushed through the grooms behind him, narrow-faced with one nicked ear. Pate Shett followed, broader than Gawen remembered. "I said you would find a lord."

"You said I would hang in Gulltown." Gawen embraced Kennet before he could demand his three stags, then caught Pate by the shoulders. "Gods, you have grown fat."

Strong Sam took him by both shoulders and looked him over. "A captain now, they tell me."

"Lord Jon's household." Gawen had prepared for laughter, but Sam looked towards Jon, then at the black-cloaked men waiting beside the horses. "Fifty of them," Gawen added.

"And can you keep fifty in order?"

"You kept more." Gawen grinned. "I learned to shout from you." Sam snorted and released him, keeping one hand upon his shoulder a moment longer.

Pate admired the mare's legs. She belonged to House Black, Gawen told him; he had ridden her since autumn.

"He has done well by you, then?" Kennet glanced towards Jon.

"Aye. He has."

Sam found a crooked repair beneath Gawen's saddle skirt and demanded an awl. Soon they were on an upturned trough, Sam pulling out stitches while Gawen cut fresh thread. Olyver stopped to watch, delighted to find someone who could correct his riding master. Sent for water, he came back quickly enough to hear the worst.

* * *

Six Corbray riders entered the court while Strong Sam finished with the saddle. Their slender leader wore white steel beneath a pale cloak. He pushed shoulder-length brown hair behind one ear before dismounting. A ruby like a drop of fresh blood burned in the pommel of the sword at his hip. Domeric named him before any northern boy could ask. "Ser Lyn Corbray. Mychel serves him."

Mychel Redfort rode one place behind his knight, lean and still in Corbray colours. He clasped Domeric's arm after dismounting, then returned to his master before the greeting could become a reunion. Lyn saw Dawn.

Men made room without being told as Lyn crossed to Arthur. "I came hoping the herald had written Dayne among the lances. If he has not, write it now."

"I have not entered," Arthur said. "I am here with my nephew."

Lyn's gaze moved over Jon, taking in his long limbs and fine black cloak before returning to Dawn. "Runestone is well guarded. Surely the boy can spare you for an afternoon."

"My answer is no."

Lyn's smile lingered. "Prince Lewyn was less reluctant to meet me." Mychel lowered his eyes. Jon remembered what the songs left out: Lewyn Martell had already been wounded when Lyn came upon him.

Arthur's face went still. "Lewyn was my sworn brother."

"So I have been reminded." Lyn rested his hand upon Lady Forlorn's ruby pommel. "A man might think I had done wrong to fight him."

"You are speaking to me now." Arthur's voice had lost its warmth. "Leave him out of it."

Gage moved to Jon's shoulder and Rylas to the other. Tomas brought the nearest file closer without drawing a sword. Yohn came down the hall steps, his cup still in his hand.

"You have your answer, Corbray. Leave Ser Arthur in peace, or leave my house."

For a moment Lyn looked at Yohn. Then his hand fell from the pommel and he bowed. "My lord." He gave Arthur one last, measuring glance before calling Mychel to attend him.

Arthur waited until Lyn had crossed the yard before turning back to Yohn. Robar asked to watch the dawn practice.

"You may try me afterwards," Arthur said.

"If Sam leaves us any swords." The old master snorted and went to find a groom.

Robb caught Arthur by the stairs. "Why will you fight them in practice but not enter the lists?"

"I can leave the practice yard when I choose. And I have had my fill of tournaments." Arthur rested a hand on his shoulder. "Come at dawn if you want to see."

By afternoon Olyver had heard that a secret wound kept Arthur from the saddle. Gawen's laughter brought men from the next tent to ask what had happened.

At the herald's bronze awning, separate sheets lay open for the melee, the squires' melee, the joust and archery. Jon and Robb gave their names for the squires' field. The clerk asked Jon's age again when he said twelve, then wrote it down. Waymar entered beneath Runestone, Harry beneath Lady Anya's protection and Mychel Redfort as Ser Lyn Corbray's squire.

Theon read the board. "Sixteen boys beat one another with dull swords so their mothers may call it harmless."

"The bows are on the other sheet," Jon said. Sea wind snapped the little flags above the clerk.

Theon took the quill. "At last the Vale offers sense." Gawen entered the joust as Ser Gawen of Willow Creek, in the service of House Black.

The two hedge knights from the wagons joined the line behind him. Up close, the older man's nose bent sharply to one side, and the white fox on his shield had been painted over several deep cuts. He gave his name as Ser Corentin of Wickenden. The younger knight, Ser Mael of the Ford, kept rubbing the place where he had struck his head.

"Both fields?" the clerk asked Corentin.

"The melee. My horse has carried me here; I will not ask him to earn the purse as well."

"He tried to bite the farrier this morning," Mael said.

"A dispute over the price." Corentin turned towards Arthur, and the humour left his face for a moment. He bowed. "Ser. I saw you ride at Harrenhal."

"Then you have seen me unhorsed," Arthur said.

"I had wagered otherwise." Corentin's crooked smile returned. "A pleasure to see you on your feet."

Arthur laughed. Mael bowed in his turn, more stiffly, then asked the clerk to put him down for the melee beside Corentin. Jon noticed how carefully the younger knight had polished the steel at his wrists. The blue surcoat hanging over it had been faded by more than one summer on the road.

Beyond the awning, a knight in a faded grey-and-black surcoat was arguing with a lance seller. He kept one hand upon the three shafts he had chosen while the other searched a purse. Beside his mare stood a thin youth with a saddle across his arms and a helm hanging from its bow. Dark hair stuck damply to his brow. His long face had the patient misery of someone who expected the argument to end badly and leave him carrying the lances as well.

"Eddison," the knight called, without turning. "See whether our cousin has finished with the clerk."

The thin youth looked towards a boy being fitted with a field shield. "He has, Hugh. He is explaining how he means to win."

"Then fetch him."

Jon had stopped beside Arthur. Eddison. The name fitted the face so well that for a moment he saw black wool and snow instead of a worn brown coat. In the books, Dolorous Edd had grumbled through dangers that sent other men running. He had helped Sam out of the slaughter at the Fist and stayed loyal when the Watch turned upon itself. Jon had never expected to find him carrying a knight's saddle at Runestone.

"That lad beside the grey mare." Jon pointed him out to Gawen. "Do you know him?"

"Hugh's brother. I have seen them at the smaller lists. A poor branch of the Tolletts." Gawen glanced at the seller. "Hugh will want a better price than that."

"Come with me." Jon crossed the trampled lane. Gage moved ahead to clear a passing horse; Arthur and Gawen followed, with Aries close behind.

Edd saw them coming and shifted the saddle higher against his chest. He bowed as far as the load allowed. His eyes went from Jon's silver fastenings to Dawn and then dropped.

"Eddison Tollett?" Jon asked.

"Yes, my lord."

"I am Jon Black. How old are you?"

"Sixteen, my lord."

"Are you riding in the games?"

"No, my lord. It would upset the horse. She is used to seeing me walk."

Aries looked at the mare before he realised it was a jest. Jon smiled. Edd's mouth scarcely moved; he seemed more concerned that the helm might slip from the saddle.

"You may put that down while we speak."

Edd glanced towards his brother. "If it pleases you, my lord." He laid the saddle on a dry rail and caught the helm before it swung against the wood. One strap was coming loose. He tucked it safely inside, then stood with his hands together, waiting for Jon's next question.

"Have you come far?"

"From the Grey Glen. Our cousin Andrew is trying the squires' melee. That is him with the new shield." Edd nodded towards the youth at the clerk's awning. "His uncle brought him down from the main household. My brother and I took longer."

"One horse?"

"One horse, my lord." His eyes briefly met Jon's. "Though she eats as if there were two."

The lance seller had finally released the shafts. Hugh Tollett came across with them under his arm, his surcoat pulled straight and the purse hidden. He was some years older than Edd, with his brother's long nose, a heavier jaw and a short brown beard. The rings of his mail shone, but the leather at his elbows had been mended more than once.

"My lord." He bowed to Jon, then more deeply when he recognised Arthur. "Ser Hugh Tollett. Has my brother been troubling you? My apologies. Our father hoped he might be of some use to me as a squire."

His smile invited Jon to share the disappointment. At the word use, he looked at Edd's empty hands. Edd took up the saddle again without answering.

"I came to speak to him," Jon said. "He was answering my questions."

"Of course, my lord." Hugh's smile thinned. He glanced towards Gawen, recognised him and gave a stiff nod. "Willow Creek. I heard you had found service."

"With Lord Black." Gawen rested a hand upon the rail. "You have entered the joust?"

"I have. There are men here worth meeting with a lance." Hugh shifted the three shafts against his shoulder. Up close, one had been scraped clean of another rider's paint. "Lord Yohn offers a purse worth the journey."

"Would you take service in the south?" Jon asked.

Hugh's chin lifted. "For a lord who has use for a knight. I have spent enough years looking after our father's few fields. There is little there to divide between sons."

His gaze had returned to Arthur. Jon could almost see him deciding whether to ask for a pass. Beside him Edd adjusted the weight of the saddle and waited, looking down at the rail where Jon had told him he could set it.

"I shall watch for you, Ser Hugh," Jon said. He turned back to the younger brother. "And I hope we shall speak again, Eddison."

Edd looked up, plainly surprised. "You are kind, my lord."

Hugh thanked Jon for his good wishes and sent Edd ahead with the mare. The squire had to turn sideways between two carts. He kept the saddle clear of their muddy wheels all the way through.

Gawen watched Hugh follow him. "He rides better than he speaks."

"We shall see." Jon lingered until Edd had disappeared among the tents. He remembered the man in a black cloak, doing work his sworn brothers trusted him to do. Here his own brother had scarcely allowed him to finish a sentence.

Lady Anya bent her greying head over the clerk's shoulder to read Harry's entry. "Have you given your age correctly?"

"I have not forgotten it."

"You forgot it when you asked for the men's melee." She returned the sheet and greeted Jon. "You go on to your own seat after the lists?"

"When my ships return, my lady."

"Then I wish you a fair wind. Lord Stark will want to hear how you find it."

Harry was looking towards the practice yard. "Will Ser Arthur be there before breakfast?"

"Most likely," Jon said. "You would be welcome to join us."

"After you have taken my message to Lord Redfort," Anya told Harry. "I gave it to you before we came down."

Harry found the forgotten page beneath his belt and made his farewells under Anya's eye. As she went to Lord Belmore, Grafton joined Jon outside the herald's shelter.

"At Gulltown you said the harbour needed work," Grafton said. "Will there be room for more shipping when it is done?"

"That is what I intend. Ethan has begun the repairs. I shall see what else is needed when I reach the island."

Grafton moved aside to let two grooms pass with a restive courser. "You will need grain while you build. I have merchants who can bring it regularly. Good grain, carried dry, with another cargo following when the first is sold."

"What would you ask of me?"

"Half your usual harbour dues on my ships for three years. It would make the voyage worth their while while your market is small."

Jon looked towards the crowded stalls below the lists. He wanted that press of buyers on Dragonstone, with flour in the bakers' bins and ships coming back because they had sold well. William's clocks could pay for much of the beginning. They could not go on paying for every new mouth and every wall Jon meant to raise.

"Half dues on grain for one year," he said. "Other cargo pays the full charge."

Grafton studied him. "A ship seldom carries grain alone."

"Then Ethan can charge separately for what she brings. If your merchants fill her with wine because it sells better, the concession will do little to feed my people."

The older lord rubbed a thumb along his beard. A shout went up from the practice ground; he waited for it to fade. "A year is little time to establish a trade."

"It is a year's help in establishing it. I must repair the harbour out of what it earns. Promise four grain cargoes within that year, with the first sailing as soon as Ethan can receive it, and I will give you the reduction."

"Storms may keep a ship in port."

"Ethan will understand a storm. He will also know if a promised cargo has been sold somewhere else." Jon held Grafton's gaze. "Your men can settle the quantities and prices with him. I will write tonight."

Grafton's mouth curved. "Lord Stark has let you do your own bargaining."

"I shall have to pay for it."

"So you shall." He offered his hand. "Let us begin with the four cargoes."

Jon clasped it. "Have your harbour master send Ethan the draught of the ships. He must know which berth will take them."

"And when those ships return, might they carry some clocks? There are buyers in the Vale still waiting."

"Your merchants may buy from William as the others do. He will tell them when their orders can be ready."

Grafton nodded and went back towards his pavilion. Jon watched the burning tower pass between the banners. Merchants could earn well carrying what his craftsmen made. He intended to keep the workshops themselves, and the money they brought in, for the army and ships he would need. For now, four reliable grain cargoes would give him room to build.

* * *

By the time they entered the hall, the long hearths were red with fallen embers and men were shedding damp cloaks into their servants' arms. Runestone's walls rose pale above the smoke. Bronze lamps hung between old shields; below them, the crowded benches shone with spilled wine. Jon caught the smell of roast meat as a carver lifted the lid from a steaming dish. Across the hall, someone called for room for another guest, and a whole row of men shuffled along laughing.

Andar met them at the foot of the dais and led them to the places prepared beside his father. Jon sat at Yohn's left, with Arthur beside him; Robb had the place on the other side of their host, close to Brynden. Grafton greeted Arthur from the next chair. Beyond him Lord Hunter was easing his swollen foot onto a stool, his mouth drawn tight until a servant had the cushion where he wanted it.

Aries took Jon's black mantle and folded it over his arm. A page called from behind the chairs, and the boy turned quickly, hope flashing across his face before he saw who had spoken. Jon laid a hand briefly upon his shoulder. Aries looked back at him, swallowed and reached for the wine jug.

Below the dais, Martyn and Jory had places with the visiting household knights. Gawen was beside Strong Sam, already smiling at something his old master had said. Farther down, Theon had contrived to sit near Myranda Royce. Robb spotted Domeric among the younger guests and raised a hand; Brynden caught his attention with a quiet word as Yohn stood.

"Welcome to Runestone. You have come from the mountains, the coast and the North to share our table and try our field." Yohn lifted his cup. "Eat well tonight. We shall have enough lean faces at the lists tomorrow."

The answering cheer drowned the musicians. Jon drank with the others, and the servants came forward with white loaves and dishes of venison, the meat dark beneath its pepper sauce. Robb watched a carver cut him a generous slice. Across Yohn, Brynden asked after Catelyn, bending his grey head to hear the answer.

Grafton waited until Arthur had been served before leaning towards Jon. "I have been telling Lord Hunter you mean to buy sheep."

"Breeding ewes, if we can agree a price. And good rams." Jon turned towards the lord of Longbow Hall. "I shall need wool for my people while the flock grows."

Hunter studied him over the rim of his cup. "That we can supply. Has your steward written to anyone?"

"Not in the Vale. I will send him word tonight."

"Then I shall have mine write to him." Hunter put down his cup and reached for the bread. "Buy northern fleeces if you wish, but look at ours first."

Jon had every intention of doing so. The Vale's sheep had stayed in his memory from Fire & Blood, along with Daemon Targaryen's ugly jest about them and the women of the Vale. Sitting beside Bronze Yohn, he kept that recollection to himself.

"Getting them safely to Gulltown will be the trouble," Grafton said. "The wool wagons have begun hiring guards of their own."

"They might hire more if your buyers paid what the wool was worth." Hunter tore a piece from his loaf. "They do well enough when they sell it across the narrow sea."

"They will do less well if the clans take the wagon."

Lord Belmore looked up from his trencher. The lord of Strongsong sat with Lyonel Corbray and Horton Redfort, close enough to have heard them. "Two pack mules taken this week. Sheep before that. How many men must lose their goods before the Bloody Gate sends riders?"

Brynden's hand stilled beside his cup. "The Gate has sent riders. They cannot watch every track between your holdings."

"The driver was found," Yohn said. "Donnel brought word this afternoon."

"Found with his head split," Belmore answered. "Were the thieves found?"

"No." Brynden's voice had gone flat. "We shall have a better chance when men who know those tracks come with us."

Horton Redfort laid down his knife. He was a grey-haired man with a neatly kept beard, milder in the face than Jon had expected of Domeric's master. "The Strongsong men know those hills well enough, Benedar."

"Strongsong has its own roads."

"So has Longbow Hall." Hunter shifted his foot, wincing. "Lord Arryn asks for men as though none of us had need of them. I should like him to come home and see what he is asking."

"He is the king's Hand," Anya Waynwood said.

"He was our lord first."

Nestor Royce had been listening beside her. The High Steward set his wine down. "He left me to govern in his absence. I need your answers here. Sending every refusal to King's Landing will not make the road safer."

For a little while only the near end of the table fell quiet. Farther along, a lady laughed at something Jon could not hear; behind him a servant waited with a dish of onions, uncertain whose trencher to approach.

Lyonel Corbray took the dish from him and served himself. "Heart's Home can send four mounted men. For a month. Tell me where they will be fed and who will command them."

"They report to me at the Gates," Nestor said. "I shall name the captain."

"I can provide fodder at the stopping places," Grafton offered.

"Perhaps Gulltown could pay for the riders as well," Belmore said. "You collect dues on everything they protect."

"And you sell the fleeces." Grafton gestured towards Jon. "Here is a man ready to buy them. You might both gain by getting his flock to my ships."

Hunter chewed slowly, looking past him at Jon. "We shall want the places named before we send anything."

"They will be," Yohn said. "Runestone will send twelve." He looked towards Horton, who nodded and promised eight. Anya offered a dozen from Ironoaks, to leave after the joust; they could give Nestor the month Corbray had offered, then their own lands would need them. Lord Tollett, seated beside the High Steward, said six of his riders might be spared.

"Might," Nestor repeated, leaning closer to him.

Belmore had been watching Jon. "Lord Black has fifty well-mounted men, if the herald tells it truly."

"They sail with me."

"A few might find useful employment here."

Jon met his eye. "They are already in my service. Their work is on Dragonstone."

He could still see the three covered bodies in the yard at home. He had paid for those horses and trained the men who rode them; he would not leave a handful behind to oblige Belmore over supper.

The older lord held his gaze, then turned back to Grafton. "Fodder, you said. Delivered where?"

Yohn called Donnel Waynwood over from the knights' table. As the carvers returned with fresh meat, Donnel bent beside Nestor to name the roads where the wagons had been taken. Ser Symond Templeton joined the argument over the safest stopping place. Jon listened while Grafton disputed who would carry the fodder and Anya insisted that someone send her captain the route before he left. Belmore had asked loudest for protection and had yet to promise a man. Jon remembered him accepting Littlefinger's gold in the books, and watched how often he glanced towards Nestor before speaking.

The talk was still going when the venison dishes were carried away. Guests began leaving their places to greet friends farther down the hall. Waymar came up behind Robb with a cup in each hand.

"Domeric has brought out his harp," he told Robb. "He says you know the words." He handed him a cup and offered the other to Jon. "Will you join us, Lord Black? My sister has kept places for you."

Yohn heard and smiled at the eagerness in Robb's face. "Go on. We shall settle the roads without you."

Jon made his courtesies and rose with Robb. Arthur came down beside him. As they passed the household table, Gawen lifted his cup; Sam had a hand upon his shoulder, and Pate and Kennet were laughing too hard to explain what had been said. Aries lingered at the smell of the hot pie between them. Jon sent him to eat with Gawen, and the boy's thanks came out so quickly that Sam looked round.

Ysilla had kept one of the nearer tables while servants cleared others for dancing. There were pears and little honey cakes among the cups. Jon sat between her and Arthur, who took the end of the bench nearest the aisle. Robb settled opposite them, beside Domeric and Gyles; Alester and Rosamund were farther along that side. Waymar drew a stool to the table's end at Arthur's elbow. Beyond Ysilla, Myranda was laughing at something Theon had told her.

"Tell them how high it is," Myranda urged Theon. "The tower that bends in storms."

"I said the sea reached it."

"You said its upper windows." Her brown eyes widened with solemn interest. "Two hundred feet above the water."

Theon looked from her to Jon, who raised his cup and left him to it. "I may have added a little."

"Then I may give you half a dance." She laughed at his expression and turned as Ysilla touched the silver fastenings on Jon's sleeve.

"Was that made in King's Landing?" Ysilla asked.

"Winter Town. Cob cut it, and Mairi and her women did the sewing."

"I have not seen a front cut like that."

"I drew what I wanted. They made it fit."

She studied the way the collar met the slanting front, then touched the straight clasps upon her own gown. "My father's tailor will ask me to describe it." Her gaze fell to the grey-blue favour beneath the fastenings. "And who sewed that?"

"My sister Sansa."

Ysilla bent to look at the little direwolf. "She sews beautifully."

"I promised to tell her if anyone noticed."

"Tell her I did too," Myranda said, leaning past Ysilla to see it.

Jon turned his sleeve for them. He had deliberately worked modern touches into the cut, adapting what he remembered to the cloth and workmanship available in Winter Town. He had been indulging his own tastes; it had not occurred to him that someone else might want a coat like it. Yet Ysilla was already speaking of her father's tailor. Could there be a market for it?

"Did you draw the clocks as well?" a boy beside Waymar asked. Ysilla named him as Artys Elesham, heir to his uncle's seat at the Paps. He was fifteen, narrow-faced and freckled, with ears made more prominent by a close haircut. "They say you were five when you made the first one, my lord."

"Five," Robb said. "I was there."

Artys looked between them, his lips parting. "I thought they must have mistaken your age."

"The drawings were mine," Jon said. "Woods, our carpenter, made the wooden parts. Mikken worked the iron. It took us a good while to make them run together."

"You could hear it across the workroom." Robb grinned at him. "I stayed to watch it strike. It made an awful noise."

"And now the Hightower has one," Artys said.

"A rather better one. William oversees the clockmakers now."

Waymar had been listening over his cup. "Could you make one small enough to carry?"

"Not yet. I should like to."

"Father would buy it," Gyles said. "He asks the hour whenever we have left the clock behind."

Jon smiled. "He would have to let William settle on Dragonstone before giving him another order."

"Is that where you go after the tourney?" Waymar asked. When Jon nodded, the Royce boy leaned forward. "Does the mountain really smoke?"

"So my castellan tells me. I have not seen it yet."

Waymar looked surprised. "You have never been?"

"Ethan has governed for me while I have been in the North. I shall have plenty to learn when I get there."

"You must write and tell me. About the ships too." He lifted his cup towards Jon. "We get plenty here, but Father would never give me a fleet of my own."

"I shall tell you what it costs to feed the crews. He may have spared you something." Jon touched his cup to Waymar's. There was eagerness in the young man's face, and Jon was glad to have something to set beside the memory of him standing with a broken sword in the snow.

Arthur accepted a cup from a servant. Artys glanced towards him and lowered his voice. "Does Ser Arthur teach both of you?"

"Jon every day. Me when I can join them," Robb said. "Ser Rodrik teaches me at Winterfell. Martyn too."

"When did you begin with a real sword?" Jon asked Alester. "Bran has been asking Father for one."

"Thirteen. My uncle gave me a plain blade from his armoury. I kept it cleaner than anything else I owned."

"I shall tell him."

"Tell him about the cleaning too. My uncle never let me forget it."

Artys glanced towards Arthur. "Have either of you beaten him?"

"Not yet," Robb said promptly.

Arthur looked over, the corner of his mouth lifting. Across from him Alester laughed. "I had my turn this morning. I shall need rather more practice."

"You had your sword out too far," a young knight beside Rosamund told him.

"You were not there, Hervey."

"I have known you long enough." He made his bow across the table to Jon. Ser Hervey Breakstone, Alester explained; they had served in the same household. The young heir was broad through the chest, his brown hair sleek above a small, carefully tended moustache. A hammer worked in red garnets fastened his cloak. He turned towards Arthur. "Will you watch the joust, ser?"

"Jon's captain is riding. I shall be there."

Hervey's fingers closed briefly about the garnet hammer. "Then I hope to give you something worth watching."

Rowena Grafton had been whispering with Rosamund. Now she looked towards Jon. "I heard Ser Lyn would have beaten him, if they had fought today."

Alester stopped smiling. Beyond Rowena, Mychel Redfort lowered his eyes to his cup.

"Come to the practice yard at dawn," Jon said. "Watch Ser Arthur with Lord Yohn and judge for yourself."

"Sam will have us there before either of them," Waymar said. He reached for another cake. "He has promised to make certain we sleep tonight."

"I expect he means it," Arthur said, and the boys nearest him laughed.

The joust held Alester's attention. He and Hervey began disputing the horses they had seen at the lists, and Robb listened closely as they spoke of which were likely to shy at broken lances.

"My father has told me what replacing him would cost," Alester said. "Five times."

"Then he knows you well," Arthur answered.

Harry had joined Mychel in arguing that the squires' melee would be worth watching as well. Domeric drew Robb into it, and soon the boys were naming whom they most wanted to face. Jasper, one of the Redfort sons, lifted his cup towards Harry.

"Harry ought to win. He has lost one lordship already. We must leave him something."

Harry's smile remained a moment too long. "It was never mine."

"You might have told your admirers. Some of them had you sitting in the Eyrie until Lady Lysa gave Lord Arryn a son."

Jon saw Anya turn from Lady Grafton near the end of their table. Harry had not seen her. He set his cup down too hard. "Lord Robert is—"

"Lord Arryn's heir." Anya rested her hand upon her ward's shoulder and looked at Jasper. "Have you news that Lord Arryn lacks?"

"Only a jest, my lady." Jasper lowered his cup.

"Then choose another."

She stayed long enough for Harry to look up at her, then returned to Lady Grafton. Harry sat staring at his trencher, red above the collar. Robb pushed the cakes towards him.

"Will you come for me first?" he asked.

Harry glanced at him. "If you are still on your feet when I reach you."

"You will have to hurry." Robb grinned, and Harry took a cake.

Domeric brought his harp onto his knee. The Royce boys called for a song Jon did not know, and Domeric obliged, his fingers finding the air while Waymar supplied the first line. Several voices joined him. Gyles leaned towards Jon to tell him the words, only for Alester to disagree with the ending. By the second verse Robb had joined in the refrain.

Lord Hunter came down from the dais as the song ended, leaning upon his stick. He stopped beside Alester's shoulder.

"Lord Roland's son. Your father bought the wool from my western flocks."

"He did, my lord." Alester had straightened at once.

"Have you brought him fresh custom, or do you mean to ride?"

"I am entered."

"An Arryn in the lists. One forgets you city cousins still do that." Hunter gave Jon a nod before passing on to greet an older knight beside the hearth. Alester set his cup down carefully.

"He might have wished you luck," Robb said.

"My father could buy half the mounts on the field." Alester spoke quietly, beneath the sound of Domeric tuning a string. "It would not make him an Arryn of the Eyrie in Lord Hunter's eyes."

"Because he married a merchant's daughter?" Jon asked.

"And his father before him. They like our silver well enough. They ask which battles our grandsires fought when we seek their daughters." His thumb passed over the falcon upon his breast. "I should like them to remember something else when they hear my name."

"Then beat his man tomorrow," Robb said.

Alester's mouth lifted at one corner. "I shall try."

Across the table, Hervey was telling Rosamund something that made her laugh. Alester watched them a moment, then leaned nearer to Jon. "My mother would be pleased if he called upon us. He will inherit, and his family need not ask whether Father can afford a dowry."

"Would your sister be pleased?"

"She likes him well enough. Whether she would marry him, I cannot say." Alester glanced back at her. "Father's merchants bring proposals whenever a son needs ships or silver. I should like her to have a choice beyond them."

Gyles had stopped turning his cup. "My mother receives those letters too."

"Then you understand." Alester looked towards the lords who still lingered above them. "If I win a purse here, I can pay my way at the next tourney. Father would pay, but I want to win my own silver. And if a great lord takes me into his service, I shall meet families Father knows only across a counting table. I might find Rosamund a proposal she would welcome."

"You could ask her which families she likes," Jon said.

"I have. She told me to win something before I promised to introduce her." His rueful smile drew a laugh from Robb. Rosamund heard her name and looked over; Alester lifted his cup to her and she shook her head, smiling.

Domeric returned to the tune he had played before. This time Robb sang the words he had learned at Winterfell. Jon beat the measure against his cup while Waymar tried to keep the Vale boys singing their own ending. Robb raised his voice, and Domeric kept playing until neither side could go on for laughing.

The fiddler by the hearth had other intentions. He tried a quicker measure while servants lifted the last cleared boards from their trestles. Myranda rose before the flute joined him.

"You may have your half a dance now," she told Theon.

"I thought you promised me one."

"You may have the other half if you keep off my feet." She offered her hand, and he took it with a bow that would have satisfied Sansa.

Ysilla held out her hand to Jon. Near the hearth, Anya had caught Robb before he could follow Domeric and brought Jeyne Waynwood to him. She smoothed her granddaughter's sleeve, said something that made Robb straighten, and waited until he offered his hand.

"Sansa has had you taught?" Ysilla asked as Jon took his place beside her.

"Sansa has had me corrected."

"Then she is likely a good teacher."

Robb turned the wrong way at the first change and recovered with a grin. Jeyne called something across the line that made Ysilla laugh. The figures carried Jon away from his partner and back, past Ser Edmund Waxley's brown-haired daughter Alysanne and then Rosamund. Alester had persuaded Rowena to join him; Melesa Belmore waited at the edge, counting the steps before accepting a partner.

When the dance brought Jon back to Ysilla, he saw Anya watching Robb and Jeyne. "She has chosen his partner carefully."

"And made certain Lady Catelyn's uncle saw her do it." Ysilla glanced towards Brynden, who stood near the dais speaking with Andar. "Jeyne likes your brother, though. She asked whether he would dance again before her grandmother went to find him."

Robb was listening earnestly while Jeyne showed him the turn he had missed. Jon hoped their elders would give them the length of a song before deciding what it meant.

When they returned to the table for their cups, Jon told Ysilla that Sansa had asked whether the Royce ladies wore bronze in their hair.

"Sometimes." She turned her head to show him the small beads among her brown hair. "Your sister has sent you with questions?"

"A page of them."

"I should like to see it."

He brought it out. Ysilla read the questions about gardens and sleeves, smiling, then called a page for parchment. Rowena came to look over her shoulder as she began describing the folded head-cloths worn by the older ladies. Soon they were disputing which colour was most admired in Gulltown.

"Write both," Jon said. "She will choose the one she likes."

"Then she must write and tell me." Ysilla added her name at the foot of the page. "Will you ask her?"

"She will be pleased."

Before he left them, Ysilla loosened a bronze bead from the end of her hair ribbon and put it into his hand. "For the question you did remember."

Jon thanked her. Robb was trying another dance with Jeyne, his face hot and cheerful. Arthur had risen from the bench; Aries waited beside him with Jon's cloak. Jon was gathering Ysilla's note when Lady Anya stopped beside the table.

"You have made friends here, Lord Black." Her gaze rested briefly on the bead in his palm.

"Lady Ysilla has been answering my sister's questions."

"Then Sansa will be sorry she missed us." Anya drew her mantle closer as a servant opened the hall doors. "Does Lord Stark intend to choose a wife for you as well as advise you about your new seat?"

Jon closed his fingers over the bead. In his old life he had stood beside his grown children and listened to people ask questions very like that. He had not enjoyed it on their behalf. "My father's counsel matters to me. The choice will be mine."

Her brows lifted a little. "And has he spoken of anyone?"

"He has not."

"You will find that other fathers have." She let him see her smile. "Harry would like to write to you. I should be glad of it, provided you forgive a young man who sometimes needs reminding to answer."

"I should like to hear from him."

"Then I shall tell him so." She inclined her head and went to collect her ward. Jon watched Harry listen to her, glance towards him and attempt to conceal his pleasure by finishing his wine.

Aries helped Jon into his cloak near the doors, with Arthur waiting beside them. Robb joined them, loosening the clasp at his throat. Behind him Theon was still looking back towards the dancers.

"Why does Alester not ask Lord Arryn for a place?" Robb said. "The Hand must have use for another knight. He could introduce him to half the lords in the realm."

"Perhaps he has asked," Jon said. "We have known him two days."

"Then why should Hunter speak to him like that? He would never have said it to Lord Arryn."

Theon turned from the hall. "Alester is one of the Gulltown Arryns, Robb. There is merchant blood mixed with all that noble falcon blood. You heard what he said about his grandmothers."

"His father is rich."

"Rich enough to lend Hunter silver, I daresay. That will not make Hunter forget where it came from." Theon drew on one glove. "Unless he wants to borrow some more."

Jon smiled at that. Robb did not. Beyond the doors, servants were carrying empty wine jars across the passage; Robb waited for them to pass before speaking again.

"The Arryn name ought to count for something."

"It does," Jon said. "He has been well taught, he can afford good horses, and men hear him out. But he wants a great lord to take him up and help him restore his family's standing. That asks more than a place in a household."

Robb glanced back into the hall. Alester had joined Rosamund and Hervey beside the emptied tables; he was laughing at something his sister had said.

"Why should that trouble anyone?"

"Your uncle told us Lord Arryn's son is often ill." Jon kept his voice low. "Imagine Yohn or Belmore taking Alester everywhere, praising his blood, speaking of what a fine knight an Arryn ought to be. Men would ask why they had chosen him."

Theon's hand slowed upon the glove. "And whether they were looking beyond the sick boy."

"Harry comes after him," Robb said. "We heard that at supper."

"He does. Alester is a distant cousin; I am not saying he has a better claim." Jon glanced towards the hall. "But a powerful lord making much of an ambitious Arryn would attract questions. The lord might prefer a young knight whose name gives him less to explain."

"Alester wants to win tourneys." Robb's brow had drawn tight. "He has said nothing about the Eyrie."

"I believe him. Other men may choose what they hear."

Across the passage Brynden had stopped speaking to the steward. Jon caught the movement at once: the slight turn of his head, then the stillness as his eyes settled upon them. The Blackfish stood with his hand upon the back of an empty chair. Jon had seen that look on the practice field when Robb was about to make a mistake.

He met it briefly and turned back to his brother.

"He admires the main branch," Jon continued. "He wants the same respect for his own. Winning here would give a lord a reason to choose him that everyone could see."

"A good sword arm," Theon said. "And his father paying for the horse. There are worse men to take into service."

"Then someone ought to take him," Robb said.

"Someone may. He has only just been knighted." Jon fastened his cloak. "An introduction from the Hand could help. It would not make Hunter admire his grandmothers."

Brynden crossed the passage. "My niece's son may outlive every man in this hall."

Theon lowered his hands. Robb turned towards his uncle. "We were speaking of Alester."

"I heard." The Blackfish's eyes remained on Jon.

"I hope he does, ser," Jon said. "Alester could still serve well."

Brynden studied him for a moment. "Such talk travels farther than you intend, Lord Black."

"I shall remember."

The knight turned to Robb and reminded him of the early start. His voice softened when Robb asked whether he would come to the yard, but he offered Jon nothing more. As they went towards the stairs, Theon bent close enough for only Jon to hear.

"You saw him listening."

"As soon as he turned."

Theon looked back once. Arthur followed without speaking, his hand resting upon Dawn's hilt.

Upstairs, Jon set the bronze bead beside Ysilla's note and Sansa's seal bag. He wrote briefly to Ethan about Grafton's grain cargoes and Hunter's sheep, then added the request for Gyles Grafton's harness. Noll would need his own letter, and Mott another about the black finish. When Arthur shut the door, Jon set down the quill.

"Grafton speaks to you differently."

Arthur sat on the edge of his bed. "He can speak of his brother without wondering whether I shall call Marq a traitor."

Jon glanced at the unfinished letter. "Will he expect me to share his quarrel with Lord Arryn?"

"Perhaps. You need not answer a question he has not asked." Arthur set Dawn beside the bed. "Deal fairly with him. But do not mistake his welcome to me for a promise to follow you."

Jon nodded. Grafton had bargained hard over the harbour dues despite that welcome. He drew another sheet towards him and wrote Noll's name at its head.

Outside, Gawen called Tomas over to the horse line. Jon waited for the voices to pass beneath the window, then drew his chair nearer Arthur.

"What did you make of Harry?"

"He was more interested in my sword than in what his guardian was saying." Arthur's smile faded. "I heard what Redfort said at supper."

"He has been hearing it for years, I expect." Jon turned the empty cup between his hands. "I wondered how much of his eagerness is his own, and how much has been put there."

"Anya knows what men may want from him," Arthur said. "She will watch those who come too close." He regarded Jon for a moment. "Have you seen Harry holding the Eyrie, in one of your dreams?"

"No." In the books Jon remembered, little Robert had still been alive. Harry's inheritance was a possibility others meant to use, not an ending he had read. "I know where he stands in the succession. I intend to keep the acquaintance."

"Anya will weigh it. To her you are Ned Stark's son, with a castle and a growing fortune of your own."

"Then she has reason to let us become friends." Jon rested his forearms on his knees. "When I make my claim, I would rather the men of the Vale had more to judge me by than my name."

Arthur nodded slowly. "Yohn invited you here. He has been asking about your men and your island. Spend some time with him as well."

"I mean to. And Domeric knows the people I have yet to meet." Jon rose to finish Sansa's letter. "We have a few days left."

"Has he said anything of returning to the Dreadfort?" Arthur asked.

"He expects to stay at Redfort a while longer. I asked him to write before he goes north." Jon paused beside the table. "If he does, I want to know which road he takes."

"We should keep him in company," Arthur said.

"Aye." Jon sat and drew the letter towards him.

Arthur lay down. Jon finished Sansa's letter and packed it with the bead and Ysilla's note. He left his gloves where Aries could find them and went to bed.

 

[aiwonder]

Jon woke to Hallis's voice below the stair. The Stark guard was asking Tomas where their men were to eat; the first platters were already being carried across the court.

Munin had found his guest-room window before dawn. She stood on the sill with the broken stalk of a cherry in her beak, watching while he pulled on his hose. Hugin answered the men below with a rasping "Hold." Hallis looked up.

"Tell your bird I have heard him, my lord."

Jon tossed the crow a crumb from last night's bread. "He wants breakfast."

The castle had scarcely slept. Hammers sounded at the lists until midnight; below the east wall a drunk sang four lines until someone bought him another song. Jon had lain awake through both and dreamed, when sleep came, of a blue eye opening under ice and a dead ranger behind it. His back was stiff, his hand sore and his temper no better.

Arthur waited outside in mail, a cloak thrown over it. He glanced at Jon's face. "You heard the singer."

"Every verse." Jon flexed his stiff fingers on the way to the practice yard. Aries followed with the leather bottle and his half-eaten bread.

Men were already coming through the gate from the tournament camp, some still fastening their coats, others carrying bread snatched from a cookfire. The practice rail had vanished behind shoulders. Squires stood upon the mounting block, and grooms leaned from the stable loft with bits of hay caught in their hair. Above them, shutters opened along the covered gallery. Jon heard Arthur's name pass through the press as someone recognised him.

Strong Sam, Runestone's master-at-arms, had laid ash swords and round shields beside the rail. He was making two squires get down from the gate so the fighters could enter. Robar Royce waited inside, tightening his shield straps while his companions called advice he plainly did not want.

Tomas went ahead of Jon. Men shifted at his request, then made more room when they saw Arthur following. Robb waved them towards the rail, where Domeric moved closer to Gyles to let Jon through. Artys Elesham had to draw back his elbows to make room. The freckled boy greeted him without quite taking his eyes off Arthur. Martyn kept Aries close behind them. Farther along, Gawen's friends held a stretch of the low wall, Pate with a cup of hot ale and Kennet balancing two. Ser Hervey Breakstone stood beside Alester, his fine cloak thrown back and his hands braced on the rail.

At the hall steps, Lord Grafton broke off his conversation with Horton Redfort to watch Arthur pass. Lady Anya beckoned Harry out of the gateway before another latecomer tripped over him. Farther up, Lord Hunter was being settled into a chair, grumbling while a servant placed a cushion beneath his bad foot. Nestor Royce moved aside to let them through and called for the men below to leave the stair clear.

"Will they begin while we are still young?" Belmore asked from beside the stair. His cloak hung open over yesterday's doublet.

"Sam is waiting for you to stop talking," Ser Edmund Waxley called back. Laughter ran along the rail. Beside Waxley, Ser Symond Templeton lifted a hand in greeting to Arthur, then turned his squire by the shoulder to give him a clear view.

The hedge knights Corentin and Mael had found places near the stable doors, among men whose faded surcoats showed beneath travelling cloaks. Ser Hugh Tollett edged past them to the front; Edd followed with his brother's cloak over one arm and found himself staring at Hugh's back. Gawen caught his eye and pointed to a space on the wall. Edd looked at his brother before taking it.

Jon glanced up at the gallery. Ysilla stood beside Myranda, with Rosamund and Rowena leaning over the wooden balustrade. Ysilla raised her hand when she saw him. He returned the greeting, then followed Robb's gaze to the far side of the yard. Lyn Corbray stood beside Mychel, with room enough about him to draw a sword. He had brought Lady Forlorn, but no practice blade.

Arthur handed the sheathed Dawn to Gage and took the shield Sam offered.

"Three passes?" the old master asked.

"Three."

Sam came at him before the word had quite left his mouth. The first blow cracked against Arthur's shield; the next would have caught his knee, but Arthur was already outside its reach. His point touched Sam beneath the ribs. The old master glanced down, grunted, and stepped back to begin again. A cheer went up from the stable end, where the Runestone men crowded closest. From the gallery someone demanded to know who had struck first; three voices answered at once.

Pate slapped Gawen's shoulder and shouted encouragement. Sam shortened his next cut, drawing Arthur's shield low before turning the stroke at his arm. Arthur pulled clear with scarcely an inch to spare. Sam tried to recover, but Arthur's point was already against his chest.

Robb let out his breath. "I thought Sam had him."

They drew apart for the last pass. Sam pressed forward again. Arthur let the next stroke pass his shoulder, stepped in before the old master could bring the sword back, and pressed his shield against Sam's weapon arm. His own blade stopped beneath the bearded chin.

Sam lowered his sword, shaking his head. "I thought I had you that time."

"You nearly did."

Sam snorted. He stepped out of the ring, rubbing his shoulder, and beckoned Robar forward.

The younger Royce attacked hard, cutting high and then at Arthur's legs. Arthur gave ground just far enough to let the second blow pass. When Robar raised his sword again, Arthur struck his glove and touched his breast before he could bring it down. Robar hissed, then caught Arthur's blade on his shield and tried to strike over its rim. Arthur turned the cut aside.

"Good," he said. "Again."

Robar was breathing through his mouth by the time Sam called a halt. He lowered his sword and worked feeling back into his fingers, still watching Arthur's hands. "Ride the joust. I should like to see whether I fare better with a lance." Hervey nodded eagerly. Along the rail, several knights took up the invitation; the older men listened for Arthur's answer as closely as the boys.

"You have already given me enough work this morning." Arthur rested the shield against his leg.

"Perhaps the songs have made him cautious," Lyn Corbray said.

Lyonel Corbray turned sharply towards his brother. Before he could speak, Brynden came down the hall steps.

"Lord Royce asked for a practice, Corbray. You can let it proceed." The Blackfish took his place beside Robb, giving Arthur a short nod when the knight looked towards him.

A lane opened through the men near the gate. Yohn entered carrying an ash sword, his grey hair damp at the temples and stable dust still clinging to one boot. Men cheered him from the loft. He lifted the sword towards them, then looked at Robar rubbing his hand and smiled.

"My turn, Dayne. You have had time to warm up."

"Sam has had his three passes. You may have yours."

Their first meeting broke Arthur's sword above the guard.

The crack cut through the shouting. A jagged length of ash spun towards the rail; men jerked back, and Gage stepped across Jon as it struck the dirt. Up in the gallery, Rowena caught Rosamund's arm. For a moment Jon could hear a horse stamping inside the stable.

Arthur stood with the broken hilt in his hand. Yohn looked at it, then at the splintered length lying before the spectators.

Yohn lowered his sword. "Sam, I asked you to find the man a weapon."

"I did, my lord. I did not ask you to split it." Sam took the stump from Arthur. The laughter came back louder than before. He tested another blade across his knee, ignoring a knight who offered to lend his own.

Andar came down from the steps carrying his father's shield. He passed it over, then turned to the men pressing against the entrance. "A little room, if you please." Once they had moved, he stayed beside his youngest brother, Waymar, at the rail.

This time Yohn began slowly, testing the distance with his point. Arthur moved to his right, and Yohn moved with him. When Arthur tried the other side, the broad shield was there. They circled until a voice from the loft called for them to begin. Neither man looked up.

Yohn struck at Arthur's head, then his knee, then drove his shield forward as Arthur caught the low cut. The impact brought a grunt from Arthur. He gave a step, recovered it, and turned the next blow aside. Yohn followed so closely that Arthur had no room to answer. Wood battered against wood, loud enough to drown the men shouting from the rail.

Jon watched Arthur's sword, waiting for the quick return he knew. Twice Arthur began it; twice he had to break off to meet another stroke. Yohn kept him moving, changing the height of his cuts and thrusting whenever the shields came apart. Waymar shouted for his father to press him. Harry joined in as the Royce men took up their lord's name; beside Waymar, Andar watched in silence.

Arthur let the next cut glance from his shield and stepped in behind it. Yohn turned to meet him. Their shields struck edge to edge; Arthur braced, caught the descending sword on his own, and slid his point beneath Yohn's raised arm. It touched the mail and stopped.

"Dayne," Sam called.

Yohn looked down at the point, then up at Arthur. Both men were breathing hard. "Again."

They drew apart amid cheers and argument. Men along the rail were disputing the touch, showing their neighbours where Arthur's point had gone. The talk subsided as Yohn raised his sword again.

Near the stables, Mael leaned forward until his fellow hedge knight Corentin caught the back of his belt and drew him out of the fighters' space. Every gap along the rail had filled; Jon could feel men shifting behind him for a better view.

Yohn kept his sword closer now. When Arthur approached, he thrust and withdrew behind his shield, denying him the opening under the arm. Arthur caught the next thrust, but Yohn tore his blade free and struck at his hand. Arthur had to pull it back sharply.

They crossed the yard and came back along the rail. Yohn tried to pin Arthur's sword beneath his shield; Arthur slipped clear. A cut at the leg brought his shield down, and Yohn's next stroke came at his head so quickly that Jon heard Robb draw breath beside him. Arthur turned it on the upper rim. The wood shuddered in his grip.

For a while Jon could hear little but the blows and the scuff of their boots. Arthur's dark hair had come loose against his forehead. Sweat ran from Yohn's jaw into his collar. When they closed again, Yohn shoved him back with the shield and came after him, sword raised.

Arthur gave ground for two steps. On the third he stopped, turning his shield into the descending blade. Yohn's weight carried him nearer. Arthur's sword struck low, a short, checked blow against the thigh before Yohn could bring his shield down.

Sam raised two fingers. "Dayne. Two."

"He has not touched him," Harry said. His earlier shouting had left his voice rough.

Jasper Redfort leaned past him. "There is another pass."

Harry nodded, but his gaze stayed on Arthur. Jon knew that look. He had spent enough mornings staring at his teacher that way.

Yohn stepped back and rolled his shoulder. Arthur lowered his sword for a moment, flexing the fingers beneath his glove.

"One more?" Arthur asked.

Yohn nodded, still drawing breath. "You shall earn it."

Yohn drove him towards the rail. The knights nearest them moved back, clearing the ground without being asked. Each time Arthur tried to move away from the boundary, Yohn's broad shield was there to meet him. Jon saw the wet strip of earth behind Arthur's heel a moment before Yohn glanced at it. The bronze lord raised his sword, inviting Arthur to retreat before the blow.

Arthur went forward. His shield struck Yohn's forearm before the cut gathered speed, and his shoulder followed, close enough to spoil the thrust that came after it. Yohn braced and shoved him away. Arthur turned with the shove, drawing his sword arm back as though to strike at the head.

Yohn lifted his shield. Arthur's blade passed beneath it and stopped against his breast.

For a heartbeat the two men held their places. Then the yard erupted. Men hammered upon the rail, and the grooms in the loft stamped their feet until the boards shook. Jon found himself shouting with Robb.

Yohn stood looking down at the ash point, his mouth open. Then he began to laugh as well, and the Runestone men cheered their lord so loudly that Sam had to raise his voice to be heard.

"Dayne!" Sam shouted over them. He held up three fingers. "Three to none."

Yohn caught his breath and looked towards the old master. "Find me another judge." Arthur was smiling now, sweat bright upon his face. He lowered his sword as Yohn offered his hand, and clasped it.

Andar came forward to take his father's shield. He glanced at the wet ground by the rail, then back at Arthur. "I thought he had you there, ser."

"So did I," Yohn said. He clapped Arthur on the shoulder, still breathing hard. "I should like to try that again, when my arm belongs to me."

"Whenever you wish, my lord."

All along the rail, people were talking over one another, arguing about the passes and calling to friends who had missed them. Across the yard, Mychel began to clap, glanced at Lyn and let his hands fall. Lyonel Corbray said something to his brother. Lyn made no answer. Jon watched his fingers close upon the top of the rail before turning back to Robb.

Robb leaned towards Brynden. "Is he as good as you remember?"

The Blackfish kept his eyes upon Arthur. "He is." Robb waited, and after a moment Brynden added, "Watch his feet next time. Lord Yohn wanted him to step back. He had already decided to go forward."

Arthur heard and inclined his head. Brynden acknowledged him without a smile.

"Have you finished playing with little boys and lords past their prime, Dayne?"

The yard fell silent. Lyn had come through the opening in the rail, Lady Forlorn at his hip. Arthur turned towards him with the ash sword still in his hand.

Yohn's smile disappeared. Andar lowered the shield he had taken from his father; beside him Robar straightened, his bruised hand forgotten. Waymar stepped away from the rail.

"You are speaking of my father."

"Waymar." Yohn did not look at his son. His gaze remained on Corbray.

Lyn gave the lord of Runestone a slight bow. "My apologies, my lord. I spoke too freely." He rose with the same smile upon his face. "I have been waiting for a turn."

Jon looked at the sweat darkening Arthur's collar. Sam, Robar, then Yohn; Corbray had watched every pass without troubling to remove his cloak.

"An interesting time to ask, Ser Lyn," he said. "After all those bouts. Why not before the closing feast, when Ser Arthur has had his rest?"

Lyn turned his head. For a moment he watched Jon without speaking. Then he looked back at Arthur.

"Do you let a boy speak for you now?"

Robb stirred beside Jon, but Arthur's gaze had already left Corbray. He looked directly at Jon and waited. Jon met his eyes, then gave a small nod.

"After the last joust," Arthur said. "Before the closing feast. You shall have your bout."

Lyn's smile widened. His hand settled upon Lady Forlorn's pommel.

"Lovely. Though we should make a proper spectacle of it." He glanced at the wooden sword in Arthur's hand. "Our own blades, I think. Lady Forlorn against Dawn. The occasion calls for them."

A squire on the mounting block whooped. Cheers rose from the knights gathered by the stables, and others took up the cry. Men who had been drifting towards the gate turned back, asking what had been said. Someone shouted Dawn's name.

The young nobles beside Jon did not join the cheering. Several looked towards Yohn; on the steps, the older lords watched Arthur and Corbray. Lyonel came forward from the rail.

"Lyn. That is enough."

His brother paid him no heed. "Ser Arthur?"

Arthur passed the ash sword to Sam. "Our own blades."

Andar turned to his father. "Father?"

Yohn raised a hand, and the men calling from the stables fell quiet. He let them settle before speaking to Corbray.

"You have worried at this like a pup with a bone. Have your bout, since you want it so dearly. But it will be upon my field, and you will stop when I command it." His voice hardened. "See that you do not regret your choice."

Lyn laughed. He gave Yohn another bow, turned and walked towards the gate. Men drew aside for him.

"Mychel. Come along. I am hungry."

The squire hesitated, looking from Lord Royce to Arthur, then hurried after him. The grooms above the stable doors were already disputing which sword would prove the better.

Lyonel watched his brother go. He spoke quietly to Yohn, who answered without looking away from the gate. Andar set his father's shield against the rail and joined them.

Brynden put a hand upon Robb's shoulder. "Come. You have yet to eat." Robb went with him reluctantly, looking back at Arthur as they reached the steps.

Templeton came forward to greet Arthur. While they spoke, Jon took the bottle from Aries and held it out. Arthur drank deeply, then rested a hand briefly upon Jon's shoulder as he passed it back.

Knights lingered along the rail, talking about the promised bout while Sam sent the boys down from the mounting block and called for his swords to be brought back.

Aries had picked up the broken blade from beside the rail. He waited until Templeton moved away, turning the ash carefully to keep his fingers clear of the split.

"May I keep it?" he asked Arthur.

"The edge will put a splinter through your hand." Arthur held out his palm, but Aries hesitated.

"You fought with it."

Arthur's expression softened. He crouched beside the page and pointed to the sound wood below the break. "Ask Sam if he can spare that much."

"I can smooth it for him," Gawen said. Sam gave a grudging nod, and Aries surrendered his treasure to Gawen as though it were Dawn itself. He followed close behind him towards breakfast.

They ate porridge, smoked fish and soft cheese on the outer stair, Jon beside Robb, Arthur and Waymar. His spoon stood upright in the thick porridge.

"Father says you let him drive you back," Waymar said.

"I did. He nearly caught me against the rail." Arthur took a piece of fish.

"He will enjoy that part." Waymar reached for the platter just as Robar took the last piece. "Leave some for those of us who have not eaten!"

Robar waved it without turning. Robb grinned and pushed his bread across.

Waymar watched Robar go. "He has done that since we were small. If I answer Father correctly, Robar says the question was too easy. If I answer poorly, he repeats it at supper."

Robb scraped his bowl. "Jon remembers every poor answer I have given. He drew me falling off a horse and sent it to Sansa."

"You said it tried to eat you," Jon said. "I had to give it teeth."

Waymar laughed. "You quarrel like full brothers."

"We are brothers," Robb said. His spoon had stopped halfway to his mouth.

Waymar nodded and followed Robb to fetch more fish. Jon watched them laughing together across the court. The death he remembered would not leave him alone. He would write after Runestone; for now, he could do that much.

* * *
​

The tournament field was already loud when they came down from the castle. Trumpets sounded beneath the Royce banner, their notes almost lost among the men calling wagers along the ropes. Ladies gathered their skirts to climb the gallery steps; below them, a serving girl edged through the crowd with a basket of hot pies, protecting it with her elbow. Jon caught the smell of pepper and warm pastry before a groom led a sweating destrier across their path.

Beyond the jousting barrier, the knights were gathering for the morning's melee. Squires knelt to buckle greaves or stood on tiptoe to settle helms. Hervey Breakstone's red hammer shone freshly painted upon his shield. Near him, Ser Corentin was tugging his old mail over a quilted coat while Mael held his helm and watched the gallery fill.

Their melee would open the games. Tomorrow the squires would have this field, and Jon would be looking out through his own helm at all those faces.

Gawen stopped to watch a groom fastening a shield. Sam caught him looking. "There is still time to enter."

"And have you tell me I tired myself before the joust?" Gawen smiled. "I know that one."

Arthur and Martyn had found places beside their charges. Neither carried a tournament weapon. Behind them, Aries craned between two household men until Gage lifted him onto the lowest rail, with Tomas's permission and a warning to keep his feet still.

Near the horse lines, Jon found Alester Arryn tugging at a shield whose leather grip had torn loose. His squire held it steady while he tried to pull the ragged end through its buckle. Domeric came from the Redfort tent carrying his own shield.

"Take this. Mine can wait until tomorrow."

Alester glanced towards the marshals. "I could have that mended."

"You could. They are calling your name." Domeric held it out, hiding a smile. Alester looked from the broken grip to the field, then gave up and took it.

"I shall pay for any damage."

"Bring it back with you." Domeric helped him settle the straps. "Preferably still on your arm."

Alester laughed, and his squire hurried after him with the helm. Jon watched Domeric turn the damaged shield over and call to a passing Royce page and ask where he might find an armourer. He remembered the Dreadfort's master-at-arms studying his camp. Whatever he would one day have to do about Roose Bolton, he wanted this young man alive.

Robb beckoned from the rope. Beside him stood a long-armed youth with sun-bleached brows and an anchor worked upon his riding coat. Gawen introduced him as Morvan Melcolm, Lord Melcolm's second son. He was sixteen, and old needle holes showed where his sleeves had been lengthened.

"He wants to buy Ser Gawen's mare," Robb said.

"I asked whether he would sell her." Morvan grinned. "There is rather a difference when you have my purse."

His elder brother would inherit Old Anchor. Morvan wanted horses: good mares first, then a stallion worth putting to them. He had one mare of his own and an opinion upon every horse that passed. When Gawen asked about her breeding, the young man's face brightened. The horn interrupted his answer.

The herald called for silence. Lord Yohn's melee would be fought on foot, every man for himself. A man who yielded or crossed the boundary was out; when only one remained, the prize was his. Sam walked past the waiting fighters with the horn in his hand, reminding a marshal to keep clear of the gate. Up in the gallery, Yohn raised his hand. The horn sounded.

Twenty-four men came together across the trampled grass. The first scattered blows became a clatter of steel upon steel and wood. Beside Jon, Aries gripped the rail and stretched up for a better look. A knight in a blue surcoat went down near the middle; the man beside him stepped over his legs and caught the next blow on his shield while he scrambled up. Elsewhere a raised hand brought a marshal running, his staff held out to make room for the beaten man to leave.

Lyn Corbray fought near the far side, easy to follow in his pale surcoat. Mychel waited outside with Lady Forlorn. The blade in Lyn's hand was a blunt tournament sword, but Jon found himself watching it all the same.

Alester had joined Ser Hervey Breakstone, the broad young knight with the red hammer on his shield. They held together while a Waxley and Ser Mael of the Ford tried to force them apart. Hervey took the Waxley's blow on his shield; Alester struck past his shoulder, but Mael caught the blow and struck at the gap between the two young knights. They drew closer together. Robb's shout of approval was lost beneath Corentin calling to Mael from farther up the field.

"See?" Rosamund said, appearing at the rail. "He does remember to use the shield occasionally."

Ysilla moved her folded cloak to make a place beside her. She caught Jon's eye and smiled; when he joined her, their sleeves brushed at the rail. Farther along, two girls whispered behind their hands and laughed when he glanced towards them. Jon gave them a brief smile before turning back to the field.

Alester knocked Mael's sword from his grip. The hedge knight snatched at it with his left hand, missed, and raised the empty palm to yield. Rosamund forgot her mockery and cheered with both hands cupped round her mouth.

Then Lyn reached them.

Hervey turned to meet him. Lyn's first stroke rang against the red hammer; his second slipped beneath it and caught Hervey hard above the knee. The young knight staggered. Alester moved to cover him, but the Waxley pressed in from the other side. Their little partnership broke apart in three hurried steps.

"He has left Hervey alone," Robb said.

"He had to turn," Jon answered. "The other fellow was behind him."

Brynden stood at Robb's shoulder, his blue eyes following the men. "Now he must get back."

Alester tried. He struck the Waxley's shield aside and forced a passage, but Hervey was already kneeling with one hand raised. Lyn turned upon Alester. The Arryn met the first cut squarely; the second glanced from the top of his shield and rang against his helm. Rosamund's shout broke off.

Alester struck back, driving Lyn half a step away. He tried to follow, but Lyn caught his sword against the shield and came in close. Their helms knocked together. Alester staggered, his heel tearing loose turf, and went down with the borrowed shield above his head.

"I yield!"

Lyn checked his sword and went on without a glance at the stands.

Corentin lasted longer. A Redfort knight drove him towards the boundary, but the old hedge knight ducked the next cut and came back under his shield. The Redfort went down. Corentin stood over him until he yielded, then offered his hand. From outside the rope, Mael shouted through both hands, forgetting his sore wrist until he lowered them.

Corentin saw Lyn coming and settled behind his shield. He turned the first cut, but his legs had grown slow. Lyn struck twice in quick succession, giving him no time to answer, then thrust at his face. Corentin stepped back and planted his heel beyond the boundary.

The marshal's staff barred his return. He looked down, swore, and raised his sword in acknowledgement. Mael called to him from outside the rope, still nursing his wrist.

The field emptied by twos and threes. Sweat darkened the cloth beneath the remaining men's mail. Robar Royce brought down the Waxley, then stumbled clear of the falling man and nearly lost his own footing. Waymar struck the rail with his palm, shouting for him to turn. Lyn was coming.

Robar saw him in time. Their swords met above the bronze shield, loud enough to draw a cry from the gallery. Lyn pressed him across the grass, but Robar halted suddenly and struck back. The blow glanced from Lyn's helm. His head jerked, and the Royce men roared.

Only Robar and Lyn remained. The other bouts had stopped drawing cheers; men pressed against the ropes to see the last two. Robar followed his success with another cut at Lyn's head. Lyn raised his shield and stepped into it, so close that Robar could not bring his sword back freely.

Lyn's blade struck the Royce's weapon arm. Robar twisted clear and tried to regain the distance, but Lyn followed. The next blow caught the same arm. Robar's fingers opened, and the sword fell between their feet.

He raised his empty hand. "I yield." Lyn checked the stroke he had already begun.

Sam's horn sounded over the shouting. Robar stood breathing hard, then offered his sound hand. Lyn clasped it. When he pulled off his helm, blood showed at the corner of his mouth.

"He is smiling," Aries said, very quietly.

Lyn wiped his lip with his thumb. His gaze moved along the crowded rail and stopped upon Arthur. The older knight watched him without expression. Around Jon, men who had heard the morning's challenge began talking of the bout after the last joust. Lyn held Arthur's stare until Mychel touched his elbow and reached for his shield.

Alester came back with grass in his hair and Domeric's shield beneath his arm. Its paint bore three fresh white scars. He began an apology, but Domeric took it and asked whether he could still bend both knees. Rosamund made him demonstrate.

Jon and Robb went among the stalls with Gyles and Alester while the marshals cleared the field. Gage and two guards followed. Gyles lingered over illuminated histories until Robb called him to watch a mummer in a horse's head chase a child. Whenever he stopped for cider, the child pulled his tail.

At a stall of carved bone, Jon chose a boat for Bran. Robb found a squat horse for Arya, with its ears flattened back and its teeth showing. There were ribbons for Sansa, a rattle for Rickon, and a comb carved with little flowers which Robb bought for his mother. He kept looking through its wrapping as they walked, trying to judge whether she would like it.

At the archery call they turned towards the butts. Theon was already at the rope, studying the wind.

* * *
​

The butts stood beyond the gallery, facing the sea. Here the crowd spread out along a single rope, with no horses to block the view. Boys offered copper pennies on their fathers' shooting; a woman with a basket of pies loudly refused every wager laid against her husband. He was the one-eyed fletcher, an unhurried man who checked each shaft between finger and thumb before laying it beside his bow.

Theon paced behind the shooting line. The gallery sheltered him from some of the wind, but the streamers beside the distant targets kept lifting towards the right. He watched where the other men's arrows struck, then stooped to let a handful of grass fall through his fingers. For once he left the wind to spoil his careful hair.

Robb called for him to shoot before they all grew old. Theon ignored him. Beneath his bracer showed the black scrap Wylla had cut from a saddle roll in White Harbor; he had kept it after the repair.

His first shaft struck the inner red. Grey cloaks cheered. Some of the Vale men joined them, then fell quiet when the herald called his name. Theon heard the change. He reached for his next arrow with his usual smile.

"Again," Robb called, louder than before.

The second went wide to the right. Theon waited for the streamer to fall, adjusted his aim, and put the third beside his first.

When the judges had walked the targets, five men were called to the farther mark: Theon, Waymar, Kennet, the fletcher and a Hunter man in a brown coat. The line went back to a hundred and twenty paces. Each would have two arrows; the two men whose best shots lay nearest the centre would shoot once more for the prize.

Kennet put his first into the red, but his second fell farther out. Waymar's arrows struck close together, both well to the right of the centre. The Hunter did better. His companions began to shout, only for the fletcher to plant a shaft inside his. Behind Jon, a man cursed softly and passed a penny to his neighbour.

Theon's first went low. Robb opened his mouth, then closed it. Theon stood with the next arrow resting against the string, watching the streamer beside his target. When he drew again, he held only a moment before releasing.

The arrow struck close to the centre. Jon could not judge how close from the rope, and neither could the men around him. They waited while the judges went out again. The fletcher's wife tried to sell Brynden a pie. He bought it without taking his eyes off the targets.

At last the marshal called the fletcher and Theon forward. The others unstrung their bows. Kennet came back to the rope rubbing his shoulder, and Gawen made room for him beside Pate.

The fletcher shot first. His arrow struck in the red. He watched the shaft quiver, then looked towards Theon, his mouth set beneath his beard.

Theon raised his bow and lowered it again. The breeze touched Jon's cheek, scarcely enough to stir his hair. Out by the butts, the streamer lifted almost straight. Theon waited until it sagged, then drew, aiming a little to the left of the mark.

No one at the rope spoke. The string snapped forward. His arrow struck, and the fletcher leaned to see past him.

The marshal went down the field with another man beside him. They laid a short cord against the painted centres, compared the two shafts, and bent to look again. Theon stood with his bow loose in his hand. Only the fingers of the other hand moved, rubbing slowly against his thumb.

"Greyjoy!" The marshal's shout carried back to them. "By a finger's breadth!"

Robb was the first to cheer. Grey cloaks answered him, then the black household and the crowded gallery. Jon caught Theon by the shoulder as he came off the line. His grin was broad and unguarded for once; it changed when he looked up towards the lords. Grafton was clapping, but without a smile. Men of Gulltown had died on Pyke. Jon doubted a well-shot arrow would make him forget them.

The fletcher returned from examining the butts and bowed. "Fine shooting, my lord. You judged that wind better than I did." His wife had come to his side with the basket. He took a pie and offered it to Theon, smiling despite the loss.

"One for Robb as well. It may keep him quiet until supper." Theon paid for two. Yohn's prize was a fine yew bow with polished horn tips, and a brooch shaped like a silver gull. Theon tested the bow's draw before sparing the bird a glance.

Myranda called that the gull sat crooked on his cloak. He set it straight and bowed to her, still holding his new bow. She applauded, and he looked more pleased than he had at the judges' decision.

At midday the household crowded three tables under the black awning, trading accounts of the morning over bread and onion stew. Gage had found a smith for his loose shield rim. Olyver's spiced wine tasted chiefly of water; the cook poured some into the stew while he complained of the price.

Davie brought a red paper bird from a mummer. While Murdo searched for the thread that moved its wings, Pate began drumming his spoon against the table. Jon turned at the sound, expecting Struan's grin. The sight of Pate stopped him. His own spoon lay untouched beside his bowl.

"My lord?" Gage asked.

"Eat." It came out sharply enough to silence Pate's drumming. Jon drew a breath and looked back at Gage. "Forgive me. It was the spoon."

Gage glanced along the table. His mouth tightened, then eased. "Struan did that every bloody meal. I used to threaten to feed it to him."

Pate laid his spoon down. Tomas moved the bread within Jon's reach. For a little while the noise of the other cookfires seemed very loud.

"Finnan would have wagered on Robar," Olyver said at last. "If the odds were good."

"He would have lost," Gage said.

"Aye. Then he would have borrowed from Keir."

Rylas smiled down at his bowl. "And Struan would have paid before Keir could refuse him."

Rylas swallowed and looked away. Jon reached for the bread. He could hear all three of them in the argument, so plainly that he had to swallow before taking a bite. Olyver looked down into his bowl, rubbing at his nose. Then Davie asked for more stew, and Gage reached for the pot.

* * *
​

By evening cookfires shone between the pavilions. Lady Anya stood beneath Lord Redfort's awning, speaking to him while a page held a lantern over a letter. Jon passed them on his way to the fire, where Domeric was tuning his harp. Robb and Theon had found stools beside Mychel. Artys Elesham sat with a cup held between his knees; Morvan Melcolm was cutting a bruised part from an apple with his belt knife. Gyles brought a stool to sit beside Robb. Alester followed, flexing his sword hand. He said it would feel better if everyone stopped reminding him of his fall.

Harry occupied two stools until Waymar lifted his cloak off the spare one and sat down.

"I was keeping that clean," Harry said.

"Then wear it."

Mychel sharpened a quill while they discussed the squires' melee. He had watched the other boys practise and knew which struck hardest, which tired quickly and which kept looking towards the gallery.

"You have watched us too?" Robb asked.

Mychel smiled. "You and Jon always look for each other."

"We fight well together," Robb said.

"Then I shall try to keep you apart."

Harry drew a silver stag from his purse and held it up to the firelight. "I will wager this that I last longer than you tomorrow, Jon."

"You had better bring a shield as well," Robb said. "He hits harder than you think."

"I have seen him practise." Harry rolled the coin across his fingers. "Though a stag is nothing to you, is it? Not with all those clocks selling."

Jon set down his cup and took a gold dragon from his purse. He held it where the fire caught the king's stamped face. "Then a dragon."

Morvan stopped cutting his apple. Harry's eyes flicked past Jon towards Lady Anya. She was still reading Lord Redfort's letter, her head bent beneath the lantern. Harry looked back before she could raise it. His smile returned, wider than before, and he lifted his chin.

"A dragon, then. Have it ready. I would hate to send to your clockmaker for my winnings."

"To whichever of us stays in the field longer," Jon said.

"I heard you the first time." Harry put the stag away with a careless snap of his purse strings. Theon pointed at him with the foot of his cup.

"So did we. You cannot claim afterwards that you meant Robb."

"You will see me collect it."

"He might," Waymar told Jon. "You will have more than Harry to think about."

"So will he." Jon looked towards Mychel. The Redfort squire had stopped trimming his quill to listen, a small smile at one corner of his mouth.

"I shall aim for whichever of you is looking for the other," Mychel said.

Artys shook his head when Morvan offered him a share of a wager on the winner. "My uncle would ask where the money had gone."

"Tell him you were badly advised." Morvan resumed cutting his apple. Harry laughed with the others, though he kept his back towards the light beneath Lord Redfort's awning.

"Have you chosen a winner?" Theon asked Mychel.

"No."

"I have," Harry said.

"Yourself?"

Harry spread his hands. Theon leaned back on his stool. "Then I shall wager elsewhere."

Waymar said Harry ought to have entered the men's melee if he was so certain of himself. Harry asked why Waymar had not offered to take his brother's place against Corbray. They were still arguing when Domeric began to play.

He chose the Vale air they had sung at the feast. Robb came in with the northern ending, and Waymar sang over him. On the next refrain each gave up a word until they had made a version none of them had heard before. Davie listened from beside the nearest tent, his broken paper bird in his lap.

Theon stretched his legs towards the fire. He had taken the silver gull off his cloak and was turning it between his fingers.

"Come down to the wine tents," he said. "There is a widow who knows better songs than Bolton, and not one of her knights keeps his vows."

Domeric picked another soft chord. "Perhaps she has met too many of your friends."

Robb laughed. Theon reached for the cloak he had left on his stool.

"Come, then. Before the respectable men drink it all."

"Tell Martyn where you are going," Jon said.

Theon's hand stopped. "Martyn has told me I must ask his leave."

"Then why ask us before him?"

"Because I hoped to find companions, not another pair of guards." He drew his cloak from the stool. "You have a castle to ride to when your father offends you. I have to explain why I should like a cup of ale."

Robb looked up sharply. "He is responsible for us. It is not meant as an insult."

"Easy enough to say when he must one day call you lord."

Jon put down his cup. "I shall stay here. Robb can speak for himself."

Theon's smile returned, too bright. "Gods forbid I should tempt Lord Black into wickedness. He might charge me for the lesson."

Domeric let the last note die rather than play over them. For a moment they could hear nothing but the fire and a distant cheer from the lists.

Then Robb stood. "I will ask Martyn. If he gives us leave, you can tell us how you intend to charm a woman who hears a hundred better lies a day."

"Practice," Theon said. "I have spent years listening to yours."

Martyn allowed an hour with Hallis and another guard. Theon accepted, ostentatiously offering Hallis the place of honour. Arthur joined Jon at the fire as they left. Robb turned to promise he would be back in time; Theon drew him onwards.

When Hallis brought them back, the logs had collapsed to coals. Edd Tollett passed the fire carrying his brother's helm. He stopped when Jon called to him, bowed, and waited beyond the circle of stools until Jon beckoned him nearer.

"Did you see the archery?" Jon asked.

"The last few arrows, my lord. Ser Hugh needed his mail cleaned."

"Did the armourer mend that strap?"

Edd turned the helm to show the fresh leather. "Yes, my lord. Hugh complained of the price until the man threatened to put the old one back." He glanced towards Gawen before adding, "My brother asks whether Ser Arthur will be in the yard again tomorrow."

"Lord Jon fights in the squires' melee," Gawen said. "Ser Arthur will be with him."

"I shall tell him, ser." Edd bowed again. As he went, he stooped to pick up Davie's paper bird from beside the fire and set it safely on the vacant stool.

Harry left for Anya's rise, Mychel for Lyn's pavilion and Domeric for the Redforts. Waymar stayed until Robar called from the wall. "You will not find an easy opening tomorrow," he told Jon.

"I shall keep looking."

Waymar grinned and went to his brother. Back beneath black canvas, Jon tried on the helm his leatherworker had been adjusting. The new chin strap fitted closely without pulling against his throat. He set it beside his bed and picked up the blunted field sword.

"Mychel has been watching us," he told Arthur. "He will wait for the others to tire."

"He is well taught."

"So are we." Jon turned the sword in his hand, satisfied with its balance, and laid it down.

Arthur looked towards the grey tents, where Robb was still laughing with Theon. "Keep your shield up when you go to help him."

Jon smiled. Outside, Olyver was still asking after the wine seller, and Tomas and Alasdair were making their last round of the tents. Jon lay down while Arthur lowered the flap. Sleep came slowly, but this time he did not dream of the forest.

 

[aiwonder]

The camp was waking when Aries spread a clean cloth beneath Jon's armour. Beyond the canvas, a horse struck its manger with one impatient hoof. Men called for water, and from the castle came the faint, uneven piping of musicians trying a tune. Bracken had been fed; Patch lay tethered beneath the wagon, gnawing a bone. When Aries lifted the tent flap, morning light caught the helmets laid out along the horse rail. Above them the household's black banner stirred in the sea wind.

Arthur held the black breastplate in place while Aries fastened it over Jon's quilted coat. The page had laid every piece upon the cloth in the order Gawen had taught him, but his fingers kept slipping at the buckle beneath Jon's arm. Arthur steadied the strap without taking it from him.

"There. Draw it through."

Aries obeyed. He glanced up at Jon, then back at the buckle. "Are you frightened, my lord?"

"A little." Jon raised his arm so the boy could reach more easily. "All men feel fear, Aries."

The page stopped working. "But what of brave men?"

"They feel it too. Bravery is being afraid and still doing what you know you must." Jon waited until Aries met his eyes. "You master the fear as best you can. You need not pretend it is not there."

Arthur checked the fastening, his expression thoughtful. "Your lord has the right of it. I have gone into battle afraid."

Aries stared at him. "You, ser?"

"More than once." Arthur spoke without a smile. "It did not keep me from my duty."

For a moment the boy looked from one of them to the other. Then he nodded and reached for the next strap. His hands were steadier now. Jon let him finish before bending his knees and raising both arms. The shoulder plates moved freely, silver-grey mail showing between them. He had practised in the harness until he could forget its weight. This morning he kept noticing it.

He tested the shield grip and made a short cut with the blunted sword, then sent Aries to eat with Gawen. Arthur took up the helm. Outside, Waymar was laughing at something Robb had said.

Jon waited until the page had gone. "Waymar may take the black. I have dreamed of him dying in a wood beyond the Wall."

Arthur put the helm down and drew the canvas flap shut. "What do you mean to do?"

Jon could still recall the broken sword and the blue eyes from the opening of the first book. He had read those pages in another life, scarcely troubled by the death of a proud young knight. Now he knew how Waymar laughed, and how readily he quarrelled with his brothers.

"Offer him a place, if I find work for him on Dragonstone. He has asked me to write." Jon tightened his glove. "I cannot tell whether that saves him. I want him to have another choice."

"Then make the offer." Arthur settled the helm and fastened its new chin strap. When they came out, Robb was attempting to eat bread while Martyn tied his vambrace. Theon sat on the rail with his archery prize, the silver gull, fastened at his throat.

"Your helm makes you look nine," Theon said.

"Come and try it on. We shall see whether it improves you."

Robb laughed around a mouthful of bread. Brynden took the heel from his sword hand and put it into the other so Martyn could finish fastening the vambrace.

Jon took off the helm to eat the heel of bread Arthur offered him, still warm beneath its coating of dripping. Robb was disputing which of them Harry would attack first. Farther down the lane, a herald called the squires to the field; servants carrying cushions and wine jars hurried past the awning, followed by children running to find places near the ropes. Jon swallowed the last bite as Tomas came for them.

* * *
​

The way to the field passed between pavilions bright with morning dew. At the larger tents, squires knelt to buckle greaves while their masters drank or watched the boys going by. Beyond the horse lines a hedge knight was shaving with a knife in the polished back of his shield. He paused with his chin lifted when Arthur passed, then called good fortune to Jon.

The galleries were filling. Royce men held a passage open beneath the principal canopy, where Yohn's guests were taking their seats; along the far rope, townsfolk stood four deep behind the servants and grooms who had come early. A pedlar held up a tray of little painted knights, loudly promising that his black one would win. Jon smiled at that until he saw the long white sword resting against its shoulder. The knight was meant for Arthur.

Aries took Jon's cloak and helm near the entrance. Ysilla was coming down from the castle with a little company of young women, her bronze skirts lifted clear of the mud. She saw him and said something to Myranda, who looked across at once. The girls altered their course.

Theon slid off the rail. His fingers went to the silver gull at his throat.

"Lord Black." Ysilla stopped before Jon. The breeze had loosened a strand of brown hair against her cheek, but she left it there. She was holding a narrow length of bronze silk. "Will you wear my favour today?"

Behind her, Rowena Grafton exchanged a quick glance with Rosamund Arryn. Jon saw them trying not to smile.

"With pleasure, my lady." He offered his arm. Sansa's grey-blue direwolf was already fastened above the elbow. Ysilla laid her ribbon beside it, leaving the little wolf uncovered.

She drew the silk taut against the dark plate, her mouth set in concentration as she tied it. Jon held still until she looked up. He bowed his head to her, and the small smile she had been trying to contain came plainly into her face.

"There. Now you must do well."

"I intend to."

Rowena had unwound a red ribbon from her wrist. "Ysilla cannot have all the luck. Will you carry mine as well?"

"And mine?" Rosamund asked. She had a pale green ribbon folded in her hand. "If there is still room."

Jon laughed and held out his other arm. Rowena moved close to tie hers while Rosamund waited beside her, answering Myranda's murmured remark with a shake of her head. Ysilla stepped back to let them, though her eyes followed Jon's face when he thanked each of them.

"I won a contest yesterday," Theon said. "He has not won anything yet."

"We know you won," Robb told him. "You have scarcely spoken of anything else."

The girls laughed. Theon gave Robb a wounded look. "I am surprised you find it so amusing. They walked straight past you as well."

"Not all of us." Jeyne Waynwood had come round Myranda with a folded strip of silk in her hands. She looked at Robb rather than Theon. "May I?"

Robb's grin faded into a look of startled pleasure. "Of course, my lady."

He offered the wrong arm first, then moved his shield so she could reach the other. Theon's expression brightened considerably. Jon caught his brother's eye over Jeyne's bent head and raised one eyebrow. Robb gave him a look that promised a reckoning.

"You had better win now," Robb said when Jeyne had finished. He nodded at Jon's ribbons. "There will be a great many disappointed ladies if you do not."

"You may help me by yielding quickly."

"You can ask when you have caught me." Robb was smiling again. Beside him, Theon looked from one decorated arm to the other and spread his empty hands.

Myranda caught one of them. "Come. Your contest was yesterday. You may help me find a seat."

Theon bowed over her hand, recovering his dignity with an effort that made Rowena laugh again. They went towards the gallery together. Ysilla lingered long enough to wish Jon good fortune in a quieter voice, then followed her companions up the steps. Halfway up she looked back. Jon was still watching; this time she smiled without lowering her eyes.

"Lord Black. Lord Robb." Strong Sam's call brought them round. Runestone's master-at-arms stood beside the entrance with his horn beneath one arm. "Your swords, if you please."

His men inspected the sixteen entrants' swords, shields and helms. The white boundary had been marked afresh inside the ropes. Beyond it Maester Helliweg waited with his helpers, folded canvas and splints laid ready beside their tent.

Jon raised his arms for the inspection. Sunlight moved across Mott's breastplate, drawing a smoky sheen from the black surface. It seemed almost glassy when he turned, then darkened again. The knights nearest the entrance stopped talking. One leaned across the rail to follow the movement of the overlapping plates.

"There," Grafton said to Yohn from the high rail. "The finish I told you of."

A knight beside him leaned forward. "Enamel?"

"Dragonglass worked into the finish," Jon answered. He raised his shield for the marshal, the overlapping plates moving with his arm. "Tobho Mott made it."

"To the boy's drawings," Grafton added.

The knight looked from the armour to Jon's face. "Yours?"

"Some of them. Master Mott sent the others back with objections."

Grafton chuckled. Jon heard him telling his neighbour that he meant to have a suit made for Gyles. Above their heads, the Royce standard cracked in a gust, and the cloth along the front of the gallery lifted to reveal a row of boots and embroidered hems. Ysilla had found a place near the front with Rowena and Rosamund beside her. Jon raised his arm to them before Arthur settled his helm and fastened the chin strap.

Arthur pressed the shield once to test Jon's grip, then leaned close enough that only Jon could hear. "Make them fight at your pace." He met Jon's eyes through the raised visor and gave him one firm nod. Jon lowered the visor and turned towards the field.

Beside them, Brynden stopped Robb with a hand against his chest. His eyes travelled from the helm to the shield, then down to Robb's feet. He tapped the toe of Robb's forward boot with his own. Robb drew it back a little, settling his weight, and looked up. The Blackfish gave a small, approving nod. His hand closed firmly upon his great-nephew's shoulder; the stern mouth softened, and Robb's answering smile lost its teasing edge.

The herald called their names as they passed through the gate. Robb received a great shout from the Stark men. Then came "Jon Black, Lord of Dragonstone!" and the household answered so loudly that heads turned all along the gallery. Tomas stood beneath the sable banner with Gawen beside him. For a moment Jon saw his men as strangers here must see them: black cloaks among the Vale's bright colours, young faces waiting for him to look their way. He lifted his sword. The answering cheer followed him onto the grass.

Sam raised his horn. "Yield, or cross the boundary, and you are out. Last man standing wins. One blast to begin. Two to hold. Three to stop and clear the ground. No blows at a fallen man. If a helm comes off, give him room."

The boys answered that they understood. Jon and Robb were among the youngest; most of their opponents had longer arms and another two or three years of growth. Robb rolled his broad shoulders beneath his mail. Farther down the line, Mychel Redfort asked for another field sword; the grip of his first shifted under his hand. The weapons man exchanged it and set the faulty blade aside.

At the rail, Martyn wished Robb luck while Tomas sent Olyver and Jorren back to their places. Their argument over the wagers was growing louder. Theon had found a seat beside Myranda; he cupped his hands and called something Jon could not catch through the helm. Robb evidently heard it. He turned and made a rude gesture low behind his shield.

Across the field Robar fastened Waymar's shield, bending close to hear his brother through the bars. Waymar raised his chin impatiently. Bronze Yohn watched from the high rail. Near Mychel stood Domeric Bolton, testing the grip of the shield Alester had borrowed yesterday; three white scars crossed its painted face. Mychel said something that made him laugh. Then Lyn Corbray came to the rail, Lady Forlorn at his hip, and his squire straightened.

Robb touched shield rims with Jon. "Harry will come for us, unless Waymar reaches us first."

"Harry wants his dragon." Jon glanced towards the blue-and-white falcon on Harry's shield. "Let him come. We shall see how eager he is to collect it."

Robb lowered his voice. "Stay close if you can."

"If I can." Jon settled his feet. The first horn sounded.

The horn was swallowed by the first clash. Men shouted from every side of the field, and the nearer voices came strangely hollow through Jon's helm. A sword struck his shield hard enough to drive its rim against his chin. He braced, caught a glimpse of Morvan Melcolm reaching past the attacker's shoulder, and knew what the two older boys intended. They were going to crowd him off the field.

"Left!" Robb struck Morvan's shield before the Old Anchor boy could turn it. Jon yielded a step to the other youth, a Shett, who followed with a broad cut meant to drive him farther. Jon slipped to his sword side. The blade swept past; his own struck beneath the raised arm while the boy was still turning. Shett's heel crossed the white line. The marshal called him out, and the shouting beyond the ropes rose sharply.

Morvan pressed Robb towards the boundary. Robb caught the next cut on his shield, planted his feet and drove forward. The older boy tried to brace against him, but Robb kept coming. Morvan crossed the line backwards and nearly sat upon the rope. Robb caught his elbow before he fell.

"I should have brought the horse," Morvan said, shaking his head. Theon cheered from the rail.

Robb came back towards Jon grinning through the bars of his helm. They met near the centre as the fighting closed around them. A blade glanced from Robb's shield; Jon caught the arm behind it with a short, hard cut. The attacker fell back into another boy, and Robb drove them apart with his shoulder. They had done this upon wet grass at home, with Martyn calling corrections and Arthur waiting to punish the smallest opening. Here every blow brought a roar from beyond the ropes.

Harry found them there. He came behind a Waynwood boy and struck sharply at Robb's shield, drawing him away. Jon kept the Waynwood occupied. The older youth was strong, but each time he raised his sword Jon was already moving. He struck the exposed wrist, caught the boy's shield with his own and drove him across the boundary.

A blade scraped Jon's right shoulder plate as he turned back. He moved with the blow, heard steel grate against steel beside his ear, and found the Hunter youth pressing after it. The boy tried to use his greater reach. Jon stepped close enough to spoil the next cut, struck his shield aside and made him retreat. A Coldwater boy came between them before he could follow.

A pale scrape marked the black finish. The steel beneath had held. Jon had a moment to be grateful to Mott before the Coldwater came at him.

Across the field, Mychel entered each fight when a shield turned, struck once and went away before the answer. Artys Elesham followed him so intently that he crossed the line without Mychel needing to push him. The heir to the Paps looked down at his boot, bowed to the marshal and left with his face red beneath the helm.

Waymar drove straight at his opponents, forcing them to meet him. A Belmore boy rushed in shouting; Waymar slipped aside, hooked the shield and put him on both knees. He waited for the boy to yield, hauled him up and turned into the next blow.

Jon sent the Coldwater backwards with two quick strokes. Somewhere beyond his left shoulder Harry called, "Hold still, Stark!"

"Give me a reason!" Robb answered. Steel rang against a shield, followed by a shout of laughter from the rail. Then three horn blasts tore across the field.

Jon lowered his sword on the second. Around him half the boys still moved.

"Stop!" Strong Sam roared. Edd's cousin Andrew Tollett had gone down in the thickest knot. His helm had turned until the eye slit faced his shoulder. One boy tripped over him. Another stepped backwards, iron heel lifting above the hidden neck.

"Behind you!" Jon shouted. The boy heard only a voice. Waymar saw the foot.

He caught the retreating fighter by the belt and flung him aside. The effort pulled Waymar down as well. His face struck the inside of his helm when he hit the ground; a late sword blow caught his shoulder. He covered his head, rolled free and came up without a weapon, spitting blood through the bars.

"Three horns!" he screamed. "Are you deaf? Stop!" The field obeyed him before it obeyed the gallery.

Strong Sam and two marshals drove everyone back. Helliweg cut Andrew's chin strap and lifted the helm without turning the head. The boy's uncle, a stout Tollett knight from the main household at the Grey Glen, fought the rope until Sam barred him with one arm. "Let me through. He is my sister's son."

"Wait." Sam held him back while Helliweg bent over the boy. Silence spread from the rope to the high seats. Somewhere beyond the tents a horse stamped twice.

Then the boy coughed. His uncle's knees nearly failed. The cough came wet. Helliweg turned Andrew upon his side and cleared blood and a broken tooth from his mouth.

"Canvas," he ordered. "Four corners. You, lad. Take that one."

Edd had come through the gate behind the helpers. He knelt where Helliweg pointed and closed both hands on the canvas. His face had gone pale, but he lifted steadily when the maester gave the word and went with them towards the tent.

Strong Sam walked among the remaining entrants. "Who swung after the third horn?"

A Templeton squire looked at the ground. Sam took his sword and sent him out. Then he waited until every remaining boy was looking at him.

"When the horn sounds, you stop. All of you."

They nodded. Marshals carried away the loose weapons and broken shield pieces before Sam allowed anyone to take his place. Harry picked up Waymar's fallen sword and brought it to him hilt-first. "Here."

Waymar took it and tried his shield arm. He winced, raised it again, and nodded when Sam questioned him. Harry glanced towards the gate, where Andrew's uncle was following the canvas, then went back to his place.

When Sam sounded the horn again, the boys moved cautiously. Harry gave ground before Robb, offering him a gap beneath his shield. Robb checked his advance. The blow Harry had meant to catch him with fell short, and Robb's answer sent him stumbling back. Brynden struck the rail once in approval.

Mychel came for Jon while his head was turned. Jon heard the rush of boots, caught the sword on his shield and answered with a cut that drove the Redfort squire back upon his heels. Mychel retreated between two other fighters. The Hunter boy took his place.

The long sword came down at Jon's head. He turned it aside and struck the boy's breast before the blade could rise again. The Hunter staggered. Jon followed, his point level with the opening beneath the helm. "Yield." The boy did. Jon lowered the sword and let him pass.

The Coldwater was waiting when Jon turned. Jon beat his sword aside and closed before he could bring it back, driving him over the white line with a crash of shields. Nearby, the squire with the split shield yielded to Waymar. Six remained, spread across the churned grass.

Mychel tried to draw Domeric forward with a high feint. The Bolton boy stayed where he was. When Mychel changed his stroke, Domeric was ready: he turned the blade, stepped in and struck the breast beneath it. Mychel staggered. Before he could recover, Domeric's point was waiting beneath his chin.

"I yield." Mychel lowered his sword, then gave Domeric a rueful clap upon the shoulder. As he left the field, Jon saw Lyn take his hand from Lady Forlorn's pommel. He said nothing to his squire.

Harry came for Jon with his shield high. He was breathing hard, but his sword hand was steady. "Still have my dragon?"

"Come and take it." Jon settled his shield. Beyond Harry's shoulder, Robb and Domeric were closing upon one another.

Jon gave him room to begin. Harry struck at his head, recovered and came again, the falcon upon his shield rising with the blow. Jon met the first cut and stepped away from the second. Harry followed more quickly, determined not to let him escape.

The third stroke was the one Jon wanted. He moved as Harry committed to it. The blade passed his shoulder, and Jon's sword came down upon the arm extended after it. Harry's grip opened. His sword struck the turf before he could recover, and Jon was beside him with his point beneath the edge of the falcon shield.

Harry stared at the empty hand, then at Jon. A flush showed through the bars of his helm. "I yield."

Jon stepped away. Harry retrieved his sword and ducked beneath the rope. Tomas raised his fist, and the household answered with a roar, sword hilts hammering against shields. Aries was at the rail beside Gawen, jumping to see over the men in front. "Lord Jon!" His high voice broke through the deeper shouting. "Come on, Lord Jon!"

Robb and Domeric's swords struck together a few paces away. Domeric turned the heavier stroke and tried to slip past Robb's shield. Robb moved with him. Their shoulders met; for a moment they strained together, boots tearing the turf. Then Robb straightened his legs and drove him back. Domeric tried to break clear, but Robb's next cut knocked his blade wide. The blunted point stopped against the Bolton boy's breast.

"Yield," Robb said, breathing hard.

"I yield." Domeric let his shield fall. "No horse to blame this time."

"You blamed the saddle."

"It was a poor saddle." Domeric's laugh came faintly through his helm. He tapped Robb's shoulder with his fist and went towards Lord Redfort, who was waiting at the rope. The old lord clasped the back of his neck as he ducked through.

Waymar was coming towards Jon. Above the bars of his helm his grey eyes were fixed and bright. He had his shield high again, and Jon could see the fresh blood upon his lower lip.

"You promised me a fight," Waymar said.

"I thought you promised me one."

The first stroke came before Jon had finished answering. Waymar's blade rang against the top of his shield; the second swept low, fast enough to make Jon spring back. The Royce men cheered. Waymar followed with a thrust, trying to catch him before he had found his footing. Jon turned it past his hip and struck the exposed ribs as he went by.

Waymar wheeled after him. His answering cut swept through the space Jon had left. Jon was already close, pressing Waymar's sword arm outwards with his shield while his own blade came across the unguarded breast. Waymar stumbled back a step. Jon followed, stopping his point at the hollow beneath the helm before the shield could come between them.

For a heartbeat Waymar stood rigid. Then his shoulders sank. "I yield."

Jon drew back. Waymar caught his forearm briefly, hard enough for Jon to feel it through the glove, and went to his brothers. Robar held the rope for him. Along the gallery people were rising from their seats, looking from Jon to the far side of the field.

Robb stood alone, his sword lowered. Mud streaked the direwolf upon his shield. Beneath his visor Jon could see the breadth of his grin.

"Well," Robb said. "There you are."

"I have been here all morning."

Two blasts of Sam's horn held them apart. A marshal hurried in to collect the split shield and a sword left near the boundary. The noise beyond the ropes kept swelling. Men at the wine stalls turned to ask what had happened; someone shouted the answer, and they came running back with their cups.

"Both Ned Stark's sons," Yohn said. He had risen at the high rail, one great hand spread upon the wood. "He should have come south to see this."

Jory Cassel heard him. He lifted his fist, and "Winterfell!" rang out from the grey cloaks. Jon's household took it up beneath their black banner. The two standards strained in the same wind above them while the herald called Robb's name and then his own. Jon looked across the open ground at his brother. They had been boys with wooden swords in the yard beneath the broken tower. Now the lords of the Vale stood to watch them decide a tourney.

Robb raised his sword in salute. Jon answered. At the gallery rail, Jeyne Waynwood was calling something to Robb; beside her Ysilla had clasped her hands so tightly that the knuckles showed white. Jon caught one glimpse of Arthur, still beside the gate, before he faced his brother again.

"You could yield now," Robb said. "Spare your fine armour."

"And let you tell Bran?"

"I would tell everyone."

The horn sounded. Robb came in hard.

His first stroke boomed against Jon's shield. The second forced Jon a pace back, and Robb was there with his shoulder before the ringing had left his ears. Jon felt the greater weight behind it. He gave ground, turned his shield to let Robb slide past and went for the opening beneath the sword arm.

Robb checked himself. His feet stayed beneath him, the short steps Brynden had drilled into him holding his balance. His shield swept Jon's point away. The answering cut skimmed the black breastplate and drew a shout from the gallery.

"I remember that one," Robb said.

"So you should. I have shown you often enough."

Robb laughed and came again. Jon moved before the blow fell. He caught it at an angle, letting the heavier blade run past his shield, and struck Robb high upon the arm. Mail took the cut. Robb swung back fiercely, but Jon had gone beyond its reach. Another step, a flash of the black shield, and Jon's sword cracked against his brother's thigh.

Robb faced him again with a grunt. He had stopped smiling. Jon knew that look from a hundred mornings at Winterfell: the blue eyes narrowed, the jaw set beneath the helm, all his brother's attention upon him. Robb wanted this. He would hate being given any part of it.

The next rush carried them across the middle of the field. Robb kept his shield close, cutting only when Jon came within reach. Jon made him turn, showing him an opening at the shoulder, closing it as the sword came down. The blow shook Jon's forearm even through the shield. He answered low, then high, too quickly for Robb to strike between. Steel clattered upon wood. A strip of paint flew from the direwolf's muzzle.

"Stay there!" Robb snapped as Jon slipped away again.

"Harry asked first."

Robb's breath broke into a laugh. He shook his head once and advanced. Along the rope Martyn was leaning forward, his mouth moving with advice Jon could not hear. Beyond him, Aries shouted until his voice cracked. The sound followed Jon as he circled, loud on one side of the helm, muffled when he turned.

Robb tried to pen him against the boundary. He moved across Jon's path instead of following, using his reach to close the easy way out. Jon let him think he had it. Two steps brought Jon near the white line; a third would take him out. Robb drove forward behind the direwolf, sword raised for the cut that would leave him nowhere to go.

Jon went towards him.

Their shields met with a crack. Robb bore down, stronger in the crush, and Jon let his own shield give. As Robb's weight came forward, Jon stepped round his sword side. His blade beat the raised weapon outwards; his shoulder struck beneath Robb's arm. Robb tried to turn, but his weight still carried him forward. Jon's shove took him sideways. He fell heavily upon his shield, his sword skidding from his hand.

Jon stopped over him with his point held clear. The field seemed to wait.

Robb looked at the sword, then up at his brother. "I yield."

The horn sounded. Jon lowered his blade, and the cheering broke over them. The gallery was on its feet. Through the bars he caught Ysilla clapping with her hands held high, Rowena beside her, a flutter of pale sleeves along the rail. Theon's whistle pierced the din. Beneath the black banner, Aries had both fists in the air and was still yelling Jon's name, his face alight.

Jon offered his hand. Robb pulled his left arm from beneath the shield with a sharp breath. He flexed the fingers, winced, then took Jon's hand with his right and hauled himself up.

"Your hand?" Jon asked at once.

"Under the shield." Robb tried the fingers again, his smile tightening. "I should have landed on you."

"You would have had to catch me."

Robb gave a breathless laugh and put his sound arm round Jon's shoulders. They stood together while the Stark men hammered upon the rail. Jon could feel his brother's weight against him, warm through the mail and quilted coats. He raised his sword to the grey cloaks as well as the black. The shout that answered them seemed to fill the field.

Martyn met them at the rope. "I have been shouting myself hoarse over you two for years. At last someone joins me." His weathered face was bright with pride. He lifted Robb's helm away and squeezed his good shoulder before noticing the way he held the other hand. The smile faded a little. "Let me see."

Arthur loosened Jon's shield strap and took the helm from his head. Cold air touched Jon's wet face. The crowd seemed suddenly twice as loud.

"Very well done." Pride showed plainly in Arthur's face. He gripped the back of Jon's neck for a moment, smiling. Jon found himself smiling back before he could answer.

Beyond the knight's shoulder, Rylas was laughing with his head thrown back. Gawen had caught Aries by the coat to keep him from climbing through the rope. Jon raised a hand, and their noise redoubled. It was impossible to maintain a lord's gravity before faces like those.

Brynden had come to Martyn's side. He listened to Robb's account while Martyn eased off the glove, exposing two swelling fingers. "You kept your feet under you," the Blackfish said. There was warmth in his voice. "Until the last." His gaze passed over Jon, unreadable, then returned to the injured hand.

Yohn called Jon forward. The herald waited beneath the gallery with the prize laid across a cushion, its silver hilt bright against dark cloth. Jon stripped off his gauntlet to receive it.

"To Jon Black, Lord of Dragonstone, winner of the squires' melee!" The herald lifted his voice over the last words, but the household nearly drowned him out.

Yohn put the sword into Jon's hand and gripped his shoulder. Up close, the old lord's weathered face had creased into a broad smile. "Tell your father that both his sons did him honour here. I shall tell him myself when I next have the chance."

Jon turned towards Robb. His brother had heard; his face was flushed beneath the damp red-brown hair, and for a moment he seemed to have forgotten the hand Martyn held. Jon wished Eddard could see him. He raised the prize, and Robb lifted his sound fist beside the direwolf as the cheering began again.

* * *
​

Helliweg's tent smelled of vinegar, blood and wet wool. Hanging blankets divided it into narrow rooms. A boy groaned behind one while a helper washed a cut. Andrew Tollett was awake. He had vomited twice and kept asking who had won. His uncle held the basin and wiped his mouth whenever he tried to speak. Edd stood beside them with a cup of water, waiting until the maester said Andrew could drink.

He straightened when Jon entered. "My lord."

"Stay with him." Jon looked past the hanging blanket at Andrew's battered face. "Has he asked to ride again yet?"

"Twice, my lord. His uncle has been answering that part." Edd lifted the cup when Helliweg beckoned him closer, one hand steadying his cousin's wrist while he drank.

Waymar sat on a chest nearby. A knot darkened his shoulder where the late blow landed, and his lip was swollen. With his collar open and one slender arm held close, he looked younger than he had beneath the bronze-edged coat. When Andrew's uncle looked towards him, he stood.

"I should have stopped sooner."

"You caught him before the foot came down." The man gripped Waymar's forearm. His hand shook once before he released him.

Robb's fingers were bruised but whole. Helliweg bound two together and told him to rest the hand for three days. Robb began to object, saw Brynden watching and took the water Theon offered him instead. The Blackfish asked the maester to repeat the care his niece's son would need, then drew Robb into the light to inspect the binding.

Theon glanced at the blanket hiding Andrew. "I thought he was dead."

"So did I," Robb said.

Arthur took Jon's helm and checked the chin strap where he had fastened it that morning. Helliweg made Jon raise both arms, asked whether anything hurt, and sent him away with instructions to wash and eat. Waymar waited beyond the hanging blanket.

"I did say you would not find an easy opening," Waymar said. His swollen lip pulled awkwardly when he smiled. "I had hoped to be right."

"You nearly caught me with the low cut." Jon rested the prize against the chest. "And I owe you thanks for Andrew."

Waymar glanced towards the blanket. "I saw him fall."

"And went in after him." Jon waited until Waymar looked back. "Would you come to Dragonstone? After your spurs?"

Waymar straightened. "To serve you?" The smile faded as he considered it.

"I need men who keep their heads when a field breaks apart. Think about it. I shall write when I have seen the island."

"I would like to see it." Waymar rubbed a thumb along the bronze edge of his coat. "But I have not decided where I shall go after my spurs. I have thought of court." He met Jon's eyes again. "I cannot promise you more than a visit."

"A visit would be welcome."

"Then write." His smile returned, pulling at the swollen lip. "I still want to hear about the ships."

Jon clasped his offered forearm. A son of Runestone could expect a welcome in halls where other young knights waited at the door. Waymar liked him; he was still weighing what service to Lord Black would mean. Jon let the matter rest when Robar called from outside, and Waymar went to join his brother.

Harry waited beyond the tent flap with his shield against his leg. He asked after Andrew, and his shoulders eased when Jon told him the boy was awake and talking. Then he reached into his purse and brought out a gold dragon.

"Your winnings." He held it out with his chin raised. "I do pay my wagers."

"I never said otherwise." Jon took the coin. "Your wrist?"

"It bends." Harry demonstrated, then stopped with a grimace. "I thought I had you with the last cut."

"I was counting upon that."

Harry gave a reluctant laugh. Theon had come out behind Jon and watched the coin disappear into his purse.

"An expensive morning," he said.

"Then lend him a stag next time," Jon answered. "He will blame you when he loses it."

"I shall choose a better wager next time," Harry said. When Robb came through the flap, he asked about his hand. Domeric caught up with them beside the horse lines, carrying his scarred shield beneath one arm.

"Your father will enjoy hearing that," he told Robb. "The last two on the field, and both from Winterfell."

"Tell him yourself when you come north." Robb touched his good hand to Domeric's shoulder. "I want another race."

"With a saddle you approve of," Jon said.

Domeric looked at him, then laughed. He walked with them towards the pavilions while the marshals began taking down the melee ropes.

Before the evening meal, Jon wrote home. His black plate stood beside the washbasin, with a fresh scrape across one shoulder. The prize sword lay beside his nameday blade on the trestle. Robb occupied the second chair with his injured hand resting on a folded cloak. He had begun his letter to Catelyn three times.

"Tell her they are bruised," Jon said. "Martyn will."

"I am telling her." Robb covered the page with his sound hand. Theon lay across the bed, polishing his silver gull with a strip from Robb's old shirt.

"Begin with Andrew Tollett living," he said. "If you tell them about the fall first, they will think him dead before they reach the end."

Jon put Andrew's survival at the top of his own page, then described Waymar's rescue. He wrote that Robb had beaten Domeric, and that only the two of them had remained when Sam cleared the ground for the last fight. He could still hear the men calling Winterfell. For Arya he added: I struck one for you, though not upon the head. Robb says I should have let him hit me more often.

For Bran he drew Runestone's east gate and added what Alester Arryn had told him of receiving his first real sword at thirteen, taken from his uncle's armoury and his own responsibility to keep clean. He included Robar Royce's victory in the men's melee and Theon's shooting in the sea wind.

He told Sansa he had worn her direwolf, and that it had survived with only a muddy corner. Beside the washbasin, Aries had laid the other favours upon a clean cloth. Robb caught Jon looking at them and began to grin. Jon dipped his pen again. His sister would hear about the ribbons soon enough from Theon; he would leave him something to tell. Robb would take home Ysilla's bronze bead and ribbons from the stalls, with Arya's horse, Bran's little boat and Rickon's rattle.

Robb read the sentence about Sansa's direwolf. "You will never hear the end of that."

Jon smiled. "She asked me to tell her."

He drew Eddard's page closer. Most of what he had written concerned the tournament and the men he had met. At the bottom he added: I wish you had been here.

Arthur stood at the door. Jon turned the page towards him, and the knight read it without touching it.

"Send it," he said.

Beside them Robb started again, this time admitting at once that his fingers were bruised.

* * *
​

That night Gawen's shield dried beneath the black awning. Tomas had scraped away the last weathered blue line beneath the boss; fresh black paint covered the wood from rim to rim. Gawen turned it towards the brazier, studying it. His patched mail hung nearby, ready for the morning.

Pate Shett sat on an upturned grain measure with Runestone beer in his hand. Kennet had found the only stool. Strong Sam moved the shield a little farther from the heat before the paint could blister.

"It suits you," Pate said.

Gawen looked up, surprised. Sam rested a hand briefly on his shoulder.

Pate rose. "Should Lord Black ever release you, there is work worth asking after here. Mooncrest needs a master-at-arms whose knees do not sound like kindling, and Ser Lymond can scarcely bend his."

"He has only just sworn," Kennet said.

"I know. I am not asking him to leave." Pate looked at Gawen. "I wanted you to know."

Gawen set the shield down beside Tomas. "Thank you. I am staying with them."

Pate nodded and gripped his wrist. He and Kennet left soon afterwards. Sam lingered to finish his beer, then told Gawen to get some sleep.

"I never slept before my first joust," Gawen said.

"Then try to do better before this one." The old man cuffed him gently and went out.

By morning the wind had lifted the mist from the lists. Bright horsecloths moved among the tents, and the bells upon one charger's bridle rang whenever he tossed his head. A groom led him past a hedge knight's shaggy gelding, whose owner was covering a split in his saddle with a strip of rawhide. Farther up the slope, pages struggled to lift a helmet crested with painted wings. Jon could smell hot iron from the armourers' shelters beneath the salt air.

Trumpeters were taking their places beside the gallery. The lords had come in their richest cloaks, the women in silk beneath fur-lined mantles; below them, men who had slept under carts pressed against the barriers to see the same field. When a gust caught the standards, their shadows passed over the long dividing rail and the fresh sand spread where yesterday's ground had turned to mud.

Yohn had left the jousting to his sons. He sat among his guests beneath the Royce canopy, a bronze clasp fastening his dark coat, and beckoned the herald closer whenever a name was lost beneath the noise. Below him, Andar waited for his lance. The heir to Runestone looked up once; his father raised his cup.

Arthur selected three sound lances while Gawen braided his mare's mane and checked her feet. Jon held her as he mounted. "Good fortune, Gawen." The knight nodded through the open visor, too intent upon the field to find an answer. He walked the mare far enough into the lane to let her see the bright galleries and flapping cloth, then waited while the first pairs rode.

There was talk of Arthur's appointed bout wherever Jon went. Men laying wagers on the joust asked whether Corbray would still want his meeting if he fell. Others had come chiefly to see Dawn drawn. Jon found Arthur looking past them towards Gawen at the end of the lists.

Hugh Tollett won his opening course against a Hersy knight. Edd ran to meet him with the next lance, smiling before he remembered to keep his eyes on the horse. Hugh took the shaft and said something through his visor. The smile vanished, and Edd went back to collect the broken ash.

Ser Andar Royce met a Coldwater knight in the next course. Their first lances broke against the shields. On the second pass Andar struck high and square, lifting his opponent backwards over the saddle. The knight landed heavily, then rolled onto his knees and waved away the men running towards him. Yohn applauded with his guests while Andar rode back to see that the man was sound.

Robar Royce met Ser Hervey Breakstone in another opening course. Hervey saluted the gallery with his lance upright, the red hammer bright upon his shield. He broke wood on the first pass and missed on the second. Robar broke both. On the third Hervey struck first, but his point glanced off the bronze shield; Robar's lance burst squarely against the hammer.

When the marshals gave Robar the course, Hervey sat motionless until his groom touched the bridle. He removed his helm. His face had gone dark, and Jon saw the protest form upon his lips. Then he shut his mouth, rode across and offered Robar his hand. The words were too low to carry, but the courtesy was exact.

"He will dispute it over supper," Alester murmured beside Jon.

Arthur watched the young heir turn his horse. "He gave Robar the courtesy he was due."

The herald called Gawen's name and service, his voice carrying down the lists. "Ser Gawen, sworn to Lord Black of Dragonstone!" Jon brought him the plain black shield. The knight settled his arm into the straps and looked once towards the household crowded at the rail. Then his visor came down.

Donnel Waynwood waited on a grey courser at the other end, the painted wheel upon his shield facing Gawen's black. The trumpet sounded. Jon heard the mare gathering speed before the gallery began to shout.

The two lances broke almost together. Donnel's struck high, splinters scattering across Gawen's helm. Gawen found the centre of the wheel; the blow rocked Donnel backwards, but he rode through it. At the far end the mare slowed with her tail streaming and Gawen still firmly in the saddle. Jon released a breath he had scarcely noticed holding.

On the second pass both points slid off the shield rims. The third brought them together nearer Jon's end of the lists. He saw Donnel's lance dipping too soon, saw Gawen hold his own steady above the mare's neck. The crash shook loose a shower of pale wood.

Gawen pitched backwards. His left foot slipped in the stirrup, and the gallery gave a great, wavering cry. He drove the heel down, let the mare carry him another stride and hauled himself upright. Across the rail Donnel was still riding, but Gawen's lance had broken squarely while his opponent's remained whole. The marshals gave Gawen the course.

House Black struck sword hilts against shields. Pate waved his cap from the southern rail. Kennet held up three fingers. Strong Sam shoved between them and shouted Gawen's name. Jon raised one hand. Gawen bowed to him before he looked anywhere else.

A Waynwood page came to collect the broken shaft from Donnel's shield. Jon watched Gawen walk his mare back, turning her away from the splintered wood beneath the barrier.

Ser Symond Templeton met Hugh Tollett in the next round. The grey mare came straight and fast, Hugh's lance held steady above her neck. Both men broke wood on their first two passes. On the third, Hugh's point slid off Symond's shield. The Templeton's lance struck beneath the upper rim of Hugh's and drove him backwards. Hugh clung to the saddle, one foot free of its stirrup, while his mare veered towards the rail. He dropped his lance, gathered the reins and brought her clear before she struck it. The judges gave the course to Templeton.

"He kept his seat," Jon said. Gawen had brought his mare alongside the rail to wait for his next opponent.

"And saved the mare. Many men would have hauled her straight into the barrier."

Hugh rode out beneath a scattering of applause. Edd reached for the bridle. His brother shook his head and stayed mounted until they had passed beyond the gallery. When he finally let Edd take the mare, he stood staring at the broken edge of his shield. There would be no purse from this tourney.

Robar Royce came to meet Gawen in silvered steel edged with bronze, his stallion's cloth embroidered with the black studs of Runestone. A shout ran along the gallery as the host's son saluted his father. Gawen raised his lance in answer. His brown mare looked small beside the stallion, her freshly braided mane bare of ribbons, the black shield showing the pale scars Donnel had left.

Both lances broke at their first meeting. Robar rode so close that his horse struck the dividing rail with a shoulder. Jon heard the crack through the cheering. The mare flinched and came away high-headed, foam bright at the bit.

Gawen dismounted. Murmurs moved through the gallery, but he ignored them and ran both hands down the mare's left shoulder. A grey Runestone groom held her head and watched the nostrils. "She seems sound, ser. Took a fright when the stallion struck the rail."

"So did I." Gawen stroked foam from the mare's bit.

The groom smiled and returned the rein once her breathing had steadied.

Arthur came to the rail. "He is riding close to the rail. Keep the mare straight if he strikes it again."

On the second pass Gawen held the mare a little farther from the barrier, keeping her straight despite the stallion bearing down upon her. His lance broke across Robar's bronze shield rim. Robar's point slid past the black shield.

Robar called for another lance. On the third pass he changed his line and struck the centre. Gawen tried to turn the shield, but the blow arrived first. His shield flew wide, and the blow lifted him from the saddle.

Gawen struck the ground shoulder first and rolled. A hoof came down beside his helm, close enough to fling mud across the visor. Jon lurched towards the barrier. The brown mare ran six strides before Gage caught her; Arthur was already crossing the rail when Tomas barred Jon's way with one arm.

Helliweg hurried through the opening with his helpers. Arthur had reached Gawen and was telling him to lie still. Jon stayed at the rail, his hand clenched so tightly that the nails hurt.

Gawen rolled onto one knee. Arthur steadied him until Helliweg had examined his shoulder, then helped him across to the tent. No rib was broken, but the maester cut the leather points rather than drag mail over the swelling. Gawen went grey as the rings came free.

"Those were my best laces," he muttered.

"I shall have someone bring you more." Helliweg lifted the arm carefully and began to bind it.

Gage came in to say the mare was sound. Gawen relaxed against the chest at once. Pate brought his dented helm, and Kennet followed with a cup of watered wine. Strong Sam stayed at the door until the maester told him the shoulder would mend.

Aries brought the clean shirt from Gawen's chest. He stopped when he saw the discarded mail and the knight's white face. His hands tightened upon the folded cloth. Jon had seen that frightened stillness after the wildling attack. Gawen held out his sound hand.

"The shirt, lad. Not a shroud."

Aries came nearer. "Wylla said not to let you do that again."

"Did she? She should have told Robar."

The boy managed a little laugh. He left the shirt where the maester could reach it and sat outside with the knight's gloves, rising when he saw Jon approach.

Jon entered when Helliweg had finished the binding. Gawen tried to square his shoulders.

"Stay as you are." Jon crouched beside the chest. For a moment he had no question that did not sound foolish. He looked at the sling instead. "Can he ride tomorrow, Maester?"

Helliweg tightened the sling. "At a walk. The left arm lifts nothing, not even a saddle he claims is light."

"Then he rides at a walk. Tomas, see to his tack until the arm is sound."

Gawen thanked him. Robar was waiting outside when they left the tent. He clasped Gawen's good arm and said he would welcome another course when he was fit.

"I shall try to stay in the saddle next time," Gawen said.

Men called encouragement as Gawen crossed towards the black awning. He tried to acknowledge them and winced at the pull upon his shoulder. Olyver ran ahead to find a chair. Jon stayed beside his household captain until he was seated.

Hugh Tollett stood at the edge of the awning, his battered shield against one leg. He had come looking towards Arthur, but his eyes followed Jon as he asked Gawen whether the sling was pulling at his neck. Gawen told him it was well enough. Jon checked with the maester's helper before letting the matter rest.

The jousts continued while Gawen rested beneath the awning. Trumpets called riders back to the lists; now and then a roar drew every face towards the field. Robar lost his next course to Lyn Corbray. Andar lasted longer, unhorsing Ser Symond Templeton after three hard passes. Boys went about gathering broken lances in armfuls. Horses stood steaming beneath blankets where their riders had left them, and the armourers' hammers worked without ceasing.

At last the herald called the final pair. The noise changed as men hurried back from the wine stalls and the higher benches emptied towards the front. Ser Andar Royce would meet Lyn Corbray.

Andar's helm bore a fresh dent above the brow, and splinters clung to the bronze rim of his shield. He waited while his squire tightened a strap. Across the field, Lyn entered in white steel worked with black ravens. Mychel took Lady Forlorn while a groom brought the first lance. Jon remembered Andar standing beside his father when Corbray had spoken of lords past their prime. The heir to Runestone watched Lyn take his place, then lowered his visor.

At the first horn Lyn's courser sprang forward so quickly that Mychel had to leap back from the pounding hooves. Andar came from the other end with his shield high. Jon heard the horses before the lances met. Lyn's ash burst squarely against the bronze rim; Andar rocked backwards, caught himself and rode through with most of his own lance still whole.

The Corbray men cheered. Mychel held out a fresh lance. Andar walked his horse back to the end of the lists, shaking feeling into the fingers of his shield hand. Above him, Yohn sat forward in his chair. He did not call out.

Both men shattered lances on the second course. A fragment struck the front of the gallery and brought a cry from the women nearest it. The riders were already past. Andar settled his dancing horse with a hand against its neck. At the other end Lyn cast away his broken shaft without looking at it and held out his hand for another.

The trumpets called them back. Jon leaned forward beside Robb. Andar had begun turning his shield sharply at the moment of impact, trying to shed the point. Lyn waited at the far end with his lance upright. Then he lowered it, and the courser sprang forward.

They came together beneath the galleries. Hooves struck the sand in heavy, uneven thunder. Andar's point glanced from the raven shield; Lyn's followed the turn of the bronze rim and struck squarely beneath it. Wood burst across Andar's breast. He rose from the saddle, one boot catching in the stirrup before it tore free.

Jon saw the sole of that boot against the sky. Then Andar hit the ground upon his back and rolled. Yohn was on his feet. Mychel cheered from the far end, but the Royce men watched their lord's eldest son struggle onto one knee.

Andar waved his squire aside and stood. He pulled off his helm, breathing hard, and bowed towards the winner. The applause came raggedly at first, then swelled as Lyn wheeled beneath the Corbray banner with his broken lance raised. He had beaten both of Yohn's elder sons today. Robar clapped from the gallery, his mouth set, while his father sent Helliweg down to the field.

Lyn rode beneath the high seats and saluted the host. Yohn returned it. His gaze went back to Andar as the maester reached him. The younger man shook his head at a question, tried his shoulder, then let Helliweg lead him beyond the rope.

At the gate Lyn dismounted into Mychel's waiting hands. He was smiling when he took back Lady Forlorn. Jon saw him look towards Arthur before turning down the lane between the tents.

Above them, Yohn spoke to the herald. The man waited for a lull, then called out that Ser Arthur and Ser Lyn would meet upon the field after breakfast on the morrow. Those who wished to watch should delay their departures.

Lyn stopped and looked back. He raised one hand to the gallery, and the Corbray men cheered him again. Arthur watched him go, then asked Sam to have the ground cleared of broken lances. Along the ropes, men were already arguing over what they had seen and what they would see tomorrow.

Jon went back to the black awning. Hugh Tollett had drawn a stool beside Gawen; Edd stood a little behind his brother with the repaired helm beneath his arm. Gage was helping Olyver put away the spare lances. The men had made room around their captain without being told.

"You seem well settled," Hugh said to Gawen.

"I am."

"I meant the service." Hugh glanced towards the men, then lowered his voice. "Does Lord Black have places for another knight?"

Gawen rested his good forearm on his knee. "He needs men who can teach riding. He saw your course against Templeton."

Hugh's mouth tightened. "A pity I did not give him a better end to it."

"You brought the mare clear when she could have broken a leg." Gawen saw Jon approaching and began to rise.

"Sit," Jon told him. He took a stool from beside the awning pole and turned it towards Hugh. "Could you teach a boy to recover as you did?"

The knight put a hand on his dented shield. "I have taught men on my father's land. Riding, spear and lance. They had poorer horses than yours."

"How many?"

"Six at a time. I cannot promise they would win you a tourney." He stopped, hearing how it sounded, and looked directly at Jon. "They learned to keep their seats."

"Come to Dragonstone and show Gawen how you teach. If he is satisfied, there will be wages and a place in my household for you. You would answer to him."

Hugh looked at Gawen's sling, then at the plain black shield resting beside the chair. For a moment Jon thought pride would make him refuse. Pate Shett called to Gawen from the horse line and received an easy answer; Hugh waited until the interruption had passed.

"What wages, my lord?"

Jon named the wages Gawen had received for teaching before taking the captaincy, with food, lodging and a horse kept at House Black's expense. Hugh looked up sharply at the sum. He leaned forward while Jon finished, his thumb stilled against the split in his shield.

"I should like that very much, my lord." Hugh's answer came quickly. He glanced at Edd, who was staring at him with a hopeful expression. "I must speak to my father first. He expected me home after the lists. It need not keep us long."

"Then speak to him, and write to me before you set out. I will pay for your passage to be tried."

Hugh bowed his head. "As soon as I have spoken to him, my lord."

Edd had shifted the helm to his other arm. Jon looked up at him. "You may come too, if that is your wish."

The boy's eyes widened. "With my brother, my lord?"

"If you choose. Can you read?"

"Yes, my lord. And reckon." He glanced at Hugh. "I keep what we spend on the road."

"With an account of every copper I ought not to have spent," Hugh said. His tone still held its old impatience, though he was smiling now.

"Then I can find you work as well," Jon told Edd. "There is a great deal to keep in order on the island."

Edd looked from Jon to Gawen, as though expecting someone to explain the jest. "I should like to come, my lord."

"Put his name in your letter, Ser Hugh."

The knight agreed. Edd stepped forward to help his brother gather the shield and lances. When Hugh turned away, the boy looked back and gave Jon a shy, quick smile. It changed his face enough that Jon almost failed to recognise him again.

Gawen watched them go. "You mean to take both?"

"I mean to give them both a chance. Tell me plainly how Hugh does when you try him." Jon glanced at Gawen's shoulder. "When you are fit. We have time to wait for their letter."

Jon looked past him towards the smaller tents, where men were already bundling their belongings for the road. "Speak to the hedge knights as well. Corentin of Wickenden, and the younger man who travels with him."

"Mael of the Ford." Gawen shifted his arm in the sling. "I saw them at the weapons tent."

"Find out whether they would take service on Dragonstone. You saw Corentin fight. He kept his head when that Redfort drove him back." Jon glanced towards the old knight's white fox shield, propped against a wagon. "Ask whether he can teach. I shall need more men for that than Hugh alone."

"And the others?"

"Speak to any you think worth bringing to me. Ask Sam what he knows of them. I want men who can teach sword and shield, or ride out with a patrol and bring it home. Find out whom they have served, and whether they are free to leave."

Gawen nodded and braced his good hand upon the chair.

"After you have rested," Jon added.

"I can still talk, my lord." A smile tugged at the captain's mouth. "I shall find them before supper. If they want the work, I will bring them to you."

* * *
​

Rain began while they were changing for the closing feast. Jon could hear it pattering upon the courtyard puddles as he crossed beneath the covered walk. Through the open hall doors came warmth, fiddle music and the smell of meat turning before the hearth. Wet cloaks steamed along the walls. Above the dais, bronze lamps lit the old runes and drew points of fire from the cups being carried to Yohn's table.

Jon wore his other new coat, black-covered buttons and braid upon black, with a narrow belt gathering its velvet skirts. He had fastened Sansa's favour to the sleeve again. The other ribbons lay safely folded with his belongings; one still bore a smear of mud.

Lyn held a knot of knights at the Corbray table, his prize purse lying beside his cup. Jon heard him describing the last pass to Templeton. He made the turn of Andar's shield with one hand, then drove two fingers beneath it; the men nearest him laughed and called for wine. Corbray looked up as Arthur passed. He kept his eyes upon him until Yohn's steward brought the household to their places.

Robb struggled with a trout baked in clay until Jon showed him how to break the crust with the back of his knife. Jon's prize sword rested against the bench. Twice Robb had asked to see it, and twice Martyn had reminded him of his bound fingers. Farther down the table, a serving girl warned Olyver that the pie he had reached for contained lamprey. He chose another, to the amusement of the men beside him.

The chief lords had their places near Yohn again. Nestor was telling Anya that the forty-two promised riders would leave for the Gates the next morning. Tollett's six were ready at last. Grafton's factor had arranged fodder for the patrol horses; Lord Belmore, still bargaining over what he might contribute, had drawn his stool closer to the merchant. Yohn set down his cup and glanced towards them. The factor withdrew, and Belmore straightened his coat.

Yohn rose before the next course. The hall quieted gradually, the last laugh coming from a knight who had not seen him stand.

"We have our winners," he said, "and before I drink to them, Maester Helliweg tells me Andrew Tollett has eaten and is demanding his horse. His uncle has refused him. Sensibly, for once."

Andrew's uncle stood with his cup. Men struck the tables in approval, and Jon felt Robb's shoulder ease beside his own.

"To Ser Robar Royce, who won the melee; to Ser Lyn Corbray, who won the joust; to Jon Black, who won the squires' melee; and to Theon Greyjoy, who shot better than any man here cared to admit." Robar rose to the cheers and bowed to his father. Beside him Andar raised his cup, smiling despite the stiffness in his shoulder.

Yohn waited while the men raised their cups. "And to every rider who has left good ash in my grass." He lifted his wine. "I thank you for coming to Runestone."

Lyn rose with his cup to acknowledge the men calling his name. "Your sons made me earn it, my lord." He bowed towards Yohn, smiling broadly, then turned to include Andar and Robar. Andar returned the courtesy with his sound arm. Robar drank and set his cup down hard enough to spill a little wine.

Theon rose to the toast with a pleased colour high in his cheeks. Myranda applauded him from the neighbouring table. When he sat, Robb leaned across Jon to ask whether the Vale's finest archer might pass the butter.

"You may call me Theon," he said, and passed it.

Servants threaded the noisy tables with the second course. They carried platters of roast lamb crusted with herbs, bowls of buttered leeks and small pies whose broken lids let out the scent of pepper. Above the clatter, a singer tried to persuade the far end of the hall to join his refrain. By the third attempt they were doing so with more strength than tunefulness.

At the lower benches a knight with his arm in a sling tried to cut his meat one-handed; his companion took the knife and helped him without interrupting their argument about the joust. Farther along, squires had cleared a patch among the cups to send two spoons at one another like lowered lances. One spoon struck a cup, spilling beer into a man's lap. He snatched it from the boy responsible amid a roar of laughter.

Lyn came up to the dais while the servants were clearing the dishes. Men shifted upon their benches to let him pass. He stopped beside Arthur, his cup held loosely in one hand.

"I had hoped you would ride today."

"I came to see Lord Jon compete." Arthur set down his knife and looked up at him.

"So you did. A fine showing." Lyn glanced at Jon, then back at Arthur. "I shall try to give you a better morning than I gave our host's sons."

"They rode well."

"Very well." Corbray's smile deepened. "It was worth winning." He lifted his cup. "Until tomorrow, Ser Arthur."

Arthur inclined his head. Lyn drank, still watching him, then went back through the benches. Andar had heard every word. He sat with his uninjured hand closed about the stem of his cup, while Waymar leaned forward to say something to Robar. Farther down, a young knight called out odds on the morning's fight. Lord Redfort turned his head, and the offer went unanswered.

Jon watched Corbray take his seat. When a servant brought the wine jug, Lyn covered his cup and sent her on. His squire bent to hear him, then hurried from the hall. Whatever pleasure he took in the attention, he meant to be ready.

Yohn summoned Gawen after the second course. The knight went with his arm in Helliweg's sling and grass still ground into the black surcoat. "You came back without arms upon your shield," Yohn said.

"Lord Jon has named no charge for the household shield."

"Yet every man on the field knew whose colours you wore." Yohn gave him the broken lance head from his victory over Donnel. One side had been scraped pale against the Waynwood shield.

Strong Sam struck both palms on the table. Pate shouted Gawen's name; Kennet raised his cup. The knight stood awkwardly before the dais, his good hand closed around the lance.

"You rode well," Yohn said. "Come back when the shoulder mends."

"Thank you, my lord."

At the lower table Sam poured Gawen wine and made room beside the brazier. The knight laid the broken lance where his old friends could see it. Pate picked it up at once, turning it to examine the splintered point. Gawen caught Jon's eye and nodded towards two men farther along the bench.

Mael was on his feet before Jon reached the bench. Corentin of Wickenden rose beside him, his bent nose casting a crooked shadow in the firelight. Both bowed. The younger knight's faded blue surcoat had been brushed clean, and he was smiling openly now that Gawen had called Jon over.

"They were glad of the offer, my lord," Gawen said. "Neither is sworn elsewhere. Ser Mael has already asked which harbour they should ride for."

"Corentin and I served together at Wickenden," Sam said. "He is good with a blade. I cannot tell you what sort of teacher he makes."

"Nor can I promise to make every boy a swordsman," Corentin said. His eyes stayed upon Jon. "But I can teach them to keep their shields where they belong."

"Then come and show my captain." Jon drew a stool close enough to speak beneath the singing. He offered them passage to Dragonstone and their keep while Gawen tried them at the work. Wages would follow if they entered his service, at the same rate he had offered Hugh.

"When could we sail, my lord?" Mael asked. Corentin had set down his cup and was watching Jon closely.

"Send word from Gulltown when you are ready. I shall arrange your passage. You would answer to Ser Gawen."

"We can be in Gulltown within the week," Corentin said. "I would be glad of the work." His lined face eased into a smile. "Glad of a place to stay, too. We have spent enough nights wondering whether the next inn will trust us."

Mael nodded. "And the horses, my lord? May we bring them?"

"Bring them."

The younger knight thanked him at once. Corentin asked how many men Gawen meant them to teach, and moved his cup to make room as the captain drew closer. Jon left them bent over the table together, the two hedge knights listening eagerly while Gawen described the work waiting on Dragonstone.

When Jon returned, Ysilla made room beside her. Her eyes went at once to Sansa's favour upon his sleeve.

"Yours is safe," he told her. "Aries would not let me put it away until he had brushed the mud from it."

"I was not asking for it back." She smoothed a fold in her skirt, then met his eyes. "You were very good yesterday."

"You sound surprised."

"Waymar told me how well you fought. He had not said how quickly." Her voice had grown quieter beneath the hall's noise. "I could not see your face through the helm. When that boy fell, I thought—" She stopped.

"Andrew is awake. Helliweg expects him to mend."

"I know. Father told us." Ysilla glanced towards the Tollett table. When she looked back, the smile returned, less certain than before. "I was glad when you took the helm off."

Jon thanked her. For all the laughter when she had tied the ribbon, she had watched the whole fight from that rail. He drew his stool closer so she need not raise her voice, and asked whether Waymar's shoulder would keep him from dancing.

Myranda leaned across to ask Theon about his prize bow. Soon he was describing the cliffs of Pyke, with targets set in turf and gulls hanging in the wind beyond. She listened long enough to make him forget that he had told the tale before.

The musicians began a quicker measure. Jeyne Waynwood came to claim Robb, who rose at once to offer her his sound hand. His bound fingers kept the other stiff, but Catelyn's lessons saved his feet. Ysilla offered Jon her palm.

"You danced well before. Can you manage this quicker measure?"

"Well enough to oblige you."

"Then show me." Jon rose and took her hand. Black silk glimmered between the velvet skirts as he turned into the dance. Ysilla looked down, then up at his face. "Black does make your eyes look brighter."

"So Wylla tells me," he said, smiling.

Ysilla laughed. He knew the figures now; Sansa had made certain of that. In his other life he had been a poor dancer for years, until his wife had tired of having her shoes trodden upon and taught him herself. For a moment he remembered her laughing at him across their kitchen. Then Ysilla's hand tightened upon his and he followed her into the next turn.

Ysilla warned him of a variation in the next turn and lifted her bronze skirt clear of his boots. He followed her lead back into line, passing close enough to the fire to feel its heat upon his cheek. Across the hall Waymar raised his cup. Jeyne released Robb's bound hand before a turn could pull it and guided him by the elbow instead.

At the lower tables Pate had drawn a serving woman into the dance. Strong Sam clapped time on Gawen's sound shoulder until the knight said he wished to keep one arm fit for use. Sam settled for the tabletop.

When the tune ended, Jon returned Ysilla to her place and thanked her. She asked whether he would come to Runestone again, and he told her he hoped to. He found Arthur beneath a narrow window with a cup of watered wine. The panes had misted; beyond them the tournament field was no more than a few lamps shaking in the rain.

Lord Grafton joined them carrying his own cup. "I have sent for my harbour master's reckoning," he told Jon. "You shall have it before you sail."

"Thank you. I have written to Ethan."

Grafton nodded. His eyes moved to Arthur, and the easy tone left his voice. "Marq would have tried to make you ride today."

"He would." Arthur lowered his cup. "He never liked to see a good lance standing idle."

"He had great faith in knights." Grafton looked towards Dawn, then back at Arthur's face. "Two men asked me today whether I had come to Runestone to follow that sword again."

Arthur's fingers stopped upon the stem of his cup. "What did you tell them?"

"That Lord Royce had invited me to a tournament. One seemed disappointed. He was very young when my brother died." Grafton turned so that the three of them stood closer to the window. Behind him, a servant passed with a dish of pears. He waited until she was gone. "They remember the banners over Gulltown. I remember what it cost to open the harbour again."

"I came to see my nephew fight," Arthur said.

"I know. And I am glad to see you alive. You must know that too." Grafton's voice softened, but he kept looking at him. "I buried my brother and swore to Robert. He confirmed my rights, and my people needed their trade. I mean to keep that oath."

Arthur was silent for a moment. "I have not asked you to break it."

"No. You have not." Grafton glanced across the hall. Gyles was seated with Robb and Alester, listening to a knight describe the pass that had unhorsed Andar. The young Arryn raised a hand to dispute something; Gyles turned towards Robb, smiling. "There were men waiting to tell Marq what honour required of him as well. Few of them stayed to help me afterwards."

Jon watched the older lord rub a spill of wine from his thumb. Grafton had been willing to argue over every year of the harbour dues. He spoke of this more quietly, with his shoulders held stiff beneath the burning tower on his cloak.

"Your ships will be welcome on Dragonstone," Jon said. "I intend that the voyage should profit both of us."

"Then let us see to that, Lord Black." Grafton offered him his hand, and Jon took it. To Arthur he gave a grave inclination of his head before going back to his family.

Jon watched Grafton rest a hand upon his son's shoulder and bend to hear what he was saying. He would need to offer Grafton more than the chance to avenge a dead brother. Beside him Arthur took a slow drink, then put his cup upon the sill. They listened to the music until another tune began.

Robar joined them at the window, stepping aside to let a pair of dancers pass. Waymar followed with his cup. The elder brother rested a hand upon the sill beside Arthur and looked at Jon.

"Are you ready to take charge of Dragonstone, my lord?"

"As ready as I can be without having set foot on it." Jon shifted to give Waymar room. "Ethan has kept it for me, and I have men I trust. Now I want to see what needs doing with my own eyes."

"You will have work enough." Robar glanced at Arthur. "I hope there will be time for visitors. I should like another pass with Ser Arthur."

"You would be welcome," Jon said.

"And I would be glad to oblige you." Arthur's mouth curved. "You gave me a good bout."

Waymar asked about the ships Jon meant to build, and Robar drew up a stool while Jon answered. Yohn saw his youngest leaning closer to listen. Near the end of the meal the old lord drew Jon beneath the gallery, where the music covered their low voices.

"Waymar tells me you offered him service."

"After his spurs, if I have work for him. He has given me no answer."

Yohn watched his youngest showing Robar a shield turn with an empty cup. "He likes you. You have given him much to talk of these past days." His gaze returned to Jon. "But our name would find him a place in any hall in the Vale. He has grown up knowing it. He will want to choose well."

"I would expect him to."

"You have a fine household. He has seen what you can do with them. What place would he have on your island?"

"I shall know more when I have seen it myself." Jon followed the old lord's glance towards the dais, where Andar was speaking with Lord Redfort. The Royces had made marriages and served beside those families for generations. He had yet to govern a day on Dragonstone. "He can judge what I have built when he visits."

Yohn nodded slowly. "Give him time. Press him, and he will refuse because he dislikes being pressed."

"I can wait."

"Then keep writing. He will be pleased to hear from you."

"Would you rather he stayed?"

"I would rather all three stayed." Yohn's voice had roughened. He drank before speaking again. "That is not what I brought them up for. The choice will be his when he is ready."

Back in the black camp that night, Aries wrote to Wylla that Gawen had hurt his shoulder but could still complain. He asked Jon to check that part before sealing the letter; he did not wish to frighten her with the wrong words. Jon read it and handed it back. The boy added, in a smaller hand, that Bracken was well and Patch had not bitten anyone. Only then did Jon put it with the packet for Dragonstone.

Their friends came to find them while the servants were packing. Alester sat upon a chest and asked whether Dragonstone might have room for another knight. Gyles stood beside him, turning Jon's prize sword carefully to catch the lamplight upon its silver hilt.

"Write to me," Jon told Alester. "Tell me what service you are free to take. I shall know what I can offer when I have seen the island."

The young Arryn nodded. "I will, my lord."

Morvan wanted to know about the pastures. He had already asked Gawen whether he might breed from the brown mare, only to be told that he must speak to her owner. Jon promised to consider it when Morvan had a stallion worth proposing. Gawen, listening from his chair, insisted that he would have a say in that judgement.

"He has become very grand since he won a broken stick," Robb said.

"A fine broken stick," Gawen answered, and the boys laughed.

Gyles handed Jon back the sword. "I should like to hear how the market fares. Father says the first ships will tell us more than all his stewards' reckoning."

"You shall hear. Though I expect questions in return."

"You will get them." Gyles smiled. "I have been saving them since the armour."

Harry had come too, claiming to be looking for a glove. Alester found it beneath the stool, but he stayed until Anya's page came to fetch him. At the flap he paused.

"You can write about something besides the lists," he told Jon. "I know how I did here."

"I shall tell you how I find Dragonstone. You can tell me whether Waymar has stopped boasting."

Harry laughed and took his leave.

Arthur came back while Jon was fastening the lid of his chest. He laid his sword belt beside his bed and began loosening the points of his coat.

"Winning has made him very sure of himself," Jon said.

"He was sure of himself when he asked."

Jon let go of the buckle. "How good is he?"

Arthur paused with one lace between his fingers. "Quick. Stronger than he looks. You saw how he recovered when Robar drove him back." He drew the lace free. "I shall need to be careful."

Jon had watched him fight a hundred times with blunted steel or ash. Tomorrow there would be no maester setting a bruised finger straight if Lady Forlorn slipped past his guard. He looked at the long sword lying beside Arthur's bed.

"Jon." Arthur had crossed to him. "I know what he carries." His hand rested briefly upon Jon's shoulder. "Get some sleep."

Jon nodded. He lay awake long enough to hear the last men returning from the castle, laughing as they stumbled between the tents. Beside him, Arthur's breathing had already settled.

* * *
​

By the time Jon had broken his fast, men were gathering at the field again. The rain had passed in the night. Water hung along the ropes, and shallow pools filled the hoofprints beside the jousting barrier. Strong Sam had marked out firmer ground beyond it. The galleries still stood, their cloth dark with damp; laden carts waited on the road while their owners went to find a place.

People were coming down from the castle. News of the challenge had travelled beyond the tournament camp; men from the town stood upon carts to see, and servants still in their aprons crowded behind the household guards. The gallery filled from end to end. Below it, a hawker lifted his tray above the press and shouted his prices until the herald raised a hand.

Lyn came through the entrance beneath the Corbray banner. His surcoat was clean, the three ravens dark against white wool. He carried the lighter helm he had worn in the melee; Mychel followed with his shield. At Lyn's hip, the heart-shaped ruby of Lady Forlorn caught the morning sun. He stopped to answer a man at the rope, smiling, then walked out onto the grass.

"Ser Lyn Corbray of Heart's Home," the herald called, "bearer of Lady Forlorn, victor of the joust!"

The answer came loudly from the camp side of the field. Lyn glanced towards it, smiling, and lifted a gauntleted hand.

Arthur waited beneath the black awning while Martyn checked his armour. Aries stood close with his helm in both hands. The page had asked twice whether Arthur wanted anything else. Both times Arthur had thanked him and said no.

"Corbray is ready," Sam told them. "He has been asking what keeps you."

"Then we should go." Arthur took the helm from Aries and settled it over his head. Martyn fastened the strap beneath his chin.

Jon went with him to the rope. The herald drew breath again.

"Ser Arthur Dayne of Starfall. The Sword of the Morning, bearer of Dawn!"

Voices rose all along the field. Men pressed forward behind Jon; somewhere above them a bench scraped as its occupants stood. Arthur acknowledged the gallery with an inclination of his head and walked onto the grass. Lyn watched him come.

"You have had time to rest?" Arthur asked.

"More than I needed." Corbray smiled past him at Jon. "Will your lord permit us to begin?"

Arthur gave him no answer. He turned to Yohn, who had come down from the gallery with his sons. The lord's dark coat was fastened at the throat. Beside him Andar stood with one shoulder held stiffly beneath a fresh surcoat. Helliweg had found no hurt beyond bruises, but the night's rest had done little to ease them.

"You have your swords and your witnesses," Yohn said. "A yield ends the bout. So does my command. If either man falls, his opponent will give him leave to yield. There will be no quarrelling with my judgement afterwards." He looked from one knight to the other. "Do you understand?"

"I do," Arthur said.

"Of course, my lord." Lyn settled his helm and fitted his arm through the shield straps. Mychel fastened the chin strap, drew the shield secure and retreated beyond the rope. Lord Redfort made room for his son beside him.

Jon stayed with Martyn and Robb. Theon had stopped making wagers. Beneath the awning, Gawen leaned forward in his chair until Tomas brought it nearer the rope.

Arthur drew Dawn. Even after the herald's announcement, the sight of it brought a murmur from the stands. Sunlight lay white along the blade. He handed the scabbard to Martyn and settled both hands upon the hilt. Opposite him, Lady Forlorn came free with a soft scrape, dark ripples showing in the steel. Lyn lowered his visor. Arthur did the same.

Sam blew the horn.

Lyn was upon him before its last note faded. Lady Forlorn flashed past the painted shield towards Arthur's face, met Dawn and came round low. Arthur withdrew his leading leg. His answer struck the shield with a crack that brought a shout from the gallery, but Lyn was already turning beneath the blow, his own sword coming back towards Arthur's side.

Dawn caught it. Their blades scraped together as Arthur stepped away, and Lyn followed hard enough to leave a strip of lifted turf beneath his heel.

Jon had seen Corbray fight in the melee. There had been men there who scarcely managed a defence before Lyn put them down. Now the same sudden changes drove Arthur across the grass, the grey sword appearing above the shield, then beside it, the shield itself thrusting forward whenever the blades met. Arthur's greatsword moved close about him. He gave ground, stopped, turned a cut and answered. Lyn checked his advance to catch the returning edge.

They parted with a full sword's length between them. Shouts of encouragement crossed the field. Lyn circled towards the rising sun, making Arthur turn with him. Jon waited for another taunt, but Corbray kept his visor down.

He tried Arthur's sword hand. Dawn lifted clear, then fell towards the ravens on his shield. Lyn caught the blow at an angle and thrust beneath it. Arthur turned his body as the grey point passed, bringing his blade across to drive it away. For a moment they were close enough that Jon heard the grunt inside Lyn's helm.

The shield swung towards Arthur's face. He stepped back before it reached him, and Dawn struck its lower edge as it passed. A sliver of painted wood sprang into the air.

Lyn came after him at once. This time Arthur held his ground. Steel rang against steel; the shield knocked Dawn aside and Lady Forlorn followed into the opening. Arthur's hands turned, bringing the pale blade back across the thrust. Lyn's point slid past his shoulder.

Robb caught Jon's sleeve with his good hand.

Arthur pressed forward along the crossed swords. Lyn broke away, his boots dragging furrows as he recovered his distance. His shield had a long pale gash beneath one raven. He raised it higher and waited.

The shouting thinned. Near Jon, a man who had been calling wagers lowered his cupped hands. The fighters' breathing carried when they came towards the rope, harsh behind the steel of their helms.

Lyn let his sword sink a little. Jon saw the invitation and the waiting feet beneath it. Arthur approached with Dawn held low, its point steady. Lyn lunged behind his shield.

Arthur turned the thrust aside and moved with the rush. The shield scraped past his breastplate. Lyn twisted to follow him, Lady Forlorn sweeping round, but Arthur's answering cut forced him to lift the shield instead. Dawn struck close to its upper rim. A red heart split beneath the edge. Arthur drew the blade clear as Lyn recoiled.

Corbray stood breathing with the shield against his chest. His head turned a little with each movement of the white sword. Arthur waited just beyond his reach. His own breath was coming deeply now.

Jon had practised with him for years. He knew the patience, knew how little warning Arthur gave when he chose to move. Lyn had begun waiting for that movement too. His blade made a small, restless turn beside the broken heart.

He struck at Dawn itself, trying to drive it aside, and closed as the swords met. The impact carried through Arthur's arms. He braced, his rear foot biting into the turf. For a breath they strained against one another; then Arthur gave a little and turned. Lady Forlorn slipped past him. Dawn came free against the shield with a blow that jolted Lyn's arm against his body.

Arthur followed before he could settle. Corbray caught the next cut, but his shield sagged under it. He brought Lady Forlorn fiercely towards Arthur's head. Dawn rose to meet it, and Arthur stepped close behind the crossed blades.

Jon saw their hands come together. Dawn's guard caught beneath Lady Forlorn's. Arthur turned his hilt with both hands, forcing Lyn's sword hand back until his fingers opened.

The ruby flashed. Lady Forlorn struck the grass.

Lyn bent after it. Dawn's point stopped before the slit in his visor, close enough that he could not lift his head.

He went still. The edge of his battered shield touched the ground.

Silence spread from the ropes to the gallery. Jon could hear someone breathing beside him; he realised it was Robb. Arthur held the sword steady while Lyn crouched before it.

"Enough," Yohn called.

Arthur stepped back at once and lowered Dawn. Strong Sam came between the knights. Beyond his shoulder, Lyn straightened slowly, his empty hand still half closed.

"Ser Lyn?" Yohn said.

The answer came harshly through the helm. "I yield."

The cheering broke over the field. Jon felt the rope pull against his fingers as people pressed forward, and the marshals spread their arms to hold them back. Above the noise rose Arthur's name, taken up again from the crowded gallery. The Sword of the Morning turned towards Yohn and bowed his head.

Mychel hurried onto the field. He picked up Lady Forlorn and stood holding it while his master pulled off his helm. Lyn's hair lay wet against his forehead. His mouth was open as he drew breath. He looked at Arthur, then at the sword in his squire's hands.

Arthur approached him. Mychel stiffened, but the older knight merely offered his hand.

Lyn let him wait. People nearest them fell quiet, watching. Then Corbray took the offered hand, briefly and hard.

"Ser Arthur."

"Ser Lyn."

Lyn reclaimed Lady Forlorn. Mychel reached for the ruined shield, and this time his master let him take it. They walked from the field together, Lyonel falling in beside them at the gate.

Arthur returned to the rope. Martyn took Dawn while he removed his helm, then passed it back and held the scabbard steady. Sweat had darkened Arthur's hair at the temples. His breath came deeply, but Jon could find no blood upon him.

Jon passed him the waterskin. Arthur drank, then looked towards Aries, who had begun to speak and lost his words. He rested a hand upon the page's shoulder and bent to listen. Jon stood beside them while the crowd called for another glimpse of Dawn.

Around the Corbray banner, men were leaving the rail. Lyn stood with his head bent towards Lyonel while Mychel waited beside them, the ruined shield at his feet. Jon could not hear what the brothers said. Then Yohn reached Arthur and clasped his hand, and the cheering rose again.

"Now," the old lord said, with a glance towards the battered shield, "perhaps you may both let my servants take the field down."

Arthur smiled. "I have kept you long enough."

"You have given them something to talk of while they work." Yohn turned to Jon. "Come and take leave before you ride."

* * *
​

By the time Arthur had washed and changed, the bright field was disappearing beneath teams of servants. They pulled pegs and rolled wet canvas while armourers gathered sound pieces of ash. Everywhere Jon went, men stopped him to speak of the fight. Helliweg's helpers lifted a Coldwater youth with a broken arm into one wagon. Andrew Tollett rode in another beside his uncle, pale and furious at being forbidden a saddle.

Hugh brought his mare across while Edd carried their rolled blankets. The knight thanked Jon for the offer of a trial and promised to write as soon as he had spoken to his father. Edd bowed beside him.

"You will put your own name in the letter?" Jon asked the boy.

"Yes, my lord." He hesitated. "I shall likely have the writing of it."

Hugh gave a short laugh and told him to fetch the saddle. Edd went, but he looked back once before they took the road towards the Grey Glen.

The black camp came down around Gawen's bound shoulder. Strong Sam held the mare while he mounted.

"Do not make it twelve years again," Sam said.

"I will write," Gawen promised.

"You had better." They clasped wrists. Pate handed Gawen a skin of Vale red, and Kennet forgave all but one of the three stags.

"That one you can pay when you come back."

Gawen laughed and put the wineskin away. Jon had taken leave of Yohn in the courtyard while Arthur spoke with his sons. The lead riders were forming when Waymar hurried from the gate with his cloak half-fastened.

Waymar offered his forearm. "Good fortune on your island."

"And to you here." Jon clasped it. Behind Waymar, the men were already taking down the cloth above the galleries. "Give my thanks to your father."

"You gave them in the court."

"Then give them again." Jon mounted beneath the plain black banner with the direwolf beside it. Waymar remained at the gate until the road curved behind the wall.

* * *
​

On the second afternoon after they left Runestone, the road descended through grey pasture into Gulltown. Wet masts crowded the bay, red tiles had gone brown in the rain and smoke lay flat above the chimneys. Robb rode with his bruised hand inside his cloak. Gawen carried his broken lance across the saddle, the splintered head wrapped in a cloth to keep it dry. Neither could hold a shield; both had spent half the morning explaining why the other's injury was more shameful.

The roundship waiting for Robb and the Stark party lay at the east quay. Black Tern's berth was empty. Beneath the warehouse arch, Lord Grafton's clerk handed Jon a copy of the raven from Dragonstone. Marrec's five transports had arrived safely with Hewyn's six hundred men, Wylla, the workforce and their families. William had his clock benches under a roof; Ewan's smiths were setting their anvils. The heavy ironwork had taken another tide to unload, but no one had been hurt. Voss had delivered Jon's letters and was bringing Black Tern back for the household.

Jon read the page twice. Ethan had added at the foot: Wylla has possession of the kitchen. He smiled and put the letter inside his coat while Tomas settled the remaining harbour charges with the clerk.

The clerk had another letter beneath Ethan's. Its seal bore a crowned stag.

"This came yesterday, my lord. His Grace's command was that it should reach you before you sailed."

Jon broke the wax. Arthur had stopped beside him; farther across the court Robb was helping Hallis count their chests.

The first lines gave Robert's titles and Jon's own. He read on.

You are to attend us at King's Landing before proceeding to Dragonstone. We have heard enough of your clocks from other men. Come and let us see what Ned has been keeping to himself.

 

[aiwonder]

Robb had come down to the quay wearing Jon's gloves.

Jon noticed when his brother took hold of the rail beside him. The left glove fitted badly over the binding about Robb's fingers; the right had the little cut beneath the thumb where Jon had caught it on a buckle at Runestone. Neither of them mentioned it. Below the quay, a sailor fended the northbound ship away from a stone step with his boot. He had been doing it for some time, and each time the water pushed him back he swore with less invention.

"Father will ask about the king," Robb said.

"You won't have seen him."

"He'll ask what you meant to say."

"I haven't decided."

Robb gave him a look. "You decide what to say before breakfast."

"Only to you. You ask difficult questions before I've eaten."

Usually that would have earned him an elbow. Robb watched a man roll the last of their baggage down the quay instead. The chest had a black direwolf painted upon its side. Jon had seen it brought out of Winterfell's stores while they were still arguing over how many spare bowstrings Theon would need. It looked smaller here, scuffed and roped shut among bales belonging to strangers.

Their ships had been ready since dawn. Martyn had taken the Stark men aboard while Jory inspected the berths and Hallis fetched a sack left at the inn. Now the Blackfish was speaking to the captain, his shoulders turned to shelter a folded letter from the wind. He would ride back towards the Bloody Gate when the ship had gone. There was no one left with a reason to delay.

Across the harbour, Voss had a man aloft loosening Black Tern's sail. Marrec had brought Broad Oak back from Dragonstone to carry the household's horses; her broad hull rode low beside the quay, with the last bundles of fodder being passed aboard.

"You could still come with us," Robb said.

Jon looked at him.

"I know. The king." Robb scraped the toe of his boot against a stain on the stone. "I meant before he sent for you. You could have gone home once more. Father could have sent you south after harvest."

Ethan was waiting on Dragonstone with the men and families Jon had sent him. Jon had explained at Runestone why he must follow them. He could have explained it again, and Robb would have stood listening until he finished.

"I have kept them waiting long enough," he said.

"I know."

Robb sounded older than he had any right to sound. His red hair had flattened on one side where he had slept on it, and someone had missed a patch of mud at the heel of his boot. Jon wanted, absurdly, to take him back to the inn and make him eat more than the bread he had torn apart at breakfast.

Theon appeared with the new bow in its case. He had polished the silver gull until it shone against his coat.

"Martyn wants us aboard." He looked from one brother to the other, and some of the mischief left his face. "There is still time to change your mind. King's Landing is a long way to go for Robert to ask why you aren't taller."

"Tell Father I was too busy beating his heir at swords to grow."

"Tell him yourself," Robb said. His mouth twitched despite him.

"I intend to tell him about the archery," Theon said. "You may settle the rest between you."

Theon was grinning, but when he offered his hand his grip was firm. Jon caught his forearm. They had bruised one another often enough in the yard that the courtesy felt strange between them.

"Keep practising," Theon said. "You were almost tolerable by the end."

"With a bow?"

"I was trying to leave it generous."

He released Jon and went to join Jory at the plank. Martyn was taking the parcels for the younger Starks aboard himself. Theon stooped for the last of them, then looked back. He lifted the bow in farewell before following the captain onto the deck.

Robb had drawn off the left glove. "This is yours."

"Keep it. I have another pair."

"It doesn't fit."

"Neither do half your own."

Robb pushed it back over the bandage with his teeth, irritated by the need for help and determined not to ask. Jon caught the cuff before he could pull it against his injured fingers. He worked the leather down carefully. Robb let him.

"You'll have it swelling again if you keep doing that."

"Denner said it was healing well."

"He did not tell you to pull at it with your teeth." Jon smoothed the cuff, then found he was still holding his brother's wrist.

At Winterfell there had always been another meal, another lesson, the sound of Robb quarrelling with someone on the stair. Even when Jon had shut his door to work, his brother remained on the other side of it, liable to arrive with some urgent proposal involving horses or a wager he had already lost. Jon had built so much of his new life towards leaving that he had scarcely allowed for the silence afterwards.

Robb looked down at his hand. "I'll visit."

"You will."

"Father will say there's too much to learn at home."

"Then persuade him there's something worth learning on Dragonstone."

"There had better be. I don't mean to cross half the realm to listen to you talk about mortar."

"I'll save the mortar for Theon."

That brought a laugh, small and unwilling. Robb drew his wrist free and leaned beside him again.

"When I come," Robb said, "I want you to show me the island. Yourself."

"I will."

"Not send Arthur while you stay indoors with your papers."

Jon had been about to promise that as well. He stopped, remembering how often he had made Robb wait until he finished something.

"We'll ride out," he said. "You can choose the day."

Robb looked towards the ship. Jory had turned towards them, but did not call.

"They'll want you aboard soon," Jon said.

"I can see that."

He made no move to go. Jon stayed beside him while a sailor carried another bundle up the plank. Robb leaned his shoulder against Jon's, and they stood watching the man find room for it among their chests.

Brynden had finished with the captain. He folded his letter into Jory's hand and came towards them without hurrying. Robb straightened from the rail.

For a moment Jon saw another hall, another gathering of northmen, a door closing where it should have remained open. The remembered story had blurred in places over twelve years. He could lose the name of a river, mistake which lord had spoken first. He had never lost the knowledge of what had been done to Robb.

The boy before him was rubbing at a mark on Jon's sleeve.

"Pitch," Robb said. "You'll want another coat for the king."

Jon drew him close.

Robb made a startled sound and then put both arms around him. The injured hand pressed awkwardly against Jon's back. Jon could smell the leather of his borrowed gloves, the soap from the inn, the familiar warmth of someone who had slept beside him through cold northern nights. He had once thought himself too old for this sort of grief. He had buried a wife in another world and carried the absence of children who could never know where he had gone. He ought to have learned how much could be lost.

Robb's grip tightened.

"You are coming home," he said against Jon's shoulder.

"Yes."

Jon would make that true. He could promise neither an easy voyage nor a peaceful life, but he would come north again and walk into that yard, and this boy would be there to complain that he had taken too long.

They stepped apart when Brynden reached them. The old knight gave Robb time to pull his glove straight before putting a hand upon his shoulder.

"Your captain is beginning to think I've sworn to keep him in harbour."

Robb nodded. He started towards the plank, turned back, and for an instant Jon thought he meant to speak again. Instead he struck Jon lightly against the shoulder with his good hand, as he might have done outside the training yard, and went aboard.

Brynden remained long enough to give Jon a formal inclination of his head.

"Lord Black. Lord Stark's name will be spoken when you reach the king. Remember that."

"I remember my father, ser." Jon's voice stayed level.

The Blackfish looked at him for a moment, then turned to Arthur. "Ser Arthur." He gave the knight a stiff, deliberate nod and followed Jory to the plank. On deck, Theon was already helping Robb argue for a place nearer the stern. Brynden went to them, spoke briefly with his hand upon Robb's shoulder, then came ashore again. His groom waited beyond the baggage with their horses.

The sailors cast off. Jon watched the gap between ship and quay widen until it was too far to cross. Robb raised the borrowed glove. Jon raised his hand in answer and kept it there, feeling faintly foolish and unable to lower it while his brother was still looking.

Arthur stayed beside him until they could no longer make out Robb's face. Behind them, Brynden mounted. He watched the northbound sail for a moment longer, then took the road through the city with his groom.

"We should go," Jon said.

Arthur took the small bundle Jon had left against the rail and walked with him towards Black Tern.

* * *
​

For the first day Jon kept finding things he meant to tell Robb.

A seal surfaced beside Black Tern while they were still within sight of the Vale. Later, Voss let a young sailor climb out along a yard to free a fouled line, and Jon half turned to see whether his brother was watching. Aries stood there instead, pale about the mouth and holding the rail with both hands. Jon brought him water and stayed until he could bear to look up.

The wind held southerly through the next day, making them work for every mile. Broad Oak followed under shortened sail. Whenever her bows fell into a wave, Jon thought of Bucephalus below and wished he could spare the horse the motion. His own body had found its balance quickly. He still caught himself listening for engines that were not there; then a block creaked overhead, canvas cracked, and Voss called another order across the deck.

There was enough to occupy him. He went through Ethan's letter with Arthur, sorted the requests that could wait, and wrote instructions for the work already begun. Yet when he stopped, the place beside him was empty. Robb would have found something to interrupt him for. Jon had not understood how much he had come to rely upon that.

On the fourth morning Aries woke him to say that he could see the castle.

Jon had fallen asleep with Ethan's letter beside his pillow. He came awake at once when the page touched his shoulder.

"The Red Keep, my lord. Come and see."

By the time Jon reached the deck, the headland had opened into hills covered with houses. Ships moved through the morning haze, their masts seeming for a moment to grow out of the city itself. Above them rose the Red Keep. The sun had reached its upper walls first, warming the pale red stone while the face of the cliff below remained in shadow. Round towers crowded the height, joined by walls in whose battlements Jon could make out the black pricks of men and spears. He tipped his head back as they drew nearer. From this side, the rock looked almost as formidable as the castle.

A shout brought his eyes down. A ferryman was poling across their bows with two passengers and a bleating goat. Voss leaned over the rail and told him what he might do with his pole. The man answered without looking round. Black Tern's bow lifted gently through his wake, and Aries laughed before catching himself.

Beyond the ferry, fishing boats nosed between heavier ships waiting for room at the quays. A galley's oars rose dripping as she backed clear of a berth. Years at sea had taught Jon to dislike so little room; he watched her stern until she was clear of the neighbouring hull. His own captain called for a line, and Jon moved Aries clear of the men coming forward.

He had seen pictures of this place in a world which did not believe it existed. None had given him the noise. Bells answered one another across the water. From a ship alongside came the hollow knock of a mallet, then a man singing several words behind his companions. On shore, a crane lifted a cask clear of a ship's rail while porters waited beneath it. Behind them the roofs climbed until they seemed to press against the castle walls. Jon tried to follow a street through the jumble and lost it beneath an overhanging storey. There were more houses beyond, and more beyond those.

Aries had stopped laughing. His fingers tightened upon the rail.

"That's where we're staying?" Aries asked.

"That is where the king has asked us to go."

Aries looked from the castle to Arthur, who had come up behind them. "Have you been in all those towers, ser?"

"Most of them." Arthur rested a hand upon the rail. "You will want your coat. There will be men waiting for us at the quay."

The page hurried below to fetch the coat he had spent yesterday brushing. Jon remained beside Arthur and watched the shore approach.

The castle was no longer an illustration. Somewhere inside it Robert Baratheon was waking, or eating, or roaring at a servant because his belt had been pulled too tight. Jon would kneel to him. Men who had served Jon's grandfather would stand by while he did it, and men who had helped destroy his house would wonder whether Ned Stark's clever bastard was worth inviting to supper.

Arthur had fallen silent. Jon followed the direction of his gaze towards the walls above the river.

"What are you looking for?"

The knight rubbed his thumb against the rail. "There was a stair down to a small landing. We used it when the prince wanted to leave without taking half the household through the gates. I cannot see it from here."

"For a boat?"

"Sometimes. Once to buy a harp string."

Jon turned.

"He could have sent someone."

"I said much the same." A faint smile touched Arthur's face. "The man had made a new harp. Rhaegar wanted to hear it. I spent most of an afternoon in the room over his shop while they argued about the way the strings were fitted."

"Was it a good harp?"

"I thought so. Neither of them found my opinion much use."

Jon smiled, then looked back towards the shore. He could picture Rhaegar bending over an instrument in a cramped room, intent upon a difference his guard could scarcely hear. Arthur had waited through that afternoon, probably bored and hungry. Jon would have given much to stand in that room for a few breaths. He wanted to ask what his father's voice had sounded like when he was pleased, but a sailor passed between them with a line over his shoulder. Jon let him through. When he turned back, Arthur was looking at the vanished landing again.

They lost their wind behind a wine ship. Voss swore at her master's flag and ordered out the sweeps. Black Tern crept towards the quays while Broad Oak waited in deeper water for a berth.

Farther along the waterfront, a quay attendant was waving a small trading vessel away from an empty berth. A galley flying the crowned stag had turned towards it. The trader's master shouted back, pointing at the space he had been waiting for, but the attendant only waved harder. Jon watched the galley come in. He would need to ask what accommodation the royal ships already expected at Dragonstone.

The river's smell reached them with the noise: exposed mud and spoiled fish, tar from a caulking pot, a sour reek from the drains beneath the walls. Smoke from a woman's pan drifted across it all. She was frying dough beside the landing stair, turning each piece with two blackened sticks. Men with loads upon their backs stopped to spend a copper before climbing on. One tore his purchase in half and gave the larger piece to the boy following him with an empty basket. The boy ate as he ran.

There was scarcely a strip of shore without something built upon it. Storehouses stood behind the stone quays, their wide doors dark beneath painted signs. Between them, shacks leaned against one another under patched roofs. A woman had hung cups and cooking pots across the front of hers; they clattered whenever someone brushed past. Two men were arguing over a sack on a weighing beam. Even while they argued, the man tending the scale reached for the next load.

At the quay a man in the king's colours had been waiting long enough to take off his cap. He put it on again when he saw Arthur.

"Lord Black?"

Jon stepped forward before the man could address his uncle.

"His Grace's letter said you were expected. Lord Arryn asks that your household come to the keep. I've brought a groom for the horses."

"Will the king receive us today?"

"Tomorrow morning, my lord. Unless His Grace sends sooner."

Jon thanked him and called Tomas over. The lieutenant had already spotted the groom attempting to count the horses while Gawen, his left arm still in its sling, explained that the second ship carried most of them.

The servant's expression changed as more black coats came down the plank.

"Fifty household guards," Jon told him. "Some will remain with the ships."

The servant looked along the line coming ashore, taking in the matching black coats and the shields beneath their covers. He asked who commanded them.

"Ser Gawen," Jon said. "Tomas is his lieutenant."

The man repeated the names, then asked how many would remain aboard and whether Ser Arthur was to be lodged with Lord Black's household. Arthur requested the adjoining chamber. The servant took a folded leaf from his sleeve and added the names to it, bracing it against a cask while he wrote.

Broad Oak had secured a berth farther along the quay by the time Jon went to fetch Bucephalus. The horse disliked the plank, the shouting and a gull which chose exactly the wrong moment to rise from the water. By the time Jon had him ashore, he had an audience. One of the porters whistled at the breadth of his chest. Another asked what Jon fed him.

"Men who ask foolish questions," Tomas said.

"He'll grow fat here, then."

The porters laughed, and the horse put his nose against Jon's shoulder as though wounded by the accusation. Jon rubbed the white mark above his nostrils and led him clear of the cargo.

Beyond the landing, a cart with a broken wheel blocked the lane between a storehouse and a row of stalls. Its owner was still arguing with the man whose casks lay upon it. Tomas drew the household up clear of the porters trying to unload the heavier end, and the royal servant raised his voice to ask that Lord Black be allowed through.

The name brought a man out from beneath the storehouse awning. He had ink on the side of one finger and a silver pin holding his collar closed. He spoke to the servant first, glanced along the line of guards, then approached Jon.

"Lord Black? My employer has been trying to obtain one of your clocks since a customer in Maidenpool acquired his." His eyes moved from Jon's face to Arthur and back. "I had not understood that you were so young."

"The clocks keep time regardless."

The merchant reddened. "Of course, my lord. I meant no discourtesy."

"Write to Osric, my factor in White Harbor. He will tell you when we can fill another order."

The man repeated the name carefully. "My employer can also be of service here, my lord. He has supplied the keep for twenty years. If you need introductions, or goods brought through the king's officers—"

"What would he ask in return?"

"Only that you remember him when your next clocks are ready." His smile became more cautious. "There are buyers who would pay well to receive one sooner."

"There are buyers who have paid already. Tell him to write to Osric." Jon kept his voice pleasant, then moved on as the porters cleared a way. Behind him, Gawen was quietly telling one of the younger guards to close the gap beside Aries.

They mounted where the lane widened before the River Gate. Beneath its raised portcullis, a watchman in black mail was using the butt of his spear to hold back a mule cart. His heavy gold cloak had slipped from one shoulder. He lifted it irritably, saw the king's servant and began clearing a way.

The older man beside him was looking at Arthur.

"Ser Arthur?"

Arthur inclined his head. "Good day."

The watchman's mouth remained open a moment. Then he straightened and saluted, sharply enough that his companion turned to see whom he had missed. Arthur rode beneath the arch. The older man followed him with his eyes until a carter demanded to know whether he meant to stand there all day.

Tomas brought Aries between two household riders as the passage narrowed. Jon heard his lieutenant call to a man ahead to keep the far end clear. The orders passed back, shields turned to spare the people crowding the walls, and their horses went through in pairs. A woman carrying eels objected to the delay without lowering her voice. The watchman told her to wait. Jon heard every word of her answer as he emerged into the square.

Fishmonger's Square was wet underfoot despite the sun. Fish lay belly-up upon boards, their scales flashing whenever the awnings stirred. A seller split one open with a practised stroke, stripped out the guts and flung them into a bucket without breaking off her account of what her husband had done last night. Her neighbour had plainly heard it before. He was calling prices over her shoulder.

Bucephalus picked his way past a fallen basket. A small boy trapped an escaping fish with his bare foot and looked to the stallholder for praise. The man sent him after the others. On the opposite side of the square, a servant in good blue wool held a covered dish high while he searched for a dry place to put his shoes.

Someone called to the black-cloaked riders that there was room for them at his master's inn. Another offered stabling for half the price. Neither waited to learn whether they needed it. A girl with a tray of mussels tried to come between Jon's horse and Gawen's; Gawen put out his good hand, and she turned the movement into an offer to sell him supper. She had a price ready before he could refuse.

Jon found himself smiling. The city smelled worse than he had imagined. It was also doing a great deal of business.

They crossed a short stretch of the Muddy Way before turning into the Hook. The street curved uphill between houses close enough for neighbours to quarrel from their windows. A cooper worked in the open doorway of his shop, hammering a hoop into place while his apprentice held the cask. He scarcely glanced at the riders. Above him, a woman took her washing in before the dust reached it.

Jon caught a warmer smell beneath the sourness of the gutter. A baker was carrying loaves out upon a board, their crusts cracked and pale with flour. Aries turned in his saddle to watch him. Beyond the shop, wastewater had backed up around a drain choked with straw and scraps. A labourer knelt beside it with a hooked stick, dragging out a sodden mass while people stepped round his elbow. A thin stream began to run as they passed.

Jon followed the gutter downhill until it vanished beneath a doorstep. He would have liked to dismount and see where it went. Arthur caught him looking and drew alongside before he could slow the whole company.

"It will be there when we come down again."

"I was only looking."

"I know that look." Arthur's mouth moved faintly. "You used to wear it outside William's door."

Jon let Bucephalus lengthen his stride. The cooper's hammer faded behind them, then became audible again as they rounded the next bend.

Higher up, the Hook joined a broader road and the air moved against Jon's face. Shops gave way to walled gardens and houses set back from the traffic. Their shutters were painted; behind an open gate he glimpsed vines trained over a shaded walk. A woman in a litter passed with a strip of green silk fluttering from its curtain. Her bearers kept their eyes upon the road. The maid walking beside her looked over the escort, hesitated upon Jon's face, then hurried to catch up.

The Red Keep occupied the height ahead, on Aegon's Hill. Across the lower ground, sunlight glittered upon the Great Sept's dome. Its slender towers rose above Visenya's Hill; farther round, the Dragonpit showed black upon the Hill of Rhaenys. Jon slowed Bucephalus. At first the ruin seemed to be missing its far side. Then he understood the scale of the broken dome, the ragged edge where the roof had fallen inward. Grass showed high upon the walls. Birds rose from the gap and scattered above the hill.

Aries was staring towards the Sept.

"Seven towers," Arthur told him.

"I can see six."

"Keep looking as we turn."

The seventh emerged from behind its neighbour. Aries smiled, then glanced at Jon to see whether he had needed the help too.

Jon's gaze kept returning to the Dragonpit. He had carried plans for so long in a book small enough to hide inside his coat. Here were the buildings themselves. He tried to set the ruined dome against the drawings he remembered and found that he had allowed it too little space.

At a public fountain, women waited with jars pressed against their hips. One held a child out of the horses' way while another made room for a water carrier to lower his yoke. Water spilled over the rim of a bucket and ran between the paving stones. Jon remembered the accounts of the Old King's works, the glazed pipes bringing water to the city, Alysanne insisting it be clean enough to drink. He watched a woman lift her filled jar onto a pad upon her head. She went on carrying it without a hand to steady it. Farther up, a beggar sat beneath the shutter of a house whose carved doorway had just been swept clean. His outstretched hand was scarcely raised before the riders had gone past.

The road opened onto a cobbled square before the keep's barbican. After the close streets, Jon could see the whole company behind him again: the black banner dipping in the wind, the luggage horses at the rear, Gawen watching the household come round the last bend. Above the gatehouse, the red walls rose steep enough to make Aries lean back in his saddle. Guards watched from openings under the battlements. Jon saw the narrow postern beside the great bronze gates, then looked up beneath the raised portcullis as they passed into shadow.

The outer yard was full of provisions and people who wanted them moved elsewhere. A line of mules stood beside the wall while servants shouldered hampers towards the kitchens. The sharp sweetness of crushed apples rose from one with a split lid. Near the stables a groom was backing a restive horse away from a cart; he called for another man to hold the cart's team, and received an answer from somewhere beneath it. Two guards in crimson cloaks stood at an inner doorway, golden lions sewn upon their breasts. A woman carrying a small coffer gave her name to one of them and waited while the other went inside. Men in the king's colours crossed the yard behind her without troubling them.

Their guide handed them over to an understeward, who already had a boy waiting to take their baggage. He asked Tomas how many horses had come up from the river and pointed out where the household could stable them. Jon stayed beside Bucephalus until he had heard the arrangements. Aries slipped down, still looking about him, and nearly backed into a maid with an armful of folded cloth. He apologised in such haste that she smiled before going on.

Above an inner arch, a crowned stag had been carved into a fresh block of stone. The blocks around it were weathered. Arthur looked up. His hand stopped upon the buckle of his sword belt, then resumed its work. Jon followed his glance and wondered what had stood there when his uncle last rode into this yard.

Jon had scarcely handed over his reins when a voice spoke Arthur's name.

Barristan Selmy was coming down the steps. His white cloak stirred behind him, bright against steel polished so well that Jon could see the red of the walls along its curve. Sunlight showed every line in his face beneath the short white hair. He crossed the uneven stones with the balance of a man who still spent hours in the yard.

Arthur went to meet him. For a moment Barristan looked as though he would embrace him; instead they clasped forearms. His pale blue eyes searched his old brother's face. Arthur said nothing, but the tightness about his mouth eased.

Two men talking beneath the arch had stopped. One held a folded petition against his chest; the other wore a gold chain over plum-coloured velvet. Jon saw their attention move from the white cloak to Dawn at Arthur's side, then towards himself. The man with the petition leaned nearer his companion. Whatever he said did not carry.

"You are well?" Barristan asked.

"Well." Arthur's grip tightened before he released him. "It is good to see you here."

Barristan glanced towards the inner arch. "We must find time to speak."

"I would like that." Arthur had smiled at last.

"I am glad to see you without a bandage," Barristan added, lowering his voice. "Lord Yohn tells the Hand you disarmed Corbray. With Lady Forlorn drawn."

"Lyn has none either."

"Good." Some of the concern left Barristan's eyes. "Winning the joust was not enough for him, then."

"He won it fairly," Arthur said. "What came after was another matter."

Barristan glanced towards the men beneath the arch and left the question there. Jon stood beside the horses, aware of how much the two knights were leaving unsaid in the open yard.

Barristan turned to Jon.

"Lord Black. I am glad you have arrived safely. Lord Yohn's raven gave us something to talk about while we waited."

Jon returned the greeting. Barristan's mouth curved.

"Both of Ned's boys in the final, and the Greyjoy lad taking the archery. Your father seems to have made good use of his yard."

Jon smiled. "Theon will want that put in a letter."

"I expect he will. And you have my congratulations upon the squires' melee."

"Thank you, ser."

Beyond Barristan, the man in plum velvet looked at Jon again. This time his glance stayed upon him. The man with the petition said something which made him nod towards Arthur. Jon knew how much of his victory he owed his teacher. He was less certain what these men would make of the teacher following him to Dragonstone.

The knight's eyes rested briefly upon Jon's white forelock. "Your father has written of you. His Grace will want to hear everything he left out."

"He will have my answers."

"I am certain he will have questions enough." Barristan's gaze lingered upon him a moment, then returned to Arthur. "You will be shown to your rooms. The Hand has business with the council this afternoon; a servant will bring word of tomorrow's arrangements."

Barristan walked a little way with them. From the next yard Jon heard the familiar impact of practice swords, followed by a man's impatient correction. Beyond the wall rose a slender pale tower, its stone startling among the red.

"The White Sword Tower," Arthur said when Jon looked towards it.

"Where you lived?" Aries asked.

Arthur nodded. He had turned far enough to keep the tower in sight as they walked.

"Your old chamber has another occupant," Barristan said.

"I should hope so." Arthur looked back at him. "Does the window still let the rain in?"

"Only when the wind is from the sea."

"Then it is still my chamber."

Barristan's smile deepened the lines beside his eyes. A boy came hurrying across the court with a message for the Lord Commander, and he excused himself. He touched Arthur's arm before leaving, promising that they would find time.

The understeward led them beneath a covered walk, where the cool air smelled of damp stone after the warmth of the yard. Jon could hear footsteps on the floor above. An oak door opened ahead of them and a pair of servants came through carrying a rolled carpet, one walking backwards. The steward waited for them to pass, still explaining where Jon's men would take their meals.

In a recess beyond the door stood an old suit of black armour. A three-headed dragon spread across its breast, the red inlay dulled beneath a film of dust. One empty hand rested on a sword hilt. Arthur looked at it as they passed, then turned his face towards the stair. Jon glanced back once. The polished armour outside had been easy to see; he might have walked straight past this.

Their chambers overlooked a smaller court where a fig tree grew against the wall. Here the floor was covered with clean rushes, and a draught carried their dry, sweet smell towards the open window. A bed large enough for three boys stood beneath faded hangings. There was fruit upon the table and water in a glazed ewer, already beading with the coolness of the well.

Aries went to the window. "You can see the ships." He leaned to one side. "I think that is ours."

Jon joined him. Between two roofs he could make out the river and a patch of crowded quays. Aries pointed, but Black Tern's mast was too much like a dozen others for Jon to be certain. Below them a maid was shaking a cloth into the little court. She shook it again, harder, when a fig leaf caught in its fringe.

Behind them, Gawen lifted the latch of the iron-banded door and tried the connecting one with his good hand. Arthur went through to the adjoining chamber. Tomas left with the steward to see where the household would sleep, and two black-cloaked guards took their places in the passage. Jon heard one ask where the stair led and was pleased that he had not needed telling.

Aries set Patch upon the rug. The dog sniffed the leg of a chair, sneezed, and accepted royal hospitality by falling asleep beneath it.

Jon washed the harbour from his hands while Tomas went to settle the men. Gawen had claimed the chair nearest the door and was discovering that royal furniture did little for a bruised shoulder. Aries knelt beside the armour chest, checking the buckle he had meant to show the man who made it.

"Master Mott will want to see that in daylight," Jon said. "Send him word that we have arrived. Ask when he can receive us."

The page looked up. "Today?"

"We have the king tomorrow. The next day will do, if His Grace has finished with us."

Arthur came back from speaking to the steward. "Arryn will see you before the audience. There will be a message in the morning."

Jon dried his hands. Through the open window he could see a strip of the city below the hill. He had wanted to go straight back out, but there were men aboard two ships waiting to learn where they would eat and sleep, and a captain who needed to know how long his lord meant to keep him in port.

"Then we shall give the city a day of its own," he said. "I want to see Mott's forge, the Dragonpit and the streets below it."

"Wear boots you can walk in. There are three hills, and you will find a reason to climb all of them."

"You remember the ways?"

Arthur looked towards the roofs. "I lived here, Jon. I can get you from a forge to a ruined stable without losing you."

"And Flea Bottom?"

"If you mean to see it, we shall see it. Tomas will want men on both sides of you in some of those lanes."

Jon nodded. "He shall have them."

The afternoon went upon the business the voyage had left behind. Voss came up from the river to learn how long Jon expected to remain. He could give the captain no certain answer until he had seen the king. Tomas returned from the men's quarters, agreed which guards would remain with each ship and took their requests for leave. Several wanted to see the city before dark; Gawen reminded them that their lord had not yet been received at court. They would have time enough afterwards.

They ate in their own chambers. By then the light had left the fig tree, though it still caught the highest windows across the court. A servant brought chicken with leeks, bread warm inside its cloth and a dish of pears. When he lifted the cover, steam clouded the silver briefly. Aries watched him carve, trying to see how he freed the leg so neatly without looking as though he were staring.

Gawen managed his knife with his good hand until Aries quietly moved the dish nearer him. The knight thanked him. Under the table, Patch waited for something to fall. From beyond the window came the clop of a horse crossing the stones, the sound of a bucket being set down, a woman calling twice for someone who did not answer. Jon broke his bread and passed the rest of the loaf to Arthur.

Arthur remained at the window a little while after the dishes were cleared. From the farther court came the voices of men changing the guard. At one name he turned his head, listening. A second man answered, and Arthur's hand settled upon the sill. Jon watched him until the voices moved away.

"Go and see them," he said. "Gawen can bear my company."

"I would sooner bear his," Gawen said.

Arthur smiled at that, but stayed until Jon had cleared a place for his papers.

Jon took a clean sheet for his father.

He began with their safe arrival. He described the harbour and Barristan's welcome, told him Gawen was recovering and Aries had found seven towers upon a single sept. When he came to Robb, his pen slowed.

Robb was still at sea, making for White Harbor. Jon dipped his pen and wrote that his brother had fought well at Runestone. He added that he had promised to show him Dragonstone when he visited, and asked Eddard to let him come.

* * *
​

Arthur had loosened his sword belt when Gawen knocked upon the open door.

"Ser Jaime Lannister wishes to see you."

Beyond the household captain, a white cloak showed in the passage. Arthur put the belt down.

"Is Lord Black asleep?"

"At last. He wanted to finish his letter to Lord Eddard." Gawen glanced towards the adjoining door. "I told him his father would rather wait a day than have him fall asleep before the king."

"Remain with him."

Gawen returned to his chair outside Jon's chamber. Jaime came in carrying his helm beneath one arm. Arthur closed the door and checked the latch of the connecting one. Jon had finally stopped moving about on the other side.

The chamber had been meant for one man. Arthur's travelling chest stood beneath the window, with a damp cloth spread over it; supper had left the smell of leeks in the room. The shutters were open, but the river breeze scarcely reached this corner of the court. Somewhere below, water trickled into a trough. He could hear a woman laughing in a room whose window he could not see.

Two candles burned upon the table. The shorter one guttered in the draught from the door, spilling wax down its iron holder. Arthur moved it away from Dawn's scabbard. There was scarcely room for Jaime to pass between the table and the bed. He waited while Arthur moved the chair, as courteously as any guest.

He had expected to know what to say when this moment came. He had spent years imagining it. Jaime was broader through the shoulders now, with a small scar beside his hairline that Arthur did not remember. Yet he still waited for Arthur to speak first. That was familiar: the brilliant young knight who could answer anyone else in the room and then turn to see whether Arthur approved. Arthur looked at the lion clasp at his throat, fastening a white cloak that ought to have meant more than it had.

"Barristan said you were here." Jaime set his helm beside the wine jug. "I thought we ought to speak without the court listening."

"That was wise."

One corner of Jaime's mouth lifted. His eyes stayed on Arthur's face. "You used to sound more pleased when I managed it."

Arthur did not answer. Outside, men were carrying benches from the hall. One struck the stair below the window, followed by a curse and another man's laughter.

"How are Oswell and Gerold?"

"I will not speak for them."

Jaime's mouth straightened. He glanced at the second cup, then back at Arthur, and drew himself a little more upright. He kept his gloves on.

"Very well. How are you?"

"I have wondered what you would say to me for twelve years."

"You might have written."

"And you might have told Barristan why the king was dead when he returned."

"He was wounded at the Trident. You know that."

"I know where he was."

"Then you know who was left."

Arthur drew the other chair back. Its leg caught in a joint between the flagstones, making a harsh scrape. Jaime stepped aside to let him free it, but neither sat. The table remained between them, with Dawn laid across its width.

"I knighted you," he said. "I watched you take the white cloak. When the ravens came, I would not believe you had done it. Then every account agreed. Your father's army came through the gates. You killed Aerys. Lord Stark found you upon his throne."

"Yes."

"Elia was dead. Her children were dead." Arthur had meant to keep his voice level. He heard it fail upon the last word. He pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth, waiting for his throat to ease. Jaime had gone very still across the table. "And you were sitting in his chair."

Jaime looked down at the table. His lashes cast narrow shadows beneath his eyes. For a moment Arthur saw the boy who had stood before Gerold after some fault in his duties, waiting to learn how much the Lord Commander knew. Then Jaime lifted his head. His brows had drawn together, and the look he gave Arthur held none of his earlier uncertainty.

"Do you mean to hear me, or have you only waited twelve years for a chance to say it?"

"Tell me what happened."

"Which part? The king's death? You know how that ended."

"Begin with the gates."

"Aerys ordered them opened. Pycelle told him my father had come to save him. Varys told him to keep the army outside." Jaime's voice had become precise. "I was in the Red Keep. I did not give the order."

Arthur held his gaze. "Did you know what your father intended?"

"No."

"His men were wearing your colours."

"And I was wearing the king's. He made certain of that." Jaime pulled at the wool near his shoulder. "When Rhaegar left, I asked to go with him. Aerys kept me. So long as he had me, he thought my father would behave."

Arthur remembered the king watching Jaime kneel. They had known how deeply the appointment would wound Tywin. Arthur had watched Jaime receive it as an honour, had seen the pride with which he wore his white cloak, and had said nothing of the use Aerys meant to make of him.

"Rhaegar told me to guard his wife and children," Jaime said.

"And you failed them."

Jaime's head drew back a fraction. A flush rose above his collar, and he opened his mouth, but Arthur went on, the words coming more readily now than he wanted them to.

"You swore your life to that family. You killed the king, and his grandchildren died within the same walls. Now you wear Robert's cloak. Whatever he pardoned, he could not make the oath unspoken."

"No. He could not."

"You are an oathbreaker, Jaime."

Jaime's hand stopped upon the rim of his helm. For a moment his lips remained parted. He looked directly into Arthur's face, his brow lifting a little, as though he had mistaken the words and meant to give him time to correct them.

Arthur did not.

The colour ebbed from Jaime's cheeks. His eyes shone in the candlelight, and he blinked once, slowly.

"Say it again." His voice was so quiet that Arthur heard the leather of his glove creak against the helm.

"I will not pretend you kept your vows."

"You have not had to pretend anything. You have had twelve years without speaking to me."

Arthur could not deny it.

"I thought if I could speak to you alone—" Jaime stopped. His nostrils flared as he drew breath. He pulled off a glove, caught one finger in it and dragged until the stitching gave. He threw it beside his helm. "Gods, I knew what Stark thought. I knew what the whole bloody court thought." The last words came too loudly. His glance flicked towards the connecting door, and when he spoke again the roughness remained beneath the lowered voice. "I still wondered about you."

"You swore those vows, Jaime. I heard you."

"I swore other vows. You heard those as well." Jaime's bare hand moved towards Dawn upon the table, then stopped short of it. "To defend the young and innocent. To protect all women. You charged me to be just. Did the white cloak release me from that?"

"It did not permit you to kill the man entrusted to your protection."

"Then what did it permit?" Jaime leaned across the table, his face close enough for Arthur to see the small pulse beating beside his eye. "Do you remember knighting me?"

"I remember."

"I lay awake afterwards because I thought I might forget some part of it. What you said. How you held the sword." His glance dropped to Dawn. He spoke more slowly now, and Arthur had to wait while he swallowed. "My father could have brought every singer in the west to praise me and I would have wanted to hear what you thought instead."

Arthur remembered him kneeling in the trampled earth of the Kingswood. The battle was over; men were calling for water and horses, and Jaime had stared straight ahead while Dawn rested upon his shoulder. When he rose, he had looked at Arthur as though the words had changed him. Arthur had believed they should.

"I did not forget," Jaime said. "I thought you meant every word you made me swear."

He took a breath through his nose. It did nothing to steady him.

"What did you do when he went to the queen?"

Arthur's eyes moved towards the door.

"Look at me." Jaime stepped round the table. "You knew what happened in that bedchamber. You, Oswell, Gerold. You knew."

"Yes." The word was scarcely audible.

Jaime stopped close enough for Arthur to see the damp at his hairline. "She had armed men outside her door. She cried loudly enough for us to hear. Sometimes she begged him to stop." He looked past Arthur towards the wall, his jaw working. "Darry was with me the night Chelsted burned. I said we were sworn to protect her. He told me it did not include protecting her from her husband."

Arthur had heard of Chelsted's death in Dorne. No letter had told him what followed in the queen's chambers.

"I stood there," Jaime said. "I had a sword, and I stood there until he had finished."

A step sounded in the passage. Arthur held up a hand and waited until it had passed. Jaime watched him throughout, breathing through his nose. When he spoke again, his voice had fallen so low that Arthur had to lean nearer.

"Where was your honour then?"

Arthur had no answer he could bear to give. He had known about Rhaella long before that night. He had listened to Rhaegar speak of a different court, a better reign; he had put his faith in the son and continued to serve the father. The queen had remained in her husband's chambers.

"Did Oswell laugh about something else? Did Gerold remind himself of his duty? Did you tell yourself Rhaegar would put it right one day?"

Arthur looked at him.

"You did." Jaime gave a small, disbelieving nod. "Of course you did. So did I. If you could endure it, there must be a reason. You were the best of us."

He had meant the last words to wound. Arthur heard the belief which made them hurt to say.

"I was there too," Jaime said. "Do not think I have forgotten that. I stood outside her door. I stood in the hall while Rickard Stark burned and his son strangled himself trying to reach him. Gerold told me it was not for me to judge the king."

"He believed obedience was what held the order together."

"And what was it protecting?" Jaime's bare hand closed against his chest, bunching the white wool. "Then you left me with him, and I had to decide which of your lessons I was meant to obey."

Arthur's anger had not gone. Elia was still dead, and Jaime had yet to account for the children. But he could remember Rhaella thanking him for some small service, her sleeve held carefully at the wrist. He had been courteous. He had asked nothing.

"We failed her," he said. His throat was dry. "I failed her."

Jaime stared at him. His brows were still drawn together, but his mouth had slackened. He took a breath as though to argue, let it out, and looked down at the wool gathered in his fist.

"Yes," he answered at last. "We did."

His hand loosened upon the cloak. He looked exhausted suddenly, but when Arthur moved towards the chair he shook his head.

"You have not heard the rest."

"Then tell me."

"Tell me what you would have done first. You are Ser Arthur Dayne. There is a song for every man you ever killed. There ought to be an answer for this."

"To what?"

"To a king who orders his own city burned."

Arthur waited for the qualification. A street of rebels. A gatehouse he could not hold. Jaime gave him none.

"All of it." Jaime's hand opened between them. "The Red Keep. The Sept. Cellars full of pots, with people living above them who knew nothing of it. He meant to burn his own city." His voice rose, and broke upon the last word. "Tell me what you would have done. You, Arthur. I needed to know, and you were not there."

Arthur searched his face. Jaime's chin was raised, challenging him, but there was no answering curl to his mouth. A bead of sweat ran from his temple and caught beside the scar. He seemed unaware of it.

"Wildfire?" Arthur heard how little voice he had put into the word.

Jaime gave a sharp nod. The word was out now, and he seemed unable to stop.

"I heard the reports. I stood beside his chair while they told him where the pots had gone. Chelsted tried to stop it. He gave up the Hand's chain. Aerys had him burned and gave it to Rossart."

Arthur remembered hearing that a pyromancer wore the Hand's chain. He had taken it for another of Aerys's insults to the lords who had failed him. He had not imagined what Rossart had done to earn it.

Arthur put his hand upon the back of the chair. He had begun to feel the heat in his face despite the cool air from the window. "How much?"

"Enough that he thought Robert would have no city to take."

Beyond the window, a man called for help with a bench. Another told him to lift his end. The scrape of wood upon stone came clearly through the casement. Arthur looked towards Jon's closed door, then back at Jaime. There had been children sleeping in those rooms when Aerys gave his order. Servants in the kitchens. Men holding the gates for him.

"Tell me about that day," Arthur said.

Jaime turned towards the window. He did not look out. His reflection stood faintly in the darkened glass, the white cloak clearer than his face.

"We could hear the fighting. Men came in with blood on them, asking for orders. I sent to the king for leave to make terms. There was no holding the castle against the army inside the walls." He swallowed. "He wanted my father's head brought to him. That would prove I was his servant."

"And Rossart?"

"Had his own command. To light it."

Arthur's grip tightened upon the chair. "With Aerys still in the keep?"

"He meant to burn with it. He thought something would come out of the fire." Jaime looked back. The crease between his brows had deepened. "A dragon. Himself, remade. I do not know what he thought any longer." His voice thinned. "He was pleased, Arthur. Men were dying below the walls, and he was pleased."

Jaime turned from the glass. He no longer seemed to be waiting for Arthur to interrupt him. His eyes moved towards the door and lingered there while he spoke.

"Rossart had dressed as a common soldier. I caught him at a postern before he could get out. He fought." Jaime glanced at the hand from which he had torn the glove. "Not well. I killed him and went back to the throne room."

Arthur could picture that hall too well. He had stood beside its doors through summer heat and winter draughts, watching petitioners approach the iron steps.

"Aerys saw the blood and asked whether I had brought my father's head. I told him it was Rossart's blood. He went for the throne." Jaime swallowed. "I pulled him from the steps and cut his throat. Before he could find someone else to send."

Arthur let go of the chair.

"You could have taken him prisoner."

"And guarded him where? With whose men? Mine were losing the gates of the keep. His pyromancers needed a word. If one came through a door while I was finding somewhere to lock His Grace away—" Jaime broke off and pressed his lips together. "I had a sword in my hand. I knew I could stop him."

He faced Arthur fully. His breathing was audible in the pause, and a muscle worked beside his mouth. He had stopped trying to smooth his expression.

"Which vow was I meant to keep? The one that left him alive to give that order again, or the one you made me swear with your sword on my shoulder?"

Arthur could not answer.

Jaime kept looking at him. When he spoke again, his voice dropped on Arthur's name.

"Arthur. Would you have let him do it?"

"No."

The answer came before Arthur had considered what it admitted. He held Jaime's gaze and said it again.

"No. I would have stopped him."

"Even if you had to kill him?"

Arthur looked at the rumpled wool of Jaime's cloak. He had spent years imagining himself in that hall, always finding a way to reach the king, protect the children, bring the garrison to its senses. In none of those imaginings had a man been running for a postern with leave to burn them all.

"If I could stop him no other way," he said, "yes."

Jaime's eyelids lowered. He turned his face away and drew a breath which ended in a small, unsteady sound. Arthur waited for him to speak. Jaime pressed the heel of his bare hand against his mouth instead.

Arthur drew out the chair again. This time Jaime sat. He did it abruptly, as though his legs had become tired all at once.

Arthur poured water from the ewer. The spout clicked against the cup as he poured; he steadied the ewer with his other hand. Jaime watched the water settle before taking it. A red mark crossed his palm where the glove's seam had pressed.

"Why did you never tell Ned Stark?"

"He found me with the sword across my knees. He looked at the body. Then he looked at me." Jaime stared into the cup. "You know how he looks at a man he despises."

"He might have listened."

"Would you have?"

Arthur stood beside the table. He wanted to say yes. Jaime had heard enough lies spoken in a kindly voice by older knights.

"I should have."

"By the time Robert came, everyone had found a use for what I had done. My father had a son who had helped win the war. Robert had a dead enemy. Stark had a man to hate." Jaime's thumb moved against the cup. "I let them have it."

"And the other pyromancers?"

"I found two in the days afterwards. Belis and Garigus. They knew the plan. They would have done it if someone had told them Aerys still wanted it done."

Arthur lowered himself into the other chair. "You killed them."

Jaime nodded.

For a little while neither spoke. Arthur could hear the draft stirring the curtain behind him. He had come into this room prepared to face a betrayal he understood. Now he was trying to imagine the boy moving through a conquered castle, searching for men who might still destroy it, while every white brother who had taught him duty was dead or far away.

But Elia had been there too.

"The children," he said.

Jaime shut his eyes. His face had begun to regain a little colour; now it drained again. The cup stopped short of his lips.

"Do not ask me to leave them out of it," Arthur said.

"I am not asking."

"Where were you when your father's men reached the holdfast?"

"I cannot tell you the moment they reached it. I did not see them enter." His eyes opened. "I was in the hall when men found me with Aerys. Crakehall was there. Men who had known me as a boy. They looked to me for what should happen next."

"And you stayed."

"Yes."

Arthur waited. Jaime put down the cup with both hands.

"I thought my father would keep them. Alive. A prince and princess were worth more than prisoners taken from the street."

"Rhaenys was a little girl. Aegon was still in his cradle."

"I know what she was." The words came sharply, and Jaime looked up with sudden anger.

"Then tell me what you did to protect her."

Jaime held his gaze. His lips moved over an answer he did not give. Then his eyes fell, and he bent forward with his elbows upon his knees. His hair slipped over his brow. He left it there.

"I thought she was safe from my father's men. I thought Elia would yield the rooms and they would put guards at her door. I did not go to see." He looked up at last. "I told Crakehall to spread word that the king was dead. I sat down. By the time I knew what had happened in the holdfast—" His voice failed. He bent his head again. "I did not go to see."

Arthur remembered Rhaenys pulling at her father's sleeve while Rhaegar tried to finish speaking to him. He had made her wait. Some matter concerning horses, he thought, though he could no longer be certain. He remembered her small hand far more clearly than the thing which had seemed important enough to keep her standing there.

Arthur rubbed beneath one eye. He looked at Jaime until the face before him was quite clear.

"Gregor Clegane," he said. "Amory Lorch. They still serve your father."

"Yes."

"Have you ever asked him to answer for them?"

"No." Jaime got to his feet so abruptly that the chair struck the wall. He caught it, then left his hand upon its back. "I have never asked him. There. You need not drag that answer from me as well." He looked at Arthur. "Where were you?"

Arthur stayed seated. The question had come at last. On the other side of the connecting door, the boy he had kept safe was sleeping.

"I was obeying Rhaegar."

"So was I. He left his family with me and went to fight Robert. He said there would be changes when he came back." Jaime's voice shook upon the last words. He stopped until he could control it. "He never came back. Neither did you."

"His wife was here," Jaime said. "His children were here. What could he have needed of you that mattered more?"

Arthur could not tell him. Jaime watched him struggle for an answer, and the anger in his face changed to something harder to bear.

"Still his secret, then."

"It was his command. I chose to obey it." Arthur looked up at him. "I cannot swear that I would have saved them if I had stayed. I have wanted to believe it badly enough."

Jaime's hand loosened upon the chair. "I wanted you there." He turned partly away, making an effort to hold his voice steady. "When I heard you had survived, I thought you would come."

Arthur felt the shame of that more keenly than the accusation. News had reached him that Jaime lived. He had been glad, then furious with himself for being glad. Barristan's letters had let him go on knowing without ever asking Jaime to tell him what had happened.

"I ought to have asked you myself."

Jaime looked away.

"I was ashamed of you," Arthur said. "I thought you had chosen your father's victory over the king's life. I was wrong about why you killed Aerys."

Jaime turned back. "You believe me?"

The question rose a little at the end. His eyes moved over Arthur's face, searching it as he had when Arthur called him oathbreaker. Arthur could see moisture clinging to the lower lashes. Jaime tried to smile; the effort pulled at his mouth and failed.

Arthur nearly reached for him. He kept his hands upon his knees.

"I do."

Jaime's breath caught. He lowered his head too late to hide it, and a tear slipped down beside his nose. He brushed it away hard with the back of his hand, scowled at the damp upon his skin, and went to the window. His shoulder caught the curtain as he passed. He stood with it lying across his arm until he noticed and pushed it aside.

Arthur let him stand there. He had no forgiveness to give for Elia, and no way to make the years they had lost harmless.

"Killing Aerys stopped him from burning the city," Arthur said. "You should not have had to face that alone."

Jaime bowed his head. Arthur could see his reflection in the dark glass, broken by the lead between the panes. His eyes were closed. Below them, the last bench was carried away. A door slammed, and the passage outside fell quiet. The shorter candle spat as its wick sank into the wax.

After a while Arthur stood and went to the window, leaving a little space between them.

"The pots," he said. "What became of them?"

Jaime looked at him.

"You stopped the men who meant to light them. Was the wildfire taken away?"

"I do not know."

Arthur stared out at the roofs. A light moved behind a shutter on the opposite side of the court. He had seen a woman leaning from that window earlier, beating dust from a folded cloth. He wondered whether anyone had ever searched beneath those rooms.

"Barristan must hear this."

Jaime's shoulders drew back. He turned from the window, his eyes narrowing. His face was blotched beneath the eyes.

"He will ask you questions," Arthur said. "So will the Hand. If there is still wildfire under people's houses, they need men who know how to find it."

"And you will tell them all of it?"

"I will go with you. You will tell them."

Jaime rubbed his thumb along the sill. Arthur waited. He would not permit another twelve years of silence, but this first answer had to be Jaime's.

"Barristan comes off his watch before dawn," Jaime said at last. "I will bring him here."

"Wake me."

They returned to the table. Jaime picked up his helm and looked at the wine Arthur had never poured.

"The boy," he said. "You are taking him to the yard?"

"In the morning."

"I might come. After we have spoken to Barristan."

Arthur studied him. Jaime had recovered something of his easy voice, though it was hoarse now, and he was looking at the torn glove instead of Arthur. His hand rested beside it. He had not picked it up.

"Come," Arthur said.

Jaime nodded. At the door he turned as though he meant to say something else. Arthur waited, and for once Jaime did not fill the silence with a jest.

"Before dawn," he said.

Arthur opened the door. Gawen looked up from his chair. Jaime acknowledged him and walked away, the white cloak passing through the pools of lamplight along the passage.

Arthur remained there until he could no longer hear the steps. When he went back inside, the room smelled of hot wax. Jaime's cup stood where he had left it, still half full. Arthur took out a sheet of parchment and drew the taller candle nearer. He wrote the names of the three pyromancers before he could forget one. At the end of the last name, his pen stopped. He sat listening for a sound from Jon's room until the ink had dried.