Chapter 44: The Field of Stakes

Before dawn Hennet sat upon his bed chest and pulled dry woollen hose over his heels. He rolled his blanket tightly and tied it to the wooden carrying fork with his food bag and cup. A tug at each knot, and his pack was ready to go over his shoulder. Beside him, another man counted out the tent pegs. The ten men who shared their tent also shared its spades and axes; Hennet took the spade allotted to him and bound it where it would not knock against his leg.

Six wagons waited under their tilts, grain low beside the hand mills and spare ironwork, canvas bundles within reach. The drivers Ralf had trained stood at the team heads, shields behind the seats and swords at their belts. Thirty mules in five strings took the lighter canvas, sectional poles, cooking gear and supplies needed at a halt ahead of the wagons.

Jon walked the line with Hewyn. Each century’s baggage carried its own mark. The leaders of the tent parties checked their loads before the muleteers tightened the ropes; a missing kettle was easier to find here than after a day’s march.

Hugin travelled along the wagon tilts above them. At the last wagon he leaned down to examine a loose cord, and Jon lifted him onto his forearm before he could pull it free. Munin followed from the gate as the first mules moved.

Tomas had the household ready at the horse line, with fodder and spare tack checked by Ralf’s pack handlers.

The seven pages stayed for lessons with Wylla and riding with a groom. Aries had stabled Bracken and brought Patch to see them off. Jon promised to hear his letters on returning, then mounted beside Tomas.

The First Cohort marched around the baggage, one century before, one behind, and four divided along the road. The household rode beyond the column where folds of ground could hide an approach. At midday Jon changed horses, then walked with First Century. Carrying forks rose over dark helms; wrapped pots hung silently beneath. When Hewyn called a rest, the men reached for water before sitting.

Otho’s bridge pieces lay upon the last wagon. The two dismantled ballistae travelled with their working parts wrapped and their chests easy to reach. Henly and Emrick kept the libritors beside those wagons to check the lashings. The larger catapult remained at the Old Watch for further work upon its carriage.

Willen and Denner wore white linen bands high on their black sleeves. They would stay with Lorren and the baggage, where dressings, splints, slings and a basin lay in a covered basket beside the roll of blades and needles. Two men from Fifth secured the litter within reach. Lorren had taught them to lift together, supporting a wounded man instead of dragging his arms.

“My spare blanket went with Fifth Century,” Mallador complained at the water halt. “I put it down beside the wrong stack.”

“Ask them for it when we make camp,” his optio said. “They are carrying our salt as well.”

“I know which I would rather sleep under.” The man beside Mallador laughed and passed him the waterskin.

The road climbed through pine, crossed a stony brook, and opened upon a long sheep field below two low ridges. Otho had inspected it with Jon the previous week. There was dry, gently sloping ground for the tents, a spring for water and a clear view of anyone approaching. A crofter’s stone wall enclosed one side. Jon had paid for the field and forage and promised to make good any damage before they left.

Eddard arrived from the east with Robb, Theon, Rodrik Cassel, Medger Cerwyn and thirty Winterfell guards. The Cerwyn and Dreadfort masters-at-arms dismounted on the ridge, keeping the approach clear as the column passed. Eddard drew back his hood to study the field.

Master Edran Venn of Alderbank came up from the lower path with Master Osmer Rusk of Greybeck, two young men and four mounted retainers. Forage carters had told them of the exercise. Neither had seen Jon’s whole force away from the Old Watch. Eddard made room upon the ridge. Venn dismounted stiffly, his green coat worn smooth beneath the sword belt; Rusk watched a soldier turn the mule string away from the standing crop. Their sons tethered the horses and joined them, falling quiet at Venn’s glance.

Tomas sent his household riders out towards the woods and ridges while the foot halted at the field’s edge. Otho had gone ahead at the last rest with Bram and Torr, his two apprentices. Stakes already marked the camp’s corners and entrances. Otho sighted along his wooden frame to check that the lanes ran straight and met squarely. He waved Torr a little farther left, then nodded for him to drive in his stake.

Bram stretched a cord from the eastern entrance to the western one. Another crossed it near the middle of the field, marking the two main lanes. Smaller pegs showed where the rows of tents would stand, with room inside the boundary for men to reach the defences. Jon walked the eastern entrance with Otho and checked the space set aside for the wagons. They would unload beside the stores, well clear of the gate.

The leading centurion planted his standard at the centre mark. Each of the six centuries had a place around it, in the same order they used at every camp. Fifth and Sixth would sleep nearest the gates they were to defend. The other four spread out behind their officers, following the pegged lanes. Hennet recognised First’s ground before Malcolm pointed to it.

“Packs beside your tent marks,” Malcolm’s optio called. “Keep the lane clear. Shields and spears together; swords stay on.”

Hennet lowered his carrying fork and rolled the ache out of his shoulder. Around him men set their bundles in small heaps, one for each tent, and laid their weapons within reach. A newcomer dropped his blanket across the line of pegs. The optio tapped his boot and pointed him farther in; a mule string was already coming up behind them. The wagons used the other entrance, so neither had to wait for the other to unload.

Hewyn gave each centurion a stretch of the boundary to fortify. The centurions passed the work to their optios, who gathered the leaders of the ten-man parties and pointed out their tasks. Malcolm’s deputy sent four parties to dig and carry earth, two to unload the baggage and raise tents, another to fetch water and firewood. The last ten kept their shields and took the first watch beyond the diggers.

“Murch, your men start at that peg,” the optio said. “Take the baskets with the spades. Mallador, help with the canvas. You relieve the diggers next.”

Medger Cerwyn watched the parties separate. His horse had scarcely begun cropping grass when the first spades broke the turf. No one came to Jon to ask what he should do.

Murch took Hennet and the rest of their ten to the marked boundary. They cut the ditch outside the cord and carried the loose earth to the inside, where other men piled and stamped it into a bank. An attacker would have to climb down into the ditch, then scramble up the bank to reach them. Hennet filled a basket while Lew carried the full one away; when his shoulders tired, they exchanged places.

Along the edge of the field, armed sentries watched the trees. Farther out, Jon could see Tomas’s riders passing between the pines. The men with spades could keep their backs to the wood.

Mallador’s party fetched canvas and poles from First’s mules. Two men held each tent upright while the others pegged down its ropes. Jon stopped to steady a pole as Mallador drove the last peg, then made his way along the row. The optio checked that the ropes left the lane open before sending those men to relieve Murch’s party at the ditch. The change spread from one century to the next as their own officers called it; no digging party left until fresh hands arrived.

Hennet came back to a standing tent and pulled his pack beneath the canvas. He laid out his blanket with his helm and weapons beside it. Men returning in darkness would find their gear in the same place as at the Old Watch. Outside, Malcolm showed two recruits how to cut a shallow gutter around the canvas and give the rain somewhere to run before it reached their bedding.

By the spring, Jon marked the place to fill drinking vessels. The horses and mules would be watered farther downstream. Lorren chose ground for the latrines downhill and well away from both the spring and the tents; an optio sent a party with spades to dig them.

The little stream ran out of the field through a hollow in the boundary. Jon crouched beside it. They would have to leave a break in the earth bank to let it pass, wide enough for a man to crawl through.

“Put a barrier across here,” he told Bram and Torr. “Leave room for the water.”

They drove posts into either side and wove stout branches between them. Water trickled through the gaps. Otho pulled hard at the finished barrier, then made Torr tighten a loose binding before they went on.

By First’s tents, two men had dug a cooking hollow clear of the ropes. One lit the fire while the other fetched barley from the century’s storekeeper, who levelled the measure before pouring it into his sack. Soon onions and salted meat were in the pot. When Hennet’s ten took their next turn at the ditch, they could smell supper beginning to cook.

Venn pointed towards the woods. “Who watches that wood?” he asked Hewyn. “These men have both hands upon a spade.”

Hewyn pointed out a rider between two pines, another moving beyond the ridge.

“Tomas’s household riders. Their relief goes out before they come in.”

Venn stayed to watch the change. Rusk had gone towards the stores, where men with swords at their hips were grinding the next morning’s grain.

“Do they bring no lads to do that for them?” he asked Jon.

“Not on the march. Each ten divides its own work.”

Rusk watched a man hand over the mill and take his turn carrying water. “I brought four men to mend a boundary ditch last spring. By dinner three had found a reason the fourth should do the digging.”

“Did you let them?”

“No. I stood there until they had finished.” He looked down the long row of tents, where several parties were working beyond Jon’s sight. “You would need a great many hours to do the same here.”

“That is why I teach the officers as well.” Jon called Malcolm over to show the master how the turns were kept, then went on to Third’s unfinished bank.

By the second horn, the separate stretches of ditch had joined around most of the field. Inside it stood the bank made from the earth they had dug out. Men brought sharpened stakes from the wagons and set them along its crest. Only the two guarded entrances remained open. Behind the defences, rows of oat-coloured tents faced lanes wide enough for men to pass with their shields.

Third Century was slower. On a patch of damp ground, the bank had begun to slump back into the ditch. Jon pushed his staff into the crumbling side, then pointed to the narrow foot of the mound.

“Spread it farther in. It needs a wider base.”

The centurion’s optio drew a party from the digging and sent them to carry earth where Jon had pointed. Others stamped it firm and laid the saved turf over it to hold the loose soil. Jon left Hewyn watching their progress and went towards a shout from the southern line.

Mallador’s spade had struck a buried boulder. Four men had cleared its edge, but they could not shift it. Otho knelt beside the exposed stone, then moved the nearest marking peg a pace towards the tents.

“We can dig round it,” he said.

Malcolm looked along the cord. “That puts a bend in the ditch.”

“A small one,” Jon said. “Leave the stone outside the bank. We need the ditch finished before dark.”

Mallador moved his spade to the new line. The men beside him followed, cutting a short curve round the boulder, while their optio sent the spare hands to help Third. By the time the cooks called, even the damp stretch had its row of stakes. Jon washed grit from his nails at the trough, his shirt sticking to his back, and carried his coat to Hewyn’s fire. He sat on a split log, glad to lift his boots out of the mud. The barley-and-beef stew almost held a spoon upright. Medger Cerwyn sat opposite, mud to his knees after walking the bank with Eddard.

“How often have they done this?” Medger asked. Beyond the fire, men took their places without hunting for dry ground or arguing over a pot.

“Every third moon,” Jon said. “The ground changes. This is their first march and camp with the whole cohort in the new steel.”

“My men would still be finding somewhere to tether the horses.”

“Yours ride farther before they stop.” Jon passed him the bread. “I need mine able to work after a day on foot.”

Medger tore a piece and looked back towards the bank. His master-at-arms was walking the inner lane with Otho, measuring the tent intervals by his stride. The Dreadfort man sat with the men of First Century. He had begun by asking about the ditch and stayed to eat.

Jon watched the Dreadfort’s master-at-arms question a spearman about their training. Roose Bolton would hear about the armour, the camp and how quickly the men obeyed. Jon remembered what Roose had done to Robb in the books. A few years of changed events were no reason to forget it.

Still, he wanted the man watching. Deterrence had mattered in his old world: an enemy who understood the strength facing him might decide the fight was not worth its cost. Let Roose hear what he had seen here. Jon meant to make attacking his people an expensive choice. He would deal with Bolton later, once he had established himself on Dragonstone and had the strength to act.

Robb brought his own bowl, Theon following with a stool borrowed from the nearest tent party. Eddard sat down beside Medger and made room for Robb. A song rose from the western tents. Men farther down the lane took up the refrain before the first singers had finished.

“I know that one,” Theon said.

“Then spare them,” Robb replied.

Theon gave him a wounded look and sat. Jon laughed. By the spring one of the household riders was hanging wet saddlecloths upon a rope, lifting each corner clear of the earth. Smoke drifted beneath the first stars. In Jon’s drawings the lanes had seemed wide; now men edged past fires and stretched legs, carrying bowls back for more.

Lorren joined them after dressing a blister, leaving Willen to put away the linen. As the bowls emptied, Medger told of a stag driven through his kennels. Rodrik, who had been upon the hunt, broke in to describe the scattering hounds.

“What became of the stag?” Eddard asked.

“Got away. We spent the rest of the day gathering hounds.”

“And ate after dark,” Rodrik said.

Medger offered him the pot.

Before turning in, Jon went round the bank with Tomas. Beyond the stakes, the sentries called softly to the men coming to relieve them. The practice spears and ash swords for the night exercise lay ready beside the men’s bedrolls. The voices at his father’s fire continued, quieter now.

* * *

The alarm came during the deepest watch. Three horn notes broke sleep, followed by a shout from the eastern gate.

Jon came awake with his hand searching for the edge of his bed. Damp canvas brushed his knuckles. He heard running feet, a shield fall, then the horn again. Arthur held the tent flap open while Jon dragged on his helm and buckled his sword belt. Outside, the last embers of the cookfires glowed beneath their ash.

A padded arrow struck a shield with a heavy thump. Men were shouting beyond the eastern ditch, beating wood against wood. Jon could see figures running through the darkness outside the stakes, too many to count. Ser Rodrik had taken thirty Winterfell guards out of camp after midnight. With Theon among them, they had to reach a wagon, the horses or the central standard without being marked by a defender. Heward and the two visiting masters-at-arms would judge the attempt.

“First! To the bank!” Malcolm’s voice carried above the noise. An optio caught a man turning towards the wrong entrance and thrust him back towards his own century.

Tent flaps flew open along the lanes. Men ran with their helms unfastened and their jacks hanging loose, shields knocking against their knees. The veterans found their places and called the others in beside them. Fifth was forming across the eastern gate; Sixth’s men were still running towards the west. At the horse line Tomas kept his household on foot, sending four of them to Jon while the rest spread out with their shields.

Robb stumbled from Eddard’s tent with one boot unlaced. “Where?”

The nearest optio was counting his men. Robb followed the sound of blows towards the east, but his father caught his arm and drew him clear of the running files.

Jon started towards Fifth. Through a gap between the tents he saw movement at the other entrance: a low rush of men, shields held close, coming on without a shout.

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“West!”

Rodrik struck before Sixth had closed the opening. His leading guards drove their shields into the first pair, and the men behind shoved with them. One defender lost his footing. The next caught him under the arm, but their shields parted and an attacker forced his way between them. Brus threw himself into the gap. A practice sword cracked against his shield as he roared for the men still running from their tents.

The old knight’s white whiskers showed beneath his helm as he leaned into the press. “On! Keep them back!”

Jon ran towards the western lane with Arthur close beside him and his four guards at his flanks. Two of Third’s men had already turned from the bank to follow the shouting.

“Hold your ground!” Jon called. “Norren, keep them there!”

The centurion drove them back into place. Beyond their stakes, three attackers were feeling for a way across the bend around the boulder. Mallador saw a shield rise over the stone and brought his practice spear down against it. The men beside him closed the gap. A visiting master-at-arms called the foremost attacker out; the others drew back into the dark.

At the stream, two more had crawled as far as Bram and Torr’s barrier. Branches creaked as they pulled at it. A sentry heard them and called for a light. One man tried to wrench a post free, then swore as the lantern found his face. Neither had reached the inside of the bank.

Rodrik’s guards were still gaining ground at the western entrance. Theon slipped behind a shield, ducked a thrust and came through with another man at his shoulder. They broke away from the press and ran down the lane towards the wagons.

“Gawen! Across that lane!” Jon pointed between two rows of tents. “Tomas, hold the horses!”

Gawen took the household guards from Jon’s side. Arthur stayed with Jon as the four men ran to cut off the attackers. At the animal line a man in a borrowed black cloak was hurrying towards the tethers, calling that he had orders to move the horses. Rylas stepped into his path and demanded the night word. The stranger gave a hurried answer. Rylas drove him back with his shield, and the man went down in the mud with a practice sword against his chest. Behind them a frightened mule pulled its rope taut and kicked at the air.

Theon had seen the four guards coming. He swerved between two tents, a guy rope catching his shin, and stumbled almost to his knees. He recovered without stopping. A wagon stood just beyond the last tent. Jon saw him stretch out his hand towards its tailboard.

Gawen caught his belt from behind.

Theon twisted, still reaching. His fingers fell short of the wood. Gawen hauled him back against his shield and laid the edge of his ash sword across Theon’s ribs.

“Dead.”

“I was through the gate!” Theon was breathing too hard to make it sound triumphant.

“Aye. Stay where you fell.”

The second attacker checked at the sight of the waiting household shields. He tried to turn back, but two guards caught him between them and marked his sleeve. Theon sat down hard in the lane, glaring at the wagon. After a moment he began to laugh.

At the gate, Brus caught a blow on his shield and drove forward with his shoulder. Fresh men closed on either side of him. A second rank braced behind the first, and Sixth began to push Rodrik’s guards back towards the ditch. An attacker tried to slip past the end of the line; the last pair turned together and drove him out. Jon watched their feet, waiting for someone to follow too far.

“At the stakes!” Brus shouted. “Hold there!”

The line stopped. Rodrik pulled his men clear, breathing heavily, and looked along the bank for another opening. The eastern shouting had dwindled. Fifth had held its gate, and helmed heads now showed above the full length of the earthwork. He raised his hand to Heward.

The horn sounded the halt.

Jon let out his breath. Around him men were still gripping their weapons, peering into the dark as though the attack might begin again. Heward called for lanterns and the officers’ counts. Theon got up slowly and rubbed his side. None of the attackers had reached the wagons, horses or standard.

Brus lowered his shield. One of its straps had torn, and blood showed where the rim had struck his mouth. He spat into the grass and went to the man who had fallen in the first rush. The soldier was sitting with his back against the bank, flexing his ankle. Brus offered his arm and pulled him up carefully. Beside them, two men began arguing over which had knocked down a Winterfell guardsman. The guardsman settled it by pointing to the shorter of the two.

Rodrik came over with his helm beneath his arm. Sweat had flattened his hair against his brow. He looked from the cleared lane to Jon.

“Greyjoy almost had your wagon.”

“I saw.”

“So did Gawen.” Rodrik held out his hand to Brus. “I thought I had you when you went backwards. You made me fight for every step after.”

Brus took his hand. Jon waited until Sixth had been dismissed before returning to his tent. Arthur walked beside him. Somewhere ahead, Theon was explaining how close he had come; Gawen’s answer was lost beneath the men’s laughter.

At breakfast the men were still telling the fight over their bowls. Ralf examined a broken shield strap while Rylas made the younger household guards repeat the night word. Heward heard Brus and his optio describe Rodrik’s first rush, then called Gawen over to hear how the attackers had been stopped inside the camp.

Venn and Rusk joined them at breakfast. Their sons ate quickly and made for the horses; Rusk called them back to return their bowls.

Robb brought his bowl to Jon’s fire. “Theon says he got through.”

“Gawen caught him by the belt.”

“He says that was after.”

“It generally is, when Theon tells it.” Eddard sat down beside them. He had watched the alarm from the central lane, fully armed before Robb found his second boot. Now he looked past Jon towards the men oiling their steel.

“They went where you expected them to go.”

“Most of them.”

“You kept Third on the bank.” Eddard waited until Robb went back for more oats. “Are you satisfied with them?”

Jon watched Brus sit among his men, holding a cold cloth to his swollen lip. “With the men, yes. With how quickly they can arm in the dark, not yet.”

“They have given you a good deal already.”

“They have. I want to keep them alive.”

“So do I.” Eddard rested a hand upon his shoulder. “That includes you.”

Jon looked at him, then nodded. “I heard you, Father.” Eddard stayed while he finished eating. He asked which road they would take home and how Bucephalus had settled among the new horses.

* * *

At midmorning the camp became a battlefield.

Old shields hung upon a rail across the northern field. Some were hide over wood. Some carried thin iron facing. One had been built twice as thick for proof. Behind them, straw men wore discarded leather and rejected plate clearly marked with white crosses.

The four spear centuries advanced in two lines. Dark steel caps and breastplates repeated beneath the sun. Long black shields covered them from shoulder to shin. Each front man carried a pilum above the rim; the second ranks held the long spears.

The first drumbeat raised the pila.

Rodrik Cassel stopped speaking.

The second beat cast them.

A hundred and sixty heavy shafts crossed the short distance. Iron struck hide, wood and earth in a broken roar. Some points passed through the targets. Others lodged, pulling shields crooked beneath their weight. One hit the reinforced shield and fell short of the rail.

“Intervals!” Malcolm called.

The leading files separated. Men passed rearward without turning their backs. Fresh long shields closed. Spears came level above them in four dark rows.

“That is new,” Rodrik said.

“The cast?” Medger asked.

“The relief. Levies press tired men forward because no one trusts the gap.”

Rodrik tugged his whiskers. “I taught him to hold a wooden sword.”

When Jon came down for his horse, Rodrik caught his arm, smiling beneath the white hair.

“You have made soldiers of them, my lord.”

Jon returned his grip before joining Tomas. Rodrik watched the last shields pass.

Martyn brought the two sword-and-shield centuries from the eastern gate. They entered the narrow lanes in four-man fronts, round shields touching, swords working beneath and around the rims. Ash staves beat down upon them from platforms. The men did not chase the strikers. They cleared one turn, closed, and made room for the century behind.

Robb watched a man above the lane beat at the passing shields. “Can they go up after him?”

“Their orders are to reach the gate,” Martyn said. “Watch the rear pair.”

Two shields turned towards the platform while the men ahead cleared the bend. The pair followed, covering one another until the last swordsman was through.

The household waited beyond the western ridge. No steel showed until Finnan’s sable standard rose above the crest. Then fifty dark riders came over in two ranks.

Their armour caught no bright colour. Articulated plate moved at shoulder and knee. Mail filled the gaps. Round black shields rode high upon the left. Tomas held the centre with Finnan one horse behind; Alasdair measured the outer files. Arthur and Gawen rode apart from the body, instructors and judges rather than two more captains.

Jon lowered his visor.

Bucephalus gathered beneath him as they came clear of the ridge. Jon checked the distance between the files and settled his lance while Tomas lifted the horn.

One note.

The household advanced at a walk. Two brought trot. The plain black flag strained behind Finnan. At the third, Jon drove through the opening between the files.

Hooves struck hard ground. The outer household files opened to give his horse room, followed his passage, and closed behind the sable standard as a moving guard, shields angled outward and lances forward. The nearest men watched Jon; the next watched what approached him.

Gawen led the thirty Winterfell guards, armed with padded lances, against the flank. Jorren’s file turned without taking Jon from the centre. Rylas struck the first attack aside. Alasdair refused the second rider’s bait and kept his outside file upon the banner. Arthur entered late from the opposite slope. Tomas saw Dawn’s pale scabbard, ordered one file to receive him, and continued the charge.

The household crossed the line with forty-seven riders still around Jon. Rodrik’s judges had called three men out; they drew aside and waited for the horn.

Tomas’s horn sounded halt.

Every rider shortened his reins.

Bucephalus fought the rein. Jon let him take two hard strides, turned him within the guard, and returned behind the standard. The three marked riders rejoined at the reset, and all fifty formed before the last horse stilled.

Medger Cerwyn looked from the riders to the foot waiting behind the bank. “How many men could this cohort and your household hold off?”

“On that ground? A good many,” Rodrik said. “And the horses would punish anyone who tried to go around them.”

Medger followed the approaches from the spear points to the ridge where the horses had waited. He had stepped over the ditch that morning. Now his mouth tightened as he looked back at the riders, steam pale above their black shields.

“I thought well of them when I saw the armour,” he told Eddard. “I had not understood what he meant to do with them.”

Eddard’s eyes stayed upon Jon beneath the uncharged banner. The boy had pushed up his visor to speak with Tomas. He was flushed from the charge, the pale lock damp against his cheek; one gauntlet lay across his saddle while he worked the ache from his fingers. Then he drew it on again and turned towards the foot.

Robb called down to ask whether there would be another charge. Medger stepped back from the ridge to give the judges a clear view, and remained standing through the next exercise.

At the final joined drill, the household feigned an attack on the spear hedge. The long shields closed. Horses turned before the points; the sword centuries came through the gates to take the flank. Jon sounded the halt. Two spear files followed the retiring riders beyond their mark before their optio called them back.

Jon showed their centurion the gap. The next file had turned to cover it, exposing its own flank.

“Work those two with the horn while the rest eat. Then we repeat the withdrawal.”

By sunset the last rank was inside the stakes before the horn ended.

After the drill, Jon waited with Arthur while Ralf checked beneath Bucephalus’s saddlecloth. Venn and Rusk came down from the ridge, their sons close behind.

The dark-haired boy caught his father’s sleeve. Jon heard the low “Now, Father,” before Rusk freed the cloth and beckoned both boys forward. The taller one nudged his companion for speaking loudly enough to be heard.

“They have been asking since the first charge,” Rusk said. “I told them to wait until you had finished with your men.”

Venn put a hand upon the taller boy’s shoulder. “Murdo, my third son. The other is Davie Rusk. Osmer’s second. They have been in and out of one another’s halls since they were small enough to ride upon the same pony.”

“Not willingly,” Davie said. “He always put me behind.”

“You pulled the reins.”

Rusk cleared his throat. Both boys bowed properly. Murdo was eighteen, broad through the chest, with a nose which had healed a little crooked. Davie was a year younger, leaner and dark-haired. Both wore well-kept swords, with smooth hollows in the grip leather where their thumbs rested.

“They wish to enter your household,” Venn said. “They have asked us to speak for them.”

“Together?” Jon asked.

“We should like to, my lord,” Murdo said. “We have trained together most days. My father’s men in one yard, Master Rusk’s in the other.”

“Since they were six and seven,” Rusk said. “There are a few shields in my hall which show it.”

Jon glanced at the two sword belts. “Whose men teach you now?”

Murdo named his father’s oldest sworn sword and described the work without boasting of his victories. Davie added that Master Venn still took them himself when the weather kept the horses indoors. Venn said he had found the space rather smaller as the boys grew.

“What would you leave at home?” Jon asked.

“My eldest brother will have Alderbank,” Murdo said. “The next helps Father keep the men. There is a place at their table for me, but little work that one of them does not do already.”

“And Greybeck?”

“My brother is wed, my lord. He has a son of his own.” Davie looked briefly towards his father. “I could remain with them. I would rather find service while I am young enough to rise in it.”

Rusk did not rebuke him. Venn took his hand from Murdo’s shoulder.

“Neither is being sent away hungry,” he said. “But I cannot divide Alderbank three ways and leave any of them enough to keep it. They have chosen to ask here.”

“Because I have coin?” Jon asked the boys.

“Your men are paid,” Murdo said. “Everyone knows it. I also saw them stop when you called, though they could have ridden those spearmen down. I should like to learn to ride with them.”

Davie had been looking at Tomas. “Your captain began with no land either. He commands men older than himself.”

“He earned his command,” Jon said.

“I would ask for a place to earn mine, my lord. Not his.”

Arthur drew two ash swords from the rack beside him. He examined their edges before offering them to the boys. “Have a few passes while Lord Jon speaks to your fathers. Olyver, a pair of sound shields.”

The boys looked to their fathers. Venn nodded, and they set their sword belts beside the post. Olyver brought the shields and called Keir over. A few of the household stayed to watch.

Murdo met Olyver’s blow without giving his arm away. His return drove the serjeant back a step, but on the next exchange Olyver caught him beneath the shoulder. Murdo touched the place and reset his feet instead of disputing it.

Davie yielded ground to Keir, turned a cut over his shield and struck the nearer wrist. Keir shook his hand and came on more carefully. Arthur changed their opponents, then had the visitors face each other. Murdo’s mouth twitched when Davie refused a familiar feint; he changed the stroke and caught his friend’s shield instead of the arm behind it.

“They have had good teaching,” Arthur said to Venn. “Whoever works them is not letting them choose only the bouts they win.”

“I have sons enough to prevent that,” Venn answered. He had watched the shields rather than the swords. “They will want harder work after today.”

At Arthur’s halt both boys stopped. Davie returned his shield while Murdo freed a strap from his sleeve.

“I have fifty household guards,” Jon told them. “I am not increasing the number. You have seen the foot and the men still learning their work. I mean to finish what I have begun before taking on more.”

Murdo’s face fell. Davie looked towards his father, but Rusk waited for him to answer.

“May we ask again if a place opens, my lord?” Davie said.

“You may. Keep working at your weapons and your riding. You would still have to earn the place.”

Murdo bowed. Davie followed, less hurriedly this time.

Rusk thanked him for hearing them. Venn asked Arthur which of Murdo’s turns had left the shoulder open. The knight took a sword and showed him upon the ground, with Murdo listening beside his father. Davie stayed too, until Venn made him take the other place and demonstrate the cut himself.

At Eddard’s fire that evening, the boys sat quietly over their first bowl, then began arguing in low voices about Olyver’s last pass. Rusk let them finish before asking how the household would manage a narrow road. Jon answered until Tomas came for him.

Next morning the optios sent men to pull up the stakes while the tent parties shook out their blankets and tied their packs. Canvas and poles went back to the mules; the stakes were loaded onto the wagons. The last work parties pushed the bank’s earth into the ditch and laid the turf back over it. Hewyn paid the crofter for a broken wall cap, three rails and grass trampled beyond the hired ground. The man claimed two missing hens; his wife brought one down under her arm, so Hewyn entered the other.

Behind the last wagon the latrines were filled and the fires out. The crofter tested the repaired fence, put away his silver and asked when they would return.

“We shall ask before bringing our spades back,” Hewyn said.

The man raised a hand to the column and went for his sheep.

At the fork Eddard’s party turned for Winterfell with Medger and the visiting masters-at-arms. Venn and Rusk rode with them as far as their own turning. Their sons kept looking back at the sable standard. Jon had hired ground for two more nights. His men would carry their shelters farther, raise them again and come home fit to work.

On the third afternoon, the wagons took the cart road with a guard while the foot and loaded mules climbed the ridge path. Hennet softened hard oatbread beneath his tongue as he walked; cheese and water completed the meal from his bag. Between the trees he could see the grain carts creeping along a road that had seemed good when he rode it.

Otho, Bram and Torr had already marked the next camp on dry ground above a small spring. The men followed the stakes to their places and lowered their packs. This time the optios put First on the digging and Third on carrying the earth to the bank, while other parties raised tents and Tomas’s riders watched the ridges. Work was well advanced when the wagons arrived before dusk. Ralf hung the damp saddle pads to dry, examined the beasts’ backs and sent for the hay he had bought; there was little grass for them on the ridge.

Rain brushed the canvas that night. Jon woke to its tapping. Water ran in the lane drain, and outside a man swore softly as he pulled on a wet boot to take his turn at the bank.

On the fourth morning Henly, Emrick and the libritors assembled the ballistae opposite a bare bank. Merrit helped Emrick repair a joint whose cover had rubbed loose in transit. Both engines fired; Jon entered the trials while Otho checked beneath their supports.

They kept wet canvas apart from food and bedding as they loaded. At the final camp nearer Winterfell, there was light enough to open the tents and dry them. By the fifth morning, one reserve grain sack remained tied. Hewyn showed it to Jon while Ralf inspected a repaired girth, then the six centuries formed for home.

A black cloak waited beside the road ahead.

Benjen Stark sat a rangy bay beneath the pines, his long legs hanging easily in the stirrups, his cloak grey with Wall dust to the knee. He was leaner than when he had left; the sharp planes of his face showed above the high black collar. Two black brothers waited behind him. The column recognised the cloak before the face. No century broke formation to greet him.

Benjen watched all six standards pass. His gaze caught upon the amount of steel, then upon the men carrying mattocks beside spears, then upon the plain sable banner approaching behind them.

“I stay away,” he said when Jon drew rein, “and you put half of Winter Town in plate.”

Jon grinned and reached for his uncle’s arm.

Benjen clasped his forearm and looked past him. “Four hundred and eighty foot.”

“Three hundred and twenty spears, one hundred and sixty sword and shield.”

“And the iron riders?”

“Fifty household.”

“Your first boys have grown.” Benjen watched a spearman adjust his neighbour’s strap without leaving step. “I hardly knew Tomas.”

“You will know him when he starts giving orders,” Jon said.

Benjen glanced towards the distant town. “Your bell at Castle Black has made Bowen Marsh a less popular man than he was already.”

“Has something failed?”

“Only a few good excuses. The relief hears the same stroke as the men it replaces. No blaming the steward’s glass now.” He shifted the rein. “In thick mist they hear it from the nearer stair when they can scarcely see the yard. So do the cooks. The night relief comes down to hot broth.”

“And Maester Aemon?”

“He asks no one the hour now. He likes that. Mormont likes finding the men where he ordered them, and his raven has learned to demand food when the door is opened for winding.”

“William will want to hear that.”

“Put him at supper,” Benjen said. “I can give him news enough for an evening.”

“You saw the camp?”

“I saw your last camp before dawn. I thought someone had raised a new holdfast.” Benjen leaned forward to look at Jon properly. “Maester Aemon asks after you. I told him you were still more interested in making things than sleeping.”

“Tell him I mean to visit.” Jon had wanted that meeting since Arthur spoke of the old maester’s letters. Looking at Benjen’s weathered face, he knew he had let another year go by without arranging it.

“Come before the snows, then. First I want those fine riders in the woods.”

“You still want the wolfswood test.”

“Aye. Let us see how they manage on the charcoal tracks. We leave the lances here.”

Tomas had heard. He brought the household roll without being called. Eight files stood beneath his hand, six men in each, with Alasdair as his second.

“Half,” Jon said. “The cohort returns to the Old Watch. This exercise belongs to the household.”

Tomas named Jorren, Olyver, Rylas and Gage. For the woodland exercise he drew twenty-four guards from the eight files and divided them among those four leaders, bringing familiar shield partners together again. He would ride as the twenty-fifth.

“Alasdair keeps the rest, in four files,” Tomas said. “At the Old Watch until we return.”

“Food for four days,” Jon said. “Benjen asks for three. The fourth answers rain, a lame horse, or a blocked ford. Lighter plate where the branches close. Mail at throat and arm. Round shields in hide covers. No great standard.”

Finnan lowered the sable cloth with a look of disappointment.

“Take the small pennon,” Jon told him. “We shall be close together on those tracks.”

The chosen twenty-five sorted canvas, food, tools, physic and spare tack for four days in the woods. Heward took the cohort home to its ordinary training; Alasdair’s remaining riders would work from the Old Watch. As Benjen led Jon’s party towards Winterfell, Heward was calling a lagging baggage party back into place. Jon’s riders would exchange their heavy gear at the castle and leave at first light.