Aemon of Dragonstone

[aiwonder]

Clay Filters / Here's another / More Salt / Painted Flower / More Pottery / galaxy pottery / toothpaste / Jade-like Pottery / from bones into art / coconut soap / Pearls / Pretty Gourd / Pretty Flowers /

Kintsugi / conditioner / more toothpaste / pretty glass vase / also salt / ceramic "sky after rain" / cinnabar paper - I think you can make with more than one color / lighter / bamboo sheet /

paper / paper umbrella / more soap / candles that should glow more / fabric / Sǔnmǎo , Sashimono (指物) & Kanawatsugi , korean and tibetean building techniques / black glass

fish trap / printed images / ink sticks(long term project) / super ink / ink stones / more cloth / art / Sukashibori Ranma / kumiko / vinegar / the viscous part is from cactus / tea bricks that last for a long while

/food that last for a long while / antique lighter so you know how they work / lighters models 1 , lighters models 2 . lighters models 3 , lighters models 4 , I think the flames being multicolored by lighters would be cool and there are those with mulstiple pick that can have a different color each /


Most of these are short videos, anyway even if you don't use any at least I got to share them with someone that might appreciate.

Click to shrink...

Thank you soo much!! I'm taking two, possibly three of your suggestions

 

[Yzakschwarz]

Thank you soo much!! I'm taking two, possibly three of your suggestions

Click to shrink...

the ceramic stuff I imagine lots of others need things that Dragonstone wouldn't have you might be able to acquire in a trip to east but that is a big if

 

[aiwonder]

"You will have to dine with them," Doran said.

Oberyn turned the king's invitation over. "I have managed it before."

"And afterwards?"

"Afterwards I shall complain to you. Would you prefer a letter, or shall I save it until I return?"

Doran waited. Beyond the closed door, the last of the servants' footsteps faded. The screens had been lowered against the afternoon sun; narrow bars of light crossed Oberyn's sleeve and the parchment in his hand. Below the gallery someone was teaching a child to swim. Doran heard the repeated instruction to let go of the edge.

Oberyn laid down the invitation.

"I know why you are sending me. You need not ask whether I can endure the sight of a Lannister every time we speak of King's Landing."

"I am asking whether you will speak to the men sitting beside them."

"Some of those men toasted Robert while Elia lay dead."

Doran's fingers stopped upon the loose tie of his robe. His brother had not raised his voice. He seldom needed to when he spoke of their sister.

"And some command men we will need."

Oberyn looked towards the screens. Doran let him. He could hear the child laughing now, breathless with the discovery that the water would hold him.

Rhaenys had learned in those pools. She had learned to ride here, to read a difficult letter without moving her lips, to strike Obara's shield and keep her feet beneath her. Through all those years she had answered to Deria Sand whenever a stranger called. Doran wanted more for her than another safe year in his gardens.

"If we are to bring her out of Dorne," he said, "we must have somewhere to take her. Lords who will receive her. Men who will hold a road while our own cross the mountains. I cannot obtain those things by sending another merchant to listen in a winesink."

"You could begin with the houses that fought beside us."

"Which of them would do so again?"

"That is what you want me to ask?"

"Not in those words."

Oberyn drew his chair closer. Its leg caught the corner of Doran's footstool, and pain shot through the swollen joint. Doran caught the arm of his chair before he could stop himself.

"Forgive me." Oberyn knelt to move the stool back.

"Leave the cushion."

"It has slipped."

"I know. Leave it."

His brother obeyed. For a little while they said nothing. Oberyn poured water into Doran's cup and put it where he could reach it without leaning.

"Stark will not abandon Robert," he said at last.

"I would be a fool to expect it." Doran took a careful drink. "Nor Arryn. Robert is still the boy they knew, whatever he has become to everyone else. And Hoster Tully has daughters married to both."

"A fortunate pair of weddings."

"Very. A quarrel between any two of those houses has a third to mend it. We must reckon with that."

It was easy to speak of the North as Stark and the Vale as Arryn. Letters arrived with one lord's seal; armies were counted beneath one banner. Yet lesser lords had sons to place, disputes their great lord had judged against them, old obligations which had become burdens. He had spent too many years hearing petitions to believe affection always followed obedience.

"Their bannermen need not love one another," he continued. "But displeasure is not enough. A man may curse his lord over wine and still ride when summoned. Find out what he would actually risk."

Oberyn took a mouthful of water. "For a princess he believes dead?"

"For a marriage. A wardship. Trade through his port. An acquaintance with you that he chooses to continue after the king's feast is over. Begin with something he can accept."

"You would have me come home with invitations."

"I would have you know whose invitation is worth accepting."

"And how much am I to offer in return? You cannot expect men to speak freely while I give them nothing."

"You may invite their sons here. Offer to show them our horses, our ports. A place in your company, if you think the man would be useful."

"My company?"

"You have seldom objected to finding it."

"Young lords require more attention than most." Oberyn considered him. "There are men who would send a son merely to get him out of their own hall."

"Then send that son home. I trust you to know the difference."

He meant it. Oberyn had lived among men Doran knew only through their seals. For this he needed his brother's judgement more than his obedience.

Oberyn set his cup down beside the king's letter. "An invitation from Mace Tyrell would be interesting."

"Would you go?"

"If he ever sent one."

"Willas writes."

At that, Oberyn's expression changed. "Willas writes more than his father would like, if his father knew how often."

"About horses?"

"Among other things. His last letter accused me of praising a mare I had never seen."

"Had you?"

"Her grandsire was excellent."

Doran found himself smiling. "That was not the question."

"Willas said much the same. He wants to see her walk before he pays for her breeding." Oberyn rubbed a thumb along the rim of his cup. "He has a better eye than most men who can still sit a tourney saddle. His father prefers to remember whose lance put him on the ground."

"Willas does not blame you."

"No. He is more gracious about it than I should be."

The ruined leg had given an old dislike a face and a name. Doran knew how often the story was repeated in the Reach, and how rarely anyone troubled to mention the letters that had followed it. Willas was Highgarden's heir. His friendship did not cease to matter because his father resented it.

"Write before you leave," Doran said. "Tell him you will be at the tourney. Ask whether there is anything you can do for him there."

"And wait for him to ask me to mend his sister's marriage?"

"There is no marriage yet."

"Mace intends there to be."

"So I hear. I would like to know what the king intends."

Oberyn sat back. The sunlight had moved from his sleeve to his hand.

"A Tyrell queen would make our task considerably harder."

"Yes." Doran was glad his brother said it plainly. "Mace would have good cause to defend his grandson's inheritance. We should discover how close he is to obtaining it before we count upon his discontent."

"And if Robert refuses him?"

"Then learn whether he blames Robert, Arryn, or the queen. There may be a difference between them that we can use."

"You are thinking of Willas for Rhaenys."

Doran looked down at the invitation. Prince Tommen's nameday, with a tournament and feasting to follow. Robert could summon half the realm to celebrate a child while Elia's daughter could not be called by her own name outside a locked room.

"I am thinking that she will need a husband, and that Highgarden has an heir. I have promised neither of them anything."

"You would hear her first."

"Yes."

Oberyn held his gaze until Doran added, "And I would expect you to tell me honestly what sort of man he is."

"That I can do."

"Rhaenys will have questions of her own."

"She asked what we would do if her husband's family helped win her throne, then expected to rule through her."

"What did you tell her?"

"That she should put the question to you."

Doran met his brother's eyes. "She would have Dorne behind her."

"She knows. She wants to hear how you mean to keep the crown hers."

"Then we shall discuss it this evening," Doran said.

"Keep writing to Willas," he continued. "Do not turn the first friendly letter into a bargain his father must approve. At court, speak to his brothers. See whether Lord Tyrell listens to his wife or his mother when they disagree. Find out who has been encouraging this royal match."

"And who wishes they would all go home."

"That may be easier to discover."

Oberyn laughed softly. He had begun to consider whom he would meet; Doran could see it in the way he studied the invitation again. His brother remembered faces, favours, the name of a man's favourite horse. Men who would weigh every syllable before the Prince of Dorne often spoke freely to Oberyn and regretted it later.

There were limits. Tywin Lannister would remember exactly whom he was addressing. So would the men responsible for Elia's death. Doran had not forbidden his brother to seek them out. To do so would only make Oberyn wonder what he was being denied.

"If you find a man willing to speak further, arrange a second meeting," he said. "You need not bring him to Sunspear at once. I can send someone to him."

"With what authority?"

"Enough to discuss what he asks. Any promise touching Rhaenys comes back to me."

Oberyn nodded.

Doran drew another letter from beneath the dark river stone beside his cup.

"Aron has sent word from Dragonstone. Lord Black has accepted the king's invitation."

"Then Arthur will be there."

"I expect so."

He passed the letter across. Below the news of the visit, Aron described occupied houses where he had sold roof tiles, a quay crowded with imported timber, and work still going forward beyond it. Eight moons had passed since the fighting at sea. Merchants had long since stopped arguing over how many pirates Stark's son had killed and begun asking what else he meant to buy.

Oberyn read the page once. "Ashara's boy is spending his prize money."

"Aron still finds buyers for his cargoes."

"Arthur used to complain of every journey that took him near a court. Now he has a lord who receives royal invitations."

"His sister's son," Doran said. "I doubt he considers it the same obligation."

"I should like to ask him."

"Do. Speak of Ashara. Of home. Find out whether he would welcome another visit." Doran waited until his brother looked up. "But you tell him nothing of Rhaenys."

Oberyn's mouth tightened. "I know."

"He might come here before you could explain why he must not."

"I know that too." He folded Aron's letter along its old crease. "She will ask whether I spoke to him."

"Then be able to tell her you did."

For a moment Oberyn looked as though he meant to say more. Instead he laid the report down and rose.

"I shall take Obara."

"Have you told her?"

"I thought I would wait until you had decided whether I was fit to be allowed among other people."

Doran reached for the little bell. "Send her in."

Obara arrived with dust on her boots and her hair bound back. She glanced at the royal seal as her father opened the door for her, then at the two cups on the table. Oberyn took his chair again. She remained standing until Doran waved her to the bench.

"Your father is going to King's Landing for the tourney. He wishes you to accompany him."

She looked at Oberyn. "When?"

"As soon as our passage is arranged."

"I shall need to send for my saddle."

"Send today," Doran said.

That brought her attention back to him. Obara had the patience to drill the same fault out of a girl's sword arm for half a morning, but little for a journey discussed without a departure.

"Does Deria know?" she asked.

"Not yet."

"She will want to come."

"She stays here."

Obara nodded. "I will tell her myself. And see that Nym keeps her practising while I am gone."

"Tell her I will come to her this evening," Doran said. "There are things she should hear from me."

He did not want Rhaenys learning of another journey from a servant carrying saddlebags past her door. She had waited for news from him often enough.

Oberyn asked his daughter to bring the writing case from his rooms. "I owe Willas a letter before we sail."

"About the mare?"

"About that too."

When she had gone, Doran rang for Caleotte. He drew the king's invitation towards him and turned it so the maester would see the date.

"Our answer goes today," he said. "My brother and his daughter will attend."

* * *
​

At Highgarden, Margaery had managed half a curtsy when the silk pulled tight beneath her arms.

"I cannot go any lower."

"That will do until she has loosened it," Olenna said.

The seamstress knelt beside the stool. Margaery raised her elbows while Alerie drew her curls clear of the collar. Gold flowers covered the green silk from shoulder to wrist. There were too many of them, but her granddaughter had chosen them herself and had already endured three women telling her where they ought to go.

"Let it out here," Alerie said, touching the seam beneath the girl's arm. "She must be able to reach across a table."

"And dance," Margaery added.

"And dance."

Willas sat by the open window with his bad leg stretched before him. He had surrendered his table to the sewing basket without complaint, though Olenna had seen him rescue a letter from beneath a length of ribbon. Beyond his shoulder lay the gardens, where Margaery and her cousins had spent half the summer riding whenever their septa looked elsewhere. Now there were gowns for mornings, gowns for suppers and a travelling chest nobody would let the girl pack herself.

A servant laid a heavy woollen cloak across its open lid.

"Are we staying for winter?" Margaery asked.

"Your father wishes to be prepared," Alerie answered.

"For several winters, by the look of the wagons," Olenna muttered.

Willas smiled down at his letter. Mace had spoken to the steward about extending their lodgings before speaking to his daughter. Olenna would have preferred the girl to hear of it at breakfast, when she had asked Alerie to tell her, rather than find out among the pins.

Garlan appeared in the doorway, his hair damp from the yard. He had dressed for supper but missed a spot of dried mud beside his ear.

"Have you come to laugh?" his sister asked.

"I was hoping to ask a favour."

"For the joust? I have begun one."

"Then I had better ride."

"You had better win. I pricked my finger twice."

He complimented the flowers and offered her his hand when the seamstress said she might step down. Margaery tried another curtsy upon the floor. This one succeeded.

Mace arrived before the woman had gathered her pins. He stopped in the doorway to admire his daughter, then made her turn so that he could see the back.

"Very fine. Though I shall never understand how a gown requires so many women to finish it."

Alerie drew a pin from her cuff and returned it to the seamstress. Mace stepped aside to let the woman pass, then kissed Margaery's brow.

"They have made you beautiful, sweetling."

"She was beautiful when they began," Alerie said.

"And now the prince will see it."

There it was. Her son's pleasure was so plain that Olenna almost softened towards it. He loved his children. He also wanted everyone in the realm to see what splendid children they were, preferably from below a dais.

Alerie sent Margaery behind the screen to change. Mace waited until the sewing women had gone, then shut the door and drew a letter from his belt.

"Renly will receive us when we arrive. He has offered to arrange a supper with the prince."

"Has the king asked to meet Margaery?" Olenna enquired.

"He invited us."

"He invited the realm, Mace."

His smile diminished. He unfolded the letter and began to read. Renly wrote warmly of their journey, of Loras's progress and of the welcome awaiting them. Several young nobles would attend the supper. There would be ample opportunity for Margaery to become acquainted with Joffrey.

"You see? Renly understands what I have in mind."

"I imagine the men loading your wagons understand it."

"Mother."

Willas held out his hand, and Mace passed him the letter.

"Robert need only meet her," her son continued. "There is not a girl in the realm better suited to his son. Her birth, her accomplishments, the strength of our house—"

"Yes, yes. You have been telling me since she could walk. Sit down, you great oaf. You are making her sound like a broodmare at a fair."

Mace glanced towards the screen and sat, offended. Alerie had pressed her lips together. Olenna knew that expression of old; her gooddaughter would chide her later, once she was certain she would not laugh.

Willas finished the letter.

"Renly says nothing of the queen."

"We shall pay our respects to her," Mace replied.

"Before or after she hears that her husband's brother has been arranging her son's company?" Olenna asked.

"He is the boy's uncle."

"And she is his mother. I would begin there."

Alerie held out her hand for the letter. "I shall write to her myself. Margaery ought to be presented before attending the supper."

"Certainly. There is no need to make a difficulty of it."

Olenna left that unanswered. Willas was looking towards her, waiting until his father had finished.

"I would ask Renly something first," he said. "Has Robert already approached Lord Stark?"

Mace turned in his chair.

"About Sansa," Willas added.

"There has been no announcement."

"Then we have time to discover whether there is anything to announce."

"The girl is younger than Margaery. She has been brought up in the North."

"She has been brought up by Eddard Stark," Willas replied. "That may matter more to Robert than anything else."

Olenna watched him lay his own letter beneath Renly's. She had spent years asking him to consider what another man wanted before telling her what Highgarden could offer. Mace still answered the second question whenever she asked the first.

"Lord Arryn would welcome the match," Willas continued. "He raised them both. His wife is Lady Stark's sister, and Lord Tully would have a granddaughter beside the throne. We would be asking Robert to disappoint people whose judgment he has trusted for years."

"The North cannot offer what we can," Mace insisted. "Stark is already loyal. A marriage to my daughter would bind the Reach to Robert's line."

"A sensible argument," Olenna said. Her son brightened. "Now tell me why Robert should prefer it to having Ned Stark for kin."

Mace's fingers tightened upon the arm of his chair.

"He wanted to marry Stark's sister," she continued. "He may be pleased enough to see his son marry Stark's daughter. If he were choosing solely to please himself, I would expect Sansa to be queen."

"You speak as though the matter were settled."

"It may not even have been discussed. Find out before you offer a dowry."

Margaery emerged from behind the screen in her ordinary gown. Garlan moved his cup from the window seat to make room for her.

"Renly believes the king can be persuaded," Mace said.

Willas glanced down at the letter. "He would gain a great deal by persuading him. Loras serves him already. If he helped Margaery become queen, Father would have reason to support him at court."

"And if Robert refuses?" Olenna asked.

"Renly still has our friendship."

"And your sister has been seen pursuing a prince who will marry somebody else."

Willas looked towards Margaery, then back to their grandmother.

"We need not let it become that public. Renly can arrange company for her without discussing a marriage. His help is still worth having."

"Of course it is. I want to know how much he has actually done before your father thanks him for a crown."

"I have promised him nothing," Mace protested.

"Then try to reach King's Landing with that distinction intact."

Her son reached for the wine. Garlan rose to pour it for him, and Olenna waited while they settled themselves. Outside the open window, a groom called for someone to hold a horse. Hooves struck the paving, followed by a short, indignant whinny.

"The queen might prefer another match," Willas said at last. "Lord Stark already has the king's ear whenever he wants it. If his daughter married Joffrey, that influence would continue into the next reign."

"Do you suppose she would welcome your father instead?"

"I think she might prefer a man who had to bargain with her."

Olenna lowered her cup.

Willas met her eyes. "Stark need only ask Robert. We would need her goodwill."

She considered that, then nodded. "Worth finding out. Your mother may have more to tell us after she meets the queen. But do not build your plans upon Cersei disliking a girl she has not met. She may find a northern girl with her father half a realm away less troublesome than a Tyrell surrounded by cousins."

"Then Mother's letter should concern the presentation," Willas said. "Nothing about remaining at court."

"For now."

Alerie had moved to the small desk beside the travelling chest. "I will send it this evening."

"And when she is received," Mace declared, "they will see how well she belongs there."

"When she is received, we shall thank the queen," Olenna told him. "You may leave the proclamation until later."

He shifted in his chair. "You make a simple visit sound like the negotiation of a peace."

"You ordered lodgings through the winter."

Margaery looked at her father. He spread his hands.

"Only should we wish to remain, sweetling."

"Will Mother stay?"

"If you do," Alerie assured her.

The girl relaxed a little. Olenna was glad she had asked. Mace had imagined his daughter in the Red Keep so often that it scarcely occurred to him she might have questions about living there.

"Robert has accepted our service since the rebellion," he said. "We joined him against the Greyjoys. He has no cause to mistrust us."

"He pardoned you. He still remembers which banners you fought beneath. And I would expect Stannis to have something to say about a Tyrell bride."

"We made our peace with Robert."

"Robert ate throughout the siege."

Mace's face darkened. Willas moved before his father could answer.

"Renly cannot speak for Stannis," he said. "Even if they both remember Storm's End."

Olenna gave him a brief nod. Stannis held the castle now, and the Stormlands with it. Renly's seat on the council made him useful, but his friendship would not quiet the brother who had nearly starved beneath Tyrell banners.

"I shall speak to Robert privately," Mace announced. "I can ask what he intends for the prince without committing myself."

"Then enquire. Leave the gold out of it until you have heard an answer."

"I know how to conduct myself."

"I have had many years to observe it."

A knock brought the steward with a question about the wagons. Mace gave an answer from his chair, found it insufficiently understood, and went out to inspect the arrangements himself. Garlan followed when he heard the horses mentioned.

Olenna waited until the door closed.

"You need not smile, Willas. He will be asking you how much he can afford."

"I shall tell him how much more he may obtain if he waits."

"Yes. He will listen to that."

Her grandson drew the letters together. "Loras should meet you before the city. You can speak freely on the road."

"Garlan has asked him," Margaery put in. "I shall ask too."

"Your letter may have more effect," Willas replied.

"Ask him about the prince," Olenna said. "His temper. His companions. What he does when he loses."

Willas nodded.

"He does not write much about Joffrey," Margaery admitted. "Mostly about Lord Renly and the yard."

"Then give him something else to write about." Olenna crooked a finger. "Come here, child."

Margaery came to stand beside her chair. Olenna took her hand.

"Your father has been praising you to everyone. What have you been doing?"

"I asked Loras whether the princess might like Megga and me to join her riding. And what Prince Tommen likes."

"Has he answered?"

"He said he would find out. I thought Myrcella might ask us to come again if she liked our company. Then Mother would have a reason to ask whether we could stay."

Olenna drew the girl closer and kissed her cheek.

"Well done, sweetling. You have given rather more thought to being invited than your father has."

Margaery smiled at once. Alerie looked up from her writing.

"You should have told me. I shall mention that you hoped to meet the princess."

"And Tommen?" Olenna asked.

"Everyone writes about Joffrey. I thought his brother might be pleased that somebody remembered him."

"He may be. Remember him after you have been introduced as well."

"I meant to."

Olenna squeezed her hand. "I believe you. And Myrcella must not find you forgetting her whenever Joffrey appears."

"That would be rude."

"It would. It would also make your father's intentions plain to a child."

Willas leaned forward. "Their friendship would still be worth having if the king chose Sansa."

Margaery's smile faded a little.

"So would hers," Olenna added. "Do not arrive thinking of the girl as your enemy. She has done nothing to you."

"I have never met her."

"Then you may find you like her. We shall learn what the king intends. In the meantime, your mother will approach the queen, your brother will ask the questions your father has forgotten, and you may enjoy the visit."

"And Father?"

"We shall try to keep him away from anyone who agrees with him."

Margaery laughed. Olenna released her hand, pleased to hear it.

Willas turned to the second letter. "Loras also expects Lord Black. With Ser Arthur."

"He will want another bout," Alerie said.

"He has mentioned it twice."

"He mentioned the first one often enough," Olenna recalled. Her grandson had sent a drawing to explain how the younger boy had got beneath his guard. "Perhaps this time he will spend less of the letter telling us why he should have won."

"There is a great deal being said about Dragonstone," Willas continued. "I should like a better account of what Lord Black has done there."

"We have one of his clocks," Alerie said. "We know what his work is worth."

"And now he has a fleet and Ser Arthur at his shoulder," Olenna replied. "Robert is fond of him. I shall be interested to see what he asks of that fondness."

"He is still very young."

"So I hear whenever somebody tells me what he has done." She glanced at Margaery. "Be courteous to him. And if Robert spends the feast praising him, watch the prince."

"To see whether he is jealous?"

"To see how he bears it."

Alerie finished her letter and laid it aside to dry. Supper would be served soon. From the passage came Mace's voice, asking a servant where his eldest son had gone.

"Here, Father," Willas called.

"Good. Come along. We shall eat together before everyone scatters."

Margaery went to the sewing basket and brought out Garlan's favour. One petal of the gold rose was larger than the others.

"I have promised him this," she told Olenna. "Must I give the prince something too?"

"Has he asked?"

"No."

"Then finish your brother's."

The girl folded the silk over her needle. Willas rose and reached for his cane; she went to take his free arm.

"Will you be lonely when we go?"

"With half of Highgarden finding reasons why I must settle something before Father returns?"

"In the evenings."

"A little," he admitted. "You will have to write."

"Everything?"

"As much as you wish."

They went out together. Mace was waiting in the passage, and Margaery stopped to show him the favour. He praised it extravagantly. Olenna heard him promise that Garlan would win, just as he promised that Joffrey would love her.

She took Alerie's arm and followed. Let him be right about the joust, at least. It would give them all a pleasant supper afterwards.

* * *
​

Robb caught Theon's sword against his shield and drove him back three steps before the edge of the well brought them up short.

"Yield."

"With that great thing on your arm? Give me one and try again."

"You chose to fight without it."

"I chose to show you how a man might fight without it. You were meant to learn."

Robb laughed and lowered the wooden sword. Theon immediately struck him across the thigh.

"And there is your lesson."

"That was after."

"After what? I had not yielded."

A pair of grooms had stopped beneath the arch to watch. Robb took his sword up again, but Martyn's voice carried across the yard.

"You have time to wash. You do not have time to begin another."

Theon offered his sword hilt first, all courtesy now that he had landed the last blow. Robb snatched it from him and took both to the arms rack. His leg smarted. He would have won the next exchange, shield or no shield, and Theon knew it.

They had been in White Harbor three days. Each morning the captain had wanted a different wind, and each morning Robb had thought of the tourney beginning without them. Today the ship would sail. Martyn had brought the word himself, finding them in Lord Manderly's yard before breakfast.

Robb pushed his wet hair from his forehead. Above the white walls, gulls circled in a sky clear enough to see for miles. There was no sign of the clouds the captain had objected to yesterday. He hoped the man had noticed.

A servant met them beneath the arch with a packet from Winterfell.

Robb broke his father's seal while Theon peered over his shoulder. The king's invitation had brought them this far south already; for a dreadful moment he imagined being called home. Then a second folded letter slipped from the first, and he recognised Jon's hand.

He caught it against his chest before it fell.

"Well?" Theon demanded.

"Jon wants us at the tourney."

"I told you he would be there."

"He asks Father to let us come." Robb grinned down at the page. "He does not know we have left."

"Does he ask for me?"

Robb held the letter just beyond his reach. "There is something here about keeping you away from the archery."

Theon caught his wrist. They struggled briefly over it until Robb saw the parchment beginning to crease and let go. Theon read standing in the archway, while a servant carrying a basket of linen had to squeeze past them.

"Gawen and Vaelor," he murmured. "He means to enter them both."

"And himself, I would wager."

Theon looked at him over the parchment. "You cannot ask him to stay among the squires merely so you can have another try."

"I can ask him to bring a sword into a yard."

That earned a grin. Robb had practised the answer to Jon's winning blow at Runestone so often that Ser Rodrik had begun attacking him from the other side to stop him expecting it. He was stronger now. His reach had grown. Jon would have improved too, with Arthur beside him, but Robb wanted to find out by how much.

He took the letter back. The last lines were hurried, squeezed beneath the rest. There was no question about ships or the men who had gone south to seek work. Jon simply wanted them with him.

Robb read those lines twice.

His father's note told him to present himself to the king and Lord Arryn promptly, and to remember that Martyn had charge of the escort. At the bottom Ned had added a message for Jon: ask about his hand, and tell him his father expected a proper answer.

"Still worrying over that?" Theon asked.

"Jon would say he was well if the hand fell off."

"He would want to know why you had not caught it."

Robb folded the letters together, smiling. He could hear his brother's voice now, quite plainly.

They washed, changed, and went up to take their leave of Lord Manderly.

Wyman sat by an open window with breakfast before him. He had been told of the sailing already, but insisted that they eat while the horses were taken down. The smell of hot bread made Robb realise how hungry the practice had left him. He took a chair when offered; Theon waited until their host waved him towards the other.

"Your father will have my letter before you reach King's Landing," Wyman told Robb. "And you will find rooms ready when you arrive. My man will meet you at the quay."

"Thank you, my lord. Jon is coming too. Father has sent his invitation after us."

"So I hear. With enough baggage to occupy a quay of his own, if the masters are to be believed." Wyman watched Robb spread butter over his bread. "What is he bringing?"

Robb paused. "He has not told me."

It was the third time someone had asked since their arrival. A shipmaster had wanted to know how many galleys Jon meant to build; one of Wyman's knights had asked about his fine white salt. Robb knew something of the plans, but nothing he could promise these men.

"Will you ask him to keep some of it for my buyers?"

Robb put down his bread. "I can ask him to speak with them. I do not know what he has promised already."

Wyman studied him a moment, then nodded.

"Tell him I have merchants at the tourney, and they have coin. I should like them to come home with something besides tales of what the men of Gulltown bought."

"I will tell him."

"Before Robert gets hold of him, if you can. The king has always liked a battle told over supper."

"The tale will have grown on its way there," Theon said. "It certainly has on its way here."

"Has it?"

"Last night the captain at your table gave Jon three thousand pirates to fight. He began with two, before they refilled his cup."

Wyman laughed. "Then it is fortunate he went to bed when he did."

Robb smiled, but the numbers troubled him. At Winterfell they had read the accounts eight moons ago: ships taken, men freed, men killed. Now strangers made the fighting larger every time they spoke of it. Jon might have to spend half the feast explaining what had never happened.

"He lost men," Robb said. "They never seem to add those."

Wyman's hand stopped over the dish.

"No," he answered. "They seldom do."

For a moment the only sound was a cart passing below the window. Robb looked down at his plate, wishing he had said it differently. He had not meant to rebuke his host. Wyman reached for his cup and let the moment pass without making him explain.

"Your father tells me you mean to compete."

"In the squires' melee, my lord."

"Good. We must have someone to cheer for. Though I advise you to leave a little time for the feast. A young heir does well to know the men with whom he may have to deal."

"Father said much the same."

"Then listen to him. He made friends in the Vale who have stood beside him ever since." Wyman turned towards Theon as well. "There will be men from every part of the realm. Find a few you like, and write to them when you come home."

"I shall begin with the ones who do not strike after yielding," Robb said.

"I never yielded," Theon replied, and Wyman asked for the account of their morning's practice.

By the time Martyn came to fetch them, Robb had eaten two pieces of bread and most of the fish. Their host heard that Tommen's nameday cloak had gone aboard safely, promised that any later letters would follow them south, and held out his hand.

Robb clasped it. "There is one I would like to send before we go. Would your maester send it to the Redfort for me?"

"Lord Horton?"

"Domeric Bolton. If he is still there."

Wyman nodded. "Ask for whatever you need."

They were given parchment in the next room. Through its open door Robb could hear Martyn answering Wyman's questions about the passage. Theon fetched his arrow case and sat beside the window, turning each shaft against the light while Robb drew a stool to the writing table. He put two aside with damaged feathers.

"Domeric meant to come north," Robb said. "He told us at Runestone. He was still speaking of it in his last letter."

"Perhaps Lord Redfort has found someone worth keeping him in the Vale."

"Then he can bring her."

Theon laughed. "Put that in. Lord Redfort will enjoy it if he reads the letter first."

Robb had begun with Domeric's name. He paused with the quill above the next line. They had promised another race beside the horse lines at Runestone. Domeric had been carrying his battered shield, pleased for them both despite his own defeat. Robb remembered telling him to come and speak to Father himself. He had meant it then, but there had always seemed to be time.

He dipped the quill again.

We are sailing for the king's tourney today. Jon will be there, and I would have you join us if Lord Redfort gives you leave. You spoke of coming home. Come by way of King's Landing, and we can make the passage north together afterwards.

He asked Domeric to stay at Winterfell before going on to the Dreadfort. There would be horses waiting, and Robb had not forgotten the race. He did not say he would win it. Domeric would know that was what he intended.

"Theon is coming as well," he read aloud as he wrote.

"Tell him I won at Runestone."

"He was there."

"Tell him I mean to win again."

Robb added that Theon expected them to watch him shoot. Theon closed the case, keeping the damaged arrows out, and came to read over his shoulder. He found nothing to object to, which was unusual enough to make Robb glance up.

"Will that do?"

"Aye."

Robb signed his name. When the maester came for the letter, he asked whether there was time for it to reach the Redfort before Domeric left. The man could promise only to send it at once. Robb watched him carry it out, then hurried after Martyn before the captain could begin calling for them.

Outside, White Harbor was bright with sunlight. Along the descent to the water, children pressed themselves against doorways to let the riders through. Theon had put on his fine black doublet, the golden kraken spreading across his chest. Robb noticed that he had cleaned the silver gull he had won in the Vale and fastened it where anyone could see.

"You have polished that again."

"It was tarnished."

"You polished it yesterday."

Theon looked down to adjust it. "Salt air."

At Wyman's table they had heard that Ser Harras Harlaw might ride in the king's joust. Theon had asked who brought the news and whether the man had seen him depart. He had said little about it afterwards.

"Do you know Ser Harras well?" Robb asked.

"I knew him. He came to Pyke when I was a boy."

"Will you speak to him?"

"Why would I not?"

"I did not say you wouldn't."

Theon kept his eyes upon the way ahead. A cart made them fall into single file; when the street widened again, he brought his horse back beside Robb's.

"He may have seen my mother."

Robb looked at him. Theon was still watching the street.

"I hope he has," Robb said.

Theon nodded. That was all. Robb let him ride without another question until the roofs gave way to the harbour and both had to draw aside for a team hauling a laden wagon uphill.

Their ship waited beneath the white merman. Men called from her deck as the last of the horses crossed the planks. Beyond her, fishing boats were working into the harbour, their crews shouting at one another over a tangle of oars. The smell of pitch and fish grew stronger as they approached the water.

Robb dismounted beside Martyn and gave his reins to a groom. The captain wanted them aboard. He sounded cheerful now that they could no longer ask him when he meant to leave.

Theon went ahead. Robb stopped long enough to draw Jon's letter from inside his coat.

For eight moons his brother had been safe on Dragonstone. There had been letters enough to prove it. Yet Robb still remembered standing beside Father while the names of the dead were read out, waiting for the list to end. Fergus had been among them. Fergus, who had ridden away in black with the others, and whom Robb had expected to see whenever he next saw Jon.

Someone else would be serving in his place now.

He had wanted to ask about that in a letter. Each time he began, the words had sounded stiff or prying, and he had written about the horses or Arya instead. He could talk to Jon when he was there. They could walk somewhere without an old knight listening over their shoulders, and Robb would not have to guess how his brother had taken a question by how long the answer took to arrive.

Theon waited at the top of the plank.

"Are you coming?"

Robb tucked the letter away and crossed to him. Below deck a horse stamped; overhead, a sailor was climbing with a rope looped over his shoulder. Theon caught Robb's sleeve and drew him out of the man's way.

"I want to see him," Robb said.

"So do I."

Theon's hand lingered upon his arm, then fell away. They went to the rail together while Martyn counted the men aboard.

The shoremen cast off. Robb watched the gap widen between the ship and the quay, one hand upon the warm wood. He wished Domeric could be certain to come. He wished Father had come, though he had understood the reasons when they were given.

Theon leaned beside him, squinting towards the harbour mouth.

"Jon had better have found us somewhere decent to practise."

Robb smiled. "He will have."

* * *
​

Daenerys caught the corner of the awning before it touched the puddle. She had washed it yesterday and spent most of the evening mending the tear. The sailmaker would make her wash it again if she brought it back dirty.

"Through here, girl."

She turned sideways between a stack of casks and the shop door. Inside, three men were stretching canvas across a table. The sailmaker cleared a place for her bundle with his elbow, knocking an empty cup to the floor. He left it there while he unfolded her work.

Daenerys held the other end. He pulled at the seam, looked closely at the corner she had patched, and grunted.

"Better. Do the others that way."

She waited while he found her coins. One had rolled beneath a weight. When he pushed them across the table, she counted them into her palm before putting them away.

There was another bundle beside his stool.

"Those too?" she asked.

"Tomorrow. I've yet to cut out the rotten parts." He turned to a man whose yellow beard was tied beneath his chin. "You can have this one now. Come back in two days for the rest."

"I'll be loading then."

"Send someone."

The man sighed and lifted the awning onto his shoulder. Daenerys moved towards the door to let him pass.

"At least leave me time to put the things up before King's Landing. Half the harbour is trying to get there."

"Then you'll have company." The sailmaker bent to retrieve his cup. "What is it this time?"

"A tourney for the little prince. Tommen. After the harvest."

Daenerys had heard sailors talking of a tourney that morning. She had scarcely listened until one had said the king would feed everyone who came. She wondered if he meant everyone, even the people who only stood outside to watch.

The captain shifted the bundle. "A stop at Dragonstone first, if the wind serves. I've cloth to put ashore in Blackburn."

Daenerys followed him out.

"Do you know Qavo Ryndoon?"

He looked down at her. "Who?"

"A shipwright. He went there from Myr. His daughter is my friend."

"There are yards at Blackburn. Someone will know him."

"Would you take a letter?"

He had started towards the quay. She went with him, keeping beside the wall as a cart passed. The awning hid most of his face.

"A small one," she added. "I could pay."

"Bring it here when I collect the rest. Put her father's name on it, and the yard. I'll give it to someone ashore."

"Could you bring an answer?"

"If there's one waiting when I come back."

He stepped off the kerb and shouted to a sailor sitting on a bollard. Daenerys stopped. She wanted to ask how long he would stay at Dragonstone, but the sailor was already coming for the bundle and neither man was looking at her.

Two days. She could write a little letter in two days.

On the walk home she tried to remember what Naella's handwriting had looked like. They had tied a bundle together when Qavo's family left Myr, struggling with the spare sailcloth Salla had given them. Naella had held the knots while Daenerys pulled. She remembered that clearly, and little Tala sleeping against Anara through all the noise of their departure. She could not remember whether Naella had written her name anywhere.

Perhaps she would not recognize Daenerys's writing either. She would have to say who she was at the beginning.

Before she went upstairs, she counted the money again beneath the arch. Bread, lamp oil, something to put by for the room. She could spare two coins if she took the other bundle tomorrow. Those she tucked into a fold of her sleeve. She had never paid anyone to carry a letter. Perhaps two would be too little. He might want more to bring an answer back, and she did not know how long that would take or whether she would still have work when he returned.

Viserys was in their room, cutting a frayed end from the leather on Ser Willem's sword. Beside him lay bread and a few olives in a dish. He looked at the empty cloth under her arm.

"Did he pay you?"

She showed him the coins.

"All of it?"

"Yes." She set the cloth on the bed. "May I have a little parchment?"

"What for?"

"I found a captain who goes to Dragonstone. He said he would take a letter to Naella."

The knife stopped against the leather.

"You told him our names?"

"I told him hers."

"And where we live?"

"No. I only asked if he could take it."

Viserys put the knife down. "You are not writing to Dragonstone."

Daenerys had been afraid he would say that. She had thought he might let her if it cost very little, but she had not asked the captain how much. She should have asked.

"It would go to the shipyard," she said.

"Who pays the shipwright?"

She pulled at a loose thread in the wrapping cloth.

"Who, Dany?"

"Jon."

"Lord Jon. Do you imagine Qavo would refuse him if he asked to see it?"

"I'm writing to Naella."

"Her father builds his ships." Viserys rose and went to the shutter. The room grew too warm when it was closed, but he drew it in until the noise from the street softened. "What would you tell her?"

She had thought of so many things on the way home. Now she could only think that he would object to each one.

"I wanted to ask if they were well."

"And tell her we are in Tyrosh. Then she tells her father, and he tells someone else. By the time it reaches the castle, they know which ship brought the letter and where its captain found you."

"He found me at the sailmaker's."

"Where you go every day."

"I needn't tell her about this room."

"You will put your name on it, won't you?"

She had to. Naella could not answer a letter without knowing who had sent it. Daenerys wished she had asked the captain more before coming home. He might have known a way to do it safely.

Daenerys looked at the cloth in her hands. She had been pleased that the sailmaker trusted her with more work. She knew the way without having to think about it, even when the carts blocked the usual turning.

"Naella wouldn't tell them to hurt us."

"She need only tell them where we are."

Outside, someone called for a boy to bring water. Viserys waited until the shouting stopped.

"Do you remember Narbo's house?"

"Yes."

"How kindly everyone spoke to us?"

"I remember the door."

That silenced him. Daenerys remembered it closing, and being on the wrong side when her brother called her name. She had no wish to remember the guards. She put down the cloth.

"Qavo wasn't there. Neither was Naella."

Viserys looked away. "You cannot know what people will do because you like them."

"She was my friend."

"Years ago."

Daenerys hated that answer most. She had worried about it herself. Tala must be much bigger now. Naella might have other friends, girls who knew her house and saw her every day. She might have forgotten the things Daenerys wanted to ask about.

"That's why I want to write."

He turned from her and opened the shutter again. Light fell across the bread. She had not eaten since morning, but she did not want to sit down and let him think they had finished.

"Your letters say where we are."

"My letters go to men I choose."

"You let Narbo know."

"Enough."

She flinched at his voice. Viserys saw it; his hand dropped from the shutter.

"You think I enjoy this?" he asked. "You think I wish to spend my days asking other men for what should be ours?"

"I didn't say that."

He watched her, waiting for something more. She wanted him to sit beside her and ask what she would put in the letter. Once he might have helped her choose the words. But if she asked now, he would want to tell Qavo things, and she would have to argue again.

Viserys returned to the bed. He broke the bread and held out the larger piece.

"Eat. You can think about it tomorrow."

"The captain comes back the day after."

"Then there is time."

She took the bread. He pushed the olives towards her and picked up the sword. Presently he asked whether the sailmaker had given her another bundle. She told him it would be ready tomorrow.

"Wait for me before you go. I'll come with you."

Daenerys nodded. She could still see the captain stepping down from the kerb, already turning away before she had finished asking her questions.

That evening she searched through the scraps Viserys kept beneath his writing things. There was a piece with enough clean space on the back. He had used the other side to add up the cost of their passage to Tyrosh. She remembered the voyage better than the numbers: sleeping with her ear against a bundle, waking whenever a foot struck it, then being afraid to move because someone might take the place.

She laid the parchment on the stool and began with Naella's name.

For a while she wrote only questions. Was Anara well? Had Tala learned to sew? Was their house near the yard? She wanted to know if Naella could see the sea from her window. By then she had used more than half the space without saying anything about herself.

She added that they were in Tyrosh and that she had work mending awnings. The letters were too large. Viserys always told her to leave room at the bottom, and now there was scarcely any.

She looked towards him. He had fallen asleep with one boot still on. The knife lay on the bed beside the finished sword. She moved it to the stool before returning to the last line.

She wanted to ask Naella to write back. To do that, she would have to tell her where an answer could find her. She held the quill over the parchment until a drop gathered at its point, then put it down.

There was room for the sailmaker's name, if she wrote small. In the morning she could ask whether he would keep a letter for her.

Daenerys left the space empty. She waited for the ink to dry, folded the parchment, and put it inside her sewing roll with the coins for the captain.

 

[aiwonder]

Vhalar spat a shred of dried meat over the side and told Goro to bring the oars in.

The wind had freshened while Jon was below. It filled the sail above Vhalar's galley and sent the loose ends of the ropes tapping against the mast. Cloud hung low over the mouth of the Blackwater. The water beneath it was green-grey, breaking white along the ship's side whenever her bow dropped into a wave. Jon steadied himself against a rail rough with dried salt.

The rowing benches filled the long waist of the galley, with scarcely room between them for a man to pass. Spare clothing and rolled blankets lay beneath the seats. Along both sides the oars rose together, shedding water across the hull. A sailor ducked under the loom of an oar and received a cuff from its owner for his trouble. The men drew the blades in, breathing hard; beneath the creak of the mast Jon could hear bare feet shifting upon the wet boards.

"He has been told twice," Goro said.

"Then find him work where he cannot trip a rower."

Goro caught the sailor by the sleeve and sent him forward. He did it without interrupting the orders passing down the galley. Jon watched the last oars settle before turning towards the raised stern.

Gawen emerged from the horse stalls, brushing straw from his knees. Aries followed with the empty water bucket, his sleeves rolled above his elbows.

"They have all drunk," Gawen told Jon. "Bucephalus is eating again. That bay will have to wait until we stop moving."

Arthur took the bucket while Aries pulled his sleeves down. He had found a place beside the mast where the boy could see the shore without obstructing the crew. Tomas moved aside to let Jon pass, the pale scar above his brow showing beneath his windblown hair. He left Darys by the after hatch and followed Jon as far as the stern steps. From there Ser Tomas could watch the length of the deck.

Vhalar moved his foot from the step. "My lord."

There was more colour in him than there had been on the voyage from Bloodstone. He had put flesh back over his cheekbones, though the broken tooth still showed when he spoke. His thigh troubled him after sitting; Jon had seen him work the stiffness out before dawn, one hand against the mast, his face turned from the benches.

"The horses?" Vhalar asked.

"Standing. Gawen thinks one dislikes the pitch of the deck."

"It can complain to the sea."

"He has tried that."

Vhalar's mouth moved at one corner. Beyond him, Goro and Denys's first mate stood beside the steersman, watching a small sail ahead. Goro pointed to something Jon could not make out. The mate leaned across him for a better look.

Vhalar pulled another piece of meat apart with his fingers. For a while they watched a fishing boat turn away from their course. Its patched sail had a narrow red border; a boy in the stern bent over a coil of line, paying it out hand over hand.

"You have plenty of men who can carry you across the bay," Vhalar said. "You could have left me counting water casks."

"Would you rather be there?"

"I would rather have something worth doing."

Jon rested his forearms on the rail. Below, Darys stood near the after hatch. Farther forward, a soldier in black helped a rower free the end of a blanket from beneath a chest. The galley had carried those men from Dragonstone as readily as it had carried its old crew.

"Marrec will need escorts if this visit brings the orders he expects," Jon said.

"For the salt?"

"The salt and the armour. Porcelain too."

Vhalar stopped pulling at the meat. "How much porcelain?"

"We have more aboard than the king's gift. Ellyn will be making more while we are away."

"I have taken ships with gold in the master's chest without finding so much as a porcelain bowl. Any we did take, I kept in my own cabin until it sold." He looked towards the after hatch. "All that way from the far east, and you have a woman making it a short sail from the men who will buy it."

"It took her a great deal of work."

Vhalar rubbed a fragment of meat from his thumb. He had seen the crates come aboard; only now, Jon thought, was he considering what might follow them. A captured chest could be sold once. The kilns would still be firing after Marrec had emptied his hold.

"Then give me one of those voyages," Vhalar said. "A long one. I am sick of coming home before the men have settled to their oars."

"When there is a voyage for you, Denys will give you your orders."

Goro called to Vhalar from beside the steersman. The wind had drawn farther round; the yard needed turning. Vhalar listened, looked at the sail and sent two men to help. He waited until the ropes were moving before returning to Jon.

Eight moons in Jon's service had given him plenty of time to make himself useful. The harbours and watering places Jon had demanded were already marked upon Denys's charts. Jon had sat over them with his admiral, reading Vhalar's account of the men who held each anchorage and the merchants who bought their prizes. There was knowledge there that would take another captain years to gather.

Denys had found him easier to employ than to please. He still complained about the officers aboard his old ships, though there were fewer quarrels now that the crews had learnt to work together. He brought the galley home when ordered, even when he thought there was reason to stay at sea. Jon cared more for that than the temper in which he obeyed. So far, Denys had found no cause to remove him.

The waiting was wearing on him. He had stood beside Goro while they were still being towed out of Blackburn, impatient to get the oars in the water, and had scarcely left the deck since. A voyage gave him something to attend to beyond his grievances. Jon doubted that carrying chests and horses would satisfy him for long. He wanted to take ships again, with men looking to him for the order to close.

Jon had read the old cargo accounts too, with their lists of captives and the sums paid for them. He had no intention of giving Vhalar back the freedom to choose whom he preyed upon.

Vhalar pushed the remaining meat back into its cloth. "You keep me close, Lord Jon."

Jon met his eyes. The creak of the steering oar filled the pause.

"I have given you work. Is there a difficulty?"

"No, my lord."

Vhalar looked away first, towards the shore growing out of the haze. He had asked for the three galleys together twice since their repair. Denys had sent the requests up with his own answer written beneath. Jon had agreed with it both times.

"Rolo has not stopped sailing because we have," Vhalar said.

"Have you news of him?"

"Nothing your admiral has not heard."

"Then bring me news when you have it."

"You said we would go back."

"We will. I have not named the day."

A gust lifted the loose end of Vhalar's belt cloth. He caught it and tucked it away with unnecessary care. Down the galley, Goro was making a man shift his feet so that another could pass with a bucket. Vhalar watched him, saying nothing.

"Goro has kept his crew together," Jon said.

"What remains of it."

"And taught the men put beside them."

Vhalar watched a pair of rowers adjust their bench cushion. One was a dark-bearded man from his old company; the other still wore his hair bound in the northern fashion.

"They learn," he admitted. "Once they stop telling us what they did on the last ship."

Jon let him have that. More than two dozen ships answered to him now, ten of them gained from pirates. Qavo's two galleons were not yet at sea. He had left Fair Wind behind before Bloodstone for want of a fighting crew; Denys would need more sailors before Jon gave him another handful of captured hulls.

Still, a few galleys sent hunting through the Stepstones could earn their keep. Vhalar knew those waters and the men who preyed upon them. Taken cargoes could pay for the voyages, and sound prizes would enlarge the fleet. Freed captives who wished it could come to Dragonstone. The pirates themselves could break stone for his roads.

Jon wanted marines of his own, a body of men who stayed with the fleet and learnt to fight aboard ships and storm a defended landing. Goro could teach them their work at sea. Men from the legion could sail beside them in turns, under their own officers, and carry what they learnt back to their centuries.

He would have to begin with few enough ships that Denys could still protect the island and escort Marrec's cargoes. Even a victory would take men from the hunting squadron: someone had to sail each prize home, guard its prisoners and keep a damaged hull afloat. Those men would need wages whether they found plunder or spent a moon chasing empty water.

And Vhalar would want Rolo. Give him ships and he would soon argue that settling his own quarrel served Jon's purpose. Denys would choose the crews and give the orders. Vhalar could earn a wider command by bringing back what he was sent for. Jon meant to build a navy he could use for years; he could afford to see how the man handled a few voyages first.

The near bank was clearer now, low ground above the water with cattle grazing behind a fence. Farther upriver, masts crowded the grey sky.

"Your father took a fleet into a king's war," Jon said. "He cannot have expected every captain to like his neighbour."

"My father expected men to do as he said."

"Did they?"

Vhalar turned his head. Jon thought for a moment he would refuse the question.

"While he could pay them. While he could win." He rubbed a thumb over an old scar on his forearm. "When the warehouses were taken, there were fewer men who remembered what he had done for them."

He had been particular about his own heirs when Ethan read out the grant. The house, orchard and two fields had been his since the first days after Bloodstone; his lawful children would hold them after him. Jon had given him the security his father had lost. What Vhalar wanted now was a chance to enlarge it.

Jon straightened from the rail.

"I may have something for you after this trip," he said. "A plan I mean to speak to Denys about."

Vhalar's fingers stopped upon the scar. "What sort of plan?"

"We will speak of it when we return."

Vhalar studied him, then glanced towards Goro. Before he could ask more, the captain called him to look at the traffic upriver. This time he went without another word.

Jon followed. Beyond the merchant ships, roofs climbed the hills in uneven brown and russet rows. The Red Keep stood above them on its river cliff, its pale red towers clear of the smoke trailing from the houses below. Yellow banners pulled from the battlements. Lower down, warehouse roofs hid the feet of the city walls; between the masts Jon could make out the dark mouths of their doors and men waiting with carts.

A broad merchantman was being towed across the reach ahead, moving slowly enough to seem still until he saw the strain on the towrope.

"We can pass astern," Goro said.

Vhalar watched the boat towing her. "Not with that line. Hold off."

The steersman eased them round. A moment later the towboat lost ground; the rope went slack, and the merchantman's stern swung into the water they would have crossed. Goro called for the oars again.

Vhalar did not look back to see whether Jon had noticed.

Jon left him to bring the galley in. By the mast, Arthur had pointed out the river gate to Aries. The boy was looking into the streets beyond it when Jon joined them.

"Will we see Rilla while we're here?" Aries asked.

Jon followed his gaze. Somewhere beyond those roofs was the cookshop, and the neighbour's room where a frightened boy had hidden with a hand too swollen to hold his food. That hand would have healed by now, well or badly. Aries had not forgotten Rilla's account of him, or the letters they had sent.

"I'll have Arryn bring the men he sent to her," Jon said. "We'll hear what became of the children and what has been done for them. Then we can go and see."

"Rilla too."

"Rilla too." Jon rested a hand on his shoulder. "Come with me when they give their account. You'll want to ask them yourself."

Aries nodded. A sailor called for room beside the mast; Arthur drew the boy back with him, and Jon went aft to fetch his cloak.

* * *
​

Aurane found him beneath the after shelter while they waited for space at the quays. Through its open side Jon could see a coaster unloading horses at the berth they had been promised. A blue chest bearing the crossed black warhammers of House Rykker hung from her hoist; below it, two men were trying to make a groom move his horse out of the way. The groom would not move until someone found its missing bridle. Goro had already sent a boat ashore to speak to the quay master.

Beyond the coaster, a lord's baggage covered most of the next landing: rolled carpets, tent poles bound in bundles, a dismantled bed with its carved posts wrapped in sacking. A bedpost caught one of the onion sacks stacked in their way. Onions rolled beneath the porters' feet, and the owner caught a man by the sleeve, demanding payment. Another ship was trying to discharge passengers into boats because there was nowhere left to put her alongside. Women held their skirts above the bilgewater; a mailed man sat with a small child on his knees while his sword belt rested across his shoulder.

Farther upriver the banks were bright with canvas. Jon could make out the larger pavilions above the smaller tents, and pennons moving where the water opened a view between the ships. The tournament grounds lay beyond the city walls. Even from here he could see carts filing towards them. He had brought a few chests to put before the king; half the realm seemed to have brought its household.

He had unwrapped Ellyn's cup while they waited. A small dark mark beside the handle had worried him until he rubbed it away with his thumb.

"May I?"

Jon handed it over. Aurane held it towards the daylight, turning it until his fingers showed faintly through the thin white wall.

"I still cannot believe you know how to make porcelain. I'm surprised some angry lord in the east hasn't sent an assassin after you." He studied the painted edge. "Where did you say you learnt it?"

"I never told you."

Aurane smiled. "No. You did not."

He asked easily, as he had asked after the ships and the men Jon intended to hire. Monford would be interested in this cup. Jon could almost hear the questions Monford would put to Aurane: how many kilns, how many workmen, how much was already promised elsewhere.

Aurane had also spent half the morning below with Eddison, who had been ashamed of being sick where the sailors could see him. Jon had heard laughter coming from the horse stalls before either emerged.

"Will your brother come to the showing?" Jon asked.

"Once he learns what you have brought." Aurane tilted the cup again. "He may pretend that he came to ask about the ships."

"Bring him. I would like to see his face when he sees these."

Aurane looked at him over the rim, then smiled and gave the cup back. "So would I."

Outside, a boatman shouted for someone to catch a line. The galley moved gently beneath them. Jon folded the cloth round the cup; Aurane caught one corner before it slipped into a puddle left by the last shower.

"Loras will be waiting to fight you," he said. "If Robb does not get there first."

"You seem very certain I shall have time for everyone."

"I intend to put my own name in early. You promised me a turn with the lances."

"I said when there was time."

"And here we are, with a whole tournament arranged to help you find it."

Jon laughed and passed him the wrapped cup while he fastened his cloak. Goro called from the stern that they were going in. Aurane rose with the bundle tucked beneath one arm and ducked under the low beam.

Behind him, a sailor was tying the cover over Tommen's gift. The wooden horse stood upon four broad wheels, its back low enough for a child to sit astride and push himself along with his feet. It was much larger than the little pull-along toy Aries had bought on their last visit. One painted ear showed through the cloth.

Jon tucked the ear safely beneath the covering. His son had broken one on the horse he had carved for him, years before this life. He remembered the child bringing it to him in both hands, certain that he could mend it. For a moment the noise of the quay seemed very far away.

"My lord?" the sailor asked.

"Keep it clear of the heavier chests." Jon stepped back. "It goes to the castle with Perrin."

Munin rattled the wicker beside his boot. Jon lifted the cover far enough to see her peering through the basket, Hugin's white wing feathers showing behind her. The other three crows stirred as he lowered it. He called a household man over to carry them ashore.

Aurane called back from beyond the shelter. "Come. Your men will want to see where their lord has gone."

* * *
​

Robb was standing on a bollard.

Jon saw him above the men waiting on the quay, red hair uncovered, one hand raised. Theon stood below him in a dark green doublet with a silver gull at the shoulder. He caught Robb's boot as the galley drew alongside and said something that made him kick out without looking down.

Jon waved. Robb jumped off the bollard before the first line had been made fast.

"Wait for the plank," Alasdair said behind him.

"I am waiting."

"On this side of the rail, my lord."

Jon stepped back, grinning despite himself. Beyond the waiting northerners, porters were carrying sacks beneath a warehouse hoist. Fishwives called their prices from baskets along the wall, competing with a herald proclaiming the king's tournament. The wind lifted the Manderly banner above Martyn's head and brought Jon a familiar glimpse of the direwolf beside it.

Tomas crossed first. Jon followed him down the plank and was scarcely ashore before Robb caught him hard enough to drive the breath from his chest.

For a moment he could see nothing but the wool at his brother's shoulder. He put both arms round him and felt Robb's grip tighten. There was more of him than there had been at Gulltown. He smelled of horse, clean linen and the leather dressing they used at Winterfell.

Jon had imagined this often enough to think he knew what he would say. He laughed instead, still short of breath, and Robb laughed against his ear.

"You took your time."

"We came when I said we would."

"He has been here since dawn," Theon said. "An hour ago he tried to claim a cargo of onions."

"It had a black sail."

"It had a filthy sail." Theon took Jon's hand and pulled him into an embrace of his own. His silver gull pressed against Jon's chest.

"Still wearing your winnings?" Jon asked when they parted.

"Someone must remind you that you did not win everything at Runestone."

Robb had caught sight of Jon's palm. He turned the hand over, his thumb stopping short of the pale scar.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Father wanted a proper answer."

Jon closed his fingers round Robb's hand and squeezed. Robb returned the pressure, watching his face, then nodded.

"Good. I want no excuses when we fight."

"You had better have learnt to keep your feet."

"I have." Robb's grin returned. "Ser Rodrik has spent long enough knocking me off them."

"He asked for extra lessons," Theon confided. "I was quite concerned."

Jon looked at his brother again. The shoulders filling that new doublet had come from work. He remembered Robb rushing to catch him in the yard, still fastening his sword belt, certain he could win if they had one more bout. They had both changed since then. He was glad that part had survived.

The old gloves were tucked through Robb's belt. Jon recognised the cut beneath the right thumb, now neatly stitched with lighter thread.

"You have those still."

"They fit me now."

"They were mine."

Robb pushed them farther under his belt before Jon could reach for them. "You told me to keep them. You can afford another pair."

Jon let his hand fall, smiling. He had last seen those gloves raised from the deck of the ship carrying Robb away.

"You will have him to yourself soon enough," Wylis Manderly called. "Let the rest of us greet him."

The heir to White Harbor came forward with his daughters and Wendel. Sea-green wool stretched across his broad chest, and a silver merman fastened his cloak. Jon clasped his hand, then Wendel's. Wylla scarcely waited for their courtesies before taking his hand herself.

"You have grown," she said. Her eyes went from his shoulders to his face. "And handsome, too. You might have warned us."

Jon laughed, caught off guard. The wind had blown his white forelock across his eyes; he pushed it back and bowed over her hand. "It is good to see you, Lady Wylla."

Wynafryd's greeting was quieter. She held his gaze as she offered her hand, then glanced down with a small smile when he took it. He remembered dancing with the sisters at Winterfell, when all of them had needed reminding where to stand. Wylla was already asking whether Aries had come. Wynafryd stayed beside Jon until Domeric Bolton stepped forward.

"Robb's letter caught me before I left the Redfort," Domeric said, offering his hand.

Jon took it. "Then I owe him thanks."

The Redfort. Domeric going home.

Ramsay.

For a moment Jon scarcely heard the noise around them. He had forgotten. In the history he remembered, Domeric had returned from his fostering, sought out his bastard brother and died. He had known this boy at Winterfell, laughed with him at Runestone, and let that knowledge slip from his mind.

Robb's invitation had brought him here instead. A letter asking a friend to join them at a tourney might have saved his life.

"I shall go north with you afterwards," Domeric was saying to Robb. "Lord Redfort has given me leave."

There would still be a homecoming. Jon would have to speak to him before he left Winterfell for the Dreadfort. He could not let relief make him forget again.

And there was Jon Arryn. A season, perhaps a little longer, if events kept anything like their old course. Jon had spent so much time changing what stood before him that he had neglected dangers he already knew. He needed to think through the smaller events as carefully as the wars that followed them, while he could still remember which had led to which.

Domeric turned back to him. "Harry is coming too. Waymar Royce and Mychel Redfort as well. You will have company from Runestone."

"Harry the Heir?" Theon asked. "Has he brought enough gold?"

Jon remembered the dragon they had wagered by the fire. "He may prefer to keep it this time."

"He may prefer to win it back," Domeric said. "Mychel means to separate you and Robb in the melee. He told me to warn you."

Robb looked pleased at the prospect. "He can try."

Behind them Gawen was leading Bucephalus down the gangplank, with Aries and Bracken following. Wylla went to greet the boy. Martyn called for the other horses, and Wylis turned to Jon before they mounted.

"My father sends his greetings. He has buyers here, and would like some of your salt to reach White Harbor before everyone else has bought it."

"Have them speak to Perrin. We are arranging a showing."

"You will see us there."

Theon had wandered a few steps away to watch Vhalar speaking to Goro above the galley's stern. Robb followed his gaze.

"That is him?"

"Vhalar. The man beside him is Goro."

"And he brought you here?"

"Aye."

Robb looked along the galley, from the rowers at their benches to the men in black beside the hatch. "On his own ship."

"My ship," Jon said.

Vhalar glanced towards them. He inclined his head to Jon, then turned back to Goro. Robb watched him a moment longer before speaking.

"They were still talking about it in White Harbor," Robb said. "One captain swore there were three thousand pirates."

"The tale has grown."

"He made Rolo sound like a giant. Is he?"

"Shorter than I expected. Broad, though. Red hair and an axe. He laughed while he fought."

Robb looked at him. "Did you fight him?"

"Gerralt did. His shield strap had broken. The household got between them before Rolo could finish him." Jon could still see Gerralt trying to hold the loose shield between himself and the axe. "Norren sent the spearmen round a side passage. When they struck, we drove him back."

"I wish I could have seen that." Robb glanced towards the men still aboard, then back at Jon. "But he came after you again?"

"All the way to the boats. We had wounded men to carry. Every time we stopped to lift one, he was there."

Theon had stopped watching the ship. "How close did he come?"

"Gerralt had another shield by then. Rolo split it with his axe. We dragged a door across the passage while the last men got aboard Aurane's boat." Jon looked down at the water washing against the quay. "I heard it fall. Rolo came through with the axe in his hand, but the oars had caught. Another moment and he would have been in the boat with us."

Robb's mouth had opened. He shut it without asking his next question.

"Aurane kept the boat there for you?" Theon asked.

"Until the last man was aboard."

Robb looked past Jon to the galley, where Aurane was coming down from the afterdeck. Then his eyes returned to his brother's face.

"You might have written more about that."

"I meant to tell you when I saw you."

"It has been eight moons."

Jon looked at him. "I know."

For a while they stood beside one another as the sailors worked. A coil of rope dropped onto the quay beside them. Robb stepped out of the way without looking round.

"I should have been there with you."

Jon remembered looking for Fergus among the shields. He put a hand on Robb's shoulder. "I'm glad you weren't."

Robb looked ready to argue, but Perrin was calling from beside the carts. Jon sent Darys over to guard the wares being taken into the city. His brother watched the pale-haired islander lead two men away.

"Is that the lad you wrote of?"

"Darys. He took Fergus's place in the household."

Robb nodded slowly. "I kept looking for Fergus when you came ashore."

Jon's hand fell from his shoulder. He had caught himself doing the same, long after they had reached Dragonstone. Robb touched his arm, then went to greet Gawen.

When the horses were ready, Jon found Robb waiting beside Bucephalus.

"Ride with me," he said.

"Where else did you think I was going?"

* * *
​

The tournament had spread far beyond its grounds.

Pavilions crowded the riverbank outside the walls, their bright roofs rising above rows of smaller tents. A bronze Royce banner snapped over one enclosure; beyond it Jon saw Redfort's red castle and the golden roses of Highgarden. Carpenters were still at work on the stands. Through a gap in the canvas, two riders passed with blunted lances, watched by a line of men who had found time to stop unloading a wagon.

Robb slowed to look. "Do you see how far back they have put the seats?"

"You will have to fall handsomely," Theon said. "Or they may miss it."

"I was thinking of where to sit for the archery. Somewhere I can call advice."

Theon made an obscene suggestion about his advice. Wendel laughed; Wylis looked back towards his daughters, and Theon discovered something of interest beyond the river.

They rode beneath the River Gate with the direwolf and merman swaying above them beside Jon's black banner. A goldcloak struck the paving with the butt of his spear, calling for room. Beyond the arch, the street seemed impossibly full. Carts stood wheel to wheel; pedestrians squeezed between their shafts. A woman carrying bread upon her head turned sideways to pass Bucephalus, close enough for Jon to smell the warm loaves.

Robb looked up at houses leaning over the street, their upper storeys almost touching. Washing hung between them beneath a crimson banner bearing a golden lion. Farther along, a silver eagle marked a Mallister lodging; the Darry ploughman hung above a winesink whose benches had overflowed into the road.

"Is it always like this?" Robb asked.

"Worse for the tourney," Jon said. "But crowded enough without it."

"I thought White Harbor was crowded." Robb drew his knee in as a man squeezed past his horse. He looked down the next lane, then up at the people leaning from its windows.

Theon had turned to look too. "How do you ever find anyone?"

Before Jon could answer, a goldcloak's shout rose above the noise. Three men in rose-embroidered cloaks were arguing with him over a litter that could go neither forward nor back.

"How do they get through?" Wylla asked.

"They shout," Wendel said.

"That does not seem to be helping."

One of the litter bearers put his end down. The lady inside pushed the curtain aside and began shouting too.

Wendel gave Wylla a solemn nod. She laughed, and Wynafryd covered a smile with her glove.

They passed a cookshop with chickens turning above a bed of coals. Robb drew a deep breath, then turned his face away as a gust reached them from the gutter.

"Gods, that's foul."

"I could smell it from the harbour," Theon said, holding his sleeve beneath his nose. "I did not think it could get worse."

Wylla had hidden her face in her cloak. Wendel urged his horse past the drain, and the others followed as fast as the carts allowed. The stink clung to them even outside the bowyer's stall, where fresh wood shavings lay about a man's feet. Robb was still wrinkling his nose when a painted shield caught his eye. Beneath the armourers' signs, squires argued over prices and men hammered dents from their masters' chestplates.

A boy came out of an armourer's shop with a bundle of new lances, their painted shafts held awkwardly above the crowd. Robb turned in the saddle to watch him go.

"We should come back after we have found our rooms. I want to see who is practising."

Wynafryd drew her palfrey alongside Jon's. She asked which of the contests he meant to enter, and listened with a smile while Robb supplied his own intentions for the melee. Theon tried to join them, but a fish cart pushed between the horses. He had to draw back from its dripping baskets and wait for a gap.

Arthur was recognised outside an inn. A man rose with a cup still in his hand, calling his name; two boys climbed onto a barrel to see him. The recognition travelled ahead of them. Jon heard the Sword of the Morning named again, then Lord Black, and a question about the pirates. A woman came to her window with a baby against her shoulder. Robb turned when someone called Winterfell.

"Do they always do that?" he asked quietly.

"When they know who is passing."

Robb raised a hand. The man who had shouted waved back with both arms, grinning beneath a dirty wool cap. He began telling the people beside him something Jon could not hear.

The north was a long way away. For that man, a direwolf passing his door had been enough.

Near the fountain, a herald was reading the order of the contests. The nameday feast would be held on the morrow; the lists would open the day after. Theon drew rein to hear the archery announced, and Jon took the opportunity to call Gawen beside him.

"Have a look at the men seeking service while we are here. Hugh needs riders who can teach."

Gawen's eyes went to a knight waiting beside the herald. The man's chestplate was well kept, though the surcoat over it had been patched beneath one arm. His bedroll lay behind his saddle.

"There will be plenty looking."

"Find out where they served. I would rather hear from a man who rode with them than buy a good story."

"Vaelor will want to see them on a horse."

"So will I."

Tomas, riding close enough to hear, glanced back at the knight. He said nothing then, but Jon saw him look again before they moved on.

As they climbed out of the busiest streets, Robb began telling him about White Harbor and the journey from Winterfell. He had ridden part of the way with men whose fathers had served Ned for years without Robb knowing much more than their names. Now he could tell Jon which held land on a road he hoped to travel, and which had invited him to hunt.

"The Hornwood first, if Father gives me leave. I want to see the other houses properly. Hear what they have to say before I am expected to know the answer."

"And what does Father think?"

"That I should know more before I set off." Robb smiled ruefully. "Luwin agrees. They have found a great many books between them."

"He takes them away with him now," Theon said. "I have had to fetch him from the library."

"You can survive an afternoon without me."

"You said you would be an hour."

Jon listened as they argued. His brother was beginning to carry himself like a lord. He regretted how much of the change he had learnt through letters.

"Tonight, show me where you mean to go," he said.

"You will be busy."

"Then I will finish."

Robb looked at him before smiling. "I have brought the map."

Of course he had. Jon nudged his boot with his own as Wylis called them towards a turning.

The Manderly house stood behind a high wall on a quieter street. Its gates were open, a stone merman above them with water stains beneath his beard. Within lay a paved court, a stable and a pale front with shuttered windows. A lemon tree stood in a great pot beside the steps. Servants came down before Wylis had dismounted; one greeted him by name, while another took Wendel's reins without waiting to be told where he should stand.

"You are staying here?" Robb asked.

"We are," Wylis said. "You have the king's hospitality to endure."

"Is this your father's house?"

"It is. His men use it when their business keeps them here." He accepted a folded letter from the servant and glanced at the seal. "As you see, they have not waited for us to unpack."

Wynafryd was looking up at the windows. Wylla had already asked which rooms were theirs, whether the garden lay behind the house and whether Aries could come to see it. She asked the last question of Jon rather than her father.

"When we have leave to spare him," Jon said.

"I would like to," Aries said at once.

"Then we shall arrange it." Wylis touched his daughter's shoulder and turned her towards the steps. "After you have washed."

Wendel remained by the gate to finish speaking to Arthur. Two men in Redwyne colours were being shown into the court behind him. One knew Wylis well enough to complain about being kept waiting; Wylis replied that he should have come to White Harbor if he wanted to be certain of finding him.

Jon watched their greeting. The Manderlys had beds, servants and acquaintances here, business continuing whether a Stark came south or not. Their loyalty had not required them to shut their gates to the rest of the realm.

Winterfell relied upon them too readily. Wyman need not betray Ned to know things Ned never heard, or choose which opportunities reached him. When Jon ruled, he would have captains and merchants who answered directly to him. His own people would know the roads as well as the men offering to guide them.

Wylis came back to the gate. "My father asked me to bring you both to supper while we are here. Choose an evening before everyone else takes them."

Robb looked at Jon.

"After we know the order of the lists," Jon said. "I would like that."

They took their leave with Wylla still calling questions from the steps. At the corner, Aurane raised a hand to a party coming downhill.

Monford Velaryon drew his grey horse to a walk. The silver seahorse at his shoulder gleamed against sea-green silk. Lord Ardrian Celtigar rode beside him, with Ser Corwyn a little way behind; beyond them Jon recognised Guncer Sunglass and Ser Elyas. Lady Mylenda Bar Emmon had chosen a litter. Her son's young face appeared at its window when the horses stopped.

"Lord Black." Monford bowed from the saddle. "We heard your ship had come in."

"You have good ears."

"I have men upon the quays." His eyes moved to Aurane. "Though not the one I expected."

"I thought you might have a welcome for me before a complaint," Aurane said.

"I have had eight moons to prepare both."

Jon introduced Robb, then Theon and Domeric. Ardrian made much of Ned's sons being together, while Lady Mylenda asked whether the crossing had been rough. Her son was more interested in Gawen's sword until Ser Garon bent to speak to him through the window.

"Ser Garon," Jon said when the knight straightened. "It is good to see you."

Garon bowed. "And you, my lord."

Jon greeted Elyas and Corwyn as well. Robb looked from one to the other, recognising names from the account his father had read. The men noticed it. Corwyn sat a little straighter when Robb asked if he had commanded one of the captured ships on the way home.

"One of the first taken," Corwyn answered. "She needed more men than we had to spare."

"They brought her home sound," Jon said.

Corwyn met his eyes, then inclined his head.

"I hope your new ships will be as sound," Monford said. "My brother has been sparing with particulars."

"Qavo has work enough without visitors arguing over it. You may see them when they are ready."

"While they are building, my captains could carry your goods."

"Marrec will hear their terms."

Ardrian leaned forward in his saddle. "And this salt people are speaking of? White as sugar, they say."

"Made at Saltcliffe," Jon said.

"I have paid a great deal for salt that still left grit between my teeth."

"You will find none in this. Nor the bitter taste. Try it tomorrow."

Ardrian studied him, plainly weighing the claim. Lady Mylenda wanted to know if the rumours about white cups were true. Aurane answered that she should see one held to the light, earning a look from his brother.

"Perrin is arranging a showing," Jon told them. "You will all have invitations. We present the king's gifts tomorrow."

"Your own bannermen ought to have the first offer," Monford said.

"They may make their offers with everyone else."

For a moment no one spoke. Monford adjusted the reins between his fingers.

"As you wish, my lord."

Jon nodded. Beside Monford, Ardrian was studying the men of the household. He had sent a nephew to war and received him back with gold and a lord's commendation; even that had not made Jon welcome upon the seat Robert had given him.

They still saw Ned Stark's son. Monford's forebears had served dragons, and he resented serving the child of the man who had helped overthrow them. Jon understood the loyalty beneath that resentment. One day he meant to reward it. Until he could give them his true name, they would have to obey the one they knew. He would not let their pride obstruct the work while he waited.

Aurane brought his horse alongside. "I had better go with them. He will only find me later."

"You make it sound very burdensome."

"You are not the younger brother." Aurane glanced towards Robb, then thought better of whatever he had meant to add. "I will find you before the feast. We still owe one another a turn with the lances."

"You will have to get past Robb first."

"Gladly." Aurane grinned at Robb. Robb looked him up and down, then grinned back.

Jon watched Aurane join his brother. There would be questions once they were alone. Aurane had learnt to make his own sound like idle curiosity; Jon liked him too well to resent every one. Friendship did not make Monford's purpose less plain. Nor did it prevent Jon from having a purpose of his own for the man his brother had sent him.

The island party passed downhill. Jon turned Bucephalus towards the castle, with Robb riding close beside him again.

* * *
​

The bronze gates stood open beneath the crowned stag. From the approach, the Red Keep's towers had seemed apart from the city; inside, Jon found the same press of horses and people, better dressed and more determined to be served first.

Lannister guards waited beneath the stable arch while a train of mules was led out. Buckler's bronze buckles hung above a rack of shields; a page in Tyrell green ran between two men carrying a rolled carpet. Beyond the open colonnade, Jon glimpsed the practice yard and the flash of a blade. Robb turned towards the sound at once.

"Later," Jon said.

"I was only looking."

Barristan Selmy stood at the foot of the steps in his white cloak. He came forward when Arthur dismounted, and clasped his arm as he had on their first visit. Then he turned to Jon.

"Lord Black. Lord Arryn asks that you attend him when you have come in."

"I will go to him now, ser."

"He said you would." Barristan's eyes passed over his face and stopped briefly upon the white lock. "I am glad to see you well."

Arthur introduced Robb. Barristan's expression softened when he heard the name.

"The king will be pleased. He has been asking when you would reach us."

Robb bowed. "I have brought a letter from my father, ser."

"Keep it by you tomorrow. His Grace will want to hear the news from you."

Jon felt Robb look at him. Until this moment, the king had been a man in his father's stories, someone who sent commands and gifts from far away. Tomorrow he would have to speak to him.

"Does he ask many questions?" Robb said when Barristan turned to the servant waiting upon the steps.

"About Father? A great many."

"Theon says he remembers everything."

Theon had been unfastening his glove. He pulled at the fingers one by one before replying.

"I said he remembered what he wanted."

Jon looked at him. The last time Theon had stood before Robert, Pyke had burned and his brothers were dead. It was a different memory of the king from the one Ned had given his sons.

"You will not have to stand there alone," Jon told Robb.

"I know." Robb tucked the letter farther into his doublet. "I would still rather have met him before half the realm arrived."

The servant led them beneath the colonnade. Rooms had been set aside for Ned Stark's sons, overlooking an inner court, with space nearby for their guards. Other lords were lodging in the city, Barristan told them, but the king had been particular about this.

Robb went with Theon, Domeric and the northern men to see them. Jon sent his own household after them, leaving Tomas to settle the watch and Perrin to find a secure room for the gifts. Gawen took charge of the horses. Aries stayed with Jon and Arthur.

"For the children?" he asked.

"For the children," Jon said. "You may have to wait outside for part of it."

"I can wait."

He had waited long enough. Jon put a hand between his shoulders and guided him towards the stair.

* * *
​

Jon Arryn rose from his writing table when they entered. A clerk gathered the papers spread before him, leaving a patch of bare wood between the inkstand and a dish of untouched pears.

"My lord." Jon bowed. Arthur did the same beside him.

"Come and sit. You have had a long morning." Arryn waited for the clerk to leave, then took the chair opposite them. "How is your father?"

"Well, from his letters. Robb has brought one for the king."

"Then Robert may leave me in peace about it." He smiled, briefly, and asked after Ethan. There was nothing strange in his voice or his movements. His hands were steady as he poured water into a cup.

Jon accepted it and made himself stop looking for signs of a death that had not happened. There were things to learn before he could prevent it, and staring at Arryn's breakfast would teach him none of them.

The Hand laid out a familiar letter. Jon recognised Ethan's writing above his own signature.

"I have your accounts. The king was pleased with the ships, and with the end you made of those raiders." His finger rested beside the losses. "Your father was less pleased to learn how close you came to remaining with them."

"So he told me."

"He was not alone." Arryn looked to Arthur.

"We knew when we had to withdraw," Arthur said. "We had boats waiting and men to hold the way to them. It would have cost us more to stay."

"Yet this Rolo remains."

"He does," Jon said. "Denys receives word of him when there is word to be had."

Arryn set the letter down. "Are you preparing to go back?"

"Not now. I have men in training and ships needing crews. I will not take them out because Rolo wishes me to."

"Good." The Hand's expression did not invite an argument. "A pirate can abandon a harbour. You have people who cannot abandon their homes."

Jon took a drink. Arryn asked about the bereaved families, the wounded men still unable to work, and the division of the captured ships. Jon answered plainly. Arthur supplied the condition of a household man whom Jon had last seen walking with a stick.

"And Vhalar?" Arryn asked.

"Brought us here."

The Hand paused. "Did he?"

"Under Denys's orders, with our men aboard. He has served for eight moons. Denys sends me his reports."

"He has been given land."

"A holding, not command of the island. His men have been divided, and he cannot take a ship out upon his own authority."

"I asked because Lord Celtigar still finds it remarkable."

"He was invited to come. Ser Corwyn can tell him what happened."

Arryn regarded him for a moment. "Corwyn's account was rather more useful than his uncle's letter."

"Then you have what you need."

Arthur shifted his cup between his hands. Jon saw the movement, but his uncle said nothing. Arryn folded the letter along its old crease.

"You must judge the man's service. I would have you remember how much your neighbours have lost to men like him."

"I remember what I lost to them."

The words came harder than he intended. Arryn glanced at the scar upon his hand, then back at him.

"Very well." He put the pirate account aside. "Tell me about the people you are bringing from Lys."

Jon had expected the question. He set down his cup.

"What have you heard?"

"That ships are unloading slaves at Blackburn. That you are buying more. Your report says you have settled families, but merchants do not trouble themselves with the distinction when they repeat the tale."

"They are freed before they begin work. They are paid, they marry as they please, and their children belong to no one."

"Do they owe you their purchase price?"

"No."

"Can they leave?"

"Yes. Some have kin elsewhere. Those who wish to stay are given work and somewhere to live."

Arryn leaned back. "Put those answers in the next account. As plainly as you have given them to me."

"I will. One of the Most Devout has written to me about them as well. He commends the freeing of the slaves, and the homes and work we have given them. He wishes to speak with me while I am here."

"Then tell him what you have told me," Arryn said. "And why so many Valyrians?"

"Have you been to the villages, my lord?"

"Not for many years."

"Then you will remember their faces. Half the people calling these newcomers foreigners would mistake them for islanders if they did not hear them speak." Jon drew Ethan's fuller account from his doublet. "The captains find families who can settle together, and craftsmen who can teach the work. We have people who speak their tongues. That matters when a man is trying to explain that he has a wife still held in another city."

"And when your foremen need to make themselves understood."

"We have schoolmasters teaching the Common Tongue. The children learn it faster." He gave Arryn the account. "There are three thousand two hundred freed people now, counting the children. Two hundred and eighty-seven northerners have come as well. Most of those brought skills we needed, or kin willing to take up land."

Arryn read the totals twice. "That is a great many mouths for Dragonstone."

"Which is why you will find more grain ships in the harbour."

"Even after your harvest?"

"Even after it. The new fields will help, but I cannot feed people on what I hope to grow next year."

Arthur nodded when Arryn looked at him. "I have seen the houses. They are building more. There is work for the people Jon brings."

"I do not doubt the work. I am asking whether he can continue to pay for it."

"I can," Jon said. "And I mean to leave here with buyers for what they are making."

He told Arryn about the salt, the steel and Ellyn's cups. The Hand had heard of all three, but sat forward when Jon described how much they could sell without starving the island's own works. When Jon mentioned the royal gifts, his gaze went to the armour Arthur wore.

"For Robert?"

"A suit made for him. Perrin has brought it ashore. The armourer will see to any fitting it needs."

"You may find that the larger task."

Arthur smiled into his cup. Jon allowed himself a smile too.

"There is a gift for Prince Tommen as well. A wooden horse he can ride."

"You will please his father if it keeps him from asking for another pony." Arryn called the clerk back and gave instructions for the showing on the morrow. Jon waited until the door had closed again.

"There is another account I asked for, my lord. More than once."

Arryn's expression changed. "The children."

"Aries is waiting outside."

The Hand rang for his servant.

Aries entered carefully, as if the sound of his boots might disturb something. Jon drew a chair close to his own. A little later an older man in Arryn's colours came in carrying a thin packet tied with string. Arthur recognised him and gave him a nod.

"He was one of the men I sent to Rilla," Arryn explained. "The boy was taken to safety before they went to the cellar."

Aries gripped the edge of the chair. "Is his hand better?"

The man looked to Arryn, received permission to speak, and turned to the boy.

"Better than it was. Two fingers are stiff. He can use them, but he cannot close them all the way."

"Was a maester brought?" Jon asked.

"Yes, my lord. The bones had already begun to knit badly." He opened the packet. "The septa says he can hold a cup and dress himself. He is learning his letters with the others."

Aries bent towards the paper, though he was too far away to read it. "He does not have to fight?"

"No."

The man's answer was firm enough that the boy sat back. Jon rested his hand on the arm of Aries's chair.

There had been more children in the cellar than Rilla knew. Two had families nearby, frightened into leaving them with the keeper by debts that grew whenever they tried to pay. Others could give no useful account of where they had come from. One boy's information had led the men to another fighting place, and that to a third.

"Some of the keepers fled," Arryn said. "Others are in custody. The first arrests should have been made more quietly. Word went ahead of the men."

"Through the watch?" Arthur asked.

"That is one of the things still being examined." The Hand's face had grown severe. "I have kept my own men upon it."

"And Rilla?" Jon asked.

"Unharmed. Her nephew knows whom to send for if anyone troubles her. No charge bears her name."

Aries wanted to know where the children slept, whether the older ones still struck the younger ones, and who brought their food. The man answered each question as carefully as he had answered Jon's.

A septa named Meriane had taken charge of them in a house beside a small sept. Arryn had paid for the adjoining rooms when the second group was brought in. There were women to tend the youngest, and an old carpenter had begun taking two of the older boys to his shop. The man had been questioned before either was permitted to go.

"May we see them?" Aries asked.

"You may," Arryn said. "Ser Arthur will arrange it with my men."

"And Rilla," Aries added.

"And Rilla."

Jon asked for the expenses. Arryn's man found them at the back of the packet: rent, food, bedding, the maester's fee. It was a small account beside the cost of one of Jon's ships.

"I offered to pay for their care. You should have sent this."

"You should have had an answer," Arryn said. "I have no defence for that. The inquiry continued, and your letter waited for a full account when a partial one would have served you."

"Perrin will settle what is owed. Send him the costs each moon."

Arryn nodded to his man, who made a note. Jon asked him to wait outside with Aries; the boy could go over the septa's letter with him while the adults finished. Arthur saw them to the door.

The room seemed quieter after he had gone.

"How many of these pits are still running?" Jon asked.

"I cannot give you a number. We close one place and the men who profited by it find another cellar." Arryn looked down at the papers. "The watch can break up a gathering. Finding where the men have gone afterwards has proved harder."

Jon set his cup down too hard. Water ran across the table, soaking the edge of his cuff. Eight moons. Children had been beaten for men's amusement while he waited for a reply. He could still hear Rilla saying that the boy thought they would come for him.

"Then I will look while I am here."

Arryn looked up. "What do you propose?"

"I will speak to Rilla and the children. I want to see the places your men found, and hear what they know of the keepers who escaped."

"They will show you," Arryn said. "But if you find something, bring it to me. I will not have another warning sent ahead by men who think they are helping."

"You will hear of it." Jon drew his wet sleeve clear of the papers. He wanted the men who took the wagers as well as those who kept the cellars. Hugin and Munin could follow a man through streets where a guard in black would be noticed. First he needed someone worth following.

Arthur gave him a searching look. "We shall begin with Rilla."

"And the boy." Jon had promised Aries they would see him. He meant to see for himself where the children slept, who cared for them, whether they still feared a knock upon the door.

Arryn passed him a cloth. "Some have no one looking for them. Others have parents who cannot feed them. More arrive every day, hoping there will be work."

Blackburn could employ some of those families. Jon would have Marrec find out who wished to leave, once there were houses and grain enough to receive them. A factor in the city could arrange passage as well as buyers for his wares. He would need rooms and stores near the landing.

That would bring him among merchants with old claims and powerful friends. Petyr's reach through customs and lenders could make a newcomer very uncomfortable. Marrec would learn who owned the ground and who collected its dues before Jon bought anything. He would not let Littlefinger establish him here.

"There may be places on Dragonstone," he told Arryn. "I will have my people speak to yours before we promise anything."

Arryn nodded. Arthur waited until the Hand had set the children's account aside before speaking.

He lowered his voice.

"There is one other matter. The stores beneath the city."

The Hand rose and checked the door himself.

"Ser Barristan told me you would ask." He returned without sitting. "The Guild has removed jars from two of the places named. Some were sound. Some were not fit to be carried far."

Jon felt the old dread tighten beneath his ribs. Above those buried stores, the streets were filling with visitors.

"What of the others?" Arthur asked.

"The search continues. Walls have been built where there were passages, and houses stand over entrances no one remembers using. They will not give me an assurance they cannot support."

"Nor should they," Jon said. "We need to know where they have looked, not only what they have found."

"There is a record. Barristan has it, with the names of the men permitted to see it. Come to him after the feast tomorrow. I will join you."

Arthur agreed. Jon asked whether anything had been found beneath the Dragonpit. Arryn said that the survey there was unfinished; the broken approaches made parts of it unsafe even before they searched below.

Jon remembered how readily men put off a danger they could not see. He would keep this appointment, and he would hear the Guild's account himself before leaving the city.

When they rose, Arryn kept him a moment longer.

"Enjoy some of the king's hospitality, Jon. Your brother has come a long way to see you."

Through the door, Jon heard Aries asking the man to read a sentence again.

"I mean to," he said.

* * *
​

"Arthur."

The voice came from below. Arthur stopped with his hand upon the rail, and Jon, a step behind him, looked down into the light from the narrow window.

A tall, spare man stood on the landing. His pale red cloak had fallen back from a shirt of overlapping copper discs; silver showed among the black hair above his temples. He had a long, sharp face, and was smiling as though he had caught Arthur at something. Beside him, a broad-shouldered woman in riding leathers moved out of the path of a servant. Her brown hair was knotted behind her head. One callused hand rested upon the whip at her belt.

"Oberyn."

Arthur went down the remaining steps. The man caught him by both shoulders, looked at him for a moment, then pulled him into an embrace.

"You might have written."

"So might you."

"Then we shall drink to our failings. Yours first." Oberyn drew back, his hand lingering upon Arthur's shoulder. "It is good to see you."

Arthur laughed. Jon had heard that laugh seldom enough to recognise the change in him.

The Red Viper. Jon had expected to see him among the guests, with time to decide how he would approach him. Now the prince was looking past Arthur, and Jon came down the last steps to meet him.

"My nephew, Jon Black," Arthur said. "Jon, Prince Oberyn Martell."

Jon bowed. "My prince."

Oberyn returned the courtesy. His dark eyes lingered on Jon's face. "They have been making you older every time they tell the tale."

"Does that improve it?"

"It makes the pirates look better." His smile widened. "My daughter, Obara."

Obara clasped his hand, then looked from his sword to Arthur.

"The men at the quay said a pirate brought you here," she said. "The one you took in the Stepstones."

"Vhalar."

"What did he make of you?" Her eyes travelled from Jon's face to Arthur. "Did he know who was giving the orders?"

"He looked past me to my uncle. Arthur stayed where he was."

"I should have liked to see his face." Obara's mouth curved. "Did he beg?"

"He asked me to name his ransom, then told me I had lost too many men taking his fort. I reminded him he had been unable to keep it."

Obara laughed. Oberyn was still studying Jon. "Arianne will want that story. She is delighted with your clock at Sunspear, though I have cause to regret it."

"Is something wrong with it?"

"It tells her exactly how late I am."

"Was there doubt before?"

"There was room to argue." Oberyn shifted nearer the wall as two pages came down with an empty basket. "I looked inside the king's this morning. The keeper seemed afraid I meant to carry off a wheel."

"Did you?"

"Only in the interest of learning." Arthur made a sound beside him, and Oberyn smiled without turning. "I understood the weight and the wheels. But the bar above them, with a weight at either end—move those farther apart, and it should rock more slowly. Is that how you correct the hour?"

"Yes. The bar works two catches. They let the wheel pass one tooth at a time."

Oberyn held two fingers apart, considering the movement. "Without water to freeze, or sand to turn. I saw nothing like it at the Citadel."

"Nor had Maester Luwin. He helped us test the first."

"And you made it yourself?"

"Woods made the wooden parts, Mikken the iron. I showed them what I wanted. We spoiled enough pieces before it worked."

"Those are the pieces I would like to see." Oberyn lowered his hand.

Jon had almost begun telling him about the first crooked wheel. Six links at the Citadel; he had remembered the spear before the scholar.

"Doran would welcome a visit from its maker," Oberyn said. "And from you, Arthur. He asked me to remind you."

Jon had not forgotten his uncle's uncertainty when they had spoken of Elia, or the men Doran might have sent and had not. There were questions he would one day put to the Prince of Dorne. Oberyn had wanted to fight on after the war. He could hear this brother without forgiving the other.

"Arthur told me of the invitation," he said. "I have not forgotten it."

"I shall tell him so." Oberyn waited, but Jon offered no date. His gaze returned to Jon's face. "Does your uncle speak to you of your mother?"

Arthur's smile faded. Jon felt the familiar danger of a conversation in which every honest feeling rested upon a lie.

"When I ask him. I wish I could remember her."

"You should ask more often." Oberyn looked at Arthur. "There are people in Dorne who would be glad to speak of her."

"I mean to take him, when we can," Arthur said. "How is Doran?"

"His feet trouble him. Some days he cannot bear a shoe." Oberyn's hand fell from the fold of his cloak. "He still insists upon hearing everyone who comes to him."

"I am sorry."

"Write to him. He would welcome it." The prince drew his cloak back over his shoulder. "And spare me an evening while you are here. I have heard a great deal about your nephew. I should like to hear something about you."

Arthur turned to Jon. "Will you need me after supper?"

"Go. I shall be with Robb. Tomas and Gawen are here."

Oberyn looked from one to the other, then laughed. "All this time I have been asking the wrong man." He inclined his head to Jon with exaggerated courtesy. "Next time I shall come straight to you, Lord Black."

"After supper," Arthur said, smiling despite himself. "The gallery above the lower court."

"I shall be there." Oberyn stood aside for them. "And you must show me the king's clock, Lord Jon. I promise to leave the wheels where they belong."

"Find me after the gifts tomorrow."

"I shall."

Obara glanced towards the bright court beyond the arch. Steel rang somewhere below. "Are you fighting in the tourney?"

"In the squires' melee."

"Then we shall watch," Oberyn said. "I have seen what your craftsmen can do. I should like to see what Arthur has taught you."

He went on up the stair with his daughter. Arthur watched them until they turned out of sight.

* * *
​

Robb had changed before Jon reached their rooms. He wore an old practice doublet and the gloves he had refused to return. Theon lay across a window seat with one boot upon the wall; Domeric was telling him that the servants would be delighted to hear his views on their wine.

"At last," Robb said.

"I said I would come."

"You also said that at Winterfell. Sometimes it meant after dark."

Jon handed his cloak to Aries, then turned back to Robb. "Get your sword."

Robb lifted it from the bed and followed him to the door.

They went down together, Gawen and Tomas following. By the time they reached the practice ground, Jon had heard the first half of an argument about whether Theon had lost a bout fairly that morning. Domeric offered to settle it by fighting him again.

Aron Santagar was watching two squires at work when Arthur called his name. He turned with a smile, then saw how many had followed.

"You have brought your own tournament."

"Only part of it," Arthur said.

Santagar greeted Jon and asked after his hand. When Jon flexed it for him, he nodded towards the weapon rack.

"Blunts there. Keep clear of the far side until they have finished with the spears."

Beyond him a man in Caron colours was disputing a blow with Ser Brus Buckler. Lord Ralph stood nearby, declining to be drawn into it. Balon Swann saw Arthur first and came across with Lucan Marbrand. Jon remembered the young westerman fighting his uncle on their last visit; he had acquired a new scar at the edge of his chin.

Balon asked about the crossing, then the hand. Jon was beginning to think he should have left it ungloved all day.

"Well enough to disappoint Robb," he said.

"We shall see," his brother answered.

Balon stepped back to give them room. "Then I had better stay and watch."

Gawen joined Balon at the rail while Jon followed Robb onto the sand.

They had scarcely chosen weapons before someone called from the rail.

"Domeric! You might have told us you had found them."

Mychel Redfort came through the watching men with Waymar Royce behind him. Harry Hardyng followed more slowly, drawing off his gloves. He had dressed for the court in blue silk; the other two had sand upon their boots. Harry looked at Jon, then at the sword in his hand.

Harry leaned on the rail. "Which of you is winning?"

"We have not begun," Robb said.

Harry greeted Jon while Mychel asked whether they were entering together again in the squires' melee. Domeric told him he had delivered his threat.

"It was a promise," Mychel said. "You two shall not have an empty side of the field this time."

"Then I had better stand between you," Loras Tyrell said.

He had slipped through the gathering before Jon noticed him. Brown curls escaped the tie at his nape, and his rolled sleeves showed arms reddened by the sun. A wooden practice sword rested against his shoulder. He gave Jon's scarred hand a quick glance, then looked at his face.

"Renly said you had arrived. I thought you might come here."

"My brother, Robb. Theon Greyjoy, and Domeric Bolton." Jon made the remaining introductions while Loras shook hands, his eagerness making him move to the next before the first had quite finished speaking.

"You are all entering?" he asked.

"I have not come to watch," Harry said.

"Good. Nor have I."

Jon beckoned Eddison and Aleyx over from the weapon rack. They had been watching the company grow, waiting for a chance to join it.

"Two more for the melee," he told Loras, and gave their names.

Eddison had recovered his colour since leaving the ship. He shook Loras's hand and asked which weapons would be permitted. Aleyx stayed beside Jon while they discussed it, looking round the assembled young men. Before they had done, he had agreed to a bout with Waymar.

"Garlan," Loras called, lifting his sword.

The knight approaching them stood a head taller than his brother, broad through the chest and shoulders. Sweat had darkened the neck of his green practice coat. His brown curls were shorter than Loras's, his beard close trimmed, and two golden roses were worked upon his breast.

"Ser Garlan Tyrell. My brother."

Garlan the Gallant. Jon knew the name; several men along the rail turned to watch him pass. He greeted Jon and Robb courteously, then clasped Balon's hand across the rail.

"Are you riding in the joust?" Jon asked.

"I am. I hope to get a little practice before the feasting begins."

"You should see him with a sword," Loras told Robb.

"Perhaps they will, if you let them begin." Garlan smiled at his brother. "Who has already fought?"

"No one," Robb said. "Everyone keeps talking."

Garlan stepped out of their way, settling at the rail to watch.

Jon faced his brother.

For the first few passes, Robb gave him very little. He kept his shield close and turned Jon's first cut without lunging after it. Jon moved left; Robb followed with short steps, refusing the opening he had taken so often at Winterfell. Behind him, Theon called something unhelpful and was told to be quiet by three men at once.

Jon struck high and changed towards Robb's knee. His brother caught the second blow, shoved forward with his shield and made him retreat. There was more weight behind it than he expected. Sand shifted beneath his heel.

"Ser Rodrik?" Jon asked.

"Among others."

Robb came again before he finished speaking. Jon turned the cut and took one on his shield, then felt the blunt tap his ribs beneath his lifted arm.

Theon whooped. Robb backed away, breathing hard, his face alight.

"You have been working," Jon said.

"I told you."

Jon raised his sword. He had thought there would be time to feel out the changes in his brother before Robb punished him for it. That, too, was something worth learning.

The next exchange lasted longer. Robb made him earn the opening. When Jon finally drove Robb's shield aside and touched his shoulder with the blunt, his brother grinned through the sweat instead of demanding the point be fought again.

"Another."

"Two more," Arthur said from the rail. "Then let the others have the ground."

They obeyed reluctantly. When Jon stepped out, Loras was already pulling on his glove. He chose Mychel, to Harry's disgust; Domeric offered Harry a bout instead.

A silver eagle gleamed upon the breast of a man watching from the rail. He stood straight-backed and bareheaded, white showing in his brown hair, his blue-grey eyes following each stroke. The younger man beside him wore the same eagle; his collar stood open and his face was red from the sun. Jon guessed their kinship before Robb greeted them.

Lord Jason Mallister asked after Ned, then turned to Jon.

"Your brother said you would be difficult to catch. I see what he meant."

"He caught me once."

"You lifted your elbow after the first cut. He was ready for it." Jason glanced towards Robb. "Someone has been making you practise that."

Robb was still flushed from the bout. He listened closely while Jason pointed out where his foot had drifted too far forward. Patrek, his son, watched Loras and Mychel for a moment, then asked Domeric if he would take a turn when the ground was free.

Theon stood a little apart. His easy smile had gone when Jason approached. Jon remembered whose sword had killed Rodrik Greyjoy, and wondered whether Lord Mallister remembered every time he looked at the surviving brother.

Patrek did not seem to notice. He asked Theon whether he had brought a bow, and received a much more willing answer. Before long they were discussing the distance of the butts and arguing over which wind would trouble them. Jason left them to it. Jon was glad he did.

At the far end of the rail, Harras Harlaw waited while a squire fastened a strap at his wrist. He was tall and long-faced, his expression severe as he tested the fit. The silver scythe upon his clothing caught Theon's eye as he turned. He excused himself in the middle of a sentence.

"Ser Harras?"

The knight looked up. It took him a moment, then his expression cleared.

"Lord Theon. You have grown."

"I should hope so."

His smile had returned, though he straightened before offering his hand. Jon heard him ask after his mother, and stayed where he was. Harras answered more quietly. Whatever he said made Theon nod, looking down at the silver gull upon his shoulder.

"Write again after the contest," Harras told him. "Give her something to boast of."

Theon touched the badge. "She has heard about the last one."

"Then win another."

That brought a real grin. Theon led him over to meet Jon, and for a few minutes the scythe and direwolf stood together beside Mallister's eagle while Loras tried to put Mychel upon his back.

There were more familiar faces beyond them. Thoros of Myr leaned on the rail in his red robes, his shaven head shining in the sun. Beside him stood the slender, red-gold-haired Beric Dondarrion, the forked lightning bright upon his black surcoat. Thoros called advice that made Mychel laugh at exactly the wrong moment. Loras caught him with a sharp blow to the shoulder and then looked offended when the priest claimed half the credit.

Jon watched Garlan take the next turn against Lucan Marbrand. There was no flourish in the older Tyrell's work. He let Marbrand spend his strength, then moved inside a wide cut and ended the bout before the westerman could recover. Robb, wiping his face with a cloth, stopped speaking to watch the last exchange.

"I should like to try him," he said.

"So should I."

"You cannot fight everyone today."

Jon looked at him. Robb laughed.

William Mooton and his wife found Arthur while the younger men were choosing new opponents. A pearl net held Lady Mooton's hair beneath a light veil; she gathered its loose edge clear of the dusty rail before greeting Jon. She asked if the tales of his porcelain were true. Her husband waited until she had secured an invitation to Perrin's showing.

Then he drew a folded paper from his sleeve.

"I brought the copies, Ser Arthur. My brother's letters. I remembered you wished to see them."

Arthur accepted the paper carefully. "Thank you, William."

"There are names I could not place. Perhaps you could help me."

"Gladly."

Lady Mooton told him where they were lodged. They settled upon breakfast on the morning after the nameday, early enough to finish before the lists. Arthur asked leave to bring an old friend who had known Myles too. William hesitated when he heard Oberyn's name, then his wife touched his sleeve and he agreed.

Jon had heard enough to know what that hesitation cost. The king who had killed Myles would be feasting them tomorrow. Even a few family letters could become something to explain in the wrong company.

William turned to him as Arthur folded the letters away.

"My harbourmaster tells me Dragonstone has been taking more grain."

"We have more people."

"There are men in Maidenpool who would welcome a regular buyer."

"Have them send their names to Marrec. I would like to settle something before we leave."

"I shall." Mooton glanced towards the practice ground, where Robb was watching Garlan explain the last exchange to Marbrand. "Your brother seems pleased to have you back."

Jon smiled. "He has been waiting to hit me."

"Brothers often are." William's smile faded as he looked at the letters in Arthur's hand. His wife drew him gently towards the shaded walk.

By the time they went, Gawen and Vaelor had found Tomas beside the weapon rack. A knight with a brown horse was speaking to them. His shield had been painted over, leaving the old device showing faintly beneath the new coat. Vaelor asked him where he had served; Gawen wanted to know why he had left.

Jon waited until the man had gone before joining them.

"Worth watching?"

"Perhaps," Gawen said. "He says he has taught boys to ride. We shall see him at the lists."

"And ask the men who know him," Vaelor added. "There are two here from his last company."

Tomas looked as though he had something to say. Jon waited. The knight rubbed a thumb along the edge of his glove, glanced towards Arthur and then back.

"My lord. If you can spare me from the watch, I would like to put my name down."

"For the joust?"

"Aye."

"You need not ask as if you mean to steal the horse."

Gawen laughed. Tomas's ears reddened.

"I have practised against our own men. I should like to know how I stand against these." He nodded towards the field. "Men who have been riding in tourneys for years."

Jon looked at the scar above his brow. Tomas had earned his spurs in a fight where no herald could call an end. He had since spent much of his time watching other men do the things he wanted to try.

"Enter," Jon said. "Alasdair can arrange the watch. Have Arthur see you at practice before you ride."

"I will. Thank you, my lord."

Tomas was smiling when he turned back to Gawen. The two began discussing horses before Jon was out of earshot.

Aries met him at the edge of the ground, carrying the blunted sword Gawen had found for him.

"Have you a turn left?"

"For you?" Jon reached for his own. "I suppose."

"Gawen says I am quicker now."

"Then I shall have to be careful."

Aries took that very seriously. He pulled on his gloves and glanced towards Robb to make certain he was watching.

* * *
​

By the time they left the yard, Jon's shoulders ached pleasantly and Aries was insisting that his last blow had touched the doublet. Gawen said it had. Jon said they would have to try again to make certain. Aries turned at once to Robb. "You saw it, didn't you?"

Arthur left them after supper to meet Oberyn. Before he went, Aries reminded Jon of the dragon skulls. A servant found the man with the keys, and Robb and Theon came down with them beneath the castle.

At the foot of the stair their guide lifted his torch. Teeth appeared out of the darkness.

Aries caught Jon's sleeve. The skulls were black, the torchlight shining along a horn and the curve of a vast jaw. More lay beyond the first, growing larger as the light travelled over them. Even Theon was quiet beneath the greatest.

"How much did it eat?" Aries whispered.

Jon began to answer, then looked up into the jaws of Balerion. All of them could have stood inside. He thought of the broken egg waiting in his chamber on Dragonstone, and for a moment wanted nothing so much as to have it beneath his hands again.

Later he sat with Robb over the map he had promised to see. Theon stayed long enough to recommend three visits on the strength of daughters he had heard were pretty; Domeric corrected a road near the Dreadfort and asked where they meant to hunt. After they had gone, the brothers talked more quietly. Jon helped Robb put his questions in order for Ned, then listened as Robb told him of Arya's latest quarrel with her needlework.

He left well after the candles had burnt low. Robb was still talking from the doorway when Jon turned into the passage.

Perrin had finished laying out the gifts. Darys stood watch outside the room; within, twelve cups and six bowls shone softly beside the open salt box. One jar stood uncorked. Even by candlelight the grains were startlingly white, without the grey dust or dark flecks of the ordinary sort. Perrin had laid out a little spoon for the guests to taste it tomorrow.

Robert's armour occupied a broad stand near the window, the red finish dark in the candlelight. It was large enough to make Ewan's work for Jon look slight. Jon moved a candle nearer. Red gleamed along the curve of the chestplate; tomorrow, with the shutters open, the king would see it properly. An armourer would be there to mark any alterations he needed.

Tommen could have one when he was older. Jon meant to promise it before the court, where the boy's delight would do as much good as his father's approval. For now there was the wooden horse.

He drew back its covering. The painted head looked solemnly ahead, the mane carved in broad locks a child could grip without breaking. Jon pressed a palm upon its back and sent it rolling a foot across the boards. It was low enough for small feet to reach the floor on either side. Aries's little pull-along horse would have fitted beneath its belly.

Jon steadied the horse before it reached the table. Tomorrow Robert would watch his son try it. He hoped Tommen would be as certain of his steering as the boy who had left a mark in Jon's kitchen door.

He covered it again and told Darys to wake him if Perrin found anything amiss.

In his own chamber, Hugin stepped from the chair back onto his wrist. Jon felt the familiar pressure of the claws as he checked the water dish. Munin watched from the bedpost, her head tilted towards his moving hand. The other three crows had settled in their open baskets.

Arthur returned before Jon was asleep. He said little of Oberyn, save that they had spoken longer than he intended. Jon heard him moving in the adjoining chamber after the candles were extinguished, and the familiar sound let him rest.

He woke with something cold against his wrist.

A root had grown over the edge of the bed. White as old bone, it lay across his hand and disappeared beneath the coverlet. Jon pulled free and sat up.

The room was gone beyond the bedposts. A damp, earthy smell filled the darkness. Somewhere water fell slowly upon stone.

"You have kept me waiting," he said.

The red eye opened between the roots.

Bloodraven sat where the window should have been, his body sunk so deeply into the pale wood that Jon could not tell where flesh ended. The roots moved when he breathed. Jon could still feel the pillow beneath his head, though he was sitting upright. He held to that sensation.

"You remember how to wake," the old man said.

"I remember why I needed to."

Bloodraven watched him. In their last meeting he had shown Jon a throne and a kingdom dying around it. Jon had told Arthur everything afterwards. He had also asked for teaching, for something he could use before the disaster came.

"I have been working with the birds," Jon said. "I can hold five at a distance now. I am trying for more."

"Five will not be enough."

"I know. You told me I would need more." Jon drew his legs from beneath the blanket. His bare foot touched cold stone; beneath it he could still feel the warmth of his sleeping body. "I mean to go to Valyria. I will need them there."

"Valyria?"

The roots stilled against the old man's throat. For a moment Jon heard only the slow fall of water. Bloodraven's red eye did not leave him.

Then he lifted one thin hand. The wood drew aside beneath his fingers.

"Come here."

Jon stood. He did not move closer at once.

"No throne. No borrowed face."

The red eye remained upon him. Then Bloodraven lowered his hand to a root worn smooth beside his own.

Jon thought of the kitchen the old man had once taken from his memory, and of how long it had taken him to leave it. He kept the feel of the pillow, the warmth of the blanket, the quiet breathing from Arthur's chamber.

Then he crossed the stone and put his hand where Bloodraven had shown him.

Something beneath the wood began to move

 

[aiwonder]

The movement passed beneath Jon's palm and up his arm.

He followed it into the root. Cold earth closed about him; somewhere above, branches stirred in wind. He reached towards them and lost the feel of his hand. For a moment he could not remember whether he had been standing or kneeling. There was only the weight of earth and a faint, irresistible movement towards the light.

Jon pulled back. His knees struck stone.

The cave returned around him. Water dripped into a hollow beyond the roots. Bloodraven sat where the white wood had grown about him, his thin face scarcely distinguishable from it until the red eye moved.

"You forgot where you were."

Jon pressed his palm against his thigh. "I hold five birds at a distance now. I am working towards more. This is different."

"And when one is frightened?"

He remembered Hugin fleeing a hawk, five birds scattering, his own shoulder striking a wall. He had bitten through his lip before he could release them. Afterwards, Munin had perched upon his knee and picked at a loose thread while he sat waiting for the room to stop turning.

"That is why I need teaching. Especially if I am to use them where I mean to go."

Bloodraven's long fingers rested against a root. Jon waited for the refusal, or the warning he had already heard from every man who spoke of those waters.

"What do you expect to find?"

"Books. Gold. Enough to build what I have begun." Jon met his eye. "If you know something that would help, tell me."

Bloodraven looked down at Jon's hand.

"Feel your heart before you touch the root again. Your body is waiting in your bed. Remember how to find it."

Jon listened. At first the falling water distracted him; then he found the beat beneath his ribs, hurried by his stumble. He let it settle. When he could hold his attention upon it without forgetting the cave, he laid his palm against the wood.

Red light shone through the broken roof of a carriage.

Jon stood inside it, the floor tilted beneath his feet. His first glance found the doors. One had been driven inward until its bronze hinges stood crooked; a man hammered upon the other with both fists. Water lapped at the lower edge and came through in little spurts each time he struck it.

"Leave it," someone gasped. "Help me."

The king sat upon the rear bench beneath a fallen roof beam. He was a broad man, his wet golden hair plastered to his temples, a little silver showing in the beard along his jaw. A cut above his eyebrow had filled the wrinkles beside one eye with blood. His circlet had slipped down over the other. Small golden lions ran about it, their raised heads catching the red light when he moved.

A heavy chain lay across his breast. One of its links had snagged upon the torn velvet of his coat; beneath it, an emerald swung against a button as he strained forward. His left hand was trapped between the bench and the beam. Jon could see two rings beyond the wood, one broad and plain, the other set with a dark red stone. The fingers beneath them had swollen purple.

His right hand held a sword across his knees. Water trembled along the dark ripples of the blade. Rubies burned in the eyes of its lion pommel.

Brightroar.

Jon knew it before the man at the door turned.

The fellow was younger than the king. His hair had been shorn close, and a bronze collar lay against the raw skin at the base of his throat. Blood ran from his knuckles. He caught the beam with both hands and braced a foot against the bench.

"Lift," the king said.

The man pulled. Tendons stood out beneath his jaw; his foot slipped upon the wet leather, and he fell hard against the king's knees. Tommen cried out. The beam had moved scarcely the width of a fingernail before settling again.

"It will not lift, Your Grace."

There was a guard upon the forward bench, half hidden behind the man's shoulder. A broken spearshaft protruded from his chest. He had both hands cupped about it, as though he could keep the wound closed by holding everything still. His lips moved when the king looked towards him. Jon could not hear what he said above the water.

The man in the collar looked at the guard too, then reached for the shaft.

"Leave it in," Jon said.

Neither turned. The man drew back without touching it, perhaps afraid of making the wound worse, perhaps because he could think of nothing to do. Jon stepped towards them and caught his shoulder.

His fingers closed upon nothing.

The king's breathing had grown loud. He tried to pull his hand free, dragging his sleeve back until Jon saw the pale wrist and the wood pressing into it. A faint wet sound came from beneath the beam. Tommen stopped and bent his head.

"Then cut the hand off."

The collared man stared at him.

"Take the sword."

He thrust Brightroar's hilt towards the man. The carriage shifted before the fellow could grasp it. Water surged over the king's knees; he snatched the blade back against himself, and the man fell sideways into the broken door. The guard's head struck the wall. His hands stayed upon the spear.

Jon braced himself against the roof. His palms passed through it.

He could hear their breathing, smell the mud and old leather, but he could not move so much as a splinter. Still he tried the beam. He set his shoulder against it and pushed, furious at the ease with which he passed through the wood.

"Take it," Tommen said again.

The man crawled back. Water dragged at his coat. He reached for the sword, stopped, and looked from the king's arm to the beam above it. There was scarcely room to raise the blade. Tommen saw where he was looking and began to pull at the cloth about his wrist with his teeth.

Jon looked up. A roof rib had split close to its fastening. Every movement of the carriage opened the split a little farther. Beyond it lay a sloping surface of red glass, smooth enough to catch a wavering reflection of the water running over it. He could see no sky.

He had practised escaping flooded compartments. There had been men waiting beyond the exercise, hands ready to help if someone lost his nerve. He found himself searching for them now, for a hatch, for any space beyond the broken carriage large enough to hold a breath.

Water poured through the split.

The king flinched. His circlet slipped from his brow and struck the sword with a clear little ring before falling between his knees. It lay beneath the water, one lion's head caught against a fold of velvet. He did not look after it.

The collared man began to scream.

Jon tried to lift his hand from the root. He could no longer find it. His chest tightened with every breath the trapped men took; the roof seemed to descend towards his face. The man had both hands over his head now. Tommen was calling to him, first angrily, then with a change in his voice that made Jon reach for the beam once more.

"Your heart," Bloodraven said.

Jon heard hammering, water, the king calling for help. He tried to turn towards the voice and found only the bronze door.

"Find your own."

He stopped reaching for the carriage. Beneath the pounding in his ears he found another beat, quick but steady. He held his attention there. Wool brushed his wrist. His fingers were clenched in a blanket.

The screaming continued. Jon fixed upon the wool, the place where its edge scratched his skin. He could feel the root beneath his other palm now. He pulled away.

The carriage vanished.

Jon knelt before Bloodraven with his hand lifted from the wood. For several breaths he could only stare at his unbroken fingers. His left wrist ached, though nothing had touched it.

"Tommen Lannister."

"Yes."

His old knowledge had ended with a vanished fleet. He had just watched its king offer his hand for a chance to live. The man with the collar had not even been a name in the history Jon remembered.

Yet he thought of Tywin, of what recovering that sword would buy him. He could see the lion pommel as clearly as the swollen fingers. The thought shamed him without becoming less tempting.

"Where was he?"

"I have shown you what I can." Bloodraven's eye remained upon him. "You found your way back. Practise with one bird until fear no longer makes you forget it."

Jon lowered his hand. "Keep my own heartbeat beneath its own?"

"While it is calm. You will have little time to learn when it is frightened."

He rubbed his wrist. He meant to take men into those ruins. Arthur. Gawen. Tomas. He had been counting stores and measuring how much a ship could carry; he would have to explain to them why he believed they might come home. Whatever he remembered of this world, he had known nothing of that carriage.

"Show me again."

Bloodraven looked at the hand upon his wrist. "You are shaking."

"Then I shall wait until I stop."

He woke alone, his fingers tangled in the blanket. Dawn had not yet reached the shutters. A servant crossed the passage outside, a key scraping briefly in a lock farther along. Jon listened for water until the rustling of the crows brought him back.

He found his heartbeat and counted ten steady beats. Then he lit a candle and reached for his writing things. His first drawing put the doors too far apart. He crossed it out and began again, marking the broken hinge, the fallen beam, the place where the glass had shown through. Beyond that narrow opening he left the parchment bare.

By the time the shutters began to lighten, he had drawn the little lion upon the sword's pommel. He could still hear the king asking for help.

He set the inkpot upon the drawings and opened one shutter. Munin hopped onto the sill, spreading his wings in the cold air. Hugin remained beside the water bowl, watching his companion with one bright eye.

Jon drew his chair away from the table and sat with both feet flat upon the floor. He put two fingers against his wrist. Once he had found the pulse, he closed his eyes and reached for Munin.

His claws gripped the stone. Air stirred beneath his breast feathers; the open window pulled at his attention, though the bird had not moved. His heart beat so quickly that Jon could scarcely distinguish one stroke from the next. Somewhere behind it, much fainter, was the beat beneath his waiting fingers.

He held both. Munin turned his head towards the table, where the inkpot caught a little light. Jon let him look. He could still feel his own pulse, and the pressure of his heels against the floor.

Then something clattered in the court below.

Munin sprang inward from the sill. For an instant Jon had only wings, a white ceiling rushing closer, the need to turn. His fingers slipped from his wrist. He tried to find them and felt the bird's claws curl instead.

He held back the urge to force Munin down. Beneath the flutter of wings he found a heavier beat, then the chair beneath his thighs. He opened his eyes as Munin landed upon the bedpost.

The crow shook himself and began to settle his feathers. Jon stayed seated until his breathing eased. He had kept hold for perhaps seven breaths before the noise.

He tried again when Munin was quiet. This time he withdrew while the bird was still upon the bedpost, following his own pulse back to the chair. His hand remained steady when he reached for the quill.

***
​

Aries knew the way to the dragons now.

"Are you sure?" Gawen asked.

"I talked to the pages and servants," Aries said. "There's a shorter way past the kitchens."

Hot bread and singed feathers scented the kitchen court. Aries led them through it, waiting at every turn for the others. Men carried trestles towards the great hall. A woman bearing yellow flowers made Gawen step aside; two boys followed with a basket between them, arguing over which prince had the nameday.

"The little one," Aries told them.

"They are both little," one boy answered, and hurried on before his companion could strike him.

Tomas laughed without looking over his shoulder first. It was good to hear.

Hal had asked leave to visit his aunt after breakfast. Jon had promised Rilla a visit too, but the royal household had filled his day. He had asked Hal to give her his good wishes and ask after Benn. He hoped to see her before they left.

He walked beside Arthur through a passage opening onto the bay. The arches faced east, and between their pillars the water shone so brightly that he had to narrow his eyes. Below the walls, a fishing boat crept past a galley at anchor. Its sail looked scarcely larger than a napkin from this height. Washing flapped from a servants' window above them; a sleeve brushed the stone each time the wind turned.

Ser Vaelor Scales stopped to look out. He had come from the stables with Tomas and Gawen; Aries had persuaded them to join him upon learning none had seen the skulls. For a little while the knight watched the galley's oars. Behind them a kitchen servant hurried past with an empty basket, leaving the smell of onions in the warm passage.

"I was told you had horses to inspect," Jon said.

"They will keep until we return, my lord." Vaelor looked at Aries. "He was very particular that I should come."

"You said a whale was bigger."

"I said I had seen a whale."

Aries considered the distinction unimportant. He hurried ahead to the servant waiting with the keys.

Arthur had missed last evening's visit; he had been with Oberyn.

The servant opened the cellar door. Aries went down three steps, remembered himself, and waited for the lamp.

Daylight entered through narrow windows high in the wall. Last night the skulls had appeared one by one in torchlight; now Jon could see their ranks stretching across the cavernous room. Dust lay pale in the seams of the floor. The draught from the door stirred it about their boots, then died as the servant pulled the heavy wood closed behind them.

The nearest skull was small enough for Gawen to have carried beneath one arm. Beyond it the heads grew larger. Horns pointed into the aisles; jawbones rested upon wooden supports where the weight would have broken their joints. Light caught the ridges above empty eyes and left the jaws in shadow. At the far end, the room seemed to narrow about Balerion.

Gawen stopped on the lowest step.

"Gods preserve us."

No one laughed at him. Tomas took the lamp from the servant and raised it. A long black tooth shone above his head.

"That is not the largest," Aries said, almost reverently.

Vaelor walked past him, his boots loud upon the stones until he stopped beneath Balerion. Jon had seen him judge a mounted man with one glance at his seat and hands. Now the knight tilted his head back, trying to find the far side of a creature's mouth.

"There," Aries said.

"Aye." Vaelor let out a breath. "There."

Jon joined them beneath the great jaw. Seeing it again did nothing to diminish it. He could imagine muscles drawing the bones together, a tongue moving behind the teeth, breath hot enough to make men shrink away before the flame came. A whole horse could have vanished into that mouth. Men had climbed upon the living creature and asked it to carry them over cities.

He had known ships whose guns could destroy a town beyond the horizon, stood beside machines too heavy for a hundred men to shift. None of that made this ordinary. Balerion had been alive.

Jon put his hand upon the bone. It was cold and smooth beneath his palm. Along the edge of the jaw, a groove ran deep enough to take his finger. He followed it until it vanished into shadow, trying to imagine the living flesh that had covered it.

"Would you have ridden him?" Aries asked.

"If he let me."

The answer came so readily that Gawen looked at him. Jon tipped his head back towards the great horns. He was trying to imagine the first moment after the ground fell away: the castle dropping beneath his feet, the bay opening beyond it, the weight of something immense and living carrying him out over the water.

"You would have to hold on," Aries said.

"With everything I had." Jon heard the eagerness in his own voice and laughed. "Wouldn't you?"

Aries looked up once more. "I would want someone in front of me."

"That could be arranged."

For a moment Jon wanted it so badly that he could almost feel the wind. He kept his hand upon the cold bone.

Tomas came closer with the lamp. The flame trembled as he raised his arm, and the tooth above him seemed to move.

Gawen caught his elbow. "Mind your head."

"I can see it."

"I could not stop looking at the one beyond it."

Tomas lowered the lamp a little. The two young men stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the jaw. At their backs, Vaelor had taken off his glove to touch the bone himself. Aries watched each face in turn, plainly pleased that his descriptions had proved inadequate.

Aries tried to peer between them. Jon's first impulse was to lift him for a better look, as he had once lifted his own children. His hand moved before he remembered himself.

"Come round here," he said instead.

He took the lamp from Tomas and held it where Aries could see past the wooden support. The boy crouched, then turned his head to follow the row of teeth into the dark.

"They go all the way back."

"Aye. Take your time."

Jon waited until Aries had looked his fill before handing the lamp back. Tomas moved aside to let the boy stand beside him. Jon rested his hand against the jaw again.

"They hung above the hall," Arthur said.

His voice brought Jon back. His uncle was looking along the row, rather than at the greatest skull.

"All of them?" Tomas asked.

"All of them. You could scarcely look towards the throne without seeing their teeth."

Aries moved closer to Jon. "Did the king like them?"

Arthur understood which king he meant. "He liked men to remember them."

Jon looked from Balerion to the last hatchlings, scarcely larger than hounds. There was the end of an empire, laid out where servants might bring visitors for a copper. The Romans had quarried their ancestors' monuments for stone; Robert had at least kept these whole.

Back on Dragonstone, Jon's mended red shell stood in its cradle with daylight showing through the missing pieces. He had no creature sleeping inside it. No amount of wanting would turn an empty shell into an egg.

But there were others.

He remembered three eggs given to a frightened girl at a wedding. Fire, blood, a dead husband, a woman burned alive. He did not know which part had made the miracle possible, nor whether the people living it understood any more than he did.

He would not build a plan around putting Daenerys through it.

Their searches had found nothing certain. Qavo had given them places to begin, and captains were listening, but Viserys and his sister could pass between merchants' houses while a letter crossed the sea. In the history Jon remembered, the marriage to Khal Drogo still lay ahead. He should have time. He would be a fool to treat that memory as a promise.

He wanted them found before Illyrio could offer Daenerys as the price of an army. Viserys would be harder. Hunger and humiliation had helped make him cruel, but a roof would not make him reasonable. Jon would not place his people beneath his uncle's temper. Safety could be offered without obedience. Once he knew where they were, he could decide how to reach them and what he could safely tell them.

The eggs were another task. Find them, learn whether they could be bought or taken from Illyrio, and learn what waking them required. The books and ruins might hold answers. He would need better evidence than a half-remembered funeral pyre before he put anyone near a fire.

Gawen measured a tooth against his forearm without quite touching it. Tomas raised the lamp, and Aries insisted he had chosen a small one. Jon smiled despite himself.

Then a voice came from the stair.

"They have that effect upon almost everyone."

Lord Varys stood in the doorway in pale silk, holding a little lamp. Behind him the servant with the keys straightened hurriedly.

"Forgive me. I had no wish to disturb your pleasure."

Jon took his hand from the bone. Arthur had already turned.

"Lord Varys," Jon said. "Have you come to see them too?"

"Today I came to find you. Though I am glad your guide brought you down by daylight. One sees so much more."

His gaze travelled from Aries to Vaelor before returning to Jon. Gawen lowered his arm. The easy talk had stopped.

"Is something wrong?"

"Nothing whatever. The queen's steward asks that your larger gifts be brought into the hall before the meal. He has been told there is an object which will require rather more room than a necklace."

"My man Perrin has made the arrangements. If the steward wants them changed, I will have Perrin speak to him."

"I shall tell him. There is much curiosity about what you have brought." Varys came down another step. "Ships arriving with prisoners are common enough. Ships arriving with craftsmen, children, and gifts for a prince make a happier story."

"Some of the children were prisoners too."

"And fortunate to have found you."

Tomas shifted the lamp. Its light passed over the eunuch's powdered face; the pleasant expression did not change.

Jon remembered another cellar and two men discussing how long a war might be delayed. That conversation might not have happened yet, but Varys had ways through this castle which did not require a man with keys.

"They would have been more fortunate never to need finding," Jon said.

"Indeed. Their new lives have interested many people. You may expect questions today."

"Then those who have them can ask me."

Varys inclined his head. "A most agreeable answer." He looked up at Balerion. "His Grace could not bring himself to have these destroyed. For all the unpleasant memories."

"I am glad he kept them."

"You admire dragons?"

Jon glanced at the tooth hanging above Gawen. "Do you know anyone who could stand here and feel nothing?"

For the first time, Varys smiled without immediately speaking.

"Very few, my lord."

Varys offered them a guide to the practice ground. Jon thanked him and declined. They were collecting his brother on the way.

Varys stood aside as they climbed. Aries looked back twice. Jon took a last glance at the vast black head before following Arthur.

Outside, Vaelor drew a long breath of the warm air.

"I withdraw the whale," he told Aries.

The boy grinned all the way back to Robb's rooms.

***
​

Robb was fastening his sword belt while Martyn urged him to change his boots. Theon sat upon the window ledge eating an apple.

"Tell him," Robb said when Jon appeared.

"What am I telling him?"

"These are perfectly good."

Martyn held up the other pair. "These are broken in, my lord. The new ones rubbed yesterday."

Jon looked at Robb, who looked down, then surrendered by sitting on the bed.

Robb tugged one boot off and dropped it beside the bed. "You took a fleet against pirates, and I am still being told what to put on my feet."

"Bad boots would have troubled him there as well," Martyn said.

Theon bit into his apple to hide his smile. Robb reached for the old pair, his ears reddening.

"I would have come," he told Jon, more quietly.

"I know."

"I can do more than listen to the tale afterwards." He worked his heel into the boot. "Every man we meet asks about your ships. Then they turn to me and ask whether Father is well."

Jon sat beside him for a moment. He had enjoyed telling his brother what had happened at sea; he had not considered how often Robb must have heard others ask for the same story.

"You will have something to tell him after tomorrow."

Robb looked up. "If I beat you, I shall send a raven before supper."

"Tell him about the boots too," Theon said.

Robb threw the discarded boot at him. Theon saved his apple at the cost of a bruised shin.

"You took long enough," Theon said. "Have you bought the skulls?"

"I could not decide where to put them."

"Over your gate. No one would trouble you for a toll twice."

Aries told them how Vaelor had stopped beneath Balerion. Robb forgot his grievance and asked Arthur whether the dragons really had hung above the throne. He looked disappointed that he had never seen the hall that way.

"Father did," he said.

"Your father had other things upon his mind," Arthur answered.

Robb glanced at him, then returned to his bootlaces. Theon slid off the sill and took his sword. They left with Martyn and two northern guards.

Robb heard the swords before Jon did. He quickened his step beneath the colonnade, then stopped so abruptly at its end that Theon nearly walked into him.

"Seven hells. Where are we meant to fight?"

The practice yard lay open to the sun between walls of red stone. Men crowded its shaded edges, with squires crouching at their feet to buckle greaves and boys standing upon the lower rails to see over shoulders. Farther out, the earth had been churned pale and loose by horses. A lance broke beyond the press. One half spun above a rider's shoulder; the other dragged beside the saddle until he flung it clear. The applause had scarcely begun when a groom ran into the lane after a horse that had turned across it.

"Back, there! Leave him room."

Ser Aron Santagar caught a boy by the shoulder and moved him out of the groom's path. The boy stumbled into his friends. Santagar waited until the horse had been led away, then sent him to gather the broken shaft. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, his coat brushed and belted, but horse dust had spoiled one boot. By the gate, Barristan Selmy let another groom lead his mount through, then pulled it shut.

The mounted practice ran along the far wall, divided by a low timber barrier. Between it and the colonnade, separate patches had been left for swordplay. Every time a bout ended, someone stepped forward before the last pair had got their helms off. Water splashed beside Jon's boot. Its bearer murmured an apology and shouldered on, leaving a dark trail across the dust.

Robb turned towards the weapon rack, but a broad boy wearing the Crakehall boar backed across his path with two shields. He gave one to a younger Lannister and held the other while a boy in Brax colours struggled to lengthen its strap. Jaime Lannister stood behind them, showing Lancel how to settle an ash sword in his hand. Jon had seen the king's squire carrying cups on his earlier visit. Here Lancel scarcely took his eyes off his cousin.

"Never mind the rack," Theon said. "Find us somewhere to use them first."

"There," Robb said, pointing to a pair who were unfastening their helms.

"Someone has beaten you to it." Theon nodded towards the Bracken youth stepping into the vacant space.

A long-faced boy in Blackwood colours barred his way with the flat of a wooden sword. Jon could not hear the first exchange. He heard the next well enough.

"You have been standing there since we arrived."

"Waiting for you to finish hitting the ground."

Patrek Mallister reached between them and pushed both blades down. "Then take opposite ends and settle it. You are keeping everyone waiting."

The Blackwood went willingly enough. The other looked back at his companions before following. Robb grinned.

"Hoster Blackwood. The Bracken came with his lord's cousins."

"I might have guessed," Jon said.

Above the practice ground, women had begun filling a terrace beneath a yellow-and-white awning. A servant was bringing out another chair, though most of the younger ladies had left theirs to lean upon the stone balustrade. Myranda Royce's laugh carried over the blows below. She stood with Rowena Grafton, while Ysilla listened to something Wynafryd Manderly was saying. Wylla had found a place from which she could see the horse lane; she waved both hands when she caught sight of Robb.

He waved back and nearly walked into a shield.

"That will be difficult to explain tomorrow," Theon said.

Aurane lowered it. His pale hair had escaped its tie, and one sleeve was dark with sweat. "I thought you had all decided to sleep until the feast."

"Jon found the dragon skulls," Robb said. "Give him time and he'll try to put one back together." He nodded towards Aurane's shield. "Are you using that?"

"I have finished being beaten with it."

"By whom?"

Aurane pointed with his chin. Ser Garlan Tyrell was backing away from two men near the armoury door. A third waited behind them for room to strike. Garlan moved sideways as he retreated, forcing the nearer man across his companion's path; the third had to check his advance or hit his friend. Garlan's sword flicked against the first man's ribs. Then the other two were upon him, and Jon lost the blades among their shoulders.

"All three?" Robb asked.

"He says it is useful," Aurane answered. "I found it more useful when I was watching."

Domeric came away from the rail with a cup. "He lets one of you think he has him. Then the others discover they are in the way." Beyond him, Obara Sand was testing a spear's balance while her father spoke to Balon Swann. Oberyn saw Arthur and lifted a hand.

Robb took Aurane's shield. "You can tell me afterwards. Jon owes me a bout."

He said it loudly enough for Santagar to hear. The master-at-arms looked from them to the patch where the Blackwood and Bracken were striking at each other with more energy than judgment.

"Three bouts there already," he said. "They can yield the ground. Padded coats, helms and ash swords. If either of you wants steel, you may ask me again when these boys are no longer underfoot."

Robb was already reaching for a coat. Jon took the one beside it and found a split seam beneath the arm. He put it back. Aurane handed him another without being asked.

Arthur had stopped beside Yohn Royce. The old lord greeted him with a hand upon his shoulder, then moved aside to include Martyn in the conversation. By the time the Bracken boy had finished disputing the last blow, Jon and Robb were ready to take his place.

Robb held out his arm while Jon pulled the shield strap tight. "Do you still lift your elbow before you cut?"

"Do you still tell me what you are looking for?"

"Sometimes I tell you the wrong thing."

Harry Hardyng called to Mychel and Waymar and started round the rail towards them. Artys Elesham came close behind, still tugging his glove into place. Jon lifted his sword in greeting.

The Vale lads squeezed in beside Domeric. Harry put one boot upon the lower rail. "I have a stag on Robb."

"Didn't you learn your lesson at Runestone?" Jon asked.

"I did. I'm only risking silver this time."

Harry looked towards Robb. "Do not make me regret this."

Martyn came to the edge of the ground as Robb settled his helm. He checked the tie beneath his chin, then Jon's. "Three bouts. A clean blow ends each. You have a whole field to fight tomorrow."

Robb lifted his sword in salute. Jon answered. Around the timber the conversation continued; someone was trying to borrow Harry's gloves. Jon wanted a sword in his hand and his brother before him, with nothing to settle beyond which of them was quicker today.

Robb's first cut struck the upper half of his shield. Jon caught it squarely and thrust beneath the returning blade. His point met wood. Robb had turned his shield in time, and the answering stroke cracked across Jon's raised guard hard enough to jar his wrist.

He knew that strength. He had spent years learning not to meet it with his own.

Jon gave a pace, drawing Robb after him. The red-haired boy came readily, sword lifting beside his cheek. Jon waited for the shoulder to turn. At Winterfell that small movement had told him where the cut would fall before Robb knew he had given it away.

The shoulder turned. Jon raised his shield towards his left temple.

Robb's sword stopped above the rim. For an instant it hung there, and then the point dropped. The wooden edge slapped the outside of Jon's sword arm, just above the elbow.

"Robb," Martyn called.

Jon stepped back, his hand tingling. He had begun lifting his own blade too late; Robb was already out of reach, grinning beneath the helm.

"You remembered," Robb said.

"So did you."

Someone upon the terrace clapped. Harry held out an empty palm to Theon, who pushed it away. Robb glanced towards the sound, then caught himself and faced Jon again. He had earned the point. Jon disliked how much he wanted the next one.

The crowd beside the colonnade shifted. Fair hair showed above a green coat, and men who had been talking turned to bow. Joffrey came to the rail with Sandor Clegane behind him. The prince's riding switch tapped once against his boot as he looked over the practice ground. Jon lowered his sword and bowed with Robb.

"Lord Black." Joffrey's eyes moved to the ash blade. "I thought you had used steel against the pirates."

"I did, Your Grace."

"Then why are you playing with those?" Joffrey glanced towards the weapon rack. "Fetch them proper swords."

Robb's fingers tightened upon his hilt. Jon rested his point in the dust and waited for Santagar, who had already turned towards the prince.

"They will finish with the weapons they were given, Your Grace. They have two bouts left."

Sandor gave a rough laugh. "Put an edge on them. They'll soon stop leaving their arms out."

"Ash for the boys," Santagar said. "The steel is in use at the far end, if Your Grace wishes to watch."

Joffrey looked from him to Jon. He had expected the weapons changed; that was plain enough. Jon kept his face still. After a moment the prince leaned upon the rail and flicked the dust from his sleeve.

Jon took his place again. Robb's shield had risen almost to his eyes.

"You have already hit me," Jon said quietly. "There is no need to hide."

Robb let it fall an inch. "Come and try the other side."

This time Jon began. He struck at the shield rim, withdrew before Robb's sword could come down upon his arm, and tried the same place again. Robb gave him wood each time. He was waiting for Jon to reach farther.

Jon let the third cut turn into a thrust. The point went towards Robb's face and stopped short of the bars; Robb's shield jerked up to cover them. Jon was already stepping across to the sword side. He turned his wrist and struck Robb's ribs before the shield could come down.

Robb's breath left him with a grunt.

"Jon," Martyn said.

They separated. Robb pressed his elbow to the place, then rolled his shoulder and nodded when Jon looked at him. Above the rail Wylla called that he ought to have kept the shield lower. Her sister drew her back from the edge.

"Ask her to come and hold it," Robb muttered.

Jon laughed. The sting in his own arm had become a dull ache. He could feel sweat gathering beneath the padded collar, and beyond Robb's shoulder the sunlight upon the red wall made him narrow his eyes. They changed ends before the last bout. Robb took the brighter ground without complaint.

The next exchange was longer. Robb kept his sword close, cutting from the wrist instead of giving Jon those broad openings. The first stroke struck the shield. The next glanced from Jon's blade and slid towards his fingers. Jon snatched his hand back and thrust for the belly; Robb turned enough to catch it upon the lower corner of his shield.

Their feet scuffed across the dry earth. Jon worked towards Robb's sword arm, but Robb went with him, denying the easy step that had won the second bout. A cut at the head made Jon lift his shield. Robb struck the same place again and came forward behind it.

Jon braced for the weight.

It did not come. Robb checked just out of reach. Jon had leaned into the shove he expected, and for a moment his sword hand lay forward of the shield. Robb cut at it.

Jon turned his blade and caught the blow near the hilts. Robb stepped in at once, his shield coming across to pin Jon's sword hand between them.

Jon gave ground. The shield brushed his knuckles, but his wrist was clear before Robb could bear down. Robb reached after him. Jon knocked the extended blade down, stepped to his left and brought his sword back across Robb's exposed upper arm.

"Jon," Martyn called. "Two to one."

Robb stopped. For a moment he looked at the strip of ground Jon had given up, then lowered his sword. He took off his helm and pushed his damp hair back without looking towards the terrace.

"I thought I had you."

"You nearly did." Jon pulled off his own helm. "And you had me cleanly with the first. I was still watching your shoulder when you changed the cut."

"One out of three."

Jon caught his brother's forearm before Robb could turn away.

"You have got better. You kept me from your sword side in the last bout. I couldn't do what had worked before."

Arthur had come to the rail. "Your feet were better too. You came in behind your shield. It was reaching after him that gave him your arm."

Robb looked from Jon to Arthur. "Then I should have stopped."

"And made him come to you," Arthur said.

Martyn nodded. Robb looked down, tracing the last step with his boot, then returned Jon's grip before letting go.

Patrek leaned across the rail. "How did you turn the first cut? I thought you were going for his head."

"So did he," Robb said. A little of his grin returned. He raised the sword to show him, and Hoster Blackwood came closer. Martyn took the blade away before Robb could strike anyone by accident and let him demonstrate empty-handed. Jon accepted Domeric's water and stood back to give them room.

Joffrey had gone to the horse lane. Sandor followed a pace behind. A page climbed off the mounting block as the Hound approached, taking his cup and a forgotten glove with him.

Harry was counting silver into Theon's palm. He paused when Myranda called down to ask how much he had lost. Theon held the coins up for her to see, which brought a fresh round of laughter from the terrace.

Ysilla had moved to the balustrade beside her. She smiled when Jon looked up and touched two fingers to the bronze ribbon at her wrist. He lifted his cup in greeting. Rowena leaned near her ear; Ysilla gave her a small shove without ceasing to smile.

The attention had spread beyond the ladies he knew. A freckled girl beside Loras's brown-haired sister watched him over the terrace rail. Farther along, two golden-haired girls with lions upon their sleeves had abandoned a game of counters. One whispered to the other when Jon pushed the damp white forelock out of his eyes. He tried to fasten his loosened hair and found that he had lost the tie. Theon watched him search his sleeves with a broad grin.

Robb came back carrying his shield. "Your turn."

"I have given you all a great deal to watch already."

"You have given us a great deal to hear," Patrek said. "Come on."

Theon glanced towards the terrace, then took Jon's sword. "I hope your father has brought enough silver."

Lord Jason Mallister had stopped beside Yohn. He watched his son fasten the shield without joining the laughter. Theon's smile stayed in place, though he pulled his glove tight enough to make the leather creak. Jon remembered Seagard, and whose brother had died beneath Lord Jason's sword. He wondered how often Theon could look at a Mallister without remembering it too.

They began quickly. Theon was lighter on his feet, drawing back from Patrek's first cut and striking at the knee as the other boy recovered. Wood tapped padding. Patrek acknowledged it with a dip of his sword and began again, lower behind his shield.

Theon feinted high. Patrek hardly moved. The low stroke that followed cracked against the bottom of the shield, and Patrek came forward before Theon could draw it back. His answering cut drove Theon's sword across his own chest. Theon had to spring away to free it. Patrek followed and touched his breast before the shield rose. They stepped apart.

"He has seen that one," Robb said.

"You all have," Jon answered.

Theon found another. He struck twice above the shield, making Patrek raise it, then turned the next blow towards the exposed sword arm. Patrek caught it near his hilt. Theon twisted free and went in hard behind his shield, driving him back a step. A shout rose from the terrace. Theon heard his name and pressed farther.

Patrek's heel slipped. His weight went onto his rear foot, but his shield stayed between them. Theon reached around it for the ribs. Patrek turned with the cut, carrying the wooden blade past his side, and brought his own sword down upon Theon's shoulder.

Santagar called the halt. Theon stood with his sword still extended, looking at the place he had meant to hit.

"I shall have you at the butts," he said at last.

"If I am foolish enough to go there with you."

Patrek offered his hand. Theon took it, and the two came back arguing over the first blow. Lord Jason gave his son a brief nod. Jon moved aside to make a place on the rail; Theon sat heavily and reached for the water without looking up at the ladies.

Another pair took the ground before Theon had finished his water. Robb had to lift their borrowed shields off the rail to let the new fighters through. Behind them a servant raised his tray above the crush and called for room. Cups vanished from it as he passed; by the time he reached Jon, only the empty ones remained.

Jon let the noise wash over him while he loosened his coat. There were banners here he knew chiefly from accounts of the men who would die beneath them. They belonged to people who borrowed gloves, argued about horses and asked their mothers for more silver. He wanted Robert's crown. He could not afford to think of the families who held up that crown only as names to be moved about a map.

"You will need more than a good sword arm tomorrow," Arthur said. He was watching the boys make room for the next bout. "At melees as large as the king's, men stand with their countrymen. They know whom they can trust at their backs. It is often kingdom against kingdom until the field thins."

Harry turned to look across the yard. Jon followed his gaze. Lancel had put down the sword Jaime had given him and was calling the western boys away from the horse lane. The Crakehall came at once; the Brax boy held up a finger while he finished with the shield strap. When Lancel spoke, both bent closer to hear him over the blows.

Beyond them, Balon Swann had stopped a pair of boys to correct the way they were carrying their shields. A third waited with a cloak bearing the purple lightning of Dondarrion. He interrupted, pointing towards the mounted lane, and the others turned to watch the stormlander riding back along it. Across the lane the Reach boys had gathered about a shield laid on a barrel. Two red-haired youths were arguing over something marked upon its back. One called to a companion who was still practising; he finished his bout and joined them.

Patrek looked over Robb's shoulder at Hoster. The Blackwood had gone back to the boy from House Bracken, and the two were arguing again.

"I had better settle that before tomorrow," Patrek said. He went to them, catching the Bracken by the elbow when he would have walked away. Whatever their fathers thought of one another, Patrek plainly meant to have the riverlanders together.

Robb followed him with his eyes. "Jon and I will stand together."

"I know," Mychel said. "I spent most of Runestone trying to separate you."

"It will be harder this time." Robb turned to Domeric and Theon. "You two with us?"

Domeric nodded. Theon rubbed the shoulder Patrek had struck. "Provided you remember that I have a back as well."

"And me," Aurane said. "That makes five."

Harry came off the rail. "The Vale boys are with me."

Mychel nodded. Waymar was still counting the westermen; Artys followed his gaze and frowned.

"There are rather more of them."

"Then help us at the start," Jon said to Harry. "We will do the same for you. Nine is enough to make them think before they come at us."

Harry considered the other groups, then looked at Robb. "We stay close until the large companies are broken. After that, the Vale fights for itself."

"Agreed," Robb said. "But give us warning when you mean to turn on us."

"We say so and step apart," Jon said. "No one gets struck by a man he thinks is guarding his back."

Waymar nodded. At Runestone he had gone into the crush to pull Andrew Tollett clear. Jon remembered the iron-shod foot rising above the boy's neck. Knowing who would help him up mattered more than any jest about tomorrow's winner.

Harry held out his hand to Robb. "The North against the Vale at the end, then."

"If you get that far," Robb said.

"Keep Mychel from running away," Jon told Harry. "We shall find you."

Artys looked at the Redfort boy. "I shall mind the boundary this time."

"I never asked you to follow me over it."

The laugh went round them. Harry gave Robb's hand a last squeeze before letting go.

A groom called to Aurane from the horse lane and held up three fingers. Aurane answered with an impatient wave, then caught Jon by the sleeve.

"Our turn. We have the lane for three passes."

Jon looked towards the groom. "You have been arranging this?"

"Since before breakfast. I spoke to Ser Aron while you were still wandering about the keep."

Gawen had brought Jon's harness down with the horses. The borrowed coat came off, and for a few minutes Jon had only the breeze against his damp shirt while buckles were loosened and the pieces laid ready. He welcomed it. Then the weight settled over him again, breastplate against padding, black steel cupping his shoulders. Sunlight drew a smoky sheen across it as Gawen tested the fastening beneath his left arm.

Robb helped with the last strap, pulling it snug before he stepped away. "Keep your shield up. Aurane has been promising to knock you off since we arrived."

Jon looked towards the pale-haired boy, who was already calling for his horse.

At the lane, Ser Aron was explaining to a squire why a shaft split below the head must be put aside. Arthur took it, ran his thumb along the crack and passed it back. The next lance was sound. Jon received it after he was mounted and let the butt rest against his boot while the horse sidled beneath him.

Tomorrow's joust was for knights; the king's officers had barred boys under sixteen from it. Jon and the other young nobles belonged in the squires' melee. Here there were no heralds or prizes, only three practice passes upon a shorter course.

"Shield only," Santagar told them. "A clean break counts. Ride through, let the horse slow, then turn. I will have no one wheeling into the next pair."

Aurane nodded solemnly from behind the green shield with its silver seahorse. Jon knew him well enough to distrust that expression. He lowered his visor before Aurane could see him smile.

The horse's neck shone dark with sweat. Jon let it walk to the end of the barrier while Gawen came beside him, one hand loose upon the bridle. The lane seemed longer from the saddle, though not long enough to forgive a wandering lance. At its far end a groom stood clear of Aurane's horse and lifted an empty hand.

Jon settled the shield against his shoulder. The weight of the lance pulled at his right elbow. He brought the point higher, found the place upon Aurane's shield where he meant it to land and waited for Santagar's arm to fall.

The first strides threw him back against the saddle. He came forward with the horse, knees closing, the wooden barrier sliding past his left side. Aurane was approaching too quickly for the careful picture Jon had made of him. Green shield, the dark slit of a helm, a pale lance head shaking towards his chest.

Jon lowered his own point.

The impact knocked his shield towards his face. His lance scraped across Aurane's instead of taking it squarely; he felt the shaft bend, then spring straight as they passed. Aurane's point slid off the lower edge of the black shield. Both rode on with their lances whole.

At the end Jon raised his weapon and breathed out. Gawen caught the bridle once the horse had slowed.

"You looked at his point."

"I saw it coming."

"So did your horse. He kept going."

Jon turned his head. Gawen was smiling beneath his beard. Beyond him Loras Tyrell leaned upon the barrier, watching Aurane turn at the other end.

"He pulled his shield across too soon," Loras said. "You both did."

"Thank you," Jon answered. "I shall try to be less obliging."

He returned to his place. From the terrace came a call he could not make out. He kept his eyes at the far end while Aurane settled the green shield. This time Jon chose the centre of the seahorse and refused to look away from it.

The horse gathered speed. The lance grew heavier as he lowered it, its long shaft trembling with every stride. Jon brought his elbow closer to his body. The silver beast rose and fell before him, close now, close enough that he could see a scrape through its painted belly.

His point struck below it.

The shaft bowed and burst. Splinters flashed past his visor. Aurane's lance struck too low, skated beneath the black shield and went wide of Jon's thigh. Jon rode clear with the broken butt beneath his arm and heard Robb shout before he could lift his head.

Santagar held up a finger towards him. "One to Lord Black."

At the far end Aurane raised his lance in acknowledgment. Jon gave him a brief salute with what remained of his own. When the groom brought the replacement, he had to uncurl his fingers before he could take it.

"You are holding it as though someone means to steal it," Gawen said.

Jon loosened his grip. There was one pass left. Across the yard Aurane had stopped smiling. He settled his shield higher and tested its angle with a small turn of his elbow.

Jon knew what was coming. Knowing did not make the approach any slower.

They met level with the middle of the barrier. Both points found the shields. Jon heard his own lance crack, felt Aurane's blow drive through wood and padding into his shoulder, and for a dreadful instant the horse seemed to be going on without him. He clenched his knees and dragged his weight forward. The shield rim struck his helm. He could see nothing but black wood until he forced it down again.

The horse was still beneath him. He was still in the saddle.

At the end he lifted his visor and sucked in air. Across the lane Aurane had stopped with a broken lance across his thighs, one hand braced upon the saddle bow. Then he looked up and began to laugh.

"Two to one," Arthur called from beside the master-at-arms. "Lord Black."

Jon turned towards the sound. Robb was striking Theon's arm with an open palm; Theon was trying to keep him off long enough to collect a wager. Ysilla applauded from the terrace, and several girls beside her joined in. Others were leaning forward to see whether Aurane would dismount. An older lady on the terrace called down that she wanted that grey brought round again before anyone took it away.

Gawen took Jon's lance. "Stay there a moment."

"I can get down."

"Then do it slowly."

Jon passed him the shield first. His left shoulder protested when its weight lifted. He swung a leg over and landed with more care than he wished the watchers to see. The ground felt very still after the movement of the horse. Gawen watched his face while he loosened the strap at his throat.

"Lift the arm."

Jon did. It rose above his head, though the movement drew a sharp ache through the muscle. Gawen made him lower it again and took the helm without further comment.

Aurane came round the end of the barrier with his hair plastered to his brow. He was flexing his fingers.

"Eight moons," he said. "Eight moons waiting to give you a proper blow where someone could see it."

"You might have waited long enough to win."

Aurane put his head back and laughed. Jon caught his hand before he could clap the sore shoulder. They stood grinning at one another, filthy and winded, until the groom asked them to move out of the way.

Arthur joined them beneath the arch. He pressed two fingers lightly against Jon's shoulder through the padding and watched him wince.

"That is enough for today."

Jon had no wish to argue. The ache was spreading down his arm, and his right hand had begun to shake now that there was no lance in it. He let Gawen help him out of the harness. Beside him Aurane took off his own glove and found a blister rising at the base of his thumb.

Aurane wetted a cloth and wrapped it round his palm. Across the yard his brother raised a hand to call him over. Aurane's expression changed; he gave the spare cloth back to Gawen and went. Jon followed once the last buckle was free.

Lord Monford stood with a red-haired man whose cloak was fastened by a cluster of golden grapes. Two lanky youths waited beside them, so alike that Jon needed a second look to distinguish their faces. Loras came from the horse lane and supplied the names.

"My uncle, Lord Paxter. Horas and Hobber are my cousins."

Paxter greeted Arthur and Jon, then returned to a tale about a cargo refused at Duskendale. Monford knew the captain; at the merchant's name he shook his head, and Paxter laughed. They spoke easily of men and ships Jon had never heard of. Then Paxter turned to the voyages Monford's new associates intended to make.

"Where will your prizes be sailing, Lord Black?" Paxter asked.

"First I must have them fit to sail," Jon said. "Some came home badly knocked about."

Paxter waited, still smiling. He had not asked about repairs.

"There will be holds to fill on the return," Monford said. "If your factor gives my steward a reckoning of what you need from Pentos, we can see where the voyage might profit us both."

"I would rather hear what you have in mind yourself. Come to me after the jousting."

"Gladly."

Monford had offered a reason to meet again without answering the question about their plans. Paxter accepted it as readily as he had the talk of his captain. Jon listened more closely when they resumed.

Ysilla and Rowena came down from the terrace while the older men talked. Two girls followed them, with a maid carrying a basket and reminding Rowena that they had meant to fetch her mother's gloves. They stopped at the rail to let a groom pass.

"You kept your seat," Ysilla said to Jon.

"For a moment I thought I had left it behind."

"We saw."

He looked at her. She smiled, and Rowena's companion hid a laugh behind her fingers. Jon could feel the damp collar lying crooked against his neck. He straightened it with his good hand.

One of the twins had been about to speak to Ysilla. He waited while she asked Jon whether his shoulder hurt, then rested his forearms upon the rail.

"The short course helps. A horse has scarcely begun to run before you meet."

"Tell mine," Aurane said. He had returned in time to hear. "I should like him to take it more gently."

The other twin smiled. Loras was looking back towards Garlan and did not seem to notice.

"Horas," the first boy said to Jon. "We have not spoken."

"Jon Black."

"I had gathered that."

The smile had not left his face. Jon waited. Horas looked from him to the girls, then down at the black shield Gawen had set against the wall.

"You will find the lists different tomorrow."

"I shall be watching them," Jon said. "Like you."

Hobber turned a laugh into a cough. Horas's colour rose. "I meant the melee. There will be rather more to watch than one rider coming towards you."

"I hope there will," Robb said. He had come up with Theon and was looking frankly at Horas now. "We did not ride all this way for one."

"There is ground free beside the rack," Horas told Jon. "We might see what you have learnt before then."

Jon looked across. A boy was rolling up the sleeve of his practice coat, the arm beneath it red where a blow had landed. Beyond him three Reachmen were calling another of their companions over. He was tired, his shoulder hurt, and Horas was offering him a fight because Ysilla had asked after it. The recognition made the invitation less tempting, not more.

"Tomorrow," Jon said. "I have finished today."

"Already?"

"I have three passes in my shoulder already. You can have your chance in the melee."

Gawen lifted the black breastplate from the bench and turned it over to check a fastening. Ysilla had gone quiet. Rowena took the basket from her maid and asked whether they were going up to the keep.

"Tomorrow, then," Horas said.

He went to the rack. Hobber hesitated, gave Jon a brief nod and followed. A few moments later Horas was facing the boy with the rolled sleeve. His first cut made the other lift his shield; the second caught the exposed arm before it could withdraw. He stepped away at once, ready for the answer.

"He is good," Aurane said.

"I can see that."

Jon watched another exchange. Horas wasted less movement now that there was a sword in his hand. It would be foolish to mistake a boy's resentment for an inability to do anything about it.

Rowena's maid reminded her of the gloves. This time she listened. Ysilla offered Jon a last smile before following, and Horas missed the beginning of his opponent's attack while watching her go.

"That," Theon said, "I can understand."

Robb laughed. Aurane did not look quite ready to leave them when Monford called again.

"Will you sit with us tonight?" Jon asked him.

"If I am not wanted elsewhere."

"Ask your brother. I would like you there."

Aurane studied him for a moment, then nodded. "So would I."

At the armoury door Garlan had finished helping one of his opponents unbuckle a shoulder piece. He looked towards Arthur, saw him free of the older lords at last, and crossed the yard with his practice sword held by the blade.

"Ser Arthur, will you give me a bout?"

Arthur looked at the sword in his hand. "Have you enough left for one?"

"I have been saving it."

Jaime Lannister heard him from among the westermen. He left Lancel holding the practice sword and came towards them, his attention upon Arthur. Barristan was nearer the horse gate; he turned at Jaime's approach and asked Santagar to clear the ground beyond the armoury door.

Arthur gave Garlan a small nod. "One bout."

The young knight smiled and went to fetch his helm. Loras saw him coming and followed at once, asking something Jon could not hear. Garlan answered without stopping. He had a close brown beard and his brother's handsome features in a broader face; beside Loras's restless brightness, his composure had seemed almost quiet. Now he was testing the grip of his sword with unmistakable eagerness.

The word reached the horse lane before Garlan fastened his helm. Riders checked their mounts; boys lowered their swords and came towards the rail. Lancel brought the westermen behind Jaime. Patrek arrived between the Blackwood and Bracken, still talking to both. Paxter and Monford left their conversation unfinished. Balon Swann called the stormland squires out of their way, while Thoros abandoned his cup to follow Beric Dondarrion.

Above them, women pressed along the terrace. An older lord stood because everyone before him had. The boys who had been arguing over weapons now stood shoulder to shoulder with visiting lords. From the keep steps to the horse gate, everyone watched Arthur and Garlan.

Lyn Corbray stayed where he was. Lady Forlorn hung at his side, a red stone bright in the sunlight. Mychel had gone to him when summoned and now held his cloak. Jon remembered Runestone and watched Lyn's face as Arthur chose a practice sword. The knight's mouth tightened, then relaxed into a smile that did not reach his eyes.

Santagar sent two boys to move a rack away from the clear ground. The last pair of fighters yielded it willingly when they saw who wanted the space. Gawen took Arthur's grey-white cloak and helped him with the padded jack. Arthur bound back the black hair that had come loose at his neck, settled a plain helm and drew on his gloves.

"You are smiling," Robb told Jon.

"Am I?"

"Like you knew what would happen before the rest of us."

Jon looked towards Garlan, who was waiting with his sword upright in both hands. "I should like to see how long he makes Arthur work for it."

Loras heard. "Longer than you think."

"I hope so."

The two knights saluted. Sandor's mouth twisted.

"Pretty fucking manners. Are they going to kiss as well?"

Joffrey laughed. Sandor did not look at him. Garlan had taken his first step forward, and the Hound was watching the swords. Around them the talking stopped. A horse stamped beyond the ring of spectators; Jon could hear the leather of Garlan's glove tighten upon his hilt.

Garlan struck at Arthur's hands. Arthur drew them back and cut towards his head. Garlan's blade came up to meet it with a sharp ring. He stepped to his left as the swords parted, trying to reach Arthur's sword side before the older man could turn.

Arthur turned with him. His point caught Garlan's blade and pushed it past his ribs. The young knight withdrew before the counter could reach him.

The step gained him nothing. Garlan did not repeat it at once. He moved nearer, struck high and followed the checked blow with a thrust from below. Arthur caught both. Steel flashed between them, the blades meeting close to the hilts before sliding apart with a sound that set Jon's teeth on edge.

Garlan pressed harder. A cut at Arthur's left shoulder became a thrust towards his breast. Arthur took a pace back. Garlan followed, keeping the point before him, and Arthur retreated again.

"There," Joffrey said from beside Barristan. "He has him going back."

Jaime had ceased smiling. His eyes followed Arthur's leading foot.

Garlan began another thrust, then checked it. Arthur's sword had turned across his own, close enough to catch and carry it aside if he drove on. Instead Garlan drew away. The answering cut passed before his helm with room to spare.

"Why did he stop?" Joffrey asked.

"He saw where he was being led," Barristan said.

Joffrey glanced towards Sandor for an answer he liked better. The Hound's eyes remained upon Arthur. The prince turned back to the bout.

Garlan circled back towards the centre. His first rush had brought him close to the rack before he realised how far he had travelled. He looked down once to place his feet, then raised his sword again. Arthur waited.

The next attack came lower. Garlan cut at the forward thigh, made Arthur draw it back, and sent his point up towards the opening beneath the arm. Arthur turned it outward. Garlan followed the turn, stepping in until the swords crossed almost at the guards.

This time he had made the older man meet his strength. Arthur's boot scraped back through the dust. Garlan drove after it, shoulders behind his hands, trying to bear the blades aside far enough to bring his own point home.

Arthur yielded.

The resistance vanished so suddenly that Garlan's arms went forward beyond his balance. He caught himself with a long step and twisted after Arthur, dragging his sword around. The blade arrived just in time. Arthur's cut rang against it beside his ear.

Garlan had stopped the blow, but not comfortably. His right knee bent almost to the earth. He forced it straight and backed away with his sword between them. Jon heard Loras draw a breath beside him.

"He was waiting for the push," Robb murmured.

Jon nodded. He glanced at Robb, who had stopped rubbing his arm and was watching Arthur's feet. Both had been too eager for the last touch in their own bout. Jon had got clear in time; he could easily have been the one looking for his balance.

Arthur did not chase him. That seemed to irritate Garlan more than the counter. He shook one hand loose upon the hilt, took a breath and came forward again.

He showed Arthur a cut at the hands, much as he had begun. Arthur raised them out of reach. Garlan had already checked the stroke, ready to catch the return as it came down towards his head.

Arthur's sword began to fall. Garlan lifted his own across its path.

Before the edges met, Arthur stopped the cut and drew his point around the end of Garlan's blade. His hands came forward instead of down. The blunt tip struck the padded coat beneath Garlan's raised arms.

The young knight went still. Then he lowered his sword and looked at the point resting against his breast.

"I yield."

Arthur withdrew the blade. Garlan lifted his visor, breathing hard, and held out his hand. The applause broke around them as Arthur took it. On the terrace people straightened from the balustrade and began talking at once.

Garlan did not leave the ground. "Would you show me that last stroke again?"

Arthur raised his sword slowly. Garlan set his own across its path, as he had a moment before, and watched the blunt point travel round the end of his blade. He tried to follow it. His hands were too high; the point reached his coat while his sword was still coming down. This time it barely touched him.

Garlan lowered his hands and tried the defence again. Loras had come through the rail to see. When Arthur repeated the movement, Garlan caught the blade and held it away from his body.

"There," Arthur said.

"Thank you, ser."

Jaime watched Garlan try the movement once more with his own blade. Arthur took off his helm. Sweat shone in the hair at his temples, black threaded with grey. Garlan had made him work, and earned the applause that followed him off the ground.

Yohn reached over the rail to grip Garlan's shoulder. Balon Swann, beside him, offered the young knight his water. Lyn Corbray turned away and called for Mychel to bring his gloves. The ordinary work of the yard began again, though the men nearest Jon were still arguing over the last stroke.

"Your uncle made good use of the ground," Oberyn said. "Did you have much room to give way against the pirates?"

Jon turned. The prince had come from the spear rack with Obara beside him. She carried a blunted ash spear loosely in one hand. Oberyn's orange sleeves were pushed back from his wrists; he looked as though he had found the morning much to his liking.

"Not often. At doors, on stairs, I had men close behind me." Jon glanced towards Robb. "I could step clear of him. If I had tried that in some of those passages, I would have struck a wall."

Oberyn nodded. Beside him, Obara shifted the spear to her other hand.

"Have you fought one of these?"

"In practice."

She was taller than several of the men at the rail, long-legged and broad through the shoulders. Brown hair had been pulled away from her face; a strip of leather held it at the nape. The hand upon the spear was hard with old calluses.

"You are quick coming in past a sword," she said. "I should like to see whether you can get past my point. Will you spar with me before you leave?"

Robb stopped listening to Garlan.

"When I can lift my shield without regretting it," Jon said.

"Tomorrow, then?"

"After the melee. If you have not had to carry me off it."

Obara looked him over, taking the answer seriously. "Send word when you are ready. Bring the shield."

"I shall."

She nodded and went to ask Arthur about the final thrust. Oberyn watched her for a moment before turning back to Jon.

"My daughter is already planning your defeat," Oberyn said with a smile. "I would be careful what you show her tomorrow."

The prince drank from his cup. Beside him Robb was looking at the spear with an interest Jon was certain would become helpful advice before the day was out.

A page reached Barristan at the edge of the ground. The Lord Commander bent to hear him, then beckoned Jaime from the rail. Jaime exchanged a few quiet words with Arthur as he passed. The two white cloaks went beneath the colonnade together.

Their departure seemed to remind others of the hour. Santagar called for the borrowed swords. Grooms came to reclaim horses; ladies upon the terrace began finding the cloaks and gloves they had left upon other people's chairs. Someone was looking for a lost brooch. Aries had been watching from beside Gawen and now asked whether there was still time for one bout. Gawen promised him the quieter yard another day, then sent him to fetch Jon's belt.

Ysilla passed above them on her way to the stair. "Lord Black."

Jon looked up. She rested a hand upon the stone, leaning far enough to see beneath the awning.

"Save me a dance tonight."

"I shall."

Ysilla smiled. Rowena called her from the stair, and she went after her, glancing back once before the red stone hid her from view. Jon was still looking towards the stair when Aries came with his belt. He took it and began to buckle it, aware of Theon's grin beside him.

Behind them, the last pair unbuckled their helms while Santagar checked the returned weapons at the rack.

They were leaving the practice ground when a young man in Arryn blue came beneath the colonnade. He waited for a groom to pass, then bowed to Jon and Arthur.

"Lord Black. Ser Arthur. Lord Arryn asks you to attend him. His High Holiness is with him."

"Your name?" Jon asked.

"Hugh, my lord. His lordship's squire."

Hugh of the Vale. Jon looked again at the rough young face. He remembered a new knight dying beneath Gregor Clegane's lance, blood spilling through a gap in his gorget. Here Hugh wore a plain wool doublet and waited to be told whether his message had been understood.

"We will come." Jon gave his gloves to Gawen. "Tell Perrin we shall be a little longer. Robb, I will find you before we go into the hall."

"Lord Black. A moment, if you can spare it."

Petyr Baelish had come from the steps with a clerk beside him. He dismissed the man with a word and turned towards Robb. A silver mockingbird fastened his cloak; grey showed in the dark hair above his ears. His smile made the interruption seem a pleasure offered to them both.

"And this must be Robb Stark. Petyr Baelish. Your mother and I grew up together at Riverrun."

Robb offered his hand. "Lord Baelish."

"You have her eyes." Petyr held his hand a moment longer. "We were very dear friends. She could make me do almost anything in those days."

Jon had heard enough about that friendship in another life. Baelish had boasted in this very city of taking both Catelyn and Lysa's maidenheads. Robb knew none of it. He was smiling at a man who spoke warmly of his mother.

"Then you have something in common with our father," Jon said. "What can we do for you, Lord Baelish?"

Petyr's gaze shifted to him. "I wished to ask about those cups. Porcelain, I am told. I have seen merchants keep poorer pieces locked away, and you bring whole cases. How did you contrive it?"

"Better clay and a great many spoiled firings. Our potters put more work into them than the finished cups suggest."

"And the salt? White as snow, without a speck in it. You will have cooks quarrelling over that." Petyr looked from Jon's sword to his face. "A soldier, an inventor, and now a merchant. Dragonstone has kept you busy."

"The ships need something to carry when they are not chasing pirates."

"Then let us find them buyers. You have goods that would sell well beyond these shores. I know men in the Free Cities who could place them in houses where price is seldom the first question. A few introductions might spare you years."

Jon raised one brow. "In what capacity would you make them? As Petyr Baelish, or as the king's master of coin?"

Petyr laughed, spreading his hands. "The master of coin, naturally. The Crown has every reason to invest in promising endeavours. His Grace favours you, does he not? I should be remiss if I failed to consider how that favour might profit you both."

"I will think on it. We are expected by the Hand."

"Ah. The children in those fighting pits. A shameful business." His smile faded appropriately. "I hope his lordship has better news for you."

He stepped clear of the passage. "Until this evening, Lord Black. Robb, it was good to meet you. Give your mother my fondest regards."

Robb promised he would. Petyr went towards the yard, stopping beside a lord who had called his name.

Hugh waited ahead of them. Jon looked from the squire to Baelish and felt how little distance there was between the men he remembered and those standing before him. After the feast he would make time to set down what he knew. Arryn's murder, Lysa's part in it, the summons that had brought his father south: he had postponed them while ships and workshops demanded his attention. Keeping Arryn alive would be a beginning. Stannis already held a different seat; the old sequence could no longer be trusted. He wanted Robert's throne, but a civil war now could destroy his family and everything he was building before he was ready to contend for it.

"Petyr, was it?" Robb stopped at the stair that led to their chambers. "I shall write to Mother and mention him. An interesting man. What do you think he wanted?"

Jon watched Baelish's retreating back.

"Everything."

***
​

The High Septon occupied the broadest chair in Arryn's chamber. White silk lay in heavy folds over his belly, and a cushion supported one swollen foot. His great crystal crown rested beside a silver cup. Sunlight caught its points and scattered pale colours over the table.

Arryn rose to receive them. Arthur bowed beside Jon; the High Septon extended a soft hand and pronounced a blessing before inviting them to sit.

"One of my brethren wrote to you about the people brought from Lys," he began. "His account interested me greatly. Lord Arryn tells me there are now more than three thousand."

"Three thousand two hundred, counting the children, Your High Holiness."

"And you continue to bring them?"

"As we find room and work for them. Some have wives or children still held elsewhere. My agents ask after them."

The High Septon settled his hands upon his stomach. "A husband freed while his wife remains in bondage has little peace in his freedom. I am glad you have considered it."

"They remind us."

Jon remembered what he had read of the men who had held that office. Religious scruples had proved flexible enough when wealth or influence was at stake. This one had died in a riot; his successor's murder had cleared the way for the High Sparrow. For now, the old man sat comfortably in his white silk, taking an interest in Ned Stark's son and the people he had freed. What did he truly want?

"We hear much of your victories," the High Septon continued. "This deserves to be heard as widely. Your father's honour is well known, Lord Black. It pleases me to find it in his son."

Jon thanked him.

"Yet you keep Lord Eddard's gods, I understand."

"I do."

"The Mother does not withhold her mercy until a man knows her name." He smiled. "You have done a work dear to her. I would have the Faith help you continue it."

"What help do you propose?"

"Septons who can teach, septas who can tend the children. Men who will hear the newcomers' troubles and help them find their kin. There are charitable households throughout the realm who would gladly give to such a cause, if it were commended to them."

Arryn leaned forward. "That could be of considerable help. Your officers have homes to find and work to arrange. Men and women accustomed to caring for children would ease their task." He turned to the High Septon. "How would you provide for them?"

"Through a house at Blackburn. Lord Black might grant the ground and undertake its building. The Faith would appoint its keeper and gather alms. Each ship would deliver its people into his care until their needs were known and places found for them."

"My officers already receive them," Jon said. "They explain their freedom in their own tongues and find out what work they can do."

"And they would have assistance. You have many calls upon you."

"You could meet the proposed keeper," Arryn suggested. "His duties can be settled before he sails."

The High Septon inclined his head. "Certainly. I would also invite Lord Black to the Great Sept. We could give thanks for those delivered from bondage and announce the work before the congregation. Other lords might be moved to follow his example."

There it was, offered as generously as the teachers. Ned Stark's son before the altars, the High Septon blessing his work, the freed people entering a house governed by the Faith. By the time the tale reached Oldtown, few would trouble over who had begun it.

And what a triumph for the man who brought him there. The first to win one of Eddard Stark's sons from the old gods. Jon could imagine the claim travelling through the septs. Whether he had actually changed his faith might matter very little once enough people had heard it.

He had chosen the Valyrian families deliberately. He wanted them free, and Dragonstone needed their labour. He also meant them to become a loyal core of his own people. His forebears had remained a small Valyrian dynasty among far more numerous Andal subjects, dependent upon great houses with ambitions of their own. When he finally stood before these families as Aemon Targaryen, he wanted them to know the ruler under whom they had made their homes. Their children would grow up on his lands, with their future bound to the island's prosperity. He would not hand their settlement and schooling to men appointed in King's Landing.

"I thank you for the offer, Your High Holiness. My officers will continue to settle the newcomers, and I will choose the masters for their schools. We have no need of another house to direct that work."

The High Septon's smile faded. "Men serving the Faith must answer to it. I could not send a septon who would be forbidden to discharge his duties."

"Then I will find other masters."

"Jon," Arryn said, "you have found good use for learned men before. Surely their duties could be agreed without turning away everyone His High Holiness might send."

"I would have them teach children who keep different gods. I will not give the Faith charge of those schools."

"A septon teaches what is true, Lord Black. You cannot ask him to put the Seven aside when a child seeks instruction."

"Those who wish to hear him may do so. Their schooling will remain in my care." Jon set down his cup. "And I must decline the thanksgiving. I keep my father's gods. I would not have my presence before your altars taken to mean otherwise."

"We have welcomed men of your faith before," the High Septon said.

"I do not doubt it. But this would be a ceremony in my name."

The High Septon looked towards Arryn. The Hand said nothing. He had offered a way to continue the discussion, and Jon had refused it.

"My brethren will wish to hear more about these schools," the old man said at last. "One of the Most Devout will seek you this evening. I trust you will hear him."

"I will hear what he has to say."

He had agreed to nothing else. Yet the High Septon spoke as though the matter must remain open until Jon gave a different answer. His refusal would now be discussed by men who had a sept in almost every town of the south.

Arthur helped the High Septon rise. An attendant came forward with his crown; another took his arm. Jon bowed as their white robes passed through the doorway.

Arryn waited for the door to close. "I think you refused more than you needed to. The Faith could have spared you much expense, and those children need teachers now."

"I will pay for their teaching myself."

"Then see that you find the masters. It would be a poor bargain if the children waited while we argued over who should instruct them."

Jon inclined his head. Arryn had seen a useful offer lost. He could hardly tell him what else he meant those schools to serve.

The Hand nodded and moved a packet bearing the Guild's seal. "Ser Jaime's account has led us to two stores. The vessels have been removed, and the families above them are safe. The Red Keep is still being searched. Beneath the Dragonpit we have a blocked passage that cannot be entered until the masonry is supported. I have ordered the adjoining rooms emptied."

Arthur asked whether Jaime had been told.

"He has the report. We will speak further when the Guild knows more."

Jon glanced at the sealed packet, then back at Arryn. "And the fighting houses? I would arrange the visits you promised yesterday."

"You may visit the children. I have reconsidered the rest."

"You gave me leave to hear what your men had learned."

"And I withdraw it. They have work enough without a second party questioning the same people. You will not take your guard through those streets looking for suspects."

"The men who escaped have had eight moons to find other cellars."

"I know how long it has been." Arryn's voice hardened. "This is the king's city. The inquiry is mine. If you learn something, bring it to me, at any hour. You have no leave to pursue it yourself."

Jon could feel Arthur beside him, waiting. He understood the order. He also knew what an empty cellar meant when the men who had used it remained free. Arryn would not be moved by another argument now.

"You will hear if I learn anything," he said.

Outside, Hugh was waiting beside the door. Jon thanked him and followed Arthur towards their chambers. They still had to wash and see that Perrin had the gifts ready. Beyond that lay the feast, and after it the time Jon had promised himself. He would make it, however late the king kept them.

 

[aiwonder]

Wylla made him take the coat off again.

"It pulls when you reach."

"Only there." Jon lifted his arm to show her and regretted it. Aurane's lance had left a broad tenderness below the shoulder; the bath had done less for it than he had hoped.

"Let me take it out a little." She held out her hand.

He surrendered the coat. She had a needle ready, a length of black thread caught against her lip. At the window, Perrin kept his place on the list with a thumbnail while Gawen counted the men needed to carry the cases. Every box was below, every fastening checked. Jon had asked twice about the wheels of the little horse, until Perrin reminded him that they had rolled it through half the castle without losing one.

Now they were waiting for him.

Jon stood in his doublet while Wylla worked. The velvet was so dark that its folds disappeared unless he turned towards the light. Silver buttons closed it high at the throat. His coat, finer wool over a silk lining, had skirts divided for riding and a collar embroidered in black upon black. He had approved the leaves when they were scarcely more than chalk upon cloth. Upon his back they caught the light like wet foliage.

He had thought more about how the clothes would look than how they would feel. In his former life a coat this carefully fitted would have spent most of the year shut in a wardrobe. Here a lord was expected to wear his prosperity where other men could judge it. He meant them to judge the work well.

Wylla bit through the thread and beckoned him closer. This time she guided the sore arm herself.

"Now."

He reached for the window latch. The cloth gave with him.

"Better?"

"Much."

She smoothed the shoulder, then looked at the hair falling across his face. "Sit down. Your hair is still damp."

Hugin objected to being removed from the chair. Munin answered him from the bedpost, waking one of the three birds in the baskets. Wylla ignored the commotion. Her comb caught once; she set a hand against Jon's head to keep him still and worked it free. He closed his eyes. For a little while there was only the comb, the pull of fingers separating his white forelock, and the familiar sound of her setting things right about him.

Robb knocked while she was fastening the sword belt. He came in carrying Ned's letter flat against the folded cloak meant for Tommen. White edging showed at the wrists of his grey wool doublet, and a silver direwolf fastened its high collar. He tugged at that fastening while he waited for Jon to look round. His auburn hair had been combed smooth, though a damp curl was already escaping above one ear.

Theon followed in black velvet, gold braid running from his collar to the fitted waist. His belt buckle bore a little kraken, its arms spread across the leather. He brushed a pale thread from one sleeve, checked the other, then leaned over Robb's shoulder to look at the letter. His gloves were tucked beneath the belt; unlike Robb, he seemed entirely comfortable in the finery.

"Father says I am to put this into the king's own hands."

"Then do."

"I know that." Robb shifted the cloak. "Does he read them there, with everyone watching?"

"He may. You need not watch him read."

Theon reached for the letter. Robb drew it away.

"I was going to see whether Lord Stark had left room for the king's answers. He generally gives me more questions than parchment."

"You generally give him reason."

Jon smiled. Wylla caught his chin before he could turn towards them and straightened his collar. Her hands paused when she had finished. He covered one with his own, squeezed it, and rose.

Martyn took the cloak from Robb outside. Down the passage, Arthur waited beside the household men, speaking softly to the fitter who had come with Robert's armour. The man had a leather bag clutched between his knees. He stood as soon as he saw Jon and nearly upset it.

"You know the work," Jon told him. "If a strap wants moving, move it. That is why you are here."

The man nodded, less reassured than Jon had intended. Arthur picked up the bag and handed it to him.

At the end of the passage they heard the feast before they saw it.

The sound came through great doors bound with bronze: voices lifted above voices, the scrape of a stool, a trumpet trying a few notes and being answered by laughter. Warm air carried the smell of pepper and roasted onions into the cooler passage. A servant went backwards through the doorway beneath the front of a long platter, trusting the man behind him to keep them clear of the jamb.

Robb stopped just inside. Theon came up against his shoulder.

At Winterfell a feast grew noisy when the ale had gone round. Here men were already calling to acquaintances three tables away, though the king had yet to arrive. White cloth covered the tables nearest the dais. Lower down, a boy knelt on a bench to scour a wine stain with a handful of rushes while its owner argued that he had hardly touched the flagon. Sunlight fell in tall strips from the windows, catching the raised cups and leaving the faces beneath them in shadow.

Robert's hunting tapestries hung between the banners. One showed a white hart brought to bay beside a stream; the stitched water had faded almost to the colour of the animal. Under it a servant was trying to pass a bench whose occupants had all turned towards a dispute at the next table. He waited until a lady saw him, and her touch on her husband's sleeve did what his murmured requests had not.

"There are more people eating here than—" Robb began, then stopped counting.

"And more waiting to eat behind the screens," Theon said. He had found the servants' doors.

Jon looked past them to the Iron Throne. The royal table stood below it, screened from the lower hall by the breadth of the dais rather than any wall. Empty, the throne seemed less a seat than a heap left by some destructive labour. He followed a blade jutting from one arm and wondered how often a tired man had forgotten it was there.

He would have to sit upon it someday. This afternoon he had brought its present owner a gift.

Perrin found them before a steward could send them down the wrong aisle. Monford Velaryon had kept the place beside him, on Jon's left. Beyond the seahorse clasp at his shoulder, Ardrian Celtigar was refusing to move a dish until Mylenda Bar Emmon assured him that another would come. The Crownlanders stretched away past their company; Rosby's cough interrupted Lady Tanda Stokeworth often enough that she began waiting for it before she finished a sentence.

Robb sat at Jon's right. Wylis Manderly drew his chair nearer to make room, and Wendel leaned across the table to catch the bread before Theon could sit upon the end of it. The Vale company continued beyond them. Harry waved with his cup, received a look from Anya Waynwood, and lowered it without drinking. Mychel found this very amusing.

Across the aisle, a Marbrand youth had risen to let Myranda Lefford and Darlessa Marbrand reach Genna's company at the Westerlands table. Farther along, a man wearing the nightingales of Caron insisted upon demonstrating a horse's stumble with both hands. One Buckler laughed; another protested that the ground had been bad. The Stormlanders had heard the story before and intended to enjoy it again.

Aries arrived late enough to receive a reproach from Wylla Manderly.

"You said you were coming straight here."

"Ser Vaelor wanted to see the dragon skulls."

"You wanted to show him."

Aries glanced towards Jon, who was occupied with his cup. Wynafryd took her sister's elbow and made room for the boy. She wore green, with pearls drawn through her hair; when she leaned across to greet Jon, her gaze went to the arm he was keeping close.

"I saw Aurane's second pass."

Theon nodded towards Aurane. "He has been describing it ever since."

Aurane, sitting opposite, waited for Jon to defend himself.

"I won the other two."

"He describes those less often," Robb added, and Aurane accepted the bread with a dignity that made Domeric laugh.

Then the trumpets sounded properly. Men stood so quickly that a bench went over near the doors. The noise dwindled beneath the last bright note.

Robert brought his own laughter into the hall. Gold stags ran across his black velvet, and the belt under his belly shone with yellow stones. Renly walked beside him, listening with the bright attention that encouraged a man to make his story better. The brothers had the same smile, though Renly's sat upon a younger, unburdened face.

Cersei followed with the children. Tommen had his hand in Myrcella's and was attempting to see past everyone at once. Joffrey's blue silk was fastened with little golden lions. He bowed to the hall before his mother did; Jon saw Cersei's hand settle briefly upon his shoulder in approval.

Arryn brought Lysa and their son to their places. At the other end of the high table, Stannis waited for Selyse to sit before drawing out his own chair. Shireen leaned towards her cousin, her dark hair slipping over the grey ridges on her cheek. Renly said something to her and she smiled, then looked to her father to see whether he had heard.

The council found its places amid the last adjustments. Pycelle gathered his chain clear of a bowl. Varys helped a page retrieve a fallen napkin. Petyr Baelish, arriving with two gentlemen who had been contesting a seat, left one beside a man he plainly knew and conducted the other farther along. Both appeared pleased. Jon wished he had heard what Petyr had promised them.

Robert raised his cup to Tommen. The boy stood upon his footstool, accepted the cheers gravely, and sat before they had finished because Myrcella was showing him a dish of cherries.

The first dishes came while men were still drinking the toast. Trout lay in butter speckled with herbs, their crisp skins splitting beneath the serving spoon. Monford opened a pigeon pie; steam rose between them, rich with onions and gravy. Jon took fish before anyone could ask him a question. At the next table a girl was trying to eat a little bird baked into pastry without touching its protruding feet.

The herald had to call twice before the bearers could get through. Tommen's cherries were moved to make room for a silver cup, a painted shield, and a hunting horn which he blew before the giver had finished bowing. Cersei lowered it with two fingers. Arryn put a book before him instead, opened to a stag pursued by hounds. Tommen wanted to know whether the stag escaped. The Hand found the last page of the tale, considered it, and said they would read it together.

Then the Tyrell servants brought in a wicker cage. Its birds remained silent while Mace described the singing they had done at Highgarden.

Loras leaned towards his sister. Margaery shook her head at whatever he suggested, knelt beside the cage, and gave a low whistle. One bird cocked its head. She tried again. It answered so suddenly that Tommen laughed, and Myrcella came round her mother's chair to see.

"They sing to one another," Margaery told her. "If he begins, she usually follows."

Tommen attempted the whistle. Only air emerged. Margaery waited while he tried a second time, and made no pretence of hearing a sound that was not there.

"Loras was certain she would choose horses," Renly said to Cersei. "I begin to think she knew her audience better."

The queen looked past him to Alerie. "Your daughter has been well advised."

"She chose them herself, Your Grace."

Cersei inclined her head and summoned Tommen back to his place. Margaery rose at once, curtsying before she withdrew with her brother. Myrcella watched her go. Renly drew Loras aside to say something, and Mace remained by the dais until Robert asked about the Redwyne wine being brought behind him.

Jon wiped butter from his fingers. A cage could have been delivered by a servant. Loras had brought his sister with it, and Renly had made certain the queen noticed her. Margaery, meanwhile, was looking back to see whether Tommen had managed his whistle. Jon liked her better for that.

The preserved grapes sent with Paxter's wine were opened for the children. Joffrey took up the abandoned horn to explain how it should be held, but Tommen had turned towards the birds again. His brother set it down and reached for his cup.

When Winterfell was called, Robb wiped his fingers upon the cloth twice before noticing Jon watching.

"There is no gravy on them."

"I know." He rose.

Martyn followed with the cloak. Jon went with them, hearing the murmur change as men recognised his hair. Robert had seen Robb first.

"Ned's boy! Come nearer. Gods, look at you." He held out his hand for the letter, then caught Robb's forearm instead. "He has sent me a son and stayed at home himself. What excuse has he made this time?"

"He writes it better than I could, Your Grace."

Robert laughed and broke the seal. While he read, Cersei allowed Martyn to spread the cloak across the table. Thick northern wool, soft at the collar, with room for a growing boy. Tommen stood while Myrcella settled it about him. The hem nearly hid his shoes.

"Will it snow here?" he asked Robb.

"When winter comes, my prince."

"Enough to make a fort?"

"If it falls deep enough."

"There was snow at Storm's End," Shireen said. No one heard her except Jon and her mother. Selyse laid a hand beside her plate, keeping the little girl from leaning too far to call again.

Robert folded the letter only halfway. "You will sit with me later. Your father has written three pages and contrived to tell me nothing I want to hear." His hand came down warmly upon Robb's shoulder. "You can mend that."

Jon saw his brother straighten beneath it. He had imagined Robb meeting the king many times. He had not expected the small, private envy of watching Robert obtain that smile so easily.

"And you." The king's attention swung towards him. "Is this what I get for giving Ned's other son an island? News of fighting every time a ship comes in?"

"They had taken our ships, Your Grace. I could not leave them to take more."

Robert caught Jon's hand. His thumb passed over the old scar in the palm, and his grip eased.

"You have done enough fighting for one year, Black. Ned sends me boys and expects me to send them home whole."

"He gave us much the same instruction, Your Grace."

The king looked from him to Robb, then towards Arthur. "See that they remember it when the shouting starts."

"I want to see both of you upon your feet after tomorrow. Your brother tells me he is entering the melee."

Robb looked startled; he had told no such thing yet. Robert laughed at his face.

"Your father tells me, then. He tells me everything except what I ask him."

Tommen had discovered the covered horse.

He came down two steps before Cersei called him back. Jon turned, grateful for the interruption, and signalled to the household boys. Aries took one end of the cloth, Darys the other. The horse emerged nose first, its mane carved in thick curls, its wooden wheels painted to match the legs.

The prince stared. He looked at his mother, then at Jon, then at the saddle.

"It is for riding," Jon assured him.

Myrcella had already found the place for his feet. While a servant took the new cloak, she held the horse's head as solemnly as any groom. Jon braced its back and helped Tommen settle. The boy's small hand closed over his scar.

For a moment Jon remembered a different room, a child on a carpet, a toy held up for repair with such confidence that failure had seemed impossible. He had been a father before any of these people were born. The memory arrived with the warmth of Tommen's fingers and left him kneeling longer than he intended.

"Will it go?" the prince asked.

Jon made himself smile. "You must do that part."

One push sent the horse forward. Tommen looked back in astonishment and almost rode over Myrcella's shoe. She stepped aside, laughing. Barristan moved a stool out of his way; a lady caught up her skirts; the prince discovered speed.

"He will break his neck," Joffrey said.

"On that?" Robert looked delighted. "I have seen you fall farther getting into bed."

Joffrey's cheeks went pink. Jon caught Sandor's expression behind him: the scarred face had changed very little, but his eyes were upon the king. He took Joffrey's abandoned horn from a servant and held it without comment.

"He needs to learn the turn," Jon said, before the laughter could gather around the older boy. He walked beside Tommen and showed him how to push with one foot. Myrcella followed, determined to help.

The prince named the horse Thunder after Robert demanded a name twice. He resisted every attempt to bring it to a halt. Cersei finally sent Myrcella to take him between the tables, where there was more room and fewer steps.

Robert watched them go. Jon let him enjoy it before Perrin uncovered the armour.

Light ran across the red harness as the cloth fell away. The dragonglass finish gave the steel a deep, lustrous colour; a brighter sheen travelled over the breast's curve and broke along the fitted plates at the waist. In the hollows it darkened almost to black. Bright steel edged the cheek pieces and caught the sun in narrow lines. Robert came down from the dais without waiting to be invited.

He touched the breastplate, then lifted the helm. His thumb found the visor catch.

"For me?"

"I drew the design. My smith Ewan and his armourers made it to the measurements of your old harness. The fitter must see what wants changing."

"Then where is he?"

The man stepped forward so quickly that Arthur caught the bag slipping from his hand. Barristan made room. Robert was already undoing his cloak.

Arryn rose. "Your Grace, there are still—"

"They can watch."

They did. Renly came down to help until the fitter, discovering his courage, asked him to hold the helm instead. Robert endured the padded jack and the first straps, then began demanding that they hurry. Yohn Royce left his conversation to watch. Beside him, Balon Swann bent to see the wrist joints. Renly called Garlan Tyrell nearer and asked whether he had ever worn so fine a harness; Mace followed his son into the space that opened. Soon Robert was asking which horse Garlan meant to ride. Jaime leaned against the dais, his amusement growing when the king demanded a mirror.

The mirror quieted Robert.

He turned a little, feeling the weight. Light moved across the dragonglass finish with him, red deepening beneath his arms while his shoulders shone. The man in the glass was thick through the belly, his beard darker than the thinning hair above it. Yet the armour carried his shoulders well. He drew himself up and struck a fist against the open palm of his gauntlet.

The sound made an older knight behind Yohn laugh aloud. Jon looked round at him, then at the others. He knew what victories could buy a ruler, and how long men might remain loyal to the commander they remembered. Here they were, seeing that man again beneath the years of fat. Jon had supplied the armour. The affection in their faces belonged to Robert, and would still belong to him when the armour came off.

"I should wear this in a melee," Robert declared. "A proper one."

From between the tables Tommen called that his father had promised to watch with him.

The hall heard. Cersei sat back, her hands folded. Arryn remained on his feet.

Robert looked from one to the other and gave an irritated snort. "I can watch in armour."

Tommen considered this acceptable and returned to his horse. Renly laughed first; the king followed him, and the fitter was allowed to finish marking his adjustments.

Joffrey came down while the breastplate was being loosened. He asked where lions might be placed upon a smaller harness. Robert was still questioning Garlan about his horse.

"Ask the man," he said, without turning.

The boy's fingers tightened upon the stand. Jon brought the fitter nearer, but Cersei had risen before the man could begin. She asked whether the finish could be made green. Jon said there was green dragonglass, but his smiths had yet to finish a harness in it. The queen directed the answer to Joffrey, then said his present armour would be examined before anything was ordered.

She could protect his dignity when she chose. Jon remembered Gerren fighting for the place she had promised him in the prince's service, and how little that promise had survived his defeat. He gave her room to pass.

Balon Swann caught Jon before he could follow the queen. He wanted to know whether the armourers would take an order. By the time Jon had brought Perrin forward, a Marbrand knight had lifted the helm from its stand and was turning it beneath the window.

"Red alone?" he asked.

"The glass comes in black, green, red and purple," Jon said. "That does not mean we can make all four finishes. This one took moons."

Mace drew Garlan nearer at the mention of green. "With gold roses at the borders. You must send word when your smith has it right."

Garlan reached past him to touch the smooth cheek piece. "Will the green shine like this?"

Jon hoped it would. He said so, and left Perrin explaining how the fitter would take their measures after the morning's contests. Two more knights had come to listen. They made a place for Jon to leave, then closed it behind him.

At the royal table Cersei was holding a porcelain cup towards the light. Her fingers showed through its white wall. Beside her, Pycelle had a bowl almost against his nose.

"Who brought these from the east?" she asked.

"They were made upon Dragonstone, Your Grace. Ellyn, the potter in my service, made this set."

Robert returned without his breastplate and reached between them. "Pretty things." He held out the cup for wine, already asking Arthur when he could have the harness back. Cersei drew the remaining pieces clear of his elbow.

Jon stepped aside as the wine came. Below him Olenna had intercepted Perrin, who still carried a plain cup in its wrapping. Margaery leaned beside her grandmother to see it held against the light; one of her curls brushed the old woman's wimple and was impatiently brushed away.

"Four dragons for this little trinket?" Olenna turned it to examine the foot. "Have we become so short of silver?"

"We have silver," Alerie said. "I should like these."

"Then you had better ask whether there are any left after the queen's twelve." Olenna kept the cup when Perrin offered to take it. "Paxter should look at the packing. His factors will have seen what the eastern sort fetches."

Genna came to Alerie's other side with Darlessa Marbrand. The two women made room for Myranda Lefford, who had brought a bowl from the table and was comparing its depth with the silver dish in a servant's hands. He waited, uncertain whether he was meant to surrender that too.

"Let the man go, Myranda," Genna said, making room for him to pass.

Darlessa wanted a set for her solar; Myranda wanted to know whether the bowls must all have the same border. Jon answered both, raising his voice a little to be heard over Robert calling for his cloak.

"You can have your own designs. Arms, flowers, whatever the potter can work. We are preparing a finer sort with a dragonglass finish, like the armour. Those are not ready to offer yet."

Cersei set down her cup.

"The first will come to me. I shall choose for the royal household before you offer them elsewhere." She looked at the bowl in Myranda's hands. "A service for myself, and sets for the children. Your other customers can wait."

Myranda lowered the bowl. Olenna resumed turning her cup, now studying a part she had examined already.

Jon could hear Perrin behind him, explaining a fastening to one of the knights. He needed him here. The queen had made a request sound like an arrangement already settled, and every woman within reach was waiting to learn whether it was one.

"I can reserve the first service for Your Grace. Your steward can agree the price with mine. The children's designs can follow, but I must honour the orders already taken."

"The drawings will come to me," Cersei said. "Lions upon mine, with gold at the rims. You were particular enough about Joffrey's clock. I expect the same care."

Myrcella had come back to fetch her brother's cloak. She stopped beside the open case. "Could mine have flowers?"

"It could, my princess."

"We shall choose them together," Cersei told her. She began describing the size she wanted, keeping Jon there while Myrcella folded the cloak over her arm. Darlessa returned her cup to its cloth. Genna stayed beside her, speaking quietly, and when Jon was at last permitted to go she caught Perrin's sleeve herself.

Petyr Baelish was watching the women. His eyes passed over the porcelain, the crowded armour stand, then the cases still waiting to be opened. He had worn much the same look that afternoon, before there had been so many people offering to pay.

"Your man will have a busy morning," he said. "I could spare him some disappointments about who can pay."

He named a lord who had bought new horses while leaving a debt unpaid. Olenna asked whose debt. Petyr supplied the lender and the sum without appearing to search for either.

That was knowledge Jon could use. The lender might also be grateful to learn what Lord Black meant to sell, to whom, and how urgently he needed payment.

"I shall leave my steward to judge the promises he accepts," he said. "If you wish to order anything, he will be at the showing."

"I shall look forward to it." Petyr's smile did not alter. He moved aside for Ardrian Celtigar, who had followed the opening of the salt box as closely as other men had followed the armour.

Ardrian took a few grains upon his finger. He tasted them, frowned into the box and tasted again. Wylis Manderly bent beside him. Before either could ask a question, Robert called for some upon his meat.

A kitchen servant ran for a bowl. The cook came with it, flour caught in the creases of his hands. He bowed too low, tasted at the king's insistence, then forgot to be frightened long enough to ask how much there was.

"There is a course coming now, my lords," he said when Ardrian began to speak.

Robert waved him on. Perrin filled the bowl, and the sample went through the screens with two possible buyers still watching it. Jon found himself smiling after it. They would be arguing in the kitchens about how best to use what his people had made.

"When we last met, I bought a belt clasp," Tyrion said beside him. "You went away and acquired a fleet. I should have stayed for the rest of your shopping."

Jon looked at the buckle upon his crimson doublet. Mott had finished it. He remembered the close heat of the shop, and how their talk had soured before Tyrion left.

"There was rather more fighting than I wanted."

"I imagine there was." Tyrion's eyes lingered upon him before moving to the men gathered round the armour. "And now everyone wishes to know you. Have you managed to eat?"

"A little fish."

"You will be fortunate to get more. I have been trying to get a word with you since the armour came out." He shifted closer as a servant passed with a laden tray. "Be careful how much of this you encourage. They like being seen to know the young lord who has done so well. Refuse one of them tomorrow, and he will wonder when you became so pleased with yourself."

Jon followed his glance. One of the knights at the stand had begun speaking over Perrin's answer to another.

"I have no intention of seeking popularity at court. I am trying to improve my holding however I can."

"Perhaps I should have been born a bastard, then. I am rarely so humble."

Tyrion took a sip from the cup a servant offered him, watching Jon over the rim.

Jon let the smile stay upon his face. He had chosen every gift with this hall in mind. He wanted the talk to follow him home, wanted men to think of Dragonstone when they needed ships or work or a lord worth serving. Improving his holding was true enough; it was hardly all he intended.

"I cannot afford to refuse everyone who wants something," he said.

"No. But you need not agree merely because he has managed to catch you here." Tyrion nodded towards the fitter, who was trying to answer a question while packing his bag. "Let your men finish. Come and eat."

Jon took a cup himself. Their disagreement in Mott's shop remained, but Tyrion was making room for him beside the steps instead of asking him to account for it. He went with him.

Before they reached the tables, Tyrion asked whom he meant to back tomorrow.

"Arthur."

"Jaime," Tyrion said. "I shall enjoy taking your money."

Robert called the fitter back. Beyond him, Tommen had persuaded Barristan to watch a turn that required almost the whole aisle. Jon had meant the horse to win affection and the armour to win attention. Watching the old knight step solemnly clear, he was glad the boy had received his gift first.

Harry had taken Jon's place, though he had left the trencher untouched. Bread crusts lay in two uneven rows upon the cloth before him. Mychel Redfort moved a little heap of salt between them while Robb watched with his chin in his hand.

"There," Mychel said. "If we keep that side clear, you can reach us."

"Those are the Reachmen," Harry objected.

Robb picked up the nearest crust. "They have suffered losses."

"Mostly to Artys," Theon said.

Artys Elesham finished chewing. Harry surrendered Jon's chair and drew up a stool, making Anya Waynwood lift her skirts out of his way. Jon sat between his brother and Monford with a small, grateful sigh. Someone had put buttery onions upon his trencher. He had been smelling them for half an hour.

"We were deciding where to find one another if we are divided," Harry told him.

Robb moved the bread aside as a girl brought a capon between them.

Honey had darkened its skin almost to the colour of the dish. The girl held it steady while Jon cut, releasing steam and the smell of sage. Across the table Aurane shifted his cup away from Mychel's elbow; Domeric leaned back to let another servant through. For a little while everybody wanted something passed.

Harry waited until Jon had swallowed. "I gather the Vale men first. I will not have Mychel chasing after you while half my company are still fighting alone."

"We gather ours," Jon agreed. "Then we find you."

"And when there is nobody else left?" Artys asked.

Robb reached for the last crust. Harry caught his wrist.

"Then he can try that with a sword."

Anya looked round at the laughter. Harry put both feet upon the floor before she could comment on his stool, and Jon took another mouthful while he had the chance.

The benches had grown closer as people shifted to join friends. Wendel Manderly was defending the remains of an eel pie from a man who wished to carry it away; beyond him a Blackwood youth dragged a chair out of the passage with its Bracken occupant still sitting upon it. The Bracken boy got up at once, wine running down his sleeve. Neighbouring squires beat the table until Jonos Bracken turned towards them. Across the dish of beans, Tytos Blackwood beckoned his own youth back to his place. The boy obeyed, still grinning.

The arrival of the boar drew Robert's attention from his wine. He watched the carver work, called for a larger piece, then ordered a dish sent down to Ned's sons. Lord Grandison spoke of a hunt. Someone mentioned a ford, and within moments the king was back upon the Trident.

"You were nowhere near it. Yohn, tell him where you were!"

Royce answered. Men farther down called out places and names, disputing where a horse had fallen, where the river had been deepest. Robb turned upon the bench to hear. Jon had heard soldiers do this around other tables, in another life; even the contradictions were familiar. He was smiling when Robert began to describe Rhaegar's rubies.

Across the hall, Obara put down her cup. Oberyn leaned towards the man beside her and began speaking. The man kept looking past him towards the king, and Oberyn touched his sleeve to bring him back.

Jon bit the inside of his cheek.

Robb accepted the dish with thanks and offered him the first slice. Fat shone beneath the crushed pepper. Jon took it, unwilling to explain why he did not want it, and listened to his brother ask Yohn Royce a question. The king had all of Robb's attention now. Jon chewed; the pepper stung the place he had bitten.

Aurane reached for the wine. His fingers failed to close comfortably about the handle, and Monford took the jug from him before he could lift it.

"You have another hand."

"That one is holding my cup."

Monford filled it. Robb turned back at their exchange, his own cup forgotten.

"Alester told me you took the ferry back," he said to Aurane. "With your hand like that?"

"We were carrying the wounded out to the ships. Freed slaves, too; we had boys sitting between the stretchers." Aurane set his cup down. "There were still people coming down the steps when we pushed off. I took her back for them."

Robb glanced at Jon, who nodded. Aurane had gone back with that injured hand. Jon looked at the wine Monford had poured for him, then reached past it to move a dish so the servant waiting behind them could clear it away.

"Those poor souls." Lady Tanda had been listening from beyond Ardrian Celtigar. "Were there many children?"

Jon laid down his knife. "More than I would have wished to find there."

"And have you somewhere fit for them? I heard you had brought whole shiploads away."

"We have houses ready. Other families are sharing until the builders finish."

She leaned nearer, and Ardrian obligingly moved the dish between them. "How many altogether?"

"Three thousand and two hundred. Some came before the fighting."

Tanda's lips parted. She looked down at the food upon her plate before turning to her elder daughter. "Falyse, we must go through the linen."

"The old linen, I suppose." Falyse lowered her hippocras. "Unless you mean to empty our beds as well."

"Linen fit to be given. Sheets and blankets. Things we can spare."

"Then you had better look before promising them."

Tanda drew her younger daughter forward. The woman had been sitting behind her mother's shoulder, picking carefully at a small bone in her fish. She was fat, her green silk drawn tight across her upper arms; when Tanda spoke her name she set down her knife and looked up, uncertain whom she was meant to address.

"Lollys will help me. She has such a tender heart. Tell Lord Black what you were asking."

Lollys's brown eyes moved from her mother to Jon. "Who puts them to bed?"

He had expected another question about houses. "Their mothers, when we have found them. Other women care for those who are alone."

"But they would want their own mothers."

"Yes," Jon said. "They would."

She worried at the bone with the point of her knife. Tanda gently took the plate from her and passed it to a servant.

"It will be easier with proper beds," Tanda said. "They cannot all have brought their belongings. A blanket is something, even when one cannot do more."

"It would be welcome."

She smiled at that. "You must come to supper and tell us what is needed. Lollys would like to hear how the children fare, would you not, sweetling?"

Lollys nodded. Falyse drank again, watching Jon over the rim. He was not merely Ned Stark's bastard to their mother; there was an island now, and ships, and a place near the king. Tanda would be able to see her daughter well settled and do a kindness at the same time.

"I cannot promise an evening yet," he told her. "But I shall have an account brought to you."

"You can bring it yourself when you are free." She turned before he could answer, asking Mylenda Bar Emmon whether there were women in her household who could be spared to sort clothing.

Jon picked up his knife again. His boar had cooled. Robb offered him the capon, but he shook his head; he would finish what was on his trencher.

Mace Tyrell had stopped beside Wylis, with Alerie and Renly behind him. He caught enough of Tanda's explanation to announce that Highgarden could feed a king's host twice over; a few more mouths upon Dragonstone would scarcely trouble its granaries. Wylis said he would be glad to hear what could be sent by sea. Monford drew out a place for Perrin, who had come to see whether Jon needed him, and the talk moved to ports.

Jon left them to it. Monford knew the men who would have to put those promises aboard ships. He asked a question of Mace's attendant and listened while Lord Tyrell was still praising the harvest.

Renly found room beside Harry without asking anyone to rise. Soon Mychel was explaining the proposed alliance to him, while Alerie spoke to Wynafryd across the back of Robb's chair. Jon watched Harry straighten when Renly remembered something he had said earlier. The easy charm he remembered reading about worked very well at close quarters.

"Have you tried the Faith's houses?" Tanda asked him.

He turned back. "For what, my lady?"

"Finding their families. A septa I know found a boy's mother through a pilgrim who had come from Maidenpool. They had been looking for each other for months."

"Where we have names to send, we send them. Sometimes a child remembers a place better than a name."

Lollys had been following with an anxious crease between her brows. "Could you take him there?"

"One boy has asked me to. His name is Laro. He comes from Lys."

"That is across the sea," she said.

"It is. He remembers his father's workshop, and the shops beside it. We have sent letters."

She considered this. "Will his father come?"

Jon had imagined that readily enough: another man with a trade, another household on his island, a son grateful to the lord who had brought them together. He needed families who would stand by him when he claimed the name Aemon. He had allowed himself to think of Laro among them until the boy asked for passage home.

"If we find him, Laro wants to go to him."

"Oh." Her expression cleared. "Then he could show you the way."

Jon smiled, though his cheek hurt. "I hope so."

Monford had turned at the mention of Lys. He waited until Tanda began speaking again, then touched Jon's arm and quietly asked for the boy's account. He had a factor there. Jon thanked him and reached for his cup, finding it empty.

Tanda offered the jug before he could ask. "The septas will be such a comfort to them until then. I told Lord Guncer we could help with what they would need."

Jon kept his cup upon the table. "Which septas?"

"The teachers. His High Holiness—" She looked towards Guncer, who had turned from Mylenda to hear them. "You spoke to him today, did you not?"

"I did," Jon said. "I agreed to no house upon Dragonstone."

Guncer's kindly expression altered. "I understood you were to hear how it might be provided for."

"I agreed to listen. That was all."

Tanda held the jug a moment longer, then lowered it. Beside her, Lollys looked from one face to another. The discussion of shipping went on behind Jon; Perrin had to raise his voice to be heard over Renly's laugh.

"I should be glad of the linen," Jon added.

"Of course," Tanda said, but she did not resume her plans with Mylenda. Guncer was watching him. Jon had refused the High Septon in a quiet chamber that afternoon. Here there were blankets, children, a woman offering to help. He could already feel how the refusal would sound if he had to repeat all of it.

Guncer set his cup aside. "Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding."

"Perhaps."

The old lord nodded without seeming reassured. Jon wanted to make the distinction plain before another promise was made on his behalf. He also wanted to eat with Robb while the food was still warm. Before he could choose, his brother rose so abruptly that the bench struck Jon's knee.

Lysa Arryn had reached them with her little son clinging to her hand. She took Robb's face between her palms and kissed him. Theon leaned aside to inspect something under the table.

Pearls gleamed in Lysa's piled auburn hair; powder lay thick beside her nose without hiding the puffiness beneath her eyes. She kept Robb's hand when he tried to release it.

"Your mother is well?"

"Very well, Aunt Lysa. She sends her love."

"She should have come herself. I would have found rooms for her and the girls."

"Sansa would have liked that. She will want to hear about tonight." Robb glanced towards the dais. "I ought to remember what everyone is wearing."

"You may leave that to me. I will write to her." Lysa smiled and drew him nearer so she need not raise her voice. "And Arya? Would she have liked the birds?"

"She wanted to come for the fighting."

"To watch, I hope."

Robb laughed. "She did not say. She thinks it unfair that we can leave our lessons for a tournament when she must stay behind with hers."

"Mother." Little Robert pressed against her skirts.

"In a moment, sweetling." She freed her hand from Robb's to smooth the boy's hair. "And what did you tell her?"

"That we still had to do what we were told. She did not believe me." He was still smiling. "She would have believed it if she had seen Ser Arthur in the yard today."

Lysa laughed with him, her fingers moving through her son's hair. The boy watched Robb without smiling.

Jon watched her fingers. Poison, a letter to Catelyn, Petyr behind both: he remembered enough to dread her and too little to know how near any of it might be. Arryn was alive. Robb was laughing with his aunt. After the feast Jon would set down what he could remember and begin finding out which parts still held true. He would not let Baelish choose the hour of the war that might destroy them before he was ready.

Little Robert caught his mother's hand and tugged it down. She broke off to bend over him, promising that he need not stay much longer. Robb drew out a stool, but she would not sit. She wanted him to visit her, properly, where they could talk. Jon looked back towards Tanda while his brother promised. Guncer had left his place.

Servants were clearing the nearest tables now. Alester caught Jon's trencher before it could be taken; Rosamund told him to let the poor man finish. Jon ate the last of his supper standing, obliged to move when two men lifted the bench. Domeric followed the harper to the place being cleared for the musicians, tapping a rhythm against his cup.

The shifting benches brought Jon to the foot of the dais, where Ralph Buckler and Brus were talking. Brus lifted his recovered arm in greeting. Shireen saw Jon from the high table and beckoned him up. Her father stood beside her chair while Selyse examined the plate a servant had brought.

"Plain meat," she said. "I asked for none of this sauce."

Tall and spare in her gown, she held the dish until the man took it back. Shireen waited with both hands in her lap, her dark hair pinned clear of the grey ridges upon her cheek. She brightened when she saw Jon.

"Tommen says the horse can go upstairs."

"Someone would have to carry it."

She glanced at her father. Stannis looked towards the royal table, where Thunder had stopped against a pillar.

"He is to get off first," Jon added.

"Make certain he knows that," Stannis said.

Selyse returned the corrected plate to her daughter. Shireen began cutting her meat, but Stannis had turned his attention to the tables below the Crownlanders.

"The man with the open collar. That is your pirate?"

Jon followed his gaze to the man reaching for the wine.

"Captain Vhalar."

"I have heard of the holding you promised him." Stannis moved an empty chair out of a servant's way. "What punishment did you impose?"

"His pardon was part of the terms."

"So he lost nothing by entering your service."

"He surrendered his ships. He takes his orders from a knight of mine."

"And has land to look forward to." Stannis set the chair against the wall. A boy came past with a stack of trenchers, gravy running over his knuckles. "Ser Davos brought food through the Redwyne blockade when my men were starving. I knighted him and gave him lands upon Cape Wrath. He earned them. I also punished him for the smuggling."

Jon remembered that part very well. He had read it years before he had ever seen Storm's End: the onions, the salted fish, the first joints cut from the fingers of Davos's left hand. He had admired the knighthood and hated the rest. Hearing it from Stannis did not make him like it better.

"You took his fingertips."

"He had broken the law many times. He knew what he was doing."

"Ser Davos always comes to see me," Shireen said.

Her knife had stopped against the edge of her plate. She looked up at her father, then at Jon.

"When he comes home. He sits with me, even when everyone is busy."

Stannis's gaze dropped to her. "He is a good man."

Shireen nodded firmly, satisfied that this had been established, and returned to her supper. Jon watched her push a piece of meat onto her knife. She had spoken of Davos as readily as Robb might speak of someone from Winterfell.

"I would have left him his fingers," Jon said.

Stannis looked back at him. "Would you have punished him at all?"

Jon had been about to answer when he noticed Selyse listening. Ralph had stopped talking to Brus. This was becoming an argument about a man who was not there, and Jon was defending a very different one.

"Vhalar was still fighting when I made the offer. Accepting it gave him a reason to call his men off. I had wounded to bring home."

"You might have offered him his life. Must you give him land as well?"

"I meant to employ him. I wanted him to believe there was something to be gained by serving me."

There it was, without the wounded to shelter behind. He had needed them out alive; he had also wanted experienced captains for the ships he was taking. The bargain had served both purposes. He would make it again, though it sounded less generous spoken over a supper table.

"He has gained a great deal," Stannis said. "What does a man who has served honestly have to do to earn the same?"

"I gave him my word."

"Then keep it. I have said nothing of breaking it." Stannis's mouth tightened. "You asked too little of him before you gave it."

A servant bent to ask whether Shireen had finished. Stannis put a hand upon the back of her chair and told the man to leave her plate. She cut another small piece, watching the clearing floor beyond Jon's shoulder.

He moved aside so she could see. Tommen had got the horse free of the pillar and was trying to turn it. Jon would have to tell him about the stairs. He stayed another moment, until Shireen had swallowed, and asked whether she would help him explain it.

Robert announced the hunt while the servants were clearing the lower tables. He wanted Yohn Royce and Ned's boy, and enough hounds to find something worth killing once the tournament was done. Mace began offering horses before the king had finished. Renly added Garlan's name, and the invitation travelled through men who hoped it included them.

Robb went to the dais when Robert beckoned. He looked back at Jon with a grin that asked whether he could believe his luck.

Jon waved him on. A bench passed between them, carried by men who had to lift it over a guest reluctant to abandon his pigeon. The musicians were trying a slower tune beneath the noise. Genna Lannister had secured a chair beside the cleared floor and was directing Emmon to one on her other side. He came with almond cakes instead; sourleaf stained the corners of his mouth, and his explanation went unheard when she spotted a passing niece.

Ysilla caught Jon before he reached them.

"You promised," she said, putting her hand into his.

He had. Bronze ribbons moved at her wrist as she drew him towards the forming line. On the far side Margaery was waiting with Garlan; Andren Plumm listened earnestly to Elinor's instructions and started with the wrong foot. Ysilla lost her own place laughing. Jon steadied her, and she squeezed his fingers in thanks before the turn separated them.

The noise changed with every crossing. Near the musicians he could scarcely hear her; by the open doors a cool draught passed beneath his collar, carrying her perfume away with the smell of meat. She was telling him of Myranda's baggage chest falling into a ford. Three horses had been draped in drying gowns, and Ysilla had spent half the ride keeping a sleeve out of the mud.

"She said I stretched it," she told him as they came together again. "You saw her wearing it yesterday. Did it look stretched?"

"I was not looking at the sleeves."

"I shall tell her that."

"Please don't."

She laughed. When he took her back to Myranda, she was still telling him about the ruined gowns, and he stayed to hear Myranda dispute how many had been hers.

Obara stood at the edge of the floor with a hand extended towards him.

Obara could dance? He looked at her hand a moment too long. One eyebrow rose.

"Who told you a daughter of the Red Viper could not dance?"

"No one."

"Then come."

She knew the dance better than he did. He had barely found his place before she turned away with the next man, her plain dark skirts brushing his boot. When she returned, she glanced at his shoulder.

"Don't get too battered in the melee. I want you fit when you come against me."

"If I can lift the shield, I shall send word."

She nodded, satisfied, and passed beneath their joined hands for the turn. Jon watched her with her next partner. There was nothing hesitant in her movements; she came back to him smiling, plainly looking forward to the bout.

The last notes found them facing one another. Her father was waiting where they had left their cups. She kept hold of Jon's hand as they went to join him.

"You've fought pirates," she said, loudly enough for Oberyn to hear. "But never a Sand Snake."

***
​

Oberyn smiled at his daughter's boast. Jon shook his head at her, still holding her hand as they came from the floor.

Beside Oberyn, Garlan Tyrell was promising to send Willas's notes about the mare. His father heard his brother's name and looked round.

"I shall answer them," Oberyn said. "Tell him I have not forgotten."

Garlan thanked him. Mace's mouth tightened, but Renly was beckoning from the dais, where Margaery stood with Myrcella. The Lord of Highgarden went to join them. Renly had helped obtain a ride for the girls on the morrow, though Cersei had insisted upon a septa, grooms and Alerie accompanying them. Mace had thanked her as warmly as if she had invited Margaery to stay a year. Doran would want to hear of that. Oberyn let him go. Obara had nearly reached them.

Jon released her hand carefully as she stopped beside her father.

Oberyn handed Jon his cup. "Some of the people Vhalar sold are living on your island, I hear."

"Some."

"What did they make of his pardon?"

Jon's right hand closed about the back of an empty chair. He did not pull it out.

"They did not choose it. I did." Jon paused as a woman carrying an empty platter passed between them. "I needed the fighting to end. I offered terms he would accept."

The boy had answered readily enough until he was asked about the people who must live with his bargain. Oberyn knew how much could be excused by the need to end a war.

"My brother was offered peace," he said. "After our sister was murdered. After her children—"

Robert's laughter broke across the music. A great, full laugh, followed by the slap of his palm upon the table. Mace laughed with him.

A muscle pulled beside Oberyn's mouth. He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek until it eased. At the high table the king reached for more wine.

"There was much to be gained by accepting it," Oberyn continued. "No more fighting. No more dead men. Lord Tywin's friendship."

Obara had gone very still. Beside her, Jon looked towards the dais. When he turned back, his fingers were white against the chair.

"I am sorry for your sister."

"So were many people."

The boy did not lower his eyes, but he had no answer. Oberyn could have asked whether Jon would have accepted such terms for his own family. He let the question go unspoken.

Myrcella came past them with a hand upon the wooden horse's bridle. Tommen pushed with one foot, his face solemn with concentration. Oberyn moved his boot clear of the little wheels.

"Where are you riding, my prince?"

"Back to Mother." Tommen glanced up at him, then bent over the horse's neck and pushed again.

Oberyn smiled and turned to Jon. "Who carved the head? He has caught the set of the ears very well."

Jon took a moment to answer. "A carpenter on Dragonstone."

"You must give him my compliments."

"I will."

Myrcella guided the horse towards the wider aisle beside the dais. Jon watched them go.

Tommen tucked his feet up as the horse gathered speed. Oberyn remembered Rhaenys demanding a turn upon his shoulders, once, before she had learned to hide her face from strangers. He could still lift her, though she would object now. Elia would never see how tall she had grown.

"Come," he said to Obara.

She fell into step beside him. Behind them Jon had not returned to the dancing, and at the dais Robert was beginning another story.

***
​

Jon reached for water and found he had taken someone else's cup.

"That one is mine," Jeyne Westerling said. She moved a clean one towards him, then glanced at his shoulder. "Does it still hurt?"

"More now."

"You were smiling after Aurane struck you."

"I wasn't going to let him see how much it hurt." He poured too much. Water ran over his fingers and into the rushes. Jeyne took the jug before he could make it worse.

At the high table Robert had drawn Robb's chair closer. His brother was listening with both elbows upon the table, unaware that Jon was watching.

Jon had read about Elia and her children in another life. Tonight he had dressed Robert in red steel and waited for his approval. He needed the king's favour; he meant to use it until he could take the man's throne. That explanation would not have improved Oberyn's opinion of him, even if it could have been spoken.

Genna patted the chair beside hers. Her broad, smooth face was flushed from the heat, and she had loosened the clasp at the throat of her gown. "Come and sit with us. Emmon, there is room on your other side."

Emmon moved with his dish. Tyrion sat across from her with a cushion beneath him and a little stool under his feet. He made no remark about the water upon Jon's sleeve, though Jon saw him notice it.

Darlessa was describing the porcelain to her husband. Tygett listened until she began explaining why she wanted a second set, then put down his knife. Genna caught Jon's eye while they were occupied.

Genna took an almond cake, broke it and offered half to Tyrion. "Tywin tells me you would not have his man taught to make clocks. Do you guard your potter's work as closely?"

"She teaches the people who work for her."

"We have good potters in Lannisport. One could stay upon your island for a time. I would see to his expenses."

Jon set his cake upon the plate. Mott had refused him much the same thing, and he had not liked hearing it. "I am not taking pupils for another lord's workshops, my lady. I would rather tell you here than disappoint someone you sent all that way."

"Then it was not my brother you objected to."

"Not in that."

Genna looked at him a moment, then nodded. "I shall tell him so. He will ask how much I offered you."

"The answer would have been the same."

"I know. He will ask all the same." She brushed a crumb from her skirt. "For myself, I shall be content with the cups. Darlessa has already found three uses for a second set."

Jon took up his cake again. He would have to speak to Ellyn before an offer reached her from someone else. Genna's attention had gone to Tommen, whose bridle was caught about a stool. The boy tugged at the horse while Myrcella pulled the ribbon from the other side, tightening it between them.

"Gerion would have ridden straight through," Genna said.

"He knocked over Father's chair once," Tyrion said. "I was hiding beneath the table. I thought the whole thing was coming down."

"You were not meant to be there."

"I know."

She laughed and laid her hand over his. A woman freed the bridle; Tommen rolled away, leaving the stool upon its side. Jon had been thinking about what these people might want from him. He looked at their joined hands and remembered that a man whose name meant a lost sword to him had once made them laugh.

"There has been no further word?" he asked.

"None beyond Volantis." Tyrion turned the cake over between his fingers. "Father's men found some of the crew who would not go farther. They could not say what happened after they left him."

Jon could still see Brightroar beneath the rising water of his dream. He had captains now who might ask questions in those ports. This was neither the place to explain how he knew what to ask nor the moment to turn Gerion into another undertaking.

"I should like to hear what they did learn," he said. "When you have time."

Tyrion looked up. "I shall find it for you."

Genna kept her hand upon his a little longer. Margaery came to join the girls while Myrielle, her braid threaded with red ribbon, tried to work out the next dance from Jeyne's demonstration. Cerenna had gathered her yellow skirts clear of her slippers to show them a different step. Genna settled the argument by telling her to begin again where Jeyne could see her feet. Jon remained while they disputed which turn came first. It was a relief to have nothing useful to say.

Beyond the Westerlands tables, Theon stood with a tall knight whose long face remained grave while he listened. A silver scythe was quartered with a peacock upon his coat. Ser Harras Harlaw, if Jon remembered the arms correctly. Theon had both hands about an empty cup and was speaking without the grin he had worn through supper.

Harras bent his head to answer. Jon could hear nothing over the music. Theon glanced down at the kraken upon his belt, touched it with his thumb, then looked up and asked something else. A servant offered wine; he shook his head without turning away from the knight.

Jon watched until a pair of dancers crossed his view. When they passed, Harras had laid a hand upon Theon's shoulder. Theon nodded, still listening.

Myranda Royce came round the end of the table and touched Theon's sleeve. He turned, but before he could speak she glanced towards Harras. The knight inclined his head to her and released Theon's shoulder.

"Will you dance with me?" she asked.

Theon set down his empty cup. "Gladly." He said something more to Harras, too quietly for Jon to hear, then offered Myranda his arm. She led him towards the forming line. He looked back once; when she spoke again, he bent to hear her.

Desmera Redwyne came for her cousin's opinion of the dance. She had a little golden grape caught in the embroidered cuff of her sleeve. Margaery freed it while Desmera asked Jon whether he could manage another dance.

"I am trying to remember this one."

"Then you may learn with me." She offered her hand before Cerenna could demonstrate again.

Horas stood beside the water with two cups. He held one towards Margaery; she was listening to Desmera and did not notice until he spoke her name. She thanked him and set it down, turning back to the others.

Horas looked at Desmera's hand upon Jon's arm. "A Redwyne is taught to fight from childhood, Black. You will find me rather different from your pirates."

Jon rose carefully. "I watched you fight this afternoon."

"We were going to dance, Horas," Desmera said.

Horas's mouth tightened. He looked past Jon towards the tables.

"Father wants you, Desmera."

She turned to look. Paxter stood with Monford at the end of the Crownlanders' table, his head bent to hear him over the music. Neither man was looking their way.

"What does he want?"

"He did not say." Horas moved aside, leaving her a way past him.

Desmera watched her father for another moment. Monford said something that made him smile; Paxter set down his cup and began to answer.

"I will speak to him after the dance."

"He asked for you."

"Then tell him where I am." She turned back to Jon, her hand still resting upon his arm. "Shall we?"

Jon offered his hand, and she took it. Horas remained beside the water as they found a place among the other dancers. Nearby, Roslin Frey was introducing a dark-haired girl to Robb. Little ravens were sewn upon her red sleeves; a black ribbon held her hair clear of a face still warm from dancing.

"Lady Betha Blackwood," Roslin said. She gave her friend a quick smile and left them together.

"I watched your first bout this afternoon," Betha told him. "I thought your brother had stopped your sword, and then you struck his arm."

Robb's hand went to the fastening at his collar. "I changed the cut. He had seen the other one too often."

She smiled. "Will you dance with me, Lord Robb?"

"Yes, my lady." He offered his hand at once. As Betha drew him towards a gap in the line, Robb turned back to Jon with a shy smile. Jon smiled back.

"Lord Tytos's cousin," Desmera murmured. "She asked Roslin to bring her over."

The music began before they could say more. Betha settled beside Robb in the line and spoke close to him; he listened with his head bent, then followed her into the first turn. Farther along, Myranda was laughing as Theon turned with her. He had found his grin again. They moved easily together, and when the line separated them she reached back for his hand before the next crossing brought them close.

Desmera waited until she had Jon's attention again. "I wanted to ask about the flowers."

For a moment he could think only of the cups. She shook her head when he began to answer.

"Real ones. What grows near your castle?"

He tried to remember what he had seen on his walks rather than what he had ordered planted. Grass in cracks, a little white flower beside a wall, coarse yellow blooms leaning away from the wind. He did not know the names. Desmera listened with increasing amusement.

"You could have invented something splendid. I have never been there."

"You might ask to see it."

"I should." The line took her away before she could say more. When she returned, she told him she painted the flowers at the Arbor. Her mother approved of the petals and corrected the leaves, even when Desmera had not asked her to look. "I have a drawing I should like your potter to see."

"Send it. I should like to see it too."

She smiled, then caught his sleeve as the dancers closed too quickly. They had to wait while the couple ahead of them found their places. Desmera used the pause to point out Betha, who was explaining something to Robb with both hands while he tried to follow.

Margaery waited with water when they came back. She gave the first cup to Desmera and asked whether she had found out what she wanted. Their exchange told Jon that the question had been considered before either girl approached him. Desmera began to describe the unnamed yellow flowers; Margaery offered two possibilities and was no nearer an answer when Garlan came to fetch his sister.

"Mother asks whether you have finished dancing."

"One more," Margaery said. She looked at Jon. "Unless you have promised it already."

He had not. She gave Garlan her cup and took his hand before her brother could decide whether he had been given an answer to carry back.

Renly watched them from beside Alerie. Loras had brought Myrcella to his mother to ask about the ride they had arranged for the next day; Cersei was listening from the dais, with Jaime standing close enough to hear what was promised. Jon knew some of the uses Renly had once imagined for his friend's sister. He could not yet tell how much of tonight's attention came from that purpose. Margaery, at least, had asked for this dance herself.

Margaery looked up at him as the first turn brought them close.

"You free slaves, make those lovely cups, and fight pirates," she said. "What else do you do for fun?"

Jon laughed. "I read. Mostly stories about long journeys. I used to stay up until it was almost morning."

He still read late, but there was usually a sum to check or a decision waiting at the end of it. He could not remember when he had last read simply because he wanted to know what happened.

"Elinor and I have a place in the garden where we take ours," Margaery said when the dance brought them together again. "You can hear people coming along the path before they can see you."

"Does that give you time to hide the book?"

"Sometimes. Mother had sent for us once, and we kept saying we would come when we had finished the page. There was a woman trying to escape, and we had to know whether she managed it."

"Did she?"

"Yes, but Elinor read the ending before I did. She kept trying to turn the page."

Her laughter upset the next step. He steadied her, aware that she was still holding his fingers when she had recovered.

"What was she escaping from?" he asked.

"Her uncle had shut her away. There was a man who meant to come for her, but she did not know what had become of him. Elinor wanted her to wait."

"And you?"

"I wanted her out of the tower. She had already spent half the book looking through the same window." Margaery glanced towards her cousin, who was dancing with Andren. "We argued about it all the way back to the house."

Jon took her hand again as the line brought them together. "I think I should have gone looking for him."

"You would have missed him. He was coming by another road."

"Did you still want them to find each other?"

"Very much. He had been trying to reach her all that time." Her voice softened a little. "But I wanted her to do something besides wait."

Jon smiled. "Then I had better read it."

"I could lend it to you," she said. "I brought it with me."

"I should like that."

On the next turn he saw Alerie watching. Margaery saw her too and smiled at her mother before returning her attention to him. Jon began a question, caught Alerie's eye again, and forgot how he meant to finish it.

"What were you going to ask?"

"When I might collect the book."

"I will have Elinor find it." Her hand settled more comfortably in his. "Ask me tomorrow."

The music ended with her hand still in his. Garlan was waiting, but Margaery stayed to ask where Jon would stand in the melee, then said she would know where to look. He watched her go until she looked back and caught him at it.

Robb found him beside the abandoned benches. Betha had gone to Roslin for water, but she kept glancing back towards him. Theon returned from leaving Myranda with her companions and asked whether Robb meant to dance again. Robb glanced towards Betha before answering, which was answer enough for Theon. Before he could pursue it, Robb began the story the king had told about Ned's lost boot. Wendel brought his cup to hear, and Aurane insisted upon knowing why Ned had been in the bush in the first place.

Robert supplied that detail from the dais, loudly and to Robb's delight. Jon laughed with the others, a little late.

He had considered armies, claims, which lords would yield and which must be beaten. His brother stood before him with a part of their father's youth no letter could have given him, impatient to hear more. Jon had not spent enough time imagining what it would mean to tell Robb that this man must lose his throne.

He had always pictured Robb beside him when the time came. Now he watched his brother lean forward as Robert resumed, eager not to miss a word, and felt how much he had been taking for granted. He would have to tell Robb who he was and what he meant to do. He would have to ask. Jon hoped his brother would choose him; he was afraid to think what he would do if Robb refused.

Betha returned before the story was done and stood beside Robb to listen. When the others began disputing where Ned could have lost the boot, she touched his sleeve.

"Have you promised the next dance?"

"No." Robb was already getting up. "I had hoped you would come back."

She looked pleased by the answer. "I wanted to ask whether you were going on the hunt."

"The king asked me. Will you be there?"

"If my cousin allows it. I shall ask him tonight." She put her hand into Robb's and waited while he made his way round the bench. He scarcely looked at Theon as they went back to the floor.

Jon remained upon the bench until Wynafryd offered to help him escape. They kept to a slower dance. She kept his hand low, sparing the shoulder, while Wylla Manderly corrected Aries through the turns nearby. He was listening to her as gravely as he listened to a master-at-arms.

By the time Jon and Wynafryd stopped, candles had burned into uneven pools along the tables. Tommen slept against Cersei with one hand closed upon her gown. Myrcella leaned over to show him something, discovered he would not wake, and carefully tucked his dangling foot back onto the chair.

For a moment there was a small head beneath his chin, fingers caught in his shirt. He remembered shifting that sleeping weight, careful not to wake whoever he held. There had been a voice beside him, low and amused. He could almost hear it beneath the music.

He tried to hold on to it. A chair scraped nearby, and he was standing in the hall with his arms empty.

"Jon?"

Wynafryd was watching him. Her smile had gone. He realised he was gripping her hand and loosened his fingers.

"Forgive me."

"Are you unwell?"

He shook his head. The answer he wanted to give would not come. His throat hurt; he swallowed and looked away from the sleeping boy.

"Only tired," he said, managing a weak smile.

Her eyes went to Tommen, then back to him. She did not look convinced, but she let him lead her towards her father.

Wylis rose as they approached. Jon thanked Wynafryd for the dance and released her hand. She stayed beside her father, watching as Jon returned to his place at the table.

He sat down and drew a cup of water towards him. Most of the nearby chairs were empty. Farther along the hall, Lady Tanda was speaking to Marrec, his steward, who had his tablets out to record what linen she could send. Jon drank slowly. By the time he lowered the cup, his hand was steady.

Guncer stopped beside Jon's table with a man in cream wool. A seven-pointed star hung upon the stranger's breast. He waited a pace behind the lord of Sweetport Sound.

"May we speak with you, my lord?"

Jon set down his cup. "Of course."

"This is Septon Halwin, one of the Most Devout. His High Holiness sent him to speak with you about the schools. He asked whether I might introduce him."

The septon bowed.

"His High Holiness told me to expect you," Jon said. He invited them to sit, and Guncer drew out the chair beside him. Halwin took the one opposite.

"There are two women who could come," the septon said. "Both have cared for children whose families are gone. One teaches letters. Lord Guncer tells me you have need of both."

"We do."

"I can give them passage," Guncer added. "Lady Tanda's linen can go in the same ship. There is room."

Jon looked at the old lord. "You have my thanks for that. But I agreed to no house governed by the Faith."

"I know, my lord." Guncer laid his hands upon the table. A moonstone caught the candlelight at his wrist. "I thought, if you heard what was needed, it might not seem so great a demand. There are children among them who have no one to teach them their prayers."

Halwin inclined his head. "The women would need lodging, and a room for their lessons. Somewhere to pray. It need not be a costly undertaking."

"Who would appoint the person in charge?"

"The Faith would choose a keeper. Someone accustomed to the work."

"And the teachers?"

"They would answer to the keeper. He would answer for them to us." Halwin rested his hands within his sleeves. "You would be welcome to see their work whenever you wished, my lord."

Jon could picture the house well enough: lessons, meals, women who knew a child's name and noticed when he was ill. In time the families would turn to its keeper with their troubles. The High Septon did not need Jon to kneel before him to gain a place in their lives.

He wanted those families safe and settled. He also wanted them to remember who had brought them there. He had chosen to build his future among them, and had no intention of giving the Faith the authority that went with caring for them.

"I will pay the teachers at my school and appoint those who oversee them," he said. "These women may take places there if they wish. They would answer to my steward."

Guncer's fingers moved against one another. "They would still be women of the Faith."

"Yes. I have asked no one to forsake it."

"Nor could they," Halwin said. "Their obligations are not mine to set aside."

"Then tell me which obligation prevents them from teaching in my service."

The septon glanced at Guncer before answering. "They have been offered for a house under our care. I cannot send them elsewhere upon terms I have not been given leave to accept."

"Then you must ask."

The music rose behind them. Halwin waited for it to soften before speaking again.

"I will carry your answer to His High Holiness."

"Please do."

The septon rose. Guncer made as though to follow, but Jon rested a hand beside his upon the table.

"A moment, Lord Guncer."

Guncer settled back into his chair. Halwin bowed to them both and withdrew among the guests leaving the hall.

For a little while Guncer watched him go. "I hoped this would please you, my lord."

"I know."

"The women do good work. I would not have brought him if I thought otherwise."

"I do not doubt their kindness." Jon turned the cup between his hands. "I cannot accept the terms."

Guncer looked down at the moonstone upon his wrist. Jon remembered reading what the man's devotion would cost him in another life. Here he sat beside his lord, disappointed by a refusal he did not understand. His faith was no pretence, and Jon could find no comfort in treating it as one.

"I ask nothing that would prevent you from worshipping," Jon said more quietly.

"I had hoped to do more than worship."

Jon stopped turning the cup. There had been no rebuke in the old lord's voice. He had offered a ship, his time, and people he believed could help.

"The linen will still need passage," Jon said. "And I would be glad of your help finding teachers who can accept my terms."

Guncer nodded after a moment. "I will speak to your steward about the ship, my lord."

He rose and bowed. Jon thanked him again before he left. He watched him cross the hall towards Marrec and Lady Tanda.

Across the hall the last dancers were arguing with the fiddlers for another tune. Jon searched for Robb among them. He wanted his chambers, the names he must set down, an hour in which nobody would ask him for anything.

Gawen came up beside him.

"There is someone waiting for you outside, my lord."

He leaned closer at Jon's look. "Hal. He came to the chambers and would not give his news to anyone else."

Jon saw the boy beyond the doors, his cap pressed flat between his hands. A household guard stood with him. Hal's face was streaked with the dirt he had tried to wipe away.

The wish for a quiet hour was gone.

Jon sent Gawen to fetch Arthur. He had turned towards the doors when Robb came up beside him, having left Betha with her companions.

"Who is that?"

"Hal. The boy who brought word of the fighting pitts."

Robb looked from him to the waiting child. "Is there another?"

"I have not heard him yet."

"Then I will hear him with you."

Jon began to object. Robb's expression hardened before he had a word out.

"You can ask me to wait here. I shall wait, and tomorrow you will tell me what you did after everyone went to bed. I had enough of that with the pirates."

"I am not taking you into a fight."

"I am asking to listen." He glanced towards Hal. "And if there is something I can do, I want you to ask me."

Martyn was already coming towards them. Jon remembered his promise to Catelyn, then the way she had looked when he made it. She had known her son. Robb would follow danger eagerly enough without Jon making exclusion into a challenge.

"Come, then. Martyn too."

Arthur joined them at the doors. He took one look at Hal and asked no question in the hearing of the hall. As they left, Robert's voice rose above the music, calling for a song he remembered. Robb looked back once before following Jon.

 

[Yzakschwarz]

Good work Jon don't trust the Faith of the Seven they are not to be trusted

 

[aiwonder]

Hal waited until the music had faded behind two turns of the passage.

"There is a man my aunt knows," he began. "From the place where they kept Benn."

Jon stopped. A servant approached with a basket of empty cups against her hip; he waited for her to pass before opening his chamber door.

"Inside. Tell me there."

Arthur brought the lamp from the passage. The room still smelled faintly of Jon's bath. Wylla's sewing lay folded upon a chest, a length of unused black thread wound round the needles. Robb drew out a chair for Hal. Martyn came in behind him and stayed beside the door while Gawen shut it.

"Sit down. Did you run all the way?"

"Most of it." Hal took the water Jon poured and drank until he had to stop for breath. Dirt streaked his face. One knee showed through his torn hose.

Jon rested a hand upon the table. "Is Rilla hurt?"

"No, my lord. She was putting the stools inside when he went past. She caught my sleeve and pulled me behind the shutter. He's the one who wouldn't let her fetch Benn." Hal pinched the upper rim of his ear. "There's a piece gone here. My aunt said his face hadn't changed."

"Did he see either of you?" Arthur asked.

"He was looking across the lane. I waited until he'd gone round the corner."

"Then followed him," Jon said.

Hal's fingers tightened round the cup. "She told me to leave him. But if I did, we wouldn't know where he'd gone."

He had followed the man downhill, past the streets where Rilla bought her grain and vegetables, into lanes he knew chiefly from carrying food to customers. The man walked quickly. Hal lost him once behind a dray and found him again at a narrow crossing, waiting for the wheels to clear.

"How far from the shop?" Arthur asked.

"Past the lime sheds. Then farther down, where the covered gutter comes out. There's an old brewery beyond it." Hal looked from Arthur to Jon. "I can show you. I don't know what they call all the turnings."

At the brewery a man stood outside the front door with a cudgel through his belt. Two customers spoke to him before he let them pass. The torn-eared man went round the building instead. Hal followed as far as an empty stall, then crouched behind it.

"He stopped at the back door. Looked one way, then the other. I thought he'd seen me." Hal rubbed his thumb over the cup's wet rim. "Someone opened it from inside. He went in and they shut it again."

"What could you see beyond him?" Jon asked.

"Nothing. Only light."

"Did you see any children?"

Hal shook his head. "I stayed behind the stall. When he didn't come out, I went back to my aunt."

"And she sent you here?"

"She meant to send for the Hand's man. I said I'd come to you. You asked about Benn this morning." He looked at Jon with sudden anxiety. "You said you wanted to see him."

"I do. You were right to bring the news." Jon moved the water jug within his reach. "Finish that. We'll need the way again."

Arthur waited until Hal lowered his eyes to the cup.

"The Hand should hear this."

"That a man Rilla knows went into an alehouse?" Jon said. "We cannot tell him there is another pit."

"We can tell him where to look for a man his people are seeking."

Jon crossed to the chest. He laid Wylla's sewing upon the bed before opening it. "Then let us find out whether he is still there, and what they keep behind that door. Hal has seen no children. I won't send him through another telling of it only to have someone ask what he actually saw."

Arthur came to stand beside the chest. "That is not a reason to keep it from Arryn."

"I am not keeping it from him." Jon lifted out a plain black wool coat. "But I am going to look."

For a moment neither spoke. Robb stood beside Hal's chair, watching them.

"He expressly refused you leave," Arthur said.

"Three houses, Arthur. Eight moons. If this is another, I want to know tonight."

"So will he."

Jon spread the coat upon the bed. He could send Hal's account and wait here, with the music still coming faintly through the passage. Arryn would act; he had already acted. But the next decision would be Arryn's as well, and Jon wanted to stand where he could make it himself.

He took a sheet of parchment from the table. "Gawen, find someone to carry this to the Hand. We go to Rilla's first."

He wrote Hal's account, named the shop beneath it and signed his name.

"Tell him I am with Lord Black," Arthur said as Gawen took the folded sheet. "If we leave the shop, someone there will know where we have gone."

When the door closed, Jon looked at his uncle.

"You need not come."

"I am coming," Arthur said. "I'll try to keep this from ending with swords drawn. Give me your mail."

Robb moved away from the chair. "I'm coming too."

"You haven't asked me," Martyn said.

"I'm asking now." Robb's colour rose, but he faced the captain. "You heard what Hal said. They may be keeping more children there."

"And you have heard nothing about how many men are in that house, or who else uses the street."

"Then I'll stay beside you while we find out." Robb glanced towards Jon. "I don't want to be left in a shop and told afterwards."

Jon could imagine the knife they had failed to notice, his brother caught in a doorway too narrow for anyone to reach him. Robb was watching his face now, waiting for the refusal.

"If we find children, they may need bringing out," Jon said. "You could help with that. But Martyn decides where you go."

The older man studied Robb for a moment. "If I tell you to leave, you leave. Even if your brother stays."

"I will."

"And no running after anyone."

Robb nodded. "I'll stay with you."

Martyn turned towards the door. Jon caught his brother's sleeve before he followed.

"Dark wool. Leave the silver here. Your ring as well."

Robb slipped it off and laid it beside Wylla's needles. The little fastening at his throat had caught a curl; he winced as he pulled the hair free. For an instant he looked exactly as he had when they were small and late for the yard.

Hal rose as they left. "Should I fetch a sword?"

"You should wash your face," Arthur said. "And find a warmer coat. We need you to show us the way."

Alone with his uncle, Jon unfastened his feast clothes. The left sleeve resisted. Arthur eased it down his arm, then touched the shoulder lightly.

"Still that bad?"

"I can use it. I won't carry a shield."

He chose a padded jack and a short coat of mail, tightening his belt until it took part of the weight. Over both went the black wool, loose enough to hide the rings when he moved. Arthur checked the fastening beneath his arm while Jon drew his sword a hand's breadth and sheathed it again. His shining harness remained upon its stand.

Hugin hopped onto the chest and began pulling at a folded shirt. Jon held out his gloved wrist. The crow climbed upon it, claws gripping through the leather.

He could hold five now, and at a distance. That would be useful when there was daylight over the city. Tonight the windows showed him patches of lamplight with darkness between. A bird could get above a wall; it would not see through a closed door, or find a man in a lane where Jon could scarcely see his own boots.

"The small basket," he told Arthur.

His uncle fetched it. Munin shifted upon the bedpost as the lid closed over her companion, then settled again beneath her feathers.

***
​

The castle had not gone to bed.

Men carried trays back towards the kitchens, stepping aside for guests who had forgotten how wide their own shoulders were. Somewhere behind a closed door, a woman was laughing hard enough to lose her breath. At the head of the stairs a page lay asleep upon a folded cloak, one hand still curled round the neck of an empty jug.

Robb wore a charcoal wool coat over his mail, its cuffs turned back from his gloves, and a plain dark cloak. Without the feast's silver and fur he looked younger. Arthur and Martyn wore mail beneath their dark coats as well. Arthur had left his grey-white cloak in Jon's chamber; the one he wore now was brown, with a hood deep enough to hide his face. Jon drew his own hood forward over the white forelock.

Gawen returned with Tomas, who had left another man of the household in charge of their chambers. Both wore dark wool over their mail and plain cloaks over their sword belts. There were six of them armed, with Hal carrying Hugin's basket. They left their badges and the feast's finery behind.

The man at the gate knew Arthur. He raised his lamp, saw Jon beside him and looked towards the city.

"Will you want horses, my lord?"

"We will walk."

The guard's eyes passed over the others. He asked no further question, but Jon saw him speak to a companion as they went through. There would be no mystery about which way Lord Black had gone.

Below the castle, people were still making a night of the prince's nameday. A fiddler played beneath an awning while a woman in a yellow skirt tried to teach a carter the steps of a dance. He kept looking at his feet. When he trod upon hers she struck his shoulder, laughing, and made him begin again. Robb glanced back at them. He had left a different dance scarcely an hour ago.

Hal nearly walked into a man carrying spent rushes in a basket. The man swore, then caught sight of the men in dark colours and swallowed the end of it. Sour water leaked through the wicker and spattered Jon's boot.

"Mind the bottom," Hal told Robb.

Robb stepped over the spreading trail. Ahead, a row of lamps burned before a winesink; beyond it the street fell away into darkness broken by doorways. Hal kept to the wall until he reached a flight of shallow steps. He took these without hesitation, turning sideways where a woman had set out jars to catch the drip from a roof.

They came upon the Street of Flour while men were still unloading for the morning's baking. A sack split against a cart's iron binding. Flour poured over the wheel, and the man holding it called for his companion to bring a tub. Neither looked up at the armed party. Jon tasted the dust before the wind carried it off.

Below that street, Hal led them into Flea Bottom.

Robb drew closer when the paving gave way beneath their feet. The gutter here had spread across the lane, leaving a ridge of churned mud beside the wall. Hal knew where the firm places were. He stepped from a flat stone to a timber offcut, basket tucked against his ribs, while Hugin complained beneath the lid.

The smell of hot bread lingered for another dozen paces. Then they passed a low wall with scraps of hide hanging over it, and Robb pulled his sleeve against his nose.

"Gods."

Hal looked back. "Keep to this side. There's a pit behind there."

Something wet struck the ground beyond the wall. A man coughed, spat and began to scrape again. Even at this hour the tanner's work had not ended. Jon caught the stink of old urine, wet leather and something sweeter rotting underneath. It followed them round the turning, trapped between houses whose upper rooms leaned so far forward that he could scarcely see the sky.

A shutter opened above Arthur's head. He caught Jon's arm and pulled him against the wall as a woman tipped a basin into the lane. Water struck the gutter, carrying onion skins and a pale lump of fat. Across the way a man thrust his head out of a window.

"There's washing under there, you filthy bitch!"

"Then bring it in!" She shook the last drops from the basin. "Been hanging there three days."

He was still shouting when she closed the shutter. Hal hurried them past the sheet dripping from a line beneath his window. Robb lifted his cloak clear of the water; farther down, a drunk stepped straight into it and began swearing at his boots.

Jon had walked these lanes with Aries in daylight. He remembered flowers growing in a broken bowl and a man begging for time to find his rent. Now candlelight showed through gaps he had taken for cracks in empty sheds. People slept above the passages, beneath stairs, in little rooms squeezed between older houses. A child cried overhead. Someone began singing to it; below, a cobbler held a shoe between his knees and drove in another peg.

Arthur slowed at a covered passage. "Is the way through still open?"

"They've built a room across it," Hal said. "We have to go round."

Jon looked into the passage as they passed. At its far end, beyond a ladder and a heap of broken tiles, light showed beneath a new door.

The next turning brought them up against a quarrel. A man stumbled out of a doorway with his hand over his mouth. Two others followed. One caught his coat and pushed him against the wall while the second went through his pockets. A few paces away, a woman gathering empty cups drew back into her house.

"I paid on market day," the man said through his fingers.

"You paid for the stall." His captor pulled the coat tighter. "You've got a boy carrying round the lanes now. That's more."

"He's my son."

Arthur stepped into the lamplight. The man searching the pockets stopped. Jon had already put his hand upon his sword; he saw the nearer man notice it, then look past him at Martyn and Tomas.

"Let him go," Arthur said.

The man's coat fell loose. He slid sideways along the wall, stooped for his cap and began brushing it with a shaking hand.

"He owes," the other man said. He was watching Arthur now. "We've a right to ask for it."

"Then you have asked." Arthur waited until both had gone back through the door before turning to the man with the cap. "Who are they?"

"No one, ser. We've settled it."

Blood ran between his fingers. Jon offered him a clean cloth, but the man shook his head and backed away. He was looking over Jon's shoulder at the open doorway.

Robb started after him. Hal caught his sleeve.

"Don't. He'll think you want him to name them."

"We just saw them."

"And they saw him talking to you." Hal let go. The man was already turning into a narrower lane, his cap pulled low. "He has to put his stall out in the morning."

A cart laden with empty casks rattled towards them. Arthur moved the party behind a shuttered stall to let it pass. Its wheel scraped along the opposite wall, drowning Robb's first words. He waited for it to go by, then turned to Arthur.

"They make him pay to sell in the street? Can anyone do that here?"

"There are men who stop you if it's not your street," Hal said. "They'd beat you for asking."

Arthur glanced at him. Hal shifted the basket against his hip, looking from one face to another. He seemed to regret speaking.

"How far do their men collect?" Arthur asked.

"I don't know these ones. Down by the lime sheds it's the knight's men. They come up as far as the steps now."

"What knight?"

"The one with the dent across his breastplate. Aunt will tell you. She knows who comes round."

Robb looked back towards the door. "And the watch allows it?"

"A man has to complain," Arthur said. "Then he has to go home again. You saw how willing he was to speak."

"Father would hang them."

"He would have to catch them first," Jon said. "And keep someone here afterwards. Suppose we took those two away tonight. There may be another three who know where that stallholder sleeps. He needs to know what happens tomorrow before he can afford to help us."

Arthur watched the doorway until the cart had turned out of the lane. "Keep together from here. If someone asks for help through a door, call me before you follow. They used to draw men into the yards that way."

Robb drew his cloak back over his sword hilt. His anger had not gone; Jon could see him trying to make sense of the houses around them, of people close enough to hear a beating and unwilling to open a shutter.

"Was it like this when you lived here?" he asked.

"In places." Arthur rubbed a thumb over the worn seam of his glove. "I knew which streets to avoid after dark. Men told me where I could drink and where I ought to keep a hand on my purse. I listened to them."

He looked down the lane after the stallholder. "I wore a white cloak here for years. When I heard of trouble in these streets, I left it to the watch. I never troubled to find out whether they came."

Jon had heard his uncle speak bitterly of the court before. This was quieter. Arthur drew his hood forward and waited for Hal to lead them on.

Jon followed with the unused cloth still in his hand. He had been thinking of the city as something to be rebuilt once he held it: drains, sound houses, markets supplied at a fair price. A man who took part of every stallholder's earnings would take his share of those improvements too. Jon would be paying to enrich him unless he could put someone in these lanes whose orders mattered after sunset. He could imagine the men he would choose. He could also imagine how little he would like to hear that they had begun taking payment on their own account.

A girl stepped out from behind the stall with a basket hooked over her arm. She held up a dark end of bread.

"Still good, masters. I've half a loaf at home if you want more."

Her gaze settled upon Robb's boots, then the good wool beneath his cloak. He reached for his purse. Martyn caught his wrist, and the girl snatched the bread back as though she had been accused of stealing it.

"Wait," Jon said. He had put loose coppers in his pocket before leaving. He showed her one and pointed to the piece in her hand. She gave it to him, took the coin and slipped it into her bodice before anyone could change his mind.

Jon broke the bread and passed half to Robb. Its crust was hard, the crumb still soft. Beyond his brother a man lounged against a wall with a wine jar, watching Martyn release his wrist. Robb saw him too. He tucked the bread into his coat.

Hal was greeting a woman fastening her shutter. She wanted to know whether Rilla had kept any stew; when he told her there was broth, she sent a small boy running uphill with a pot. The boy squeezed past Robb, ducked beneath a bench two men were carrying and vanished round a corner.

Farther on, the noise outside a winesink forced them into single file. Two gold cloaks were trying to separate a pair of drunken carters while the owner pursued them with a broken stool. One prisoner had a fistful of the other's hair and would not let go. His captor drove a knee into the back of his leg. The grip loosened, and the second watchman hauled the other man clear.

"Now find his fucking knife," the first said, breathing hard.

The woman thrust her stool at him. "And who pays me for this?"

The other watchman took her lamp to search the gutter. Blood had dried upon his sleeve. A man at an upstairs window offered to come down and beat both prisoners himself; his wife dragged him back by his shirt. People laughed, crowding nearer, until the watchman straightened with the knife and shouldered a spectator aside.

Arthur drew Robb out of his path. The prisoners went past between the gold cloaks, one still protesting about his hair. Jon waited while the owner retrieved her lamp. The stool lay forgotten at her feet.

Neither watchman spared their party a second look. They had been busy enough with the knife. Jon looked towards the turning where the stallholder had disappeared, then followed Hal up the steps.

They climbed again, towards the edge of the quarter. The houses drew apart enough for the breeze to reach Jon's face. He could smell woodsmoke now, and warm onion broth.

Hal stopped at a corner and looked uphill. For a moment Jon thought he had lost his way. Then the boy pointed past a line of shuttered fronts.

"There. She has left the lamp."

Rilla's cookshop had a narrow strip of light beneath its door. A stack of stools stood upside down under the little overhang, their legs making a crooked fence against the wall. Hal tapped twice and called his name.

The door opened before he could knock again.

His aunt caught him by the upper arm and pulled him inside.

"Where have you been?"

"I told you—"

"You told me you were going to the castle. You did not tell me you would take half the night."

Then she saw Jon in the doorway, and the rest of the rebuke stopped behind her teeth.

"My lord."

"He had to find me at the feast."

Rilla looked from him to the cloaked men in the lane. Her hand remained upon Hal's arm.

"Come inside, then. There is no use letting the whole street count you."

The shop held the warmth of its hearth long after the cooking had ended. A pot stood beneath a cloth upon the table, and somebody had scrubbed a pale patch into the floor where grease had spilled. Rilla moved a stool with her foot to make room for Arthur, then let go of Hal long enough to shut the door.

Rilla was as narrow as Jon remembered, though she planted herself before them with her elbows out as if she meant to fill the doorway. Flour had dried in the creases of her wrists. Her hair was coming loose beneath its cloth, and she had rubbed one cheek red. Her eyes went to his sword.

"Have you told the Hand?"

"A message is on its way to him."

"Good. I don't want that man coming back to ask what I saw."

"Did he speak to you?"

"No. I was behind the shutter."

She beckoned Hal nearer, turned his face towards the lamp and rubbed the last dirt from his cheek with her thumb. He submitted for three strokes before pulling away.

"I washed."

"Poorly."

"Rilla," Jon said. "Tell me about his ear."

She described the same torn rim Hal had shown them. The man had stood two steps above her when she went to fetch Benn, close enough that she had seen the pale scar where the flesh was missing. He had told her the boy owed money and would not be leaving until he had earned it.

"He put a hand here." She touched the top of her chest. "Not hard. Just enough to let me know he could. I remember his face, my lord."

Jon believed her. He also remembered the part of Arryn's account in which the keeper had claimed the children were paying family debts.

"The old brewery," Arthur said. "Do you know it?"

"I bought spent grain there for my sister's pigs when the brewer was living. His sons sold the vessels after he died. People still drink in the front room."

"And behind it?"

"A yard, with a washhouse against the far wall. The ale went down into the cellars."

"Hal mentioned a knight," Jon said. "Men paying him for the right to sell in the lanes. Is the brewery in his part of the quarter?"

Rilla looked at Hal. He lowered his eyes to the pot.

"Beyond the lime sheds, yes. As far as the old well, last I heard." She took off the lid and dipped a ladle into the broth. "It wasn't his three years ago. Now the men who used to take money there either pay him or they've gone."

"Gone where?" Robb asked.

"I couldn't tell you, my lord. One used to buy his dinner here. I haven't seen him since the fighting by the well."

She filled a bowl, broke bread into it and handed it to Robb, indicating Hal's stool. He carried it over with both hands. Rilla watched Hal take his first spoonful before she went on.

"I've seen the knight once. Big man, with his nose broken sideways. Armour worth more than this shop. They say he fought for one of the companies across the sea."

"Who knighted him?" Arthur asked.

Rilla hesitated, the ladle resting against the rim of the pot. "I don't know. His men call him ser."

Rilla wiped a drop of broth from the table. "I saw him knock a man down outside a potshop. The man had an axe. He didn't get to use it." "I call him ser as well."

"Do his collectors come here?" Jon asked.

"They came up the steps a fortnight ago. Said if I paid, nobody would trouble Hal when he took food down there."

"But you paid," Hal said. He had stopped eating.

"For that week. I told you to stay this side afterwards." She bent to push a fallen ember back into the hearth. "He brings back more money when he goes down by the lime sheds. The men working there are hungry."

Hal moved his spoon through the bread. Jon had been about to ask how much she paid; he let the question wait.

"Does anyone take these demands to the watch?" Arthur asked.

"People say his men are left alone. One was taken for stolen wool; I saw him back in the lane two days later."

"Did anyone tell you why he was freed?"

"No. Perhaps someone paid. Perhaps the wool wasn't stolen. I have a shop to open, ser. I don't go asking."

She set the ladle down and faced Jon. "I know the man with the torn ear. I know what he did to Benn. I haven't told you the knight keeps children in that brewery, because I don't know that. Don't send anyone down there saying I do."

"I won't," Jon said. "Or use your name when I ask about him."

"They'll know somebody spoke."

Arthur had taken his hands from the back of the chair. He looked at Jon, then at the barred door. Rilla watched them both.

Hugin made a low, indignant noise from the basket Hal had left beside the hearth. Rilla looked down.

"You brought a bird?"

"He makes a fuss when I leave him," Jon said.

Arthur's gaze rested upon him for half a breath. Rilla appeared too occupied to question it.

"He'll make a fuss here if he finds the fat." She moved the basket away from a crock. "Your men will stay, won't they? Afterwards, I mean. When you've done whatever you came to do."

Jon turned to Gawen. "You stay with Rilla when we return. I'll have another man sent to relieve you." He looked back at her. "If the Hand has someone here before then, let him in."

"Someone who knows why he is here."

"He will know."

Rilla looked at Arthur, who inclined his head. She cut another piece of bread and laid it beside Hal's bowl.

Hal had begun to shake now that he was warm. Jon pulled a stool nearer the hearth for him, then looked down at the torn hose.

"Let your aunt see that knee before we leave."

Hal lowered his spoon. "I have to show you."

"I know. After that Gawen will bring you back."

"I could wait—"

"Here," Jon said. "For the Hand's men. They will need someone who knows the way as well."

Rilla said nothing, but she fetched a damp cloth for the scrape.

They left the shop while Hal was still chewing the last of his bread. Rilla caught his coat at the door and made him fasten it properly. She kept hold of him a moment after the fastening was done.

"With him," she said, looking at Gawen. "You come back with him."

Hal nodded. She let them out and lowered the bar behind them.

At first Jon recognised the way. They passed the turn where the woman had sent her boy for broth, then the passage Arthur had thought to use. Hal went straight past both. Soon the cookshop's upper window was lost behind roofs, and he led them down steps hollowed in the middle by years of feet.

The air grew warmer between the houses. Men slept in open doorways with their heads wrapped in their cloaks; one had tied a cord from his wrist to the handle of the basket beside him. A woman worked a knife through a fish at a low table, scraping the guts into a bucket between her ankles. Her little lamp showed silver scales upon her forearms. She lifted the bucket out of their way without looking up.

Hal took a narrow passage behind her stall. Robb had to turn sideways to clear a timber shore. From above came the slow rasp of a saw, then a man shouting for somebody to hold the other end. Arthur put a hand against the post as he passed, feeling it move.

"One at a time here."

Beyond it the lane broadened beside a row of lime sheds. Pale dust lay in the joints of the doors. The next yard held hides soaking in pits; steam or mist drifted across the wall, bringing a sharpness which caught in Jon's nose. Hal covered the basket with his coat skirt as they skirted a heap of scrapings. Hugin complained beneath it.

"Still farther?" Robb asked.

"Past the gutter." Hal pointed downhill. "Then we go round. That way takes you to the front door."

The covered drain ended beneath a house whose back wall stood upon two arches. Water poured into a channel choked with straw and broken crockery. A plank had been laid across it. Hal tested the nearer end with his foot, then crossed; Jon followed, keeping his sore arm close while the plank bowed under his weight. The far bank was slippery. Gawen caught the basket before Hal could set it down in the mud.

Here the noise of the nameday celebrations had thinned. A dog worried something beneath a cart. Two men sat in the light of a doorway throwing knucklebones; one drew his foot over the stakes as the strangers passed. Above them a woman shook a blanket from a window, waited for the dust to fall, and began beating it against the sill.

Hal slowed at the next crossing. He put a hand against Gawen's sleeve and pointed through the gap between two buildings.

A lamp hung beside a broad doorway. A man stood beneath it with a cudgel in his belt. While Jon watched, another man came up and spoke to him. The guard moved aside just far enough to let him through.

"That's the front," Hal whispered. "The passage beside it goes to the back lane. I went round the other way."

Arthur drew him away from the crossing before he could point again. They followed a blank wall and turned behind a line of shuttered stalls. Hal stopped at the last, where an awning had sagged over an empty bench. From its side Jon could see the back lane running towards a closed double gate. A smaller door had been cut into one leaf.

"There. He knocked on the little door. Then he looked along the lane." Hal bent behind the stall's end, showing where he had hidden. "I stayed down until I heard it shut."

The brewery rose beyond the gate, its upper windows dark. An elder bush grew from the broken crown of its chimney. Light escaped beneath the gate and along the washhouse roof at the yard's far side, but nothing inside could be seen from where they stood.

Jon turned to Gawen. "Take him back now. Tell Rilla where we are. If the Hand's people have reached her, bring them."

Hal glanced towards the little door. "What if he comes out?"

"We'll be watching." Jon took the basket from him. "You've done what I needed. Your aunt will be waiting."

The boy drew his coat together and went with Gawen. Arthur watched until they had passed the crossing, then sent Tomas to watch the front. Martyn took Robb farther along the rear lane, where they could see anyone approaching the gate.

Jon set the basket upon the bench.

Arthur glanced along the lane. "Here?"

"I only need the roof. Keep people away from this side."

He sat beneath the awning, drawing his cloak close. Arthur let a loose flap of canvas fall across the stall's open side, then took the end of the bench, screening Jon from the crossing. The others were out of sight. To anyone passing, he would be a man resting in the shelter while his companion watched the lane. Jon would have preferred a locked room, but he was not going to find one without questions.

Arthur lifted the basket lid. Hugin climbed onto Jon's wrist, then hopped to the edge of the stall. The white wing feathers caught the lamplight as he opened his wings.

Jon rested his hands upon his knees. The bench pressed against the backs of his legs; beyond Arthur's shoulder a shutter creaked in the wind. Then the weight of his mail receded, and the claws gripping the stall became his own.

He beat upwards through the awning's torn edge. A line of washing crossed the space above the lane. He veered beneath it and climbed past the eaves until the broken chimney rose clear.

At night the roofs were hard to judge. A lamp in an upper window made the slope below it seem lower; beyond that slope the next lane vanished altogether. He landed among the elder's roots, scraping his claws over brick, and turned towards the light below.

Two lamps burned in the yard. One hung above the brewery's side door. The other stood upon a cask beside a cart, throwing the horse's shadow across the washhouse wall. The driver was pulling a rope over bundles in the cart bed.

The double gate was shut. Jon could see the upper half and the rear lane beyond, but a sloping lean-to hid the corner where it joined the passage beside the brewery. He shifted along the chimney, searching for a clearer view. Mortar crumbled beneath one claw.

The washhouse door opened. A child came out carrying a bucket with both hands.

Jon leaned forward. The boy stopped at a word from inside. He could not have been more than eight; he wore no shoes, and the bucket dragged against his knee as he brought it to the cart. The driver drank from it and handed it back. For a moment another small face showed in the doorway.

Then a man appeared behind the second child. He pushed the boy out of sight and came into the yard, lifting his head to answer the driver.

A piece was missing from the upper rim of his ear.

Jon held the bird still. Below him the man put his hand on the first boy's neck and steered him back into the washhouse. The child went quickly, trying not to spill the water. The door closed behind them.

A shutter banged in the house beside the brewery. A woman leaned out and shouted about the horse. Her voice carried clearly; the driver's answer was lost beneath the overhanging roof. Jon could not make the bird's ears separate it from the clatter of a handcart passing in the lane.

A slight man in a brown coat came out of the brewery. He kept one hand inside his coat until he reached the lamp, then took out a purse. The keeper joined him. A coin passed between them; the man in brown held a second where the other could see it, listened, and put it back into the purse.

The keeper reached towards him. Neither smiled.

Jon could wait to see what the money bought. He could also find himself following the brown coat into a lane without a single light. For now he had found the man Hal described, with children behind the door he guarded.

He left the chimney. Arthur's pale hand showed briefly as he raised the basket lid beneath the awning. Hugin landed upon the stall, claws skidding on the bare wood, and Jon came back to himself with his own hands clenched against his knees.

Arthur waited for him to breathe, then leaned close enough to speak beneath the sound of the gutter.

"Children?"

"Two that I could see. There may be more in the little house. The man with the torn ear puts his hands on them as though they belong to him."

Jon told him about the cart and the purse. Arthur's eyes went towards the gate.

"Did you hear what they were saying?"

"No."

"Then we still need to see what they do."

Hugin climbed into the basket. Jon closed it and put it beneath the bench. Arthur went round to the front, leaving Tomas where he could watch the crossing. Robb and Martyn came back to the shelter of the stall. A man brought out a bucket and threw its contents into the gutter; they drew back while the water ran past. Somewhere above, the woman had finished beating her blanket and was calling to a child to get into bed.

The gate remained shut.

Jon watched the small door in it. The mail had settled heavily upon his shoulder, and he shifted his belt beneath the cloak. Beside him Robb kept his hands away from his sword. Whenever steps approached, his fingers curled against his thighs.

Arthur returned before Gawen. "There's a stair at the back of the taproom. I heard something below, but couldn't make it out."

"Did they see you looking?"

"I bought ale. He was willing enough to let me in when I showed him the copper." Arthur rubbed the wet from his fingers. "The taproom door opens into the yard. We can reach it from there if we have to."

A while later two men came out of the front and turned uphill. Their voices reached the crossing before their faces did. One complained about a smaller boy falling too soon; the other told him he should have kept his silver. Robb turned towards Jon.

Martyn touched his elbow. Neither spoke until the men had passed.

Gawen returned by the lane they had taken from the lime sheds. There was mud up one side of his cloak, where he had slipped at the plank crossing. He caught his breath before speaking.

"Hal is with his aunt. No one from the Hand yet. She'll wait, and the boy will bring them this way."

Arthur drew him into the shelter of the stall and told him what they had heard. Jon was watching the gate when a bar scraped against the other side. One leaf swung inward, then the other. The driver came out to push a stone beneath it and went back to the horse.

Jon moved along the wall with Gawen. Martyn brought Robb behind them while Arthur and Tomas went to the passage beside the brewery. The woman in the opposite house was gathering washing from a line; at the sight of the armed strangers she went indoors, leaving the last shirt hanging.

Through the gateway Jon could see the cart. The horse blocked much of the yard, its ears twitching at a cry from inside the brewery. A man laughed. The animal stamped and pulled at the rope holding it to an iron ring.

Fingers appeared briefly at the washhouse's barred window, then withdrew.

"How long?" the man in brown asked.

"He's bringing them."

The keeper lifted the bar across the washhouse door. The first child came out sideways, dragging a foot. Another followed with an arm about his waist. A cloth had been bound round the smaller boy's head and slipped over one eye.

"Up," the keeper said.

The older boy looked at the cart. When the man reached for them, the younger cried out before his hand touched him.

Jon beckoned Tomas back from the passage. "Fetch Arthur."

Martyn drew Robb close enough to hear. Jon pointed towards a recessed doorway on the wider stretch of lane beyond the stall.

"Take them there when we bring them out. Keep them together, away from the gate. Leave the basket beneath the stall; I don't want it under our feet."

"And then?" Martyn asked.

Jon looked along the dark lane. Rilla's shop was a long way beyond the crossing, uphill all the way. "We'll need a cart for the ones who can't walk. Hold them there until we have the yard."

Martyn nodded. Inside, the keeper lifted the smaller boy by the arms and put him into the cart. His cry broke against the walls. Robb moved forward a pace, then stopped beside his captain.

Arthur came back through the passage with Tomas. "One at the front door, three inside," he said quietly. Then he looked into the yard, where the older boy was climbing after the younger.

"Can you hold the gate?"

"Yes."

"Gawen, stay with him. Martyn, the children. Tomas comes with me." Arthur looked once more at Jon. "Give us time to reach the front door. If they try to take the cart out before then, stop it."

Jon watched them go, then listened until their steps were lost in the noise from the taproom. The boy in the cart was whispering to the other one. Somewhere inside, coins spilled upon wood.

The keeper opened the washhouse again. Three children came out together, pressed so closely that one stumbled over another's foot. A girl followed, older than the others, perhaps ten. Her cropped hair stuck up at the back where she had slept upon it. She carried a little bundle against her chest.

"Leave that," the keeper said.

She held it tighter. He took it from her and shook it open. A shoe fell out, followed by a piece of comb and a ragged strip of blue cloth. The girl dropped to her knees to gather them.

The man in brown said something Jon could not hear. The keeper swore, caught the girl beneath one arm and hauled her towards the cart, dragging her feet through her spilled belongings.

Arthur would scarcely have reached the front door. Jon counted another breath. The keeper shook the girl when she tried to reach back for the cloth.

He had waited long enough.

Jon stepped into the gateway.

"Put her down."

The keeper stopped. The girl hung from his hand for a moment before he let her feet touch the ground.

"Private yard."

"I saw the children come out."

"Then you saw my business."

His gaze moved over Jon's cloak, the sword at his hip and Gawen behind him. He had been startled. Now he saw a young lord out with a servant, and his shoulders eased. Jon watched the contempt come into his face.

"Off home," he said. "Before your fathers hear where you've been."

The man in brown moved away from the cart. He did it slowly, making room, his hands visible at his sides. Jon watched him from the corner of his eye.

"You kept a boy named Benn," Jon said. "He has two fingers which will never close properly."

The keeper's hand tightened upon the girl. She made a small sound.

"Swords!" a man shouted at the front of the brewery.

"Stay where you are," Arthur said.

Something heavy struck the floor.

The man at the horse snatched the tether from its ring. He slapped the animal's flank and hauled upon the rein, turning it towards the open gate.

Gawen pulled Jon aside as the horse came forward. The cart wheel struck the gatepost with a crack. One of the children inside screamed.

"Hold him!" Jon shouted.

Gawen caught the rein near the bit. The horse threw its head, dragging him a step. Jon drew his sword and went for the driver, who had dropped the tether and was reaching beneath his coat.

The knife came out low.

Jon turned his hips out of its line and struck the man's forearm with the flat of his blade. The driver cried out but kept the knife. He drove forward again, trying to get inside the longer weapon. Jon gave ground until his back struck the gatepost, then stepped round it. The man's shoulder hit the wood. Jon brought the pommel down against his mouth.

The knife fell between them.

Jon kicked it beneath the cart and caught the man by the coat. He hauled him away from the wheel and drove him face first against the wall. The effort pulled at his left shoulder. Pain spread hot and sudden down his arm.

"Stay there."

The driver spat blood against the stone. Jon set the point beneath his ear and felt him become still.

Gawen had the horse stopped. The cart stood crooked across the gate, one wheel wedged against the post. Beyond it Martyn had drawn his sword. Robb was pulling the smaller child from the cart into his arms.

The keeper shoved the girl towards Jon.

She struck his knees. He caught her with his left arm without thinking, and his shoulder failed beneath the weight. He dropped to one knee to keep from dropping her. The driver twisted free.

For a moment there were too many things moving: the girl clutching his coat, the driver running towards the side door, Gawen trying to hold the horse and draw his sword together. Jon could hear fighting inside the brewery, boots scraping upon boards, a man choking off a cry.

The keeper came at him with a short club.

Jon pushed the girl behind the gatepost and raised his sword. The club struck across it, driving the edge back towards his face. He let the force carry his blade down, rolled his wrist and cut across the keeper's wrist as the man tried to lift the club again.

The club dropped. Jon rose into him, driving a shoulder beneath his chin, and they struck the side of the cart together. The children inside scrambled away.

The keeper clawed at Jon's hood. Cloth tore at the neck. His free hand found Jon's sword arm and held it against the cart rail.

He was stronger than Jon.

Jon stamped upon his instep and drove a knee hard into his thigh. The grip loosened enough to turn the blade. Martyn caught the horse's rein from Gawen. Before Jon could bring his blade up, Gawen hit the keeper from the side and pulled him away.

They went down beside the wheel. Gawen got his knee between the man's shoulders and dragged both arms behind his back. The keeper began to howl.

The cart had stopped moving. Robb was setting the smaller boy upon his feet in the recessed doorway beyond the stall. The older child had climbed down after him and was trying to pull him away.

"Wait," Robb said. "Wait, you'll fall."

The girl pressed herself against the gatepost beside Jon. She had both hands over her ears.

He lowered his sword. "Go to him. The boy with the red hair."

She did not move.

Jon crouched, keeping the bloody blade low and away from her. He opened his empty hand upon his knee.

"What is your name?"

She looked past him towards the little house.

"Is someone still in there?"

A shout came from the far end of the yard. The driver had reached the brewery's side door. He stopped so abruptly that his boots slid in the dirt.

Arthur came through it.

The driver raised both hands.

"Down," Arthur said.

The man went to his knees. Arthur held his sword low, its point steady, and glanced across the yard to Jon. Behind him Tomas dragged another man through the doorway by the back of his coat. A cut above Tomas's eyebrow had painted one side of his face red.

"Are you hurt?" Arthur asked.

Jon shook his head.

"Say it."

"My shoulder. Nothing new."

Arthur's eyes went to the sword in his hand, then the girl beside him. He nodded towards the lane.

"Get them clear."

Tomas took his prisoner back inside to join the others. Arthur made the driver lie face down, then cut a length from the cart's rope and bound his wrists before bringing him against the wall.

Jon looked round for the man in brown.

He was gone.

For one foolish moment Jon expected to find him pressed against the wall, waiting to be noticed. Then he remembered the horse, the gate, the girl falling against him. The man had been close enough to the opening to slip out while they struggled with the cart.

Jon went to the gate. Beyond Robb and the children, the lane turned sharply between two houses. A shutter banged somewhere out of sight. He could be ten paces away. Twenty. Running uphill towards the noise and company, or down towards the darker lanes.

Hugin was still in the basket beneath the stall. Jon could send him up, but beyond this yard there was scarcely a lamp to find the fugitive by. He would lose the man and leave his own body here among the children.

"Jon."

Robb had the bandaged boy seated upon his folded cloak. The older child stood over him, one hand gripping Robb's sleeve. He was speaking too fast for Jon to understand.

Robb looked up. "He says there are more below."

Jon looked once towards the turning, then went back into the yard.

The keeper lay beneath Gawen's knee. He had stopped shouting and was watching Jon with wet, furious eyes. Jon stood over him.

"Who was the man with the purse?"

"Don't know."

Gawen took a firmer hold of the wrist. The man gasped.

"You were taking his money."

"For the cart."

"It is not his cart?"

"Ask him."

Jon bent and caught the back of the man's hair. He lifted his head enough to make him look at the cart, the open house and the children waiting beside the wall.

"Where were you taking them?"

The man's gaze flicked towards the girl.

Jon saw it and let go. He had put her in the keeper's sight, waiting to hear how much she might already have told them.

"Take her outside," he told Gawen. "Arthur can hold him."

Gawen looked up. Arthur was already coming towards them. He took the prisoner's good wrist and drew it behind his back while Gawen rose.

The girl backed away from Gawen's outstretched hand.

"Leave me my things."

Her voice was hoarse, but the demand came clearly enough.

"Of course," Jon said.

He gathered the shoe, comb and cloth from beside the door. The cloth held two small bundles sewn into its corners. Coins, perhaps, or something she valued more. He did not open them. She took everything from him and tucked it against her chest, still watching the keeper.

"He cannot follow you," Jon said.

She looked at Arthur, at the pale blade now resting along his forearm, and allowed Gawen to lead her out.

Inside the brewery, a man lay across the threshold between the front room and the yard. Jon stepped round him. There was a broken stool beneath his hand and a dark wetness spreading under his throat.

Tomas stood over two prisoners beside an overturned table. A fourth man sat upon the floor clutching his leg, his face grey beneath a stubble of beard. None of them was looking at the dead man.

"He came at Ser Arthur with an axe," Tomas said when he saw Jon's glance. The man with the wounded leg had been guarding the front door; his cudgel lay beneath the table. "This one caught me before I could get past him."

Jon glanced at the cut above Tomas's eye. "Have it bound when they're secured. Where are the stairs?"

A stair descended behind the place where the ale casks had once stood. Lamplight showed below. Jon called down before putting a foot upon it.

"Come up. Leave any weapons where they are."

"There's only us," a voice answered.

Young. A boy trying to sound older.

Jon went down.

The cellar ceiling was low enough that Arthur would have had to stoop. A pair of lamps stood in wall niches, their smoke blackening the stone above them. Someone had swept a broad patch of earth clear and set benches around it. A rope hung between posts at either end. Upon one bench lay a little coat folded with both sleeves tucked underneath.

Two boys sat against the wall beyond it. One had his head upon the other's shoulder. The boy holding him stared at Jon's sword.

Jon sheathed it.

"Can he walk?"

"He says he can."

The other boy lifted his head. His lip was swollen. "I can."

"Good. We will go slowly."

Jon looked behind the benches and into the shallow recess beneath the stair. Nothing moved there. An empty jug lay on its side. A few copper coins had rolled into the dirt beside it.

He knew what the space had been used for before either boy spoke. The knowing did not prepare him for the little coat. Someone had folded it carefully before a fight, expecting to put it on again afterwards. It was a habit he had taught his own children, too long ago for their faces to come readily when he wanted them. He could remember a school jumper draped over a chair more clearly than the sound of his son's voice.

For a moment he could not make himself look away.

"Is that yours?" he asked.

The boy with the swollen lip nodded.

Jon picked it up and held it open. The child put his arms into the sleeves, flinching when Jon's hand passed near his face.

"I won't touch it."

The boy stared at him.

"Your mouth. I meant your mouth." Jon swallowed. "Come. There are people outside."

He helped them up the stairs, one hand upon the wall, the other ready beneath the weaker boy's elbow. Halfway up, the child stopped and began to tremble. Jon waited. He could hear Tomas speaking overhead and Robb's voice beyond him, asking somebody to stay beside the others.

"You can sit for a moment," Jon said.

"He'll be angry."

"Who?"

The boy would not answer.

Jon lowered himself onto the step below, leaving the way up clear. There was barely room for his knees. He waited until the child looked at him again.

"I need a moment myself," he said. He loosened his left hand upon his knee. "My shoulder hurts."

The child looked at it.

"Were you fighting?"

"In the yard this afternoon."

"Did you win?"

Jon almost laughed, and was glad that he did not. "Not the pass that did this."

The other boy slid down beside them. For a little while they sat upon the cold steps with their shoulders nearly touching.

When the smaller one tried to stand, Jon stood with him.

Outside, the yard was filling with voices.

***
​

The woman who had taken in her washing stood at her door with a lamp. Three neighbours had joined her. They kept their distance from Martyn's drawn sword, but none seemed inclined to go back indoors.

Robb had moved the children uphill as far as the wider mouth of the lane. Gawen stood between them and the watching adults. The girl with the bundle sat with her knees drawn up beneath her chin. The boy from the cart still had Robb's cloak beneath him.

There were six of them there. With the two Jon had brought from the cellar, eight.

"Those are the last?" Martyn asked.

"Below, yes. Has the little house been searched?"

Robb turned towards it. "I called. No one answered."

"Look inside."

Martyn went with him. Jon stayed beside the children, listening to the woman with the lamp ask Gawen whether there had been a murder.

"Stay back," Gawen told her.

"I live here."

"Then stay at your door."

"There are men with swords outside it."

Jon lifted a hand. "She may stand there."

The woman looked at him properly for the first time. His hood had fallen back during the struggle. The white in his hair caught her lamplight.

"You're the lord," she said.

"These children are coming with us. Give them room."

"Are they his?" She looked towards the yard.

"No."

"That's what he told my husband."

Jon looked at her. She drew the lamp nearer her breast.

"Not all of them," she added quickly. "Some were his sister's. He said."

The girl with the bundle was watching the woman's bare feet. She seemed unsurprised by any of it.

"The Hand's men will want to speak with you," Jon said.

The woman's mouth closed.

Jon heard Arryn's warning again. The woman had drawn back behind her door, leaving only her hand and the lamp in view.

"You need not tell me anything else tonight," he said. "Keep the lamp there, if you will. It helps."

She looked down at it, then rested it upon the sill.

Robb called from the yard.

Jon went back through the gate. Arthur had bound the keeper's hands with a length of cart rope. He stood him against the wall beside the driver. Tomas still watched the men inside.

Martyn waited at the little house's door. Within, Robb was kneeling beside a low sleeping shelf made from planks laid over bricks.

There was a child beneath it.

Jon could see a foot first, then a narrow white face when Robb moved the lamp. The boy had wedged himself behind a heap of sacking. One hand gripped the leg of the shelf.

"He won't come," Robb said.

Jon examined the shelf. The bricks beneath the far end were loose; lifting it carelessly would drop them against the boy's legs. He could have men support the planks and draw the child out, but the boy was already shaking at the sight of them.

Robb set the lamp down. "I tried to move the sacks. He thinks I'm pulling him out."

The boy began to cry without making a sound. His mouth opened and closed, but his grip did not loosen.

Jon crouched beside Robb.

"We have the others outside."

The child shook his head.

"You can come with them."

Another shake, faster.

From the yard the keeper shouted that they were stealing children who had been lawfully put in his care. The boy beneath the shelf pressed himself farther into the sacking.

Jon rose. He went outside, caught the keeper beneath the jaw and pushed his head back against the wall.

"You will keep quiet."

The man looked at the hand against his throat. He said nothing.

Jon held him a moment longer than he needed to. Arthur watched without speaking. When Jon let go, the keeper sagged against the wall and lowered his head.

Back inside, Robb had taken off his sword belt. It lay within reach beside Martyn's boot. He sat upon the dirt with his legs drawn up. Gawen had brought the girl back to the gate; she stood there holding her bundle, unwilling to come closer.

"He knows this," she said. She unwound the strip of blue cloth, hesitated, then held it out.

Gawen carried it to Robb.

"May I give it to him?" Robb asked.

She nodded. "Tell him it's Moll's."

"Is he afraid we'll make him fight?"

Another nod.

"He's slow," she said.

"Is he hurt?"

She shook her head. "He doesn't understand when they tell him things. Then they hit him."

Robb looked beneath the shelf again. He held the cloth where the boy could see it.

"Moll gave me this. She's waiting outside."

The fingers upon the plank shifted.

"I'll stay here," Robb said. "You can come to me."

Jon could hear someone calling for the watch in the lane. There would be questions about the dead man, about whose men had drawn steel, about why Lord Black was standing in a brewery with blood upon his sleeves. The man in brown was getting farther away with every breath.

Robb waited.

He had wanted his brother beside him when he took a crown. He had imagined Robb with a sword, Robb leading northern men, Robb standing against the men who would call Jon a pretender. He had spent less time imagining this: his brother sitting in the dirt, giving a frightened child room to decide.

"I'll see to the lane," Jon said.

Robb nodded without looking up.

Two gold cloaks had come through the growing crowd. One carried a spear; the other had his sword half drawn. They stopped at the sight of Arthur in the yard.

"What's happened here?" the spearman demanded.

Jon stepped forward. "Children were being kept here and made to fight. We have taken the men holding them."

The keeper found his voice. "They broke in. They killed Harrold."

The swordsman drew the rest of his blade. "Who gave you leave?"

"I am Lord Black of Dragonstone."

Both men looked at him. Recognition came to one sooner than the other. It did not make either lower his weapon.

"My lord," the spearman said carefully. "Is there a dead man?"

"Inside. He attacked Ser Arthur."

The man looked past Jon to the pale sword. Then he turned to his companion. "Fetch our captain."

"A message has gone to the Hand," Arthur said. "His men will be coming."

"Then I'll wait for them." The spearman glanced at the prisoners. "And no one leaves."

"The children need care," Jon said.

"I can see that, my lord." The man's eyes moved to the boy sitting upon Robb's cloak. "Let me get somebody who can answer for where they go."

Jon's patience thinned. He was about to tell the man that he could answer when he saw a familiar cap above the shoulders of the crowd.

Hal came through the crowd with three men behind him. "That's Rilla's boy," a woman said behind Jon. "I told you it was." Hal heard her, but kept going. The foremost of the men wore a dark surcoat with the falcon and moon upon its breast. He took in the children, the cart jammed in the gate and the blood upon Jon's sleeve before speaking.

"Lord Black. Lord Arryn sent me to Rilla's shop. You had already gone."

"They began loading children into a cart."

The man studied him. He was thick through the chest, with greying hair cut close and river mud upon his boots. "His runner found me at the river gate. We were questioning a carter about one of the closed houses." He looked past Jon towards the prisoners. "Which of these men had the torn ear?"

Jon pointed. The man's eyes narrowed, but he gave no name. "I am Ser Androw, of the Hand's household. I am to take charge here and bring you back to him."

The gold cloak lowered his spear a little.

"There is a dead man, ser."

"Then we will begin with him." Ser Androw looked at Arthur. "If you will show me."

Jon stepped aside and told Androw which prisoners had weapons, where the axe lay and that there were still children to bring clear. The knight sent one of his men to fetch the captain, then gave the other a place from which he could watch both doors.

Hal came to him before following the others.

"There is a man at my aunt's door," he said. "One of theirs. He said he'd stay."

"Good."

"Was it like Benn's place?"

Jon looked towards the children. "Yes."

Hal's face changed. He went to the girl with the bundle and crouched at a distance from her, speaking softly. She looked up when he mentioned his aunt's shop.

In the yard, Martyn came out carrying a rolled blanket. Robb followed with the last child against his chest.

The boy had one arm locked round Robb's neck and the other hand tangled in his hair. Robb's face was red with effort. He had left the sword belt for Martyn to bring.

"He came out," he said.

Jon put a hand beneath the child's dangling feet to keep them clear of the wheel. They were bare and cold.

"Will he let me take him?"

The small arm tightened at once.

Robb winced. "I don't think so."

"Then keep him."

The child pressed his face into Robb's shoulder. Jon looked at his brother above the cropped head, and Robb gave him a brief, exhausted smile.

Jon returned it.

***
​

By the time the watch captain arrived, the horse had been backed into the yard and the children were wrapped in whatever could be found to cover them. The cart's wheel had cracked against the gatepost; one spoke hung loose, and Martyn would not put a child into it. The dead man had a blanket over his face. His axe lay upon the table where Tomas had put it, beyond the prisoners' reach.

Ser Androw heard Arthur's account, then had Jon tell him what had happened at the gate. Jon described the knife, the keeper's club and the man in the brown coat. He could give no name for the fugitive.

"I saw his face when he came out. I believe I would know him again." Jon glanced towards Gawen. "The keeper admitted taking money from him. He said it was for the cart."

"I heard him," Gawen said.

Androw looked towards the man beneath the wall. "Orrel. We have been looking for him."

Jon turned. The keeper had his chin upon his chest and seemed determined not to hear.

"You knew who he was?"

"One of the children gave us his name and described him. We did not know he was here." Androw watched the keeper a moment longer, then went to speak with the watch captain.

Jon had expected a rebuke. The knight was concerned with keeping the prisoners apart and finding men to hold the brewery. Two neighbours were asked to remain; the woman with the lamp began telling the captain what her husband had been told.

Robb shifted the child higher against his chest. Jon went to Androw before he could enter the house.

"There are nine children. Where can we take them?"

"To Septa Meriane. She has the others. If she needs more room, the Hand will find it." He glanced at the boy clinging to Robb. "Can he walk?"

"He can," Robb said. "I'll carry him for now."

Androw sent a man ahead to warn the septa and left another with the watch captain. The prisoners would be brought to the castle separately. Taking a lamp from the brewery wall, he led the children away by a lane wide enough for two people to walk together.

Hal went beside Moll. She would answer him when she would not answer anyone else. The bandaged boy rode upon Tomas's back, his thin legs hanging on either side of the knight's sword belt. The others walked between the armed men. Whenever the lane widened, they drew closer together.

Gawen had found two more little coats beneath the bedding in the washhouse. Jon carried them over his forearm, with Hugin's basket in his other hand. One coat had lost a button. His thumb kept finding the empty hole.

Androw took them round the covered drain by a broader street. They passed a yard full of barrels and a row of ovens banked for the night. It was farther than the plank crossing, but the boys could walk without being lifted over foul water. A baker scraping dough from his forearms came to his door, saw the children and moved a basket out of their way.

They had climbed well beyond the brewery before Robb stopped. He put his back against a wall, breathing hard. The child clung more tightly when Martyn approached.

"I'm not taking him," the captain said. He slid an arm beneath the blanket, supporting the child's lower weight while Robb kept hold of his back. "Let your hands rest."

Robb nodded. The muscles in his forearms were trembling.

Jon set down the basket and took the glove from his right hand. "We can carry him between us."

"He'll think we're passing him away again." Robb looked down at the head beneath his chin. "Give me a moment."

They waited. Hal held Moll's bundle while she tucked the blanket more securely round the little boy's feet. When Robb moved off again, Martyn walked close beside him, one hand still taking some of the burden.

The house stood beside a small sept whose doorway was dark. Light showed in the adjoining windows. A woman in a grey wool gown came out before Androw reached the step, a shawl drawn over the cap which covered her hair.

She looked at the children first.

"Bring the two being carried in here," she said. "How many altogether?"

"Nine," Androw said. "I have sent for a maester."

"Good. The others through that door. There is water inside."

A second woman appeared behind her with a candle. Meriane began giving directions as she walked, lifting the latch of an inner door with her elbow because she had already taken the bundle from Moll. The girl tried to snatch it back.

The septa stopped.

"Yours?"

Moll nodded.

"Then keep it. I only meant to put it beside your bed."

Jon followed them into a room which smelled of soap, old wood and sleeping people, leaving Hugin's basket beneath a bench by the door. Straw mattresses lay close together along the walls. Two children had sat up beneath their blankets; another slept through the voices with his mouth open and one heel hanging out of bed.

Meriane drew a curtain across the far end of the room. She had the bandaged boy laid upon a mattress near the light and sent Hal to fetch another basin. When Jon offered the coats, she took them without looking at his face.

"Put some more water on, if you would."

He found the hearth in the next room and lifted the kettle with his right hand. An older girl showed him where the clean water stood. She had been roused from sleep and kept blinking against the lamp.

He wanted to tell her to go back to bed. There was work for her, though, and nobody yet to take her place. He held the kettle while she poured, then set it upon the hook and moved the embers beneath it.

When he returned, Robb was sitting upon the edge of a mattress. The child had finally released his hair, but still held a fistful of his coat. Moll knelt beside them, speaking in a low voice. Jon heard the name Will.

Robb glanced up. "She says he'll let go when he sleeps."

"We have time."

Across the room Meriane turned the bandaged boy's head towards the light. Her mouth tightened. She spoke softly to him and reached for clean linen.

Androw stood beside the door, waiting for Jon.

"The Hand asked for us back," he said.

"When these children are settled."

The knight looked at Robb, then back at Jon. "I can leave a man here."

"So can I. I am staying until I know they have what they need."

Arthur had come in behind him. He said nothing. Androw set his lamp upon a shelf and took off his gloves.

"Then I will send him word."

Jon inclined his head. He knew how that message would sound. He meant it nevertheless.

Meriane joined them after she had examined the two boys from the cellar. Up close, she had a narrow, lined face and a grey eyebrow which would not lie flat. A damp patch darkened one sleeve where a child had clung to her.

"Your steward sends the money for the beds, Lord Black. I shall have to ask him for more. Bedding, shoes, and bread for nine more mouths."

Jon took out his purse. "Buy what you need in the morning. Have the rest of the account brought to him."

She held out her hand for the silver, counted it and put it into the purse at her waist.

"Do you know where any of their families are?"

"Not yet. If they are beyond the city, we have ships going north and to the ports along the coast."

"That may help us, when we have names we can trust. Some of the children here were told to give a different one at every house." Meriane glanced towards the mattresses. "Others will not tell us about a brother or sister. They think someone will be sent to fetch them."

Moll was watching from beside the curtain. She lowered her face to the knot in her bundle when Jon looked across.

"Will they speak to the Hand's man?"

"Some will. He has been here. We let them rest between his visits."

Meriane thanked him for the silver and returned to the bandaged boy. Jon closed his purse as Gawen touched his elbow.

"My lord. Hal wants you."

A boy waited beside the kitchen door. He wore a shirt too large at the neck and held an earthen cup in both hands. Two fingers of the left remained awkwardly straight round its side.

"This is Benn," Hal said.

Jon crouched. The boy looked at his hair, then his face.

"You sent the pennies."

"For the maester."

"And the bed." Benn glanced at Hal, who nodded encouragement. "I sleep upstairs."

"Does your hand still hurt?"

"When it's cold." He raised it a little without taking it from the cup. "I can use it."

"I see that."

Benn looked towards the other room. "Did you get Orrel?"

Jon felt the last of his uncertainty about the keeper's name settle.

"Yes."

"Is he coming here?"

"No."

The boy waited.

"He is going to the castle," Jon said. "The Hand's men have him. He will not be brought here."

Benn's shoulders eased. He drank from the cup and wiped his mouth with the heel of his good hand. Hal began asking him about his letters, and Jon let them talk. Benn knew more now than Hal expected. He went to fetch the piece of wood upon which he practised, eager enough that he forgot to be quiet upon the stairs.

Jon rose and went to Robb.

Will was asleep at last. Moll had helped pry his fingers from the coat, one at a time. Robb stood carefully, rubbing the back of his neck. His hair stuck up where the boy had held it.

The maester arrived as they moved aside. He carried a leather bag and was still fastening his chain. Meriane took him straight to the bandaged boy, leaving Androw to close the door behind him. Jon watched him set down the bag and kneel beside the mattress before following Robb into the passage.

Robb leaned against the passage wall and flexed his hands. Pale crescents marked one wrist where Will's nails had pressed. He rubbed them with his thumb, then looked towards the closed door.

"When the fighting started, I thought I ought to go through the gate after you. Martyn would have stopped me, but I was nearly foolish enough to try." His hand fell to his side. "Then those two boys started pulling away. One could hardly stand. They were both trying to run."

"I saw you holding them when I came back."

"I couldn't make them understand. I kept telling them they were safe, with all that noise coming out of the house."

From the room came the sound of water being poured. Meriane was urging a child to take another mouthful.

Jon leaned against the wall beside his brother. His shoulder ached where the cloak pulled upon it.

"They stayed long enough for us to bring the others out. You kept them from running into those streets."

Robb nodded, though he was still looking at the door.

"I wanted to come because you were going," he said. "I was tired of hearing about things afterwards. I thought there would be more fighting."

He turned his wrist over. Jon waited while he worked at a patch of dried dirt with his thumbnail.

"Did you know we would find children like Will?"

"I knew what had been done to Benn. I didn't know about him." Jon looked towards the room. "When you called me, I thought there was another man in that little house. Then I found you kneeling beside the bed."

"I thought I could move the sacks out of his way. He was terrified I meant to drag him out."

"And you stayed with him until he came."

"Moll helped." Robb rubbed the back of his neck. His hair still stuck up where Will had gripped it. "She ought to stay near him. He listens to her."

"Tell Meriane before we leave."

For a little while they stood together, listening to the house. Martyn had Robb's sword belt over his arm by the outer door. Arthur was speaking quietly with Androw.

"Mother will be furious," Robb said at last. "With you first."

"Almost certainly."

His brother gave a small, weary smile. Then his eyes went back to the room.

"Will he remember us?"

"I expect so."

"I could come after the lists. I would like to see him when he isn't frightened of everything." Robb hesitated. "Would it upset him, seeing us again?"

"Ask Meriane. She'll have a better idea when he's slept."

Robb pushed himself from the wall and went to the doorway. Jon heard him lower his voice to speak to the septa. Her answer took longer than he had expected; his brother listened, nodding once. When he returned, he was trying to smooth down his hair.

"She says I can come, but I mustn't wake him. Moll can stay beside him too."

Jon waited while he took his sword belt from Martyn. Robb glanced once more through the doorway before following them out.

***
​

They called at Rilla's on the way back to the castle. Hal had fallen silent at last; she put an arm about his shoulders and took him inside without scolding. Gawen remained beside the Hand's guard until he could be relieved. Tomas took Hugin's basket from Jon and promised to arrange fresh men as soon as they reached their chambers.

Meriane had bound Tomas's brow. Jon's shoulder had stiffened during the walk; when he tried to lift his arm to settle his cloak, he could not bring it above his chest without pain. Later that day he and Robb were meant to enter the melee. Robb was walking with his hands open at his sides, too tired even to rub the cramped fingers. Jon would need someone to examine the shoulder before he put on armour again.

They passed the house where the men had held the stallholder against the wall. Its door was shut. A woman sat upon the step combing out her hair, a little heap of broken teeth from the comb beside her foot. She drew her knees in to let them pass.

Farther up, someone had scattered ashes over the worst of the gutter. Fresh footprints crossed them already. The girl who had offered bread was asleep beneath the shuttered stall, her empty basket held against her stomach.

A bell sounded over the roofs. In the east the sky had begun to grey, though the lanes still held their darkness. Above the Street of Flour, crows were gathering where a sack had split. One dropped from a roof to seize a scrap from beneath a wheel; another took its place before the carter had finished swearing.

Arthur walked beside Jon after the others had gone a little ahead.

"The man who escaped," Jon said. "He was paying Orrel. He could be warning another house already."

Arthur glanced back. "Androw will put that before the Hand. You gave him everything you saw?"

"Everything I could explain."

Androw had Orrel's admission and Gawen to confirm it. Jon had kept the earlier sight of the purse to himself. He could not explain watching that payment over a closed gate without revealing Hugin. The man's face he had seen for himself during the escape, and he had described it as well as he could.

Jon looked down the slope. He did not know where the buyer had gone, or whether the knight Rilla feared would so much as hear of the brewery. He wanted to find out. Soon men would be carrying the morning's food through those lanes, and the story of the raid would travel with them. A stranger could ask a question and be remembered. A crow on a roof would scarcely earn a glance.

He could watch the approaches in daylight. See who came to speak to the watch, who waited for them to turn away. There would be people looking for their children too; a frightened man at the door might have lost a son, not a purse of silver. Jon would need more than a hurried departure before he sent a bird after anyone.

The tournament would keep the court occupied for days. There would be hours between the lists and the feasts, and men about his own business who could carry messages without drawing attention. He would learn what Androw found first. After that, he could decide whom to follow.

Ahead of him, Robb stumbled on a broken stone and caught himself against Martyn's arm. Jon quickened his pace.

"The children are out," Arthur said. "Let that be enough for the walk home."

Jon's jaw tightened, then eased. Ahead, Robb had slowed beside Martyn. Jon let the roofs and the fugitive go for the moment and matched his brother's pace.

"Thank you," Jon said.

Arthur looked at him.

"For coming."

His uncle's face softened a little. "You knew I would."

Jon had. He had counted upon it before lifting the plain coat from the chest. That would have to be part of what he told Arryn, too.

At the castle gate the same guard raised his lamp. His gaze lingered upon Tomas's bandage, then moved to the falcon upon Androw's breast. This time he asked no question about horses.

Inside, the court smelled of damp stone and yesterday's rushes. Servants were sweeping beneath the gallery. A broken ribbon from the feast lay caught against a drain, its bright colour dulled by water.

Androw led them towards the Hand's chambers. A page opened the outer door before he knocked. There was light beyond it, and the scrape of a chair being moved.

Robb stopped beside Jon.

"I'll tell him I asked," he said quietly.

"I know."

Arryn stood at the table inside, dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the feast. His collar was unfastened. A cup sat untouched beside the lamp, and Jon's message lay open beneath his hand.

His eyes went first to Robb, then to the blood upon Jon's sleeve. He looked at Arthur last.

"The children?"

"Nine," Jon said. "With Septa Meriane. A maester was attending them when we left."

Arryn closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he drew the letter towards him.

"Good. Now tell me why you took armed men into the city after I expressly forbade it."

Jon stepped into the room.

 

[aiwonder]

Jon stopped on the other side of the table. There was nowhere to put his hands that did not make him conscious of the blood upon them.

He had washed at the sept. A dark line remained beside his thumbnail. When he curled his fingers out of sight, the stiff cuff scraped his wrist; when he laid them flat, they looked like something he had brought for Arryn to examine. He left them at his sides. Behind the Hand, dawn whitened the narrow windows, though the candles still burnt upon the table. Wax had cooled over the edge of a letter.

"The man who had kept Benn was seen entering another house," Jon said. "I wanted to know whether there were children inside."

"You had my orders, Lord Black." Arryn touched the folded letter beneath his hand. "You sent word that you were already going."

"Yes."

"And took your brother with you."

Robb stepped forward. "I asked to come, my lord."

He held himself straight beneath the Hand's inspection, but the colour rose from his collar to his ears. There was dirt below one of them, where Will had slept against his shoulder. Jon wanted to point to it, to tell Arryn to look properly before he spoke of boys being led astray. The old man was looking already.

"I believe you did," he told Robb. "You will give your father your own account."

"I will."

"Both of you. I shall send mine with it." Arryn drew a second sheet from beneath the first. "Ser Androw sent this from the brewery. A man dead, others wounded, children taken to the sept. He tells me you remained until a maester came. How many men did you take?"

Jon named them. He had been composing a letter to Ned since the climb from the sept. With his own hurried message spread before him, he kept hearing how it would sound when read aloud at Winterfell. Robb had volunteered. Arthur had come. Jon had decided for all of them.

At Arthur's name, Arryn looked past him.

"You knew the order I had given."

"I did." Arthur stood with his hands loose at his sides. A pale thread of straw clung to the dark wool at his knee. "I advised Jon to bring the matter to you. When he meant to go himself, I went with him. At the house I heard enough to believe there were children below. Then they began loading the cart, and I helped take it."

"I am glad you were there when it came to fighting." Arryn laid the sheet down beside Jon's letter. "I should have preferred you here before it did."

A chair scraped in the adjoining room. Robb shifted, leather creaking at his waist, and someone beyond the door lowered his voice to speak to Hugh. Jon had stood through enough questions. There had been children behind those bars, and one of them might still die.

"If we had waited when they opened the gate, those children would have gone."

"I have not questioned your decision at the gate."

Jon's answer caught. Of course Arryn would keep him to the earlier decision, when Hal had only brought a man's name and a guarded door. Jon had wanted to look at the place. He still would, knowing this conversation waited at the end.

"I thought I could learn more by going there."

"So did my men. One spent yesterday finding the carter who supplied two of the houses we closed. Another is still trying to persuade a woman to identify a man she has seen beat her neighbour." Arryn leaned forward, the loose skin beneath his jaw settling against his collar. "They do not all return with children in their arms, Lord Black. Their work is necessary all the same."

"I know that."

"Then allow for it when you decide what is yours to do."

Jon pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth. A shout would have been easier to answer. Arryn spoke as though they had all the morning, while Jon could still feel the cart's rough wood beneath his hand and see the children waiting to be put into it. The old man's inquiries had not reached that yard in time. Jon's had. He would not apologise for the children being alive.

His shoulder throbbed beneath the mail. He eased its weight without quite lifting his arm, and Arryn turned the sheet towards the window.

"What did the watchmen do?"

"You have heard?"

"Androw arrived to find them there. He did not see what passed before."

Jon described the two men: where they had stopped, the one edging towards the gate, the other putting a hand upon his weapon. Arthur supplied what he had heard from the yard. When Robb said they had been counting the men with them, Arryn raised a finger.

"Did either say that?"

"No, my lord. He looked from Jon to Ser Arthur, then past me to Martyn. He looked at our swords."

"Tell Androw that. Let him hear exactly what you saw."

"They were ready to make trouble until they knew who we were," Jon insisted. "Your knight came, and suddenly they could not be helpful enough." He remembered the change in their voices with fresh disgust. They had counted his men before offering help. Whatever troubled them about the brewery, the cages had scarcely earned a glance.

"Their captain has orders to produce them. They will be questioned separately."

"By your men?"

"By mine." Arryn waited until Jon nodded. "The boy who guided you. Who knows where he lives?"

Jon told him about Hal and Rilla, the men who had taken money at her door, and the guards left at the cookshop. Rilla had to open her door again this morning. The men collecting money knew where to find it.

Arryn called for Hugh. The squire entered with a fresh candle and shears for the wicks, both of which he put down before the Hand had finished speaking.

"Find Ser Androw's man. The guard at the woman's shop is to remain until properly relieved. Her name and her nephew's are not to be given to the watchmen. Send someone to the sept as well, before the morning is out. The maester is to send word of the child with the head wound."

Hugh repeated the instructions. He stumbled over the last, cleared his throat and went out. Jon watched him shut the door carefully, so that the latch made scarcely a sound.

"There were people at the windows," he said. "They saw us take the children away."

"Which is why I shall not promise you that no one knows who helped you." Arryn rubbed the side of his nose. The skin beneath his eyes was dark, and Jon wondered how long he had been at this table before they came. "Your guard may remain at the shop. Your other men will attend your household and the tournament. They will not return to those streets to make inquiries."

"One man escaped. The slight fellow in the brown coat. He paid the keeper before they brought the children out."

"Androw has sent his description to the gates."

"He may not be leaving the city."

"He may not. We have prisoners who may help us find him." Arryn put the sheet down and looked directly at Jon. "If you learn where he is, send word. Do not send me another letter explaining what you have already decided to do."

Jon felt Arthur's attention settle upon him. "I understand."

"You understood yesterday."

Robb's boot moved upon the rushes. Jon kept his eyes on the Hand.

"I have no raid planned, my lord."

"Keep it so. If you disobey me again, I shall have to consider whether your household can remain in the city. I will not have rival bodies of armed men deciding for themselves which doors may be broken."

Robb drew breath to answer. Jon touched his sleeve, and his brother looked down at the hand before closing his mouth. Jon had earned the Hand's displeasure for himself.

He could imagine a lord before his own throne, blood still upon his coat, explaining why the king's order had been inconvenient. He would want obedience from that man. He would have it, too. But a king must answer for what happened while men waited upon his word. Jon had reached nine children whom Arryn's inquiries had not yet found. He could regret exposing Hal and Rilla, and see how badly they had known the streets, without wishing he had stayed in his chamber. Given the same night, he would go. He kept his mouth shut; another argument might cost him the men he needed.

"The children are not to be questioned again merely to satisfy a visitor's curiosity," Arryn continued. "They have told us what they can. Some have told us what they think we wish to hear. Let the septa have them for a day."

"I promised Will I would return after the lists," Robb said.

Arryn took his hand from Jon's letter. "Which is Will?"

"The boy who was hiding. He thought we would shut him up again." Robb looked towards Jon, then back at the Hand. "He would not come out while we stood over him. I sat down. After a while he let me carry him."

The old man's eyes rested upon the dirt below Robb's ear. When he answered, he addressed Robb alone.

"Go, if the septa says he may see you. Take Ser Martyn, and go by daylight. You need not ask him anything."

"I wasn't going to."

"Good." Arryn gathered the loose sheets, then looked up at Jon and sighed. "Your father used to stand before me with that same look. When he thought his honour was at stake, there was little talking him out of anything."

His voice had softened. "I am glad you brought those children out, Jon."

"But their rescue does not put this inquiry in your hands. The king has entrusted it to me. You will bring me what you learn and leave my men to act."

"Yes, my lord."

Hugh stood aside in the passage with a basin. Robb went past him, rolling one shoulder beneath his mail, while Arthur waited for Jon. Behind them, Arryn called for the next man. The candles would have burnt out before the Hand had finished, Jon thought. Robert might still be asleep.

***
​

A door opened as they reached the turning below the Hand's chambers. Varys came through it with a folded paper and very nearly stepped into Jon.

"My lord. Forgive me."

Yellow silk brushed against the doorframe as he drew back. His eyes passed over Jon's cuff, his dirty boots and the sword at his hip; then he looked into Jon's face with a concern so readily assumed that Jon distrusted it at once.

"You have had a busy night."

Robb stopped behind him. Martyn waited farther down the passage, beside a narrow window, and Varys inclined his head to Arthur before turning his courtesy upon Robb.

"And you, Lord Robb. I hear you carried one of the poor children yourself."

"He could not walk."

"How fortunate that you were there." Varys moved clear of the doorway. "A word, Lord Black, if I may. There is something about last night which you ought to hear."

Jon sent Robb ahead with Martyn. Arthur went as far as the window and stayed there, close enough to return at a call. A woman carrying folded linen passed between them; Varys waited for her to go, then moved towards an empty recess. He had chosen his place well. From the stair it would look as though Jon had detained him on his way to the Hand.

"Six swords, plain cloaks and a boy to guide you," he began. "You were seen leaving. Then at a cookshop, and later near the lime sheds. By the time the shouting began at the brewery, several people had taken an interest."

"Your people."

"Some of them."

The paper lay loosely in his hand, unsealed.

"Then you know what we found."

"I know what was carried out. I have not seen the cellar."

"But someone was watching while we were in it."

Varys stepped a little nearer. "Someone saw the man who ran away."

Jon forgot the paper. "The brown coat?"

"A slight man. He left before the watchmen arrived and went down towards the river, taking a great many turns along the way. He stopped at the house of an undercollector of the king's wine duties. They admitted him through the kitchen entrance." Varys's pale fingers rested upon his folded paper. "An unusual hour to settle a tax."

"Where?"

Behind the weighhouse near the river gate: a narrow house with two outside stairs and a red door upon the upper landing. Jon repeated the directions. He could already imagine the man in brown stepping inside, somebody shutting out the noise of the street behind him. Perhaps he had been given a cup, a chair near a hearth. The keeper had reached after his money while the children waited beside the cart. The man who had paid him might be sitting in a royal officer's kitchen.

"Who followed him?"

"Someone employed by a woman who keeps several houses of pleasure. The knight's men have lately begun asking money at her doors. She has guards of her own, and little wish to pay for his."

"She wants him gone."

"She wants her customers left alone. Men are being stopped outside her houses and made to pay before they can enter. Some decide they have spent enough already." Varys smoothed the edge of the paper beneath his thumb. "She was quite eager to hear what had happened at the brewery."

Jon recalled the shutters closing when he asked which way the fugitive had gone. Someone else had followed him through the dark for a woman whose customers were being robbed. Fear did not prevent people from resenting the men who frightened them, or from looking for a chance to hurt them in return.

"Is he even a knight?"

"He has a horse, good armour and men who call him ser. Beyond that, the accounts differ."

"You have not found anyone who knighted him."

"No." Varys glanced towards the sword at Jon's hip. "But tell a frightened man he is dealing with a knight, and he may hope there is a lord he can appeal to. Even that little hope makes a sword easier to endure."

"Is there?"

"His rivals have been asking that for some time. He had coin for followers before he had much to collect from these lanes. They would dearly like to know where it came from."

"And you?"

"There are several stories, my lord. I would sooner trouble Lord Arryn with a door his men can knock upon."

Jon studied the folded paper. The eunuch had told him where a fugitive had gone readily enough.

"How much of Flea Bottom does this man hold?"

"Less than he would have you believe. The woman's men still keep him out of several lanes. Near the slaughteryards, the butchers collect their own pennies from every barrow that passes. His men tried asking for a share last winter. Two of them were carried home."

Varys lowered his voice as footsteps sounded beyond the turning. A boy came past with a basket of rushes, watching Jon's sword until he nearly struck the doorpost.

"There are others," the eunuch continued when he had gone. "They quarrel over a yard, a stair, which door a carter uses. The knight has taken a good deal from them these past few years. Several people were pleased to hear that someone had broken into his brewery."

"Pleased enough to help find the children?"

"The woman helped find your fugitive. She may help again. I would hear what she asks in return before promising her anything."

Jon looked down the passage towards Arthur. His uncle had turned from the window and was watching them. Last night he had wanted someone to open a door and tell him where the children had gone. The woman's men might know. So might the butchers, and neither would need to care whether a child lived so long as the answer hurt their rival.

"Was the man still at the collector's house when your word came?"

"He was. I cannot promise you he has remained."

"And what has a wine collector to do with children in cages?"

"That is a question I hope the Hand will have answered. For now, I can give you the house."

There was a faint scent of perfume beneath the stale wool and sweat of Jon's own clothes. Varys stood within arm's reach, round-faced and solicitous, offering the first useful direction anyone had given him since the man escaped. It was infuriating how much Jon wanted to thank him.

He remembered Tyrion and the gold cloaks: Varys helping him remove Slynt, making himself indispensable while leaving Cersei's part for Tyrion to discover. Ned had been given warnings, too. Jon had read those conversations with the advantage of seeing what followed them. Here there was no next page to turn, only a man who knew something Jon needed and had chosen exactly when to offer it.

"Have you told the Hand?"

Varys lifted the folded paper. "I am going to him now. His men must find out whether your fugitive is still there. But you saw him at the brewery. Did he speak as a buyer, my lord, or did he give the keeper orders?"

The purse, the withheld coin, the keeper's fingers reaching for it: Jon had seen that exchange through Hugin's eyes. He kept his gaze upon Varys and gave him only what he could safely have learned in the yard.

"He wanted the children brought out. The keeper says the money was for the cart."

"And you believe him?"

"He was trying to give the least dangerous answer."

"Quite likely." Varys studied him for a moment. "Would you know the other man again?"

"Yes. I told Ser Androw so."

"Then you may be of help without another expedition into the streets."

Jon's jaw tightened. "You have spoken to the Hand already."

"I have spoken to people who saw two young lords return to the castle after a night of fighting. I should have been surprised if Lord Arryn welcomed you with nothing but thanks."

From the stair came a scuff and a man's laboured breath. Jon looked past Varys. A servant was carrying charcoal up towards the Hand's rooms, the basket wedged against one hip, and Arthur had moved from the window to let him pass. His uncle's gaze came back to Jon at once.

"Why bring this to me separately?" Jon asked.

"You were there, my lord. I wished to hear what you had seen before the story had been told over a dozen cups of wine." His eyes returned briefly to Jon's cuff. "And you are rather more likely to be approached by people with grievances against this knight. The woman might hesitate to come to the Hand."

"But she came to you."

"Her man did." Varys folded the paper once more. "If another comes to you, I should be glad to hear what he brings."

The request was modest enough after what he had offered. Jon could use the information without carrying every whisper back.

There was Illyrio behind the powdered face, and the boy being prepared across the sea. A Blackfyre purpose, perhaps. Jon remembered the arguments about Aegon, about Illyrio's wife and the eunuch's loyalties. They had been theories, argued by people who could shut the book when they were tired of them. He could not afford to turn a theory into certainty. Nor could he afford to forget that Varys might already be working towards a throne for someone else.

"If the man is found, send word through the Hand. I will identify him."

"I shall."

"And if he has gone, I would still like to hear it."

"Of course, my lord." Varys bowed. "You should wash before breakfast. His Grace will want the tale, and there are ladies who will find the state of that sleeve more distressing than anything you tell them."

He turned towards the stair, gathering his silk clear of the charcoal bearer's basket and letting the man squeeze past. Jon watched them go. Varys seemed to have time for everyone. Jon had spent the morning fighting an urge to hurry every man who answered him.

Arthur came back from the window. "What did he give you?"

"The house where the man in brown went. And something of the men who rule those lanes."

"Does he have proof?"

"Someone saw the fugitive enter. That is what Varys says."

Arthur glanced towards the stair. "And what does he want from you?"

"To hear who comes to me next." Jon started towards his chambers, and his uncle fell into step beside him. "I will send Androw the directions. Then we shall see how much his help is worth."

The ache returned to his shoulder as they walked. He had forgotten it while Varys was talking.

***
​

By the time Wylla had the mail off him, Jon was shaking.

The weight left his shoulders, and cold found the wet linen beneath it. He had crossed the castle without feeling the draughts; now the little current beneath his chamber door made him hunch in the chair. Wylla laid a blanket across his knees and drew a stool nearer for the basin. Its water was already pink. He watched a thread of blood come loose from his cuff and spread until he could no longer follow it.

"That sleeve is finished," she said.

"It can be mended."

She held it where he could see the torn seam beneath the arm and the blackened cuff. "I'll leave it for you, then. You can hear what the laundry women say. Lift your elbow a little."

He tried. She stopped him before he could lift it far, eased the cloth free herself and laid it over the stool. Jon let his head rest against the chair. On the window perch, Munin worked at the cord securing a little dish, tugging with an industriousness Jon resented. Hugin slept with his head turned back. At least one of them had the sense to be tired.

Arthur had brought a maester. The man pressed around the bruise below Jon's left shoulder, following the collarbone with careful fingers before asking him to raise his arm. Jon watched his own hand rise. A little higher, he thought; it ought to go a little higher than that.

"Again," the maester said. "More slowly."

The second attempt was worse. Jon lowered it before his hand reached the height it had managed the first time. The man felt along the joint while Jon held the chair with his right hand and kept his teeth together. Nothing was broken that the maester could find, but he made no cheerful promise upon the strength of it.

"You have made a bad bruise worse. Another blow may leave you unable to use the arm for a while. You should rest it."

"There is a melee this morning."

"So I was told." The maester looked towards Arthur. "I cannot make it sounder by giving him something which prevents him feeling it."

"No milk of the poppy."

"I had not offered it."

Wylla lowered her face over the basin. Jon caught the small crease beside her mouth before she turned away, and would have smiled if the maester's thumb had not chosen that moment to press beneath his collarbone.

When the man had gone, Arthur crouched beside the chair. Jon disliked having to look down to meet his eyes. It made this feel more like being put to bed after a childhood fall than a question about entering a tournament.

"Are you certain you mean to fight?"

"Yes."

"Then show me you can use a shield before you enter. If you cannot protect that side, you withdraw. You have no sleep in you, and this will not be three passes in the yard."

Jon looked at the spreading purple upon his skin. Beyond the window the castle was waking; he could hear hooves on stone, a shouted name, someone laughing. There would be boys dressing for the melee who had slept after the feast and dreamed of winning it. He envied them their uncomplicated morning. He wanted the victory just as badly, with the cellar still beneath his nails and a maester somewhere down the hill watching a child whose head had been broken.

"I will show you."

Arthur rose and brought him the bread. "First eat."

There was soft cheese upon the table and a pot of honey. The first mouthful stuck in Jon's dry mouth. He drank, took another, and discovered he was ravenous. By the time Aries appeared he had eaten half the loaf.

The boy had dressed in haste. One fastening at his collar was in the wrong hole, pulling the cloth crooked beneath his chin. Wylla reached to set it right as he came past her.

"They said you brought more children back."

"Nine."

"To Benn's sept?"

Jon nodded. Aries sat on the edge of the bed without asking and stared at the shirt draped over the stool.

"Is that yours?"

"The shirt is. Most of the blood is not."

Aries kept looking at it. Jon regretted the answer; he had meant to spare the boy worry about him, and had merely supplied someone else to worry about.

"Did you see Benn?"

"He was awake. Hal asked after his writing."

"He said he was going to learn my name. Before, I mean. In the letter." Aries found a loose thread upon the coverlet and drew it through his fingers. "Robb is going after the lists. I met him on the stairs. He told me about the other boy."

"We can ask the septa when it would suit her to have you."

"I could take the writing board I don't use. The edge is chipped, but it still works."

"Ask what they need before you empty your room." Jon put down his bread. He had asked after Benn's injured hand, but forgotten the boy's promise to learn Aries's name. "You may go with Robb if Ser Martyn agrees. The septa must say they may have visitors, though. Some are very ill."

Aries let go of the thread. "I'll ask."

Jon sent for Perrin while Wylla found fresh clothes. She brought fine black wool, buttons covered in the same cloth and a collar that would leave his neck clear. When she turned back a cuff, black silk caught the window light with a wet gleam. He could have worn that doublet to a feast. This morning he was grateful chiefly that it had no heavy embroidery to catch beneath his armour.

"Left arm first."

He let her guide it into the sleeve. The sound arm followed easily enough; then she worked the cloth over his shoulders. It was galling to need such care over something he usually accomplished while thinking of half a dozen other things.

Perrin arrived with a wax tablet. His greeting faltered when he saw the basin, and he drew the tablet against his chest.

"The men are bringing the chests up now, my lord. Shall I have them wait?"

"Have them taken back under guard. We will hold the showing on the first morning after the tournament."

"The whole showing?"

"Yes. I have had no sleep, half the household has been in the city, and I need my men rested. Tell the buyers there was trouble in the night and we helped bring children out of it. I will speak to anyone who has arranged to sail before then."

Perrin turned the tablet over. "Lord Baelish was expecting—"

"Tell him as well. And make certain we can still have the room."

"There are men waiting to be measured for armour after the contests."

"Keep those appointments. They need the armourer, not me standing over him."

Perrin scratched a note. "I'll put someone at the room, then, as well as sending round. There'll be men who arrive without hearing, or leave word with the wrong servant."

"Thank you. Tomas promised fresh guards for the cookshop. Has he sent them?"

"He was speaking to the men when I came up. I'll see that they've gone."

After Perrin left, Jon stood before the polished metal mirror while Wylla combed his hair. His face looked pinched, the white forelock too bright above the shadows under his eyes. Wylla dampened it and tried to lay it flat. There was comfort in standing still while someone else knew what to do.

"You'll be asleep in your dish before the king has finished eating," she said.

"I will try to stay awake."

"Try lying down when you get the chance. That would please me better." She smoothed his collar, though it needed no smoothing. "I'd have you in that bed now if anyone listened to me."

He caught her hand before she could draw it away. Her fingers were cold from the basin. For a moment she stood with them in his, her comb forgotten in the other hand, and he could think of nothing to promise her that he would keep. She squeezed his fingers and went to fetch his belt.

***
​

Theon was waiting with Robb beneath the gallery, dressed for a morning worth being seen in. His dark green doublet fitted closely at the waist, the gold cord at its throat newly tied; a kraken held his short cloak upon one shoulder. Beside him, Robb looked as though someone had poured him into clean clothes and sent him out before he was ready. Water still darkened the grey wool below his collar. He kept his hands behind his back, stretching the fingers which had cramped beneath Will's weight.

"I hear you found something better than sleep." Theon looked from Robb to Jon. He had not put on his gloves.

"Hal brought word after you had gone," Jon said.

"I was not in Pyke. I was down a passage."

Robb glanced towards a pair of servants crossing the gallery. "We didn't know what it would become."

"You knew enough to buckle on a sword."

Theon bent the fingers of one glove into his palm. Jon had expected a jest about missing the fight, something they could answer before going in to eat. He had no wish to explain himself again, with Arryn's questions still sour in his mouth, but Theon stood squarely in their way and waited.

Jon gave him the account: Hal's message, the watch upon the brewery, the cart coming into the yard. At the cages he faltered. He could describe the doors and the men defending them readily enough; he disliked bringing the cellar up here, where someone was beating dust from a hanging farther along the gallery and the smell of breakfast had begun to reach them. Robb took over. He told Theon about the boy who had hidden and the septa who had received the children.

The glove slowly opened in Theon's hand.

"And you didn't think I could help?"

"That was not it," Robb said.

"Then what was it?"

Jon could have answered for him. Haste, fewer men, the folly of taking every young noble in their company into an unknown street. He had made room for Robb all the same. Theon had been close enough to fetch, and neither of them had thought to do it.

"I should have told you."

Theon lifted his eyes from the gloves. For once he had nothing ready on his tongue. Then he thrust them into his belt, harder than necessary.

"I can keep quiet. Whatever else you think of me."

"I know."

"And I don't need Robb to hold my hand when someone draws a knife."

"I was holding a boy," Robb said. "He would probably have bitten you."

Theon's mouth twitched. "Sensible child."

He made way for them and fell into his usual place beside Robb. He would not answer the next attempt at a joke, but before they reached the hall he asked whether the children had families in the city. Jon told him what little they knew.

The room had lost its evening splendour in pieces. Half the candles were gone, the musicians' gallery stood empty, and a servant on her knees was picking crushed flowers from beneath the royal table. Daylight found the seams in the banners and a pale scrape where a bench had been dragged over the floor. Jon remembered looking up at those same hangings while the hall shone beneath them. This morning he wanted a place where he might sit without anyone asking him to account for the night.

The breakfast had spread well beyond the places laid for it. Knights ate standing beside their seated wives; boys in padded jacks reached between their elders for bread while squires tried to keep grease from the cloth. Genna Lannister caught Emmon by the sleeve and made him sit down again before he had finished his plate. Myranda Lefford leaned past her to call after a servant. Farther along the western table, a Marbrand youth had tucked a napkin beneath his collar, to the poorly concealed delight of the girl beside him. Through the propped doors came grooms, folded surcoats, a man carrying a helm under either arm. A small dog had found a sausage skin and was refusing to surrender it to an indignant page.

Jon might have enjoyed the disorder on another morning. He was still watching the dog when a man near the door recognised them and spoke to his neighbour. Heads turned ahead of their progress. Petyr Baelish broke off his conversation with a clerk; his eyes touched Jon's clean sleeve, then Robb's face. Jon wished Wylla had found time to wash the dirt from his brother's sword belt as well.

Their places remained beside Monford and the Manderlys. Wendel was cutting cold beef, Wylis had laid his cloak over his chair, and Wynafryd sat holding her cup in both hands. She watched Jon approach until he was near enough to hear her.

"You said you were tired last night."

"I was."

"You have found a poor remedy."

He had liked making her smile last night. Now she looked at him as though he had made a fool of her concern. Before he could find an answer, someone called Robb from the Vale end of the table. Harry rose to make room for Mychel, saw Jon behind him and stopped with his hand upon the bench.

Jon had barely drawn out his chair when Robert's voice reached them from the dais.

"There they are. Come here, you two. I have been hearing a damned good tale, and I mean to hear it properly."

A cup struck a plate behind him. The quiet travelled slowly through the room: a conversation stopped, a man turned to see why, another asked his neighbour what the king had said. Robb's ears reddened.

"Who told him?" he breathed.

Jon could have named several people who might have obliged the king. He could see one of them sitting at Robert's right, in fresh clothes and with the same weary eyes that had watched him across a table at dawn.

Robert had loosened his belt a hole. His black hair was still damp, and he held a piece of bread in a hand big enough to hide it. Eggs and little onions steamed upon his plate. Beside him Cersei, in crimson silk worked with gold at the neck, was finishing something she had been telling Myrcella. She made the boys wait for the end of it before turning her head.

"Flea Bottom," Robert announced. "At night, with the tournament in the morning. Ned will tear his hair out when he hears. How many were there?"

Jon stopped below the dais. "Nine children, Your Grace."

"The men, boy. How many men?"

Of course. Jon gave him the number at the brewery, and said that one had escaped. Arryn set his cup down.

"And you had Arthur with you." Robert found him near the doors. "That was better sense than some boys show on their first night's mischief. Come closer, Robb. You look as though you've swallowed a nail."

A few men laughed. Robb came forward with his chin raised, staring at a point beyond the king's shoulder. Jon knew that look from their childhood: his brother would endure almost anything rather than let people see him blush, and the effort always made it worse.

"Tell it from the beginning," Robert said. "What took you down there?"

Hal's name almost escaped him. Jon swallowed it. He had counted armed men in the brewery; he could not begin to count the listeners here, or guess which of them would repeat a helpful boy's name over supper.

"Someone recognised a man who had kept children in one of the houses the Hand closed. He went into an old brewery, deep in Flea Bottom. There was a guard outside. We went to find out what he was guarding."

"Another pit?" Renly asked.

"A place to keep them between fights, my lord. There was no fighting ground."

Renly turned towards Arryn. At the far end of the royal table, Stannis laid his knife beside the bread he had been cutting. Jon could see the hard line of his jaw above his collar.

"We watched the doors. Later a man came with money, and they brought a cart into the yard. They were loading the children when we went in."

"And the keeper drew on you?" Robert asked.

"He had a club. The driver drew a knife. There were armed men in the house as well."

"Did they know who you were?"

"Not at first."

Robert leaned towards him. "Go on."

A servant waited at the king's elbow with honeyed apples. The glaze gleamed upon their cut sides, and Jon caught the smell of cinnamon above the onions. He suddenly hated the broad polished table between them. He could still feel the low cellar over his head; here there was room for a man to stretch his legs beneath silver dishes while deciding which part of the rescue would make the best story. Robert wanted a fight. He would hear what the fighting had been for.

"We took the yard. When we had the house, we found cages below it."

Robert's bread stopped halfway towards his mouth.

"Cages?"

"Two in the cellar. Another in the washhouse. Some of the children could not stand, Your Grace. We had to carry them." Jon looked along the royal table. "They had been kept there to be brought out and made to fight again."

A knife fell against a dish at the neighbouring table. No one reached at once to retrieve it. Robert lowered the bread and asked how old the children were.

"I do not know all their ages. Younger than us. One girl might be ten."

Tommen was leaning forward to see between the adults. Cersei put a hand upon Myrcella's wrist and spoke to the septa behind them. The woman bent to Tommen, but he shook his head and kept watching Jon until his sister rose and offered her hand.

"You wished to see the horses," the queen reminded him. "Go with your sister."

Tommen obeyed, looking back once. Cersei followed the children with her eyes until they had passed the nearest table. When she looked at Jon again her lips were pressed together. He took the look as a rebuke for bringing the cellar into her children's morning. Let her be displeased. He had been summoned to tell it.

"Where are the bastards who did it?" Robert demanded.

"In custody," Arryn answered. "My men brought the prisoners up before dawn. They are being held apart."

"Then hang them."

"They must first tell us where the children came from, and where the cart was going."

Robert pushed his bread onto the edge of the plate. "Hear them, then. But I want them dealt with, Jon. I will not have this going on beneath my own walls."

Arryn inclined his head. Jon remembered the letters upon the Hand's table, the orders already sent while Robert slept. It must be a weary business, keeping a king's peace and allowing him to discover it anew over breakfast.

"Where was the Watch?" Stannis asked.

Jon described the two watchmen's arrival. He would gladly have repeated what he thought of them, but Arryn had been right about the distinction between what he had seen and what he believed. He gave the hall their questions, their hands moving towards their weapons, their sudden helpfulness when the Hand's knight appeared.

Stannis turned to Arryn before Jon had quite finished.

"They were sent for before you came down," the Hand told him. "Ser Androw is hearing the witnesses."

"Then let their captain account for his patrols as well. A house does not fill with prisoners in one night."

"Did the keeper own the brewery, Lord Black?"

Petyr's question came from beside the dishes, mild and businesslike. Jon had been following Stannis's anger; it took him a moment to turn towards the smaller man.

"I do not know."

"The old brewing yards are often let in pieces. The tax collectors may know who takes the rent." Baelish glanced towards Arryn. "I can have them bring what records they possess."

"Send them to me."

"Of course. Did you find any books there, Lord Black? Accounts, names of those who paid?"

"I was bringing children out. Your lordship will have to ask the men who searched it afterwards."

"Quite right. They were your first concern."

Petyr took a drink, letting the commendation settle upon Jon as though it had cost him something to bestow. An obliging little man, finding rent rolls while greater lords called for heads. Jon distrusted the ease of it. Petyr now knew that he had not read the keeper's accounts, and had arranged to supply the Hand with records of his own.

Jon wondered whether a clerk sent to the quays would reach the records before word of the inquiry reached the men who kept them.

"And how many did you kill?" Joffrey asked.

The prince had been turning a knife beside his plate. He laid it down now, his green eyes intent upon Jon in a way the cages had failed to make them.

"One man died fighting Ser Arthur. The others were taken."

"Only one?"

Robert swung towards his son. "Dead men tell us bugger-all. We need the rest to talk."

"I meant—"

"The prince asked how much resistance they offered," Cersei said. She spoke evenly, with her eyes upon Jon. "He has not had your account before this morning."

"Enough. One of my men was cut. We were fortunate it was not worse."

Joffrey looked down at his knife. Sandor's gaze remained upon the prince, the unburned side of his mouth dragging into a sneer. Jon found himself in agreement with the Hound. A little steel at breakfast, a little blood in a story, and Joffrey could imagine himself among the men who had earned the telling.

"Is the wounded man attended?" Barristan asked.

The old knight had not moved from his place beside the dais. Jon turned towards him with relief. "Yes, ser. A cut above the brow. The maester is more concerned for one of the children."

Pycelle stirred, his heavy chain slipping against the edge of the table. "A blow to the head can be treacherous. A child may seem to improve, and then—"

"There is a maester with him." Jon heard how sharply he had cut across the old man. He had no patience left for a list of the ways the boy might die; yet Pycelle could send help, and offending him would put none in the sickroom. "I would be grateful if you sent to learn what he needs."

"Certainly, certainly. A poor child."

Robert pushed his plate aside. "And you, Robb? What did you do while your brother was breaking heads?"

"I helped with the children, Your Grace."

"Come now. You need not be shy of telling me."

Robb reddened to the roots of his hair. He clasped his hands behind his back again, as he had in the gallery. Across the hall, Harry leaned forward; Jon spoke before anyone could turn his brother's discomfort into another jest.

"There was a boy who would not come out. He hid from the swords. Robb sat on the floor and took his off. When the boy finally came to him, he carried him all the way to the sept."

"How far?" Robert asked Robb.

"I don't know, Your Grace."

"Long enough that Ser Martyn offered to take him," Jon said. "The boy would not let go."

Robb looked at him then, pleading for an end to it. Jon stopped. He had wanted the hall to understand what his brother had done, and had succeeded chiefly in making Robb wish himself elsewhere.

The king beckoned him up the step. When Robb came within reach, Robert put that great hand upon his shoulder.

"Your father will be proud of that."

He said it quietly. Robb lifted his head, and the stiffness went out of him. His mouth opened before he found the words.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Jon stood below the dais and watched his brother smile. Last night Robb had listened to the men of the rebellion; now Robert had given him a place in a story of his own. He would write to Ned about it. He would try to make the words sound casual, then repeat the king's praise exactly, and Ned would hear his pleasure through every line.

It hurt to know that so well. Jon wanted Robb beside him when he claimed his own crown. He had imagined what he would tell his brother, what truths and promises might persuade him; he had given less thought to having to ask him to turn against a man who could make him look like this. Robert had scarcely needed to try. A hand upon a shoulder, a few words about their father, and Robb would carry the morning home with him.

Jon could not even wish it taken away. His brother had sat on a filthy floor and coaxed a frightened child out of hiding. He deserved to stand before a king and hear that he had done well. For a moment Jon hated the future he wanted for requiring him to think beyond that.

"They disobeyed a clear instruction to go there," Arryn said.

Robert's hand remained upon Robb's shoulder. "Did they?"

"They did. I have spoken to them."

The king looked at his old foster father. A grin tugged at his beard, and Jon glimpsed the younger man who must once have stood before Arryn with an excellent account of why a forbidden thing had needed doing.

"You had cause to speak to me often enough."

"I remember."

Yohn Royce laughed, with several men near him. Arryn waited until they had finished. Robert released Robb with a final squeeze.

"Well, let us have no more night fighting before my tournament. Get some food into you both. I mean to see what Ned has taught his sons."

Jon bowed. At the side of the dais Lysa caught Robb's sleeve before he could descend. Her eyes went to the dirt in his sword belt, and she drew him nearer to speak. Jon could not hear the words. His brother bent his head through them with the patient misery of a boy who has just escaped one adult only to be caught by another. When she let him go, he hurried down the step.

Tyrion Lannister raised his cup as they passed. "To Lord Black. A useful night's work. I can seldom say as much for mine." A few cups rose with his. Jon inclined his head and followed Robb towards their seats, past the servant setting down the honeyed apples.

***
​

Margaery had meant to give Jon the book before he sat down.

Elinor had it beneath her shawl, a corner of blue leather showing against the cream wool. Margaery had marked a passage before dressing, certain she would make him laugh. Now she could scarcely remember what she had meant to say.

Jon reached his chair and lowered himself carefully beside Robb. His black sleeves were clean now. Margaery remembered the hand he had offered her for their dance, and tried to picture it holding a sword in that dark yard. A knife, Jon had said. A club. Men who had not known his name.

She had gone to bed pleased with the evening. He had gone into Flea Bottom. She knew its name from the warnings given to their servants; even the grooms were told to go there in company. Jon was not yet fourteen. He had taken his brother and a handful of men into those streets, and nine children were sleeping in the sept because he had.

When Robert had asked how many men, Jon had answered with the number of children. Then he had made them listen to what Robb had done. Margaery felt her cheeks warming. She wanted to tell him what she thought of him, and was suddenly afraid that she would sound foolish.

At the royal table, Garlan was asking whether the Hand meant to seek the children's families. Robert referred him to Arryn, then turned the talk to Garlan's horse. Father leaned forward to supply its breeding. Across the room, Jon held a cup without drinking while Robb spoke close to his ear.

Grandmother broke a roll beside her.

"You are watching the wrong table."

Margaery turned reluctantly. "Those children might have been gone by morning."

Olenna's fingers stilled upon the roll. "He did well. I have known men twice his age who would have left it to someone else." She glanced towards the dais. "Your father has scarcely stopped talking to the king. You might spare a little attention for the prince."

"I have not forgotten him."

"Then watch him. His father has been praising another boy, and he does not care for it."

Joffrey sat with a loose thread wound about one finger, drawing it tighter until the tip whitened. There were eggs untouched before him. When Robert laughed at something Garlan said, the prince pulled another thread from his napkin.

"He only wanted to know how many they had killed," Margaery murmured.

"I heard him. I want you to hear what he says when his father is not beside him."

Grandmother was watching her now. Margaery nodded; there would be questions later. She made herself look towards the prince, though her hand had strayed towards the book beneath Elinor's shawl.

Renly caught Father's eye over Garlan's shoulder.

"You should have him come and choose one himself, Mace. My brother has heard enough about your stables to think you keep dragons in them."

"If he has one fit to carry me, I'll ride it," Robert declared.

Father's chair scraped backwards. He checked himself halfway to his feet and settled with both hands upon the table. "Highgarden would be honoured, Your Grace. By you and all your family. We have room enough for the court, and my wife would see to everything."

Mother lifted her eyes from her cup. Margaery waited for some sign that the invitation surprised her, but Alerie only turned a little towards the queen.

"There is good hunting along the Mander," Father continued. "We have scarcely disturbed those woods this season. Garlan could show you—"

"I know what grows fat in the Reach." Robert pointed his bread at Renly. "You never come back thinner."

"They take very good care of me."

"Nor would Your Grace find our cellars wanting," Father put in. "Whatever wine you favour, we shall have it laid down."

He was smiling now, pleased by the laughter and the king's interest, and Margaery could picture the preparations beginning before anyone had agreed to come. The guest rooms opened, hangings shaken out, men sent hurrying to the stables. Mother would have to decide where everyone slept while Father told them how welcome they were.

Cersei waited for the laughter to finish. Sunlight caught the gold net over her hair; beside the king's loosened belt and damp collar, she looked as carefully dressed as she had at the feast. Margaery straightened without meaning to.

"A generous invitation, Lord Tyrell. I am sure Lady Alerie would receive us splendidly."

"It would be my pleasure, Your Grace."

The queen inclined her head to Mother, accepting the assurance. Margaery watched the two women across Father's broad shoulder. Alerie had scarcely spoken, yet the queen addressed her now, and Father had to wait until they had finished.

"We shall speak of it when the tournament is done," Robert said. "I have promised these lords a hunt here first. Royce will accuse me of fleeing south to find an easier boar."

"Only if Your Grace leaves me behind," Yohn called.

Father sat back laughing with the others. Renly stayed beside him to discuss the road, and already Father was describing where the royal party might break its journey. Margaery glanced at Mother, whose mouth had curved above the rim of her cup. Highgarden would certainly receive a letter.

"Are we still to ride this morning?" she asked when Alerie put it down.

"The princess is being readied. Her septa will accompany us, as the queen required. We shall have an escort and reach the lists before the boys begin."

Olenna held out her hand for her stick. "Then do not keep a princess waiting while you hunt for a book."

Elinor lifted the shawl. Margaery took the little volume and tucked the ribbon safely between its pages. Grandmother followed the movement with a glance.

"I know where it is," Margaery said.

"So I see."

She kept the book in her hand as she rose. Jon had scarcely touched his breakfast. There would be time to give it to him before she left, and perhaps to make him laugh over something foolish for a moment.

***
​

Oberyn had watched Arthur while the king questioned the boys.

His friend stood near the door in a cloak with dried mud along its hem. In the hard morning light every splash showed. He had found time to clean his sword, Oberyn would wager, and none to look at the rest of himself. When Jon spoke of the cages, Arthur lowered his eyes. Through all Robert's questions he offered no account of his own fighting.

Beside Oberyn, Obara pushed away her dish.

"I would have killed the keeper," she said.

"And the men who paid him?"

"I would have them too."

She looked towards the king as he laughed. It was not the first time Oberyn had heard her offer to settle a wrong with a spear. This morning he found little fault with the wish.

"We shall see whom he names."

Obara folded her arms and kept watching the dais.

Arthur approached as the dishes were being cleared.

Oberyn moved his cup to make room upon the table and beckoned him to sit.

"I must see Jon to the yard."

"Your nephew is eating. You may do the same."

Arthur glanced back before taking the end of the bench. Obara set a plate before him, leaving him to find an excuse for refusing it. He broke off a piece of bread. His first mouthful was so large that Oberyn put off his questions and pushed the cheese within reach as well.

Arthur ate. They had known one another too long for him to believe Oberyn had called him over merely for breakfast. Some questions from yesterday would have to wait; servants were still passing close behind him.

"Did he ask their names?"

Arthur looked up.

"The children."

"Those who could give them. Why?"

"Robert has had the fighting. I wondered what your nephew did afterwards."

Arthur swallowed and set down the bread. "He went below. I wished I had gone first."

Oberyn waited while a servant gathered the empty dishes. When the man had passed, he leaned nearer.

"A boy flinched when he tried to help him with his coat," Arthur continued. "Later, the keeper started shouting while Robb was trying to bring the little one out. Jon put him against the wall with a hand at his throat. I stopped him."

Across the room Robert laughed. Oberyn's jaw tightened at the sound. He looked towards Jon, who was listening to someone beside him, the blood washed away and his black sleeves clean.

"Did he fight you?"

"He let go when I took his arm. Then he helped with the children. Stayed until the maester came. There was no persuading him to leave."

Oberyn could picture the keeper clawing at Jon's wrists. He might have needed Arthur's hand upon his own arm, had he stood in that cellar.

Arthur looked towards Jon and smiled, the weariness easing from his face. Oberyn watched him. He had seen that pride after the boy's bouts; this was warmer, almost unguarded.

"Has the keeper named the men who buy the children?"

"Not to me. The Hand's men have him."

"There is no judgement in this city for men who hurt children."

Oberyn looked towards Robert. No one had needed a prisoner's confession to name Elia's murderers, yet the years had passed with those men alive. He set his cup down untouched.

"We look after our children in Dorne," he said. "Doran sets guards over the Water Gardens, for the grooms' children as well as ours. Here they are kept in cages for men to wager upon."

"Ask, when you see the Hand's men," Oberyn added. "I would like to know whom that keeper has been serving."

Arthur nodded.

Oberyn would tell Doran about the cellar. And Rhaenys—what would she make of the boy who had gone into it, and the care Arthur took of him? Oberyn glanced at his friend again. Whatever he thought of Jon's bargain with Vhalar, his niece ought to hear this too.

"When you have slept, come and see me," he said. "Without everyone waiting in a yard for you."

Arthur held his gaze. "I will."

Arthur glanced towards the doors. "I sent word to Lord Mooton. We have kept him waiting long enough."

"He means to recover the time from us. A longer visit, and your story about Myles."

"He shall have both."

Obara spoke before he could rise. "Tell your nephew he still owes me a bout. Winning this will not get him out of it."

"Tell him yourself," Arthur said, rising. "He has heard enough from me this morning."

She snorted. But when Arthur went back towards Jon, her eyes followed him, and Oberyn saw her measuring the boy's movements once more.

***
​

Wendel reached past Jon to clap Robb on the back. "Well done, both of you." Wylis asked after Jon's shoulder, looking him over as if he expected to find another wound beneath the clean doublet. Jon had managed three mouthfuls of eggs when Lady Tanda found him. He wished she would let him finish before asking whatever she had come to ask.

Both daughters were with her. Falyse carried her gloves; Lollys wound the cord of a small cloth bag about her wrist. Rosby's cough interrupted Tanda as he stopped beside them to speak to Wylis.

"Those poor children," Tanda began again. "To think what might have happened if you had not gone." She urged Lollys forward with a hand at her back. "Such a gallant young lord. Don't you think so, Lollys?"

Lollys's round face coloured. She glanced at Jon and down at her bag. "Y-yes. Very g-gallant, my lord."

"Thank you, my lady." Jon put down his spoon.

Lollys ventured another glance at him. "Can they have my blue coverlet?"

"Of course, my dear," Tanda said. "The linen can go to the sept as well. I shall tell Lord Sunglass we need not send it over the water."

Lollys edged nearer. Her yellow gown pulled tight across her middle; the cord had left a red line upon her plump wrist. She loosened it when Falyse touched her hand.

"The ones in the cages can have it?"

"Yes. We will send it with the linen."

"Will had nothing but his shirt," Robb said. "We wrapped him in a cloak."

Betha Blackwood had paused behind him to let Rosby pass. Her dark hair was braided back, a red ribbon worked through it and disappearing beneath her cloak. At the sound of Robb's voice she turned from Roslin Frey.

"Was that the boy you carried?"

Robb twisted round, then began to rise. She put a hand upon the bench before he could crowd Lady Tanda against the table.

"You need not get up."

He sat. "Yes. He fell asleep against me. I didn't want to wake him when one of our guards offered to take him."

"Then he shall have it," Lollys decided.

Tanda smiled at her daughter and began telling Wylis how the bundles had been packed. Jon watched her, ashamed of his impatience. She had come to give him something.

Aurane tried to tear his bread one-handed. Monford broke it for him without interrupting Celtigar. Aurane scarcely noticed. "You might have sent for me."

"With that hand?" Jon asked.

"I could have helped carry them." Aurane's face had lost its usual amusement.

Harry came round the bench with Mychel. "You could have found half the Vale awake. Waymar is still complaining that we heard it from the king."

"We went to look at a house," Jon said. "I did not know there would be a cart until it came."

Robb made room beside him, but Harry glanced at Betha and went round to the other side. Mychel followed, catching a loose shield strap against a stool. Theon caught the stool before it fell.

"I would have come," Mychel said, freeing the strap. He looked from Jon to Robb, waiting for an answer.

"We know," Robb told him.

Harry glanced at the girls, then back at Jon. "Only don't blame last night when I beat you. I won't have everyone saying you were too tired to fight."

"You still have to manage it." Jon smiled. Harry grinned back and reached for bread. Soon they were arguing about shields and where the smaller boys should stand when the larger companies met. Betha sat in the space Robb had cleared, gathering her cloak beneath her.

"Jon made rather more of it than he needed to," Robb told her, low enough that Jon could pretend not to hear.

"I am glad he told us. Will you let me know how the boy fares?"

"After I visit him."

"Thank you." She looked towards Roslin, who had joined Falyse in examining the stitching of a glove. "And Lord Tytos says I may ride out for the hunt, if there is a proper party of ladies going."

"Then I shall see you there."

Theon stopped arguing with Mychel. "So you do mean to speak to someone besides us today."

Betha's mouth curved. Robb kicked beneath the table; Theon pulled his boot clear and nearly struck Mychel instead. Jon caught his brother's eye across the commotion and smiled. Robb tried to look offended, but his mouth betrayed him.

Margaery arrived while Theon was protesting his innocence. She and Elinor wore riding cloaks, and beyond them Alerie stood near the doors with the princess's septa. A groom waited at her shoulder, trying to keep an armful of gloves and short riding whips from slipping to the floor.

"What you did last night was very brave," she said quietly.

Jon looked up. She held his gaze instead of looking towards the others.

"Thank you." He found himself smiling. She smiled back, then brought the book from beneath her cloak.

"Have you heard how the injured boy fares?"

"Not yet."

Her smile faded. "I hope they send good news."

"I brought you the book." Margaery set it beside his plate, safely beyond the butter.

He wiped his fingers before taking it. The blue leather had worn soft at the corners, and a ribbon lay between the pages. A faint crease ran down the spine. He turned it carefully in his hand.

"Has your knight found the right road yet?"

"You may discover that yourself. Elinor and I still disagree about what the lady ought to do."

"She ought to have a horse," Elinor said.

Margaery turned towards her. "You told me she should wait."

"I have thought about it."

Betha laughed. Robb looked down at the book, plainly wishing he knew enough to join them. Jon would have lent it to him then and there, had Margaery not rested one gloved finger upon the cover.

"I marked the passage. You may tell me I am wrong, but you must give me a better reason than Elinor's."

"I shall read it," he promised.

Perrin had reached them through the crowd. Jon held up a hand before he could begin and turned back to Margaery. She had come to speak to him; he could spare her more than the time before his next piece of business.

"Will you be watching us?"

"After our ride. Try to leave something for us to see." Myrcella called from the doorway. Margaery answered, then drew her hand from the book. "Keep the ribbon where it is. I shall know if you pretend to have read it."

Jon was still smiling as she left. Beyond her, Cersei inspected the escort assembled for her daughter. The queen spoke to Alerie, gave the septa a last instruction, and bent to kiss Myrcella's forehead. The little princess endured the arrangements with restless feet; only when her mother straightened did she turn eagerly towards the open doors.

"Lady Stokeworth has linen for the sept," Jon told Perrin. Tanda turned at her name, ready with the whereabouts of the bundles. He waited while Perrin heard her, then drew the man closer.

The room was confirmed, the buyers had been told, and the armourer would keep his appointments. Fresh guards had gone to the cookshop to relieve the men there.

"A lad has come back from the sept as well. The maester is staying with the injured boy. He asked for more clean linen; I've sent it."

Jon waited. Perrin had finished.

No improvement, then. He closed the book carefully. "Thank you. Have word brought to me if they send again."

Robb had heard. Betha's hand rested on the bench beside his, and neither was speaking now. Jon took the book with him when he left the table.

***
​

From his window the city looked almost manageable.

Sunlight lay over the roofs, catching a glazed tile here, a strip of lead there, and smoke rose thinly through it from a thousand hearths. Beyond the houses the river flashed between passing sails. The height spared him the blocked lanes and most of the stench. He could have stood here drawing orderly streets all morning and never come near the place he had walked through last night.

A bell sounded down the hill. Another answered from farther off. Jon set Margaery's book upon the bed and drew a clean sheet across the table.

Arthur was speaking to the men outside. He had allowed a little time before they went down to arm, provided Jon spent it sitting. Jon pulled his chair to the window and planted both feet upon the floor. Munin hopped onto his wrist, claws pricking through the sleeve, and pecked at a button.

"You have had the better night."

The crow tilted her head. Jon had held five birds before the hawk frightened Hugin and threw him back into his own body with blood in his mouth. This morning he had fumbled his belt twice. One bird would do.

He let Munin step onto the sill.

Light broke cold and sharp about him. The crow dropped, the roof rushed up, and Jon's stomach lurched in the chair. He kept hold of the pressure beneath his heels and the hard back against his spine while wings opened into the wind. Then Munin was rising over the lower roofs of the castle, and the kitchen wagon below had dwindled to a patch of sacks beside a wall.

The streets narrowed as he flew down the hill. Roofs crowded over them, one storey thrust beyond another until there was scarcely a thread of daylight between the eaves. From a horse Jon might have thought a lane ended at a wall. From above he could see the crooked continuation, but not always the passage that joined it. He began with the wider street and its raised gutter, found the sheds, then lost the covered drain beneath a run of patched roofing. Twice he chose the wrong turn and had to bring Munin round again.

At the brewery, men stood near the front entrance and a cart waited by the gate. A woman with a pail was pointing down the lane while one of the guards listened. The crow's view gave Jon her lifted arm and the impatience of her stance. Her words were lost at that distance.

He wanted to put a question to her. The urge was absurdly strong. Instead he took Munin higher and looked over the rear yard, smaller and meaner in daylight than it had seemed beneath their lamps. Tiles were missing along the washhouse roof. Behind it, two close walls enclosed a passage leading into a court he had not seen before. Shirts and a patched sheet stirred across the opening. A man carrying a basket on his back bent beneath the washing and vanished into the gap.

Jon followed the line of it until an overhanging roof concealed the passage. It ran behind the place where they had waited with the children. He needed to find its other end. Anyone who knew it might have passed behind their watch upon the gate.

When he returned to his own eyes, his chamber seemed dim and heavy. His left hand had closed upon the chair. He prised the fingers loose. Outside, Arthur called for a groom; they would soon be leaving. Jon rubbed his eyes, judging how much time remained. Another flight around the brewery might give him the passage's end. At the collector's house, the man in brown could be walking out of the door.

The roofs would still be there after the melee. He sent Munin towards the river.

Near the river the crowd spread out upon the quays, carts and people pressing towards the gates. He found the weighhouse readily enough; the houses behind it were more troublesome. Three had outside stairs. One upper door was red, while an awning hid another. Munin settled on a roof above them. Jon watched a man carry a bundle up the steps, waited for the door to open, and saw only the man's back before it closed again.

He stayed. A servant shook a rug over the lower rail; a woman carried a basket out beneath the awning. Neither was the man he wanted. His shoulder ached in the distant chair. When a knock reached him he dragged his attention home and called for another moment. The brewery passage would have to remain unfinished.

The pen felt clumsy between his fingers. He drew the brewery first, fixing the turns before memory straightened them to his liking. The rear passage stopped where the roof had hidden it. Beside that broken line he marked the place where his men had stood, angry at how little ground he had understood while standing in the middle of it.

Rilla's account put one boundary near the old well and another at the lime sheds. Between them, men collected money in the knight's name. Jon marked the well and wrote beside it: who takes the money? Farther down he added the place where they had found the stallholder being robbed. Hal had not known those collectors. Another pair of bullies, another master, perhaps the same one. He left room for a name rather than pretending he had it.

This was the part a drawing could not give him. Rilla knew which men entered a shop without paying, which neighbour would shut a door, who might speak once the guards had gone. Walls alone would not tell him which doors were dangerous. The woman who kept the pleasure houses would gladly see the knight lose his grip upon her customers. Jon doubted she would welcome another lord putting his hand where the knight's had been.

Below the first drawing he began a second around the weighhouse. The collector's house belonged there when he had established which one it was. Until then he had Varys's directions and a red door. Enough to begin with; too little to trust with his men.

He glanced towards Margaery's book. Beside it lay the paper he had meant to use after the feast, still blank. He had intended to sit quietly and set down the dangerous things he remembered, separating what could still happen from what his own presence had changed. Instead he had spent the night running after a man with a club.

Arryn had stood alive before him at dawn. Hugh had brought candles. Lysa had caught Robb's sleeve at breakfast, and Petyr had offered to find a landlord. They were becoming familiar people, occupied with ordinary business. That frightened Jon more than Varys's little warning. He knew what had followed Arryn's death. He could not allow a few mornings of seeing the old man over his papers to make him forget it.

His own preparations had scarcely begun. The realm could not be permitted to tear itself apart while he was still gathering the means to hold it. Nor could he assume the old sequence would repeat itself exactly and wait for a remembered sign. He drew the unused sheets nearer, setting them beside the map where he would have to look at them when he returned.

Another knock came. Jon covered the plan before answering.

Arthur entered with his gloves. He took in the open window and the pen between Jon's fingers. "How far?"

"The brewery. There is a passage behind it we did not see." Jon uncovered the drawing and turned it towards him.

His uncle bent over it. "Send a copy to Androw."

"I will. I have the line of the roofs, but I have not found where the passage comes out."

"Then tell him that." Arthur followed the broken line with a finger, stopping short of the wet ink.

Jon watched him reach the marked position of their men. "They knew every turning last night. We had one boy to guide us. Before I go anywhere again, I mean to know where I am."

Arthur straightened. "That was not what the Hand asked you to learn."

"I heard him."

"I know you did."

The map lay between them. Jon would send it to Androw, but it was his own ignorance that had brought him back to the window. He would keep his copy. After a moment Arthur held out the gloves.

"Come. We shall see what that shoulder can do."

***
​

They were held up at the city gate behind carts of bread and ale. One driver had worked a wheel into the rut beside another cart and could move neither forward nor back; he was blaming the other man loudly, while a woman with a basket upon her head slipped between the stationary wheels. Jon envied her freedom to pass. Every jolt of his horse carried up through the reins, and he had begun to resent the weight of his own left arm.

Arthur kept the boys together while the guards cleared a way. Once beyond the walls, the wind came off the Blackwater and cooled the sweat beneath Jon's collar. Pavilions stretched upriver, their ropes pegged into grass already churned to mud at the entrances. Smoke from cooking fires blew low across the road. Above it the royal standards moved over a yellow pavilion near the lists, and people beneath the gallery awnings stood to see who was arriving.

The grooms took their horses. Within the enclosure for the young competitors, every opening between the tents seemed to belong to someone carrying something too large to fit through it. Two squires with a chest shouted for room while a groom backed a restless horse across their path. A boy in a yellow padded jack stood with his arms spread as a woman sewed beneath one of them. He kept trying to see what she was doing and receiving a sharp tug at the cloth for his trouble.

Beyond him, a Bracken youth demanded to know who had moved his helm. A Blackwood boy lifted it from a bench and held it out in silence. The Bracken snatched it, red-faced, and began explaining why it had no business being there. Jon passed before he could discover whether the explanation would become a challenge.

The noise of the galleries rose beyond the tents: boots upon timber, vendors calling over one another, a hammer driving a peg home. Fried onions scented the breeze. His stomach, which had wanted another breakfast a short while ago, had tightened beneath his belt. He had fought men who meant to kill him. Apparently that did not prevent him being nervous about a field full of boys.

Ser Aron Santagar stood beneath an awning, checking the weapons as they passed. He took a sword from one youth and ran a thumb carefully along the blunt edge. A rough place caught at his skin. He pointed it out and sent the boy back to have it dressed down; the name of the armourer, indignantly supplied, made no difference.

Jaime Lannister listened at the far side of the yard while a young westerman described a bout with both hands. Jaime's eyes followed the flourishes. Jon suspected the boy would regret demonstrating so much if he was asked to repeat it with a sword. Beside Santagar, Barristan pressed upon the damaged rim of a shield. The split opened under his hand. He shook his head, and the shield was carried away.

Gawen found them at a bench. He had washed and changed since leaving the cookshop, but the rims of his eyes were red. He put down Jon's quilted jack and waited until a pair of boys carrying spears had passed.

"The relief was there before I left, my lord. The Hand's man stayed to speak with them. Rilla was making them eat." He moved nearer. "A butcher sent a cart round, too. Bones and a bit of meat for the pot. Wouldn't take a penny."

"From the slaughter lanes?" Varys had mentioned the men who took pennies from the barrows there.

"Aye. His lads wanted to know how long your men would be staying at the brewery."

"The Hand has men there."

"I told them. They offered to leave two at her door, to help ours. Very civil about it, they were." Gawen rubbed one eye with his knuckle. "Kept asking whether the knight had been taken."

Jon set his gloves down. "And Rilla?"

"Sent them away with their meat. Her usual lad had already turned back. They wanted another penny to let his barrow through." Gawen's mouth twisted. "She's boiling peas today. Says she'll not thank them for bones when they've kept her order from her."

Jon had been thinking of what the butchers Varys mentioned might know. Rilla had lost her delivery already. He imagined their men settling at her door, learning her customers, waiting for gratitude because they had brought her meat after stopping her from buying her own.

"Tell Perrin what they asked, and see that the Hand's man hears it. Our guards are not to accept other men to help keep the post."

"They haven't, my lord."

"Good." Jon took up his gloves again. "And Hal?"

"Wanted to come up and watch. His aunt told him to finish his bowl before he went begging for another favour."

"You should sleep."

"When you're armed." Gawen opened the jack and held it for him. "Left arm first."

Wylla had said the same thing. He obeyed more readily now, letting Gawen guide the sleeve up while he kept the arm low. The padding was warm almost at once. Arthur checked the straps as Gawen fastened them, and together they settled the armour into place.

Sunlight slid over the black dragonglass finish. In shadow it concealed the curves of the steel; where a ridge caught the sun, a hard bright line followed the movement of his body. Near the lower edge of the breastplate, the gloss dulled in a patch no larger than his thumbnail. He had seen it in the workshop and could find it now without looking. From the other side of the yard, nobody was studying that patch. A boy had stopped with his chin strap hanging loose to stare.

Horas Redwyne said something to Hobber behind him, then turned away. Let him. Jon had more interest in where the armour pressed beneath his shoulder than in whatever opinion Horas thought worth sharing.

Arthur passed him a light wooden shield. Jon slid his forearm through the straps, took the grip and raised it. Pain caught before the rim reached his chin. He lowered it, drew his elbow closer to his ribs and tried again.

"Keep it there," Arthur said. "Move your feet. Do not reach after the sword."

He took a practice blade from the bench. The first tap came from Jon's right, and Jon turned behind the shield. The second went low towards his knee; he stepped back and let it pass the rim. Arthur waited until he had settled, then struck firmly at the upper edge.

The jar ran up his arm into the bruise. Jon's teeth met. He kept the grip, but his uncle was watching his face.

"Again."

This time Jon kept the shield close and turned his hips with the blow. The pain was sharp, familiar now, and it eased when Arthur drew back. His hand still obeyed him. He flexed it once without releasing the grip and waited for the next stroke.

Arthur lowered the sword. "You can hold it. You cannot spend the morning catching blows on that side."

"I will keep moving."

"See that you do. A boy who finds that weakness will come back to it."

Robb had joined them beside the bench. His grey surcoat lay smooth over his armour, the direwolf clear upon his breast. He glanced at the shield and then at Jon.

"I'll be on your left."

"You need not—"

"That is where I was going to be."

Jon shut his mouth. They had agreed it before the night had given him anything to be defensive about. Robb was already turning to look for Harry. Jon let him go, grateful, and annoyed that gratitude should be so difficult to accept without an argument.

Arthur handed the practice sword to Gawen. "If the arm goes numb, or you can no longer keep that shield up, yield. I mean it."

"I heard you." Jon checked the strap himself before taking his blunted sword. He wanted to win badly enough that he did not trust himself to promise anything more.

Harry's Vale boys waited near the gate. Waymar pushed his hair back, then looked down at the helm under his arm as if remembering what was about to cover it. Artys Elesham knelt to tighten a fastening at Mychel's knee. Harry watched the companies crossing the yard, moving a little aside whenever someone came between him and the field.

Robb went to him. Domeric followed, speaking quietly with Aurane. Theon had claimed a place against the enclosure wall where nobody could jostle his sword arm. He pushed away from it as Jon approached.

"All here this time?"

Jon met his eyes. "All here."

Theon nodded and fell in beside him. Harry pointed with his helm towards the Reach company gathering beyond the awning.

"They have more than we do. Let them come to us. If they spread out to surround us, we move before they close it."

"And don't chase a boy because he falls back," Domeric added. "He may have friends behind him."

Aurane adjusted his shield. "Which side do you want?"

"Stay near me. Robb takes my left." Jon looked at Theon. "Keep an eye behind us."

"I was going to admire the ladies."

"You can do that facing the right way," Robb told him.

Theon grinned. His fingers were working at a fastening already pulled tight. Jon felt his own impatience answer it. Once they were moving, there would be less time to imagine the first blow.

Harry drew the other three Vale boys nearer. "When the larger companies are broken, we tell you before we part. As we agreed."

"We remember," Robb said.

"I want them to remember." Harry looked at Waymar, who rolled his eyes but nodded.

They put on their helms. Faces he knew disappeared behind steel, and the voices grew muffled. Jon heard his own breathing close about his ears. He flexed his left hand upon the grip, feeling the pull beneath his shoulder, and looked past Robb towards the opening.

Beyond it, the lists were bright with colour. Women leaned forward beneath the awnings, and men stood to let late arrivals pass. Somewhere in the stands Robert laughed. Jon recognised the sound before he could see the king.

Santagar called for them to make room for the herald. The nine boys moved together. At the gate Jon waited with his brother on his left and the weight of the shield held close against him. The herald unrolled his parchment.

 

[aiwonder]

The herald had to begin twice.

A man selling cherries beyond the fence shouted over the king's name, and somebody farther along the bank answered him with a price so insulting that half the commons laughed. Ser Aron Santagar turned towards the noise. The seller lowered his basket. Beneath the royal canopy, Robert leaned back in his chair and waved for the herald to continue.

Jon could see the field through the open gate, broad enough for a charge until he considered how many boys were waiting to make one. The grass had been cut short. Near the entrance, watering had left a darker strip beneath the turf, and a cartwheel had pressed a shallow groove across it. At the far end the ground rose towards the river fence. A dropped shield could slide back down that slope. So could a boy.

He tried to stop examining the ground and listen.

The herald read out the prizes: six thousand six hundred and sixty-six gold dragons and two-thirds of a dragon to the winner, half as much to the last boy defeated. He lingered over the king's generosity, then lowered the parchment a little to look at them.

"A yield ends the contest for the man who gives it. Call clearly, raise a hand or your weapon and withdraw under the marshals' protection. A dropped sword does not put you out. A broken or loose helm does. No thrust to the face or throat. No blow after a yield. Where a marshal puts his staff, you stop."

At the word man, the boy ahead of Jon straightened beneath a coat of mail that still had room for him to grow. His companion whispered something. Both looked solemn when Santagar glanced their way.

"Your fathers may dispute the result afterwards," the master-at-arms told them. "You will obey it while you are on my field."

Jon looked down as a loose end of silk stirred against his breastplate. The black dragonglass finish caught the sun along the curve of his shoulder; two ribbons were knotted at a fastening high upon his right arm, bronze beside green.

Ysilla had taken the bronze one from her wrist beside the tents. He remembered her holding it against the black steel, then looking up to ask whether he would wear it. She had stayed close while he answered, her fingers still upon the ribbon. Margaery had found him there a little later. The green silk had marked the passage in the small book he had brought down in his pouch; she had drawn it free herself and tied it beside Ysilla's. He could still picture her concentrating upon the knot, then smiling when she found him watching her.

Robb was straightening Betha's red favour above his gauntlet. She had given it to him at the tent ropes, and he had held his arm out so solemnly that Theon had begun to laugh. He had stopped when Myranda Royce called him over. Now a cream ribbon lay against Theon's dark sleeve, and he was looking towards the galleries as carefully as Robb.

They went through the gate.

The noise changed as Jon emerged. What had been a confusion beyond the tents became a wall of faces and lifted arms. Men were standing upon carts behind the common rail. A woman held a little girl astride her shoulders, one small shoe planted against her cheek. Farther up, beneath the awnings, ladies shifted their skirts to make space for late arrivals while servants struggled along the benches with cups. The wind lifted the edge of the royal canopy and laid a brief wash of sunlight across Cersei's crimson sleeves.

Joffrey sat beside her, a small coronet bright upon his yellow hair. Sandor Clegane stood behind his chair with one hand hooked into his belt. Jon looked for Arthur and found him near the gate, speaking to Barristan. His uncle watched the shield, then Jon's face. Jon flexed the fingers around the grip where Arthur could see.

Robb nudged him with an elbow.

"Over there."

Jon followed his glance. Wendel Manderly had risen to his feet before anyone had fought a stroke. Beside him, Wylis was trying to persuade him to sit down. Martyn stood at the lower rail with Tomas and several of the household, all of them turned towards the boys. Gawen had brought Jon's spare gloves for some reason. He held them folded in one great hand.

Robb lifted his sword. Wendel answered with his cup, slopping a little wine over the rim.

It was absurd how much better that made Jon feel.

The companies were finding places without being directed. Patrek Mallister pushed between Hoster Blackwood and the Bracken youth, turned the latter by the shoulder and pointed him towards the western boys. The Bracken answered sharply but moved. Hoster watched him go, then pulled a younger Riverlander closer rather than follow. Beyond them, Lancel had gathered the Crakehall and Brax boys around a shield painted with a golden lion. He was speaking quickly; the Crakehall nodded, while the Brax youth kept looking at the Reach.

Beyond Patrek's company, Eddison and Aleyx stood shoulder to shoulder, their shields touching. Aleyx said something through his open visor; Eddison nodded and moved half a pace back.

There were enough green shields at the other end to make Jon reconsider Harry's warning. Red and green apples stood beside roses, a crane beside a tower, and the grapes of the Redwynes moved towards the front. Loras was among them. His helm had a narrow gilt crest, without the extravagant flowers Jon remembered from another tournament that had not happened yet. Even at this distance he stood easily in his armour, shifting his sword from one hand to the other while a Fossoway youth spoke.

Horas looked towards Jon. This time he held the look.

"Leave him until we have room," Domeric murmured.

"I was looking at the rest."

"So was he."

Harry beckoned his own boys to a place on Jon's right. Mychel stood nearest the gap between the two companies, Artys beside him, while Waymar kept turning to examine their opponents. At the near side a Stormlander with a small shield was getting directions from the taller boy wearing Dondarrion's lightning. Several Crownlanders had come to stand close by them. Jon recognised the Rykker warhammers from the supper tables and a red chevron on white. He knew the lord who bore that last device; he could not have put a name to the narrow-faced youth behind the shield.

Aurane noticed him looking.

"Don't expect them to stand with us because we sailed here together."

"I wasn't."

"Good. The Rykker boy has been telling everyone he'll send me back to the ships."

Theon leaned forward. "What did you say to him?"

Aurane's mouth moved behind the open cheekpieces. "Nothing he liked."

Harry lowered his visor. "They've agreed something with the storm boys."

The boy with the lightning had reached across to tap the Rykker shield. Both nodded. An arrangement made with a few words, easily broken. Jon had spent years teaching men to dress ranks and listen for orders. These boys had been brought up to expect somebody to follow them, and most had never needed to obey anyone their own age. That would matter once the shouting began.

It would matter to his own company too, if he mistook friendship for a drilled century.

"Keep room to move," he told Robb. "If they press us, don't stand for the sake of it."

Robb settled his helm. "You keep up."

Jon smiled despite himself and lowered his visor.

The field shrank. There was Robb's grey shoulder on his left, Aurane a little behind his right, the bright grass ahead. He could no longer see the ladies or the king. He could hear his breathing and a faint creak each time he tightened his shield hand. The armour smelt of warm leather and the oil Gawen used upon the hinges.

A trumpet sounded.

For a heartbeat nobody moved. Then a boy somewhere to the right yelled, and the whole field seemed to answer.

The Reach crossed towards the western company at a walk that became a run. The Crakehall met them with his shield forward. Jon saw the collision lift him onto his toes; the boys behind him closed in, and the distinct colours vanished into a crush of shields, shoulders and raised swords.

"Here," Harry called.

The Stormlanders were coming at the space between the Vale and Jon's five. They had chosen it well. Mychel moved left to close it as Robb stepped forward, but a Crownlander ran past the first pair and made for Aurane.

Jon stepped across his path. He had time to see an open mouth behind a bar of steel before the boy's sword struck.

He turned his shield into the cut without lifting it far. The wood cracked against his forearm. His own blade met the returning stroke near the other boy's hilt, checked it, and slid down onto the knuckles of the sword hand. The boy swore and stumbled sideways, still holding on. Before Jon could follow, a second shield struck the first boy from behind and drove him back into Jon.

Jon tried to give ground. Someone's heel was under his boot. He could not lift his sword without striking the helm pressed beside it, and the shield was squeezing the breath from his chest. Robb's blade came down across the newcomer's arm. The boy twisted with a cry, taking the weight with him. Jon dragged his foot free.

"Room behind!" Theon shouted. "Move!"

Aurane backed away beside him, his shield knocking against Jon's sword arm. Jon went with him. Three paces, no more, before the attackers caught them. A narrow-faced Crownlander went round Robb's left; another boy thrust his shield into the gap. Robb's grey sleeve vanished behind it.

A blow caught the top of Jon's shield. Pain went down from the bruise in a hot streak. He let the shield sink rather than fight it and stopped the next cut with his blade, hard enough to feel the shock in his right hand too. His opponent wore three pale birds on a dark surcoat. Jon did not know the house. He knew the boy was taller, and that every time he recovered his sword he raised his elbow before bringing it down again.

Jon waited for the elbow. He stepped forward as it rose, cramped the swing with his shield held against his ribs, and drove his sword's rounded point into the padded belly below the breastplate. The boy folded with a grunt. Jon turned the next cut across his upper arm.

"Yield."

The boy shook his head and swung from the waist. Jon stepped outside it. Aurane's blade struck the boy's shield from the other side, and his resistance went out of him.

"Yield! I yield."

A staff appeared. Jon withdrew at once, giving the boy room to get past. He had expected to feel pleased with the first success. There was no time. The Rykker youth came through the opening behind the marshal, stopped short of the staff, then drove at Aurane as soon as it was lifted.

Harry was shouting to Mychel. Two Stormlanders were driving the Vale boys towards the rail on their right; another few steps would leave Harry with nowhere to retreat. He struck the nearest shield, turned, and called his company towards the river end instead. Artys went first. Waymar hesitated, sword still raised against an opponent who was backing away.

"Waymar!"

He came, angry at being called off, and the Vale company moved across Jon's right instead of being pinned against the rail. The Stormlanders followed. For a few breaths their movement drew some of the pressure away.

Jon turned his head, searching for grey. Six paces away Robb's sword rose between two helms, then vanished again. Domeric was nearer, a long blade scraping down his guard as he tried to get across. Behind them the Riverlanders were being driven backwards. Patrek shouted a warning that the hammering shields swallowed. Jon saw the apple shields pressing Hoster Blackwood and understood: another step back would crush them against the boys already fighting there.

Jon started to warn Domeric. Theon had seen it already.

"Behind you, Bolton!"

Domeric looked, struck the long sword aside and moved. Jon followed, but the boy in front of him refused to let him go. A cut struck his breastplate with a flat, startling crack. He felt the force through the padding and heard a cheer from the galleries. The boy cut again, trying to make him back into the Riverlanders.

For an instant Jon saw the brewery passage instead of the field: too little space, people behind him, somebody counting on his retreat. He swore, caught the next stroke on his sword and turned his body sideways to slip past a shield. He could not command a way through this merely by seeing that they needed one.

Robb made it.

His brother had stopped retreating. He struck the narrow-faced Crownlander's shield twice, driving him towards the taller Stormlander beside him. The two boys fouled each other's feet. As the Stormlander tried to recover, Robb went shoulder-first into the space between them.

"Jon! This way!"

Theon reached him first. His sword flashed low, across the Crownlander's thigh, and the boy went down onto one knee. Robb did not wait to claim him. He turned on the Stormlander, meeting the sword meant for Theon's back, while Domeric slipped through beside them.

Jon struck his own opponent once more and followed. Aurane came last, breathing loudly, his shield askew. The opening was narrow enough that Jon brushed Robb's arm as he passed.

"Keep going," Robb told him.

They went. The companies that had been driving them together struck each other instead. A Bracken shield crashed against the boy in Dondarrion colours. The Stormlander struck back at once, and the Bracken abandoned his retreat to answer him. Patrek's voice rose above them, calling his companion back.

Jon stopped only when there was grass between them and the nearest swords. His heart hammered under the breastplate. Robb bent briefly with his hands on his thighs, then straightened when he saw Jon looking.

"You all right?"

"Yes." Jon swallowed. "That was well seen."

Robb glanced back at the confusion they had left. "I wasn't staying in there."

From the galleries came a bellow of "Stark!" Jon could have picked Wendel's voice out of a storm. Robb heard it too. His sword lifted a little, almost before he meant it to, and another cheer answered from farther along the benches.

Theon caught his shoulder and turned him.

"Enjoy it later."

The Rykker youth had followed Aurane through the gap.

He came with two companions. One was small and fast, carrying a buckler scarcely larger than a plate. The other had already lost his shield and held his sword with both hands.

"Say it again, Waters," the Rykker called.

Aurane's sword came up. "You heard me."

The Rykker drove at him. Aurane met the first blow badly. The rim of his shield dipped; the Rykker boy struck at his hand and Aurane flinched, exposing his side.

Jon moved to help, but the small boy intercepted him. The buckler slapped his blade aside; a quick cut stung his thigh. Behind the little shield the boy was grinning. Jon let him come again, turned the sword outward and stepped past the buckler as it followed. His blow caught the boy in the ribs. The grin vanished. He retreated towards his friends, leaving Jon a clear view of Aurane.

Aurane was on one knee.

The Rykker youth had pressed his shield down and was trying to get a stroke beneath his raised sword. Aurane's bandage showed dark at the edge of his glove. He twisted free of the shield, swung once at the other's shin and missed. When the next blow struck his guard, his sword fell.

"Yield," he gasped. "Damn you, I yield."

The Rykker boy stopped. Whatever he had said about ships, he gave Aurane room to stand, then wheeled to meet Domeric. A marshal led Aurane out with a hand beneath his elbow. He looked back once, furious, and Jon lifted his sword to show that he had seen.

Robb and Theon drove the two-handed swordsman away together. He retreated into another fight, where a Riverlander caught him across the shoulder and made him call his yield. Jon followed the small boy towards Domeric. For a little while there were only the four of them, the Crownlanders and the hard business of finding room for their swords.

The small boy yielded after Robb caught him squarely upon the helm. The Rykker held on longer. Domeric made him retreat into the open, and when Theon came round his other side he called his yield and lowered the blade with a disgusted shake of the head.

A shout behind Jon made him turn.

Harry was coming towards them with Mychel. Artys walked between two marshals, holding a torn strap and trying to explain something. Waymar had stayed on the field, but he was well away from Harry now, fighting beside the Bracken boy against a pair of Reach youths.

"Artys's helm came loose," Harry said, breath catching between the words. "He wouldn't leave until they made him."

"Where are you going?" Robb asked.

"Where they aren't." Harry nodded towards the Reach. "Come on."

Jon looked past him. Loras had cut free of the larger struggle. Two boys lay near the river fence, one getting up, the other already raising his sword to yield. Loras turned towards a third before the second had finished speaking. He did not hurry; he simply arrived while the other boy was still trying to decide whether to attack.

Jon had seen that economy in Arthur, although Loras was quicker to press an advantage and less willing to wait. The boy's shield moved just far enough. His sword returned to guard before his opponent's had finished falling.

Then a Fossoway shield crossed Jon's view, and he had his own fight to attend to.

The apple upon the shield had been split by a cut. Jon put another across it and felt the boy behind it brace for a third.

He did not give him one. He backed away, drawing him towards Harry, then turned to meet the second Fossoway as that boy tried to come between them. Harry understood. His blade struck the first boy from the side while Mychel moved behind Jon to keep a third opponent out.

They gained a few paces towards the river. Jon took a blow upon his shield and heard Harry's sword strike the attacker before he could answer. Beside them Robb and Domeric drove another boy back. For a little while Jon could hear his friends calling to one another above the noise.

Then the western boys broke through the Reach.

The Crakehall was in front, broad shoulders hunched behind a shield that had lost most of its paint. Lancel followed with the Brax youth and another boy wearing a lion. A fifth dragged one foot. They had paid for their passage, but the boys who tried to follow them were paying too. The Crakehall turned without warning and struck a pursuer so hard upon the helm that a marshal hurried in before anyone could decide whether he had yielded.

"Leave him," Lancel called. "Keep together."

The command surprised Jon. In the yard Lancel had watched Jaime as if every careless word ought to be remembered. Now three boys listened when he spoke, and the fourth held his place despite the leg. Somebody in the western seats shouted his name.

The Reach pursued. The western company changed direction, making for the gap beside Harry, and the boys coming after them spread wider. Harry would have to meet the westermen or let them through his company. He raised his shield.

"Hold there!"

Lancel did not.

The Crakehall struck Mychel's shield with his own. Mychel skidded a pace, planted his foot and held. Harry hit the Crakehall's sword arm. Behind them the Reach boys arrived, and the space where his friends had been moving so neatly became a knot of strangers again.

Jon met a cut, answered it, heard Theon swear and lost sight of him.

A shield caught Jon in the back. He stumbled towards a boy with a crane upon his surcoat, who tried to drive his sword into Jon's breast before he recovered. Jon turned enough to take it on the steel at his side. He felt the rounded point slide and heard the scrape as it went past. He struck the boy's extended arm, then the edge of his shield, forcing him to turn away.

Behind him Theon was laughing, though it sounded strained.

"Come on, then. You wanted me."

The western boy with the injured leg had his blade raised to yield. Theon had turned from him to Lancel, who retreated with his sword held low. He looked frightened. Theon followed one step, then another.

"Don't chase," Jon shouted.

Theon stopped, but the Brax boy was already coming round him. Lancel's sword rose as Theon turned. It struck his ribs beneath the arm. Theon drove the Brax youth back with a furious cut, tried to recover his shield towards Lancel, and took a second blow across the thigh.

He went down hard upon one knee. The Brax boy put his point against Theon's breastplate and waited.

For a moment Jon thought Theon would try to rise into it.

Then his sword lifted.

"Yield." The word came through clenched teeth. "Yes, I said it. Get that thing out of my chest."

Lancel drew back. Theon pushed himself upright without accepting the marshal's hand, tested his leg and limped towards the gate. Ser Harras stood at the rail. Theon glanced towards him, then lowered his head and kept walking. Jon remembered the knight telling him to give his mother something to boast of.

***
​

Jaime watched Lancel draw the Brax boy back towards the rest of the westermen. He had expected his cousin to stand over Greyjoy enjoying himself. Instead Lancel had let the marshal through and looked for his companions.

Perhaps some of those questions in the yard had been worth answering. Jaime had grown tired of hearing how quickly he could beat this man or that. Lancel ought to remember what he had done today: make Greyjoy think him frightened, draw him out, and let another boy help him win.

Beside Jaime, Barristan turned towards an attendant. "Water for Greyjoy. Have someone look at that leg."

Arthur was watching his own pupil. Out on the grass, Black started after the departing westermen, checked himself and went back to Stark. His shield hung low.

"How bad is the shoulder?" Jaime asked.

"Bad enough. He is to yield if the hand weakens."

"He agreed to that?"

Arthur's eyes stayed upon the field. "He heard me."

Jaime looked at him. At thirteen he would have heard the warning too, then done precisely what he meant to do. He remembered very little of the men who had warned him before his first melee. He remembered everyone who had watched him win.

Black moved nearer his brother. The Stark boy shifted his shield to give him room, and Jaime saw Arthur's fingers loosen upon the rail. Jaime followed Barristan back to the royal seats, leaving Arthur at the rail.

***
​

Domeric touched his shield against Jon's to draw his attention.

"Higher ground."

The river end was clear for perhaps ten paces. Beyond it the fence was lined with servants and boatmen, their faces sunburnt, their hands white upon the rail. Domeric began moving that way, Robb between him and Jon. Harry followed with Mychel, calling to Waymar.

Waymar had acquired an unlikely companion. The Bracken boy was still beside him, both backing away from a Reach youth with a long-handled blunt axe. Hoster Blackwood ran across their path, struck at the axeman's exposed side and brought him round. The Bracken immediately closed from the other side.

The axe went down. Its owner tried to recover it and found three swords waiting.

He yielded so loudly that the men at the rail laughed.

"I had him," the Bracken told Hoster.

Hoster began to answer, but Patrek arrived, breathing hard. "Stay with us, Hoster."

"He was going to get behind you."

"So would the other one, if I hadn't stopped him." Patrek jerked his head. The Bracken boy looked as though he might object to receiving orders from a Mallister, but followed when Hoster did. Waymar watched them go before coming back to Harry.

"You might have called sooner," he complained.

Harry stared at him. "I did."

Mychel made a sound that might have been laughter if he had possessed the breath. Jon raised his visor just long enough to drag air into his mouth. The world widened and grew terribly bright. Sweat ran from his hair into one eye. He blinked it clear, saw a marshal looking towards him and lowered the steel again.

The slope was not steep, but it gave them firmer footing than the churned grass below. For the first time Jon could see more of the field. Across a gap in the fighting, Eddison was giving ground before another boy with a long axe. Aleyx stepped beside him and struck the hands upon the haft. The boy turned to answer. Eddison came in under the axe, shield first, and drove him sideways; Aleyx followed with his point at the boy's breast until the empty hand rose. Near the entrance, two attendants carried another boy between them with his feet clear of the ground. His shield remained where he had dropped it.

Jon had no idea how many were left. Fewer. He could hear individual swords now beneath the crowd.

His left arm shook when he held the shield away from his body. He brought it close and waited until it steadied. The fingers still closed properly. The pain was worse, but it remained pain, and Arthur had told him what else to watch for.

Robb saw him testing the grip.

"Give it a moment."

"They won't."

"No. But you needn't run down to meet them."

Loras was coming towards the slope with Horas and Hobber. A boy bearing a green apple remained beside them. From the other side, the Crakehall and Lancel had turned back towards the Riverlanders; neither could afford to let Patrek strike them from behind.

Harry looked along their company. Six now, with Waymar returned. More than the four approaching, though none looked fresh enough to enjoy the advantage.

"They'll try to draw us down," he said.

Loras stopped below the slope. His sword tip moved as he looked from one face to another. Then he stepped towards Mychel, struck once and withdrew before Mychel's answer reached him.

Mychel held his place.

The next attack came from Hobber at the opposite end. Domeric met him, but Horas moved with his brother, trying to pass Jon on the outside. Robb checked him. For a few strokes the Reach boys pressed both ends of the company while Loras waited in the space between.

Jon realised what he was waiting for a breath before it happened.

Waymar followed the green apple downhill.

"Mychel, close!" Harry shouted.

Mychel stepped into the gap. Loras arrived before his shield was settled. The first stroke hit the rim and turned it; the second caught Mychel upon the side of the helm. He reeled. Harry drove at Loras, who gave ground at once, leaving Mychel upright but badly placed.

The green apple struck him from the side.

Mychel called his yield and stood very still until the marshal reached him.

Waymar turned back, too late. Harry drove his own shield against Waymar's and shoved him into the vacant place.

"Here. Stay here."

For once Waymar said nothing.

Jon had no time to watch further. Horas had found his left side. He struck high upon the shield, stepped away from Robb's answering sword and came back to the same place. Jon lowered the rim a fraction, inviting the stroke to pass above it, then met Horas's blade with his own and struck across the exposed arm.

Horas retreated with a sharp breath. He looked at Jon's shield as he did.

He had noticed.

Domeric made Hobber give ground. Jon went with him, keeping the Redwyne brothers apart, and for three or four paces the slope was theirs again. Then Loras crossed in front of Harry and caught Domeric between two attacks.

Domeric saw him. He turned out of Hobber's reach rather than try to face both, and Jon moved to occupy the space he left. Loras followed Domeric, sword quick against his guard. One stroke drew the shield outward. The next came low. Domeric checked it and struck back, forcing Loras to take a short step away.

Jon could not have said which of them would win. That troubled him more than he expected. Domeric was good; he had been good before they came south. Yet Loras seemed to learn something from every stroke, changing the next before his opponent could settle into an answer.

Hobber struck Jon's sword aside. Jon turned back to him.

Hobber drew back from Jon's answering cut. Beyond him, Domeric pressed Loras with two short strokes, making him retreat. He followed with a third. Loras stopped giving ground and stepped past the falling blade; his sword caught Domeric beneath the raised arm. Domeric's elbow clamped against his side. Before he could turn the shield, Loras had his point against his breast.

Domeric lifted his sword to yield. Loras withdrew, touched the sword lightly with his own and turned away before the marshal had reached them.

That small courtesy cost him nothing. Jon resented him for having time for it.

Then Hobber came again, and resentment became a very poor substitute for attention.

The Redwyne's sword struck Jon's helm. Light jumped across his sight. He staggered, caught himself and found Robb's shield between him and the next blow.

"Back," his brother said.

Jon went back. He hated needing it, and went.

His vision cleared almost at once. He could hear Robb and Hobber fighting, Harry shouting somewhere on his right, a woman screaming a name from the galleries. He drew breath through his nose, felt no wetness there and raised his sword.

Hobber drove Robb towards him. Jon stepped aside, caught Hobber's next stroke upon his blade and held it long enough for Robb to strike beneath the arm. The Redwyne twisted away with a gasp. Robb pressed him once, twice, then stopped as Hobber raised his sword and called out.

A marshal stepped between them.

Across the field Lancel had lost his helm. He stood with both hands spread while Santagar pointed towards the gate. His mouth worked soundlessly at this distance. The Crakehall remained, now beside Patrek against the green apple and the boy wearing lightning. Hoster Blackwood limped towards the rail. The Bracken was already there, one hand held beneath his opposite arm, watching Hoster with an expression Jon could not read.

Harry came to stand beside Robb. Waymar was gone; Jon had not seen him fall or yield.

"Royce?"

"The Dondarrion boy," Harry answered. "Caught him turning." He drew a breath. "That leaves me."

Robb glanced towards Jon. They were three together, with six or seven other boys scattered across the grass.

Harry lifted his sword slightly.

"As we agreed?"

Robb nodded. "As we agreed."

There was no room for a ceremony. Horas was coming up the slope again and Loras had turned towards Patrek's fight. Jon moved to meet the Redwyne. Behind him he heard Harry's sword strike Robb's shield, and the men at the river fence began shouting for the Vale.

***
​

Margaery had lost sight of her brother twice, and both times somebody had chosen that moment to speak to her.

Now she stood, although her mother had already asked her to sit once. A lord in front of them kept leaning into her view. Through the space beside his shoulder she could see Loras turning away from a boy with a silver eagle upon his purple shield. The boy's sword was raised. He was leaving. Loras was still on the field.

"There," she said, touching Elinor's wrist.

"I can see him."

Elinor was standing too. Their abandoned cushions had slipped against the back of the bench. Somewhere beneath them a servant was trying to recover a fallen cup without putting his head between the knees of a shouting lord.

Mace had ceased to care where anyone sat. He was calling to Loras as though his son could hear useful instructions from this distance. Beside him Garlan watched in silence, one hand curled upon the rail. His sleeve had ridden back from a bruise Margaery did not remember seeing yesterday.

Jon stood near the river end with Horas before him. Dust dulled his black breastplate; a pale scar crossed the helm. As he turned beneath a blow, the green silk at his arm flickered into view beside Ysilla's bronze. Margaery had tied the knot herself, smiling at how solemnly he held still for her. Now she could see him struggling to lift the shield. He had kept that arm close at breakfast too.

"He's hurt," she murmured.

"Several of them are," Olenna replied. Her grandmother had remained seated, though she held her chin a little higher to see past Mace. "Your brother has taken his share."

Margaery looked for Loras. The Crakehall was driving him back, a much broader boy whose battered shield hid almost everything above his belt. She had missed the stroke that made her brother stumble. Her hand tightened upon Elinor's wrist. Loras recovered, struck at the edge of the great shield and slipped aside before the answer came.

"Come on," she whispered.

The Crakehall's reply rang across the grass. Loras went back a pace, then forward, and the western benches erupted in protest at something Margaery could not see.

A little farther along, Betha Blackwood had both hands pressed upon the rail. Robb Stark and Harry Hardyng were fighting directly beneath the river banners. Betha followed every movement; when Robb staggered, her lips parted. The woman beside her said something and drew her back from the edge. Betha let herself be moved but did not sit.

Robert's laugh rolled over the nearer voices.

"Still your rose, Baelish?"

Petyr stood below the king's chair, neatly dressed and apparently untouched by the heat. "Lord Mace's son has given me no reason to change my mind, Your Grace."

"My son will give you a purse for your judgement," Mace called without looking round.

"Then I shall hope His Grace is equally generous in defeat."

Robert slapped his thigh. "I'll take Jon Black. Five hundred. Against that knife you keep showing off."

Baelish's hand went to the dagger at his belt. Margaery saw the smooth black hilt before his fingers covered it.

"A dear little blade, Your Grace."

"Not if you're so certain."

For a moment Baelish looked towards the field. Jon and Horas had moved away from the slope. Loras was still circling the Crakehall. Then Petyr smiled and bowed.

"As you wish."

Margaery scarcely heard the rest. Loras had got inside the Crakehall's reach, and both boys were struggling so close that she could no longer see either sword.

She caught Elinor's hand without meaning to. Beside her, Garlan leaned forward.

***
​

Horas struck the shield again.

The rim knocked against Jon's breastplate. His elbow went back with it, dragging at the bruised shoulder, and for a moment he could do nothing but keep his teeth together. Horas was already drawing back for another. Jon turned away, letting the cut scrape down the shield, and retreated off the slope.

The Redwyne followed behind his own shield. He no longer reached after Jon with those long, impatient strokes. He crowded him, made him set his feet, then hammered the same high corner of the wood. Jon cut at his wrist as the sword came back. Horas covered it and struck his thigh instead.

The earlier bruise had stiffened. His leg nearly gave beneath the blow.

Over Horas's shoulder he saw Harry drive Robb backwards along the higher ground. A low cut, then a high one. Robb's shield rose. Jon looked for his brother's answer and lost his own.

Horas shoved the sword arm across Jon's chest. Steel cracked against his helm. His boot slid in the wet grass; he caught himself, felt the pull inside his thigh and heard a cheer from the Reach seats.

"Turn and fight, bastard."

Close enough to hear the satisfaction through the visor. Two days of Lord Black, and this was what Horas had been waiting to say.

Jon drove at him.

The first cut knocked the Redwyne's sword aside. The second struck his shield. Jon brought the third round harder, wanting the sound it would make against that grinning face, and Horas stepped inside it. His shield hit Jon beneath the left arm.

No breath came.

Jon stumbled away with his sword too far out to help him. Horas followed. Somehow Jon brought the blade back in time; the swords scraped together beside his visor, and their shields ground against one another as both boys tried to push.

He was close enough to see sweat shining on Horas's upper lip.

Tyrion had called him a bastard over wine, and Jon had kept smiling. Now the Reach was cheering while Horas drove him backwards, and he wanted the boy down, wanted those voices quiet. He was being childish. He had raised children in another life; he should know better than to lose his temper over a boy's insult. His left arm shook between their shields. He was spending what strength he had left trying to shove through Horas's guard.

Jon stopped pushing.

Horas lurched into the space he gave him. Jon turned sideways, letting the shield scrape past his chest, and pulled his sword free. He struck behind the Redwyne's knee as the boy went by.

Horas stumbled but stayed upright. He wheeled with his shield across his body, and Jon backed beyond the answering cut. Grass lay between them again. He dragged air into his lungs.

Jon kept him turning, meeting the closer cuts on his blade and letting the wider ones pass. Whenever he threatened the sword arm, Horas dragged his shield across to cover it. Jon waited for that movement, then struck the thigh below. The Redwyne swore and pulled the leg back.

Jon did not follow. Behind him Harry shouted something at Robb. Their swords clanged, and Jon kept his eyes upon Horas.

The Redwyne came in with a short cut across his shield. Jon turned with the stroke, hit the forearm as it passed and struck low again. Horas's knee bent. He drew back, pressing his lips together while he shifted his weight onto the other leg.

At the rail behind him the Dondarrion boy sat with a marshal crouched before him. The green apple had been left face down upon the turf; its owner was being taken towards the gate. Jon had missed both defeats. Farther along, the Crakehall's shield rang under Loras's sword.

Horas shortened his steps. His shield had sunk to protect the leg.

Jon raised his sword as though to cut over it. His forward thigh lay open beneath the lifted arm.

Horas struck at it.

Jon snatched the leg back and beat the descending blade towards the ground. The tip bit into the turf. He stamped upon the steel before Horas could recover it, turned outside the boy's sword arm and brought his point up against the breastplate.

Horas hauled at the hilt. Jon kept his weight upon the pinning foot. The blade flexed beneath his boot, but the point at the Redwyne's chest stayed still.

"Yield."

Horas tried to bring his shield round. His own extended arm was in its way. For a moment his eyes remained fixed upon Jon's through the bars of the visor.

The nearest marshal was coming towards them.

"I yield."

Jon lifted his foot as the staff passed between them. Horas snatched up the sword, wiped its wet end against his surcoat and walked towards the gate, favouring the leg he had tried to hide.

Jon let his sword point sag. He had wanted more from beating him than this aching arm and the chance to breathe. He took the breaths anyway.

Robb and Harry were still on the slope, but Harry no longer held the higher ground. Robb had worked round him. Now they fought across the slope, moving towards the river fence and back again.

The Crakehall called his yield.

Loras withdrew his sword while a marshal went to the western boy. Jon watched the Crakehall bend with his hands upon his knees. Apart from the fight at the river end, no other swords remained raised.

Loras turned.

One gilt ornament on his helm had folded flat. His green surcoat was torn beneath the arm, and pale wood showed through the ruined paint along his shield's upper rim. His breath moved his shoulders. Jon had scarcely finished his second breath when the Tyrell came past the marshal towards him.

He lifted his sword.

The books had made much of Loras Tyrell. Jon remembered flowers, victories, Jaime seeing himself in the younger knight. He had never read anything about the sound of Loras breathing inside his helm. Nor could he remember anything that would help him now.

Santagar moved aside to give them room.

Loras struck once at the shield and withdrew. Jon's answer passed in front of him. The next cut began towards the helm, then straightened into a thrust. Jon turned it with his sword and stepped right. His answering stroke met the green shield.

Loras moved round towards Jon's injured side.

The blow caught the top of his shield. Jon turned right with it, sparing the shoulder, and found the Tyrell's sword coming back towards his head. He ducked. Steel rang against steel; the cut glanced off his helm, leaving a thin ringing in his ears.

He had no time to clear it. Loras threatened the knee, drew Jon's sword down and cut high again. Jon stopped that one, but his blade was still above his head when the point drove into his breastplate.

He stumbled back two paces. The Reach benches roared.

Loras came after him. Jon struck for the leg and found empty air. He tried to close behind his sword; the Tyrell's shield stopped him, and a cut came round its edge. He had to back away again.

Every retreat gave Loras room for the next stroke. Jon could feel himself being driven across the field, could hear the cheers getting louder each time his feet hurried to catch up with him.

He caught a cut against the strong part of his blade, close to the hilt, and turned it outward. His own sword struck beneath Loras's raised arm.

The Tyrell grunted and drew away.

Jon went after him. One step, and Loras's sword came back across his head. He checked himself so abruptly that his heel dragged a strip from the turf. The cut hissed across the front of his visor.

His stomach tightened. He had almost given the boy his head for one good blow to the ribs.

They circled. Jon pressed the shield against his body to take some of its weight from the arm. His wet glove slipped upon the grip; he closed his fingers harder. The inside of his helm smelt of hot leather and his own breath.

"Highgarden! Highgarden!" The cry came from close behind Jon. He had almost reached the fence. He moved sideways, hearing the boards creak beneath the spectators leaning over them, and Loras came with him.

This time he waited until the sword moved before choosing his way back. He retreated along a curve. Two cuts struck his blade; the third swept past his shoulder. Jon answered low and caught Loras upon the forward thigh.

Loras's reply hit Jon's upper arm.

His shield dropped. He got it up again with a sound he would have been ashamed to hear from another boy. He retreated with his sword extended, making Loras go round its point.

Through the gap beside the marshal, Jon could see Arthur standing at the gate. His uncle's arms were folded tightly across his chest. Jon closed and opened his fingers inside the glove. They obeyed. He looked back before Arthur could raise a hand.

Loras shifted his sword towards the high corner of the shield. Jon's body was already preparing to turn right. Twice the next cut had found him there.

He made himself step left.

The blade passed behind him. Jon struck Loras above the sword elbow, but the Tyrell turned with him before he could strike again. The answering blow drove his shield back against his chest. Jon staggered, recovered and kept moving left.

Loras came with him, his sword held nearer his body now.

The cartwheel groove lay behind Jon. He glanced towards it, then at the gate beyond. Loras saw the glance and moved to cut him off. The boy would not walk blindly into bad ground. Jon felt a brief, unwilling pleasure at that, even with his arm hurting and his breath nearly gone.

He crossed the groove himself. His heel sank into the damp earth; he pulled it clear before Loras could close. The Tyrell followed at an angle and cut towards the shield.

Jon met the blade. Instead of knocking it away, he kept the swords pressed together as he stepped in. Loras began to draw his weapon back. Jon let it go, turned his wrist and struck hard across the outside of the sword hand.

The fingers held.

Loras drove his shield into Jon's chest. Air burst from him. The sword cracked against his helm before he could retreat, and for one frightened instant he thought his legs would fold.

He stayed up. Loras had stepped away too, opening his fingers and closing them again upon the hilt. Jon needed three short gasps before he could draw a proper breath.

At the river rail Harry struck high. Robb caught the blade on his shield and drove beneath it. Their shoulders met. Harry tried to turn, but Robb's foot had crossed behind his heel.

Both boys fell.

Jon heard the northern benches before he saw Robb rise. His brother still had his sword. Harry lay on his side with the shield trapped underneath him; as he struggled to free it, Robb set his point against the breastplate.

Harry's sword rose in yield. Robb drew back at once and lifted his visor while the marshal helped Harry up.

Loras raised his blade. Jon turned back, unable to spare his brother even a shout. His right hand ached around the hilt, and the shield straps had begun to chafe his forearm. Loras reset his own grip once before coming forward.

Jon let the shield sink a little.

Loras cut towards the opening above it. Jon began to turn right, then saw the angle change. The blade was coming round towards the other side of his helm, where his own turn would carry him.

He stopped with his weight upon his rear foot.

The cut passed in front of his face. Loras was already recovering it, but Jon's sword had never left its place. He struck the wrist again.

Loras's hand opened. The sword fell beside his boot and bounced upon the grass.

He thrust his shield at Jon and bent for it. Jon kicked the weapon farther away, then stepped towards the empty sword hand. The shield swung round. He drew back enough to escape the rim and laid his blade across Loras's exposed upper arm.

"Yield."

Loras wrenched the arm back and drove at him with the shield. Jon gave way. As the rim passed, he struck the outside of the Tyrell's thigh and stepped across his path to the fallen sword.

Loras turned with him. His empty hand closed, opened, closed again. Jon could hear his breath rasping through the visor. He still had the shield. He was still looking for a way past.

Santagar approached with his staff lowered.

"Yield, Loras."

The boy looked from Jon to the sword lying beyond him. One brown eye showed through the slit, furious and wet with effort. Jon held his blade ready. He had no wish to hit that hand again.

At last Loras raised it.

"I yield."

Santagar put the staff between them. Jon stepped back while Loras collected his sword in his left hand. The right stayed curled against his breastplate as he walked towards the gate.

Robb was coming down the slope.

He had lowered his visor again. A smear of earth crossed the grey wolf upon his shield; the hem of his surcoat hung loose where someone had cut through a fastening. Jon looked past him to Harry, who stood beneath the rail with one hand on a marshal's arm. Only the two of them remained.

From the northern benches came a shout of "Stark!" Someone answered with Jon's name. Wendel was on his feet, his face red, apparently prepared to cheer whichever boy was nearer. Even the men who had been calling for Highgarden leaned forward to watch.

Jon lifted his sword. Robb touched it with his own.

"Again," his brother said.

"Again."

Robb's helm dipped towards the shield Jon held against his ribs. For an instant Jon expected a question about the arm. None came. Robb set his feet and struck.

Jon turned the high cut with his sword and began the answer he had used against Robb a hundred times. His brother's shield was already waiting. The rim knocked Jon's blade aside, and the next cut struck his thigh where Horas had struck it.

His leg bent before he could stop it. He recovered behind his shield, dragging the foot back rather than lifting it. The bruise had stiffened beneath the padding; now the pull inside his thigh hurt whenever he tried to turn.

Robb followed, but not too far. Jon's answering cut passed short of him. He had been so pleased to see his brother still standing that he had begun as though they were back in the yard, with all morning to undo a mistake. Robb meant to win.

Jon struck at the shield, turned the blade and tried to reach the upper arm. Robb caught both cuts. The third Jon shortened, bringing the edge down towards the hand instead.

Robb drew it away and hit him in the ribs.

"I saw you do that," he said through the visor.

Jon heard Theon laughing beyond the fence. He tried to breathe deeply and regretted it. Robb had found the side Horas's shield had battered; drawing air stretched the hurt beneath his arm.

His brother gave him no time to settle. A thrust drove him back, a cut wrenched against his blade, and the wolf-painted shield blocked his way when he tried to turn out. Jon caught the next stroke on his own shield. Pain ran from shoulder to elbow. He pushed his sword forward to keep Robb away and let the shield rest against his ribs.

It would be a good victory for Robb.

The thought came with such relief that Jon almost let the point sink. His brother had beaten Harry, kept their friends together, fought his way here. There would be little shame in losing to him. Jon had lived a whole life before this one, had known victories and the fierce pleasure of achieving things no one in these stands would understand. He could still remember them. Robb had all that ahead of him.

A blade flashed towards his face. Jon met it late, close to the hilt. Their shields struck together, and through the narrow slit he saw his brother's blue eyes fixed upon him. Robb drove forward again. He had felt Jon falter.

Jon gave ground. His sword hand ached from gripping the hilt; the battered shoulder would scarcely bear another hard block. He could yield and be glad for his brother. He could let Arthur take this damned shield away.

Robb's next stroke hit his breastplate squarely. Jon stumbled, brought the point up from near the grass and heard the northern benches roar. His brother came after him with his shield high, quicker now, certain enough to press where he had waited before. He was beginning to believe he had won.

Beyond him, above the shouting faces, Robert sat beneath his crowned stag.

Jon wanted that man's throne. He would have to persuade men to risk their lands and sons upon a claim most of them had never heard. They would look for strength, for someone who could win. The triumphs of his other life would mean nothing to them. He needed victories they could see, every one he could earn, however small.

He could not give this one away.

Robb struck again. Jon went with the pressure instead of trying to stop it, backing at an angle so the following cut scraped across his chest. His answer struck the outer edge of the wolf shield. Robb turned it away and brought his sword over the rim, making Jon retreat once more.

When the shield came home, its lower edge dragged against Robb's hip. His brother hitched it up. There was a moment when the breastplate showed beside it, scarcely wider than Jon's fist.

Robb saw where he was looking and closed the gap. Jon's breath rasped inside his helm. He had found an opening; reaching it would be another matter.

"Don't let him rest!" someone shouted.

Robb needed no urging. He drove Jon towards the dark strip of watered turf. Jon felt the cartwheel groove beneath his heel and moved along it, keeping his feet apart. His brother followed on the firmer grass, struck high, then swept his blade low. Jon caught it close to his hilt and turned it outward. Robb recovered before he could answer.

For a breath they stood within reach, both struggling for air. Beyond Robb's shoulder Arthur stood at the gate with his arms folded tightly across his chest.

"I'm sorry, brother," Jon managed.

"For what?"

Jon drove forward. His blade cracked against Robb's, knocked the point wide and came straight back towards the helm. Robb threw his shield up. Jon reversed the cut before it landed, sweeping down beneath the lifted rim.

Steel struck Robb's thigh. His knee bent. He answered at once, a hard blow across Jon's breastplate that drove the breath from him.

Jon stumbled half a step and went straight back at him. His sword struck high, glanced from the iron rim and came round low enough to make Robb drag the shield down. Before his brother could settle behind it, Jon struck at the exposed sword arm. Robb caught the cut on his blade. Jon turned with the contact, forcing the swords outward, then tore his free and brought it back across the wolf's painted muzzle.

Wood splintered. Robb retreated, and Jon followed with everything he had left. His shoulder burned beneath the shield straps. He kept that arm tight against his ribs and worked the sword in short, savage strokes, turning his body behind each one. Steel rang against steel; the wolf shield jerked up, then sideways. A shout came through Robb's visor, lost beneath the next blow.

Robb struck back over the rim. Jon caught the blade close to his hilt and drove it aside, but the effort wrenched his wrist. His fingers hurt so badly that he could scarcely bear to close them harder. He did it anyway. The next stroke battered the shield towards Robb's chest. Another caught its outer edge as his brother tried to straighten it.

Jon's thigh pulled sharply. He shortened his step without breaking off, sword rising towards Robb's face. The shield rose to meet it. Jon dropped the point instead and struck the thigh again. Robb lurched, recovered and swung hard enough that Jon had to lean away. The blade scraped down his breastplate.

He had no breath left. He struck again.

The cut hit the shield's outer rim, turning it away from Robb's body. Jon let his blade slide free, drew the hilt to his hip and drove the blunt point into the opening. His whole weight followed it. The injured leg shook beneath him, but he kept going, forcing Robb backwards before the shield could close.

His brother recoiled onto the leg Jon had struck. The heel dug into the turf, the knee failed him, and he fell onto his back. His sword hit the ground and slipped from his hand.

Jon stopped above him, chest heaving. For a moment he could only watch Robb struggling to draw breath. His own arm would no longer hold the shield clear of his body. He let it hang against his side.

Robb rolled enough to free his shield from beneath him, then lay back and pushed up his visor. His face was flushed, his mouth open. Those blue eyes rose to Jon's.

Jon dropped his sword into the grass and stretched out his empty hand.

"Yield?"

Robb stared at him, breathing hard. Then his eyes closed. He let out a long breath, and for a moment all the disappointment showed plainly upon his face.

"I yield."

He looked up again. His mouth moved into a tired smile.

"I thought I had you."

He took Jon's hand. Beneath the dirt, Jon recognised the pale stitching below the thumb of the old glove he had given him. He braced his good leg and hauled, and Robb pushed himself upright. They stood with their hands still clasped, close enough that Jon could hear his brother swallowing air.

"So did I." Jon tightened his grip. "You can fight Loras first next time."

Robb laughed. Jon tried to join him, felt it catch beneath his ribs and laughed again despite the pain. They released their clasp, and his brother pulled him into an embrace, careful of the arm between them. Jon held him with his good hand at the back of his neck. The cheering swelled around them; Wendel's voice broke upon Robb's name, and someone by the gate began hammering the rail.

An attendant gathered the fallen swords while Santagar raised his staff towards the royal gallery. The herald took up Jon's name, his title, the victory. Robb drew back, still grinning, and turned with Jon towards the people cheering at the fence.

***
​

Robert's laughter reached Jaime before the herald had finished.

"They make them tough in the North, don't they?" The king slapped his knee and turned towards his eldest son. "Are you watching, boy? Neither one would give an inch."

Tommen was clapping beside Myrcella, who held the back of his tunic to keep him from leaning too far over the rail. Joffrey had been watching too. At his father's words he drew himself upright, his mouth tightening.

Cersei gave Robert an angry look.

"He has eyes, Robert." Her voice was cold. "You need not address him as though he were a fool."

The king snorted and turned back to the field. Jaime kept his face still. Below them, Arthur's arms had fallen to his sides. He watched the boys separate, rolled his shoulders once and went through the gate. Jaime had seen him wait more easily for grown men to come at him with sharpened steel.

***
​

Jon could no longer bear the shield. He loosened the grip, found that the arm straps still held it and swore under his breath.

A hand caught the lower rim.

Arthur had reached him.

"Let me."

His uncle loosened the fastening before lifting the shield clear. Jon's arm hung at his side, aching so fiercely that he had to wait a moment before speaking.

"I can feel it."

"I should hope so." Arthur looked into his visor. "Can you see me clearly?"

"Yes."

"Then stand still."

He lifted the visor, and air touched Jon's wet face. The field rushed back in colour: torn grass, the yellow canopy, a marshal carrying off a shield that had been split almost in two. Beyond the fence Wendel had abandoned any pretence of sitting. Tomas was shouting with both hands cupped around his mouth.

Arthur looked from Jon to Robb. His hand rested briefly at the back of Jon's neck before he reached to straighten the loose strap beneath Robb's chin.

"Well fought. Both of you."

His uncle was smiling, openly, and Jon had to swallow before he could answer. Beside him Robb stood a little straighter.

Gawen arrived with water, the spare gloves still tucked beneath his arm.

He worked the fastening beneath Jon's chin. The helm came away with a pull at his hair, and the wind struck his scalp so pleasantly that he closed his eyes. Martyn had reached Robb. When both boys were bareheaded, Jon could see the reddened cheek and the dirt caught in his brother's hair.

Jon drank too quickly, coughed and spilled half the cup down his breastplate. Robb laughed at him, then took the cup when Jon held it out.

"Slowly," Arthur said. Robb, who had begun drinking just as greedily, lowered it with water running down his chin.

Beyond them Garlan was kneeling beside Loras, examining the hand Jon had struck. Loras pulled it back, opened and closed the fingers, then held it out again when his brother spoke. The movement made Jon conscious of his own knuckles. Everything was beginning to hurt now that he had time to notice it.

Robb looked at the dent in Jon's helm, then at his face.

"Did I do that?"

"You never got that high."

Robb snorted, ran a thumb over the mark and gave the helm to Gawen. His own hung from Martyn's hand. He rubbed his damp hair back and stayed beside Jon while Gawen collected their swords from the attendant.

Boys who had yielded were gathering near the gate, some offering congratulations, some looking at the ground when Jon caught their eyes. Eddison stood with Aleyx beneath the rail, helping him ease off a dented helm. Both looked up at Jon's name. The little Crownlander with the buckler lifted it to show the fresh mark in its rim. Jon touched his own thigh and shook his head. The boy grinned again. Farther along, the Crakehall sat with a cloth pressed against his mouth while the Brax youth argued with an attendant about the cut which had made him yield. Neither looked happy. Both looked very young without their helms.

Loras came over with Garlan. The curls at his brow were pasted dark with sweat. A red mark crossed one cheek, and his lower lip had swollen where it had met his teeth. He had given Garlan the sword but kept the shield himself, as though surrendering both would be too much.

Loras stopped before Jon. For a moment neither spoke. Around them the other boys were congratulating Robb, and someone called for Loras from the Reach benches.

"Well fought," he said at last.

Jon offered his hand, saw which wrist Garlan had been examining and lowered it again. "And you."

Loras followed the movement. His mouth tightened, but he gave a short nod. Garlan spoke quietly beside him and took the shield. This time Loras let him have it, turning towards his father's voice.

Santagar came to find them. He glanced towards the gallery as he approached.

"His Grace is coming down."

Robert had left his chair beneath the canopy. At the foot of the steps he looked across the field towards Jon, then beckoned Barristan closer. The old knight bent his head to hear him. Arthur watched them for a moment before turning back.

"Kneel, Jon."

Jon looked at him. Arthur had put his hand upon his sword.

"On one knee."

The movement hurt. Jon set his right knee upon the grass, still trying to understand, and heard the steel come free above him. Robb had gone very still.

Arthur stood close enough that Jon could see the wear upon his sword belt. He had buckled it for him often enough, impatient to finish and get to his own lessons. Now his uncle rested the flat of the blade against his shoulder.

"You have learned to fight," Arthur said. "Last night you chose to use what I taught you for people who had no one to fight for them."

Jon swallowed. The hands resting upon his knee had begun to tremble.

"Will you defend those who cannot defend themselves, keep faith with those who trust you, and honour your sworn word?"

"I will."

Arthur touched his other shoulder. The blade lifted away.

"Then rise, Ser Jon."

For a moment Jon stayed where he was. Arthur sheathed the sword and offered him a hand. Jon took it, felt himself drawn up, and found the pride in his uncle's face harder to bear than the words had been.

He had pictured this before, though never at the end of a melee with his arm throbbing and grass caught in the straps of his greaves. Arthur had always been in those pictures. He had not realised how much it mattered until he looked past him and saw Robert approaching.

His uncle had seen the king coming too. Perhaps that was all there was to it. Jon could not help thinking of Rhaegar, and of how many promises Arthur was still keeping.

Robb caught his good arm. "Jon." His brother was grinning so broadly that for a moment Jon forgot everyone else. Then the people nearest the rail took up the name with its new title, and Robert reached them.

The king slowed. His eyes went from Jon to the sword at Arthur's hip. The smile remained upon his face for another instant before it vanished.

"You might have waited, Dayne."

Arthur inclined his head. "I have trained him since he first held a sword, Your Grace. It is an honour I hoped to give him."

Robert's mouth tightened. Then his eyes moved to Robb. He glanced once more at Arthur, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

"Keep that sword sheathed a moment, Dayne." His hand closed upon Robb's shoulder. "Come here, lad."

Robb went red. "Your Grace?"

"Did you think I came all this way to watch you drink water? Down on your knee."

Robert held out his hand to Barristan. The white knight drew his sword and laid the hilt into it. Robb knelt where Jon had knelt, his eyes fixed upon the king.

"I heard what you did last night," Robert told him. His voice carried now. "You helped bring those children out, and carried the frightened little one when he would go to nobody else. And I saw you this morning, keeping your friends together when half the field wanted to knock them apart."

Robb's lips parted, but he found no answer. Robert settled the blade upon his shoulder.

"Will you stand for those who need you, keep your word, and do your duty however hard it comes?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I will."

"See that you do." The sword touched his other shoulder. "Rise, Ser Robb Stark."

The king hauled him to his feet before he could rise unaided. The cheer from the northern seats carried over the rest. Wendel had both arms in the air; somewhere close by Theon was shouting Robb's name.

He turned towards Jon as the king gave the sword back to Barristan. They looked at one another, both smiling, and Jon remembered the boys they had been, striking at one another beneath Winterfell's grey walls. He had wanted this for Robb as well. His brother would remember the king's words all his life; when Jon asked him to choose, this morning would be among the things he asked him to turn against. He wished he had not thought of that now. Robb was still smiling at him, and Jon reached to clasp his arm.

***
​

Oberyn had watched Arthur through both knighthoods. The man had scarcely taken his eyes from Jon while Robert stood over the other boy. Now the brothers were grinning at one another, and Arthur smiled with them, without seeming to know he did it.

Obara leaned past her father. "They'll have him at a feast before I've had my bout."

"Look at his arm."

"I can wait until it mends." She sounded offended that he thought she would not.

Oberyn gave her shoulder a brief squeeze. Below them, Jon bent to hear something Robb said. Dirt streaked his white forelock. Without the helm he looked young enough to be sent away to wash by somebody's mother.

Rhaenys ought to hear that part as well. The letters would give her a victor, a rescuer, a young lord collecting honours in Robert's court. He could tell her how the boy had needed help to stand, and how Arthur had touched his neck before letting him go. He wondered what she would make of that care. His gaze stayed upon Arthur. When Dorne pressed Rhaenys's claim, the man would have to choose. Oberyn did not envy him that. He could see what the boy meant to him. But his niece came before Arthur's happiness, before the affection that had survived between old companions. Aegon. Elia. His fingers curled into a fist. He looked up towards the royal canopy, where Cersei sat with her golden-haired children and Jaime stood behind her chair.

Robert laughed and caught Robb by the shoulder again. Oberyn's jaw tightened. The king had always found it easy to rejoice over the children of men he loved.

Beside him Obara began applauding as the steward carried out the purses. Oberyn joined her. The boy had earned his victory. Doran would hear that from him too.

***
​

Jon watched the steward approach Robb with the prizes. The man bowed, addressed him as Ser Robb, and presented a purse with a sealed order for the balance of his winnings. More than three thousand dragons. Robb looked from the gold to the parchment, then back again. He had known the prize before entering; apparently that had not prepared him for being given it.

Jon received his own purse and an order for the remainder of his winnings. He could already think of uses for it on Dragonstone. Ten thousand promised to two boys for a morning's fighting, besides the jousts, archery, feasts and all the rest. Robert spent the realm's wealth as though the cheering would put it back. Jon watched him laughing with Robb and felt the irony settle. Soon enough, if his plans held, those debts would be his to settle. If Robert had borrowed the prize money, Jon might yet pay interest on his own victory.

He had wanted to win. For much of the contest he had wanted nothing else.

"Another thing," Robert said. "Baelish."

Petyr had come down from the gallery with the others. At the king's summons he stepped forward, carrying a dagger across his palms.

Jon's attention fixed upon the smooth black hilt. Dragonbone, perhaps. When Robert drew the blade, dark ripples ran through the steel. A Valyrian dagger belonging to Petyr Baelish, offered in a wager over a tournament: Jon felt his fingers tighten upon the purse.

"Your lordship has cost me a favourite possession," Petyr told him pleasantly.

Jon looked from the dagger to his face. "I did not know I was fighting for it."

"Neither did I, until His Grace proposed the wager."

"You backed the wrong boy." Robert turned the dagger in the light. "Valyrian steel. Worth a better wager than you made, Baelish."

Petyr's smile held.

Robert slid the blade back into its sheath and offered it hilt first.

"For the winner. Keep it."

Jon took it with his right hand. The hilt was warm from Robert's grasp.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

He could think of very little else to say. He remembered a bed, a sleeping child, a woman gripping a blade with both hands. Having the dagger did not mean he had prevented any of that. A man who meant to kill a child could find another knife. Still, he closed his fingers about this one with a satisfaction he could not show.

Petyr watched him looking at it.

"More to your taste than cups, Lord Black?"

"I hope the cups will serve me well." Jon looked up. "You still have the hall set aside for my showing after the tournament?"

Petyr's smile deepened at the mention of the hall. "Of course, my lord. The same hall, after the tournament. I have seen to it myself."

Robert turned back towards Robb. Petyr withdrew a pace. Jon watched him go, unsettled by the satisfaction in that smile.

Tyrion slipped between two lords to stand beside Jon. "Knighted at twelve. Daemon Blackfyre won his spurs at twelve, after a squires' melee." His eyes fell to the dagger. "A royal gift as well."

Jon stared at Tyrion.

"Don't spoil the day with that dragonspawn," Robert snapped, his face darkening.

Then he turned to the boys and smiled. He wrapped an arm about each, pulling them close. Jon stiffened beneath the weight on his sore shoulder.

"Boys of the North! Ned's boys." Robert laughed. "Gods, to see Ned's face when he hears of this! You'll write to him, Robb."

"I will, Your Grace." Robb's voice shook on the last word.

Robert released them. Nearby, Yohn Royce rested a hand on Harry's shoulder and bent his head to speak to him.

Up in the gallery Cersei remained in her chair. Joffrey had risen to look over the rail, his fingers closed about it. His mother touched his sleeve. He sat, and Jon could no longer see his face past the men standing before the royal seats.

Renly guided Loras through the gathering with a hand between his shoulders, Mace following close behind. As he brought Loras before the king, Arthur touched Jon's elbow. "Come. The maester is waiting."

He was grateful for the excuse. The king's pleasure had drawn people onto the field, and Jon could feel his arm stiffening while he stood. He bowed again, entrusted the purse to Gawen and carried the dagger himself.

Arthur looked at it, then at the way Jon held his left shoulder.

"We will admire that afterwards."

***
​

The awning trapped the smell of wet padding and a basin that needed emptying.

Tomas had found him a place on a bench. Jon laid the dagger beside him and sat while Gawen and Arthur began undoing the straps.

"You and I are knights now, aren't we?" Jon asked him.

Tomas smiled. "Yes, my lord. You made a fine showing."

"Aye," Gawen agreed. He eased Jon's arm aside to reach the last buckle. The breastplate shifted away from Jon's chest, still hanging from the one fastened strap, and cool air touched the damp linen beneath. Jon shivered, jerking the buckle in Gawen's hand and making him swear.

"Hold a moment, my lord."

"I am trying."

"I know." Gawen's voice softened. "Nearly done."

On the next bench Aurane watched a fresh bandage go around his hand. Monford stood over him, listening to an account that seemed to grow more detailed whenever Aurane approached the moment he had dropped his sword. Farther in, Theon had pulled his padded coat open and was examining a purple mark upon his ribs.

"I had Lancel moving," he insisted.

"You did," Domeric agreed. "Towards the other boy."

Theon looked up, then back at the bruise.

Domeric handed him a cup. There was no triumph in his face, only tired amusement. After a moment Theon took it.

Jon had expected the maester's examination to be worse than the fight. In some ways it was. There was no opponent to watch, no next stroke to keep his mind away from the thumb pressing into the bruise. He sat with his jaw clenched while the man asked him to lift the arm, close his hand, turn the wrist.

Nothing appeared to have broken. The swelling was worse. The advice had not improved with the result of the melee.

"Rest it."

Arthur answered before Jon could. "He will."

Jon looked at his uncle. Arthur held the look until he stopped considering an argument.

Gawen laid the black breastplate upon a folded cloth. In the shade the finish was still handsome. Where the sun reached it, every scrape was plain. One bright line crossed the place where Jon knew the earlier flaw had been; he could no longer distinguish it from the damage earned this morning.

Harry came in with Mychel and Artys. Waymar followed, telling Yohn that the boy with the lightning had struck while he was turning.

"Then you should have turned with your shield towards him," Yohn replied.

Waymar closed his mouth.

Harry sat beside Robb. Both had washed, though neither had got all the dirt out of his hair. He looked at Robb's scraped glove, then offered his hand. Both winced a little as their fingers closed.

"We should have stayed together longer," Harry told Jon.

"Until we'd beaten the Reach?"

"Until you'd beaten Loras, at least."

"Then you'd have had both of them to fight," Theon said. He nodded towards Robb. "You had enough trouble with one."

Harry began to answer, then stopped as Betha Blackwood came beneath the awning with Hoster and an older woman in black and red. Hoster's knee had been bound. He wanted to know whether the marshals had found the strap from Artys's helm; while Artys explained where he had left it, Betha stopped before Robb.

"Ser Robb." She dipped her head, smiling.

Robb looked up at her and coloured. He had put the red ribbon inside his helm when he took off his armour. He drew it out before setting the helm aside, then seemed to realise that he had cleared a place for her upon a bench full of discarded armour.

"Forgive me." He moved the shield as well.

She remained standing, but her smile widened. "My cousin said Hardyng would have you. Then there you were at the end, with your brother."

"I was wrong," Hoster said over his shoulder. "You needn't tell everyone."

"I have only told Robb."

Garlan ducked beneath the awning behind her, holding the canvas clear for Margaery and Loras. Betha moved nearer Robb to let them pass. Loras had a clean cloth wrapped around his wrist and stopped beside Jon's bench, looking at the maester as the man packed his things.

"Will the shoulder mend?"

"If he allows it."

Loras accepted that with a nod. He turned his own wrist carefully. "The first stroke hurt worse. I thought I could keep hold through another."

"You nearly did." Jon remembered the empty hand reaching for the sword, and how little time he had had to stop it.

Loras looked towards the field, where a groom was leading a restless horse past the awning. "I shouldn't have let you get so close."

"I couldn't reach you from anywhere else."

The corner of Loras's mouth moved. He seemed about to answer when Garlan asked Harry how he had fallen. Harry put a foot out to show him, and Loras turned to watch. Robb began explaining where his shield had been. Betha waited until he had finished, then touched his sleeve.

"Will you still go to see the little boy?" she asked quietly.

"Yes. Martyn is coming with me." Robb glanced towards the older woman. "After I have changed."

"Then I shall ask you about him when you return."

She touched Hoster's sleeve when he showed signs of settling into a longer account of the melee. Robb watched her go. Theon opened his mouth, saw Jon looking at him and closed it long enough to take another drink.

Margaery had stayed beside Jon's bench, waiting while he followed Betha and Robb's exchange. When he looked up, she gave him a small curtsy.

"Ser Jon."

He began to rise. She put out a hand at once, stopping short of touching his bruised shoulder.

"Please stay there. I wanted to congratulate you." Her smile came back as he settled. "I could scarcely sit still through that last bout. Every time your brother drove you back, I thought he had you."

"He came close enough."

"And you still won." She looked towards the field, where men were carrying the dividing barrier into place for the jousts. "I was sorry for Loras. He wanted it so much. But you were very good."

Jon accepted the compliment with a smile. She had wanted Loras to win; it was gracious of her to come and congratulate him anyway.

"Thank you."

"I was glad when your uncle drew his sword." She spoke more quietly now, her eyes returning to his face. "After what you did last night, you deserved that. Those children might still be there if you had left it to someone else."

He looked towards Arthur. His uncle was listening to Garlan, one hand resting upon the back of Robb's bench.

"I always hoped he would be the one," Jon said.

"He looked so proud of you."

Jon nodded, unable for a moment to say anything more. Margaery let him look. When he turned back she was still smiling, without the teasing he had expected after the curtsy.

He reached for his cup with the wrong hand and stopped with a sharp breath. She picked it up and put it into his right.

"Will you let him make you rest now?"

"I don't think he means to give me much choice."

"Good." She drew a stool nearer and sat while he drank. Across from them Loras was asking Harry to show the step again; the demonstration ended with Garlan catching his brother's shoulder before he backed into a basin. Margaery laughed, and Jon found himself laughing with her.

Arthur brought his clean shirt. Gawen helped him into it, left arm first, while the others made room for two more boys seeking water. A herald outside called for the first pair of knights. The crowd answered with a cheer quite different from the one Jon had received, deeper and more expectant. Great horses began moving towards the lists.

He had thought the noise would make it impossible to be tired. Instead it seemed to pass around him. Robb was still smiling. Theon had found someone else to argue with. For once Jon could sit among them without deciding what ought to be built, bought or prevented before the year was out.

Then Gawen stopped fastening his cuff.

"Mind the rope, lad."

Hal stumbled beneath the awning, catching himself against the pole. One of Jon's guards came after him with a hand outstretched, but the boy had already seen Jon and was trying to straighten. His hair clung wetly to his forehead. When he pushed it aside, Jon saw the swelling around his left eye, the bruise darkening beneath it.

"My lord—"

He could get no farther. He bent with both hands upon his knees, dragging breath through his open mouth. One knee had worn through his breeches; dirt and blood showed beneath the torn cloth. His jerkin hung from one shoulder, its fastening ripped away.

Jon rose, leaving his cuff open.

"Hal?"

"They came to the shop." Hal swallowed air. "My aunt—"

"Where is she?"

The boy tried to answer. His mouth worked, but all that came was another harsh breath.

"Alive, my lord," the guard said quickly. "At the sept. We brought her out."

Harry broke off in the middle of a sentence. Margaery rose and drew her stool towards Hal while Harry cleared a helm from the bench. Hal shook his head at both of them. He caught Jon's sleeve instead, leaving a dirty print upon the clean linen.

"They hit her. She wouldn't let go of the till." He squeezed his good eye shut. "He hit her, and she went down. I tried to get to her."

Jon covered the boy's hand with his own.

"Who did this?"

"One of the men that takes the pennies. There were others with him. Everybody'd gone to watch." Hal looked towards the field, where another herald was calling. His swollen eye watered. "She was on the floor. There was blood in her hair."

Arthur came beside them. "Did she speak to you?"

Hal nodded, then shook his head. "After. She did after. But when I called her—"

His fingers tightened upon Jon's sleeve. Jon could see him trying to master his face, biting his lower lip until it trembled. This was the boy who had asked for a sword last night, unwilling to be left behind.

"Our men?" Jon asked the guard.

"Fought them off. One took a cut across the arm. He's with her still." The man glanced at Hal. "They fired the upper room before we drove them out. We got everyone down. The neighbours helped with the water."

Jon looked again at the torn jerkin. There was soot upon it, worked into the cloth at the shoulder.

Beyond the awning, hooves hammered down the lists. The crash of a lance brought a roar from the crowd. Hal flinched, and Jon felt it through the hand still clutching his sleeve.

Rilla had caught his sleeve before he left her. Your man stays? She had needed to open the shop again in the morning. He had known it, and left her there while he came back to the castle.

His guards had stayed. She was bleeding all the same.

"Get the horses," Jon told Gawen.

Arthur reached for his cloak. Robb was already coming round the bench, and Theon pushed his cup aside to follow.

Jon loosened Hal's fingers only to take his hand. The boy looked up at him, his breath still coming too fast.

"She kept asking where you were."

Jon led him out beneath the ropes.

 

[Crouchinghiddenwriter]

Robert slid the blade back into its sheath and offered it hilt first.

"For the winner. Keep it."

Jon took it with his right hand. The hilt was warm from Robert's grasp.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Click to shrink...

Doesn't that blade have the prophesy of Aegon? When you place it on fire?

 

[aiwonder]

Tomas caught them before they reached the horses, Jon's sword belt in one hand and the sheathed dagger in the other.

"You left these."

Jon let him fasten the belt while Arthur held his cloak clear of the injured arm. Beyond the tents a herald called for the next pair of knights.

"I can come," Tomas said, looking at Hal.

"Stay with Vaelor. Gawen's coming."

Tomas hesitated, then nodded. Jon touched his arm before turning away.

"Ride well. We'll come back."

Gawen lifted Hal before him. Jon needed Arthur's hand beneath his boot to mount, and held still until the pain in his shoulder eased. Robb and Theon joined them at the edge of the camp, with Martyn Cassel close behind.

People were still coming out to the tournament. A woman carried a stool upon her head; two apprentices ran past with half a loaf between them. A man called something about the melee and raised his cup. Jon rode on. Hal pointed when they reached the gate, but said nothing until Gawen turned the wrong way.

"Not there. Past the steps."

They passed a fish stall whose owner was sluicing blood from his board. Two men sat upon the steps beyond it. One rose when he saw Hal upon Gawen's horse. His companion caught his sleeve and spoke into his ear. The first man waited until the riders had passed before following.

At the next corner a butcher stepped out beneath a row of hanging carcasses. He was broad through the shoulders, with a cudgel tucked beneath his apron. Two drovers left their dice and came to stand behind him.

The follower stopped. A porter beneath a wicker hamper had to turn sideways between them; the butcher caught his strap and held him there.

"Other way, Cob. Not with my meat."

"It's for the cookshop."

"I know where it's for."

The porter backed away. Jon drew rein. The butcher had already turned to the man from the steps.

"You again. Did I not tell you?"

"I was paid to watch the boy."

"Then earn it where you were paid."

One drover laughed. The other kept watching the steps. This was familiar work to them. The hired man looked towards his companion, found him still seated, and went back with a muttered curse.

The butcher bowed when he saw Jon watching. Behind him the porter was taking the long way round, bent beneath his load. Jon could not tell whether he had just been protected or punished.

Arthur had seen it too. He brought his horse nearer.

"Keep going."

Jon did. Hal was looking ahead, his hands closed upon Gawen's pommel. Rilla came first.

The sept stood behind a little yard where washed clothes hung between the wall and a crooked pear tree. A girl with a tray of onions moved aside for the horses. Jon caught a glimpse of her watching from beneath her hair, then Septa Meriane came through the door.

"She is awake. The boy first."

Hal was down before Gawen could help him. Jon followed into a room smelling of vinegar and damp wool. Rilla lay beneath the window, her hair cut away above one ear. Blood had dried in the creases of her neck where the washing had missed it.

She turned towards Hal and winced. "Where have you been?"

"To get him. I brought him."

"I told you to stay here."

The boy bent over her. She caught the back of his torn jerkin and pulled him close, her fingers working into his hair. Jon drew a stool beside the bed. Hal sat when she tugged at him, keeping his face against her shoulder.

The maester waited until Rilla loosened her hold before examining the boy's swollen eye. Jon watched the man's hands.

"And her?"

"The bone does not seem broken. She answers clearly. She must rest, and I must be told if she grows confused or is sick again."

Rilla looked towards the passage. "Your man's arm wants seeing to. He won't leave the door."

"I'll have it done."

"He caught Pell coming over the counter. There was another at the back, over the sheds. We'd never have got out if—" She stopped to swallow. Hal lifted his head.

Jon bent nearer. "Pell wanted the pennies?"

"I offered him the till. He knocked it away. 'Should've taught your boy to keep quiet.'" Her hand tightened upon the boy's jerkin. "He kept on about the brewery. Said the knight hadn't forgot."

Jon looked at Hal. The boy was staring at the blanket.

"I thought two men would keep you safe," Jon said.

"They kept us alive."

Rilla waited while he found something to say, then spared him the trouble. "My sister's quilt was upstairs. Yellow patch by the edge. If it's only wet, I can dry it. And there's a little box beneath the bed."

He promised to have them looked for. She began describing the clasp upon the box, stopped, and pressed her lips together. Jon stayed until Meriane returned, then went out to find Wat.

Wat, one of the guards Jon had left with Rilla, tried to rise from the bench. Jon put a hand upon his good shoulder and called the maester. Wat kept explaining where the second attacker had come from while the sleeve was cut away. One guard had been at the front and one with Hal; the man had climbed over the sheds and come up behind them both.

"Tell Ser Androw when he comes," Jon said. "Every way in that you saw."

"Aye, my lord. I can still—"

"Stay with her. Let him stitch you first."

Wylla arrived while the wound was being washed, with fresh guards and Aries carrying clean clothes. Gawen had sent for her. She went straight to Rilla; Aries found Benn in the next room and took the clothes in with him. Across the yard Robb sat beside Will while Moll held a bowl for the little boy. Martyn stood near them. Theon had found a place to rest his leg beneath the pear tree.

Jon left two fresh men with the sept. Before he went he offered Rilla a room within the castle when she could be moved, and work on Dragonstone if she wished it later.

"I've neighbours here," she said. "People who owe me."

"The room is yours whether you sail or stay."

She agreed to the room. Hal looked from one to the other, listening, but she would say no more about the island.

Before the horses were brought round, a young gold cloak came through the gate with Ser Androw behind him. The watchman stepped aside for a woman carrying soiled bedding, but she stopped him. "Alyn. That old man above the chandler's—where did you take him?"

"His daughter's. She came for him."

"He hadn't any shoes."

"I've sent a lad back for them. Mind that sheet." He lifted a trailing corner clear of the mud and laid it upon her bundle. She shifted it against her hip and went on. The watchman pointed Androw towards Wat's bench.

"That's the man, ser. The other one's with the woman."

Androw took in the cut sleeve and the maester's needle. "I'll wait."

He came to Jon instead. There was soot upon the breast of his surcoat.

"The shop's burned through upstairs. This serjeant found me a man who helped carry water. He saw two of them go into the yard before the fire."

Jon looked at the gold cloak. Five-and-twenty, perhaps, with pale lashes and silver hair dirtied by smoke. He held his helmet beneath his arm. "Your name, serjeant?" Jon asked.

"Alyn Longwaters, my lord."

Longwaters. Jon knew where that name began: Princess Elaena, Alyn Velaryon, their bastard Jon Waters. A distant cousin stood before him in a dirty gold cloak. He kept the thought to himself.

"Kin to the gaoler?"

"My uncle Rennifer." Alyn glanced towards the lane. "The fellow wouldn't speak with everyone about. I took Ser Androw round behind the sheds."

"He knows you?" Jon asked.

"I got his boy home after a cart struck him last winter. He'll speak to me. I can go back when the maester's done here."

"I had more to ask him," Androw said. "He wanted to see to his own roof first."

Alyn nodded. "The sparks were falling on it. He won't have gone far."

Janos Slynt stopped at the gate with two watchmen. The men beside him stayed in the lane while the commander came into the yard.

"Longwaters. I sent you to the tournament road."

Alyn straightened. "There was a fire, Commander."

"Which is out." Slynt turned to Arthur and bowed. His bow to Jon was equally deep. "My lord. Allow me to congratulate you. His Grace could hardly have chosen better." He straightened with a smile, then glanced towards the sept door. "A bad business to trouble such a day. I'm told the woman will live."

"Because my men stayed with her." Jon nodded towards the bench. "My man Wat took a cut stopping one of them at the counter. Another came over the sheds."

Slynt looked at the guard for the first time.

"And Ser Androw is here to hear him. Good. I have men at the shop as well."

"Longwaters was helping me find the neighbours," Androw said.

"Then he has done his part. I need him where I put him."

"A moment, Commander," Alyn said. "Let me fetch the witness. He knows me."

Slynt's head turned slowly towards him.

"The king's guests are coming through the city gate by the hundred. Shall I tell them to wait while you visit your friends?"

Alyn's mouth closed. One of the watchmen outside shifted his spear to let a cart past, calling to the driver to mind the wall. Androw waited until the wheels had passed.

"I need a man the neighbours will talk to."

Slynt pointed to his men. "Those two will stay by the shop. Tell them which doors you want, ser. They'll keep people back while you ask your questions."

Androw looked at Alyn. The serjeant's eyes went to the watchman who had moved his spear, then to his companion by the wall. He put his helmet on and drew the strap tight beneath his chin. When he looked at Slynt again, his mouth was set.

"Go on, Longwaters. You've kept the gate waiting long enough."

Alyn bowed to Jon and Androw before leaving. Slynt followed, pausing to give his watchmen their orders. Neither man moved from the lane until he had finished.

Jon watched the silver head disappear beyond the wall. Longwaters had volunteered to go back; Slynt had sent him away. Jon had seen that look given to a captain before. He meant to speak to the serjeant again when his commander was elsewhere. "Will your man talk to them?" he asked Androw.

"I'll hear him myself, if he'll open his door again." The knight looked towards Wat. "This one first."

Jon told him what Rilla had said about Pell and Hal. Androw listened without interrupting, then asked whether she could bear another visit.

"Ask the maester," Jon said. "She needs rest. I've offered her a room in the castle when she can be moved."

"I'll tell Lord Arryn. He wants you, your brother and Greyjoy at the Tower after breakfast. Ask him about hearing the brewery prisoners with me."

"Then we'll be there."

Androw lowered his voice. "He hasn't changed his mind about another raid."

Jon looked towards Wat. The maester was drawing the thread through his arm; Wat watched the far wall.

"Wat serves me," Jon said. "I put him in that shop. They wounded him carrying out my orders. When you go after them, I will take part."

"Lord Arryn means to keep this in his own hands."

"Then let him command it. I'll bring men and answer to him. But I have a grievance of my own now, and I won't leave it to Slynt."

Androw glanced towards the gate through which the commander had gone. "You have cause to bring a grievance. That is not leave to muster men in the city."

Jon kept his voice low. "I'll put it before the Hand tomorrow. Tell him I will be there when those men are taken. Wat was standing where I told him to stand."

Androw studied him for a moment, then nodded. "I will tell him. Until then, no raid."

"I'm going back to the lists, ser."

The knight glanced towards the fresh guards at Rilla's door, then went to sit beside Wat.

Jon walked to the mouth of the lane with Arthur while the horses were being brought round. The butcher's drovers still held the corner. The men upon the steps had gone.

"That fellow was paid to watch Hal," Jon said. "The butcher's men needed no paying before they came out."

"You don't know what he pays them."

"I know they stayed when the other two went." Jon watched the porter return with his empty hamper. He spoke to the butcher this time before taking the shorter way. "And they decide who passes."

Jon meant to enter this city as king. He could not leave his food, messages and men dependent upon whoever held its corners then. Before he declared himself, he would need people here who could keep a door open after the banners passed.

"You have seen one corner."

"I mean to see more." Birds could show him streets and doors. They could not tell him why a man with a full load obeyed a butcher instead of delivering his meat. "The knight has enemies down here. I want to know what they want before one offers to help me."

Arthur moved aside for a woman leading a little boy from the sept's gate. "Begin with someone you know."

"Vhalar at the river. Marrec where he buys his goods."

"And tell Arryn."

"Tomorrow. I want answers from more than Slynt's men."

Gawen brought the horses. Wylla and Aries were coming with them to the lists; Hal stayed beside his aunt, and Will had made Robb promise to return. Jon let Arthur help him mount. Across the yard the girl with the onions lifted her tray, a torn yellow cuff falling over her hand.

She waited until the horses moved before she left the wall.

***
​

Jaime had not yet lowered his visor when Cersei saw the girl throw him a favour.

It fell short of his horse, a little twist of green silk caught upon the rail. The girl leaned so far forward that her companion caught her by the waist. Jaime smiled at them both. He left the silk where it was.

Cersei settled against her cushion. Below the royal canopy the benches were packed, and beyond them men pressed against the ropes whenever a rider came near. A gust lifted the edge of the silk above her, bringing the smell of horses up from the lists. She drew her skirts clear of the rail. There was space enough in the gallery, if Robert's companions would stop gathering round his chair; whenever he laughed, faces turned up from the crowd to find him.

Her brother rode a white horse beneath a cloth worked with golden lions. Sunlight ran along his armour as he turned before the gallery, and for a moment she could see his face as clearly as if he stood beside her: the green eyes, the mouth that made promises without speaking, the careless pleasure he took in being watched. He lifted his lance to the king. His gaze passed over Robert and found her, and she raised two fingers from the arm of her chair.

Across the lists, Ser Hobber Redwyne was having something done to his saddle. Men clustered about the chestnut's legs. Jaime waited with his lance upright while a groom caught the length of his white cloak and carried it away.

"He ought to keep it," Joffrey said.

"And have it caught beneath his horse?"

"It looks better."

That was true. White suited Jaime. It always had, even when she hated what it required of him. Joffrey leaned upon the rail, his hair bright beneath the canopy, and she drew him back by the shoulder. The wood had been scrubbed but not planed; a splinter had already caught her sleeve.

"Stand here. Your father cannot see you behind that post."

Robert could have seen him if he had cared to look. Instead he was shouting to Lord Tyrell about a wager. Mace Tyrell, who had done very little beyond eat during the war, was explaining how his son had held a lance almost before he could walk.

"Then he must have fallen over it a great deal," Tyrion said.

He had appeared at the side of her chair. Cersei had heard no approach, only the scrape of a servant moving a stool out of his way. He wore a handsome doublet which would have looked better on almost anyone else.

"There are seats behind us," she told him.

"So there are. All occupied by men taller than I am. A disappointing arrangement."

He set his cup upon the rail, precisely where she would have to see it.

"You have managed to see the bottom of that."

"Only once. I shall apply myself more diligently." Tyrion looked down at the field. "Hobber is taking his time. Do you suppose he hopes Jaime will grow old?"

She did not mean to laugh. The breath escaped before she could prevent it, and Tyrion heard. His smile made her regret it.

The groom ran clear. Hobber wheeled at his end of the lists, grapes purple upon his shield. Jaime shut his visor. Cersei knew the movement that followed. He would settle once, scarcely more than a shift of his hips, then become still while the horse moved beneath him. As a boy he had done it upon a pony too small for his legs. Their father had watched from a window, and she had watched her father's face. Jaime had always been beautiful. Even Tywin could not look at him without showing it.

The horses came together. Hobber's lance burst against Jaime's shield, but Jaime's point struck higher, turning the grapes sideways and sweeping the Redwyne from his saddle. He struck the earth upon one shoulder and rolled beneath the lowest rail as the chestnut ran on. Cersei rose with the rest of the gallery. She had meant to remain seated, but it no longer mattered; Jaime was bringing his horse round beneath the royal seats, lifting his empty hand, and Joffrey was shouting his name.

"A clean course," Barristan said behind the king.

"He might have given us two," Robert complained. "I had barely wet my mouth."

Her brother had beaten a knight in a single pass, and Robert complained that his wine had lasted longer. Cersei looked towards him. His beard was damp. A piece of bread clung to the embroidered stag upon his chest.

"You may ask Ser Hobber to mount again," she said.

"Gods, woman, let him find his teeth first."

The men about him laughed. Cersei sat. Jaime leaned from the saddle to speak to Hobber while his squire helped him to his feet.

The next knights took longer. Wylis Manderly's horse seemed large enough to carry both riders. His surcoat pulled tight across his middle when he raised his arm. Against him Garlan Tyrell wore green and gold, two roses upon his shield. Alerie, seated beside her husband, had already told Cersei twice how well he fought with a sword. She would sooner have heard how long the family meant to stay. Margaery sat beyond her mother, with Loras on her other side, his injured wrist resting upon a folded cloth. The boy tried to lift it when Garlan saluted them. Alerie caught his elbow.

"The other hand, Loras."

He flushed and obeyed.

"Will he ride?" Tommen asked.

"Not until he is older," Cersei said.

"But he has a horse."

"So has your sister."

Myrcella looked up at that. Tommen considered the answer, evidently found it unsatisfactory, and went to ask Tyrion instead.

Cersei watched her youngest son's golden head bend towards her brother's. Tyrion liked an audience that had not yet learnt to be ashamed of him.

Manderly's second lance scraped along Garlan's breastplate. The Tyrell recovered, but Mace's great hands closed upon the rail.

"He has him," Mace declared.

Olenna Tyrell peered past her son. "Which one, Mace? You are obscuring both."

He moved. Cersei took a little pleasure in that, although she would have preferred it if the old woman had stayed at Highgarden with her opinions.

Garlan won on the fourth course. Manderly came down heavily, bringing a groan from the northmen in the lower benches. His brother was already on the field before the herald could finish the victor's name. Garlan dismounted too. The fallen man sat up, accepted a cup, and began arguing with someone about the horse.

Margaery applauded. Then she bent towards her mother. "Has there been word?" The question was quiet, but Cersei had spent years hearing things said quietly.

"Not since they left," Alerie answered.

Renly, standing behind Loras, asked Barristan whether the messenger had reached Lord Arryn. The old knight nodded.

"His lordship has sent men."

"For the woman?" Margaery asked.

"For the men who hurt her."

There it was again. Ned Stark's bastard had been gone scarcely an hour, and they were still speaking of him. His rescue, his knighting, his poor beaten woman. Cersei had seen the injured boy when they led the horses through the camp. He had made a spectacle of his tears, clutching at Jon's hand while the other Stark boy hurried after them. Margaery had stood watching until the horses passed the tents.

She had watched rather closely when Jon knelt as well.

"Does the child belong to her?" Cersei asked.

Margaery turned. "Her nephew, Your Grace. His name is Hal."

"I was asking Ser Barristan."

The girl's hands came together in her lap. Alerie laid a finger upon one of them. Neither offered the apology Cersei had expected.

Barristan said that the woman had been taken to a sept and was alive when Jon left the field.

"The boy thought otherwise," Renly said. "You would have heard him if—"

"I heard him."

Robert leaned across the space between their chairs.

"What's this?"

Renly told him. Cersei watched her husband's pleasure drain away, then return in another form when he heard that Jon and Robb had gone together.

"Ned would have done the same."

Of course Ned would. Ned would have ridden faster, asked wiser questions, found time to comfort the woman and mend her roof. If Robert heard that a Stark had pissed against a wall, he would remember how straight Ned's stream had been.

"They have Ser Arthur with them," Cersei said. "I expect he knows what to do."

"And so will they, if they watch him." Robert beckoned to a page. "Tell Arryn I want to hear of it. Before he goes to bed. And bring Lord Black back here when he's done. I didn't have him knighted so he could miss his own men riding."

The page ran.

Robert kept his eyes upon the passage between the tents long after there was nothing to see there. She knew that look. Ned's name could bring it, or a song, or enough wine. She had been a queen beside him for years and still there were times when he seemed to be looking past her for a dead girl.

He had said Lyanna's name in their bed. He had never said hers in that voice.

Cersei reached for her cup and found it empty. The girl behind her was watching the riders. "Must I ask?" the queen said.

The girl started and poured too quickly. A drop struck the queen's wrist. Cersei held out her hand until a cloth was brought.

Below them, the men had cleared the broken lances. The herald called Ser Vaelor Scales.

"Another of Lord Black's?" Mace asked.

"His captain of horse," Renly said.

Scales wore black. Men beneath the gallery took up his name, though Cersei doubted half of them had known it that morning. She moved Tommen's abandoned cup out of her way.

Ser Hosteen Frey lowered his lance at the farther end. A woman behind Cersei began listing his brothers to another woman who had made the mistake of asking.

Hosteen's horse carried him wide after their first collision. Scales waited while the Frey's squire ran after him with a fresh lance.

"That one has served," Robert said.

"I should hope so," Cersei replied. "He is old enough."

On the next pass Hosteen went backwards over the saddle's cantle. Scales turned and waited until the Frey stood.

Joffrey was pleased by the fall.

"I would have struck him lower. Then he would have gone at once."

Tyrion's mouth opened. Cersei looked at him. "My son was speaking to me."

"Then I shall preserve my ignorance."

Joffrey heard the amusement, if not its cause. His face stiffened. Cersei drew him closer and told him to watch how the next pair held their shields.

The younger knight in black was less assured. His horse tossed its head when the crowd cheered him, and he had to use both hands on the reins before he could take his lance. The herald called him Ser Tomas Sableheart. At the other end stood a broad man whose blue-and-white checks were crossed by a black band and three golden eyes.

"Tallad," Tyrion said, before she could ask anyone else. "A knight with an appetite for other men's horses."

"Is he good?" Tommen asked.

"We are about to discover whether he is better than that one."

The first pass splintered Tomas's lance. He rode out with the broken length still in his hand, then bent to look down at his foot. His groom came running. Scales, now without his helm, crossed from the ropes and caught the horse's bridle.

There was a delay. Tomas pointed at something near his stirrup. Tallad raised his visor and waited. At last the marshal held up a hand, allowing time for a repair.

Men in the standing crowd began to whistle.

"They want another fall," Joffrey said.

"They have paid to see one," Tyrion answered.

"Then he should ride."

Tomas evidently thought so too. He waved his groom away before the man could buckle on a fresh stirrup leather. The broken strap and its dangling iron went with him. Scales said something that made the younger man look towards the royal gallery, then offered a final word and stepped back.

Cersei had ceased watching them. A goldsmith had appeared beside Petyr Baelish, carrying his grievance in a purse of rolled accounts. Robert's steward followed with the air of a man who had tried several other doors first.

"The prizes are provided for," the steward was telling the king.

"Then what the devil do you want?"

"The five hundred for your wager, Your Grace."

"Pay it."

"That was not among the purses."

Robert swore. Tommen looked up; Cersei sent him to Myrcella before he could repeat it.

Petyr drew the two men behind Cersei's chair. Robert was watching the field and calling for more wine.

"Master, you have supplied silver plate to the royal household before," he told the goldsmith. "I should be sorry to see a small difficulty interrupt such a profitable acquaintance."

"It has been profitable in promises, my lord. The plate is delivered."

"And shall be paid for. Bring the five hundred before the light goes, and I will give you first payment from the wine duties at the river. Your old account and this advance."

The goldsmith rubbed a ring with his thumb. "First payment?"

"Put your own clerk beside the collector. He may count with him."

"Twenty dragons for the trouble."

"Twelve."

They settled upon eighteen while Tomas took his next lance. Petyr sent the steward for a pen, and the goldsmith bowed himself away with a good deal more alacrity than he had arrived. Tyrion watched him go. "Father should have taught me to make cups."

"You have learnt enough about emptying them."

"At considerable expense to him. This fellow is paid to fill one."

Cersei turned back to the field. When Robert wanted money, Baelish found it. When she wanted goods already ordered, someone arrived to explain why she must wait.

The horses were gathering speed. Tomas's right boot hung without a stirrup. Cersei could see him pressing that leg hard against his mount. Tallad's lance caught his shield and turned him. His foot kicked out, searching for the support he had sent away; then the horse took another stride and the young knight slid sideways, struck the ground, and rolled.

The crowd roared. Joffrey laughed.

Tomas lay still long enough for Cersei to glance towards Scales. The captain had started forward, but stopped when the fallen man pushed himself onto one knee. Tomas tugged off his helm. Blood ran over his mouth.

Tallad rode back and dismounted.

"He should have waited," Joffrey said.

"Yes," she answered, before Tyrion could.

Joffrey looked satisfied. While men carried a damaged rail away, Lord Grandison approached Robert.

"Let your master of horse see the geldings I brought, Your Grace, before I send them home."

Tygett Lannister lifted his head. "He is to see the Lannisport horses tomorrow." Her uncle had been praising the dealer who supplied his own stables.

"Then let him see mine beside them," Grandison said. "I ask no favour in the price."

"Only the king's word to get them through the gate."

"Did yours come through without it?"

Robert laughed. "Bring both lots after breakfast. Let the man choose a horse for once instead of telling me which one I oughtn't ride."

Grandison bowed. Tygett beckoned to his man and spoke into his ear. Cersei hoped the king's master of horse had better judgment than his master.

Jon returned while the marshals were changing a damaged length of rail. Cersei saw Arthur first, his dark head above the people gathered at the gallery steps. Lord Guncer Sunglass had intercepted him with a boy at his side. A moment later Jon came into view, still in black, his left arm held close to his body. Robb followed with the Greyjoy boy and Martyn Cassel.

Robert called them up before they had finished bowing.

"Well?"

Jon stopped before the king. There was a dirty mark upon his clean cuff, and the swelling along his jaw had darkened.

"She's alive, Your Grace. The maester wants her kept quiet. Hal is with her."

"And the bastards who did it?"

"Gone. Ser Androw is at the sept, hearing my wounded guard."

Robert's face reddened. He looked for Arryn, though the Hand's chair had been empty for some time.

"In my own city. With half the bloody Watch out for my tournament."

"They were out here," Jon said.

It was an impertinent answer. Robert accepted it.

"I'll have Arryn's account before he sleeps." He studied the boy's face. "Come nearer. Gods, you two did hammer one another."

Robb smiled. Robert reached for his shoulder and thought better of it halfway through the movement.

"Sit. Both of you. There are enough men standing about doing nothing."

Servants hurried with chairs. A lord moved to make room for Ned's bastard, and the line of seats drew closer to Cersei's own; she had to gather her skirts again as a chair leg scraped past. Theon Greyjoy declined the place offered behind the others and took one beside Robb, lowering himself with a care that suggested he had found the limits of his own bravery. His presence was less offensive. At least he had been born to something.

Margaery asked after Hal. Jon answered her, quietly enough that Cersei heard only the maester's name and something about sleep. The girl's smile had gone. She listened without looking at her mother, then moved her cup to give Jon room upon the little table between the chairs.

Loras leaned forward. "I should have changed hands after the first blow."

Jon glanced at his bandaged wrist. "You would have had to throw your shield away."

"I would still have had a sword."

Jon shifted his own injured arm against his side. "I'd rather face you when you can use both hands."

Loras's mouth tightened. "You will."

"When we're mended."

The Tyrell boy looked at Jon's arm before giving a short nod.

Cersei set her cup upon the rail hard enough to spill a little wine. The bastard had had Arthur Dayne to teach him for years.

Gawen appeared at the lists in black, his shield held while a groom passed him a lance. Cersei had seen him at Jon's shoulder often enough to know the face. He looked older in armour, the lines beside his mouth deepened by the pressure of the helm. Below the gallery, a woman in a plain dark gown was being shown to the household benches. The little attendant who followed Jon everywhere had both hands upon the rail already. He waved so violently that the woman caught the back of his belt. Gawen saw them. He raised his lance towards that modest corner of the field.

"Who is she?" Cersei asked.

Tyrion followed her gaze. "Wylla. Lord Black's nurse."

"A knight's favour is easily won these days."

"Perhaps she knows something worth winning."

Cersei ignored him. Gawen's opponent had a black shield marked by a fork of purple lightning. The herald named Lord Beric Dondarrion. A red priest in the benches bawled encouragement that carried as far as the royal seats.

"Thoros," Robert said with satisfaction. "I wondered where he had got to."

Two courses left Beric mounted and Thoros calling a larger wager each time. Down at the household benches Wylla had stopped trying to restrain the boy; her hand was pressed flat upon the rail. Before the third course Gawen bent to hear something from Scales, taking his time while Beric's horse pawed the ground, impatient to be off.

The younger man's lance rose as they met. It struck Gawen's shield near the rim. Gawen's held long enough to drive Beric out of his seat.

Aries's cry rose above the others. Cersei saw Jon turn towards him with a smile that changed his face more than the knighting had. Wylla clapped once, then seemed to remember herself and caught the boy as he attempted to climb higher.

Beric was already standing. He pulled the helm from his red hair and looked up at the priest, who had fallen silent at last. Robert laughed.

"That will cost him. Serve him right for betting against a grey beard."

The successful knight rode to his people. Wylla reached over the rail and took his gauntleted hand. It was a brief touch, but he stayed beside her until the marshal called him away.

A nurse, with a knight waiting upon her. Cersei looked for Jaime among the tents. He was speaking to his armourer and did not look up.

Guncer Sunglass had followed Jon into the gallery. He waited through another course, then approached when the servants brought fresh wine, easing his second son, Matthos, past a page with a loaded tray. The boy kept a pace behind him.

"Your Grace." Guncer bowed to Cersei before addressing Jon. "Ser Jon, I wished to speak about a squire's place for Matthos."

Matthos looked from Jon to Arthur, then back again.

"If you have need of one, my lord," he said.

Jon turned his chair enough to face him. "You wish to ride with us?"

"Yes, my lord. I saw you in the melee. And Ser Arthur."

"He rides well," Guncer said. "I would have him among men who know something of war."

His gaze settled upon Arthur. He would have his boy beneath Dayne's eye, and make certain all Sweetport Sound heard of it.

"Gawen can see him in the yard," Jon said. "When the lists are finished."

"A young knight ought to have a squire of good birth."

Jon's gaze went briefly to the benches below.

"Aries serves me well as a page. Bring Matthos to the yard, my lord."

"Will Ser Arthur be there?" Guncer asked.

"Gawen will see him ride first. We haven't agreed that he is staying."

Guncer considered that. "I shall bring him."

Matthos looked happier with the invitation than his father did. He bowed to Jon, then to Arthur.

Tyrion was smiling again. "You see, sister? We have scarcely given him spurs and already fathers are bringing their sons."

"Some fathers are easily impressed."

"By gold, famous knights, a place at court. The customary failings."

Guncer had heard. His eyes moved to the lion upon Tyrion's breast. He bowed to Cersei once more and took Matthos away.

She waited until they were gone. "I should have thought Father had taught you when to hold your tongue."

"He tried often enough. I must be a disappointing pupil."

"In several respects."

For a moment Tyrion's smile held. Then he drank.

Robert, who had heard only the part that interested him, called Jon closer again.

"Squires, is it? You'll have half the kingdom asking, with Dayne there to beat sense into them." He looked towards Tommen. "There's a thought. I might give you that one when he's old enough."

Cersei's hand tightened upon the carved arm of her chair. Tommen looked up and came at once.

"Give me what?"

"A master. You'll need one if you're ever to be a knight. Lord Black can teach you to stay on that horse of yours."

"Would I go on his ship?"

"You would go where you were sent."

The boy looked at Jon, delighted. That was the worst of it. Cersei had given him a nameday celebration, clothes finer than most lords owned, sweetmeats he could not finish, and he lit up at the prospect of being sent away with Ned Stark's bastard.

"Tommen is a prince," she said.

Robert looked at her. "I had noticed."

"His household will be chosen with care."

"This one has a better teacher than most. Would you rather he learnt to ride from your dressmaker?"

A few men laughed. They stopped when she looked at them.

"He has a brother and cousins of his own blood. He need not be sent to an island to find company."

"I was sent to the Vale. Did me no harm."

Ned again. Even when Robert did not speak the name, it stood between them.

Tommen had gone to Jon's chair.

"Would I have to hold your shield?"

"Sometimes," Jon said. "Though first you'd have to learn to look after your own."

"I can."

"Then you can show me tomorrow."

Cersei rose. The movement drew more attention than she had intended, but she would not sit down again merely because men were watching. "He will be with his family tomorrow."

Jon looked up. His face gave her very little.

"As you wish, Your Grace."

There should have been embarrassment in it. There was only the courtesy due to her station.

Robert reached for his wine. "Seven hells, I said when he's older. You'd think I meant to pack him into a barrel tonight."

"I heard what you said."

She took Tommen's hand. His reluctance travelled up her arm as plainly as a spoken refusal.

"Come and sit beside me."

He obeyed, looking back once. She turned his face towards the lists with two fingers beneath his chin.

"Your uncle is riding."

Jaime was indeed coming forward, Jason Mallister at the farther end. The silver eagle shone upon the Mallister shield. Cersei watched her brother shut his visor, and wished that she could shut out the last few moments as easily.

Tyrion stood beside her chair. "A prince would lend the household distinction," he said softly.

"When you have earned your own spurs, you may advise me where my sons should earn theirs."

His fingers stopped upon the stem of his cup. She looked back at the field before he could answer. Jaime's lance broke. Mallister kept his seat, and the cheering swelled again. By the third pass her brother had won.

The fallen lord rose with help and went to his son, who had leapt the ropes to reach him. The Greyjoy boy watched from beside Robb, his face suddenly empty of amusement. Cersei remembered that quarrel well enough. It was pleasant, sometimes, to see that other families carried grievances they could not laugh away.

The gallery had grown hot. The breeze that lifted the canopy scarcely reached the chairs, and wine had dried sticky upon Cersei's fingers. She rubbed her thumb along one of them while servants passed with sliced pears, little salted cakes and wine cooled in wet cloths. Renly lifted his cloak from the stool beside Joffrey.

"Lady Margaery. You can see your brother's tent from here."

Alerie moved her skirts to let her daughter pass. Joffrey had laid a broken lance point across the stool; he put it on the rail when Margaery approached.

"Thank you, my prince."

He straightened as she sat. There had been room enough for her farther along, beside her mother, but Cersei let it pass. Margaery's gown was modest. She knew what a dressmaker charged to make costly silk hang with such becoming simplicity.

The girl looked from the lance point to the field.

"Will you ride when you're old enough?"

"Of course." Joffrey moved the splintered wood farther from her sleeve. "I could ride now. Father says I must wait."

"I hope I'm here to see you."

Her son smiled. It changed his face, softened the displeasure he had worn while Robert fussed over the Stark boys. He began telling her about the horse he meant to ride, one of the larger blacks in the royal stables. He had asked for it twice already. Now he spoke as though it were his.

Cersei would have corrected him if he had said it to Tommen. She took another piece of pear instead. The girl was looking at Joffrey as a prince ought to be looked at.

Margaery lifted her cup, found it empty and set it down without interrupting him. Joffrey noticed. He beckoned to a page, then stopped the boy as he bent over the prince's cup.

"Lady Margaery first."

"You are kind, my prince."

Joffrey waited until she had been served before holding out his own cup. Cersei smiled at him. He could be as gracious as any knight when someone took the trouble to please him.

Beyond Margaery, Alerie caught Renly's eye. He returned her smile, then went round the chairs to Robert. A cheer from the field made him wait before explaining that the ladies need not ride far into the Kingswood.

"An afternoon's sport. There will be plenty of time after the showing. Lord Tyrell has brought hawks."

"Fine ones," Mace said. "We could find a gentle bird for the prince. My daughter knows them all."

Joffrey looked up. "I don't need a gentle one."

"No?" Renly smiled. "You had better come and choose, then."

Margaery said nothing. Her hands rested in her lap, and she was still turned towards Joffrey. Cersei looked for Alerie and found her watching the two of them. The woman smiled when their eyes met.

"His falconer will choose his bird," Cersei said. "And I shall ride with my children."

Robert glanced at her in surprise.

"Then come. Bring a horse you won't complain of."

Renly bowed his agreement. He left his cloak over his own arm.

Mace began to speak of the game at Highgarden. Robert cut him short with a promise to hear about it after the tournament. The promise pleased the fool more than it should have.

Margaery turned from Joffrey to ask Jon whether the sept had room for the injured woman.

"For tonight," he answered.

"Mother has offered a litter. If she needs—"

"The queen's household will provide what is required," Cersei said.

The girl stopped.

Cersei beckoned to one of her women. "Send bread, meat for broth, and bedding to the sept where the woman lies. Good woollen blankets. Find out how many children are there."

Jon had risen. He thanked her. "My son and I should like to see them properly provided for," she told him.

Joffrey looked up from the lance point. Cersei held out her hand. He said something more to Margaery before coming to stand beside her.

"You will help distribute the gifts."

"Here?"

"When we receive them before the court. You will stand beside me."

She could see it: the prince in crimson, the children newly washed, their ragged clothes replaced by something fit to be seen. The story would reach the city before Jon's ships had left its quays. A rescue was well enough, but keeping children fed required a queen's generosity.

"Have them measured tonight," she told her woman. "I want their names, and to know which can be brought. Joffrey will present the gifts."

"Some are ill, Your Grace," Jon said.

"Then bring those who are not."

"Septa Meriane and the maester can tell us."

He said it as though she had asked him to select the guests at one of her suppers.

"Ask them. My woman will need an answer."

Alerie offered to send clothing as well. Renly said the Tyrell ladies could help receive the little ones.

"My women will manage," Cersei answered. "Lady Alerie may send what she wishes. They will see that it is used."

The older woman inclined her head. Margaery looked towards Jon, then turned back to Cersei.

"Then I shall ask your waiting woman where it should go, Your Grace."

Good. Let the girl bring her bundles to a waiting woman and ask where to put them.

Joffrey was still holding the lance point. "I could give the prizes too."

"You shall stand with your father when the champion is named."

This time she told Robert while he was eating. He grunted agreement and asked whether anyone had seen his wager paid. Petyr showed him a purse. The king smiled.

By the time eight riders remained, Cersei had sent the pears away and ordered fresh water for her hands. The grooms were raking loose sand into the hoof-cut furrows beside the tilt. A flag that had stood white that morning hung streaked with dust.

Yohn Royce had accounted for Harras Harlaw and Balon Swann. The bronze armour looked older than half the gallery, its dark runes plain when he passed beneath them. Waymar stood among the Vale men beside Harry Hardyng, who spoke close to his ear and received no answer; the Royce boy was watching his father. Tallad broke two lances against the old lord before losing his seat. Tomas Sableheart helped the fallen knight up, the blood washed from his own mouth.

The struggle between Bryce Caron and Scales took longer. By the time Caron put him out, both horses were sweating and the nightingales upon the victor's shield were almost lost beneath the marks of the lance points. Scales took the defeat well enough, though Jon had risen from his chair before his captain was fully on his feet.

"Sit, boy," Robert told him. "He's walked away. That's a better afternoon than some will have."

Gawen rode against Garlan next. Loras came to the rail beside his sister, keeping his bandaged wrist against his breast. "Watch when Garlan lowers his lance," he told her. "The other man has his shield set before he brings the point down."

Margaery leaned forward to see. On the first course Gawen's lance was level while Garlan's still slanted upwards; the Tyrell lowered it in the last few strides.

The nurse stood again. Cersei watched her hand close upon the boy's shoulder as the horses met. Gawen broke his lance and held his seat through two courses, but on the third Garlan caught him hard beneath the shoulder and turned him out of the saddle. He fell almost at the Tyrell's feet.

The gallant Garlan hauled his horse aside.

Cersei heard the intake of breath from the benches below. Gawen rolled clear, then lay upon his back while men ran to him. At last he raised one hand. The woman sat down abruptly. Jon remained standing until Gawen was helped from the field.

"Your captain has work to do," Robert said. "Two of his men out, and himself."

"Three of them rode well," Jon answered.

"Aye. Tell him that after you've told him what they did wrong."

Robb laughed. Jon smiled more reluctantly.

Jaime's next course drew Cersei back to the field. Lyn Corbray was leaner than her brother, his horse dark and quick beneath him. There was something hungry in the way he accepted his lance. She liked men who looked as though they expected to win. She liked them less when Jaime was the man they expected to beat.

Corbray struck him hard enough to snap his head backwards.

Cersei's fingers closed upon Tommen's sleeve. Her son glanced up, but she was watching Jaime. He reached the end of the lists, turned, and put his hand to the edge of his helm. The squire who ran to him was sent back for another lance.

"Good hit," Robert said.

She wanted to throw her cup at him. Jaime took Corbray on the next pass. The dark horse ran riderless to the end while her brother wheeled beneath the stands. This time Cersei remained seated. She would not have Tyrion see how much the first blow had frightened her. He had seen. For once he said nothing.

The last four were brought before the king. Robert chose Jaime against Garlan, grinning at Mace as though the arrangement were a favour. Royce would ride against Caron. Mace began to describe Garlan's victories. "I have been here all afternoon," Cersei told him.

His mouth closed.

Renly found that amusing. She could see it in his face. For the moment she allowed him his amusement.

Before the first course, Joffrey bent towards Margaery. "Your brother lowers his lance late. Watch. He waits until the other man has set his shield."

She glanced towards Loras, who had gone back to his mother, then gave Joffrey her attention again. "I shall, my prince."

Cersei smiled. He had remembered. Let Tyrion find fault with that.

Garlan held Jaime to a third course. By then the paint upon both shields was torn and scored. Loras was on his feet, and Alerie made no attempt to stop him. As the horses met again, Garlan's mount threw its head; his lance went wide, while Jaime's blow wrenched him sideways and left him a moment to clutch at the saddle before he fell.

Jaime had won.

Cersei rose with Joffrey, her own cry lost in the cheering. Garlan stood before his brother reached him, bent to say something, and put his hand upon Loras's shoulder. Margaery clapped for Jaime with a small, courteous smile. The girl was prettier when she forgot to arrange her face, Cersei thought, pleased to have noticed.

In the lower seats Prince Oberyn received a coin from his daughter. Obara surrendered it reluctantly, still looking after Garlan. The Dornish prince tucked it away. Apparently even a Martell could recognise Jaime's worth when there was money upon it.

Royce defeated Caron in three courses while Jaime rested. Caron needed the rail to stay upright afterwards; Robert sent him wine and grew impatient when it failed to clear him from the field. Cersei waited, watching the opening between the tents through which her brother would return. The herald swallowed and called Royce's name a second time for the far benches. His voice had grown hoarse.

When Jaime came out, his horse had been rubbed down and the lion cloth brushed free of dust, though it could not hide the animal's heaving flanks. Royce's mount was sweating too. Both men had ridden often, struck hard, and been struck in return. For the first time that afternoon Cersei wished there were fewer people to see. Her brother took a fresh shield, and Tyrion came to stand beside her.

Behind them, Robb Stark said, "A silver stag on Lord Yohn."

"On Jaime," Greyjoy answered at once.

"I hadn't asked you."

"You've found a wager all the same."

Cersei looked round. Greyjoy was smiling, but Stark had his eyes upon the bronze armour. He would learn.

The first collision brought a noise like a branch breaking beside her ear. Royce's point struck high upon Jaime's shield, driving its upper rim back towards his shoulder. Both lances burst. Jaime rocked in the saddle, his shield arm flung wide; Royce rode on almost upright, though a strip of painted leather had been torn from his shield.

"Again," Robert roared. They did not need his permission. The squires were already running.

Jaime asked for another lance after weighing the first in his hand. While the squire fetched it, he worked his arm through the shield straps again and drew the shield close against his side. Cersei could scarcely see the lion now, only the edge of its mane. His mouth had lost its smile. He had stopped trying to make this look easy.

Across the field Royce was ready.

Cersei had seen too many men killed to pretend this was safe. A blow could drive a splinter through a slit, a falling horse could break a neck. She pushed the thought away. Jaime knew how to fall. He knew more than the old lord in his old armour, whatever Robert might say about him.

Jaime took the fresh lance and lowered his visor. Even when the horses began to move, he kept the shield turned. She wanted him to cover himself.

Joffrey was shouting. Tommen was very quiet beside her.

Royce's point scraped across the narrowed lion and broke at its edge. Jaime's struck high, driving Royce against the rear of his saddle before it burst. The bronze lord fought for another stride, and fell. Jaime rode on.

Tyrion struck the rail with his cup.

Cersei was standing. She could not remember rising. Her brother rode to the end, threw aside the broken lance, and turned beneath a roar that seemed to shake the canopy. Royce's sons reached him. The old lord waved one away, accepted the other's arm, and stood with sand falling from his mail. Only then did Jaime lift his visor.

The herald called him champion.

Robert was on his feet as well. "Lannister! Come and take my gold before my steward hides it."

The laughter was warm. Let it be, Cersei thought. Let them look at Jaime, and remember whose name he bore.

Her brother dismounted and gave his helm to a squire before clasping Royce's hand. The old lord said something that made him laugh. When Jaime turned towards the gallery, a marshal brought the champion's purse upon a cushion, with the sealed warrant for the rest. Joffrey hurried to his father's side as she had told him.

Robert allowed the prince to hand over the purse.

"Well ridden, ser," Joffrey said.

Jaime bowed his head. "My thanks, my prince."

Joffrey's chin lifted.

Jaime looked along the gallery until he found Arthur Dayne. The older knight gave a small nod. Her brother's smile widened, and for a moment Cersei saw the boy who used to run up from the yard to tell her what his master-at-arms had said. She shifted in her chair. He had won. Surely he did not still need Dayne to tell him he had ridden well.

The wreath came last.

White and red roses had been bound around a slender circlet, with ribbons hanging from its back. A squire carried it upon a cushion. Jaime took it, and the gallery grew attentive in a different way. Cersei knew where every young woman was sitting: the Redwyne girl with her retrieved green silk, Margaery beside her mother, Betha Blackwood moving forward among the riverlords. There were older women too, some smiling at the foolishness of hoping and others not troubling to disguise it.

Jaime glanced towards Cersei.

Then he looked down.

Myrcella had come to the front with Tommen. She was watching the flowers, one hand resting upon the rail.

Jaime climbed the steps and went down on one knee before Myrcella. "Princess. May I?"

Myrcella looked at her mother.

Cersei touched the back of her head and drew her forward. "Your uncle has chosen you."

Jaime set the circlet carefully upon her hair. It was a little too large. He adjusted it with the same grave attention he might have given a crown of gold.

"My queen of love and beauty."

Myrcella's cheeks flushed. She caught one of the ribbons between her fingers.

The herald took up the words, proclaiming Princess Myrcella's name to the field. People began to cheer again. Tommen stared at his sister, then at Jaime, delighted that the flowers had come to them. Joffrey still held the empty cushion from the prize purse. He passed it to a servant.

"Thank you, Uncle," Myrcella said.

"You must let them see you."

She turned towards the rail. Cersei arranged the ribbons behind her and smoothed a strand of hair away from her cheek. The child had her colouring, her eyes, the same lovely shape to her face. In a few years there would be no girl in the realm to rival her.

Myrcella caught Tommen's sleeve and bent towards him.

"Smell them."

He put his nose against a white rose. The circlet slipped; Cersei caught it before it could fall, and Myrcella laughed.

"Keep your head up, sweetling. They are looking at you."

"Can he wear it afterwards?"

"Afterwards." Cersei settled the flowers more firmly. "Now turn this way."

Robert laughed and lifted his cup.

"Well chosen, Jaime."

For once he was right.

Cersei kept her hand upon Myrcella's shoulder while the girl acknowledged the cheering. Below them men were picking lance fragments out of the sand. Farther away, beyond the bright cloth and raised shields, lay the city with its burned shop and its hungry children. They could wait a little longer.

Jaime stood beside them, one glove removed. A raw patch showed across his knuckle. Cersei caught his bare hand before he could put the glove back on. "You took your time with Royce."

"He objected to falling."

She smiled. He was looking at her now.

***
​

By the time Jon reached his horse, his shoulder had stiffened again. He had sat through the final without noticing it. Now the pain caught when he reached for the saddle, and Arthur put a hand beneath his boot before he could try a second time.

"You might have warned me," his uncle said.

"I was watching Royce."

"I know."

Arthur passed him the reins. Across the camp Gawen had found a place beside Wylla's horse, walking slowly while she spoke to him. Aries carried the knight's gloves with an air of importance. Jon had seen Guncer looking at the boy. He would have to speak to Aries before someone else explained what a highborn squire was supposed to replace.

Beside the Vale horses Mychel introduced his father, Lord Horton Redfort. Redfort greeted Arthur, then offered Jon his hand. Mychel watched Robb approach.

"I was asking whether I might ride north with Domeric," he said.

"Domeric is going home. So are you," Horton told him. "You will sit with me when I hear the tenants. I have enough men to tell me how you use a sword."

Mychel's face fell. Harry began offering advice until Anya Waynwood called him to her horse.

"Come. We are keeping Lord Redfort from his supper."

"I meant to eat with—"

"You promised to sit beside me." She waited for his farewells. Mychel followed his father, still arguing for the journey.

Theon came up on Jon's left and held out his hand to Robb.

Robb dug a silver stag from his purse and tossed it across Jon's horse. Theon caught it against his chest.

"He nearly had him," Robb said.

"I'll spend the whole stag, if it's all the same to you."

Theon put the coin away.

The road had filled with people leaving the field. A man carrying three hired stools over his head shouted for room while his wife counted the coins in her apron. Behind them a boy dragged a length of broken lance. He had wrapped his sleeve around the splintered end, and refused to let another boy carry it.

At the gate the crowd pressed close enough for Jon to smell spilled ale upon someone's coat. Arthur moved between him and a cart whose wheel had caught upon the stones.

From the corner of his eye Jon saw a girl set down a tray of onions. He turned after they had passed. She was looking at him, a yellow cuff split from wrist to elbow. He had noticed that sleeve outside the sept. There might be no more in it than a child following a crowd that could afford to buy her goods, but she had not called to anyone. Varys had known where he went that morning.

Jon looked ahead again. He could not question every child who watched him. He could stop making it easy to learn where his people slept.

They climbed towards the Red Keep at a walk. The city was turning from the tournament to supper: shutters going up, smoke thickening above cookshops, women calling children indoors. A man at an upper window shouted that Jaime had won. Someone below asked whether Royce was dead.

"Walking when I left him," Arthur called back.

The man saluted with his cup.

Jaime found them as they crossed the yard.

He had changed out of his armour. The white cloak was back upon his shoulders, and he carried a small bundle of ribbons in one hand.

"Myrcella shed these on the stairs," he said when Robb looked. "Her Grace wishes every one recovered."

"She was pleased," Robb said.

"My sister or my niece?"

Robb hesitated. Jaime smiled and turned to Jon.

"I'll have a look at your showing hall tomorrow. After this morning, you could do with more than Marrec watching the doors."

"Marrec will take you through it."

"Early. I mean to watch the archery."

Jon agreed. Jaime tucked the ribbons inside his cloak.

"And your woman?"

"She'll be kept at the sept tonight. We're making a room ready here."

Jaime looked back across the yard towards the gate. "A room inside these walls is easier to guard than a shop."

"She had a living in the shop."

"Then she'd something to lose." He looked at Arthur. "We've heard that before."

His uncle nodded.

Jaime left them at the stair. Jon watched the white cloak pass beneath the arch towards the royal apartments, then followed his brother up.

The servants had pushed two tables together in Jon's rooms, leaving a narrow way between the benches and the wall. Cloaks lay over chair backs, still dusty from the field. The smell of roast beef made him realise how hungry he was, though the gravy had begun to congeal at the edges of the dish. A servant shifted a candle to make room for another plate while Wylla persuaded Gawen to sit where he would not have to turn his bruised side towards the door.

"Here. That chair has a back."

"So does this one."

"Then put yours against it."

He obeyed. She set a cushion behind him without asking again. Aries hurried to Jon and reached for the buckle of his sword belt. The boy's fingers were sticky. He looked at the buckle, then rubbed them hastily upon his breeches. "Cake?" Jon asked.

"Gawen brought some."

"For Wylla," Robb said.

Gawen looked up. Wylla continued arranging the plates, though a smile had appeared at the corner of her mouth.

"There was enough," she said.

"I saved a piece for Benn," Aries told her. "It's by my bed."

"Wrapped?"

"In my clean cloth." He looked towards the inner door. "The big piece. With the nuts on it."

"I'll take it when I go in the morning."

The boy nodded, then rubbed a missed patch of stickiness from his thumb. Jon let him take the belt. The dagger remained at his hip beneath his coat. It pressed against his thigh as he sat.

"Did you see the last course?" Aries asked.

"I saw you trying to climb over the rail."

"I wasn't going over. I couldn't see."

"I could see you." Gawen accepted the cup Wylla put beside him. "That was high enough."

The boy came to the table with them. When a servant began moving his place farther down, Jon stopped her. "Leave it there."

Aries sat beside him. "Lord Sunglass has asked whether his son can learn with the household," Jon told him while the meat was cut. "He'll come to the yard. You can show him where things are."

The boy looked down at his plate. "He'll know better than me."

"Not where I've left my gloves."

Aries's mouth moved. "You left them with your helm. I brought them."

"Good. I shall need them tomorrow."

Aries reached for the bread then, but stopped to look at Arthur. "I liked it when you made him a knight."

Arthur put down his cup. "So did I."

"You were smiling," Aries told Jon.

"I had wanted him to do it for a long time."

Saying it brought back the weight of the sword upon his shoulder, before Hal arrived and every pleasure of the morning seemed something he had taken while Rilla bled. He had earned the knighthood. He would not make himself ashamed of having wanted it.

Wylla reached past him for the bread. Her fingers rested briefly upon his good shoulder.

"I saw," she said.

Aries began eating. Jon watched him take a proper mouthful before asking Wylla about the sept.

She had gone back to the sept after Gawen's course. Rilla had kept down her broth. Hal was asleep beside her, and Benn had finally allowed Meriane to wash him and put him to bed. "Every time she shuts her eyes, Hal thinks she's gone," Wylla said. "She told him off at last. Said she couldn't sleep with him asking whether she was awake."

Jon could hear Rilla saying it. He hoped she would be well enough to say worse tomorrow.

"The queen's things came?"

"Bread, blankets, a mattress. Chicken enough for the little ones as well. Good stuff." Wylla glanced at him. "Her woman wanted measurements before she'd leave."

"Did she get them?"

"Some. Not Hal's. He'd only just settled, and she wanted him stood up against a wall."

Gawen stopped cutting his meat. "What did Meriane say?"

"That she'd send a shirt. The woman said it mightn't fit him properly. Meriane said then it would fit him like the one he'd got."

Theon laughed, then pressed a hand to his ribs.

Wylla did not laugh.

"She wants the names as well, Jon. To know who's being brought before the prince."

He set down his knife. At the gallery it had sounded like an order about clothes. In the sept it meant waking children and deciding whose name could safely travel through the queen's household.

"She'll have my answer tomorrow. Tell Meriane to let the maester say who is fit to go, then ask the children. The gifts can be received without everyone being paraded."

"Her woman said the queen would be displeased."

"Then let her be displeased with me."

Arthur looked at him. "Answer courteously."

"I will thank her for the gifts. They've done some good."

"Start with that."

Jon accepted the correction with a nod. He wanted the queen's food in the sept, and the queen's servants out of its bedrooms. Saying so would be easier than obtaining both.

Robb had been quiet. He began cutting a second portion of beef. "Will asked whether I was going away."

"What did you tell him?" Jon asked.

"That I'd come tomorrow. He wanted me to stay until he finished eating today. Every time I stood, he stopped."

Moll had made him sit again, he said. He described the way she drew the little boy's bowl close without making him feel someone meant to take it. He had watched her hands and waited until Will began eating before trying to leave.

"Betha asked after him when we got back," Theon said.

Robb's ears reddened.

"She said she would."

"And you remembered."

"I remembered Will."

Wylla handed Theon the gravy before he could improve upon that.

"Eat while it's warm."

It was scarcely warm, but he took it. Jon was grateful.

Vaelor arrived with Tomas and Alester before the plates were cleared. Tomas's swollen lip gave his face a lopsided appearance when he tried to smile. He held his helm beneath his arm, the broken stirrup leather threaded through its visor, while Alester carried the breastplate wrapped in Tomas's surcoat. A servant had to lift a dish from a bench before Alester could set it down.

"Ser Tallad is outside," Alester said. "About the ransom."

Jon had him brought in. The tall knight ducked beneath the lintel, thanked Wylla for a cup, and declined the place she offered until his business was done.

"Forty dragons for the horse and armour, my lord. The herald has my claim. I've left the horse with your grooms."

"The armour wants work," Vaelor said.

Tallad put down his cup and turned back the surcoat. He ran his thumb over the dent, then lifted the breastplate to examine the inside. "Your smith can beat that out. There's no split." He looked at Tomas. "Did it bruise you much?"

"Enough."

"It could have been worse. Good plate. The straps held, too." Tallad set it down carefully. "I'd have sold it easily."

"After paying to have it mended," Vaelor said.

Tomas was watching him. Jon set down the bread he had scarcely touched. "Thirty," he said. "Paid tonight."

Tallad rubbed the side of his cup. His boot had split near the toe and been sewn with coarse thread. "Thirty-two. The horse is worth twenty to a man who knows him."

Vaelor inclined his head. Perrin had come with the household money while they were eating. Jon called him from the outer room and had the sum counted upon the table. The knight checked it without embarrassment. Afterwards he accepted a plate.

"You should have let them mend it," he told Tomas.

"They were whistling."

"They whistle when they want ale too. Nobody falls off a horse to fetch it."

Tomas smiled despite his lip. Alester asked Tallad whom he served.

"No lord at present. I've no objection to service, if the wages come when they're due."

"Vaelor needs men who can teach riders," Jon said. "If you want to hear the terms, speak to him when you've finished your business here."

Tallad looked towards the captain. "How many boys?"

"Men as well," Vaelor said. "Some know horses. Some have served afoot. You'd earn the money."

The knight took a mouthful of beef and considered it. "I'd hear you."

They agreed to meet after the archery. Alester went out with Vaelor and Tallad, still asking the knight about his last service. Tomas stayed by the bench with the armour, uncertain, it seemed to Jon, whether to take it up or leave it there.

"I'll repay it," he said.

Jon had meant to watch him ride. He had come back too late. The broken leather still hung through the visor of Tomas's helm.

"Mend the saddle first." Jon pushed the bread towards him. "I won't leave you without a horse. But next time someone offers you time to make yourself safe, take it."

Tomas set the helm beside the breastplate. He pulled the broken leather free and held it in his lap as he sat, his thumb working at the torn edge.

Perrin was counting the remaining coin back into the chest when Marrec arrived with Vhalar. The sea captain leaned against the doorpost; Marrec came to take a piece of bread and heard that Jaime wanted him at the showing hall early tomorrow. "How early?"

"Before the rest of us find more work for you," Jon said.

Vhalar gave a short laugh. Jon turned towards him. "After I've heard the prisoners, I want a word with you about the yards by the river. I may need a man who knows them."

"Depends what you want him to do."

"I'll know more tomorrow."

The captain nodded. Wylla pushed Aries's cup clear of his elbow as he rubbed his eyes, then asked Marrec whether any of the women already aboard could help at the sept for a few days. Meriane had sent two sisters to another crowded house and was doing their work as well as her own.

"She had three men asking for boys today," Wylla said. "For apprentices, they said. One wouldn't tell her where his shop was. She sent him off."

"Do the other houses ask?" Jon said.

"Some do. Some are glad to have one less mouth. That's what she told me."

Marrec stopped chewing. "I'll ask the women. They'd need someone to mind their own little ones."

"Pay for that too," Jon said. "And find out what room we could make on the island, near the schools. A few children, with women to care for them."

Perrin had not yet closed the chest. "There are families still waiting for houses, my lord."

Jon had no house to offer. Across the table Wylla was breaking the crust from a piece of bread for Aries. "Meriane is still looking for kin," she said. "Laro asks every day."

"Then help her here first," Jon told Marrec. "Pay the women who can stay with them. No one is to promise a passage yet."

Perrin shut the chest. Vhalar left for his ship while Marrec asked Wylla where to send the women if he found any willing to help. Perrin carried the chest out himself.

The household thinned after that. Robb went to write to Ned, taking Theon with him to remember which blows he had actually seen and which he had merely felt. Gawen rose carefully when Wylla began gathering the plates. "Leave those," she told him.

"I can carry two plates."

"You can sit while I fetch your coat."

He sat. When she came back he caught her hand instead of reaching for the sleeve. "I'm glad you came."

"I thought you'd broken your neck."

"Only my pride."

She looked at the way he held himself. "That isn't where you're bruised."

He laughed, regretted it, and let her help him into the coat.

Aries was asleep against Jon's arm before the last of the plates went. Jon roused him gently. The boy insisted he could still help with the nightshirt. "Arthur will manage," Jon told him. "Go with Wylla."

"He doesn't know where—"

"I'll find it."

Aries looked at Arthur, unconvinced, but allowed Wylla to lead him away.

Jon began a letter to Ned, telling him of the knighthood. He wrote that Arthur had done it before the king, and read the sentence over with a pleasure he had scarcely had time to feel upon the field.

'There is nothing here to trouble you.'

He stopped. His left arm ached where Aries had slept against it. He could still see Hal gripping Rilla's jerkin, afraid to lift his face.

Jon drew a line through the reassurance. He would tell Ned what had happened, but he wanted the Hand's account before attempting the rest. He left the letter unsealed beside the ink.

Then he took the dagger from beneath his coat and laid it upon the table.

***
​

The chamber was quiet enough for Jon to hear the fire settling.

He had sent the servants away and drawn the bolt himself. Arthur stood by the table, looking at the dagger Jon had laid upon it. In the candlelight, the ripples in the steel seemed darker than they had upon the field.

"Something about Baelish?" his uncle asked.

"Perhaps nothing to do with him."

Jon turned the dragonbone hilt towards Arthur. The possibility of being wrong had kept it sheathed all evening. He remembered this blade in a child's bedchamber. He remembered it in other hands much later. Between those memories lay another image: a king beside a fire, showing his daughter words within the steel.

He had watched that story on a screen. This blade had weight.

"I think this may have belonged to Aegon," he said.

Arthur's eyes left the blade. "Which Aegon?"

"The Conqueror."

"Who told you that?"

"No one here."

Arthur held out his hand. Jon gave him the dagger. He examined the hilt first, then the blade, turning it towards the candle.

"No mark," Arthur said.

"There might be writing in the steel. If it's heated."

Arthur looked at him, then at the hearth. "You wish to put this in the fire?"

"Only the blade."

Jon fetched the tongs from beside the hearth. Arthur drew a stool close to the grate and moved the candle. "Sit, at least. Tell me what you mean to do."

Arthur wrapped a cloth around the hilt. Jon settled upon the stool and gripped the blade near its base with the tongs. He tested the purchase, then lowered the point into the heat above the coals, keeping the hilt beyond the edge of the grate. His right hand was steady. At first there was only steel, dark folds catching the red beneath them.

Arthur should have been dead. This world had already departed from the stories; the dagger might prove nothing.

The point warmed. Jon turned it slightly.

A line appeared near the centre of the blade. He leaned forward. The tongs shifted in his grip, lifting the dagger out of the heat, and for a moment the mark faded. His wrist began to ache.

"Hold it here," he told Arthur.

His uncle took the tongs and lowered the blade again. Another stroke brightened beside the first, then joined it. Jon leaned closer, trying to distinguish the marks from the dark folds of the steel.

Arthur did not move.

"Jon."

"I see it."

His mouth had gone dry. The fire snapped, and he flinched at a spark.

One word was clear now. He read it, lost his place among the ripples, and found it again.

"Blood."

Arthur turned his head. Jon could feel him watching, but kept his eyes upon the blade. He knew that word in High Valyrian; he could trace every stroke of it. His hand had closed upon the edge of the stool, and he loosened it finger by finger as more letters emerged towards the hilt. One faint stroke took longer to brighten. He waited for it, afraid of reading what he remembered into what he could actually see. From my blood. The words were following.

"What else?" Arthur asked.

Jon read the first line silently, then the next. When he tried to say them aloud, he had to begin twice.

"From my blood come the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire."

Arthur kept the blade level above the coals. "Say it again."

Jon did, more quietly. He kept his eyes upon the letters until the heat made them water.

Arthur lifted the blade clear and laid it upon the bare hearthstone. Neither of them spoke while the writing dimmed. The chamber seemed darker once it had gone.

"Rhaegar spoke of a prince," Arthur said at last. "Of what was promised. He read things he would not put aside even when other duties called."

He knelt beside the hearth, looking at the dagger without touching it. A faint white scar crossed one knuckle. Jon watched the hand hover above the steel. "Did he know about this?"

"I do not know." Arthur's voice had roughened. "He did not show it to me."

He drew his hand back from the hearthstone and rested it upon his knee. "Once, on Dragonstone, I went to fetch him for supper. He had his harp across his knees and two books open on the floor. He asked me to wait while he found a passage. I stood there long enough to hear the servants clearing the table in the next room."

Arthur was still watching the dark folds of the steel. "I asked whether the books could wait until he had eaten. He laughed and said the dead had been waiting longer than we had. Then he found what he wanted, and stopped laughing."

"What was it?"

"He would not tell me. He asked that I have another candle brought, and told me to go to supper without him." Arthur rubbed a thumb across the scar upon his knuckle. "I was angry with him. Men were waiting to speak to him, men with matters that needed settling. I thought he was hiding among his books."

Jon pictured the abandoned harp, his father finding something he would not share with his friend.

Jon rose and fetched a clean sheet from the table. He wrote the words as he remembered their shapes, leaving spaces where he was uncertain of a stroke. His wrist ached, but he steadied it upon the wood and finished the line. "We should look again before the fire dies," he said. "I want this copied correctly."

Arthur brought the dagger back to the coals. When the letters returned, Jon corrected two marks. He read the inscription a second time from the steel, then from the page. The words were the same. Arthur laid the blade upon the hearthstone again, well clear of Jon's feet.

Jon thought of a harp, of a woman dead in a tower, of children he had never known. Rhaegar's son had been named Aegon. The words could have been laid upon that child as readily as upon Jon, and the child had died before he could understand them.

"They don't tell us who," he said.

"No."

"Or when. Or what was promised."

Jon kept the pen poised above the sheet. "What became of his books?"

"Some may still be on Dragonstone. Others were here. I cannot tell you what was kept after the war."

"When we return, help me look. You might recognise one, or the hand of a man who wrote to him. We can begin with what he left there."

Arthur glanced at the sheet. "And what will you tell anyone who asks why you want them?"

"That they're old books from my castle, and I wish to read them. I won't show this to anyone else." Jon set the pen beside the sheet and returned to the stool. "If Rhaegar knew something about these words, I want to know what it was before I let them tell me how to live."

His uncle looked up at him. "You knew there would be words."

"I thought there might."

"From a dream?"

Jon could tell him about the screen, his years before Winterfell, his children. He imagined Arthur listening for the boy he knew and finding a stranger.

"Not one of the dreams I've told you about."

Arthur waited.

"I recognised it when Robert gave it to me. I wasn't certain. That's why I wanted you here."

"You have not answered me."

"No." Jon made himself look up. "I know. I don't know how to give you the rest tonight."

His uncle sat back upon his heels. He unwound the cloth from the hilt, folded it and laid it beside the tongs. "I have kept your name from men I trusted with my life," Arthur said. "I should like you to remember that when you decide what may be entrusted to me."

"I do."

"Then do not send me away with something you think will satisfy me."

Jon shook his head. He reached for the cloth, then left it where Arthur had put it. "I asked you to stay."

Arthur looked at him for a long moment. Then he rose, drew a chair beside Jon's stool and sat. His knee touched the stool.

Outside the shutter, claws scraped against the sill. Jon heard a low, familiar croak. He turned his head, and Hugin called once more, impatient with the closed wood.

Arthur opened it. Hugin flew to the chair back, three white feathers flashing, and inspected the table for food. Jon broke a little from the bread beside the candle and held it out. Hugin took it with an offended delicacy, as though this made up for very little.

His uncle watched the bird swallow. "Was this how it began with him?" he asked. "Something you knew to try?"

"Not quite." Jon rubbed a crumb between his fingers. "Some of it frightened me before I understood what was happening."

Arthur looked down at the dagger. "Does this?"

"Yes."

He had wanted the blade kept away from Bran, out of Petyr's hands. Now the writing returned whenever he closed his eyes.

Arthur laid his hand upon the back of Jon's neck, warm and steady. He had done the same after the melee, when there had been people cheering and a sword to put upon his shoulder. Jon let his head bow beneath it.

They waited for the blade to cool. Hugin worked another crumb free from the plate, dropping half of it into the rushes. Jon checked that the ink had dried and folded the sheet with the writing inside. Arthur tested the steel before passing the dagger back to him. Jon sheathed it, then carried the folded page to the small chest beside his bed. Arthur remained by the fire while he turned the key.

 

[aiwonder]

Bloodraven asked him to repeat the words.

Jon stood among the roots, still feeling the heat of the hearth upon his face. He had fallen asleep with Arthur's unanswered question troubling him. Now the old man's fingers had stopped moving upon the wood.

He recited the inscription again.

"And you saw this in the steel?"

"Arthur read it with me."

The roots creaked beneath Bloodraven's hand. Jon had seen him angry, amused, impatient. This silence was different.

"I remember another telling," Jon said. "Viserys. The first of his name. He showed that dagger to Rhaenyra."

He remembered a screen, a king beside a fire, a daughter listening. He had used that memory to find the writing. Arthur alive beside him had been reason enough to doubt whether the rest belonged to this world.

"What telling?"

"One in which Aegon's conquest began with a warning about the north."

Bloodraven leaned forward. A thin root slipped from his shoulder.

"The Conqueror?"

Jon nodded. The red eye remained upon him before Bloodraven lowered his hand to the root between them.

"Here. Follow carefully."

Jon knelt. He found his heartbeat before touching the wood.

Heat replaced the cold beneath his palm.

A brazier stood upon a stone floor. Beyond it a king in dark red watched a young woman approach. Jon recognised the dagger before he recognised either face. Its blade rested among the coals, the hilt projecting clear.

Viserys lifted it with iron tongs.

Jon knew what the girl would find before she bent towards the steel. Yet he had never heard her shoes scrape upon this floor, or smelled the wool singeing where the king's sleeve came too near the brazier. Viserys drew back impatiently and turned the dagger for her.

Rhaenyra read. The words Jon had copied emerged in her voice.

Her father spoke of Aegon, of a winter coming out of the north and a warning preserved after the king who dreamed it was dead. Each ruler was to entrust it to an heir. He spoke of the realm his daughter would inherit, and of lives beyond the quarrels of their house. Rhaenyra looked up from the dagger. For a moment she seemed younger than she had when she entered.

Jon glanced towards Bloodraven. The old man stood beside him, no roots upon his shoulders now. He had gone utterly still.

The room thinned before Jon could turn back. He tried to remain, but the warmth left his hand and the root was beneath it again.

Bloodraven's fingers curled slowly against the root.

"They knew," he said.

"Viserys told his heir. In the telling I remember, she told hers."

"And the Dance took them."

Jon thought of Rhaenyra's sons: Jacaerys, then the younger Aegon watching his mother die. Aegon Dragonbane might have inherited the crown without its warning. The secret had depended upon a parent living long enough to tell a child.

"I don't think Aegon was ever told," Jon said.

Bloodraven looked towards the darkness beyond the roots. "His successors remembered their claim well enough."

The bitterness surprised Jon more than the words.

"And forgot why the Wall mattered."

"You have no such excuse." Bloodraven's eye returned to him. "Yet you spend your days finding buyers for trinkets."

"Those trinkets will pay for ships."

"Ships sailing the wrong way."

Jon rose from his knees. "Valyria holds more than gold. Books, steel, things no living smith knows how to make. What I bring back could give me the strength to do more than send a few wagons north."

He wanted that strength for himself as well. Dragonstone would not remain a poor island waiting upon the king's favour. He would not pretend otherwise to a man who had once ruled through kings.

"I need men and ships to reach it," he continued. "Men expect wages. Ships need stores. The cups will buy them."

"The voyage is folly."

"You showed me how a king died."

"And you thought of what he left behind." Bloodraven shifted against the roots. "Poisoned water. Broken ground. Creatures that survived what killed their masters. Do you think every danger there has a mind you can enter?"

Jon remembered the wound Balerion had brought home, and the girl who had returned with him. He had no answer for what had been inside her.

"None of the men whose voyages I have read were wargs."

"None you have read of."

"I can look before my men land. Find a way through places a man cannot enter. And if the firewyrms still live—"

Bloodraven's mouth tightened.

"You would try to take one."

"If I could. Or something in the sea large enough to threaten a galley. Imagine what I could do with such a creature when the time comes."

"Imagine finding your way out of it."

Jon remembered water rising inside a carriage, the desperate search for his own hand.

"That is why I need you to teach me."

"Five small birds," Bloodraven said. "And a hawk among them can leave you bleeding in your own chamber. You speak of firewyrms as though you have only to choose one."

Jon's first answer rose hot. He swallowed it. The old man had seen the failure.

"Then give me something harder."

"Keep what you have. Send them farther apart. Bring one home while the others remain where you put them. Learn to release a frightened bird before its fear takes all of you."

Bloodraven waited until Jon met his eye.

"Every day. Before you ask for something larger."

"I will."

"And the Wall?"

Jon rubbed the palm that had rested upon the root. "I will write to Benjen. Ask what can reach Eastwatch by sea, and what they need first."

"Ask soon."

"I am still going to Valyria."

The roots stirred. Bloodraven watched him until the cave was gone.

Jon woke with his good hand gripping the blanket. He lay listening to the household wake beyond his door, then rose to find a clean sheet. He wrote his uncle's name and began with the ships.

***
​

Hugh, Lord Arryn's squire, found them on the stair and took them straight into the solar.

Janos Slynt was already there.

He stood before the Hand's table with his helm beneath one arm, explaining why six men ought to be hanged. Robb stopped just inside the door. Petyr Baelish moved a chair for him.

"The nephew of the woman whose shop burned," Slynt was saying. "Some of them threatened him, my lord. Before the fire."

"You have Pell?" Jon asked.

Slynt turned. "We have six of Borran the butcher's men. A dangerous crew. My men took clubs and a slaughtering axe from them."

"I asked about Pell."

"Sit, Jon," Arryn said.

The shutters stood open behind him. Breakfast smoke hung over the roofs below, and a carpenter was sawing in the yard. Stannis stood at the window with his hands clasped behind his back.

Jon sat. That morning Wat had tried to close his fingers upon the blanket. Two had bent. He had asked Jon to find the knife he had lost in Rilla's shop, then looked down at the fingers that would not move.

"Will I be able to hold one?"

Jon had promised to look. About the hand he could promise nothing.

Arryn asked after him now. Jon gave the maester's answer and watched Slynt while he did it.

"Your serjeant Longwaters found a witness," Arryn told the commander. "The neighbour who helped at the fire. He names Pell."

"Longwaters should have brought him to his captain."

"He brought him to Ser Androw. The man was afraid to return home."

"They are always afraid when asked to stand by what they say."

Stannis turned from the window. "A shop has been burned with people inside it. He has reason."

Slynt lowered his eyes, but his fingers tightened on the helm.

Arryn looked at Jon. "The neighbour saw Pell enter the yard with another man. He knew him from the collections in that street. Your woman Rilla has named him too."

Rilla had offered Pell her till. He had knocked it aside and told her she should have taught Hal to keep quiet.

"He wanted the street to see what came of helping us," Jon said. "Arresting six of Borran's men only helps Pell and the men who back him."

"Helps him?" Slynt's chin rose. "The butcher's men have broken heads in those lanes for years. You would have me leave them to it?"

"Charge them for the heads they broke. Who says they burned this shop?"

No one answered at once. Petyr lifted the wine jug and offered it round. Slynt accepted; Jon did not.

"If we wait for every frightened neighbour to find his courage, we may wait a long time," Petyr said. "The commander can at least keep the streets quiet."

"By clearing them for Pell?"

"By making it unpleasant to carry a club through them. Your own showing will bring a good many purses down the hill tomorrow. I had hoped to send you customers who still possessed them."

The smile was easy. Jon knew the man behind it; he did not yet know which of these men belonged to him. Slynt could be bought, but that did not make every arrest an order from Littlefinger.

Arryn set down his pen.

"The six will be heard separately. Androw will hear the fire witness again. Until then, no one hangs for this burning."

Slynt bowed. "And the brewery prisoners, my lord? My officers know these men. Give them to us and we will find their master."

"Your officers were at the brewery," Stannis said. "I am still waiting to hear why the children required rescuing by boys."

Slynt began an answer. Arryn stopped it.

"They remain here. You will find Pell, commander. You will also explain why Longwaters was sent away from the shop."

"There were carts blocking the road—"

"In writing. You may go."

Slynt bowed again, lower this time. His glance passed over Jon on the way to the door.

Petyr waited until Hugh had shut it before drawing a folded sheet from his book.

"There is a name for your other fugitive. Dennet. The man in the brown coat."

Varys's informant had followed that man from the brewery to a wine undercollector's house behind the weighhouse. He had escaped before Androw got there. Jon had searched the roofs through Munin's eyes and found nothing.

"The collector knows him?"

"His clerk does. He says Dennet owes him silver and came to beg more time. Here is the debt."

Jon left the paper on the table. "He ran from a house full of stolen children to ask for more time?"

"That is what the clerk says," Petyr replied.

"Then he went to someone he expected would help him."

Petyr slid the paper towards Arryn.

Arryn passed the sheet to Stannis. "Androw will hear the servants before deciding what to believe. You recommended the undercollector, Petyr. Send Stannis the letter."

"Gladly."

The name was worth trying on the prisoners. The debt explained nothing yet. Jon returned to the man whose guilt Rilla could speak to.

"I want to go with Androw. My man was carrying out my orders when Pell hurt him. I will take part in finding him."

"You were forbidden to go into that brewery."

"And now I am asking you."

Arryn regarded him across the table. "You have men protecting a sept and a burned shop. How many more streets can you hold?"

"I don't mean to hold the streets."

"The men you drive out will not leave them empty. Remember that when another fellow offers to help you."

Jon had seen defeated captains make useful allies of their conquerors. He had seen them settle old quarrels under a new banner, too.

"Then let me see who is offering. My man Vhalar knows people on the river. They may speak to him when they would shut a door on a gold cloak. I can give Androw eight men, with Gawen to lead them."

"Your pirate." Arryn glanced at Arthur. "And you would answer for what he promises?"

"He has no leave to promise pardons. Nor have I."

"No. You have not." The Hand drew a clean sheet towards him. "You may hear the prisoners. You may accompany Androw, or a man he appoints. Your eight are under his command. Arrests are his to make."

"If we find more children—"

"Get them out. I am not asking you to watch them suffer." Arryn's voice hardened. "Some of the men who offer to help will want you to settle their quarrels. Hear them before you commit yourself."

Jon inclined his head. "I understand."

"We shall see. Arthur, stay with him."

"I will, my lord."

While Arryn sealed the order, Petyr laid the goldsmith's petition beside his book. The promised wine duties still needed the Hand's seal. Petyr asked Hugh to remind the Hand about the petition, then inquired whether Marrec, Jon's steward, needed anything for the showing.

"Ser Jaime is looking over the hall with him."

"Good. Send to me if Marrec needs anything."

Robb rose with Jon. Arryn called them back long enough to tell them to write to Ned that day. Robb said he had chosen to go to the brewery; the old lord's face softened.

"Then tell him so. He was much the same when he thought a thing ought to be done."

Ser Androw, the Hand's knight, waited at the foot of the stair with a lamp. He read the order, sent word to Vaelor about the eight men and tucked the parchment into his belt.

"Come," he said. "Before Slynt finds another six."

***
​

The light lasted farther down than Jon expected.

Narrow openings high in the first passage admitted pale bars of it. A prisoner had pushed a handful of straw into one such patch and was sorting it, stalk by stalk, with the absorption of a man choosing seed. Somewhere behind the doors another man sang the same half-line over and over, forgetting the end each time.

The chief undergaoler, Rennifer Longwaters, met them beside a table crowded with bowls. He was bent through the shoulders, his coat worn shiny at the elbows, but the fastening at his throat was polished. Before Androw could set down his lamp, the old man covered a stain with a clean cloth.

"Your five are here. The wounded ones have been seen." His eyes rested on Jon. "My nephew spoke of you."

"Alyn helped us."

"He told me." Pride warmed his voice. "He tells me the parts in which he thinks he behaved well. I usually have to find the rest myself."

Theon gave a quiet snort. Rennifer looked at him, then went to fetch Orrel.

The man came without his knife. The wrist Jon had cut lay bandaged across his belly; he kept turning his missing ear away from Arthur. He inspected the stool before sitting, shifted until its short leg settled and gripped the edge with his good hand.

Androw waited for the door to close.

"Pell burned the woman's shop."

Orrel looked at Jon.

"Pell wasn't with us."

"No. He was burning a shop. Where will he go now?"

"How should I know?" Orrel turned his stool a little, giving Androw his uninjured side.

"Because you collect for the same man."

"I kept a door. Harrold paid me."

Jon laid the brewery keys on the table. Orrel watched them without moving his head.

"You kept children behind it," Jon said. "Harrold is dead. Who will Pell take the pennies to?"

"I never took pennies off anyone."

"The water-carrier calls you Penny Men."

"Little shits call us that. They run quick enough after."

Robb's chair scraped. Jon touched his knee beneath the table; his brother sat back, breathing through his nose.

Androw leaned his elbows on the table.

"Who gets the money, Orrel?"

"Ser Cadwyn." The answer came reluctantly. "That's his name. Now you've got it."

"Where is he?"

"He doesn't tell me where he sleeps."

Orrel looked towards the door. Arthur had not moved.

"Pell brings him the fighting money. Door silver, his share of the wagers. That's what Harrold said." Orrel pulled at his bandage. "Cadwyn hires all the swords he wants. We got paid after. Then Harrold took back coin for food, for drink, for a pallet that stank of piss. I bloody owed him by the time he'd finished counting."

"What does he hire them for?"

"Whatever wants doing."

"Burning shops?"

Orrel looked away. Androw let the silence lengthen.

"There's lads been with him since he had three rooms over a winesink," Orrel said. "Pell's one. Then there's swords come in for the tourney, men off ships. Paid by the night. They don't ask where the silver's from."

"And you?" Jon asked.

"I'm still here, aren't I? They've likely spent theirs and gone."

There was the grievance beneath his fear. He had a wounded wrist, dead companions and a master who had found silver for strangers.

"Has he always hired so many?"

"No." Orrel rubbed his upper lip against his shoulder. "Used to borrow a sword when he needed one. Now Pell comes back with purses. Says we're having the river next."

"The river belongs to someone else?"

"Try taking a boat down there without paying Nessa."

Androw glanced at Jon, then back at the prisoner. "Tell him who she is."

"Why? So he can go chop her up as well?"

"So we know whether Pell will run to her."

That drew a laugh. Orrel stopped when it jarred his wrist.

"He'd best take more than a purse. She had two of his lads stripped and thrown off her stair. Kept their clothes. The Eelmen were wearing them next day."

Jon had heard the name along the river. Until now it had meant little more to him than boatmen who knew where to avoid a toll.

"She commands them?"

"Enough of them. Boats, knives, men that'll open a lighter while its crew's ashore drinking. You lose a cargo down there, her people offer to find it. Sometimes they even let you buy it back."

"Only stolen goods?"

Orrel scratched at the edge of his bandage. "Wine a man bought honest enough. Silk. Little jars worth more than the boat carrying them. Bring it ashore where the king doesn't get his piece, there's more to share. Nessa's lads do the rowing."

"And Cadwyn wants that trade."

"Wants all of it." Orrel shifted his bandaged wrist. "So does she. Don't let her tell you different."

Androw drew the keys away from the edge. "The butcher's men were taken this morning. Do they shelter Pell?"

Orrel's face brightened before he remembered where he sat.

"Borran? He'd shelter him in a meat barrel."

"You know the man?" Jon asked.

"Everyone knows Borran. Red Aprons, they call his lads. Not all butchers, mind. There's some couldn't gut a rabbit. Good with a stick when a cart goes down the wrong lane."

Jon remembered the meat that had failed to reach Rilla. What had seemed a quarrel with one supplier was part of something larger.

"What does the wrong lane cost?"

"First time, your load. After that, ask the carter." Orrel looked towards the door. "You've took six, you say?"

"The commander has," Androw said. "We are asking about Pell."

"Then go ask Borran. He'd give you half a dozen places to look. Have your lads open the doors, his lads follow after. You'll do well together."

Arthur moved his hand from his belt. Orrel's gaze followed it, and the grin disappeared.

"Borran sends us after Pell," Jon said. "We clear the way, and his own lads move in."

Orrel shrugged. "You asked where Pell might go."

Jon could use the prisoner's account without letting Borran choose their targets.

"Who else could hide Pell?"

"Merys. If there's silver in it."

"Another collector?"

"Mistress Merys. Lanterns." He looked incredulous, then caught himself. "Pleasure houses. Gaming rooms. Other people's silver passes through a lot of hands in there. She takes some off every one."

Theon had stopped leaning back in his chair.

"She owns all the brothels?"

"All? Gods, no. She'd like to. A house won't take her guards, it gets a visit from lads who haven't paid for a woman in their lives. Then she offers again."

"Would she hide Pell?" Jon brought him back.

"She'd hide you if you paid."

"And Pell has her price?"

"Pell's been paying her lads to leave her. He offers more. Some took it." Orrel looked down at his wrist. "Plenty of coin for them."

Jon asked where the extra money came from.

Orrel shook his head. "I don't sit at his table."

Jon could now put people behind what he had seen: the stopped meat cart, the paid landings, a frightened shopkeeper choosing which man to offend. Borran, Nessa and Merys had held pieces of the city long enough to know one another's weaknesses. Cadwyn was buying his way between them. Each would be happy to see Jon break a rival's power, and ready to take what was left.

He wanted those streets himself, one day. A crown would not make a ferryman loyal or tell him which gate a bought watchman would open. Men in this city had let a conquering army through before. If he returned to claim it, he meant to have people waiting who owed their place to him.

Wat's ruined hand was the reason he sat here this morning. The children still missing could not wait upon a king's distant ambitions. But finding them would take him into houses and lanes he would otherwise never have entered. He meant to learn who held them.

Androw tried the name Dennet. Orrel knew the little fellow in the brown coat; Harrold had called him that. Orrel would say no more of Dennet's business. Asked where the hired men went for their money, he named a winesink Androw had already found deserted.

When he returned to blaming Harrold, Androw had him taken away.

The next prisoner was worse hurt than Orrel. He pressed a folded cloth against a wound in his thigh while he cursed the men who had promised his wages. Pell had sent him down to a wine boat at the fish quay below the Mud Gate. The boatman sent him to a winesink; the man there told him Pell had gone back aboard. He had spent half a day chasing his own silver. He gave Androw the names of both places, then the boatman's crooked nose and the words he would have said to him if he had dared.

As he rose, blood ran from beneath the cloth. Rennifer stopped him, sent for the maester's man and refused to bring another prisoner until someone came. Jon was grateful for the wait. He had imagined enjoying this morning. The imagined men had never needed help crossing a room.

The next two yielded little. One asked for a septon. The other denied seeing children come off a boat before Androw had asked him about any. Androw pressed him about the boat, but got only the same denial.

Then they brought in Gedd, the driver.

He rubbed the cracked leather guard upon his wrist. "I've told you where I hired the cart. Ask the owner."

"We have," Androw said. "Now tell us what you carried up from the river."

Gedd's hand stopped.

"I carried what was put on."

Jon remembered the crying behind him in the dark. "You knew what was inside those barrels."

"I never put them there."

"You drove."

"Aye, I drove. That was the hire." Gedd looked from Jon to the Hand's knight. "Not like them others. I've got my own work."

"You took their money."

"It was twice what I get for a day. They never said anything about children when I took it."

Androw waited. The leather creaked between Gedd's fingers.

"I'd carried for them before," he said at last. "Wine. Cloth. Ask anyone."

The earlier loads had come across the Blackwater in shallow boats. Pell wanted a cart at the fish quay below the Mud Gate and no questions about why the goods had missed the king's collectors. Once a wet bolt of blue cloth had fallen open. Gedd remembered being charged for it.

"And the children?"

Gedd bent his wrist guard until the leather whitened. "Same quay. Pell was there. They lifted the barrels off the boat and I took them to the brewery."

"You heard them."

"One cried when they lowered him. Pell hit the lid." His fingers stopped moving. "I knew then."

Gedd had heard the child before he took the reins. He had driven them up the hill for twice his usual hire. Jon waited until Gedd looked at him again.

"Which boat?"

"Tarred. Low in the water. Had wine casks in her as well. The man with the bent nose took my cart rope and wouldn't give it back."

The prisoner with the wounded leg had cursed the same nose. Androw asked about other loads, other men. Gedd had seen boats come from the opposite bank, and others from farther downriver. He did not know where they had loaded. Pell's men met them, paid some of the rowers and took the goods away in carts. The boats changed. The brewery had been the destination for the children on his cart, not for all that came ashore.

Jon pushed the charcoal towards him.

"Show us where the cart stood."

Gedd drew badly but remembered the post that caught a wheel, a shed where fish baskets were mended and the steps below it. It gave them somewhere to begin looking for the crooked-nosed boatman. Jon asked whether there were still children there.

"I don't know. I haven't been back since I took that load."

"You needn't fear Pell here," Theon said.

Gedd stared at him. "My wife's still out there."

The charcoal lay still in his fist.

"She sells onions by the fish market. I wasn't to tell anyone where we loaded. Pell said it twice. Second time he bought onions off her."

Jon looked at the drawing. Pell moved goods and children through that landing, and kept a hired driver quiet by threatening his wife. The wife's stall would be easier to find than Pell himself.

"Give Androw her name and somewhere she can go," he said.

"You'll leave her out of it?"

"She is already in it. We can put a man at her door."

Gedd glanced at the knight, who nodded.

"That will not pardon you," Jon added. "But she did not drive the cart."

The man bent over the table and began to speak quietly.

Outside, Androw sent one man to find her and another to the fish quay. The man bound for the quay was to take two companions, keep out of sight and look for Pell or the crooked-nosed boatman. If they found children, they were to bring them out at once. Androw would follow.

Robb stood with his back against the sun-warmed wall.

"I'm going to the sept."

"Take Martyn," Jon said. "I will come after Rilla's shop."

Theon watched him leave. "Does he mean to tell Will what Gedd said?"

"No."

"Good." He rubbed his face. "I thought I wanted to see those men afraid."

"You did."

"I still do. I wish it felt better."

Arthur rested a hand briefly between his shoulders. Androw folded Gedd's drawing and asked Jon where his pirate might be found.

***
​

Vhalar was in the yard behind the household's lodgings, showing Perrin the rotten heart of a cheap rope. Grey dust fell between his thumbs. Perrin, who helped with Jon's accounts, stared at it, then told the waiting seller to take it away.

The former pirate stopped arguing when he saw Androw.

Jon took him aside. "Do you know a woman on the river called Nessa?"

Vhalar looked from him to the knight. "Who told you that name?"

"One of the brewery men. He says she has reason to hate their master."

"She's got reasons enough. You needn't borrow his."

"I want to speak to her."

Vhalar rubbed his wrist where the irons had sat. "Then let me ask first. She won't thank me for bringing swords to her door."

"Ask. We are looking for children, and any way they might have been taken off by water. Promise nothing else."

Androw showed him Gedd's drawing of the fish quay. Vhalar studied the drawing, then asked which way the boats had come. Androw told him what little they knew. Vhalar went for his boots. Jon sent a man to find Gawen, then rode downhill towards Rilla's shop.

There were already men at Rilla's shop.

Two stood inside the burned doorway. Another sat upon an upturned tub outside, a cudgel across his knees. Across the lane a man had the eel seller by her wrist. He was prising a copper penny from her closed fist.

"Tell him yourself, then. Tell him you don't want us."

The woman looked past him at Jon's riders. The man released her. He put the penny on her stall and stepped back as though he had merely been buying something.

Ser Gawen Stone, captain of Jon's household guard, dismounted beside the tub.

"Move."

The seated man looked towards the butcher's shop. Three men came out of it, leaving their dice on the block. The butcher followed more slowly. He had washed his hands and changed into a brown coat that strained across his shoulders. Two rings sat deep in the flesh of one finger.

"Let the knight through," he said.

The man took his cudgel and rose. He left the tub where it was. Gawen kicked it against the wall.

"Borran?" Jon asked.

The butcher's eyes narrowed at hearing his name. Then he bowed, adequately and without haste.

"My lord. Thought we'd keep an eye on her shop while she's away."

"Who sent for you?"

"Nobody had to. Rilla's bought meat off me for years."

Androw came round Jon's horse. Borran's gaze caught on the Hand's knight.

"There's a man in this street took a knife for her yesterday," Borran said to Jon. "Yours. I heard about it. I'd sooner not see another shop burnt."

"What did you ask her neighbour for?"

Borran glanced at the eel seller. She had begun turning her eels, silver bellies outward. The penny remained on the board beside her knife.

"My lads'll stay after yours go. They have to eat."

"She had not agreed."

"She was thinking on it."

Androw went over to the stall. The man who had gripped the woman's wrist retreated towards the butcher's shop. Borran watched the knight speak to her, his mouth settling into a straight line.

Jon dismounted. Arthur took the reins before the pull could jar Jon's injured shoulder.

"You saw Pell was gone and came to collect in his place."

"Pell'll come back. That's what you ought to be worrying about."

"I am."

"Then let us stand here." Borran lowered his voice. "My lads know his face. Know his friends, too. Your men won't know who's walking past till there's a torch through the window."

It was a useful offer, and Jon could see its price in the penny beside the eel seller's knife. The neighbours were watching him now. They would remember whether he accepted.

"They can watch your shop. Rilla has my protection."

"And the rest?"

"They are not yours to charge for it."

Borran's jaw worked. One of his younger men stepped forward.

"My brother's in the barracks. Them others walk about with purses full. We can't even stand outside our own—"

"Hold your tongue," Borran said.

"You heard what he said," the young man protested.

The butcher turned fully towards him. The young man stepped back.

Androw returned from the stall. "No one here has hired your guards. Take them away."

"You going to leave some of yours?"

"I am leaving a man who will hear if you return for payment."

Borran looked up the street. A few shops away two gold cloaks were watching from beside a bakehouse. Neither had approached. He seemed to take their presence as an answer of a different sort.

"Those won't hear it," he said quietly.

Borran was threatening the neighbours, but he was right about the watchmen. Jon wondered how much Slynt had been paid to take six of Borran's men that morning, and how much he would ask to let them out.

"Where would Pell go?" he asked.

Borran rubbed one of his rings. "I've people could ask. They'd want to know the asking was worth their while."

"Tell me your price."

"You get him. I keep his lads out of this street. Nobody comes down from the castle to trouble mine."

Androw's expression did not change. Jon answered before he could.

"You do not buy a street with one man."

"Wasn't selling you a man. I'd have to find him first."

"Then find him. If what you bring helps us take him, you will be paid for that."

The butcher considered it. Somewhere beyond the shops a pig began squealing, long and indignant.

"Silver's useful," he said. "Doesn't stop a sword."

At the stall, the eel seller pushed the penny into the gutter with her knife. Borran saw her do it. She did not look up.

Borran called the man with the cudgel away from Rilla's door. Another man emerged from the shop carrying an unbroken length of her counter. Gawen took hold of the other end and stopped him.

"I put that in for her," the man said. He looked past Gawen at Jon. "How badly is she hurt?"

"She's awake. The maester is tending her."

The man let out a breath. "Did she ask for me?"

"Corren. Leave it," Borran said.

Corren dropped his end, leaving Gawen to catch its weight, and went back to the butcher's shop. The others followed him.

Jon went inside Rilla's shop. Sour water and burned wool caught at his throat. The stair sagged above a fallen shelf. Copper pennies lay in the dirt beneath it, too little money for Pell to stoop for while the house burned.

"Wat's knife may be in this rubble," Jon told Gawen. "Look while you clear it."

Jon's men borrowed a ladder from the next yard. Jon saw the split in the surviving beam before the first man climbed and made Gawen move the ladder from the broken stair to the sound wall beside it. He had built houses with better timber in another life. A burned one could still hide the thing that would kill you.

"A box beneath her bed," he said. "And the quilt, if any of it remains."

He waited below while plaster rattled down from the upper room. Arthur kept him back from the ladder. In the street Androw spoke to the two gold cloaks. They claimed orders to watch the butcher's door. They had heard no complaint from the eel seller.

The box came first, its clasp bent but its lid shut. Gawen wrapped it in sacking. The quilt followed, dripping black water. One corner had burned through; the yellow patch survived. Jon caught its weight in his good arm, turned, and felt a sharp pull through the injured shoulder.

Arthur caught the other side.

"Let the man carry it."

Jon let go. They found a bent hook and a blackened spoon beneath the counter, but no knife.

Androw left one of his men at the corner and went on towards the fish quay with Gawen and four household guards. The rest of the eight would join them when Vaelor sent them.

Jon rode to the sept with Arthur and Theon. The wet quilt had been tied behind Arthur's saddle. Jon looked back once. The butcher's men were playing again, but the man who had sat outside Rilla's door was watching the guard at the corner.

***
​

At the sept, Jon's page Aries had eaten the crumbs.

He admitted it as soon as Jon saw the empty cloth. Benn sat beside him on the step, keeping his damaged hand in his lap. With the other he was trying to fold the cloth back into the same small square.

"The big bit was his," Aries said.

"He gave me the nut," Benn added, as if that settled the matter.

"Then I have no complaint."

Aries looked up at Jon's sleeve. "You're black."

"I was already black."

"With soot." He stood and began brushing it off, which transferred most of it to his own hands. "Wylla said not to let you go into the burnt part."

Arthur passed him a clean cloth. "He stayed below it."

"That is worse," Aries said, with Wylla's certainty.

Jon could hear her laughing somewhere inside. He left the boys to their folding and followed the sound.

Rilla had been helped into a chair. Hal knelt on the floor before her, both hands on the knees of his breeches. He had been telling her something that ended as Jon entered; the guilty speed with which he shut his mouth suggested it was worth hearing.

The box was placed in her lap. For a moment she did not touch it.

"The clasp's bent," Jon said. "Gawen says he can—"

"Leave it."

She worked the little tongue sideways with her nail. It came free. She lifted the lid only far enough to look inside, then shut it again and laid both palms upon it.

Wylla took the wet quilt from Arthur. The scorched corner hung down in a ragged point.

"The burnt edge can come off," Wylla said. "There's enough left to hem."

Rilla touched the yellow patch. A blackened thread came off on her finger.

"That yellow. I told my sister it was an ugly bit when she sewed it in."

Hal leaned to see. "It's not that ugly."

"Try it with a sore head." Rilla rubbed the thread between finger and thumb. "Mind you leave it in, though."

Wylla folded the damaged corner underneath. "I'll work round it."

Jon had meant to tell her about Borran. Instead he sat while Hal described how their neighbour's cat had escaped through a chimney and come out white with ash. Rilla said the creature had always been a fool. She asked twice whether the neighbour had taken it in.

When Wylla sent Hal to fetch water, Jon waited until the boy was outside.

"Corren asked after you," Jon said. "He tried to take your counter. Said he put it in."

Her thumb stopped upon the clasp. "I paid him for that."

"He wanted to know whether you'd asked for him."

Rilla glanced at Wylla, then bent over the box. "Did he send you to ask me that?"

"No. How do you know him?"

She worked at the clasp, though it was already shut. Colour had risen in her cheeks.

"Corren lived with me once," she said at last. "There. Now you know." She looked towards the door. Hal was still outside with the water. "Then he took to Borran's work. Called it collecting debts. Then he wanted Hal to watch for gold cloaks while he did it. I put him out."

Jon drew his stool closer. "Has he come back?"

"To say who'd keep the shop safe without him."

"Did Borran send him?"

"He never said. Corren says plenty for himself." She took her hand from the clasp. "Pell burned my house, my lord. I saw him. Don't let this fool take you from that."

"I won't. But Androw should hear about Corren's threats."

"Tell him, then. And leave my counter where it is. I'll need it."

The maester would permit her to be carried to the castle that evening if the sickness did not return. Jon told her the room was ready. She asked whether Hal could sleep in it too and whether the door had a latch of its own.

Wylla answered both questions before he could.

Outside, Robb sat with Will between his knees. He had found two smooth pebbles and was making them vanish in his fist. Will had begun to grasp the trick and kept seizing the wrong hand before Robb could move it. Moll watched with open contempt for the performance, but when Robb offered her the stones she took them.

"You're doing it too slow."

She demonstrated. Will missed the movement entirely and stared into her empty palm.

Robb looked up at Jon. The colour had returned to his face.

"Betha sent these." He nodded towards a little bag of apples beside the bench. "I told her he likes the sweet ones."

"Does he?"

"He likes the ones Moll has tasted."

Moll had already bitten into an apple and was holding it out to Will. Neither looked at the grown boys.

Jon left Robb there until Martyn reminded him of the hour. Before they went, Septa Meriane took Jon aside. She had the queen's message, two lengths of measuring string and a list of what the children still needed.

"We can take their measures here, my lord," she said. "They needn't be led before the court for that."

"Would any wish to go?"

"Ask Hal and he'll tell you yes. He's watching for what you want, that boy. It doesn't mean he wants to go."

Jon looked through the open door. Hal was trying to pour water without spilling any on his aunt's lap.

"And the others?"

"Two have asked whether the queen's men will take back the bedding if they stay."

He pressed his lips together. Meriane's expression warned him away from the answer he first wanted to send.

"I know," he said. "Her gifts have helped."

"They have, my lord. Thank her for them. She ought to hear that much."

He asked whether she would receive the gifts for the children, if the queen allowed it. Meriane glanced towards the room. She would need women she could trust to stay with them. Marrec was looking for help, Jon told her; he would send his thanks and the maester's advice to the queen, and ask her to spare the children a public appearance. Their names need not be read before the court either. Meriane agreed to have the measurements ready for the queen's seamstress.

At Meriane's little table, Jon wrote his thanks before asking the queen's indulgence. Arthur waited beside the door. When Meriane had heard the message, she nodded once.

"That you can send."

He sent it back with the man who had brought the queen's message.

By the time they reached the archery field, a marshal was calling Theon's name.

He swore, took his bow from Martyn and went through the rope with his belt still unfastened. Robb called after him. Theon waved without looking back, felt the buckle knock against his thigh and hastily closed it.

The crowd laughed. Theon bowed to them as though he had intended it.

Jon found a place beneath the edge of a striped awning. The grass had been trampled flat around the shooting line, but beyond it the field ran green and empty to the butts. Boys waited at either side with baskets for the arrows. A gust pushed through the awnings and sent a great ripple across the royal pavilion; every archer on the line looked up.

Jon watched the men as much as the targets. He had bowmen on Dragonstone, but too few to form the unit he wanted. Here were men who might help him raise it.

The marshal reminded the archers that only their closest arrow would count in each round.

Theon's first shafts were good. His left arm held steadily, the bow canted a little, his face emptied of its usual performance. When he drew, Jon saw the slight hitch where his bruised ribs caught him. It did not spoil the release.

At the first calling of the marks he remained. At the second, more men stepped back through the rope, some shrugging, some arguing with friends who had bet on them. Theon stayed beside his marker.

Robb began to grin.

"He will make us hear of this for a year."

"Only a year?"

Ser Harras Harlaw stood a few places away. He had found shade but did not seem to care whether he kept it. When Jon greeted him he answered courteously and returned his attention to Theon.

The boys moved the markers back.

At the longer distance a common bowman with a sun-reddened nose began drawing the crowd's eye. His clothes had no badge, and he had tied one sleeve tight with a piece of string. After every shot he bent to choose another arrow, turning it between his fingers before setting it to the string.

A marshal called him Anguy, of the Dornish Marches. By the next round the men behind Jon were betting on him against Ser Balon Swann.

At a hundred paces only six remained. The marshal called their names again: Swann, Jalabhar Xho, Anguy, Theon Greyjoy, Notch and Kyle. Notch was thin and stooped, with grey hair and a longbow nearly his own height. Kyle had brought only six arrows. He waited for the boys to return them, checking each shaft before it went back into his quiver.

Swann's first shot brought cheers from the stormlanders. Kyle put his almost as close, then sent the next wide. Notch drew slowly and held until a shout from the ropes made him lower the bow. He waited for quiet and began again. His three shafts landed close together, though none matched Swann's best. Theon rolled his shoulder once and stopped when he saw Harras watching.

Jon could scarcely distinguish the marks in the targets. The flight of the arrows showed more clearly, little dark strokes rising and falling against the pale sky. He found himself leaning with Theon's second shot as if it might be helped the last few inches.

The fringe of the awning fell still. The bow kicked, and Theon's mouth tightened.

Theon looked at the royal stand. Robert was drinking from a cup, speaking to Renly; neither was looking his way. Theon faced the target again and took his time over the next arrow.

When the bows were lowered and the boys ran out to the butts, Jon listened for the marks. Theon's second shaft had struck well outside the first. The last was better, but even his closest arrow lay outside the three leading marks. The marshal called Swann, Xho and Anguy to remain.

Theon came away while the judges compared the marks of the remaining men. Robb reached for his shoulder, thought better of it and caught his forearm instead.

"I could barely see the damned thing," Robb said.

"You shoot as though you can barely see it at forty paces."

"There he is," Robb said, relieved.

Theon's grin lasted until he saw Harras. Then he shifted the bow to his other hand.

"I pulled the second."

"I saw."

"I had the wind wrong."

Harras looked towards the target. "You held against it after it had dropped. The last was well judged."

Theon waited for more. The knight took Theon's remaining arrow and ran a thumb along its fletching.

"Your mother asked if you still shot."

"When?"

"Before I sailed."

For once Theon seemed unable to choose a reply. Harras handed back the arrow.

"Tell her what you have done. She need not hear of you only when you win."

Theon lowered his head over the feathers. "I will write tonight."

Harras nodded as if this were an ordinary arrangement, and turned to watch the final shots. Jon was grateful to him for that.

Notch and Kyle had gone out in the same round as Theon. Kyle went to examine the butts; Notch stayed by the rope, his bow across his feet. Neither had a purse to collect. Jon asked Martyn to learn where they were lodging before they left.

The last contest belonged to Anguy, Swann and Jalabhar Xho. Robert set down his cup. Even the men selling ale fell quiet when Swann lifted his bow.

The marshal called Swann ahead after the first arrow. His second did not improve his mark. Xho's went closer, though the judges took their time measuring before they called it. Men craned beneath the awning. Xho watched without moving, green and scarlet feathers stirring at his shoulders. When the marshal announced his lead, the prince permitted himself a smile.

Anguy loosed his second shot. The nearer judge bent to measure, raised his wand and called back to the line.

"Anguy leads!" the marshal cried.

Swann stepped back from his marker to let the marcher pass. Anguy acknowledged him with a hurried nod; he was already looking down the field again. There was one arrow left to each man.

Swann loosed first. A shout went up from his friends, cut short when the judge signalled that his earlier mark was better. Xho took longer. He lowered his bow before the boys reached the butt. The judge called his last arrow high; Anguy's mark still stood.

Anguy could have left his final shaft unshot. Robert called for him to loose it anyway. The marcher looked towards the royal pavilion, grinned, and returned to the line.

He waited while a boy ran clear, drew and loosed.

For a moment he stood squinting down the field. Then the judge raised his wand, calling the arrow closer still. Anguy smiled so widely that Jon could see it from beneath the awning.

Robert's laugh carried over the applause. The king called for the winner and the prize. Men pressed towards the rope, offering cups and shouting Anguy's name. A marshal had to clear a path for him to the royal pavilion.

Theon applauded with his bow tucked under his arm.

Xho came away from the field carrying his own bow. Jon stopped him to ask whether he knew other bowmen who might be willing to teach on Dragonstone.

"In my own country, many," the prince said. "Help me return there and I could bring you men."

"I can offer wages. I cannot give you an army."

"The king can. He listens to you."

Jon glanced towards the pavilion. Robert was clapping Anguy on the shoulder while the marshal held out the prize.

"He has given me leave to sell salt," Jon said. "I have no promise of his swords."

Xho's face closed. "Nor have I." He inclined his head and went to join the king. Jon watched him go, wishing he could have offered something without making a promise he could not keep.

Domeric Bolton came round the awning with a cup for Theon.

"Come riding with us when we get back to Winterfell," Domeric said. "You can show us whether you're as good from the saddle."

"Give me a week for my ribs." Theon accepted the cup and drank. "And don't let Robb choose the horses."

"You chose your own last time," Robb said.

Domeric laughed and sat beside Jon, stretching his legs. For a little while Jon listened to them dispute a ride taken months ago. It was a relief to have nothing to settle.

Obara found them at the edge of the pavilion, drawing tight the leather that held back her brown hair.

"You have a victor to congratulate," she said, nodding towards Anguy. "I have a promise to collect."

"I have not forgotten."

"I watched you after the melee. Can you lift your shield yet?"

"I can lift it. I should like to hold it there as well."

He eased his arm away from his side. The pull through the shoulder stopped him before he had gone far.

"When it mends," she said. "I want the boy who beat the Knight of Flowers, not one who drops his shield."

"Your spear will reach me before I can touch you."

"That is why I shall use it." She smiled. "Blunted, of course. Arthur may inspect it."

"I'll send word when I can carry the shield properly."

They clasped hands, then she went back towards the Dornish benches.

A few paces away, Margaery asked Joffrey about the children at the sept.

"Mother has sent blankets," the prince told her. "There will be clothes as well."

"Will they have any cakes, my prince? My brothers always wanted something sweet when they were ill."

Joffrey glanced towards Cersei, waiting on the pavilion steps with Tommen and Myrcella. "There will be cakes as well. Honey cakes."

He beckoned a page and told him to ask the cook for a basketful, in the prince's own name. Margaery thanked him; Joffrey straightened as the boy ran off.

Jon would let Meriane decide which of the little ones could eat them. Margaery inclined her head to him as he passed. Renly came up the steps and spoke to Cersei; before the queen looked down again, Margaery had turned back to Joffrey.

***
​

Ser Tallad kept the appointment.

He found them near the horse lines, where the pavilions were already coming down. Men pulled up pegs while their companions tried to fold canvas before the wind took it. A knight in his linen shirt shouted for a missing boot. The smell of crushed grass gave way to horse sweat, dung and the warm leather of saddles laid in the sun.

Vaelor had acquired a bench and was making good use of it. Beside him Tomas worked oil into a new stirrup leather. Both stirrup leathers had been replaced. The broken one lay at his feet.

Two boys passed close to the bench. One glanced at Tomas and spoke to the other behind his hand. Tomas slid the broken leather out of sight and kept his head down until they had gone on.

Tallad greeted Tomas before taking the place Vaelor offered on the bench. Tomas answered without looking up from the buckle.

"The place is in the legion's cavalry century," Jon said. "You would serve under Vaelor, riding with the men and helping train them."

"A hundred and ten recruits," Vaelor said. "Some ride well enough alone, then crowd the man beside them as soon as I order a charge. I need another man who can take a group through its work while I attend to the rest."

Tallad rested his forearms on his thighs. "Would I have men of my own?"

"You'd work with my officers first. I won't give you a command before I've seen you with the recruits."

The knight took a moment over that. "But there would be a chance of one?"

"If you prove fit for it," Jon said.

Tallad nodded and asked what the service paid.

The pay required longer. Tallad had served men who found reasons to deduct the cost of fodder from wages promised as clear silver. He wanted his horse's keep set down, and his own arms to remain his own. If he rode in a tournament with leave, the winnings should be his; if he lost, he would bear the ransom. Vaelor would hear none of a right to leave whenever a herald announced a purse.

"You would have recruits waiting for a lesson while you rode to Duskendale."

"I'd give you word before I went."

"You would ask me first."

Tallad rubbed his jaw. Tomas put down the leather and listened.

"I'm not binding myself for a year to a place I've never set eyes on."

"Then come and see it," Jon said. "Passage and your keep. Work with Vaelor while we settle the longer terms. If we cannot agree, you leave with the wage for the days you have given us."

Vaelor glanced at him. "After I have seen him teach."

"After that," Jon agreed.

Tallad considered them both. "I can come to your yard in the morning."

"Early," Vaelor said. "Before the hall opens."

He would bring his horse. When he rose he offered to help Tomas saddle his mount and try the new stirrups. Tomas accepted. Jon left them lifting the saddle between them.

Waymar had been listening beside the hitching rail.

"You pay him and let him leave?"

"If we cannot agree. He has made no vow."

Waymar turned a loose rein between his fingers. "I have been thinking of the Wall."

Jon remembered black cloaks in the snow and a sword breaking. Waymar was close enough to touch.

"Have you spoken to Lord Yohn?"

"We have spoken." The answer invited no more.

"Speak to me before you decide," Jon said.

Waymar let the rein fall. "Very well. Before I speak to my father again."

Martyn brought the two other bowmen over from the archery field. Kyle heard Jon's offer, then shook his head at Dragonstone. He had come for the prize and meant to return to the riverlands. Jon wished him a safe journey and turned to Notch.

The older man was less certain. He had guarded wagons and hunted for his living, but had never commanded soldiers. When Jon asked about teaching, he said he had taught two nephews to shoot.

"I'd hear what you pay, my lord. And when you pay it. I've had promises before."

Jon told him the wage and gave him Vaelor's name and their lodging. Notch made no promise to come, but stayed to ask Vaelor the way. Jon sent Theon to fetch Anguy.

The winner had been drawn into a ring of men who all seemed to have lent him something, known him somewhere or drunk with a cousin of his mother's. Theon went in and emerged with him by promising that Jon would buy a better supper than any of them.

Jon welcomed him and confirmed the invitation. The marcher thanked him, still looking back towards the royal pavilion.

Up close he was scarcely more than a boy himself, with a long mouth and dirt beneath the nails of his drawing hand. Someone had put a garland about his neck. He kept trying to move it where it would not scratch.

Jon congratulated him, and Anguy accepted it with a pleasure that had not yet grown tired.

"You could have stopped after the second," Jon said.

"With the king asking for another?" Anguy pulled at the garland. "I was glad I'd won already."

Jon smiled, then told him why he had sent Theon.

"I need an archer century for the First Legion. A hundred bowmen, with a centurion and officers who can train them. I'd pay you to come to Dragonstone."

Bloodraven had commanded the Raven's Teeth. Jon had thought often of what trained bowmen could do against knights, and of the years it took to make them. He needed men who could judge when to loose and keep their ranks while horsemen came on. Watching Anguy shoot had made him want the man; it had told him little about whether he could command.

"Have you taught others?" he asked.

"A few. But I'm not taking service, my lord." Anguy's hand fell from the garland. "I've got a full purse for once, and I mean to take it where I like. I don't want to be asking leave of anybody."

The refusal had no insolence in it. That made it harder to answer with pride. Jon had watched men win freedom in smaller sums than this and drink it away. Anguy would not thank him for the warning.

"A few mornings, then. Paid. Watch the men I have with me shoot. If you like the work, we can speak of more."

"Here?"

"Here, before we sail."

Anguy tugged the garland off at last. "What needs putting right with them?"

"Tell me after you have watched them shoot."

He liked that answer better. They agreed he would come the morning after the showing, if he could find the lodging. Theon promised to fetch him. Anguy asked how many men would be there; Jon would start with a small group, so Anguy could see what each needed. That suited the marcher. He put the garland on a passing boy and asked when they meant to eat.

Jon sent Alester to make certain a place was laid. He returned before they had reached the horses, with three younger boys in his wake.

Matthos Sunglass had found companions in a Massey knight's second son and one of Rambton's nephews. The Massey boy asked first whether it was true that Jon's riders trained together every day. Rambton's nephew wanted to know whether one of Jon's knights might take him as a squire. He said the last with a hurried glance at Arthur.

Matthos waited until they had finished.

"My father said I should speak to Ser Gawen after the lists. Is he here?"

"He is with Ser Androw today. Vaelor can see you in the yard."

"Will we ride with your men?"

"Vaelor will see how you ride first."

Matthos lifted his chin. "I can ride. My brother gets to go out with Father's knights, and I beat him whenever we race."

"Then you ought to do well in the morning."

Matthos smiled and glanced back to see where his father was.

Ser Armond Massey joined them carrying his son's cloak. He settled it on the boy's shoulders and asked who would be taking the lesson.

"Ser Vaelor," Jon said. "At our lodging."

The knight considered his son. "One morning. You come home with me when our business here is done."

"I only asked to train, Father."

"I heard you." He straightened the clasp. "I will speak with Ser Vaelor before we discuss anything further."

Jon gave them the hour. Arthur said he would see them there if his duties allowed it.

The last qualification disappointed Rambton's nephew. He tried to hide it and did badly enough that Arthur relented a little.

"Bring a practice sword. One you can lift."

They went away discussing which sword that ought to be. Eddison and Aleyx were sorting practice swords beside the saddles.

"Three more," Eddison said. "We shall need every one."

Aleyx laid a short blade aside. "Let me begin their lesson tomorrow, Ser Vaelor."

"I'll watch," Vaelor said.

Eddison passed him another sword and went to look for the blunted spears.

Aries, who had rejoined Jon with clean hands and the brush for his cloak, watched Matthos and the others go.

"Will they all be coming?"

"We shall see."

Alester lingered by the horses. When the boys had gone he asked whether Jon had time for another man who wanted something.

"What is it?"

"The voyage." Alester's smile faded into a more serious expression. "Aurane speaks of the ships. You've spoken of going farther than the trading ports we know. When the time comes, I would go."

Jon rested his hand on the saddle. Beyond the ropes a wagon had become wedged between two others. Men shouted advice that could not all be followed.

"It may be a long while before we come back."

"I understand that."

"You understand the words."

Alester's face changed. Jon heard his own tone too late: the veteran dismissing a younger man's wish because he had once possessed it himself.

"Forgive me," he said. "I should not have spoken to you like that."

Alester looked past him at the city walls. "I want a voyage I chose. I keep hearing where everyone else has been."

Jon could understand that. More than he cared to explain here.

"Come to Dragonstone when your other obligations permit. Speak with the captains and see what you would do aboard. There will be shorter voyages before we attempt that one."

Alester nodded. "I will ask the captains what work they have for me."

He held Jon's horse while Arthur helped him mount, but offered no more tales from Aurane. Across the field the last of the royal banners was being lowered. The tournament was over.

***
​

Vhalar was waiting when they came back from the field.

"After dark," he said. "She'll hear you at the river. No gold cloaks."

Jon sent for Androw. Arthur had gone to see Mooton with Oberyn after the field; he returned while Jon waited. There was time to visit Wat. The maester had propped the wounded arm upon folded linen; Wat wanted to know whether they had found his knife. Jon told him they were still looking. It was an inadequate answer to carry into that room, but he had no better one.

By the time they rode out, lamps shone in the upper windows. Theon stayed to write to his mother. Robb had his own letter to finish. Arthur wore a dark cloak over his sword, and Vhalar led them down a street Jon had never taken, past a potter's yard still warm from the kiln.

Gawen met them near the river wall. He had news of the fish quay.

"We found the man with the crooked nose. He was putting casks into a boat when the cloaks came down on the fish yard."

Androw's mouth tightened. "I heard."

"Half the men on the quay ran. Our lad saw him push off, but there were carts between them and the water. Our lad went to hire a skiff. A watchman took him for one of the men running from the yard."

"Did he give your name?" Jon asked Androw.

"He did. They kept him until their captain came."

Gawen pointed across the Blackwater. Lights shone on the farther bank, small and scattered beneath the darkness of the trees.

"They saw the boat cross. By the time our man was free, she'd gone behind the reeds. He couldn't tell which way she turned."

Jon looked at the water between the banks. A man following along the wall could watch a boat grow small until it disappeared. Knowing which quay it had left was little use after that.

"Any sign of children?"

"None. The casks were shut. We searched the sheds and asked the men who stayed." Gawen rubbed a dirty knuckle with his thumb. "The cloaks found stolen cloth. That was what their captain said."

"There was stolen cloth," Androw said. "There was also an order to search the yard in daylight with twice the men needed. Slynt has made certain half the waterfront saw him do it."

"Did he take any of Pell's men?"

"Not one that we could find."

Slynt had not needed to warn Cadwyn. A noisy attack on his rivals had done the work. Whether that had been its purpose was another matter. Jon would put the time and place before Arryn; he could already hear Petyr explaining how unfortunate it was when honest officers crossed one another's work.

Gawen had left two men at the quay. Farther along the wall, Vhalar raised a hand.

"Horses here."

A broad man stepped from beneath a stair. He carried a boat-hook whose point had been sharpened beyond any useful need for ropes. Another waited above, holding a shuttered lantern. Vhalar spoke to the first by name and was allowed through. Jon followed with Arthur and Androw; Gawen remained beside the horses.

Nessa stood beside a hauled-up boat while two men wrestled a cask over its side. A third waited below with a strip of sacking round his neck. She caught him taking a small jar from beneath the thwart.

"Put it back."

"Pell paid his lads a share."

"Then ask Pell to find you work tomorrow."

The man looked at the jar. After a moment he set it down and bent to take the cask. The last few feet to the shed were uphill; Nessa watched until they had it safely on the blocks, then turned to Vhalar.

"You said two."

"He needs to hear it." Vhalar nodded towards Androw. "That's the Hand's man. Not Slynt's."

"Both come down the same hill."

A brazier burned in a cracked iron pot beside the boat. Sun and wind had browned her face, and a silver coin hung from one ear. Her sleeves were rolled above her elbows. She looked at Arthur's sword, then at Jon's face, taking her time over the white forelock.

Nessa pointed at Vhalar's boots.

"You've done well out of him. Those aren't the ones you came begging in."

"I asked you for passage. I paid."

"After." She turned to Jon. "He pays after, this one. Remember that."

There was old familiarity between them, and something rougher beneath it. Jon could see why Vhalar had wanted to come alone first.

Androw looked at the casks and the wrapped bales still in the boat.

"Where did that come from?"

"Across the water."

"Whose boat?"

Nessa rested her heel against the hull. "Pell's men were using her. They cut one of mine loose last night and took her load. I took this in the morning."

"And the goods?"

"Were in it." She lifted her chin. "You want to carry them up the hill, or hear what my man saw at the fish quay?"

She had stolen a boat and whatever cargo its owner had entrusted to the men aboard. It did not become hers because Pell had hired them. Androw told her so. Nessa stopped smiling.

"Bring the owner. If he's honest, he can tell you why his wine comes ashore in fishing boats and never reaches the king's collectors. We can all have a lovely talk."

"Keep it where it is until then."

She looked at her men. For a moment Jon thought she would order them to carry on. Instead she told them to leave the rest aboard. The man who had reached for the jar opened his mouth, saw her looking at him and closed it.

Jon glanced from the casks to the darkness across the river. Foreign merchants could pay their dues at the quays and still have other goods put ashore elsewhere. A boatload of wine left money for a boatman, a carter and the man who kept the watch looking down another lane. The children had come through people already earning their living by hiding cargo.

"Gedd brought children from the fish quay to the brewery," he said. "Pell met the boat. Today the cloaks raided the fish yard and his boatman crossed the river."

"Two of mine in the barracks. A boat kept at the watch landing." Nessa rubbed her palms over the brazier. "Their captain came asking about wine before he found the cloth. Knew which loads to ask after, too."

"Who told him?"

"I don't know. But their captain knew which wine to look for." She turned back to Jon. "Cadwyn's bought three of my rowers this moon. Pays them even when there's no cargo. I lose a boat to the cloaks, he hires another. Then he tells the wine merchants he can get their goods through when I can't."

"You want him off the river."

"I want the men who sell me their oars to keep their bargain."

"And his business."

Nessa met his eyes. "Given a chance."

She said it without anger or shame. The candour was almost a relief after Borran's concern for Rilla.

"My lads can take yours across," she went on. "They know the places a loaded boat can reach. But when you catch him, you don't put another favourite in his place. His buyers come to me. His boatmen pay what mine pay."

Androw began to answer. Jon shook his head slightly.

"We are not giving you everyone who carries goods on the Blackwater."

"He wants them. Why shouldn't I?"

"Because I will need boatmen too."

Nessa stared at him. Vhalar looked up from the fire.

"You've got a whole bloody island."

"And goods coming to this city. I mean to keep rooms and people here. I won't have every load wait upon your leave."

It was enough truth to offer. He did not tell her that one day he might need men to come ashore quietly, or that a household already settled in the capital could do things an army outside its walls could not.

Nessa folded her arms. "So you'll pay my lads to leave me as well."

He had shown her what he wanted before securing the help he needed. Jon let the silence last a moment.

"I am offering to pay for finding the boat that escaped this afternoon. That does not buy your men, and it does not buy you the river."

She looked towards the shed. The men had stopped working and were listening without pretending otherwise.

"Borran's already asking my buyers what I can no longer supply. Merys has buyers who'd pay him instead of me. Take Cadwyn out and they'll all come for a piece."

"Then give me something that helps us take him."

"You can pay for what a man saw. My crews stay with my boats."

"They will not carry our men?" Androw asked.

"You heard what I asked." She called towards the shed. A thin man emerged, holding his cap. He looked at Androw, then back at her.

"Tell them about the blue boat."

"You said he wasn't bringing cloaks."

"Look at him. Is he wearing one?"

The man stayed where he was. Nessa lowered her voice and said something Jon did not catch. Vhalar stepped forward. He knew the man too, enough to bring him nearer the fire with a hand on his arm.

The thin man had helped haul a narrow boat off the stones beside the fish quay two nights before the brewery raid. Tar covered most of her old paint; one plank showed blue where it had scraped. He knew she worked for Pell because Pell had made him wait for his silver.

"What was aboard?" Jon asked.

"Casks. A bundle wrapped in sailcloth. Boards across the bottom."

"Did you hear anyone beneath them?"

"No, my lord. Nobody."

The man had been paid for a shove, not a look through the load. The steersman he knew by sight was not Gedd's crooked-nosed boatman. That steersman stood to look ahead before turning, though it made the boat rock. Nessa said the crooked-nosed man hired his hands as he needed them.

"She went east when we freed her. Out towards the ships."

Androw asked him to show the direction. He took them down to the water, past the men with the boat-hooks. Mooring lights shone towards the bay. Between them and the city, boats moved on errands Jon could not distinguish. A cargo could reach either bank before it came ashore here; a man who watched one stair would see only the end of its journey.

Jon had a description of the blue-planked boat now, but no certainty of finding her. He offered silver for the account. The man looked at Nessa before taking it. She let him keep it, but when Jon asked him to come to their lodging the next evening she answered first.

"Send through Vhalar. I'll find him."

The man slipped back into the shed. She had sold them his account and kept possession of the man who could give it. Jon would need people whom he could reach without asking a gang leader's leave.

They left her with her stolen boat. Androw sent a man to find its owner before turning back towards the hill.

"She'll move the wine," Vhalar said.

"Then she will have something else to answer for," the knight replied.

Jon glanced back. Nessa had already turned to her men. The broad fellow at the stair waited until they were gone before unshuttering his lantern. A light appeared farther along the wall in answer.

***
​

Anguy was eating the promised supper, laughing over something with Tomas and Alester. Jon lingered in the doorway with a piece of bread. Gawen took three plums from Perrin's bowl and followed Jon and Androw upstairs.

Gedd's wife had sent her brother to sell her onions before they spoiled. She was staying at his house. Rilla and Hal were upstairs; Wylla said the sickness had not returned.

Marrec brought in a lean young man with ink on his thumb.

"Teren," he said. "One of Mistress Merys's Lanterns. He carries her messages."

The young man bowed. "Mistress asks whether you'll hear her too, my lord. She knows you've spoken to Borran and Nessa."

"About Ser Cadwyn?"

"He's taken two gaming houses that used to pay her. The keepers say his men can protect them better. She means to have them back."

Jon pulled out a chair for him. "What is she offering?"

Teren sat on its edge. "One of the knight's lieutenants is giving a private feast. He's hired six women from a pleasure house that pays Mistress Merys. There'll be drinking and fights for the guests to wager on. She can tell you where it's to be held."

"Children fighting?"

"I don't know, my lord. She didn't say."

Jon glanced at Androw. They had been searching for men who knew Cadwyn's business. A gathering of his lieutenant's friends might give them several to watch.

"Have you dealt with her?" he asked Marrec.

"She found a ship's master who owed me money. Told me where he lodged. For a price. Wouldn't name the man keeping him there."

Merys wanted the knight weakened, just as Borran and Nessa did. She also wanted a chance to make her own bargain before Jon reached one with either of them.

"Tell her I'll hear her," Jon said to Teren. "She can tell me about the feast, and what she wants in return."

"Arrange it through Marrec," Androw said. "Find out which night the feast is. I'll come with him."

Teren rose and thanked them. Marrec went down with him to settle where the answer should be sent.

Androw took a piece of charcoal and marked the fish quay and the eastern landings on Jon's sketch. He would put men there that night and find a boat they could use if the crooked-nosed man returned. This time Alyn would know their names and where they were meant to stand. The far bank remained blank. Neither Gedd nor Nessa's man could tell them where the boats had loaded.

Serjeant Alyn Longwaters came for the written order.

His gold cloak was folded over his arm, and the skin beneath his eyes looked bruised with tiredness. Androw had sent for him by name. Jon asked whether that would give him trouble with Slynt.

"I'll put the order before my captain."

"And last time?"

Alyn's mouth tightened. "Yesterday's pay has been stopped. Says I left the road without leave."

"You were with Androw."

"Aye. My captain knows it."

Jon reached instinctively towards his purse, then stopped at the look on the watchman's face.

"I'm owed it," Alyn said. "I'm not asking you for it."

"No. You are not."

Androw folded the order and passed it to him. "I'll speak to your captain. You were where I sent you."

Alyn took the parchment. "Thank you, ser."

As the serjeant turned to go, Jon asked him to thank his uncle.

"For the prisoners?"

"For having the wounded man seen again. He was in pain."

Alyn's expression softened. "He'd like you to say so to him. He'll complain he's too busy, but he'd like it."

Wylla met Gawen in the passage after the others had gone. He had eaten his plums and nothing else, and she knew it before he spoke. Jon heard her telling him there was meat by the hearth, then a pause in which neither moved towards it.

"Come here. There's ash all through your hair," she said.

"There was rather a lot of it."

"Aye, and you've brought it home."

She reached up. Gawen bent his head and remained there while she worked the soot from a lock above his ear. Jon gathered his papers with unnecessary care.

"Tomorrow," Wylla said, more quietly, "I'll keep you a place by me. Come while supper's hot, mind. You're not making another meal of plums."

Gawen's answer was too soft for Jon to hear. Wylla laughed once, and he went to find the meat.

Wat's fever had not risen, and the maester would see him again before dawn. Jaime's inspection of the hall was done. Marrec brought the changes he had required: the inner door to the court kept clear, the passage behind the displays emptied of packing straw, guards at the delivery entrance as well as the public one. No chest was to be carried in unopened on the morning of the showing.

Vaelor had kept enough men for the hall. Tomas would serve inside, where he could see the tables and the way out. Gawen's eight belonged to Androw until he released them.

There was still the letter.

He read what he had written to Ned, struck out a passage explaining how little choice he had possessed, and began that part again. He had chosen to go to the brewery. The children had been there.

Robb brought his own letter to the table. Theon was writing to his mother by the second lamp, with Harras's name on the outer sheet so it would reach her through a hand she knew.

For a while there was only the scratching of pens.

When Jon had finished, Arthur came to stand beside him. He did not ask to read the letter. The dagger lay sheathed by the bed, its dark hilt scarcely visible beyond the candlelight.

"You saw Mooton?" Jon asked.

"I did. Oberyn had questions enough for both of us."

Arthur's hand settled on the back of the chair. Jon knew the questions he had not asked tonight, and the reason he had not asked them in front of the others.

"I have not forgotten what I owe you," Jon said.

Arthur looked towards the bed, then back at him. "Nor I what I owe you."

He squeezed Jon's good shoulder and went to the door.

Jon sealed the letter. He finished his shorter letter to Benjen and sealed that too. It asked what stores were most urgently needed and whether ships could bring them to Eastwatch; he promised no cargo yet. Arryn's runner took both letters with Robb's, leaving dark spots of fallen wax upon the table.

***
​

Hugin woke Jon by tapping at the shutter. When he opened it, the river showed between the roofs. Androw's men were watching the fish quay and the eastern landings. Jon had seen how easily men on foot could be stopped there. He wanted to see where the boats went before the streets swallowed their cargo.

Jon drew a chair to the window and sat, both feet upon the floor. Hugin stepped onto his wrist, three white feathers stirring. He waited until he could feel his own heartbeat without counting it, then let the crow fly.

The roofs rose beneath him. Smoke drifted across the lane where a baker was opening his shutters. Jon kept the edge of the chair against his legs in mind and followed the river's pale light.

Two other crows were picking at refuse upon a warehouse roof above Nessa's landing. He reached for one, then the other. Hunger pulled at him; something beneath the straw smelled of fish. He held them there while Hugin crossed to the next roof.

The strain began behind his eyes. Three views would not sit neatly beside one another. He let one dim, then returned to it, checking that the bird had stayed.

Hugin followed a boat coming across the river until it vanished beneath an awning at an eastern landing. From the lane a man could watch the steps and see little beneath the canvas. The crow dropped to a roof opposite. Two men passed wrapped bales up to a woman beneath the awning. No blue plank showed on the hull, and Jon had not seen who steered her. Jon could not tell where the cargo had begun its journey or whether its owner had paid the king. He had found a place where goods changed hands out of sight of the street.

A shutter slammed below the warehouse eaves. One of the other crows sprang into the air.

Jon's hands gripped the chair. For a moment the landing tilted beneath him. He found his heartbeat, loosened his hold upon the frightened bird and let it go. Hugin remained above the awning. The third crow hopped back towards its fish.

He wanted to reach again. Instead he kept Hugin above the awning while the other crow fed. His temples hurt. He held both views until the last bale had been carried ashore.

Jon brought Hugin home while keeping the other crow upon the warehouse roof. When Hugin reached the sill, he released both birds.

His shoulder ached where he had braced it. He waited for the room to stop seeming too narrow, then marked the awning on his drawing. His note to Androw asked who received goods at that berth and how his men could watch it from the water. A watcher in the lane could see the steps and miss the unloading beneath them.

A household guard took the folded message. Jon stayed at the window.

He found his heartbeat and reached again.

 

[aiwonder]

Moll stopped at the doors of the Great Sept and looked up.

Jon followed her gaze to the coloured windows. Their light lay across the marble floor, broken by the shadows of people moving towards the altars. Somewhere beyond the pillars a boy was singing. Moll had scrubbed her hands so thoroughly that her knuckles were pink; now she hid them beneath her arms.

"You can hold mine," Septa Meriane told her.

"I'm not frightened."

The septa offered it anyway. Moll took two fingers and went with her.

The queen's answer had reached Jon after dawn. Cersei would hear prayers at the Great Sept that morning and give alms afterwards. Meriane might receive the children's gifts; those well enough to accompany her would be welcome. Their names would not be proclaimed. It was less than Cersei had first asked and more than Jon had offered. Meriane had agreed to come. Moll had wanted to see the queen, and one of the older boys had asked to go with her. Both knew the others would receive their share at home.

Wylla had stayed with Will and the other children. Marrec's two hired women were helping her, but Meriane was not yet willing to leave them in sole charge.

Lord Guncer Sunglass joined them near the Mother's altar. He had left Matthos with Ser Vaelor for the promised morning's riding. Here his attention was elsewhere. He touched the star at his throat and bowed his head while Meriane helped Moll set a taper among the others.

"For Will," the girl whispered.

"And the others," Meriane said.

Moll thought about that, then nodded. She watched the wick catch until the flame stood straight.

Arthur remained beside Jon. The bells had ceased, but the last notes seemed to linger beneath the high roof. Along the benches, work-worn hands closed over one another. A woman with a sleeping child leaned against her husband while the septons sang. Jon could see where someone had mended the man's sleeve with thread of a different colour.

Lady Tanda Stokeworth sat with her daughters a little way down the bench. Falyse gathered her mother's skirts out of the way, and Lollys patted the place beside her for Moll. She glanced up at Jon and ventured a smile. When he smiled back she went pink to the ears and turned quickly to Moll. "You can see the queen from here," she whispered. Moll took the place.

Cersei rose from her cushion near the front. Joffrey stood when she did, smoothing the breast of his crimson coat. Margaery Tyrell had the place nearest him across the aisle. She leaned towards him with a smile, and the prince bent his head to answer her. Jon could hear neither of them over the singing. As Joffrey straightened, Margaery caught Jon's eye and gave him a small, shy smile before her mother, Lady Alerie, touched her sleeve. The High Septon had risen to speak. Sandor Clegane kept his place beyond the royal party, his burned face turned towards the doors.

"Your Grace, some of the children in Septa Meriane's care are too sick to climb our steps this morning. The blankets you have sent will reach them before nightfall. We thank you for remembering them. May the Mother watch over your own children."

"And our thanks to you, Lord Black. There are women on Dragonstone who can put their children to bed tonight knowing that no master can sell them away in the morning. Your ships brought those families safely to shore. May the Seven keep the men who sailed them."

"Here in the city, a mother with a sick child knows where to find Septa Meriane. I would wish as much for a woman newly come ashore at Blackburn, with a babe in her arms and scarce a word of our tongue. Two good women have offered to cross the water for the sake of such families. When his lordship sends for them, may the Mother grant them safe passage."

When. Apparently his refusal had settled everything but the tide. Jon almost smiled. The old man knew better than to ask him twice for the same thing. This time he would let Guncer ask. Across the aisle Margaery's grandmother, Lady Olenna, was watching Jon. Had she heard about the keeper he'd refused at Blackburn?

Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's. Fine words. Even Aegon had counted his reign from the day the High Septon anointed him at Oldtown. Jon would have liked to hear His High Holiness say whose business it was to choose a schoolmaster on Dragonstone. If the two of them could differ over that while Jon was still a boy lord, they would have plenty to say to one another when he was king.

"I have a favour to ask of the rest of you," the High Septon went on. "When the bread is given out today, look about you. Perhaps someone who used to climb this hill with you has lately ceased to come. If you know him to be sick, take a loaf for him. If you have quarrelled and would sooner he did not know who brought it, tell one of my brothers where he lives. We can keep a little secret for the Mother's sake."

The woman with the sleeping child smiled at that. Her husband bent his head to hear what she whispered.

"Let us kneel."

The High Septon prayed for the king, his queen and their children. Voices answered him from the benches. When he spoke of the Mother's mercy, Meriane joined without looking to see who heard. Guncer's eyes were closed. Jon bowed his head while the others made the responses.

Outside, servants had set baskets of bread beneath an awning. The queen's men kept a way clear on the steps, allowing the poor to come forward in small groups. Joffrey was given a purse of coins. He glanced at his mother, then let a piece fall into the first woman's palm.

She caught his fingers and bent to kiss them. Joffrey drew his hand away. Her husband was still lowering himself onto one knee, one hand braced upon his stick.

"There are others waiting," Joffrey said.

Cersei offered the woman her own hand. She heard the blessings to the end, then told a servant to see that the couple had bread. As they moved on, Jon saw her put that hand behind her. An attendant was ready with a cloth.

Jon glanced at Sandor and remembered Joffrey with dung in his golden hair, screaming for the Hound while stones flew over the gold cloaks.

Meriane approached when the queen beckoned. Two servants brought folded blankets, cloth for the promised clothes and a covered basket. The garments still had to be cut to the children's measurements. Cersei explained that to the septa herself, as though there could be no question of sending them ill-fitting things.

"And the cakes," Joffrey said.

He glanced over at Margaery as he lifted the cloth from the basket. Moll leaned forward before remembering where she was.

"Honey cakes, as I promised."

"Thank the prince," Meriane murmured.

Moll thanked him, then looked at the basket again. "Can I take one for Will?"

"You can take the basket," Joffrey said. "That is what it is for."

The boy beside her laughed. Moll gave him a sharp look, but she was smiling when the servant helped her lift the handle. Meriane quickly took the other side. Neither child was asked to tell the court what had happened to them.

"They are in better spirits than your letter led me to fear," Cersei said to Jon.

"These two are, Your Grace. Others could not come."

"Then I am glad we could give them something to look forward to."

He thanked her, and Joffrey. She had yielded on the names and the attendance. In return, Jon stood beside her while Meriane blessed the royal children and people on the steps called thanks to the queen.

The High Septon joined them, supported by a young attendant. Sunlight struck the crystals of his crown.

"Will you show me which children are in your care, daughter?" the High Septon asked Meriane.

Moll still had both hands on the basket. The older boy made his bow.

"And for the ones at home, what do you lack?"

Meriane looked briefly at Jon. "Someone to sit with the sick at night, Your High Holiness. We have women now, but they have children of their own. And food once these gifts are eaten."

A grey-haired septa standing behind the High Septon stepped closer. Meriane greeted her with evident relief. They knew one another. The older woman asked how many were bedridden, and whether the maester would return. Meriane began answering before either lord could speak.

"She may go with you," the High Septon said. "We shall find another sister for her duties here."

"I will pay for their bread and pottage for the next month," Jon said.

It was an expense he could bear, though the showing had yet to earn a copper. Meriane thanked him, then took the other septa by the hand.

"You see how much may be done together," the High Septon said. "I hope we shall speak again of your people on Dragonstone."

"We shall speak, Your High Holiness."

Guncer accompanied him down the steps while Meriane arranged the gifts with the queen's servants.

"You were willing enough to hear me about Matthos," the lord said. "I hope you will hear His High Holiness as patiently."

"I have heard him. We disagreed over the schools."

"A septon would think their souls part of his charge." Guncer glanced back at the doors. "He would be a poor one if he did not."

"I'll hear him again," Jon said after a moment.

Guncer nodded and went to find Matthos.

Jon waited until Meriane and the children had started home under escort. Moll still held one side of the basket. Behind them the people continued thanking Joffrey, who had found a fresh handful of coins.

Arthur brought the horses. Marrec would already have the hall ready, and there were buyers to meet.

***
​

A hay cart drew aside to let Jon's horses through the hall's rear gate. Its driver stayed on the seat, chewing a stalk. Beyond him the lane bent between high walls.

Beeswax, clean linen and the oil on new leather greeted Jon when he reached the showing hall. One of Lord Baelish's clerks had found it for them; Marrec had been at work since first light. His steward stood beneath the windows with a cloth over one shoulder, watching the hall's grey-haired servant set down a pot.

"By the body," he said. "Both hands. Leave the handle alone."

The man adjusted his grip.

"Where's the girl who helped you yesterday?" Marrec asked.

"My girl won't be coming, master."

Marrec asked whether he knew another pair of hands. The servant said he did. Before the first buyers arrived he brought in a younger man with a cloth tucked through his belt. Marrec put him to carrying chests. The older man watched until he was called away.

Blue leaves curved around the white porcelain; beside it, six cups stood on fresh linen. Across the room the red and black armour caught a darker gleam. Perrin had put the white salt on dark cloth, with grey crystals bought in the city beside it. Beyond the open doors, a merchant's mule was objecting to the fine horses crowding it. Their owners were scarcely quieter.

Jon lifted a small bowl from its packing. Ellyn's mark lay beneath the foot. He ran his thumb over it before turning the bowl upright. The blue leaves had come out finer than he remembered, one curling away from its stem. He wanted someone to see that, and want it enough to carry it home.

Marrec had left the trestle beside the public entrance almost bare. Jon set the bowl there, with a little pot and two cups.

"People can come close enough to look," he said.

"They can look at the other table."

"With three lords and their servants between them and the cups?"

Marrec conceded the point. He moved a folded cloth under the bowl and sent for more small pieces. Jon left them within easy reach. He had seen enough costly things displayed as though the customer were a thief until he proved otherwise.

Ser Tomas Sableheart was trying to shift a bench with one hand. Jon lifted the far end and they set it clear of the passage to the delivery court. Two household guards took their places at the public door. A third stood at the passage mouth. Across the court the gate to the lane was barred, with a smaller wicket for men on foot.

The grey-haired servant carried a water jug down the cleared passage. "Leave room there for the men with chests," Tomas told him.

The knight had taken his fall in the lists better than some men took victory. His knuckles were swollen, but he caught the water jug when the servant nearly lost it and sent him on with a warning to watch his feet.

Vaelor came in from the court with Ser Tallad. They had already spent an hour with the riders. Three of the younger boys followed, newly washed and still arguing over something that had happened in the yard. Matthos Sunglass saw his father by the doorway and fell quiet.

"How did the boys ride?" Jon asked Vaelor.

"They all wanted to show Ser Tallad how fast they could go. I'll know more when they ride for me alone."

Tallad smiled. "One of them tried to ride through another man's horse. I told him there would be time enough to kill each other once they had an enemy."

That earned a laugh from the boys. Aleyx did not join it. He had been helping Vaelor, and was still considering which part of the mistake he ought to have stopped. Tallad drew him aside to show him with two cups and a salt jar. Marrec took the cups away before the lesson could become costly.

Aries brought Jon his gloves. He had brushed the coat twice, and Jon knew from the care with which he offered them that he was anxious about the morning.

"Are you going to make me wear those to sell a cup?"

The page glanced at the waiting buyers. "They are your good ones."

"Keep them for the king, then."

Aries tucked them away, relieved to have found a use for them. Jon let him straighten the loose fastening at his wrist.

Jaime arrived while the first buyers were coming through. He checked the cleared passage and the guard at the delivery entrance, then tried the wicket's bolt. When he returned he found Arthur beside the armour.

"I hear you have taken to archery," Jaime said.

"Only to spare you another defeat with a sword."

"Very considerate." Jaime picked up a red gauntlet, worked the fingers once and put it down. "The king expects you in the Kingswood before the hounds are loosed, Jon. Robb is going ahead."

Jon had known that. It still felt like being told he must leave dinner before the meat arrived. He asked Jaime to tell Robert he would be there. The Kingsguard departed with a nod to Arthur, leaving the gauntlet half turned towards the window.

A man in grey wool was waiting for Jon, a single gold ring sunk into the flesh of his smallest finger. His young assistant carried an empty wooden tray.

"Master Harro," Marrec said. "He sells fine vessels near the Street of Silk."

Harro bowed without taking his eyes from the porcelain. "May I?"

Jon put a cup into his hand. Harro felt the rim, then turned it over to examine the foot. He set it on the table and pressed lightly at opposite edges to see whether it rocked.

"Some do," Jon said. "Those stay with us."

"A sensible place for them." Harro lifted it towards the window. Through the thin white porcelain Jon could see the shadows of Harro's fingers. His assistant leaned closer, forgetting the tray until Harro steadied it. "Jossel. Give me room."

The boy flushed and stepped back. Harro turned the cup once more, held it lower, then raised it again. Jon found himself smiling.

"You see why I put them here."

"I see why you ought to charge for them." Harro lowered the cup. "Let me try a pot. With water."

Perrin brought a jug. Harro poured into the pot, then from the pot into the cup. He paused halfway, watching the lip. A drop swelled beneath it and fell cleanly onto the cloth.

"That one will do," he said. "Jossel, remember which."

The boy looked at the painted branches, then at the others. Harro waited while he found the difference for himself.

Another buyer had stopped to watch. He wore blue velvet beneath his travelling cloak, with a gold chain heavy enough to make Jon wonder how many cups its owner could afford. The man introduced himself as Master Lendry of White Harbor. Wylis Manderly had sent him to see the goods, though he was quick to add that the purse at his belt was his own.

"I have heard a great deal of your work, my lord. More since I came south."

"I hope some of it was true."

Lendry took the cup Harro offered him. "This is."

He wanted six cups and six small pots. Plain borders would suit him best, he said, or the blue leaves. He had customers who entertained guests from Braavos and men who had grown tired of hearing about their neighbours' silver. He would try the porcelain with both.

Marrec offered him a better price for twelve of each. Lendry smiled and laid his thumb over the mouth of his purse.

"Let me sell six first."

A narrow man in a richly lined cloak stepped between them. He carried a silver tray wrapped in cloth. Lady Myranda Lefford had sent him, he said, with a ribbon in the colour she wanted and the size of the table where the service would stand.

Harro put the large pot on the silver tray. There was room for four cups, he showed the steward, but not six. The man reluctantly agreed.

The steward laid the ribbon across the porcelain. It was a deeper blue than Ellyn's leaves. Myranda had wanted borders and designs of her own at the gift giving. She had not become less certain of what she wanted by sending someone else to ask.

"I can send it to the potter."

"My lady understood that you could match it."

"She asked whether we could. I cannot promise until Ellyn has tried."

The steward moved the ribbon a little, as though Jon had failed to see the shade. A kiln would give him no better colour because Lady Myranda disliked the answer. He could afford to disappoint her over a ribbon; he would look a fool if he took her gold and failed to deliver.

"Leave it with me," he said. "She shall have an answer."

"And her place?"

The queen's first service was already promised. So were other pieces. Jon explained that a service waiting upon a new colour might take longer than one they could make now. The steward wrapped his tray again. He left the ribbon, but his purse never appeared.

Lendry watched him go back to the doorway, then began selecting his six cups. Harro showed him one whose foot was neater than another's. They disagreed over the pot with the broadest handle, and Lendry kept it.

"My buyers have fingers too," he said.

Master Orlan had watched Harro pour. Marrec introduced him as a dealer in painted vessels brought from the Free Cities. He wore no chain, but the fur at his collar was better than Lendry's, and he handled the pot as confidently as Harro.

"Who taught your potter?" he asked.

"Her father taught her the wheel," Marrec said. "The white ware is Lord Black's invention. He taught them both to make it."

Orlan looked up from the pot. "Your invention, my lord?"

"I taught them the mixtures and the firing," Jon said. "Ellyn devised the leaves you're admiring."

Marrec smiled at that. Orlan ran a finger beneath the painted rim, though his eyes returned to Jon.

Jon let him consider it. He was pleased with what Ellyn had made of his teaching, but he had no intention of explaining a kiln to prove himself to a stranger.

"Remarkable work," Orlan said at last. "With your leave, I know men who would build her a kiln here. The city could keep it busy."

Orlan set the pot down. Beside him Harro paused with one of Lendry's cups still in his hand.

"She has my kilns on Dragonstone," Jon said. "Your friends may buy what we make there. Marrec will hear their orders."

Orlan inclined his head. "Of course, my lord."

He chose one small pot and paid the asking price without argument. Jon watched his servant wrap it. Somewhere in the city another potter would soon be turning it over, perhaps breaking it apart to see what he could learn. Let him spend his own silver on the failures. Jon had paid for the kilns and taught the work; he meant the wealth from them to build his ships and arm his men.

Harro set the cup beside Lendry's other five.

The coins came out at last. Perrin counted them while the new porter brought Lendry's empty chest closer. Harro had to ask him twice to turn it. Jon moved aside; he had been standing where the fellow needed to work. Lendry stooped to feel the depth of the straw before the first pot went in.

The grey-haired serving man passed with a water jug, his thumb pressed hard against the handle. Marrec called for him. He looked back so sharply that water slopped over his wrist. Jon moved a cup out of his way.

Septon Ollidor arrived while Perrin was counting Lendry's silver. Marrec introduced him as one of the Most Devout. He was slender, with carefully dressed grey hair and a seven-pointed star heavy with amethysts upon his breast. Rosewater reached Jon before the septon offered his hand.

His steward followed in plain brown, carrying a purse beneath his cloak. Ollidor left him to hear the prices while he accepted wine and looked over the porcelain.

"The larger cup," he said when Marrec offered him a sample. "I have guests who would spend the evening calling for more."

He held the broad cup by its foot, admiring the light through it. His thumbnail was polished. At his wrist the silk lining of his robe showed pale purple against the cream wool.

"Eight of these. And the two pots with the leaves."

"For the sept, Your Reverence?" his steward asked.

"For my table. The silver can go to the guest chamber." Ollidor tasted the wine. "Have you anything sweeter?"

Marrec sent a servant to look. The steward bent close to his master and spoke too softly for Jon to hear. Ollidor glanced at the purse, then back at the porcelain.

"Six, then. Both pots."

He accepted the concession with good humour, choosing each cup himself. When a woman carrying a parcel brushed his sleeve, he moved it clear and smoothed the cloth before continuing.

"His High Holiness spoke warmly of you this morning," he told Jon. "You must dine with me. There are brethren who would be interested to hear more of your island."

"I should be glad to hear what interests them."

"Bring Ser Arthur. We need not spend the whole evening upon schools." His smile broadened. "I have a cook from Oldtown who would take that as an insult."

Jon gave him no day. Ollidor did not press. His steward paid for the cups and pots, then asked Marrec to have them carried to his master's house. The septon added a jar of white salt after tasting it, then departed, leaving his steward to settle the extra coin.

Jon had refused the High Septon's proposed keeper. He could still learn something from men who might choose the next High Septon, if he could find an evening to spare.

***
​

The queen's steward arrived with a servant carrying the dimensions of her tables. He did not need to see the porcelain against the light. His mistress had already chosen what she wanted, and he reminded Jon that the first service with the finer finish had been promised to her.

"It has," Jon said. "No one is being put before her."

That satisfied the man more than another display would have done. He asked which of the painted pieces could be made ready sooner, and Marrec took him to the samples.

Wylla found Jon there after Meriane's return. Will had accepted a cake from Moll; the boy who bit had tried to claim two.

"Meriane says Will is much better," Wylla told him.

Jon laughed. The queen's steward asked whether the blankets had arrived as well. Wylla said they had, then drew Jon aside. Meriane was still asking after the children's kin. There was no news yet.

"Tell them I have not forgotten."

Wylla studied him before nodding. She was going back to help with the children's meal.

Two household men went with her. Marrec sent replacements to their posts before they left. Jon watched them clear the court, then turned back to find Guncer Sunglass waiting with Matthos.

The boy had a red mark above his collar. He had washed the dust away, but not the evidence of the morning's practice.

"Ser Vaelor put him with the others," Guncer said.

Jon looked at Matthos. "Was that wrong?"

"No, my lord. I would like to go again."

Guncer's mouth tightened. "I had hoped Ser Arthur might see him."

Arthur was across the hall, listening to a knight describe a badly set shoulder. Jon could not remember the last time he had stood beside a sword without someone wanting a lesson, a judgment or a story.

"Vaelor saw him," Jon said. "He is the man teaching my riders."

Matthos glanced towards Tallad, who was turning a black chest plate in his hands. "Ser Tallad said I leaned before the horse did."

"And did you?"

"I came off." He rubbed the mark at his neck. "I should like another chance."

Guncer began to explain how little time they had before their appointment with Celtigar. Matthos heard him out, then asked whether he might ride with Jon's company to the hunt.

"We have given our word to Lord Celtigar," his father said.

"You have. I could meet you there."

The words came out more sharply than the boy had intended. He looked down, but did not withdraw them. Guncer put a hand upon his shoulder.

"And when you have a place of your own, you may decide whom you keep waiting. Today you ride with me."

Jon left the answer with Matthos's father. He had offered a morning in the yard, and Guncer had brought his son. He would not repay that by encouraging the boy to defy him in a crowded hall.

"Ask Vaelor when he can see you again," he told Matthos. "Before you leave."

The boy looked up. It was less than he wanted, but he went to ask. Guncer watched him cross the room before following.

Beside the armour, Ser Balon Swann tried a gauntlet and flexed his hand. The thumb pinched. He showed the fitter where, then asked to strike the sample chest plate. Tallad watched with a black plate resting against his knee.

Behind Balon, Ser Aron Santagar, the Red Keep's master-at-arms, examined a red gauntlet and asked the fitter for its fellow.

"For yourself, ser?" Jon asked.

"For myself. His Grace has men enough to buy his armour."

Santagar held the red plates against his sleeve. He cared how they looked, but when the fitter began praising the finish he asked him to loosen the wrist instead. Jon left them to it.

Balon went to the block, where the red sample lay beside a hammer.

Jon had expected a hard blow. Balon began by feeling the edge and asking the thickness. Then he gave the plate to Tallad, who looked at the back before setting it down again.

"Hold that," Balon said.

Tallad steadied the block. The blow rang through the hall. A woman started, and a merchant who had been arguing over salt came to see what had made the noise.

At the public door, a guard took a belt knife from a customer in a worn coat. The man surrendered it without argument and went to look at the cups.

There was a bright mark where the hammer had struck, and a shallow hollow beneath it. Balon ran his thumb across the place.

"Again?" Jon asked.

"Once was enough for the man wearing it."

He put down the hammer. Before deciding, he would return with his own padding to have a black chest plate fitted. The fitter gave him a quieter hour.

Tallad passed the sample to a knight waiting behind him. His eyes returned to the black chest plate he had been examining. He left it on the table without asking the price.

Jon noticed. "I can have the fitter look at what you wear now."

"It still serves."

Tallad said it pleasantly. He had horses to think of, and a ransom, and no settled service yet. Jon did not press.

A man in a brown cap asked Marrec whether the goods would be left here after the hunt. Marrec told him the hall would close. He offered to show him a gauntlet, but the man had already turned away.

The new porter stood idle beside the armour. When Marrec looked round, he bent over an empty chest. Jon knew that look of his steward's. He had seen apprentices find work at the sight of it.

Lord Beric Dondarrion had been watching from the end of the table. He chose a red gauntlet and held it beside the starry cloth of his sleeve.

"Gawen hit me hard enough in the lists. I might as well look better when it happens again."

"You could try staying in the saddle," Lord Bryce Caron said.

Caron was seated near the wall, stiff after Royce's handling of him. He had refused a cushion, but accepted the chair. Beric glanced at it and smiled without answering. He asked the fitter to see whether the pair could be made to fit him, and counted out an earnest while Caron watched.

The knight beside Beric wore a plain sword belt, its leather polished where his hand rested. Marrec introduced him as Ser Philip Foote, from the west. He asked to hold the black chest plate and turned it over, examining the edges before putting it against his body.

"Will you be riding in it?" Jon asked.

"Riding, walking, whatever is required." Foote lowered it. "What does that one cost?"

At the answer he returned it to the table. He would consider it, he said. There was no shame in his voice and no attempt to discover what another man had been asked to pay.

Caron beckoned for the plate. Foote passed it across, taking care of Caron's bad knee. At the Blackwater, in the history Jon knew, Foote had killed Bryce Caron and been given his lands. Here he stood with a hand on the back of Caron's chair to steady it while the lord shifted his weight.

Ser Harys Swyft came over from the porcelain with a cup in his hand. He introduced himself as the Knight of Cornfield, then added that Ser Kevan Lannister was married to his daughter.

"I should like these at my own table. With our cock upon them, if your painter can manage it."

"Send the design," Jon said. "Perrin can tell you the price."

"For six?"

"For six." Jon showed him another cup, broad enough to leave room for the bird. Swyft examined it, evidently pleased to have a choice.

"Does naming Ser Kevan bring the price down?" Caron asked.

Swyft stiffened. "I pay for my own table, Lord Caron."

Beric looked down at his new gauntlet. Foote took the chest plate back from Caron and set it carefully beside the others.

"You may have a plain set sooner," Jon told Swyft. "The painted ones must wait for the next work from Dragonstone."

Swyft wanted the painting. He went to Perrin, repeating the number of cups. Caron watched him go.

"You are obliging to them."

"He asked to buy something."

Caron's gaze returned to Jon. "Aye. And his good-son will hear how well you treated him."

Jon could see the answer the Marcher wanted. He had no intention of declaring himself against the Lannisters over a cup, with their household men within hearing. He offered Caron wine instead. The lord accepted it, but asked no more about the armour. Swyft paid an earnest for his painted cups.

Lord Jonos Bracken arrived while the sample was being passed between the knights. His younger kinsman stood behind him, tall and solemn, one hand resting on the pommel of a sword he wanted people to notice.

Bracken looked longest at the red finish. "Six chest plates. For the men riding home with him." He indicated the young man. "They will leave before I do."

Perrin gave the price. Bracken scarcely paused over it.

"Then have them ready."

"We cannot make six before they leave," Jon said.

Bracken pointed to the armour. "You have pieces here."

Some were samples. Others were already promised, and would need fitting before they went to their owners. Jon explained that. Bracken listened as a man might listen to a servant describing why dinner was late.

"Let those men have the next ones. I am offering you silver for these."

"So have they."

"Merchants?"

Lendry had been wrapping a pot. He paused with a corner of the linen folded under his thumb. Jon wished the riverlord had asked while they were alone. He might have found a way to give the answer without making the whole room part of it.

"Men I have given my word to," he said. "Your six would follow theirs."

Bracken's kinsman looked at the bright red plate, then quickly away. His uncle saw the movement.

"There are armourers in this city who can serve a lord without a month's consideration."

"Those plates are promised. If you need armour today, you will have to buy elsewhere."

The last words had come out harder than Jon intended. Bracken looked at him for a moment before answering.

The riverlord drew on his gloves. "Then there is nothing to settle."

He turned away before Jon could offer a later date. His kinsman followed, leaving the red chest plate where it stood. At the door Bracken stopped to speak to another knight. Neither came back.

Perrin moved the sample clear of the edge. There would be a version of this quarrel in the king's camp before Jon reached it. Jon could have kept his word to the other buyers and spared Bracken those last few words.

"If I wanted a clock like the prince's, my lord, would Lord Manderly have to ask for me?"

Lendry still had the pot in his hand. Bracken's back was to them now.

"Whose hall would it stand in?" Jon asked.

"Mine, if my wife has her way. Every tale of Lord Manderly's clock ends with her asking when I'll get her one."

"Then you can ask me yourself. Have you a man you could send to Dragonstone? William, my clock keeper, could teach him to tend it. I can't spare one of his own men."

"I might. How long would he have to stay?"

"Perrin will ask William. You'll have the price and the time together."

"Good. I'd like to know both before I say a word to my wife." Lendry tucked the linen round the pot. "She'll remember a promise long after I've forgotten it."

Balon still had his gauntlet on. He bent his thumb for the fitter and showed him where it caught.

Ser Armond Massey, whose younger son had joined Vaelor's morning in the yard, waited until Balon had finished. He asked the price of a black chest plate. His son came nearer at once.

"For your brother," the knight told him.

The boy stopped. Armond had noticed, though he continued speaking to the fitter. His elder son would need the plate before winter; could they have it ready then? That was a promise Jon could make, provided the measurements came soon. Armond laid down an earnest and asked how the fitting would be managed.

His younger son examined the sample again, trying to lift it with one hand. Armond caught the edge before he dropped it.

"Both hands. You will have armour of your own when you need it."

The boy glanced towards Jon. Armond followed the look, then thanked him for letting the lad ride that morning.

***
​

Lord Monford Velaryon had been examining the packing of a sample chest. Aurane sat beside him with his bandaged hand well clear of passing elbows. A servant poured their wine while a Redwyne factor waited to speak to Jon.

The factor had brought Lord Paxter's interest in a purchase, and a folded drawing from Lady Desmera for the potter. Jon opened the linen around it. A flowering stem bent across the page, some buds still closed, one bloom beginning to lose its petals. Desmera had marked the colours in the margin. If Ellyn could use it, the accompanying note said, she was welcome to change what the firing would not allow.

Jon put the drawing safely aside. He wished more people would send Ellyn requests like that.

Monford pressed a finger between two packed cups. "My man in Pentos knows which households will pay for these. He has spent years making those acquaintances. The orders he finds should travel in my ships."

The factor glanced at Jon. Lord Paxter's ships had room as well, he said. Wine did not fill every hold on the outward voyage.

Jon wanted his captains to know the buyers themselves, and come home with orders for another voyage. Monford could help them through the door; he need not carry the cargo as well.

"I have ships," Jon said. "Name your man's price for finding buyers. My captains will carry the goods."

"My man serves my house. I mean to gain more than his fee."

"Then buy from me. What you have paid for, you may carry wherever you please."

The Redwyne factor spoke before Monford could answer. "My lord, would you sell Lord Paxter a chest on those terms? I could choose the pieces and bring him your price."

"Choose what you think would please him," Jon said. "Perrin can give you a price for the lot."

Monford shut the lid. "Send Perrin to me later. Until we have settled that, there is no need to trouble my man."

Monford meant to keep his acquaintances to himself, then. For now, Jon had little to offer in return for them beyond a share of the trade. If the voyages he planned prospered, his captains would bring home acquaintances of their own, and cargoes worth more than a few chests of cups. He wondered whether Monford would be as careful with introductions when he wanted one himself.

If the first cups brought orders, some of their silver would buy food for the voyage to Valyria. Bloodraven might think poorly of time spent selling dishes; Jon would have to feed the men who sailed with him.

Aurane laid his sound hand on the lid. "Best not let the captain sample the cargo. You may find him drinking out of it all the way to Pentos."

"You would put the wine among the ship's expenses," Monford said.

Aurane laughed, then shifted his hurt hand as the servant passed. Jon remembered that hand upon a ship he had brought home. "I was glad enough of his last voyage."

"So was I," Monford said at once.

Aurane bent his head over his wine, but his smile remained. Jon left the brothers together. Marrec and Perrin fell into step beside him; they had been making their own rounds while he spoke with the lords.

"What do they say when I am elsewhere?"

"Much the same, with lower prices," Marrec said. "One wants the price we give men who buy a chest, though he only means to take four cups."

"He can choose the rest as well," Perrin said.

Jon smiled. "And the men who mean to buy?"

"Two asked who bears the loss if their servants take the cups away and find them broken," Perrin said. "I would have that settled before I named a price."

"Have their men watch us pack them. Once they accept the chest, the risk is theirs."

"And when we carry them ourselves?" Marrec asked.

"Then broken cups are our loss. Allow for it when you reckon the voyage."

Perrin nodded. They passed a servant counting out copper for a salt jar and reached the far end of the table.

Lord William Mooton was waiting there. He had watched Lendry taste the white crystals before drawing Jon aside.

"My Maidenpool men will ask what you need to buy. They can sell you more than a passage for your cups."

"Wheat, first. We have mouths to feed now, whatever comes of today."

Mooton knew a man with wheat to sell at Maidenpool and barges to carry it. Jon asked quietly whether he knew who sold the wheat from Darry's lands, or anybody who dealt for Lady Whent.

"Darry's men, certainly. Lady Whent's business may take longer."

"I would be grateful."

"For the grain, or the acquaintance?"

"Both, if the grain is sound."

Mooton smiled and turned to Perrin. "You shall have a price for Maidenpool wheat."

"Maidenpool?" Lord Gyles Rosby had come up behind them. A cough took him before he could say more. His servant waited beside him with the jar of white salt Rosby had bought. "You've a nearer neighbour than that, Lord Black. We send butter and honey to the king's kitchens. Come out to Rosby and try them at my table."

Jon left Perrin with Mooton. He remembered Darry's ploughman upon the banners, still borne after the ruin of the king that house had served. He would be glad to send silver into those fields.

Lady Tanda Stokeworth put down her tasting spoon and told her man to pay for a jar. "Lollys wanted me to ask if the children had her coverlet."

"It's at Meriane's sept, my lady. Wylla says they're sleeping better. Please thank Lollys for me."

"I will. Has the septa found any of their people?"

"She's still looking."

Tanda shook her head. Jon offered her some bread to take the salt off her tongue. She took a bite before she turned to Rosby. "You must leave me an evening, Gyles. Lord Black and his brother have yet to sit at my table."

"I should be happy to see them both at mine," Rosby said. He looked to Jon for his answer.

"Let me see what time I have after the hunt, Lord Rosby. Perrin can hear your steward's price today. Lady Tanda, send word when you've chosen your evening."

Tanda took Rosby's arm. Her daughter Falyse was choosing dishes close by. She asked her husband how many their table would take.

"How many what?" Ser Balman Byrch had been looking across the hall at the armour.

"Dishes, Balman."

"Ah. Those are fine." He glanced back at the red chest plate. "I used to have a surcoat that colour."

"You still have it," Falyse said.

"It was finer when it was new." He smiled at her. She had chosen two dishes, and he paid for them with the coins she had counted out. They followed Tanda and Rosby into the street.

Marrec brought Jon to three salt merchants gathered about a broad man in brown wool. The cloth was good, though one cuff had worn smooth. A greybeard passed him a spoon and waited for him to speak.

"Master Belden," Marrec said. "He has stores in the merchant quarter and near the port. These gentlemen buy through him."

Belden bowed and asked to open a jar. Given his choice, he took one from the back of the case. Perrin broke its seal. Belden rubbed a little salt between finger and thumb before tasting it, then offered the jar to the greybeard.

"Clean," he said. "None of that bitter taste."

The greybeard tasted twice. He asked Marrec what six jars would cost, and had a hand inside his coat when Belden pointed towards the sacks.

"What of those? A fishmonger must count the salt in every barrel."

"Common salt," Jon said. "The white is for tables."

"The king has tried it, I hear." Belden turned back to his customer. "Will your buyers pay for the difference? Try one before you take six. A steward may praise his lord's dinner and still send the cook for whatever costs least."

The greybeard took his hand from his coat. "One jar, then. Let me see what they say."

Marrec wrapped the purchase. Another merchant wanted to know how soon he could have more. Perrin answered him, but the man looked to Belden before replying. Lendry reached past them to taste a second pinch, then went round the table to ask Perrin for a jar of his own.

Belden had cost him five jars without finding fault with the salt. Jon watched the greybeard tuck away his purchase. The man had tasted for himself and still waited for Belden's judgement.

"Let me sell it here," Belden said to Jon. "I have the space, and buyers know where to find me."

"You may buy what you need."

"So may anyone who walks through your door. Give me the city's custom, and I can offer more."

Jon shook his head. "Others may buy from me. Tell me what you will pay for salt."

Belden named a price. For that, he wanted enough to fill a good part of his store, with some of the money to follow once the goods were sold. Jon offered a smaller quantity, paid for when it changed hands. Belden let the spoon fall into the empty tasting bowl.

"You will have to trust someone, my lord."

"When I know him."

The merchant accepted that with a bow which gave nothing away. Beyond him a lord in a violet cloak had been listening to his steward. Marrec introduced Lord Lothar Mallery, who had come to see the armour but found his household needed common salt more urgently.

His steward had chosen the sacks. Their own men would not be ready to take them home for a week, and the innkeeper would not give them a dry room without being paid as though it held guests. Belden offered space in his store.

"Have you used it before?" Mallery asked his steward.

"For the wool, my lord."

That settled it. Mallery told him to pay for the salt and left the two men to arrange its keeping.

Petyr Baelish had come in while they were speaking. He greeted Belden as an acquaintance before stopping beside Jon.

"You have found a buyer."

"Marrec has. Belden has found someone who needs his store."

"Which is why the man can buy today." Petyr watched the sacks being moved. "Useful, having a place here. Your ships will sail; his door will still be open."

Jon looked at the merchant. There was nothing unreasonable in wanting somewhere dry to leave salt. Nor was there any reason the next purchase should come through Jon, if the buyer found everything he needed at Belden's door.

"You recommend him?"

"I recommend hearing him. He knows men who have never heard of your potter, and has trusted some of them with more silver than you have on these tables."

Jon could believe it. He could also hear Belden's demand for the whole city's custom in the compliment. He knew better than to let Petyr choose the men who would receive his cargoes.

Petyr smiled. "Come to supper after the hunt. I can have him there. It is easier to agree over a cup."

Before Jon answered, a household servant approached the Master of Coin and drew him aside. Jon called Marrec nearer.

The serving man was showing the man in the brown cap the way to the privy. He pointed through the court; the customer thanked him and went.

"We need a place of our own near the water," Jon told Marrec. "Somewhere people can find us after today."

Marrec looked at the full hall. "I have been asking."

"Good. We will look together."

He would need trusted men there, and his captains bringing them goods, and a door that stayed his when somebody offered the keeper silver to shut it. A few rented rooms could not give him King's Landing. They might give him somewhere to begin. He had no intention of making a claim upon this city one day with nothing inside its walls but his name.

Theon came through the court with Robb and Domeric, on their way to the crossing. A groom had to call twice before the hay cart moved enough to let their horses turn. Its load was still untouched. Robb offered to wait; Jon told him to go before Robert sent somebody to collect them both.

"You will come?"

"Before the hounds. Jaime has already reminded me."

Theon lingered while Domeric called for their horses. Jon asked whether he had found Ser Harras Harlaw.

"He has the letter." Theon's fingers went to the breast of his coat. "Said my mother would be glad of it. He hadn't opened it."

"Perhaps she will."

Theon looked towards the court, then followed Robb without another jest. Jon watched him go. There were some things he could encourage and then leave alone.

Lady Genna's servant had brought an earnest for six broad dishes for the Twins, with plain rims and the towers painted in the centre. Perrin accepted it.

Lendry made a porter lift one of the pots from his open chest so he could see the straw beneath it. Across the room the Redwyne factor had finished his selection for Lord Paxter to consider. Monford left with him, taking Guncer and Matthos as far as the door. The boy looked back once towards Vaelor.

The knights and lords were thinning out. Beric waited in the court while Caron mounted, slowly and with a groom at his stirrup. Swyft and Foote had already gone; Mallery left his steward to finish paying before following them towards the royal gathering. Balon Swann and Ser Aron Santagar departed together, and Armond Massey took his son with him. Tallad promised Vaelor that they would speak again, then went to attend to his horse.

The man in the brown cap stood where he could see them mount. He let another customer take his place at the table.

Their departure scarcely quieted the hall. The merchants had less reason to hurry. A porter knelt over a chest while his master told him to be quicker. Marrec raised his voice to a buyer. Jon stepped aside, his left shoulder aching beneath his coat.

Harro brought his assistant back to Jon. He wanted a mixed tray for his city shop, including the little bowl with blue leaves. His customers would choose something they could take away. Jon sent him to Marrec, and Harro began selecting from the low display by the public entrance.

Aries brought fresh cloths. Jossel helped him spread one beneath the tray. They were almost the same height. The assistant's cap was good wool, his smallest finger ink-stained; Aries had washed his hands but let his left cuff come loose again.

"You lads. Give me a hand."

The serving man had stopped beside the boys. Aries looked to Jon.

"With what?" Jon asked.

"A chest in the court, my lord." The man reached for Aries's sleeve. "Come along, lad."

Aries drew back. The servant let his hand fall, looking suddenly ashamed.

"Let them finish here," Jon said. "Ask Eddison."

The man bowed his head and went on into the court. Jon watched him until Harro offered him the bowl. The merchant had found a tiny run in the glaze beneath its foot. He wanted to know whether all the pieces were like it.

The man in the worn coat let Harro choose two cups before pointing to a dish.

"Must I buy the pot as well?"

"You may buy one piece," Harro said. "Master Marrec will give you the price."

Tomas moved nearer to give the boys room. The man in the brown cap had returned to the entrance. He glanced past the tables towards the court.

The serving man stood at the wicket in the rear gate. Perhaps he was letting in a porter. Harro pointed to the bowl in Jon's hands and asked whether its painted border could be repeated on a larger one.

"Ellyn can—"

The wicket was open now. No one came through. The servant had put down his jug and stood looking into the hall, one hand on the bar that held the broad gate shut. When Marrec called again, he did not answer.

Jon followed the servant's gaze to the low display. The man in the worn coat had left the dish where it lay. Both his hands were on the tray beside Jossel. Brown Cap was watching those hands as closely as he had watched the knights ride out.

The servant turned his face away.

He had wanted the boys away from the table. Jon set the bowl down and moved, catching Arthur's arm as he passed.

"The boys. Tomas—"

The man in the coat jerked the tray upwards. Its edge caught Jossel's fingers. Cups burst across the floor. Tomas reached for the boy, took the empty tray across his forearm and drove into the man who held it. The trestle went over between them. Aries stumbled clear; Jossel vanished beneath the cloth.

Harro cried his name. Jon started towards him, but Arthur caught Jon by the coat and pulled him back. Three men were pushing in through the public door. One had a short sword held low beside his leg.

The nearest guard met him in the doorway. Steel rang against the post. His companion shoved a woman behind him and drew, leaving the street half hidden by his shoulders. Somewhere in the court a horse screamed.

Jon turned. The serving man had swung the broad gate open. Men dropped from the hay cart and ran across the court. The delivery guard met the first at the mouth of the passage. Another swung over his fellow's shoulder. From behind them a man threw a burning brand that landed in Lendry's packing straw.

For a moment it lay there smoking. Lendry's man slapped at it with his cap. He scattered burning wisps over the linen instead, and a thin flame ran up the hanging cloth.

"Water!" Jon shouted. "The jugs—"

Someone seized one from the salt table. It broke against the edge of the chest. Water poured over the floor, missing the fire. Buyers were crowding away from it, carrying the cry towards the front door, where the guard was still fighting. The man in the brown cap caught a merchant by the collar and thrust him into those ahead.

"They're burning you out! Ask Lord Black what became of the last shop he set men to guard!"

Arthur's hand closed on Jon's sound arm. "Against the wall."

"Jossel's under—"

"Tomas has him."

Jon could see the knight now, planted over the fallen trestle, one hand hooked beneath the cloth. Harro was trying to crawl under it from the other side. People kept striking against them. A woman lost her footing; Tomas caught her by the back of her gown and thrust her upright without letting go of the boy.

A swordsman stumbled past the door guards and came at them along the wall. Arthur released Jon to meet him. The blades struck; the man recoiled against a buyer, recovered, and struck again.

The new porter came towards Jon with an empty bucket. He had been slow enough over his work all morning. Now he shouldered past Perrin, who was fumbling with a chest latch, and stepped over a man on his knees.

Jon pointed at the fire. "There. Help him."

The porter kept coming. His eyes were on Jon's face.

"My lord."

The bucket struck the floor. Jon saw the knife as the man's hand rose from behind it.

He caught at the wrist. The point dragged through his coat beneath the ribs, hot and startling. He tried to bring his left arm across and his injured shoulder failed him. The man's weight drove him into the wall. There was no room to draw a sword, barely room to breathe. Jon held the wrist with his right hand while the blade pressed closer. Beside his ear, Arthur's sword rang against the other man's.

Arthur drove his opponent backwards over the long table. Trestle and board came down beneath him. Arthur caught the porter by the collar and wrenched him sideways. Jon's grip broke. The knife tore free of his coat, and Arthur's sword went in beneath the porter's lifted arm. The man struck Jon once with his empty hand as he fell, almost gently.

Jon stayed against the wall. He could feel the cut now. He pressed his palm over it and stared down at the bucket rolling towards the table.

"How deep?" Arthur asked.

"I don't know."

"Keep your hand there."

The porter drew a wet breath. Jon had thought him dead already. Arthur pulled Jon clear of his legs and put himself between him and the hall.

Through the smoke Jon saw flame run along the cloth and curl beneath the display board. A pot cracked with a sharp report. He flinched before he could help it.

Vaelor came backwards through the delivery doorway, his sword working close to his body. The man facing him had a cleaver. He struck at Vaelor's head, missed, and caught the doorframe. Vaelor thrust before he could pull it free. The man went down across the threshold. Behind him the delivery guard was dragging himself along the wall, leaving blood on the stones.

For an instant Jon saw the court. Tallad had his horse between the gate and the passage, hauling its head round as a man struck at the bridle. Another lay under its hind feet. Aleyx was pulling at the wounded guard's belt. Then a fleeing buyer blundered into Jon and the court disappeared.

Arthur caught the buyer's shoulder and sent him towards the wall. "Stay behind us."

The man tried to speak, coughed and obeyed.

Jon's eyes were watering. The smoke had not filled the room, but it was gathering above the windows, darkening the bright strip where Harro had held a cup to the light. He had seen a compartment fill on a ship. Waiting until the smoke reached a man's face was waiting too long.

"The shutters," he said. "Marrec, open them."

His steward looked up from a burning cloth he was trying to stamp out.

"Get the people through. Leave the goods."

Marrec looked once at the tables, then dragged a bench beneath the nearest window. The opening was low enough to climb through from it. Perrin helped a woman up; her skirts caught beneath her shoe and she began to cry. Marrec took her ankle and freed it. Outside, someone reached to help her down.

Jon moved towards them. Arthur moved with him, sword still drawn. They had to go round the fallen display. Its linen was burning at one end, the blue-painted shards beneath it turning black. The heat drove Jon sideways.

At the public door the guard thrust his sword into a man's belly. The fellow folded against him, almost dragging him down. Eddison struck the next attacker with a stool. The stool broke, and the man fell beneath it. The swordsman Arthur had driven back scrambled over the fallen board and ran into the street.

"Out that way!" Jon shouted. "The door's clear!"

Lendry's man tried to drag the chest after him. It caught against the broken trestle and tipped onto its side. People pressed against his back until he let go, cursing. Harro appeared beyond him with Jossel hanging between himself and Tomas. Blood ran from the boy's hand. Aries followed with his arms full of clean cloths, his eyes fixed on Tomas's back.

"Go with them," Arthur told Jon.

The serving man was kneeling beside the fallen chest. He had wrapped his sleeves about his hands and was trying to pull a burning cloth free. The flames climbed his wrist. He dropped it with a cry, then reached again.

As Tallad hauled his horse clear of the fallen man, Brown Cap slipped behind its rump and made for the gate. Beyond it the hay cart was moving off. Two men ran after it, one holding his arm.

"Vaelor! The cap—"

Vaelor had a man on his knees, his sword at the fellow's throat. By the time he looked up, Brown Cap was through. The hay cart rolled past the open gate, hiding the turn in the lane.

Jon turned to the serving man. "Leave it. Come out."

"I can put it—"

"Come out!"

He hauled at the man's coat with his right hand. Pain stabbed beneath his ribs. Arthur took the man from him and drove them both towards the public door. Behind them the cloth fell apart, shedding sparks into the chest.

In the street Jon could breathe again. People were shouting from windows. A woman had brought a bucket from a neighbour's house and was arguing with a man who wanted it for the blood on his sleeve. Farther down the lane a bell began to ring.

Arthur put Jon beside Harro and went back as far as the threshold. He called for Eddison. The guard with the bloody sword came out first, pushing the tray-breaker before him. The prisoner's hands were open above his head. Eddison followed with the man he had struck, limp between him and the second guard.

"Is anyone left?" Jon asked.

"Marrec and Perrin. Coming through the window."

Jon looked along the wall until he saw them. Perrin had the little box of earnest money clutched against his breast. Marrec came after him carrying nothing.

Across the street, Harro bent over Jossel's hand. Tomas held the boy upright. Aleyx emerged from the court lane with the delivery guard leaning on him. Vaelor came behind them with his prisoner, and Tallad brought the horses. His mount's chest was streaked with blood.

The serving man edged towards the lane. Jon caught his sleeve.

"You opened the gate."

The man looked past him towards the turning.

"You opened the little door before the tray fell. I saw your hand on the bar of the broad gate."

"They have my daughter."

Jon's hand tightened on his sleeve. "What's her name?"

"Nelda."

"Where did you last see her?"

"On the bakehouse step, two doors down. We have a room above the ovens. She stopped to take a stone out of her shoe last night. I went up without her." He looked towards the lane again.

"They said she'd be home by supper. They said to let them spoil the goods, that was all." His burnt fingers curled against his chest. "Please, my lord. They'll have seen me."

"Who brought the porter?"

The servant looked at the door. Arthur was standing there with blood along his blade.

"They sent him. Said he was to see I did it."

Jon released the sleeve. "Keep him apart," he told Vaelor. "And get those hands seen to."

Ser Alester Arryn was beside him, asking where he should go. Jon had not heard him the first time.

"Find Ser Androw. Men attacked the hall and one tried to kill me. We have prisoners. This man says they took his daughter. Her name's Nelda. Tell Androw her father last saw her on the bakehouse step, two doors down."

Alester stared at Jon's hand pressed against his coat, then turned for his horse.

"And a rider to the king," Jon said. "He must hear it from us."

***
​

The neighbours brought water. A cooper lent them his yard across the lane, and the wounded were carried beneath its awning while men passed buckets towards the hall. Without the horses and buyers in the court there was room to reach the burning stock. Vaelor took charge there. Jon could hear him calling for more water long after the shouting in the street had ceased.

Arthur made Jon sit on a stack of planks. He cut the coat lining away from the wound and pressed folded linen over it. Jon caught his wrist when the pressure hurt.

"Let go."

Jon let go. Across the yard Harro was saying the same thing to Jossel, who kept trying to pull his hand away from Tomas. The boy had not cried while they carried him out. Now he could not stop.

"You had guards," Harro said when he saw Jon looking.

"Yes."

The merchant bent over the boy again. Jon had no answer that would help him. The guard from the passage lay a few feet away, white-faced, both hands pressing a wadded cloak against his thigh.

"Healers," Jon said to Eddison. "Bring whoever can come."

"Two men gone already, my lord."

"Good." Jon nodded. Eddison had not waited to be told. "Where are the prisoners?"

"Other side of the yard. Bound, with two men over them."

The serving man sat alone beside an empty barrel. A cooper's apprentice was pouring water over his hands. When the man cried out, Jossel lifted his head. Harro turned the boy's face against his coat.

Arthur bent over the dressing again. Jon shut his eyes and reached for Hugin, his crow.

The crow had left the hall roof for a chimney farther along the lane. Smoke drifted below him. Jon sent him over it, past the bend where the cart had gone. At a crossing the driver laid the whip to his grey horse. A man clung to the split tailboard, and another had stopped beside a doorway, bent over his wounded arm. There was no brown cap on either of them.

Two blue hands were painted on a sign above the door. Hugin settled on its iron bracket. The wounded man looked back towards the smoke, then knocked. A woman opened it a little. He put his shoulder against the gap and forced his way inside.

When Jon opened his eyes, Arthur was still bent over him. Jon drew him closer and spoke under his breath.

"There's a wounded man in the dyer's house beyond the turning. Two blue hands on the sign. Have Eddison watch the door and call the Watch."

"The hay cart?" Arthur asked.

Jon had lost it at the crossing. He could look again, but the men who had escaped were already separating.

"Grey horse, split tailboard. Ask which way it went."

Arthur called Eddison over and sent him on his way. Across the yard Aries held a cup while Jossel drank. The page's loose cuff was bloody. Jon wanted to look at his hands and face himself, but Jossel reached for the cup again and Aries stayed with him.

Tallad came through the yard gate. He was limping, though he waved away the offer of a seat.

"Six at the cart, counting the driver," he told Arthur. "I thought they meant to steal the horses."

He looked towards Jon's coat. Arthur shook his head once.

"How many down?" Jon asked.

"Two dead at the back. Vaelor took another alive."

Six at the cart, three at the public door and three among the buyers. Jon had let the tray-breaker stand beside Jossel. He'd taken the porter's idleness for fear of Marrec. Brown Cap had given up his place at the table to watch the knights ride out. Jon remembered wanting the hall less crowded.

Tallad lowered himself onto a barrel at last and began unlacing his boot.

Janos Slynt brought four gold cloaks into the cooper's yard. He sent one to clear the lane for the water carriers. Jon's guard pointed out the three prisoners and the servant who had opened the gate.

"These men go to the barracks," Slynt said. "Fetch the fellow who opened the gate as well. I'll hear him first."

The servant looked up from his burnt hands. A gold cloak caught the tray-breaker by the collar.

"Let him go." Jon rose, one hand pressed to the dressing. "All three stay here. Let the man with the burns have his hands seen to."

"My lord, there are men pressing against that gate to get a look at them. They'll be safer behind barracks walls."

"My men took them and my men can guard them. I sent for Ser Androw. He'll hear them here."

"He can hear them at the barracks."

Jon crossed the few yards to the prisoners. "The man who put a knife in me is dead. This one can still tell me who sent him. I mean to hear his answer." He turned to his guards. "Keep them for Ser Androw."

Ser Arthur came up on the watchman's sword side. "Take your hand off him, lad." The watchman let go of the collar. Arthur looked across at Slynt and waited.

"The king expects me this afternoon," Jon said. "Shall I tell him you couldn't wait for the Hand's knight?"

Even the watchman at the gate had turned to hear Slynt's answer. A flush crept up from the commander's collar. "Leave them where they are. You two, keep those people out of the yard."

Eddison called from the gate. "My lord, we've a man at the dyer's door. I need someone to go inside with me."

"One of the men who got away went in there bleeding," Jon told Slynt. "Send a gold cloak with him."

The nearest watchman turned to go. "Stay where I put you," Slynt called. The man stopped. "My men enter houses on my orders, Lord Black."

"Then give the order. He's had time enough already."

Slynt pointed the watchman back to the gate. "Eddison," Jon said, "keep our man on the door. See where the back of that house comes out." Eddison went at a run.

Alester came back with Ser Androw. Slynt met them at the gate. "Lord Arryn kept the brewery prisoners, ser. These men were taken today."

"One of them shouted about the last shop I set men to guard," Jon said. "Rilla's shop. He meant the buyers to hear it."

Androw took out the Hand's sealed order. "Then I'll hear them about both fires. They go to the Red Keep with me." While Slynt read it, Jon told Androw about the dyer. Androw sent two men to search the house.

Slynt gave back the parchment. When Androw went to the prisoners, Slynt leaned close to Jon. "You had to do it in front of my own men," he said. "I'll remember that, Lord Black. Next time one of your captains brings goods through the River Gate, I'll see to him myself."

Jon held his eye. Slynt turned and went back to his men.

Jon sat down. His hand shook. He hid it under his coat until Arthur moved the cloth to look at the bleeding.

"I had him by the wrist," Jon said. He could still feel the pressure of it. "I couldn't hold him."

"You held him long enough."

Arthur put Jon's hand back over the dressing and kept his own upon it for a moment. Since the dagger had shown its writing they had scarcely been alone. Jon had kept finding business that needed doing.

"Tonight," he said. "We'll speak tonight."

Arthur looked at him, then nodded.

***
​

By the time Ser Gawen Stone, the captain of Jon's household guard, arrived, the flames were out. Smoke still rose from the doorway. Vaelor would let no one carry goods away until his men had checked the chests and fallen boards for embers. The roof had not caught, but the window lintel was blackened and water stood across the floor. A salt sack split when the men lifted it. White crystals washed into the gutter.

Perrin brought the earnest box into the cooper's yard and opened it on a barrel. Buyers were waiting. Some wanted their goods; others wanted their money back. He had no dry place to set the orders.

Two pots had broken when Lendry's chest tipped. Lendry laid them beside the earnest box and turned the other four so Jon could see the cracks the heat had left in them. The chest had still been open when the fire started. "All six, Perrin," Jon said. "Give him back his silver."

"I can send you fresh pots from Dragonstone," Jon told Lendry.

"Keep the cups for now," Lendry said. "I'll have my man collect them."

Marrec had brought out a few pieces from the tray Harro wanted for his shop. Harro looked at them once. "Leave them, Master Marrec. I won't take the tray." The healer put another stitch in Jossel's hand. Harro let the boy squeeze two of his fingers until the needle came through.

The delivery guard had stopped bleeding. His wound was deep; he would have to be carried home. Tallad had a swollen ankle and a burnt wrist, neither of which pleased him. He asked Vaelor for someone to see to his horse before allowing his own wrist to be bound.

Jon's cut needed cleaning and a dressing. The knife had gone along his ribs rather than between them. He listened to the healer tell him this, looking at the length of torn cloth, and felt colder than he had beside the fire.

The dead porter had stepped over a fallen man to reach him. He had not touched the goods.

Androw had heard the serving man separately. A stranger had come before dawn to tell him what to do if he wanted Nelda back. The new porter followed later. Nelda's father had never seen the porter before. He had recognised the knife. It belonged to the hall, and he had left it beside the bread. Two of Androw's men had gone to the bakehouse to ask after Nelda and speak to the neighbours who shared the stair.

"He tried to move the boys," Jon said.

"He told me."

"I thought he wanted help."

Androw waited while the healer tied off the dressing. "Come and hear the man who threw the tray."

They took the tray-breaker into the cooper's little counting room, away from the wounded. Gawen stood at the door. Through a crack in the shutters Jon could see a gold cloak waiting in the lane.

The prisoner called himself Rudd. He had lost a tooth and kept touching the gap with his tongue.

"I had no blade when the tray fell," he said. "Ask your man at the door. He took mine."

"Who paid you?" Androw asked.

Rudd looked at Jon. "Wasn't told about killing anyone."

"Who paid you?"

"A man in a winesink. He gave me a stag and promised me another when we came out. Turn the tray over, get them shouting. That was all."

"And the man in the brown cap?" Jon asked.

"He brought me. Said there'd be others." Rudd wet his broken lip. "Said if I was caught he'd have me out by nightfall."

Outside, the watchman spoke to someone. Rudd turned his head towards the shutter.

Jon let Androw ask about the winesink. A blue door below steps off the flour street; a hearth cracked down one side. Rudd did not know its name. He described the woman who had brought the ale more readily than the man who had paid him, but when Gawen asked which turning he meant, he answered at once.

"Take me. I'll show you."

"You'll stay with me," Androw said.

The other two prisoners had come to the hall with weapons. One was still senseless from Eddison's blow. The other had given a name and nothing more. Neither could be allowed to hear Rudd's account before being questioned.

Gawen went to find the blue door. Androw told him to question the keeper; Rudd's story was not cause enough to seize whoever happened to be serving ale.

Jon watched them lead Rudd back out. The winesink was somewhere to start. He still wanted to know who had sent the porter with a knife. It was tempting to lay the whole business at Cadwyn's door. Half the buyers had heard the threat about Rilla's shop, just as the man who shouted it had intended.

The dead man's bucket stood beside the cooper's gate. Eddison had brought it out with the knife. Jon had looked at the empty bucket and thought of the fire; the man carrying it had been able to come within reach of him. He wondered how long the fellow had watched him before picking it up.

Baelish's clerk had found them the hall.

Jon asked Marrec for the clerk's name. His steward looked up sharply, then nodded. Petyr had offered Belden's stores that morning. Jon could imagine himself accepting such help now, with his goods wet and broken in someone else's hall. That did not tell him who had hired a killer. He gave Androw the clerk's name when Marrec brought it, and told him how they had come to hire the place.

***
​

Renly's rider found them as two of Androw's men carried the senseless prisoner out on a litter. Rudd waited under guard by the horses. The rider had left the Kingswood before Jon's messenger reached it. His horse shied at the smell from the hall, and he dismounted to lead it past.

"The king is waiting, my lord."

"He's been sent word."

The rider looked from Jon to Arthur. He did not ask whether they meant to hunt.

Jon wanted to go with Gawen. He wanted the man in the brown cap found and Nelda home alive. But Androw had men following both leads. If Slynt called his gold cloaks off again, Jon wanted the king's word to send them back.

He called Alester over. "Tell Lord Arryn what Slynt said when you rode in with Androw. Eddison heard him call his man back."

Alester nodded. He had wanted to go voyaging with Jon. This was less pleasing work, and he had done it without complaint.

Androw came to say that the dyer's house was empty. The woman said a stranger had forced his way through to the next yard. Blood on the passage floor supported that much. His men were still asking along the lane.

Jon swore under his breath. He should have checked the yard before bringing Hugin back.

"If anything leads to Nelda or the children, go," he said. "Don't wait for me."

"I won't."

"Teren hasn't come back," Marrec said. "If it's tonight, the women will have to leave their house soon."

Six women from a pleasure house that paid Merys, hired for a feast where one of Cadwyn's lieutenants meant to give his guests fights to wager on. Mistress Merys wanted her gaming houses back. Jon had promised to hear her. She had yet to name the place or the day.

"If Teren brings the place or the day, send him straight to Ser Androw," Jon said. "I'll hear Mistress Merys when I return."

"And Nessa?" Androw asked.

Nessa would sell word from the river, but her crews would stay with her boats. Androw's men at the eastern landings had seen bales going ashore. What was inside them was anyone's guess.

"Have Vhalar ask what she wants to keep watch for the boat with the blue plank."

Androw nodded. He would keep the prisoners apart at the Red Keep and send word when they could be questioned again.

Gawen had left Wylla's message with Tomas. Wat was resting; there was no change in his hand. She said Jon was not to make the maester promise what he could not. Jon looked towards Jossel, whose bandaged hand lay on Harro's knee, and asked Tomas to send her word of the attack before someone carried her a worse account. Gawen might be late for supper.

Harro was ready to leave. Jon paid the healer and sent one of his guards home with Harro and Jossel. Harro thanked Tomas. He did not look towards the hall again.

Vaelor would bring the surviving goods back with Eddison, Aleyx and the hall guards. The men at Meriane's sept and the lodgings would remain there. Androw supplied an escort for Jon; Arthur and Tomas would ride with him.

Aries brought Jon his cloak. He stopped when he saw the torn coat beneath it.

"The healer's finished," Jon said.

The page nodded and put the cloak on carefully. He had washed his hands, but blood remained in the seam of his cuff.

Perrin caught Jon at the mounting block. The queen's measurements and Desmera's drawing had survived inside the order roll. He would write to Ellyn when they were back at their lodgings.

"Tell her what Harro said before this," Jon told him. "And Lendry. She ought to know they wanted it."

Perrin looked at the blackened window.

"Tell her that too," Jon said.

Arthur helped him mount. Jon had no wish to quarrel about it. Once seated, he found he could bear the movement if they went slowly. Renly's rider led them out, stopping the people ahead to clear a way.

Near the crossing Jon saw a laden boat work against the current. Someone hailed it from a landing. The steersman answered and brought the bow round, passing so close to the posts that Jon expected wood to strike wood. The boat slipped between them without a touch.

He had thought often of taking King's Landing. Walls and gates were easy enough to mark upon a map. He knew less about the men who brought food beneath those walls, or who could persuade a boatman to cross after dark. When he declared himself, he would need people inside the city who had dealt with him, earned from him and found reason to keep his confidence. Today someone had found twelve men to come against him while he was still trying to hire a boat.

The children would come out first. He would not leave them with Cadwyn while he bargained for a better place among the gangs. Once they were safe, he meant to keep what foothold he could make here. His own rooms, someone to receive his goods and letters, men who knew the river. He had money for those things. Choosing the people would be harder. The grey-haired servant had worked in that hall for years, Marrec said. A daughter had been enough to turn him.

Jon kept his right hand on the reins. His side hurt more when he breathed deeply. Across the water the road rose towards the trees, and Arthur moved his horse closer as they began to climb.

They found the royal company still in the meadow. The hounds were leashed, Robert's spear in a groom's hands. Joffrey held out a gloved fist while his falconer settled one of Lord Tyrell's hawks on it. The prince turned at once to see whether Margaery was watching. Cersei had drawn her horse up beside them. Jon's messenger stood near Renly. Robb saw them and came at a run, Theon and Domeric behind him.

"They said someone stabbed you."

"A cut. Arthur stopped him."

Robb caught the bridle while Jon dismounted. He looked at the dark stain on his brother's coat, then at Arthur.

"It's been seen to," Arthur said.

Robert was coming towards them. Men drew aside for him; the conversation nearest Jon faltered and stopped.

"Where's the man who cut you?"

"Dead, Your Grace."

"And the others?"

"Three held for Lord Arryn. Four dead altogether. The rest got away."

"In my city." Robert looked towards the river, though the trees hid it. "At a hall full of armed men. Who thought that would end well for him?"

"Someone who watched the knights ride out. They came at both doors of my hall and set it alight with people still inside. I called to a fellow with a bucket for help. He put his knife in me."

Robert looked at Tomas's bloody sleeve. "Yours?"

"Jossel's, Your Grace. A merchant's boy. I pulled him from under a trestle."

Harro had given Jossel two fingers to squeeze while the healer stitched his hand. You had guards, he'd said to Jon. Yes. That was all Jon had found to say.

"My man Wat is still abed from the fire at Rilla's shop. Today a guard had to be carried home from my door. The servant says they took his girl Nelda to make him open the gate."

"Send for Slynt." Renly beckoned to a rider.

"And Ser Androw, Your Grace. We had one of the attackers run to ground. I asked for a gold cloak to go after him. Slynt called his man back."

"I'll hear what Slynt has to say."

"Hear him, Your Grace. We know enough to begin. I won't put my life in Slynt's hands. Give me charge of finding who sent those men, and order the Watch to help me."

"You're asking to hunt men through my city."

"Aye, Your Grace. I had that bastard by the wrist and I still couldn't keep the knife out. If Arthur had been a heartbeat slower, you'd be asking Robb how I died. I want the man who sent that knife into my hall."

Robert glanced at Robb, still holding Jon's bridle. "And when one runs into a lord's house? Suppose he names a lord he's never laid eyes on?"

Bracken was listening behind Renly. Jon had given Androw the clerk's name. He kept it to himself now.

"I'll have the house watched and bring what I have to Lord Arryn. Ser Androw makes the arrests for the Hand. I want the right man, Your Grace. Any prisoner can give me the name of someone he hates."

Robert looked at Jon's bloody coat. "And you'll answer for what your men do?"

"I will, Your Grace."