Chapter 46: The Master Bench

Three moons after the skirmish, Jon still woke before the whistle. Sometimes Sygga stood above him; sometimes Finnan called from a place Jon could not reach. That morning he sat against the bedhead until he knew the room. Wylla brought a lamp and the shirt he had left over a chair, opened the shutters a finger’s width and waited while he drank. This wakefulness had followed him home from the sea long before Winterfell existed for him as anything but a name in a book. He knew to wait for the room to return. It was no easier for knowing.

Munin tapped the shutter. Jon held out his hand, and the crow stepped onto his wrist. She had spent his first evenings home from the woods on the sill beside his bed. He stroked the feathers above her beak while Wylla drew a stool forward for Lorren.

“You have pulled the glove too tight again,” Lorren said, easing it from Jon’s hand.

“It loosens once I am moving.”

“Then move your fingers for me.”

Jon swallowed. Dawn had not yet reached the shutters. “How long was I calling?”

Wylla sat upon the edge of the bed. Black wool circled her wrist, faded by grease and wash water; she had worn it since the burial. “Not long.” Lorren unwound the linen around Jon’s hand. A pale ridge crossed the palm and disappeared beneath two stiff fingers. He rubbed warmed goose grease into the scar, working gently until Jon could straighten them.

“I had better dress,” Jon said.

Wylla handed him his shirt. In the lower hall, the twenty-two survivors of the ride west kept one end of the household’s bench. The other twenty-five guards, who had stayed behind with Alasdair, filled the places farther down. Finnan had always taken the burnt crust from the porridge pot. Keir left his water cup in everyone’s way. Struan drummed his spoon until Gage threatened to feed it to him.

Elspeth still set aside one black crust before remembering. That morning she stared at it, her mouth working. When she broke it into the slop pail, the crust made almost no sound. She struck the wooden rim with the spoon and turned away before anyone could speak.

Jon sat beside Tomas. Oats, fried onions and damp wool scented the steam. Aries brought him water, then reached for an empty platter although his own breakfast waited untouched.

“Leave that. Come and eat.”

The page glanced towards the guards. “I can help, my lord.”

He had said that in the woods, with a hand on his little dagger. Jon remembered Keir’s shield coming down over the page.

“You have helped. Sit beside me.” Jon made room on the bench.

Aries obeyed. When Rylas passed him the bread, the boy thanked him without quite meeting his eyes. Jon let him eat in silence, then carried his own bowl to the order table. Above the fire hung three blackwood boards.

FINNAN.

KEIR.

STRUAN.

Their pegs held no belt, shield or cloak. Struan’s repaired whistle lay upon the order table below them, its ash splint bound in pale thread.

* * *

Tomas came to Jon after supper with the household roll folded in one hand. He did not open it at once. Gage sat beside the hearth, turning Struan’s mended whistle by its cord. Arthur sat beside Jon while Tomas spoke.

“Hewyn has men asking for the three places, my lord.”

“Have the centurions put them forward. Arthur and Martyn will see them at the Old Watch.”

“Spears as well as swords?”

“If their swords are good enough. I need men who can join the household’s work now.”

Tomas opened the roll. Three spaces interrupted the names he had entered himself.

“A moon on trial,” Jon said. “Arthur chooses who begins it. You and the file leaders tell me whom to keep.”

Gage laid the whistle upon his knee. “And if we find only two?”

“Then we take two. We have managed with forty-seven; we can manage a little longer.”

Eddard came in as Tomas refolded the roll. When Jon told him all six centuries might put men forward, his father looked towards the three boards.

“Do not strip the centuries of instructors for the sake of the household wage.”

“I need those men where they are. It is the younger ones I want.”

Eddard nodded. He asked after Jon’s hand before leaving, and Arthur moved the unused salve pot into Jon’s reach.

* * *

Nineteen young men waited beside the Old Watch’s practice lanes, drawn from all six centuries. Most had cleaned their coats as carefully as their weapons. One kept testing a borrowed round shield, trying not to let his neighbour see.

Martyn set two veterans against them. One nominee lost control of his sword whenever it was beaten aside; another fought well until his partner went down, then left him exposed. Jon needed men who could guard him when a line broke.

Gawen watched from a stool by the rail, his wounded leg stretched before him. When the second man came off, Gawen called him over and showed him where his shield should have been. He tried to rise for the demonstration, winced and sat again. The young man crouched beside him to listen.

Gerralt, Fifth’s centurion, had Colin beside him when Jon reached their names. The lad’s dark hair was still wet from the pump.

“Colin asked me for leave,” Gerralt said.

“Do you recommend him?”

“I do, my lord.”

“You do not look pleased about it.”

Gerralt glanced at his pupil. “I had hoped to give him command of ten men before the year was out.”

Colin looked down. “You never said.”

“I was waiting for you to earn the last part.”

“What still needs work?” Jon asked.

“Teaching a man who learns slowly. He thinks being shown twice ought to be enough.” Gerralt looked at Arthur. “His own sword is ready. I would not send him otherwise.”

“And when he is tired?”

“He keeps his shield. That took longer.”

Colin’s ears reddened, but he did not deny it. Arthur sent him to the lane.

The veteran drove Colin back with a blow upon his shield rim. Colin kept his feet and his point steady, then caught the next opening beneath the sword arm. Paired with Rylas, he was late covering a second attacker; Gage’s wooden blade touched his shoulder before he recovered. Gerralt watched from the rail until Martyn called for water.

“He can stay for the horsework,” Jon said.

“His place in Fifth remains until you decide?” Gerralt asked.

“It does.”

By the second evening Colin was the only candidate Arthur kept. He was slower in the saddle than the household’s best, but held his place when another horse pressed close. The rest needed too much work with either horse or sword.

Jon stayed beside the rack after they had gone, watching Martyn’s veteran turn a heavy cut with scarcely a movement of his wrist.

“That is the hand I need.”

“He has carried a sword for twenty years,” Arthur replied.

“And we need the other veterans teaching our centuries.” Jon put the wooden sword back. “Who else is ready?”

“Murdo Venn and Davie Rusk asked at the field display. You had no places then.”

“I remember. One fought Olyver.”

“Murdo. Davie fought Keir.” Arthur’s eyes went briefly towards the empty lane. “Both have been taught since childhood. They need to learn your calls and your way of riding together.”

“Then keep the trials open to men outside the cohort. Colin begins tomorrow.”

Across the field Gerralt was waiting for his pupil. The two walked back to Fifth together.

* * *

The friends arrived two mornings later, with bedrolls behind their saddles and their fathers following. News of the trials had reached Greybeck with a returning carter. Master Osmer Rusk said he had never known his son Davie so quick to get out of bed.

Jon received Rusk and Murdo’s father, Master Edran Venn of Alderbank, in his workroom while Tomas took the boys to the stables. Arthur remained beside the window. Abel brought cups and the written terms of service.

“You understand why there are places now,” Jon said.

Venn inclined his head. “We heard the names. My son remembers the men he fought on the field.”

“So does Davie,” Rusk said. He looked towards the yard before sitting. “He has asked to come all the same.”

Jon slid the terms towards them. “They would serve under Tomas and his serjeants. Their birth earns them no command.”

“Murdo knows,” Venn said. “He gave me the whole order of your household on the road home. Twice.”

Rusk smiled briefly, then bent over the sheet. “And when you sail?”

“They go with me. They give their service to my house, not for one northern summer.”

“They have been speaking of little else.” Rusk ran a finger beneath the provision for a wounded man. “Abel will read this with us before the oath?”

“Every word.”

Venn had not touched his cup. “Would you accept one and refuse the other?”

“If only one is fit.”

“Good. Tell them. Friendship can make a boy slow to admit the other’s faults.”

Jon called the candidates in. Murdo stopped just inside the door; Davie checked his stride to avoid striking his shoulder.

“You will be tried separately as well as together,” Jon told them. “If only one earns his place, I take one.”

“We understand, my lord,” Davie said.

Murdo nodded, his mouth firm beneath the crooked nose. “We would rather come together. We did not ask you to take either without trying him.”

“Then report to Tomas. Leave your fine coats here; there is mud enough at the Old Watch to spoil them.”

They went out to change. Through the open window Jon heard Davie asking whether Murdo had remembered the spare glove he had left upon Greybeck’s hearth. Venn took up his cup at last.

* * *

Arthur tested their weapons and Ralf their riding. Both had improved since the display, and Tomas admitted them to the month’s trial beside Colin.

Their faults soon showed. Murdo looked for Tomas instead of listening for his call. Davie, the better rider, hesitated when two men threatened him on foot. Colin called so much that nobody could hear the captain. Arthur changed their partners and worked them after long rides, when weariness made those habits harder to hide.

Colin went back to Fifth for a whetstone and returned late for supper. Gerralt had kept him to teach a recruit the close thrust.

“Did he learn it?” Gage asked.

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“By the time I left.”

“Then you have had a useful afternoon. Come and eat.”

Once, at the water cask, Gage began to call for Finnan. His mouth stopped on the name. Davie took the second bucket and waited without speaking. They carried the water in together.

At the end of the fourth week, the three returned from a long training ride to find Arthur waiting in the practice yard. Rain had softened the ground; their horses stood steaming as Ralf’s men led them away. Jon waited inside a marked square with Gage and two guards. Each candidate would join them in turn and help bring Jon clear of an attack.

Murdo wiped rain from his brow when Arthur called him forward. His first breath came loudly through his nose. Rylas drove into him hard enough to move his shield back against his chest, then offered his sword arm beyond the square. Murdo started to follow, checked himself and turned with the file. Jon felt the shield settle at his flank.

Arthur called Davie next. Two attackers divided towards him. This time he named the man on his left loudly enough for Gage to hear, committed to the other and held his ground. Gage met the second without having to look behind him.

Colin came last. When Gage fell, an opening appeared beyond the men pressing them. Colin could have reached their exposed backs in two strides. He stayed over Gage instead, shield slanted to take the descending stroke. Jon and the rear guard hauled the serjeant through. They left the square together; their attackers reached it empty.

Arthur changed their partners and sent them through once more. By the finish Colin’s hair lay flat against his temples, and Murdo had mud from wrist to elbow. None needed a familiar voice to tell him where to stand.

Jon heard each file leader before entering the names. Murdo went to Rylas; Davie and Colin to Gage. He saw Colin draw breath when Tomas called him into the formed household, then swallow whatever he had meant to say and hurry to his place.

* * *

Their families came to the evening oath. Venn stood beside his wife and eldest son, folding his riding gloves. Davie’s mother kept straightening his new coat until he caught her hand and kissed it. Colin’s sister carried a spare shirt over one arm.

She asked Jon what would happen if her brother were wounded.

“He remains in my keeping while he heals. If he cannot fight again, he will still have a roof and food. If he is killed, his earnings and belongings go to the person he names, with a year’s wage besides. Abel, my clerk, has written you as his kin.”

She looked towards the three boards bearing the dead boys’ names. “He has told me.”

She thanked him, then caught her brother’s sleeve to straighten a fold Mairi had already straightened.

Gerralt arrived while Tomas was forming the files. Colin saw him and stood a little taller. His old centurion inspected him without touching the new coat.

“Have you chosen someone else to command those ten?” Colin asked quietly.

“Not yet.”

“I could still come over when—”

“You will have enough to do here.” Gerralt took a loose thread from Colin’s shoulder. “When the household next comes against Fifth, I shall put the lads you taught opposite you.”

“With you behind them?”

“Aye. I would like to see how much they remember when you are the man pressing them.”

Colin smiled. Gerralt gripped his shoulder for a moment before stepping back among the watching men.

The three knelt and swore to guard Jon, obey his officers and keep faith with the men beside them. They rose as household guards, at a guard’s wage.

Venn embraced Murdo; his eldest son promised to see his letters carried. Rusk spoke into Davie’s ear until his mother drew the boy close. Colin’s sister gave him the shirt and told him not to bring it back black with horse sweat. Gerralt waited by the gate to give him a last nod.

At supper the benches had been moved closer to the fire. Murdo sat beneath Finnan’s name with Rylas beside him. Davie found a place across from his friend, leaving room for Tomas beside Gage. Master Rusk listened while the guards argued about which horse had made the last turn worst.

Colin named Murdo’s mount. Murdo pointed out that he had remained in the saddle.

“For most of it,” Davie said.

“You were looking behind you.”

“At you.”

Rusk laughed. Venn had been watching his son wait while Rylas spoke, the new black sleeve beside the serjeant’s worn one. When the bread reached him he broke it and passed it on without interrupting the table’s talk.

Jon had barely touched his stew. Arthur moved the bread basket within his reach.

“Is the hand troubling you?”

“No.” Jon broke a piece. “They have done well.”

Across the room, Rylas moved along to let Murdo’s elder brother sit. For a moment Jon had expected Keir to claim the space. He watched the stranger settle there, then dipped his bread into the stew. Arthur stayed beside him while Davie persuaded the table that Murdo had lost only the argument, not his stirrup.

* * *

A moon later, six wagons under black tilts came up the road below Winter Town. Garrick had met the returning fitters at White Harbor. Callum and Mors had come from the western coast aboard a trading cog; every clock had been accepted, and Osric had sent the receipts.

Linen circled Callum’s hand. He saw Jon looking and lifted it. “A rope burn. We were lifting a case into a Lannisport merchant’s upper hall.”

“Have Lorren look at it.”

“My mother will take me there before I get my coat off.”

She was already crossing the yard. Jon left them together. Beside William stood Mors, an instrument maker with half his left earlobe missing and a black chest at his feet. Osric had employed him to measure rooms and fit clock cases; this was his first visit to the northern workshops. William had him unfold the returned drawings before Elspeth could bring their bread.

That afternoon Jon took the buyers’ letters and accounts to Winterfell. Eddard would need a keeper for the land and buildings when the lease ended; Jon’s craftsmen and their tools were going south. Arthur, Hewyn and the masters came with him.

In Eddard’s solar, Robb drew a stool beside Jon as William laid out the receipts. Nearly three years had passed since the Hightower clock was accepted and the acolytes came north. Those great commissions were long paid. Now merchants filled more pages than lords.

Lord Tywin’s smaller clock had brought a second offer with its payment. He would pay another thousand dragons for a clockmaker to teach his smiths the making.

Robb read the sum over Perkin’s shoulder. “For one man?”

“For what he knows,” Jon said.

William rested his hands beside the receipts. “I have three men fitting movements now. He can have a man to teach his keeper, but I will not teach his smiths the making.”

“His keeper has been taught what we promised,” Jon said. “Perkin, decline the offer.”

“He may write to William himself,” Eddard said.

William’s jaw tightened.

“Then bring me the letter. I will hear what he offers.” Jon looked along the table at Callum and Mors too. “There will be greater posts as the work grows. Ask for the wage your work deserves; you need not wait for another lord to name it. But none of you has my leave to set up his shop with what he learnt in mine.”

“I want to see my apprentices take their own benches here, my lord,” William said. His hands relaxed upon the table.

“Tell the fitters,” Arthur said. “They should know what to say when a steward puts a purse before them.”

“His smiths can watch them work,” Eddard pointed out.

“And open the clock afterwards.” Jon touched the little brass gauge beside William’s papers. “We cannot prevent that. We can refuse to teach them, and keep the patterns and gauges they would need to make their own.”

Perkin set aside the offer. The unfinished orders would keep the benches busy until the move. New buyers in Pentos and Braavos would have to wait until William knew what he could promise from Dragonstone.

“The year’s money,” Jon said.

“Fifty clocks delivered and paid for, mostly smaller cases,” Perkin said. “Twelve thousand two hundred and forty dragons received; three thousand two hundred and forty spent on making and delivery. Nine thousand clear. The old Hightower payment is not in that, nor earnest for unfinished work.”

Ewan stopped breaking his bread. Robb leaned closer to the figures.

“And how much remains?” Eddard asked.

“Eight thousand in the chest,” Abel said. “Four thousand six hundred at the year’s beginning, and nine thousand earned. We have spent five thousand six hundred on the household, the foot and the works, including the last two roundships.”

Jon checked the reckoning. Of that eight thousand, thirty-six hundred was already promised for wages, provisions, the last recruits and the move. Forty-four hundred remained free. It must feed his people while the workshops stood idle between Winterfell and Dragonstone.

“Six merchantmen now?” Eddard asked.

“Four roundships and two cogs. Denys will send them north with Black Tern to escort them. His other warships will stay off the island.”

William asked for a roof over the loading bay and another man to teach the fitters. Jon told him to have Woods price the roof; any larger building must wait for Dragonstone.

“Mors can teach them,” he added. “Will you take the work?”

“Gladly, my lord. Once Master William has shown me how he wants it done.”

“You will help him set up the new workrooms too. Send Ethan the measures he needs.”

William shifted his stool to make room for Mors. Between them they unfolded the island’s plan.

* * *

Winterfell’s horn sounded before Perkin finished tying the letters. Dywen had brought an ox-drawn wagon, two black brothers and a letter from Lord Commander Mormont. His wooden teeth clicked through the greeting, then stilled as Eddard read.

Searchers west of the Shadow Tower had found one lost ranger’s bones. Five rangers remained missing. Two steadings in the Gift had been plundered.

The report also gave the answers of the prisoners Benjen had taken north months earlier. Both admitted that Sygga had led twenty-three raiders south for horses, grain and iron. They spoke of people gathering round Mance Rayder, but would not explain the empty villages they had left behind.

Damp wool and oxhide soured Jon’s stomach. He pressed his scarred palm flat upon his knee beneath the table.

“What of the five who escaped the burn?” Eddard asked.

Hallis had followed Dywen inside, pale road-mud drying on his boots. “We lost their trail among the old charcoal pits. West of there stand three camps and a trapper’s hut. A woman there, Barra, refuses to tell any lord’s horseman how many sons share her roof.”

Poole moved the clock drawings aside for a map. Dywen bent over it.

“If they found the Gorge, they may already be north. If they stayed, hunger brings them to smoke.”

“What did the prisoners say of the empty villages?” Jon asked.

“One said hunger. One said Mance,” Dywen said. “Both laughed when Mormont asked of dead men.”

“Ask what the rangers found there. Was there a sudden frost? What happened to their horses?”

Eddard’s eyes rose from the map. “You think something frightened them out?”

“Mance could have done it. I want to know if the rangers saw anything else.” Jon kept his finger beside the Gorge. He remembered what the books had placed in those woods; none of the men in this room had seen it yet.

Dywen nodded. “I will ask.”

“Hewyn can spare four quiet men for the western road,” Jon told Eddard. “Hallis knows the country.”

“I shall send two of mine with them,” Hallis said.

Eddard agreed. “Warn the crofts before you go. I want word of missing stock or unfamiliar fires. Nobody follows armed strangers into the woods.”

While Poole prepared the ravens, Jon arranged grain and dark wool for the Watch, with one of Garrick’s carters to return the borrowed wagon. William added the clock spares Bowen Marsh had requested. The keeper could fit them himself; Callum could stay home this time.

“You are not riding with Hallis,” Arthur said quietly as the men rose.

Jon looked at the map and then at his stiff hand. “No.”

Eddard heard. His shoulders settled against the chair; he lowered his eyes to the charcoal burns without speaking.

The Watch went north on the fourth morning. Jon watched the wagons pass beneath tarred canvas, Dywen beside the leading oxen. Among the sealed letters was one for Maester Aemon in Jon’s own hand. He had thanked him for his last account, written of the household’s losses and asked after his health. Arthur’s mention of Rhaegar’s letters had stayed with him. What had the prince written about? What counsel had Aemon given him?

“He will be glad to hear from you,” Arthur said.

“I shall try not to leave so long between letters again.”

Jon watched until the last cart vanished beyond the alder bend. Behind him Tomas sounded Struan’s repaired whistle. The note carried across the yard, and Jon turned towards the forming files.

* * *

The fourth and final year of the lease began with the call for another hundred and twenty men. Colin’s place in Fifth had been filled, bringing Hewyn’s cohort back to four hundred and eighty. Twenty more in each century would complete the six hundred.

The clock money had paid for their harness and the extra sleeping bays. Beside the barracks, masons were finishing rooms for married workmen; a child’s shirt already hung by one door.

On the first morning of the trials, Jon went among the applicants waiting along the ditch. Two had come from Hornwood land; a miller’s son brought a letter from his brother in Sixth. All took their places when he called for shields. He was still beside the practice ranks at noon, eating the bread Arthur brought him while Hewyn named the men he wanted to see again.

By the end of the choosing, each century had its twenty. After they had sworn, Hewyn brought the full cohort onto the field. The ranks reached farther along the wall than the first three hundred ever had. Eddard had ridden down to see them, with Robb already leaning forward in his saddle to count the standards. Jory kept the Stark riders behind them clear of the forming ranks.

“Six hundred,” Eddard said.

“Four hundred spears. Two hundred swords.” Jon watched Malcolm bring First to a halt. “The last of them will have a year here before we go.”

“And the men you took at the beginning?”

“Four years when we leave. They are teaching the rest now.”

At the rear, a decanus stepped out to correct one of the new men’s shields. His ten waited until he returned to his place. Eddard watched, then nodded to Hewyn to continue.

Jon mounted Bucephalus and rode along the ranks. The newest men held their heads higher as he passed. Beside Sixth he halted and called the first ten forward; there was time to work before supper.

* * *

While Mairi fitted the recruits’ coats, the masters settled what they would take south. William’s whole workshop would go, and Ewan’s smiths down to the last apprentice. The northern furnaces and wheelhouses would remain for Eddard’s keeper; tools, bellows and removable ironwork would travel with their makers. Ethan already had the hearth plans. Jon wanted fires ready when the smiths landed.

The Braavosi buyer had written again. This time William could lay Ethan’s measurements beside the order and tell Perkin which clocks would be finished here and which on Dragonstone. Osric would handle northern repairs, sending south anything beyond a keeper’s skill.

Outside, a recruit protested that Mairi had measured his shoulders too narrowly. Her answer reached every man at the table. William smiled without looking up and wrote Dragonstone beneath the workshop drawing.

* * *

By the third moon of that last year, turf had thickened the Old Watch’s bank beneath the grey wall timbers. Jon rode the ditch with Arthur, then climbed to where Otho was overseeing repairs to a wooden stair.

“Bring Henly and Emrick tomorrow,” Jon told him. “Draw how this frame fits together. I want to know which pieces we could carry on wagons and which we would have to cut at a new camp.”

“For another gate?”

“A gate, a bridge trestle, a platform for an engine. Start with the pieces we can use for all three.”

From the landing he could see all six barrack ranges, the newest roof still yellow beside weathered brown. Sixth’s men were carrying tables outside for supper. A blanket aired at Wylla’s open shutters in the restored tower.

Eddard came with Robb and the grey-cloaked escort. As Jon went down to meet them, his father looked from the tower to the long barracks.

“I shall have to choose its keeper carefully.”

“Bring him while Woods and Otho are here to teach him,” Jon said. “Especially the sluices. A man who guesses with those could flood the works.”

Eddard looked along the watercourse, then back at the barracks. “I will send him before you begin loading.”

Robb wanted to ride out through the barley. Jon turned Bucephalus towards the lower gate and went with him.

Before that moon ended, Lord Leyton ordered a smaller clock for the Citadel’s gate court: four hundred and fifty dragons, half in earnest. William assigned it a free bench. He and Perkin could settle ordinary orders at the agreed prices now; only the larger commissions needed Jon.

As the last harvest approached, word reached them that Captain Hareth Voss had brought all six merchant ships into White Harbor, with Black Tern as escort. Rookscar iron and the first grain cargoes had gone south on earlier voyages. Now the holds were being cleared for Jon’s people and their work.

He took the letter to William. The clockmaker read it beside the master bench, where an apprentice waited with a wheel between finger and thumb.

“Keep that level,” William told the lad. He read the letter again, then called for Perkin.

“Garrick can send the spare benches ahead. These stay until the last clock is ready.” He laid a hand on the worn edge beside him. “I shall need a day to take this one down.”

Jon had made drawings for the move, bought ships for it and counted the gold it would cost. He had not pictured William’s place standing empty.

“Tell Garrick what you need,” he said.

William nodded and turned back to the apprentice. Jon stayed in the doorway a moment, listening as the wheel began to turn.