Chapter 45: Twenty-Three at Dawn

House Black passed beneath Winterfell’s gate while the last harvest pavilions still stood. At the Old Watch, Hewyn kept the four spear centuries and two sword centuries at work with Martyn and Heward, the campidoctor. The household’s task lay in the wolfswood: scouting, movement through close timber and camping on unprepared ground.

The chosen twenty-five rode in Tomas’s four temporary files. Alasdair’s half covered the Old Watch, Black Yard and Winterfell road. The riders wore wool over mail, steel caps and lighter breast and back plates. Covered round shields hung behind their saddles; their swords rode clear, and every third man carried a light spear.

Six of the seven pages remained at Black Yard with Wylla. Aries alone had been allowed to come, to tend Jon’s clothes and carry water while the household trained. He rode Bracken among the rear file, with his bedding behind the saddle and Jon’s spare cloak rolled inside it. Patch had stayed with Wylla; the dog’s whining had followed them halfway down the lane.

Benjen’s two black brothers stayed to oversee the Wall stores. Five Stark guards rode with Eddard and Robb; Benjen led, Arthur stayed near Jon, and Gawen brought up the rear behind Ralf, Garrick and the packhorses. Robb looked back as the Old Watch vanished among the pines. “We ought to have taken the cohort. Six centuries make a proper army.”

“We have just had five days with them,” Jon said. “This ground needs different work.”

“They stood well enough on the field, even when the line turned.”

“Now Tomas must manage where he cannot see the next file.”

Benjen laughed. “Your brother wants to learn how much noise trained lads make while striving for silence. All those spearshafts would empty the woods of deer from here to the kingsroad.”

“Twenty-five will do that,” Robb said.

“Twenty-six, if you mean to count the lord leading them,” said Jon.

Benjen turned in his saddle. “Two young lords make the noise of six. I counted kindly.” The rain found them before noon. It began as a grey veil between the pines and thickened until the path ran brown beneath the horses. At a swollen beck the old ford had lost half its bank. Ralf dismounted, waded in to his thighs and sounded each step with an ash spear while the water tugged the skirts of his coat downstream.

The crows kept low beneath the branches. By the time the rain thickened Hugin had settled beneath the edge of Jon’s hood, claws gripping the cloak at his shoulder. Munin followed them across the beck, then vanished into a fir to shake the water from her feathers.

“One at a time,” Ralf called. “Let the horse in front find the stones before you ask the next to stand upon its tail.”

Olyver led the pack animals. A grey gelding balked at the cold water and dragged one of his men sideways. Olyver took the rope, brought the animal behind two saddle horses and followed them across. Gawen helped them up the far bank while Ralf went back for the next beast.

By dusk wet wool clung like a second skin. Benjen chose an old charcoal burn above a spring, firs breaking the west wind and alders crowding the water below the southern bank. Robb’s spear butt found a moss-covered burn pit. Harwin probed ahead and uncovered two more.

Jon and Tomas placed the sleeping canvas clear of the hollows. Ralf and Olyver tethered the horses on the eastern ground, away from young birches, while Jorren’s men marked the pits with crossed stakes. The shallowest took their fire beneath a low awning.

Fergus had drawn cooking duty that evening. He had blown ash into the uncovered pot while coaxing the damp kindling to burn, and everyone could taste it in the stew. Iain complained, yet had no trouble scraping his bowl clean. At the lord’s fire Eddard was trying to dry one sleeve without setting the other in the mud. Jon passed him a stick to hang it upon and shifted closer to Arthur beneath the awning.

“I have had worse,” Benjen said, examining his spoon.

“If you say that loudly enough, the cook may take it for praise,” Eddard replied.

“It is praise. There are no stones in it.”

Robb lowered his spoon. “Are there usually stones?”

“Only when your uncle cooks,” Eddard said.

Benjen pointed his spoon at him. “Careful, Ned. I choose where you sleep.” Robb laughed and reached for the bread before either brother could claim the last piece.

Jon pushed another loaf towards them. Robb shifted his stool to give Arthur the dry corner beneath the awning. The knight thanked him; Benjen promptly claimed the warmer place he had left by the fire.

Aries collected the empty bowls. Keir caught the top one as it slipped and helped him stack them beside the kettle.

“Leave them to soak,” he said. “You will be scraping until morning otherwise.”

“Wylla says to wash them while they are warm.”

“Then we had better hope she does not come looking.” Keir tipped water into the first bowl and passed Aries a scrap of cloth. The page glanced towards Jon, found him listening, and bent quickly over his work.

After supper Jon took each file through the dark camp. They went from the tents to the horses and back by the spring, finding the routes they would need if the alarm sounded. Finnan caught his shin against a root and swore under his breath. Jorren moved a peg that lay in the path.

Rain pattered on the canvas. When Jon returned to the fire, Robb had taken Benjen’s place and refused to move. Eddard watched their argument with his boots stretched towards the embers. Hours later, hoofs thrashed through the beck. From the eastward watch Gawen called, “A single horseman. He wears the wolf.”

Arthur was awake before the second call. Tomas kept the boys beneath canvas until the rider gave Winterfell’s outer watchword. Then Porther came between the pines upon a chestnut white with sweat. Mud reached the mare’s belly. One corner of the grey wolf on his cloak had torn loose, and his sword belt was buckled over a nightshirt. Eddard met him before he had both feet on the ground. “Who is dead?”

“None when I departed, my lord.” Porther braced both hands upon his knees, gulped air, and forced himself upright. “Two Hornwood sheep were found in a Cerwyn carter’s keeping down in the lower yard. A shepherd named him thief. Then the carter’s brothers answered with their fists, a Hornwood knife came out, and one man’s cheek was cut to the teeth. Thirty men were buckling mail as I came away.”

“How have you kept them apart?”

“We penned the Cerwyns in the eastern stable and kept every Hornwood outside the inner ward. Lady Stark has separated their lords. Jory trusts the barred doors, yet neither man will hear judgement from a captain while his neighbour shouts ‘craven’ through the stones.”

Robb emerged with one boot on and the other in his hand. “I can stay.”

“You ride with me,” Eddard said. “You will hear why upon the road.”

“Father, Jon has the files. I know the boys. I could—”

“Cley and Daryn are your friends,” Eddard said. “You will hear their fathers’ quarrel with me. Put your boot on.” Robb obeyed, though his mouth hardened.

Eddard chose three guards to return; Harwin and Desmond would stay. Ralf gave Porther a pack gelding and rubbed down his blown mare while Tomas brought Robb’s horse. Arthur checked the cloth around Dawn’s hilt.

“Finish the exercise,” Eddard told Jon. “But if you find raiders’ sign, bring your men home. Do not follow it.”

“We will send word if we find anything.” Jon turned to Tomas. “Give them a man to the ford. He can bring back the state of the crossing.”

Eddard mounted and looked towards Benjen. “Take care of them.”

“I will.”

Leaning from his saddle, Robb gripped Jon below the elbow. “See that the grey does not devour Cressen.”

“Ralf will keep Cressen out of its reach. He has no wish to lose a groom.”

“I heard that,” Cressen called from the canvas.

“Keep your fingers clear of its teeth,” Ralf told him. At first grey light Eddard took Robb, Porther and three guards across the beck. Porther led his spent mare from the pack gelding. Their household escort returned to Tomas while the grey cloaks were still in sight.

Benjen spent the next day teaching them to follow sign across broken ground. He led a trail over rock and through a stream, leaving one grey thread on a hazel branch. Gage followed his footprints past the turn. Jon stopped at the branch and waited while Gage came back to find what he had missed.

Arthur made the lesson harder. He set the four files above a slope broken by three beeches. Six men abreast could not pass between the trunks, and a long sword was as likely to bite a friend as a foe. “Shields up,” Arthur said. “Steel stays sheathed. Ash swords only.”

Fergus looked between the trunks. “Two abreast, my lord?”

“Aye,” Jon said. “Jorren and Olyver first. The other files follow.”

Tomas blew one note. The leading shields went down the slope in pairs. At the narrowest trunk, Olyver’s third man leaned out to see past the men ahead. Arthur stepped from behind the beech and tapped his uncovered ribs.

“Out.” Arthur moved aside as the lad climbed back uphill.

On the second descent Jon kept the rear pair close behind the front shields, a hand against each man’s shoulder. The touch helped them stay together where they could not see one another’s feet. Arthur struck from the left; the foremost shield caught him and Jorren’s short thrust stopped at his sleeve.

“Change,” Jon called. Jorren touched two shoulders. The front pair withdrew while the rear pair closed without turning their backs. One man slipped, caught his neighbour’s arm and recovered his footing behind the shields.

Rylas lost three men around a beech and called them forward too quickly. “Hold,” Jon said.

“My front is bare if those three do not come.”

“Hold until they reach you.” Rylas steadied the front pair. Keir and Edden came around the trunk shoulder to shoulder and filled the gap.

Arthur struck wherever a shield turned aside. His ash blade rapped wrists and knees; once he drove a shoulder between two shields and forced them apart. Jon drew Rylas’s file back uphill, leaving a passage beside Jorren’s.

“Gage, through that gap!” Jon called. “Jorren, hold there!”

Tomas carried the order down the slope. “Gage through the middle before Arthur turns. Close on him.”

“Closing!” Gage answered. He brought his file through to join Jorren’s. Twelve joined shields met Arthur beneath the beeches. He lowered the ash sword.

Finnan grinned over the scar in his shield. “Did we get you?”

“You did,” Arthur said. “Try it again.”

They worked until every file could pass the trunks and change front without stumbling over its fellows. When Arthur retreated beyond the last beech, Tomas halted them at Jon’s mark and brought the files together. Then they could eat.

Wolves came to the horse lines after nightfall. Bucephalus screamed before the sentry glimpsed grey among the trees. Men tumbled out from under canvas, reaching for belts and shields. Gage sent a burning brand beyond the firepit. Five pairs of eyes shone between the trunks, disappeared and returned lower and nearer.

The stallion hurled himself against his rope. His terror brushed Jon’s mind—teeth in darkness, fire, restraint, bodies pressing too near. Jon thrust it away before it seized his own limbs. He and Ralf gave Bucephalus a wide circle rather than trying to hold his head against a fixed post. “Files to the horses,” Jon called. “Shields out. No one beyond the fire.”

Tomas bore the order all around the camp. Blades hammered bosses with a ragged thunder. Benjen hurled fire, and Arthur met one lunging muzzle with the iron tip of his scabbard. Grey bodies became watching eyes; the eyes then melted into the dark. A baggage gelding had broken its tether. From the west came one last shriek. Finnan made to run after it, but Rylas caught the rear of his belt. “You do not chase,” said the serjeant.

“It is one of ours, and wolves are tearing it.”

“And leave the line open? Stay here.” Aries stood behind Olyver’s shields, both hands clenched about an empty bucket. He had come to help with the horses and could not stop looking towards the sound. Ralf sent him to sit beside Jon until his breathing steadied. At dawn they found the gelding with a shattered hind leg and torn flank. Ralf sent the youngest guards away before using his knife. Two saddle horses took its load, leaving their riders to walk home. Jon moved the tethers inside the tent line and doubled the watch. Benjen and Harwin searched for another crossing that afternoon, returning with wet boots and no easier ford.

Near dusk Benjen found a snare beyond the trail of the slain gelding. Twisted gut ran from a bone toggle to a bowed hazel, with fresh sap showing upon the cut. Below it a bootheel had bitten into the slope. Harwin crouched beside him.

“A poacher?”

“I have seen that knot beyond the Wall.” Benjen lifted the toggle without putting his hand inside the loop. Three shallow grooves crossed the bone. “Someone has been here since the rain eased.”

Finnan looked past him into the pines. “How many?”

“One print will not tell us.” Jon turned towards the camp. “Back together. No one follows the trail.”

Tomas brought the files in while there was still light between the trunks. He wanted to leave at once, abandoning the heavier canvas and putting two riders upon each packhorse.

“The beck took us an hour in daylight,” Benjen said. “We shall be crossing in the dark before the last horse reaches it.”

“One rider could get through,” Harwin said.

“And come upon whoever made that print alone,” Arthur replied.

Beyond the clearing the eastern track scarcely held two horses abreast. Their slowest pack beast would hold up every man behind it.

“Keep the saddles ready,” Jon told Tomas. “Watch the western edge while we find out what is on the road.”

He caught Arthur’s eye and went beneath the awning. The knight followed, lowered its side against the rain and sat where he could see anyone approaching. Jon settled against a pack. Hugin was upon the fir above the tether line; Munin had gone after the ravens at the dead gelding.

He entered Hugin first. The clearing fell away beneath wet black wings. He kept low along the beck, where the water made a pale path between the trees. The ford appeared around a bend: broken bank, brown water, the stones over which Ralf had led them. Nothing stood in the open.

Jon put the crow upon an alder rather than passing overhead. From there he could see beneath the opposite bank. A man crouched behind a fallen trunk with a short spear across his knees. Farther back, a second was plaiting a loose length of rope. Both watched the track from the camp. Jon held the perch long enough to make certain of the second man, then brought Hugin home.

Arthur’s hand rested upon his shoulder when he opened his eyes.

“Two beyond the ford,” Jon said quietly. “A spear and rope. They are waiting for someone.”

“Can you see the western hollow?”

“Through Munin.”

He drank before reaching for her. The crow stood upon a root near the carcass, angry at a raven which had taken her place. Jon turned her uphill. Through gaps in the firs he found a man fitting a string to his bow, and another with arrows laid upon a scrap of hide. Beyond them a woman stood with a small round shield against her leg. A red hand had been painted upon its face. She pointed south. Men began moving towards the alder bank below the spring.

Munin flew from one low branch to the next. Jon counted six men before the ground hid their feet. Two carried long spears, one an axe. The woman followed them far enough to look up towards the camp, then went back to the bowmen. A plain sword swung from her belt. Its scabbard was better kept than the hides she wore.

Jon returned before the last light failed. For a moment he still felt the root beneath Munin’s claws; then the pack was hard against his back and Arthur was waiting.

“Bows to the west. At least two. Six going below the spring, and a woman sending them there. A red hand upon her shield.” He wiped rain from his face, though it was dry. “The ford is no way out tonight.”

Arthur drew the side of the awning higher. Through the opening they could see Gage bringing his men to the water.

“There is a fork below that bank,” the knight said. “A man who holds the stream bed cannot see the other path until it is behind him. I walked it when we arrived.”

“Show me.”

* * *

The burn was seventy paces across from the western trees to the eastern track, half as wide from northern stones to spring. At the lower bank Arthur showed Jon and the file leaders the two approaches: one along the water, one climbing a shelf beneath the tents. Men using both could strike the spring file from either side.

“Gage holds above,” Jon said. “Arthur, take Desmond and Gared below. Keep them this side of the fork.”

Arthur placed Gared, Gage’s steadiest shield, at the upper root. The boy had faced only practice rushes. Watching the second path meant exposing his side.

“Hold this one,” Arthur told him. “I shall take what comes round it.”

Desmond brought two spare spears down from the tents. They dragged a fallen alder across the lower run, leaving its tangled branches towards anyone climbing. Above them Gage set Finnan and Cressen together, with Donnel on his right. Struan would keep the alarm shield until the watch changed.

Rylas took the west. Jon set his six behind the low charcoal bank, where their shields would cover them without having to stand against the trees. Keir held the end nearest the middle pit. Olyver kept his men with the horses. Harwin watched the northern rise, and Jorren’s six remained beside Jon as the reserve.

Jon brought Aries from the packs and showed him the ground behind the western file. The charcoal bank gave cover there, and the nearest sleeping canvas hung low enough to conceal a crouching boy.

“Stay behind Rylas’s shields if there is fighting. Leave the horses to Ralf.”

Aries nodded. He had brought Jon’s waterskin and would not put it down.

“No one follows a man into the trees,” Jon told them. “They want horses. They may loose one and wait for you to run after it. Let it go.”

Ralf had Bucephalus at the eastern end. Jon helped clear a lane from the tethers to the track and had Olyver put spare shields beside the saddles. Ralf brought a quiet grey next to the stallion. Garrick checked the ropes; Iain set out the halter knives within reach in darkness.

Benjen returned from the western edge as Jon was testing the lane. He had gone to look beneath the firs Arthur described, without needing to know how the knight had chosen them.

“Bowmen,” he said. “I saw one drawing a string. There are men farther along, but I could not count them without showing myself.”

“Keep outside our shields,” Jon said. “From there you may get a shot at them. From the camp we shall only see the trees.”

Benjen looked across the open strip between the bank and the firs. “They will have to watch me as well as you.”

“And if they find you?” Arthur asked.

“I know where the charcoal cut comes back to Rylas. I shall not stay in one place and trade arrows.” Benjen checked the knife at his belt before taking his bow from beneath his cloak. “Keep a place for me at the western end.”

Struan brought out his bone whistle. One long call would recall Arthur; two short meant that the camp still held and he was to keep the lower approach closed. The knight went down while Struan tried it. He raised his hand from the alders to show that the sound reached him.

Jon returned to the middle pit with Tomas. They shifted the sleeping canvas north, making a clear way between the western line and the spring. Harwin and Jorren pegged branches across the dead ground behind the tents. Men could still crawl there, but they would have to cut through something first.

“Keep Jorren here until I call,” Jon told Tomas. “If I fall, you command. He follows you.”

Tomas nodded. He sent a man to move the pegs that might catch a running foot, then went to hear each file leader repeat his place.

Every man ate in his boots. Finnan worried at the old axe scar in his shield until Tomas took it from him.

“Leave that alone.”

“Will it hold iron?”

Tomas examined the rim and the back, pressing his thumb along the repaired split. “It held at the last proof. Keep the point off that scar if you can.” He returned it. “You will have a new one when we get home.”

Keir showed Iain the knots closing the toes of his spare stockings. “Better than sewing.”

“The knots are larger than the holes.”

“They will hold until I can find a needle.”

Struan tried his whistle again. Its shriek set three horses pulling. Tomas held out his hand.

“We have all heard it.”

“So have they,” Olyver said from the horse line.

Struan gave it up, grinning too broadly. Tomas put the cord around his own neck and left him the alarm shield. Jon watched the boy set his slate beside its post. The north and the horses had all the shields he could spare.

Benjen came in near midnight for dry arrows from the covered bundle. He had heard movement beyond the hollow but found no clear shot. Jon slept for a short while with his sword belt fastened, woke when a horse stamped, and lay listening until Tomas touched his shoulder.

“The sky is lightening. Rylas heard something beyond his stakes.”

“Wake the files quietly. No fires.”

Arthur came up, leaving Desmond on the lower watch, and closed the awning. Jon settled against his pack. In the first light Hugin found the two men from the ford approaching the eastern track with two others, one sheltering an unlit brand.

Jon brought him back and reached for Munin. Two bowmen knelt beside the carcass trail. A third had moved north; the fourth crawled towards a pale stump overlooking the western shields. Below the spring, men were slipping round the fallen alder.

The woman with the red hand waited behind the northern stones. Her sword was drawn.

Jon came back and caught Arthur’s wrist. “Four bows now. One going round the northern end. The six below you are splitting at the fork. Four at the horses’ track.”

“Get your helm.” Arthur was already rising.

Jon fitted it and took his shield. He sent Harwin to warn Benjen about the stump and told Rylas to turn his end pair north. The crows settled behind camp, Hugin above the horses and Munin near the awning. They would have to stay there now.

Aries was waiting outside the awning. His face was pale beneath the mud at his hairline. One hand gripped the waterskin; the other rested on his dagger. When Jon passed, the page stepped after him.

“Behind the formation, Aries. Go to Rylas.”

The boy stopped, but kept his eyes on Jon. His fingers tightened around the dagger’s hilt.

“I c-can help, my lord.” He swallowed and tried again. “I can help.”

“Do not disobey me!” Jon shouted. “Stay behind!”

Aries flinched. For a moment Jon saw the hurt beneath his fear. Then the boy nodded and ducked behind the waiting guards, carrying the waterskin against his chest. Keir looked back, caught his sleeve and guided him down beside the bank.

Jon waited until he could see only the top of Aries’s head.

“Keep low,” he called. “Shields up.”

Struan struck the alarm shield. Men who had been reaching for belts turned at the iron clang. The boy raised his arm for a second blow. An arrow crossed above the low bank and took him at the base of the throat.

Keir caught him before his head struck the post. The iron striker fell. Arrows hit the tents behind them, one passing through both sides of the awning where Jon had been sleeping.

“Keir, join Rylas. Take your shield!”

Keir stayed on his knees. Tomas caught his shoulder and turned him towards the western end.

“Rylas needs you. I have him.”

He put the shield into Keir’s hands. Keir went, looking back once. Tomas pressed folded linen against Struan’s wound and felt beneath his jaw. When Jon looked towards him, the captain shook his head. Beyond them the first men were crossing the western ground.

* * *

The warning had given Olyver time to put his shields between the eastern track and the horse posts. A man in goatskin struck them with a stone axe and found six waiting instead of a sleeping groom. Gawen cut across his face as he recoiled. Olyver thrust beneath the falling axe and the man went down between them.

A spearman came behind him and drove a short spear under a mare’s neck. Gawen stepped away from the animal rather than swing into it, and the point caught the outer flesh of his thigh below the mail. His leg buckled. Olyver turned the second thrust with his shield while Gawen trapped the shaft beneath his arm. He hauled the man close and drove his sword down between neck and shoulder.

“Ser Gawen—”

“Hold your place.” The knight took the dead man’s spear and braced himself upon it. Blood ran into his boot. “I can stand.”

The last two tried the posts while Olyver’s men were occupied. One thrust his brand beneath the saddle cover. The other sprang for a red mare and was thrown against the tether when she wheeled. Ralf pinned his thigh with a spear; Garrick caught his wrist before he could draw his knife.

“Drop it,” Garrick said. Ralf pressed upon the shaft. The knife fell, and Garrick bound the man’s hands.

Jon had kept Jorren’s file beside him. The shapes coming down the northern rise met Harwin’s spear and the branches pegged behind the tents. They could not get past without breaking cover. One crouched to hack a stake loose while the others waited with their shields raised.

“Jorren, three with Harwin. The other three stay here.”

The serjeant took two men and went behind the tents. Jon stayed at the middle pit, where he could see the western shields and the horse line. Arrows struck the charcoal bank in front of him. Rylas’s men had their heads down; every time a shield moved to answer a spear, a bowman tried the gap.

Tomas sounded two short notes on Struan’s whistle before following Jon towards the horses.

At the far end Keir’s sword rattled against his own shield. Rylas touched it with the flat of his blade.

“With me. One pace when they strike.”

Four wildlings came behind the arrows. The leading spearman thrust across two shield rims, expecting men to give way separately. Rylas’s file yielded together. The man followed too far. Keir cut his wrist; the next pair came through and struck beneath his shield before he could recover. He fell against their feet. Rylas held the rest at the bank, refusing the room the dead man had left him.

“Do not follow. Change.”

Keir and Edden passed behind the rear pair. A second spearman tried to catch them as they moved. His point hit a fresh shield, and he had to withdraw before it was trapped. Jon saw Keir reach his new place. Then another arrow made him lower his own head.

Beyond the bank, Benjen had found the archer at the pale stump.

Behind a fallen pine, Benjen drew while the archer watched Rylas’s northern pair. His arrow took the man beneath the raised arm and drove him against the pale stump.

Benjen rolled away. One answering shaft struck the roots he had hidden behind, another the fern ahead. He crawled into the old charcoal cut, pulling his bow after him. Of the other archers he could see only the one behind a forked birch—a hand and part of a cheek each time he drew. Benjen waited for more.

An arrow struck a mare. Its scream brought Jon upright, and the third archer began to draw at him.

Benjen rose to one knee and loosed. He missed the man, but the shaft struck the branch beside his face and spoiled the shot. The answering arrow buried itself in the earth short of Benjen. He dropped into the cut again. Across the clearing Jon had reached the horse line beneath Tomas’s shield.

* * *

Below the spring, Arthur met the rush at both branches of the fork.

Desmond thrust through Gared’s cover and caught the first spearman beneath his raised elbow. The man fell backwards over the alder, taking the blade deep into the roots with him. Desmond let go rather than be dragged across. An axe struck his forearm as he withdrew it. Mail held, but his hand opened uselessly before he could reach his knife.

Arthur stepped across him. Dawn caught the axe haft close to the head and sheared through it. Before he could finish the man, a spear came from the other run towards Gared’s uncovered neck. Arthur turned the point aside with the lower part of his blade and drove the wielder back.

“Your shield against the root, Gared. Desmond, behind him.”

Five remained below them. They had seen the pale sword and did not press in a line for it. Two worked along the water, two climbed the shelf, and the man with the broken axe drew a long knife and came under the roots. Arthur had room to cut at any one of them. Each opening lasted only until another weapon reached one of the men beside him.

Gared turned towards a spear upon the shelf. A second slid beneath the lower edge of his shield and cut his shoulder along the strap. He cried out and his elbow dropped. Arthur struck the shaft down, caught the boy by his mail and pulled him upright against the root. The knife scraped across Arthur’s backplate while he did it.

Two short whistle notes reached him from the camp. Tomas was keeping the others at their posts. Arthur turned with his elbow close and put Dawn through the knife man’s throat. The body dropped into the shallow water. Desmond had his own knife out now, his injured hand braced against Gared’s back.

“Hold him up,” Arthur said. “Gared, look at me. Keep the rim above your collar.”

Gared obeyed, teeth clenched. He could hold the shield but scarcely lift it. Arthur shortened his stance across the opening. He turned one spear into the alder and cut the fingers on the other. Its owner stumbled back, then climbed towards Gage.

“Man on your left!” Arthur called.

Gage turned his rear pair in time. Finnan’s shield met the climbing spearman while Cressen came close beside him. Without the warning the man would have reached their backs.

Arthur could hear Jon at the horses. He could not look that way. The two spearmen still before him were trying to draw his sword to the water while the axeman upon the shelf reached over Gared. Arthur beat the axe back, let a spear scrape along his side plate and cut its wielder across the thigh. The man fell to one knee without letting go of the shaft.

“Stay behind me,” Arthur told Desmond. “There is a spare spear above your left hand.”

Desmond reached for it with his sound arm. Arthur held both approaches while he pulled it free.

* * *

Fire ran along the saddle cover. The torchbearer had thrust it between the posts before Olyver’s last pair could reach him. Horses pressed away from the flame, dragging the line towards the western trees.

Jon caught Bucephalus’s terror as he came beneath the awning. For a moment the ropes bit his own chest and the men around the stallion seemed too close. He kept hold of Tomas’s sleeve, fixed his eyes upon the clear eastern lane and pressed that direction into the horse’s panic.

Bucephalus turned. Ralf threw the loose end of the tether around a sound post while Olyver opened the gap Jon had made for them. Fergus was too close. The stallion struck his shield, knocking him to one hand, and Olyver hauled him clear before the hind feet came round.

“Water on the cover,” Jon ordered. “Iain, keep that knife clear of the ropes until Ralf calls.”

Ralf caught the torchbearer with his spear. Olyver’s two men closed as he recoiled, killing him beside the burning cover. Garrick held the captive under a shield while buckets passed behind him. Once the flames were out, Ralf led the quiet grey across Bucephalus’s sight. The stallion stopped fighting the tether.

The western axeman came through while Jon was watching the horse. He had left the other two at Rylas’s bank and worked around the end of the tents. Jon saw the movement over Tomas’s shoulder and turned before the axe reached him.

Its stone head struck his shield near the rim. He let the weight slide past, stepped inside the shortened haft and thrust beneath the man’s arm. The blade entered at the edge of a patch of mail. Tomas pulled the falling body aside before it trapped Jon’s sword.

“Back to the middle,” Jon said. “The horses are held.”

A woman stepped clear of the northern stones as they returned. Bone beads clicked in her black hair. Her sealskin coat had been slit above the knee, leaving her legs free, and the sword in her hand was narrow, bright along both edges. She gave a short call towards the rushes.

“Torwynd!”

The grey-braided man there sounded his horn. At the horse line the captive lifted his face.

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“Sygga!”

Jon knew the shield. “The woman with the red hand,” he told Tomas. “She is directing them.”

Sygga pointed her sword towards Harwin. The three northern men struck at the branches together. One climbed over while the others pulled. Harwin drove his spear into the first man’s chest, but the falling body brought two stakes out with it. Jorren and his pair filled the gap before the others could follow.

Jon’s remaining three started towards them. He stopped them with his shield arm.

“Stay here.”

The horn sounded again. Sygga watched Jon’s reserve. He kept it close. The horses and the northern stakes had held; she would have to draw him out herself.

At the spring Finnan changed places with Cressen as they had practised beneath the beeches. The wounded spearman tried to follow the turn. Gage struck his shaft aside; Finnan lifted his shield beneath it and caught the iron in the old axe scar. The haft cracked under the strain.

“Now, Cressen.”

Cressen thrust into the man’s belly. The wildling let go of the broken spear and came against them with his knife already drawn. Finnan had his shield high, holding the iron. The knife entered below his arm.

He folded around it without falling away. His free arm trapped the man’s wrist against his body.

“Again.”

Cressen stared at him.

“Again!”

The second thrust went through the exposed side. The man sagged, and Finnan went down with him. Tomas reached them before Cressen could pull out the knife.

“Leave it. Cloth around it. Press hard.” He turned to Gage. “Cover them.”

Gage and Donnel set their shields before the two boys. Below them Arthur still held the fork with Gared and Desmond. Cressen knelt in the mud, trying to keep his hands where Tomas had put them.

Jon saw a gap open among the men guarding the spring and called Tomas back. Sygga spotted it too. Keeping her shield raised, she ran west as Torwynd lifted his horn again.

* * *

Benjen had worked along the charcoal cut until the forked birch no longer covered the second archer’s body. He drew below the lip, rose and loosed. The man fell across his arrows.

The nearest bowman threw his bow down and came at him with a short sword. Benjen had no room for another shaft. He dropped the bow into the cut and drew steel as the man cleared its bank.

Benjen yielded along the muddy cut, keeping below the last archer’s view. The swordsman followed from higher ground. Benjen’s heel struck a stone; he braced against the bank, caught a cut near the guard and thrust. His point dragged across hide. The answering stroke opened his sleeve but glanced off mail.

Above them, the archer turned towards camp. Benjen gave another step to bring his opponent off the bank, caught the next stroke and seized his wrist. He drove him into the roots and thrust beneath his ribs. The wildling’s fist struck Benjen’s brow before his knees gave way.

Benjen tore the sword free, stooped for his bow and heard a shout from the western shields.

* * *

An arrow tore through the canvas above Aries. He folded lower against the bank, his dagger still sheathed, and the waterskin slipped from his knees. It rolled past Keir’s heel. The page reached for it without rising.

Keir turned his shield towards the last archer. The movement opened a narrow gap beside Edden. Beyond the bank, the surviving spearman drew his arm back. Through that gap he could see Aries.

“Keir, down!” Jon shouted.

Keir saw where the man was looking. He stepped across Aries, caught him behind the neck and pushed his face into the earth. The shield rose over them against the bow. For that instant his own upper chest was bare to the spearman.

The thrown spear struck high beneath his collar. Keir was driven backwards against Edden, his hand tearing free of Aries’s coat. Edden staggered but kept his shield up. Keir fell beside the page with the shaft jutting across the bank.

Aries lifted his face. Blood ran down the guard’s neck and into the wool beneath his cheek.

“Keir?”

He reached for the man who had pushed him down. Rylas caught him under one arm and dragged him clear as another arrow struck the bank.

“Into the pit behind the tents. Crawl!”

Aries went on his hands and knees to the old burn pit beneath the edge of the northern sleeping canvas. At its rim he looked back. Keir had not moved.

“Three to Rylas,” Jon ordered the reserve. “Close that end.”

They ran behind the tents. Rylas caught Keir’s shield and covered the gap until the first arrived. Sygga was there before the other two had settled. Her sword touched the incoming guard’s rim, drew it outward and darted for the space beneath his chin.

Jon met the point with his own blade. He had come round the middle pit while the three reinforced the west. Sygga withdrew at once, took a short step to his left and thrust beneath his shield. He turned it down. Her point was already coming high again.

He caught the second thrust upon the steel over his shoulder. It skidded past his neck. She had seen how he lowered the shield and was testing whether he would do it twice.

Sygga’s gaze caught on the young face beneath his helm. She gave a harsh laugh.

“A kneeler boy in command?”

Jon kept his sword raised. “You expected sleeping men.”

Her smile thinned. She shifted her shield, hiding her sword hand behind its painted face.

“Eight shields west!” Rylas called behind him.

“Hold them there.” Jon brought his own point between himself and Sygga. “Tomas, keep the middle.”

Sygga cut at his hand. Jon drew it back and thrust towards the painted palm, finding only her shield’s edge. Her next cut opened his sleeve above the elbow. Mail held, but she was beside him already. He turned with her. Arthur’s hands were faster in the yard; here arrows struck behind him and calls came from three sides.

“Who gave you that sword, pretty boy?” Sygga asked. “Your father?”

Jon felt his face grow hot. He had lived long enough in his first life to know when someone was baiting him. This young body still wanted to answer. He tightened his grip and watched her shoulder.

He drove his shield forward to crowd her. Sygga slipped away instead of receiving the weight. Her point caught beneath his rim and forced it up. The red-painted shield struck his mouth.

Jon tasted blood. He gave ground around the charcoal lip, keeping his right foot clear of the hollow. She followed without rushing. The quick cuts had made him lift his elbow; now she sent the point towards his ribs and changed it for his hand when he closed the shield.

Tomas shouted for room behind the western file. The last archer sent a shaft across the passage between him and Jon. Tomas dropped behind the bank. Something cracked beneath his coat as his chest struck the stone. Sygga used the moment to step close, press her shield against Jon’s and turn him towards the pit.

His rear foot struck the rim. He sank to keep his balance, but her shield caught his sword arm. A thrust came over their guards. He turned his wrist and felt the point split his glove between thumb and forefinger as it passed his ear. Sygga drove him down the shallow slope with her shield. His shoulder hit stone; breath left him. His own shield caught on the bank, wrenching its strap across his elbow.

He tore his arm free and came onto one knee with the sword still in his cut hand. Sygga stepped down after him. Her point remained before his face; she did not give him a wild blow to turn aside.

“Drop it.” Her laughter had stopped. “You might be worth something alive.”

“Call your men off.”

Sygga bared her teeth. “Still giving orders?” She brought the point closer. “You first.”

Jon could hear his own breath scraping in his throat. He knew how the battles in the books had ended. He knew nothing about this woman except what she had taught him with her sword. His other life offered no memory that would get him out of this pit. He kept his blade between them.

* * *

Arthur heard Tomas call Jon’s name.

He could see the top of the middle pit beyond Gage’s shields, but not Jon. The axeman before him heard the cry as well. He came off the shelf while the two spearmen thrust from the water, all three within reach at once.

Dawn turned one point past Arthur’s hip. He stepped into the second man’s reach and struck him across the face with the pommel, but had to break away before he could use the edge. The axe was coming down towards Gared’s wounded shoulder.

Arthur caught it near the head. The blow jarred his arms. He drove the haft back, put his body between the axeman and the boy, and felt Desmond’s borrowed spear pass beside him. It kept one attacker back. The other began climbing towards Cressen, who still knelt over Finnan with both hands upon the linen.

“Donnel, left!” Arthur shouted.

Donnel turned, leaving Gage alone over the wounded. Arthur slashed the climbing man’s fingers and drove him off the root. Gared tried to follow, but his shield sagged. Arthur seized its rim and thrust it up against an incoming spear.

“Stay where I put you.”

The boy was crying without sound. Desmond could barely feel his left hand. If Arthur crossed to Jon, three weapons would reach Finnan and the men protecting him. He set himself across the lower run, struck the axe away and turned his intended thrust into another parry above Gared.

A crow screamed overhead.

* * *

Hugin stood upon the fir beyond Sygga’s shoulder. Munin had come lower, hopping along a branch over the awning. Jon had felt their alarm while the swords were ringing; now he reached for it without leaving his own eyes.

He could not take flight and fight her too. He gave Hugin the short, fierce urge he had practised at the tower, fixing it upon the woman coming down towards him.

Drive her away.

Sygga thrust. Jon beat the point aside and rose inside the next cut, nearly losing his footing in the wet charcoal. Hugin came down at her head. She ducked without taking her eyes from Jon and cut towards the beating wings. The crow climbed, a black feather turning behind him.

Jon stepped towards the root Finnan had struck upon their night walk. There was firm ground beside it. He had to reach that before she pressed him back against the stone.

Munin dropped from the other side, claws catching in Sygga’s hair. She shook the crow off and cut at the wings. Hugin came at her face again; her shield rose to meet him.

Jon went under its rim. He struck her returning sword outward, drove his good shoulder against her arm and thrust beneath the sealskin. Sygga twisted. Her shield caught his cheek and her blade scraped his backplate, but he stayed close, tore his sword free and thrust again.

Her knees struck charcoal. Jon went down with her and held on until her weight slackened. Her sword fell against his boot. A hand caught at his face, then dropped.

He pushed clear and stood with blood running inside his torn glove. Hugin had landed upon the pit rim. Munin flew back to the fir as Tomas reached the other side.

“Their leader has fallen!” Tomas shouted.

“Keep the west closed.” Jon had to draw breath before he could make the rest carry. “Rylas, three paces. No farther.”

Eight shields moved over Keir’s body. The two wildlings before them retreated, one holding his empty spear hand close. The last archer drew as the line came forward. Benjen’s arrow took him through the upper arm. His shot went high into the tents.

At the spring the axeman looked towards the pit. Arthur struck while his attention was gone. Dawn passed beneath his lifted arm; before the man fell, the knight turned the nearer spear and thrust its wielder back into the water. The last tried to scramble across the roots behind Gared. Desmond checked him with the borrowed spear, and Arthur finished him before he reached the boy.

“Hold!” Jon called. Rylas stopped at the third pace.

The wounded archer ran for the western trees. The two men before Rylas followed him, abandoning a fallen shield. The two raiders at the northern stakes broke the other way. Harwin took one step after them before Jorren caught his sleeve.

“Leave them,” Jon ordered. “Faces out. Keep your shields.”

Five had gone. Benjen followed only far enough to watch the western three reach the trees, then returned with his bow drawn. Torwynd stood beside the rushes, his horn lowered. Desmond came up behind him with the spear; Tomas approached from the middle behind his shield.

“Put it down,” the captain said.

Torwynd looked from Dawn to Benjen’s arrow and dropped his own spear. Tomas made him kneel. When Desmond reached for his wrist, the man twisted and bit through the guard’s glove. Desmond struck him once with the spear butt. Tomas forced his face to the ground and bound him.

“Alive,” Jon said. “Keep him apart from the other one.”

At the horses Garrick still held the wounded captive. Ralf had cut the burning cover away and laid it in the mud. Gawen leaned upon his spear until Olyver brought a saddle for him to sit upon.

“Tomas, count the files. Arthur holds the spring. Benjen, watch the trees. No one goes out to the bodies.” Jon looked towards the northern tents. “Ralf, fetch Aries. Keep him with you.”

Ralf found the page crouched against the side with his hands over his ears. He had to kneel and speak close before Aries looked at him. When he helped the boy up, Aries’s knees gave way. Ralf held him beneath the arms until he could stand.

Jorren answered first. “Six.”

“Olyver, six. Fergus hurt.”

Rylas stood above Keir, looking at the blood beneath the spearshaft. “Five standing.”

“Gage?”

“Four standing. Gared cut. Finnan down.”

“Struan down,” Tomas said. He counted himself last. Around them horses shifted against the ropes; someone was coughing behind a shield. Jon stayed upright until Benjen came back from the edge of the trees with a cut across one brow.

“Five running,” his uncle said. “One has my arrow through his arm. I heard no others close.”

“Keep the outer shields up,” Jon said. “Gage, go to Finnan. Donnel and Jorren’s nearest pair hold the spring. Gared comes back with Arthur. The rest stay armed.”

Arthur crossed at last. He looked at Jon’s empty shield arm and the blood running over his hand.

“Your side?”

“After Finnan.”

Gage knelt beside Cressen, holding a folded cloth beneath Finnan’s arm. The knife was still there. Finnan tried to raise his head when Jon came down beside him, but had to let it rest again.

Jon took his uninjured hand. “I am here.”

Finnan looked past him towards Cressen. The other boy bent nearer at once.

“He is here too,” Jon said.

Arthur slipped another fold of linen beneath Gage’s hand. Gage pressed where he was shown. Finnan drew a shallow breath and tried to speak. Jon leaned close enough to hear him beneath the frightened horses and Tomas calling the files.

“Did I do well, my lord?”

“You did, Finnan. You held him for Cressen. I saw you.”

The fingers in Jon’s hand tightened a little.

Arthur lowered himself beside the boy’s head. “You gave Cressen his chance. He took it.”

Finnan’s eyes moved to him, then back to Jon. He seemed to be waiting for more, so Jon told him again.

“You did well.”

Cressen began trying to wipe Finnan’s face with his sleeve. There was blood on that too. Arthur passed him a clean corner of linen and kept his other hand over Gage’s.

They stayed that way while Ralf quieted the horses. Finnan’s grip loosened. Jon bent near his mouth once more, but there were no further words. Arthur remained over him after the breathing stopped, waiting before he took away his hand.

Cressen was still holding the clean linen.

“Leave it with him,” Jon said.

Keir did not wake. Struan had been dead before Tomas reached him. At dawn the running horn stayed silent.

Ralf brought Aries to Jon while the others fetched blankets. The boy stared past them at Keir. His lips moved, but Jon could not hear him.

“Are you hurt?” Jon asked.

Aries shook his head.

Jon checked him anyway, turning him gently by the shoulders. Blood had soaked one cuff and dried along his jaw. Beneath it the skin was whole. He had seen Keir put his body between the spear and the child; now he had to look at the child who had come through unharmed.

“He pushed me,” Aries whispered.

“I saw.”

“I stayed behind. You told me—” His breath caught. “I stayed.”

“You did.” Jon kept a hand upon his shoulder. “You obeyed me.”

Aries looked at the blood on his cuff. “Then why did he—”

He could not finish. Jon drew him close with his sound arm. The boy stood rigid against him for a moment, then gripped his coat and began to cry. Jon bore the pressure against his bruised side without moving him away. Across the clearing Rylas knelt beside Keir, trying to free the shield strap from beneath his body.

* * *

Daylight showed sixteen free folk dead. Benjen and Harwin followed the fugitives as far as the stony ground, where three trails turned west and two climbed north. They returned without finding another body.

“Sixteen dead, two taken, five fled,” Tomas said. “Twenty-three.”

Torwynd, Sygga’s second-in-command, was tied to a birch. Fenn, the horse thief, sat with his thigh splinted while Ralf gave him water. Neither would name the other bands south of the Wall. Torwynd admitted only that they had come through the Gorge.

The dead carried Thenn bronze, Frozen Shore walrus teeth and cave paint beneath the mud. Two wore black wool cut from an old Watch cloak. Benjen kept a piece of it with the notched bone toggle from the snare; the prisoners could answer for both at Winterfell.

Hugin came to Jon’s sound wrist. Arthur spread the crow’s wing while Jon held him; one black feather was gone, but there was no blood. Munin landed beside them and pulled at his cloak. He eased the wool from her beak and gave both birds water from the hollow of a cup.

They fashioned the road home from whatever battle had left them. Harwin and Garrick felled straight saplings and made three low travois. Rylas bundled Keir’s purse and tied stockings within the dead boy’s coat. Tomas drew the borrowed whistle from beneath his coat. A crack ran through its side where he had struck the bank while avoiding an arrow. He laid it beside Struan’s stained slate. Cressen tugged at the iron lodged in Finnan’s shield; when it would not move, he snapped off the haft and left the iron embedded in the wood. “Let his father see what the shield turned aside,” he said.

Benjen marked the free-folk bodies for Eddard’s riders. Gawen sat against a pine. Arthur cut away the bloody hose, washed the torn thigh and bound a pad over it, leaving the stitching for a healer. Gawen gripped a root as Ralf fitted support for the journey.

“Finnan kept his shield up so Cressen could strike,” Tomas said, crouching beside Gawen. “Just as you taught them.”

Gawen looked towards the covered body. “He used to lower it whenever he drew his sword.” His voice caught. “I was always telling him.”

“He kept it up,” Tomas said.

Gawen nodded, his hand still closed upon the root. When Arthur asked him to ease his grip, he did not hear until the knight repeated it.

When Rylas covered Keir’s face, Aries tried to go to him. Ralf took his hand and waited while the men settled the body upon the travois. The boy watched every knot they tied. Only when they brought Bracken did he let Ralf lead him away.

They lifted Gawen onto the grey when his hurt leg would not bear him. Ralf supported it with a folded blanket and led the horse. At the spring Cressen scrubbed until his fingers burned, but Finnan’s blood stayed beneath his nails.

Jon sent Jorren’s shields across the beck first, then brought the horses over one at a time. When he ordered Rylas’s men to share the travois with Gage’s file, Rylas looked back at Keir.

“He belongs with us.”

“He crosses with you.”

Cold water rose around the dead. Aries crossed on Bracken behind Ralf, twisting to watch Keir’s travois. Rain began as the last men reached the far bank.

At the cart track Jon sent Harwin ahead to Heward with the names of the dead and wounded. Garrick rode on to summon Eddard, carrying warning of the five raiders still loose.

“Have Lorren waiting at our hall,” Jon told Harwin. “Send for Luwin. We need fresh men and litters on the town road.”

By the time Hallis’s relief party met them, Gawen had fainted twice. Ralf kept one hand upon his knee while the bearers eased him from the saddle.

* * *

Harwin’s warning had reached Black Yard ahead of them. Heward cleared the hall for the wounded and opened the old store for the dead. Elspeth heated water; Wylla fetched linen and clean clothes.

Winterfell’s horn sounded above the town before the noon bread. Elspeth heard the two long notes from her kitchen and laid her knife flat beside the last onion. Alys stood in the doorway with a broom in one hand.

“Black cloaks,” Alys said. “Stark men before them.”

Outside, Lorren’s chest lay open beneath the eaves. Willen and Denner waited with dry dressings while Alasdair’s men took the horses. Gawen came through on a litter, his face the colour of candle grease. Arthur went beside him into the hall.

Heward met Tomas at the gate. “Harwin gave us the names. Has anyone worsened on the road?”

“Gawen’s binding bled through again. Fergus can scarcely lift his arm.” Smoke and rain had stiffened Tomas’s hair. “See to them first.”

Heward sent Fergus after the litter. Fenn, the wounded prisoner, followed under Stark guard; Torwynd was kept beneath the far shelter, away from the men who had fought him.

Behind them, three low travois came through the gate. Blankets covered what they bore, but a narrow hand had slipped free of the second. Peat-black earth lay beneath its nails.

Heward took off his cap. Rain ran over his maimed left ear and down his neck. Harwin had given him the names at the Old Watch; until this moment he had seen only the places they would leave in the yard. He stood bareheaded until the last of them was inside.

“The old store,” he told the waiting men. “The trestles are ready. Lift them clear at the threshold.”

Elspeth had come out with the kettle. She saw the hand and stopped beside the kitchen step. Wylla took the kettle from her before it tipped.

“I have found their clean tunics,” Wylla said quietly.

Elspeth nodded. She went beside the second travois and drew the blanket back over the hand. Then she returned to her kitchen for the other kettle.

Jon rode in with dried blood beneath one glove and a split in his sword sleeve. Arthur was back beside him before he dismounted. His bruised side failed him for half a breath and his knees bent. The knight caught his sound arm.

“Slowly.”

“I can stand.”

Arthur supported Jon until he steadied. Jon looked towards the old store.

“All three are there,” Heward said. “Wylla has their clothes. The families have not yet been called.”

“Keep the belongings with each man.” Jon beckoned Tomas closer. “Send riders to Finnan’s father, Keir’s mother and Struan’s aunt. Choose men who knew them. They must hear from us before word reaches the town.”

Tomas nodded.

“Offer them horses or a cart if they wish to come. Have someone ride with them.”

Heward posted two guards at the store and sent Tomas to choose the riders.

Aries came in behind Ralf. Wylla went straight to him, pulling his hands away from his coat to find the wound which had left so much blood. He let her turn his wrists and touch his face.

“It is not his,” Jon said.

She looked at him, then towards the store. Aries tried to speak. Wylla gathered him against her and took him inside.

Luwin arrived with Eddard and the Stark guards. Robb stopped in the store doorway at sight of the covered bodies. Catelyn nearly struck his back.

While the maester went to Gawen, Eddard ordered the prisoners kept apart and sent Hallis’s riders to recover the raiders’ dead. Benjen gave him the notched toggle and the piece of Watch cloth.

Then Eddard found Jon upon a bench inside the hall. His eyes went from the torn glove to the blood on his coat. He rested a hand upon Jon’s sound shoulder.

“Let Luwin see you. The account can wait.”

Beneath the windows Lorren supported Gawen’s leg while Luwin washed the wound. Gawen gripped the table and caught Fergus watching.

“If I cry, you may tell every maid in Winter Town.”

“I was watching the maester.” The needle passed. Gawen swore once with exquisite care.

“Now I shall tell them you know courtly words,” Fergus said.

Luwin bound the thigh and forbade Gawen to put weight upon it. The wounded captive came next. Desmond’s bitten hand closed when the guards lifted Fenn onto the table.

“He came to kill us.”

“And I mean to keep him alive to answer for it,” Luwin said. “Let me see that hand.”

Olyver held the lamp through Fenn’s cries. Across the hall Lorren cleaned Desmond’s bite and stitched Gared’s shoulder. Fergus’s ribs were bruised; Benjen needed only his brow washed.

When Luwin came to Jon, he slit the ruined glove and peeled it from the cut. Charcoal and someone else’s blood caked the wound. Jon kept his eyes on the wall until the washing was done.

“The others?”

“Gawen keeps his leg if fever does not take it. Desmond keeps his hand on the same condition. None of the other wounds threaten life.” The maester finished the bandage, then felt along Jon’s ribs until his breath caught. “Bruised, I think. No sword until that hand closes. I shall see you tomorrow.”

Arthur took Jon upstairs long enough to strip off wet clothes and force bread into him. The chamber above the counting room smelled of lamp oil and damp ash. Through the boards came ordinary noises—the pump handle, boots in the yard, a basin dropped and cursed. Each time Jon shut his eyes, the spear that struck Keir opened the line again.

“What did we do wrong?” Jon asked.

Arthur sat beside Dawn, mud dried along one side of his face. “The alarm shield was too high. Struan had to raise his arm above the bank to strike it. And Gared could scarcely hold his shield after he was wounded. We had no safe way to move him.”

“Bring the file leaders tomorrow. I want their accounts before we hear them together.” Jon worked a crumb between his fingers. “They will not contradict you readily. Tell them what you could not see.”

“I shall.” Arthur reached for the water. Jon covered the cup with his good hand.

“You have hardly said anything since we came back.”

Arthur looked at the discarded coat. “I heard Tomas call for you. All I could see was the rim of that pit.” Jon uncovered the cup. Arthur poured, spilling water over the rim. “I thought she had killed you.”

“She nearly did.”

Arthur set down the jug without wiping the spill.

“The crows gave me room,” Jon said. “I urged Hugin at her without leaving my own eyes. Munin followed. The woman was fast enough to turn Hugin aside, but not both.”

Arthur glanced at the linen around Jon’s hand, then took the bread Jon pushed towards him. For a time they ate without speaking.

Aries was waiting outside when Arthur went to the door for more water. Wylla had washed him and changed his clothes. His hair was still damp, and he held Jon’s clean gloves against his chest. Patch pressed against his legs, wagging his tail whenever the boy moved.

“Come in,” Jon said.

Aries took two steps and stopped at the torn coat. His gaze went to the stiff sleeve, then to Jon’s bandaged hand.

“Put the gloves on the table.”

He obeyed with great care. One glove overlapped the other; he straightened it twice.

“Aries.”

“I did not draw it.”

Jon waited.

“My dagger. I kept it in. I stayed where you said.” The words came faster. “But the skin rolled away, and I thought I could reach it. I did not go past them.”

“I know.”

“He had to turn.” Aries looked at Arthur as though the knight might contradict him. “For me.”

Arthur closed the door. Jon moved the stool nearer with his foot.

“Sit down.”

“If I had stayed with Wylla—”

“I brought you,” Jon said. “I put you behind that bank. If there was a safer place, it was for me to find it.”

Aries sat upon the very edge of the stool. Patch laid his muzzle across the boy’s knee, but he did not touch him.

“He was helping me with the bowls.” His mouth trembled. “He said she would come looking.”

Jon remembered the kettle, Keir tipping the water, Aries pretending not to smile. He had been close enough to hear them.

“I remember.”

“He was only helping.”

Jon reached for him. This time the boy came willingly, slipping from the stool and burying his face against the sound side of Jon’s coat. Arthur knelt beside them when Aries began struggling for breath. He spoke quietly until the page could follow him, breathing more slowly.

Wylla came to take Aries down to the other pages. He protested that he had not cleaned Jon’s boots.

“Leave them,” Jon said. “Go with Wylla.”

At the door Aries looked back to make certain Jon was still watching.

Wylla returned with clean hose. She laid Jon’s torn coat across a chair, then helped him dress, working gently when his side hurt. He had washed, yet she found charcoal beside his ear and wiped it away with her thumb. He let her.

Eddard knocked before entering. The bone toggle lay in one hand.

He drew up a chair and heard Jon’s account. Jon described the snare, the four bowmen and Sygga’s rush towards the spring. He told how the crows had struck her face; he kept the command he had sent Hugin to himself. At Finnan’s last words he had to stop.

Eddard waited. Only when Jon had finished did he speak of the warnings sent to the neighbouring holds and the raven carrying Benjen’s report to Mormont. Riders would search for the fugitives in daylight.

“I sent Tomas to arrange riders for the families,” Jon said. “I will speak to them when they come.”

“Then we should go down,” Eddard said. “You need not meet them alone.” Jon rose, pain pulling beneath his ribs. He leaned for one breath into the palm Eddard rested on his hair, then went down with him. Yesterday the old storehouse had held turnips. Three bodies lay there now.

Elspeth had washed the mud and charcoal from their faces. Wylla dressed them in clean black tunics. Alys tried three times to smooth Keir’s cowlick before giving up. Belts, purses, cloaks and arms lay beside them. Finnan’s father arrived with peat black to his elbows and two grown sons behind him, one in their good cloak, the other crushing a cap. He did not bow.

“Show me which one.”

Jon brought the scarred shield to the table. The broken spear iron still stood in it, caught where the old axe mark had weakened the wood. “This was his.”

The father touched the iron with two earth-black fingers. “Did it fail?”

“No. It caught the spear. Finnan held the man while Cressen, the guard beside him, struck.”

“Where did the knife enter?” Jon showed him beneath his own arm. The man nodded, his jaw clenched.

Poole, Winterfell’s steward, came in with two purses and placed them on the oak. “Earned wage and road silver. The second holds a year’s wage from House Black for those he leaves.”

Finnan’s father looked at the larger purse. “Blood price?”

“Finnan’s earnings,” Jon said, touching the smaller purse. “The other is for you and his brothers. His wages will not stop because you have lost him.”

The father’s hands began to shake. He set them flat. “I did not sell him.”

“No.”

The elder brother drew the purse aside before it fell. “Peat does not cut itself, Da.”

Cressen stood against the wall, staring at his scrubbed hands. Finnan’s younger brother crossed to him and put both arms around him.

“You stayed beside him.” His voice broke against the boy’s hair. “Good.”

Cressen stood rigid for a moment, then his face crumpled. Elspeth led them both towards the kitchen. Finnan’s father turned the shield over.

“Did he call for home?”

“He asked whether he had done well,” Jon said.

Finnan’s father stopped turning the shield.

“What did you tell him?”

“That he had. He held the man so Cressen could strike. I told him I had seen it.”

“Did he hear you?”

“Yes.” Jon looked at the hand lying flat against the shield. “He squeezed my hand when I answered.”

The father rubbed his thumb over the wood, away from the broken iron. His eldest son moved closer, but left him room to stand.

The old man nodded once. “His mother lies above the peat hollow. He goes beside her. The earth stays dry there.”

Keir’s mother arrived after dark in a muck cart with a cracked wheel, a neighbour leading its mare. Rope held the axle together. Rain and smoke clung to her goat-wool shawl. She passed the purses on Poole’s table.

“Take me to my son.”

Elspeth stayed with her behind the storeroom door while half a log sank into the hall embers. Keir’s mother came out with his belt wound twice around her hand.

“Did he try to run?”

“No.”

“Do not polish him for me. I birthed him. He feared thunder until he was nine.”

“His sword was shaking against his shield,” Jon said. “But he stayed. When a spearman aimed at my page, Keir pushed the boy down and covered him. That was when he was struck.”

“You saw him?”

“I saw.”

“Did he call for me?”

“He never woke after the spear.”

She wound the belt tighter around her hand. “The child?”

“Alive. Unhurt.”

For a little while she looked towards the hall door. Then she bowed her head. Elspeth brought Keir’s pack from the storeroom and set it beside his mother. His mother opened it and found the knotted stockings on top. She lifted them and pressed the rough wool to her mouth.

“I meant to mend these when he came home,” she said after a time. The fire settled behind her with a soft fall of ash.

She accepted oats, lamp oil and salt meat with the wage. Eddard promised to have the neighbour’s broken cart mended before they went home.

She took Keir’s belt but left his sword. “Give it to a boy whose mother cannot buy iron. It is too good to hang above my fire.”

Struan’s aunt came last with an older washerwoman on one arm and a thin girl on the other. Lye had split every knuckle of the aunt’s hands. The little girl’s eyes fixed on the broken whistle beside the blood-marked watch slate. “The slate,” the aunt said. “They told me Struan wrote upon a slate.”

Tomas brought the slate. An arrow had split its wooden frame. The word at the head of the watch list was still legible beneath the stain. She put a cracked finger below the word. “What does this say?”

Tomas had carried orders through arrows without losing his voice. It failed him now. He swallowed and tried again. “First.”

“He wrote it?”

“Copied the watch himself. Read it back too.”

She sounded the letters after him, one by one, until they became the word. “First.”

The child held out her hand for the whistle, and Tomas laid it gently across her palm. “He lent it to me,” he told her. “I cracked it in the fighting. Your brother sounded the warning when the arrows came.”

The little girl tried the whistle. No sound came. Tomas looked away.

Struan’s aunt folded his spare shirt around the slate and tucked the whistle inside the cloth. “He used to steal sheets off my drying frames and crawl beneath them for the warmth. Was his bed warm in this place?”

“Yes,” Jon said.

“Did he eat?”

From the doorway Elspeth replied, “Two meals before noon whenever he failed to escape me, and more before dark.”

“He claimed you gave him no food if he came late.”

“I served the punctual lads before him.” Struan’s aunt managed one laugh before it broke apart into a sob. The elder washerwoman caught her beneath both arms.

The little sister looked towards the bread at the hearth. “May he take one?”

Elspeth wrapped two hot bread heels in linen. “One goes with him. The other will feed you on the way.” Struan’s family had no land. His aunt chose the high bank above the washerwomen’s stream, safe from spring floods and within sight of the women at work.

Jon followed them into the cool storeroom. Finnan’s father brushed his son’s cheek; Keir’s mother chided her boy’s open mouth until Elspeth shut it. Struan’s sister held his fingers between hers, trying to warm them.

He remembered his wife beneath clean linen, their children waiting beyond a hospital door. He had sat through other nights like this. His hands still shook. When his ribs grew too painful, Arthur brought him a stool. Jon stayed until each family was ready to leave.

That night Elspeth had the household sit together. Alasdair’s men made room for those who had come back from the woods, moving along the benches without waiting to be asked. Gared could not lower himself without help. The man beside him put an arm around his waist and took his weight, then remained close after he was seated. Across the table Cressen stood behind Finnan’s place with both hands upon the bench.

“Here,” Gage said, touching the space beside him.

Cressen looked at the three trenchers someone had laid out. Finnan’s spoon rested across his bowl. Keir’s cup had a chip near the lip; Struan’s stood upside down, as he had kept it since Gared dropped a beetle into his drink.

“He’ll want that,” Cressen said.

Nobody answered. He stared at the bowl until his face changed, then sat where Gage had shown him. He dragged his sleeve across his nose, angry and hurried about it. Gared was looking at Struan’s cup. His injured arm rested in a sling against his chest.

“He never let me forget it,” he said. “The bloody beetle. Every time I took my cup—”

His voice failed. He bent over his good hand. Someone near the other end of the bench gave a short laugh which sounded almost like a cough, and then covered his own face.

Jon stood in the doorway with Arthur. The boys sat with knees and elbows touching where ordinarily someone would have objected. Alasdair’s men looked from the bandages to the empty places.

Elspeth put the broth down. The steam carried the smell of onions through the hall, but no one reached for a bowl. She looked at the three trenchers. Her mouth tightened, and she took one a little away from the edge, where it might have been knocked down.

“I shall keep theirs here,” she said. “For tonight.”

Jon went to Cressen. The young guard tried to stand. Jon put his sound hand upon his shoulder and kept him seated.

“My lord, I—”

“Stay there.”

“I should have struck sooner.” Cressen was staring at the table. “When he caught the spear. I saw the opening. I struck him, but he still had the knife. If I had gone higher—”

“You struck when Finnan gave you room.”

“He would still be here.”

The words came out so loudly that a servant carrying bread stopped behind them. Cressen’s shoulders rose beneath Jon’s hand. Gage leaned nearer, but the boy shook his head hard.

“I was beside him. You put me beside him.”

Jon could still feel Finnan’s fingers tightening around his own. He bent until Cressen would look at him.

“He knew you were there. When I took his hand, he looked for you. You stayed with him.”

Cressen’s eyes were swollen, the skin beneath them raw from rubbing.

“You killed the man who hurt him,” Jon said. “You could do no more with a sword.”

Cressen tried to answer. His mouth twisted and he bowed his head again. Gage put an arm about him, drawing him against his side. This time he let himself be held.

Jon stayed until Cressen’s breathing had slowed. When he straightened, the movement pulled beneath his ribs. He rested his hand on the table and waited for the pain to pass.

“I need you to hear me,” he said.

Tomas looked up. Farther along the benches, Iain nudged a man who had turned away. Arthur remained near the door. He had let Jon walk the length of the hall without following, though Jon could feel him watching.

“Finnan asked me whether he had done well.”

The hall grew still.

“I told him he had.” Jon had to steady his breath. “Even with the knife in him, Finnan held that man for Cressen. He was still protecting the man beside him.”

Jon looked towards Rylas. The serjeant had not touched his bowl.

“Keir held the end of your line. His sword was shaking against his shield, and he stayed. He saw a spear aimed at Aries and covered him. Struan saw the arrows and struck the alarm. Men were still reaching for their belts when he warned them.”

At the pages’ table Aries bent over his untouched bowl. Wylla drew it away from his clenched hands and moved her chair closer.

Tomas closed his eyes. He had taken the whistle from Struan, and Jon knew he would be thinking of that as well.

“Their names will be spoken here for as long as I have a household. Their families will have what I promised them. I will go to each grave with you. But I will not have any man who came home believe that he has failed them by living.”

Alasdair looked down at his hands. Along his side of the table, a lad’s face crumpled. He pressed his lips together so hard that they whitened.

“We should have been with them,” Alasdair said thickly.

“I ordered you to remain. You kept the holding, and you were here to lift our wounded when we returned.” Jon met his eyes. “I chose who went and where we stood. I will hear every man who thinks I should have done something differently. Arthur will hear him with me.”

He turned back to the men who had ridden into the woods.

“You have spent your days learning to keep your shields together. I have woken you in the rain and made you do it again when you were tired. There were days you hated me for it. I know that.”

Gage looked up then. Jon held his gaze.

“We trained so that when men came to kill us, you would know what to do for each other. Desmond held Gared up when he could scarcely raise his shield. Rylas closed the place where Keir fell. When Sygga had me in the hollow, Tomas came for me.”

Tomas shook his head a little, as though he did not want the others looking at him.

“You did,” Jon said. “And I remember it.”

He moved his bandaged hand from the table. The linen had pulled against the cut, leaving a small red mark between his fingers.

“We brought Finnan, Keir and Struan home. I saw men wade into that beck who could hardly lift their arms, because they would not let go of a friend.”

At the far end of the table Rylas covered his mouth. Keir had crossed with his file, as he had demanded. He looked down at his lap until he could look at Jon again.

“I am proud to lead you.” Jon let them see his face as he said it. “I was proud when you took your places before the northern lords. I am proud of you tonight.”

The words left his throat aching. He had raised these boys into the men before him. He had fed their ambitions, put steel in their hands and accepted their oaths. They had wanted a life with him, and three of them would have no more of it.

“There will be dangers beyond these woods. You know where I mean to take you. I cannot promise that every one of us will grow old there.” His voice was quieter now. “I can promise that your lives will never be a thing I spend carelessly. I will learn what this cost us. So will the men who teach you. We owe that to those who died, and to every man who will stand beside us again.”

He looked at the three places. Finnan’s spoon had begun to slide against the edge of the bowl. Jon set it down upon the table.

“For tonight, stay together. If a man needs to speak, hear him. If he cannot bear to lie alone, make room. The gate is guarded. You have done enough.”

Gage moved along the bench, and Jon sat beside Cressen.

“And when you can, tell me something about them. Something I did not know.”

Nobody spoke at first. Elspeth took the ladle and filled the nearest bowls. Jon passed one to Gage, who had kept his arm around Cressen throughout. Alasdair reached across for the bread and began breaking it.

“Keir could mend a stocking,” Iain said at last.

Jon looked towards him.

“His mother had shown him. I saw him mend the lining of his glove once. Little stitches.” Iain held his thumb and finger close together. “He would not let me look until he had finished.”

Jon watched him try to smile at the memory. His hand remained raised a moment, then dropped to the table.

“He could have done those stockings.”

Iain bent his head and wept. The guard beside him moved closer. Across the table Gared was still trying to finish his story about the beetle; Tomas leaned towards him to hear.

They ate slowly. Cressen managed three mouthfuls before going out to be sick. Gage went with him. Finnan’s elder brother, returning to sit beside the body, found them in the passage and stayed until Cressen could stand. When they came back, Alasdair had moved Cressen’s bowl closer to the fire to keep it warm.

At the high table Catelyn’s food lay untouched beside silent Robb. When Eddard joined them, he beckoned Jon over. Catelyn looked at Jon’s hand as he set down his bowl.

“Robb says he begged to remain.”

“He did,” Jon answered. “Father had already ordered him home.”

Robb flushed. “I could have fought.”

“Your place was with me,” Eddard said.

Catelyn’s fingers tightened around the stem of her cup. “We allowed children to serve as guards, and men watched for the grown swords to leave them.”

“Arthur and I were there,” Benjen said. “They were not left alone.”

“And next time?” Catelyn looked at Jon. “Robb would follow you without an order.”

“Then I would send him home.”

She looked down at her untouched meal. “I know what he would have wanted.”

Robb began to speak, then stopped when Eddard laid a hand on his arm. At the servants’ table Gage laid a hand upon Struan’s upturned cup. Jon watched the small movement and said no more.

* * *

They buried Finnan in peat-dark earth beside his mother. His brothers bore him from the road while smoke crawled low across the hollow. The iron spearhead remained fixed in the shield upon his breast; his father had refused to let Woods pry it loose. “It came home with him,” he said. “It may go into earth with him.”

The nearest heart tree stood half a day away in ground too wet for a grave. Here Eddard commended Finnan to the old gods, and his father answered. His brothers lowered him on rain-dark ropes. The household stood in eight files with three places empty. Cressen brought Finnan’s sword wrapped in black wool. At the father’s nod he gave it to the younger brother.

The younger brother took the sword and touched Cressen’s forearm. Neither could speak.

Jon laid the first block of peat upon the shield. Tomas laid the second. Gawen watched from a cart at the edge of the cut, wounded leg straight beneath a grey cloak. “He was always in a hurry to strike,” Gawen said. “This time he held steady for Cressen.”

Finnan’s father looked up from the grave. “Always in a hurry,” he said. “Even as a little lad.”

Gawen looked down at the shield beneath the peat. “Cressen is alive because of him.”

Next day they buried Keir above his mother’s croft. Cloud lifted from its chimney as the grave filled. Rylas stood at the head, unable to meet her eye.

“I put him on the end,” he told her.

“Was it the proper place?”

“When we formed, yes. Once the arrows changed, I might have moved a shield behind him.”

“Would you have known before the spear?” Rylas looked at Jon. Jon shook his head; he had seen it too late himself.

“No,” the serjeant said.

Keir’s mother closed her hand around the dead boy’s belt. “Then I cannot tell you what else you should have done.” She looked at the fresh earth. “I wish I could.” Rylas remained after every clod was down.

Aries stood beside Jon with his cap in both hands. He had asked to come, then said nothing all the way to the croft. When the woman looked towards him, he lowered his eyes.

“This is the boy?”

“Aries,” Jon said.

She came close. The page opened his mouth, but whatever he had meant to say was lost in a shuddering breath.

Keir’s mother touched the side of his face where her son’s blood had been. Her hand was cold. She looked at him for so long that Jon thought she might speak. Then she drew her shawl about herself and went inside the croft.

Aries watched the door close. On the road home he rode beside Jon, his cap still crushed between his hands.

Struan went into the firmer rise above the washerwomen’s stream. The women left wet linen upon the stones and stood in two silent rows with red hands empty. His little sister wore the broken whistle upon a cord. It knocked against her chest as she walked. “Can it be mended?” she asked Tomas.

“Woods will try.”

“You must try as well.” The elder washerwoman began their work song. The others joined, singing every verse twice while the earth covered him. His sister left a bread heel on the mound. It had soaked dark by the time they reached the road.

The next morning Eddard questioned the captives separately beneath the First Keep. Jon sat wrapped in a dry cloak while Luwin recorded their answers. Torwynd would say little beyond admitting the Gorge. When Benjen named Mance Rayder, he laughed.

“The crow who wants a crown calls everyone. Sygga knelt to no crow.”

Fenn was brought in after him. He lied about their numbers, then about how long they had watched the camp, until Benjen described the tracks above the eastern path. At last he admitted two days. They had seen Lord Stark leave. Sygga wanted horses, mail and food to carry north; the men waiting at the ford had returned before dawn to join the attack.

Benjen asked a question in the Old Tongue. Fenn’s head jerked up.

“What was that?” Eddard asked.

“I asked whether dead men drove them south.” Luwin’s quill stopped.

Fenn bared his teeth. “Kneelers put walking corpses in their tales whenever the hearth needs feeding.”

Jon watched him. He knew what might be beyond the Wall; he did not know what this man had seen.

Eddard had Luwin include the question and answer in his fuller report to Mormont. Six days later the reply confirmed two missing patrols near the Gorge, one lost during foul weather, one without trace. Rangers would search the western approaches. Benjen was to bring both prisoners north when Fenn could travel.

By then Woods had mounted three slim blackwood tablets above the barracks hearth.

FINNAN.

KEIR.

STRUAN.

Woods helped Tomas mend the cracked whistle with an ash splint, glue and tight-wound linen. When they took it to the washerwomen’s stream, Struan’s sister tried it twice before producing a clear, high note.

She put the cord over Tomas’s bowed head. “You can use it. Aunt says I shall frighten the hens.”

“I will look after it,” he said.

Three mornings later Benjen took the prisoners north with the grain, lamp oil and salted beef promised to the Watch. Hallis’s men kept searching for the five fugitives.

Training had begun while they waited for Mormont’s reply. Jon walked beside the household, his ribs still too sore to run. They practised getting wounded men behind the shields. Ralf showed them where to cut the horse tethers if the line became tangled; Gawen watched from a stool beneath the eaves.

When wet canvas dropped across Cressen’s shield, he went still and called Finnan’s name. Gage steadied him while Jon lifted the edge.

“Here, Cressen. Cut this cord.”

Jon waited until the boy had his knife out. The canvas fell clear, and Gage brought him through with the others.

On the evening Benjen left, Tomas hung the repaired whistle beneath Struan’s name and went to supper.

Aries was at the pages’ table when Jon came in. The bowls had been stacked beside him for washing, but he was looking towards the hearth. When someone called his name, he started and caught the top bowl before it fell.

Jon went to him. “Leave those for tonight.”

“I can do them, my lord.”

“I know. Bring your supper and sit with me.”

Aries followed with his bowl. He ate a little when Jon ate, and put down his spoon whenever the talk grew loud. Once his hand strayed to the place where he had worn his dagger. Wylla had put it away with his riding clothes.

At bedtime Jon found him outside his door again. He had brought neither gloves nor water this time. “May I stay here?”

Jon opened the door wider. Arthur fetched the boy’s bedding while Wylla went to tell the other pages where he was. Patch settled upon the blanket at once. Aries lay down beside him, but his eyes followed Jon until the lamp was lowered.

Long after the house grew quiet, Jon heard him move. “My lord?”

“I am here.”

The blanket rustled. Aries said nothing more, though Jon could hear that he was still awake.