Chapter 48: A Sword Kept

By the last harvest of the lease, most of the household had packed twice. Chests stood beneath the barrack windows; spare cloaks hung over them to keep off the dust. More than a year had passed since the wildling attack. Jon could close his injured hand around a sword again, though damp mornings stiffened the scar and he still sometimes woke reaching for men who were dead.

The last barley was coming in when Ethan’s raven stopped the wagons.

Jon had been in the practice yard. Wylla caught him at the rail to pin a split beneath the arm of his coat, while Arthur used the pause to show him where he had left his guard open. Beyond them, Robb rode a red gelding through the hanging rings, his red-brown hair flashing copper in the sun. One flew from its hook, and Theon stepped smartly aside.

“You might have warned me.”

“You were watching,” Robb called.

Clem brought the letter down the tower stair. Arthur took Jon’s practice sword while he unfolded it.

My lord, the lower cistern is losing water through its wall. The upper basin serves those already here, but it cannot supply your people and horses as well. Keep the convoy north until the repair is proved. Tobin asks for lime and two experienced masons. I will write as soon as we can receive you. Ethan.

Jon read it twice, his thumb whitening against the parchment. A teamster was backing his horses towards a loaded wagon by the gate.

“Leave them unharnessed,” Jon called. “Hewyn, halt the loading. We are staying.”

Robb had stopped laughing. Arthur held out Jon’s sword, then lowered it as the boy folded the letter.

They rode to Winterfell that afternoon. Eddard cleared a place on his desk for Ethan’s letter, and Luwin sent for two masons whose work had held through years of northern frost. Abel would arrange their passage from White Harbor. The ships waiting there could carry another cargo while Jon’s people remained ashore.

“Could you land part of the company?” Arthur asked.

“Five hundred men already draw that water, besides the island families.” Jon laid a finger on Ethan’s warning. “He cannot take six hundred more. They stay here until he says the basin is sound.”

Hewyn stood with one hand upon a chair. “Some of the men said their farewells this morning.”

“Give them leave by turns. Their pay continues. When Ethan is ready, they will hear it from me.”

Aries brought the wax for his reply. On the ride back the page kept looking at the letter case strapped before him.

“Can Ethan tell you not to come? It is your castle.”

“It is. I left him there to keep it ready for us. I expect him to tell me when something is wrong.”

“You are not cross with him?”

“I am cross that we cannot leave. He did not crack the wall to vex me.”

Aries took the answer up to Clem when they returned. Jon went into the yard to tell the men himself. Some swore; one sat down upon his bedroll and laughed without much pleasure. They had spent the morning enduring their mothers’ embraces and their brothers’ advice. By evening they would be knocking upon the same doors again.

* * *

On the morning Ethan sent his warning, Blackburn’s village head stood beside the lower cistern with wet mud upon his boots. Qavo had been arguing with Tobin over a stack of timber when the older man caught the mason’s sleeve.

“Here. Come and look at this.”

He led them to a patch of soaked earth below the wall. Naella followed with the castle account book tucked under her arm. The ground sucked at her shoes, though no rain had fallen since she last came this way.

“It used to run out here when the basin overflowed,” the headman said. “My father kept this channel clear. There has been water coming through for three mornings, and the basin is nowhere near full.”

Tobin crouched where he pointed and scraped away the mud. Water seeped between the buried stones, pale with crumbling mortar. He called for shovels. Qavo looked from the wet ground to the timber barring the way and stepped back to let the men through.

Ethan arrived as the first stones were lifted. The headman showed him the trickle and explained where it ran beneath the yard.

“You were right to bring us,” the castellan said. He turned to Tobin. “What do you need?”

“Room to dig. Until we uncover the wall, I cannot tell you how much must come down.”

Ethan gave Qavo six men to shift the timber and sent for a water cart. While the basin was emptied and repaired, the castle would draw from the upper cistern and the workmen from Cold Spring. The headman went with the carter to show him the best approach.

Naella remained to write down who had been sent where. Two carters had already waited a fortnight for their wages because each master thought the other had paid them. She laid both tallies before Ethan and showed him the missing sums.

The castellan listened, then took a key from his belt.

“Use the account room. Have the masters bring their bills to you there, and send Abel your reckoning with my letters.”

She accepted the key, surprised by its weight. Qavo caught her eye as he passed with his men. The irritation had gone from her father’s face; he gave her a short, pleased nod.

When Anara brought supper, Naella took hers into the account room. She had spent weeks following men from quay to workshop with their bills pressed against her chest. Now she had a table to spread them upon, and a door they would have to knock on.

* * *

Six mornings after Ethan’s warning, Lord Royce’s invitation reached Winterfell. He had named his tourney well ahead, leaving time for guests to come by sea. A page found Jon beside the riding field with a letter beneath the Royce seal and two others for Arthur and Gawen.

Robb was still mounted when Jon broke the wax. At the word Runestone, he brought his gelding so close that its nose almost brushed the parchment.

“Is he holding a tourney?”

“Rings, archery, a melee for unknighted youths—”

“Let me see.” Robb swung down and caught the reins over his arm. His eyes ran ahead of Jon’s finger. “And jousts. Father is invited. He will take us.”

“You might ask him first,” Arthur said.

Robb scarcely heard. “We could enter the melee, Jon. Think of it. Men who have never seen us fight. We would not know everything they were going to do.”

Theon took the loose end of the letter to read the archery terms. “Lord Royce had better offer a good purse. I am not crossing half the realm for a handful of coppers.”

“You have not won them yet,” Robb said.

“I shall be sure to count them where you can see.” Theon released the parchment and looked towards the butts, already judging the distance. “I ought to take another bowstring.”

Arthur was smiling over his own letter. Bronze Yohn had offered him three passes in the lists, in a hand vigorous enough to have driven the quill through the page.

“Will you ride?” Robb asked.

“Yohn would never let me forget it if I refused.”

That settled something for Robb. He turned back to Jon, flushed from riding and grinning openly.

“We have to go. You cannot send Arthur to fight Bronze Yohn and stay behind counting barrels.”

“There are rather a lot of barrels,” Jon said.

“Ethan has someone to count them. You told me so.” Robb lowered his voice, though he was still smiling. “Come with us. Once you are on Dragonstone, you will find something else that cannot wait. We could have these few days together.”

Jon looked down at the invitation. He had been considering the passage from White Harbor and how much longer he could keep his household from the island. Robb was imagining himself in the lists, with Jon beside him. It had been a long time since Jon had allowed himself to want a journey for so little reason.

“Hewyn could take the legion and the workshops straight to Dragonstone,” he said. “My household could sail with you to Gulltown.”

Robb caught him by the shoulder. “Then you will?”

“If your father agrees, and Ethan can receive the men in time.”

“He will agree.” Robb was already looking towards Winterfell.

Gawen had said little. His faded blue cloak had hung in the stable through four years in the North; he wore Jon’s black to teach the household, but his service still ended with each paid year. Now he stood with his own letter open in both hands.

“Strong Sam asks me to come,” he said. “Kennet Coldwater and Pate Shett will be there.” He smiled at something his friend had added beneath the invitation, then folded it carefully.

“Do pages go?” Aries asked.

“You go,” Jon told him.

The boy glanced at Gawen. “Geth says some pages ride in the rings.”

“You may watch this time,” the knight said. “When we find quiet ground afterwards, you can show me what you have learnt.”

By supper Robb had told every Stark child who could understand him. Bran wanted to know whether knights fell out of their saddles as they did in Old Nan’s stories. Sansa wanted the names of the ladies who would be there. Arya wanted to know why Robb had decided she was not coming when no one had asked their father yet.

Eddard’s invitation lay beside his cup in the smaller hall. Catelyn shifted in her chair, one hand supporting the weight of her belly. Robb waited only until his father had finished speaking to the servant.

“Have you answered Lord Royce?”

“I shall write tomorrow. Your mother is close to her time. I am staying here.”

Robb’s smile faltered. Across the table, Theon suddenly became occupied with breaking his bread.

“May I go in your place?” Robb asked.

“You would go as my son. That does not yet give you leave to accept.”

Robb glanced at Jon, then sat straighter. “You know Lord Royce, and the Redforts, and Lord Arryn’s household. I only hear their names. I would like to meet them.”

“And enter the melee,” Theon added.

Robb kicked him beneath the table. Eddard saw it and raised an eyebrow.

“And enter the melee,” Robb admitted. “Jon would come with us.”

Catelyn turned towards her husband. “Who would have charge of him? Jon has his own people to move.”

“Ser Martyn Cassel could take the Stark escort,” Jon said. “Hewyn will have my legion. My household can travel with Robb, and one of my roundships can wait to bring him home.”

“I should like my uncle with them,” Catelyn said. “Brynden knows Yohn’s household.”

“Lord Arryn must release him.”

“I can ask.”

Eddard considered his eldest son, who had stopped pretending to be interested in his supper.

“Martyn commands our escort. You will obey him on the road, aboard ship and at Runestone. If Brynden cannot meet you, Martyn brings you home from Gulltown.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then you may prepare.”

Robb’s grin returned at once. Beneath the table he caught Jon’s sleeve and squeezed it hard.

Theon set down his bread. “May I go with them, my lord?”

“In Martyn’s charge.”

“Thank you.” The careful politeness lasted until Robb nudged him. Then he leaned over to murmur that they would need another chest for his winnings. Catelyn heard; her look sent him back to his supper.

Arya slid off the bench. “I have a bow.”

“You are not going,” her mother said.

“I have not asked yet.”

“You asked in the gallery. Sit down.”

“I could watch. Aries gets to watch.”

Jon felt his page go still behind his chair. Before he could speak, Catelyn pointed to Arya’s abandoned place. Arya returned to it, dragging her feet, and would not look at Robb when he passed her the peas.

Sansa waited for the muttering to cease. “You must tell us what it is like,” she told Jon. “Robb will only remember who won.”

“I remember other things.”

“Then you can both write.” She began asking Robb which coat he meant to wear. By the time he had answered, she had decided that he and Jon would each need a favour.

Bran came round to pull at Robb’s sleeve. “Will you bring back a broken lance?”

Robb looked down at him, delighted to have someone who thought the journey entirely wonderful. “If I can find one.”

After supper he fetched ink for his mother before she could ask. When Jon left, Catelyn was writing to Brynden, with her eldest behind her shoulder finding still more that his great-uncle ought to be told.

* * *

The letters went south, but Ethan’s permission to sail did not come back with the answering birds. Coats were taken out of chests again; William put his apprentices to work upon the orders he had expected to finish on Dragonstone. A moon after Royce’s invitation, Catelyn’s pains began.

By the time Jon and Arthur reached her chamber, Old Nan had put Eddard out and Luwin had gone in with the women. Arya sat on a bench in her shift and one stocking. Sansa had dressed and braided her hair, but her mouth was white, and she kept pulling a needle through the same fold of cloth.

A cry came through the door. Robb caught his father’s sleeve.

“She is hurt.”

“Your mother has good women with her.” Eddard drew him close, his eyes upon the closed door. Robb stood stiffly for a moment, then leaned into him.

Jon remembered his own wife crushing his hand during labour, then apologising afterwards as though he had done the difficult part. Years later their daughter had given him her first child to hold. He could remember the baby's weight more clearly than the name of the nurse who had placed a chair behind him.

Arthur touched his elbow. Jon looked up, and the knight glanced towards Sansa.

He sat beside her and took the needle before she pricked herself.

“Wylla will tell us how she is,” he said. “We shall hear from her soon.”

Sansa pressed against his sleeve. Jon stayed where he was while servants passed with steaming water and fresh linen. Across the passage, Theon held Bran, who had exhausted himself trying to reach his mother and now slept with one fist caught in Theon’s collar.

Wylla came out near noon. There was blood upon her sleeve. Eddard crossed the passage so quickly that Robb rose after him.

“The child was turned badly,” she told him. “Nan has put it right. Lady Catelyn is strong.”

“May I see her?”

“Soon, my lord. Let us finish.”

She squeezed Jon’s shoulder on her way past. Aries, waiting with a tray of untouched broth, followed her with his eyes until she disappeared inside again.

Rickon’s first cry brought them all to their feet.

The baby lay against Catelyn’s breast, a red face above cream wool. Damp hair clung to her temples. Eddard held her hand while the children crowded near; Arya counted fingers until Rickon caught one of hers.

Jon stayed at the foot of the bed while Robb bent over his new brother. Catelyn was exhausted, and he would not make her ask him to stand back. Eddard put a hand behind his neck.

“Come and see him.”

Catelyn glanced up and gave a small nod. Jon offered Rickon a finger. The tiny fist closed over his scar with surprising strength, and he bent nearer, breathing warm wool and the milky smell of the child’s skin. His grandchildren had gripped him so. For a moment he could do nothing but watch Rickon’s fingers move against his own.

Four days later Brynden’s answer came. Lord Arryn would release him. He would meet the boys at Gulltown and see them safely aboard their northbound ship when the lists were done. Catelyn read the page beside Rickon’s cradle.

“He says I have given him more commands than Lord Arryn.”

“Have you?” Eddard asked.

“I have told him what he needs to know.”

* * *

Rickon was seven weeks old when the waiting ended. In the early days of the delay, William had sent Callum, Garrick and Mors north to finish work at Castle Black. They were already on their way home by then. The household had returned to its lessons, the workmen to their benches; even Robb had stopped asking Clem about every bird that reached the tower.

Ethan’s letter found Jon at breakfast. The repaired basin had held its water through a full moon. The island could receive them.

Jon took the letter straight to Winterfell. There was still time to reach Runestone for the appointed day, if they left promptly.

“Four mornings,” he told his father.

Robb’s shout woke Rickon. Sansa looked in dismay at the unfinished sewing in her lap. Catelyn hushed the baby, watching her eldest son as he began telling Theon what they ought to pack first.

Eddard read the letter again. Jon stood beside his chair, still smiling, until he saw that his father had reached the signature and was making no move to put it down.

* * *

The fitters returned the following dawn. Their horses came through the gate steaming, with dried mud upon their fetlocks and the dust of the road ground into the men's cloaks. Callum carried Mormont’s letter inside his coat. The repaired clock was keeping its hours, and its keeper had learnt to clear the grit that had troubled it.

By breakfast William had him upon a bench with bread in one hand, answering questions between mouthfuls. Mors set his instrument chest beneath the table; Ethan had work waiting for him on Dragonstone. Callum would join Qavo’s men at the shipyard.

Gawen came in while they were eating. He wore his old blue cloak, faded almost grey across the shoulders. Three pale patches showed where its silver stars had once been sewn. Jon had not seen him wear it for months.

The knight laid a small purse beside his plate.

“My year is served, my lord.”

Jon put down his bread. Across the table Tomas stopped speaking to Alasdair.

“Abel has paid you?”

“Every copper.” Gawen loosened the purse and tipped out a little silver. “This is what he allowed me for the journey home. The wages are in my chest.”

“You have earned both.”

“I shall not be riding home.” Gawen looked towards the younger men at the table. Several had turned to listen. “I would ask you to take my oath.”

Arthur came between the benches and stopped beside him.

“For life?”

“For life.” The knight faced Jon again. “I have taught these men. I know their faults well enough, and they have had four years to learn mine. I would stay with them.”

“You may stay as you have been,” Jon said. “You need not give up the right to leave.”

Gawen’s thumb rested upon the worn edge of his belt. “I know what I am asking. I mean to guard you, obey you in honour, and tell you when you are making a fool’s choice. Until death or release.”

He had good arms now, money of his own, and friends waiting in the Vale. Jon had seen his pleasure at Strong Sam’s letter. There would be other lords seeking swords at Runestone.

“Then I will receive your oath before the household at noon,” Jon said. He pushed the silver back towards him. “Keep what we agreed. I will not have you pay me for the honour.”

Gawen bowed his head. When he sat, Arthur put a hand briefly upon his shoulder.

While Elspeth found Gawen another piece of bread, Jon drew Tomas aside beneath the window.

“I mean to give him command of the household when he swears.”

Tomas’s gaze flicked towards Gawen. He said nothing for a moment, and Jon waited until he looked back.

“As captain, my lord?”

“Yes. He has served in other lords’ households and travelled roads neither of us knows. We will need that experience. I want you as his first lieutenant, with Alasdair after you.”

Tomas rubbed his thumb along the seam of his belt. “Have I given you cause to doubt me?”

“No.” Jon kept his voice low. “You have brought these men further than I could have asked. I shall still look to you for their training and their conduct. Gawen will answer for the whole household.”

“Then I had better show him what I have arranged.” Tomas’s voice was steady, though he did not smile. “For the road.”

Jon beckoned Gawen and told him of the command. The knight listened, then turned to Tomas.

“Will you go through it with me? You know where each man is best used.”

Tomas fetched the drawing from beside the window. When Gawen bent over it, he moved the lamp so that both could see. Jon left them there.

At noon the work stopped throughout the yard. Men came from the forge wiping their hands upon their aprons; women stood beneath the gallery with half-folded clothes over their arms. Tomas formed the fifty household guards before the six centuries. Eddard had brought Robb and Theon to witness the oath, and Jory kept the space beside them clear.

Gawen waited in black. His blue cloak lay folded upon the rail. For four years Jon had known him with mud upon his boots, a practice lance beneath his arm, or a mouthful of curses for someone who had forgotten what he had been taught. Now the knight stood very still, watching Chayle set the septon’s crystal upon a cloth.

Aries gave Jon his gloves, then stepped back. The new black coat fitted closely across Jon’s shoulders; he eased the cuff clear of his scar as Gawen approached.

The knight drew his sword. A few conversations died at the scrape of steel, and by the time he knelt the yard had fallen quiet. He offered the hilt to Jon, with the point turned towards his own breast.

“I, Gawen of Willow Creek, knight, give Jon of House Black my faith and truth, my sword, my horse and counsel unsoftened. I will guard his life, keep the honour of his house, and obey him in all service that does not shame gods or knighthood. I shall not desert him for hunger, fear or richer service. I swear until death, or until he releases me before men who know my oath, by the Father who judges, the Warrior who lends courage, and all the Seven who are One.”

Jon received the sword across both palms, fine black wool brushing its worn grip. “I receive your faith, Ser Gawen. While you keep it, you shall have bread at my table, wage from my purse, a sound horse beneath you, steel fit for your hand, and judgement beneath my roof. I will hear the counsel I have asked you to give. Rise as my sworn sword and captain of my household.”

Gawen rose, and Jon returned the sword. Arthur clasped the knight’s forearm. He spoke too quietly for the watching men to hear, but Gawen’s grave face broke into a smile. Then the household began striking their shield rims, the noise spreading along the ranks until Tomas raised his hand.

“Ser Gawen commands my household,” Jon told them. “Tomas is his first lieutenant, with Alasdair beside him. Your file leaders keep their places.”

Gawen faced the men. His first order carried easily to the back of the yard, in the same voice that had sent them round the riding field through rain and frost. Tomas brought them to attention, then dismissed them to the meal Elspeth had waiting.

Wylla caught Gawen beside the rail. She picked up the blue cloak and turned back its frayed lining.

“You are keeping this?”

“Aye.”

“Then I shall mend it while there is light.”

He ran his hand once over the faded cloth before letting her take it. At the tables, Tomas moved along the bench to make room for him.

* * *

That evening Arthur found Eddard alone in his solar. A candle had burnt nearly to its socket beside the unused quill. Through the open window came the sound of Robb in the yard, calling to Jory about a horse.

“Close the door,” Eddard said.

Arthur did so. The lord of Winterfell kept his eyes upon the window until the voices moved away.

“I must tell him.”

Arthur drew out the chair opposite. “Yes.”

“I had hoped to find a better time.”

“He leaves in three days, Ned.” Arthur sat. “And he is going to his father’s seat. Men there remember Rhaegar. They will look at Jon, and at me beside him.”

Eddard’s mouth tightened. “I know what they may see.”

“Then let him hear it from you.”

For a moment Arthur thought he would be sent away. Eddard had drawn himself up behind the desk, one hand flat upon the wood. Then Robb laughed outside the window, and his father turned towards the sound.

“I have spent his whole life trying to keep him safe.”

Arthur waited. Beyond the window, the voices receded across the yard.

“I have tried to begin. He asks about ships or the harvest, and I answer him. Afterwards I tell myself I should not spoil a good day.” He pushed the letter away. “When he lay hurt after the woods, I sat beside him and thought of all the times I had put it off. Then he woke, and I was so grateful that I put it off again.”

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Arthur’s gaze dropped. Jon had made him promise to keep their confidence, though Arthur had warned him this concealment would hurt Ned. The promise was still Jon’s to release.

“He will hear you.”

“Will he?” Eddard asked. His voice had roughened. “You speak of Rhaegar and remember a friend. I must tell him I called him my bastard and let him bear every slight that came with it.”

“You brought him home.”

“I promised Lyanna he would never be ashamed of being hers.” Eddard stared at the candle. “I have scarcely let him hear her name.”

“Then tell him about her. Let him ask what he wishes.”

“And afterwards? He has six hundred men, ships, money enough to turn lords’ heads. He is already impatient with any man who tells him to wait.” Eddard looked sharply at Arthur. “You cannot put Rhaegar’s name into his hands and pretend you do not know what he may make of it.”

“No. Nor can you settle what he does by refusing to speak of it.”

Arthur spoke more gently, and Eddard turned away from it. He was silent long enough for the candle to gutter.

“At Winterfell I hear when someone comes asking after him. On Dragonstone I shall read of it weeks later. I will not even know if he is ill until he is well again—or worse.” His fingers closed on the edge of the desk. “The last time Lyanna went south, I brought her bones home.”

Arthur lowered his eyes. He remembered too much of that journey to offer an easy reassurance.

“I will be with him,” he said.

“I know.” Eddard looked at him at last. “It is the reason I can let him go.”

Arthur leaned forward. “He will have questions you can answer better than I can. Give him the chance to ask them.”

Eddard nodded. His gaze had gone to the empty chair beside the hearth where Jon usually sat.

“I will take him riding.”

* * *

The following afternoon Jon rode to the holding for the last time before they left. Eddard came with him, Poole carrying the new keeper’s accounts. Arthur and Aries followed close behind. When a harvest cart filled the road, Jory led the Stark escort into the stubble and waited while the driver coaxed his oxen past.

Thorns had choked these fields when Jon first saw them. Now rye stubble lay pale beside the dark green of the turnips, and the clover beyond was thick enough to hide a hare. Chaff drifted from Gerren’s barn. They had kept a bowl of the fullest barley heads for seed; Poole rubbed one between his palms and examined the grain.

“I have compared the returns where the accounts allow it, my lord. Barley by the acre. None of the northern harvest letters gives a better yield.”

Gerren stopped with his hand upon a sack. Beneath the onions hanging from the eaves, Merra looked from the steward to her husband.

Jon could still remember following the plough through ground that clung in heavy slabs to the share. His father from the old life would have walked straight past these sacks to inspect the wet corner, then admitted over supper that the rest looked well. He wished he could have brought him here.

“We still buy grain,” Jon told Poole.

“Considerably less than last year.”

At the headland Gerren’s younger son held the plough steady while Jon crouched beside the share. Its edge was blunt but evenly worn.

“Dress this before the next field. You have kept it true.”

The boy brightened. His elder brother, who had made him begin again whenever a furrow wandered, waited beside a sea chest. He was going to help lay out the fields on Dragonstone. One hand rested on the chest as though someone might forget to take it.

Merra touched its corner with her foot. “Lord Stark’s steward has been. Same rent, as you said.”

“The agreement stands,” Eddard told her.

She curtsied, then turned to Jon. “And the lad writes when he gets there?”

“He will have ink and someone to help him. You will hear from us.”

“Mother, you asked—”

Gerren looked at his son. The young man closed his mouth and let her tuck bread beneath his coat.

At the bakehouse, Nesta stood aside while the new keeper’s baker judged the heat of the ovens. She waited for his answer, nodded, and took her aprons from their peg. At the granary, the keeper had his keys and Otho’s drawings of the field drains. Hewyn’s men were showing his labourers where to keep the channels clear. In the loft above, Clem was showing Eddard’s raven keeper a bird that pecked whenever a hand approached its perch.

Jon found excuses to linger. He asked after a roof he could see had been mended and stopped to watch grain pouring into the mill hopper. At last Arthur brought the horses round. Eddard remained with the keeper while Jon mounted, and was still watching from the granary door when they turned onto the road.

* * *

On their last full day, there was scarcely room to cross the Black Yard. Open chests stood beneath the galleries, blankets hung over rails, and every few moments someone shouted for a man who had just gone elsewhere. Elspeth guarded her pots beneath the kitchen arch. Ewan had loaded his spare iron onto a bedding cart; Mairi stood beside it with an armful of blankets, asking him where he proposed the children should sleep.

Abel had taken shelter beneath an awning with the travelling coin. After the latest clock payments, and with money set aside for unfinished work, Jon had a little over eight thousand dragons. The crews, passage stores and northern bills were paid. He read the sum twice, then returned the reckoning. It would feed his people while Dragonstone began to earn more of its own costs.

Fifth Century helped the smiths dismantle the forge pieces. Beside the work hall, William watched men from Sixth lift a covered clock case and told them sharply to keep it upright. Jon assigned the same groups to those wagons all the way to the ships. By White Harbor they ought to know their loads.

Garrick caught Jon and Robb as they passed and called them over to help with a heavy chest from the work hall. Theon took the other end with him. They carried it out through a passage made narrow by bundles of bedding, Robb warning them each time a child darted across their path. At the wagon, all four had to heave together. The chest landed with a thump that drew William to the door.

“Have I earned my supper?” Theon asked, rubbing his palms.

“Ask Elspeth,” Jon said. “She has been trying to find someone to carry her flour.”

Theon glanced towards the kitchen arch. “How many sacks?”

Hewyn found Jon at the horse lines. First Century would lead, Third bring up the rear, the rest march among the families and workmen. At White Harbor, Hewyn would take the six hundred foot directly to Dragonstone; Jon and his fifty household guards would sail for the Vale.

“Keep the families together when you board,” Jon told him. “And have someone meet each boat when you land. I do not want children wandering about the quay looking for their mothers.”

Hewyn nodded and went to find the men who would help the families aboard. Near the gate, a young smith was trying to explain the journey to his wife. She listened with her youngest upon her hip, then asked the same question again: how many days would they be at sea? Jon stopped beside them and answered what he could.

By the time he reached his chamber, the shelves above his table stood empty. Wylla and Mairi were folding his coats beneath them. Black braid followed the slanting breast of the velvet one, its silk lining slipping through Mairi’s fingers as she turned up the skirts. She had left cloth beneath the hem and at the shoulders for him to grow into.

Aries came in carrying his own coat. Wylla held it against him and shook her head at the sleeves. Four years of good meals had made him harder to fit than the child who had arrived beneath a stolen cap.

“You stay with Jon and Gawen at White Harbor,” she told him, smoothing a red curl that would not lie flat. “I go ahead to Dragonstone to put the rooms in order.”

His eyes left the coat.

“Only for the tourney,” she said. “Then you come to us.”

“You will be there?”

Wylla set the coat down. “I will.”

He bent abruptly and pressed his face against her shoulder. She caught him with one hand against his back, the other still in his hair. His shoulders shook once. Wylla said nothing more, only held him until he was ready to straighten.

Jon bent over the strap in his hands. He had finished checking its buckle some time ago. Across the table, Mairi folded another coat, slowly, and left Aries room to stand beside Wylla.

* * *

Catelyn chose the smaller hall for their last supper. Fresh mint scented the rushes, and the servants had put lamps at both ends of the table. Rickon’s cradle stood beside her chair. Bran kept lifting its cover to see whether the baby was awake, until his mother caught his wrist and guided it back to his plate.

There was capon glazed with honey, buttered peas, and a cherry tart Elspeth had refused to let anyone cut in the kitchen. Wylla set it beside Jon with the knife turned towards him. He smiled up at her, then served Arya first because she was already edging her plate towards his.

For most of the meal he let the others talk. Robb and Theon were arguing about horses again. Sansa objected whenever either put an elbow too near her sewing. Beneath their voices he could hear the small wet sounds of Rickon feeding, the scrape of a chair, Arthur asking for the salt. Tomorrow he would be listening for the last wagon through the gate. Tonight he found himself noticing where everyone sat.

Catelyn turned to Robb. “Your second boots are in the road chest?”

Robb looked down at the boots upon his feet, as if he might have packed them by mistake. “The first are sound.”

“Put the second pair in the chest tonight.”

Theon carved an onion. “He will borrow mine.”

“Your second shirt is still over the chair in your chamber,” Catelyn said.

The knife stopped. Robb smiled. “He will borrow mine.”

“We have the same shoulders,” Theon said.

Jon looked from him to Robb. “You called him broad as an ox last week.”

“I meant in wit,” Theon said. Eddard drank to hide his mouth. Catelyn saw and struck his boot lightly beneath the table.

When the capon was cleared, Sansa put a pouch beside Jon’s hand. It was black wool outside, lined with oiled silk. One seam wandered slightly before reaching the gathered mouth.

“For your seal,” she said. “Mairi says this will help keep the wet out.”

Aries fetched the seal box from Jon’s chest upon the bench. Sansa watched as Jon slipped it into the pouch and drew the cord tight. She had put lavender inside; the scent rose when he opened it again.

“It fits,” he said.

“I measured it.” She looked pleased, then hurried to unfold something else. “And this is for the lists.”

The favour was grey-blue silk, with a direwolf worked at one end. Its forelegs were unequal. Jon turned it carefully beneath the lamplight.

“For the rings,” he said. “I will wear it when we ride out tomorrow.”

“Where the Royce girls can see it,” Sansa corrected, and glanced at Robb. “I have made you one as well. Yours took longer.”

“Because mine is better?”

“Because you would not hold still while I measured your arm.”

Theon leaned across to inspect Jon’s wolf. Sansa covered it with her palm before he could speak.

“You may make your own.”

He sat back, smiling. Jon folded the silk around the pouch cord so it could not be lost. Sansa watched until he tucked both inside his coat.

Arya came round to whisper that there was still room beside Aries, and that she could take her own horse if only someone would ask her mother again. Jon drew her close enough to answer quietly.

“She would tell me what she told you.”

Arya’s mouth trembled with anger. “You could have tried.”

“I shall miss you too.”

She pulled away, refusing to look at him.

Bran climbed onto the bench beside Arthur and asked whether he might be his squire one day. The knight turned to hear him, one arm ready when the child nearly tipped a cup into his lap.

“You must learn your pony first. Can you saddle him?”

“Harwin does it.”

“Then ask Harwin to teach you. And keep at your letters. I shall want you to write and tell me how you fare.”

Bran appealed to his father at once. Eddard promised he might begin the next day, after breakfast. That settled, the boy returned to Arthur with several urgent questions about the pony’s equipment.

Rickon began crying. Eddard took him and paced beneath the smoke-dark beams, rubbing his back while Catelyn ate the rest of her supper. Jon watched his father bend his head to hear something Bran was telling him. The baby quieted against his shoulder.

After cheese, Sansa came round to show Jon the little fastening that would hold her favour to his sleeve. She stood close while he tried it, her red hair brushing his shoulder. When he thanked her, she put her arms about his neck and held him longer than he expected.

Arya was waiting behind her. She embraced him hard, then pushed away and went to tell Robb something that could apparently admit no delay. Jon saw her wipe her nose upon her sleeve before she reached him.

Catelyn called Jon to the hearth. “Ser Brynden will advise Robb,” she said. “Martyn will command the grey cloaks.”

“Aye.”

“But he listens to you when he has already decided not to hear older men.” She watched her eldest son laughing at something Arya had said. “Do not encourage him to take risks because you have survived them.”

“I will not.”

Her eyes moved to his scarred hand. “And if he decides he knows better?”

“Then I shall fetch Martyn. Robb is my brother, my lady. I want him home safely too.”

She considered him for a moment before inclining her head. “See that he remembers to write.”

“I will.”

The exchange ended there. Catelyn turned to remind Theon that his spare shirt was still drying by the nursery hearth. Jon went back to help Sansa put away her needles. Bran had fallen asleep on Robb’s cloak beneath the table. Above him, Arya was trying to persuade Robb that the last honey cake had been hers all along.

At the hall door Wylla pressed a small crock into Jon’s hand. Comfrey salve, for the scar. She had wrapped it in linen so that it would not knock against his other belongings.

“In the morning, before the glove goes on,” she said. “You will say you are too busy once the horses are out.”

He tucked it inside his coat. “I shall use it.”

Wylla brushed a crumb from his collar, then left her hand there a moment.

“Your father is waiting in the stable.”

Jon sent Aries with her to check his bedding. The page insisted that Patch’s blanket was already right; Wylla asked about his boots, and he hurried after her.

* * *

Eddard waited with Bucephalus and a patient grey gelding. Lamplight caught the oil upon Jon’s saddle and the new holes in its longer leathers. Sansa had left a folded letter across the seat, with OPEN ON THE ROAD written carefully upon it.

Jon turned the letter over. A small blot marked the place where Sansa had pressed too hard upon the quill. He slipped it into his new pouch without breaking the seal.

“Ride with me,” Eddard said.

Arthur opened the stable door. Jory and a few Stark guards followed them through the lower gate, keeping well back. Winter Town was still awake. Lamps shone beneath roofs Jon remembered as sagging thatch; a woman held a light while her son carried a sea chest into the street. Outside the Black Yard, Garrick was crouched beside a wagon wheel. He called for a hammer without looking up as they passed.

They turned from the road towards the hot pools. Steam moved among the pines, pale beneath the moon. At the fork Eddard reined in and waited for Jory.

“Remain here. No one is to follow us.”

Jory glanced down the path, then back at his lord. “Within call?”

“Aye.”

Jon rode on beside his father. He had suspected what Eddard meant to say when Wylla sent him to the stable. Now that they were alone, he could hear the leather creak beneath his father’s hand each time the gelding picked its way over a root.

At the largest pool they dismounted and tied the horses beneath the pines. Jon’s sore hand slipped upon the saddle bow. Eddard caught his arm until he had his footing.

“Still troubling you?”

“Only when I have been lifting too much. Wylla gave me salve.”

“Give it here.”

They sat upon the broad stone beside the water. Eddard took the crock and worked the ointment into the white seam across Jon’s palm. Comfrey and rosemary rose through the damp mineral smell of the pool. His thumb moved carefully over the thickest part of the scar.

“Do you still dream of the fighting?”

“Sometimes. Keir turning his shield towards the archer.”

His father’s thumb stopped.

“I remember men I lost in the war. Things I might have done, had I been quicker.” He bent his head over Jon’s hand again, though the salve had already been rubbed in. “One begins to think a little more time would have saved everyone.”

A drop fell from a pine bough into the water. Jon waited. His father closed the crock, set it on the stone, and kept hold of his hand.

“When I found your mother, she was dying.”

Jon looked up, and let the answer he had prepared go unsaid.

“I have let you believe things I knew were false. I have stood beside you while other men said them. You have the right to be angry with me for that. But I must ask you to hear me through.”

“I will.”

Eddard nodded once. He seemed to need the answer.

“There was a tower in the Red Mountains. You have heard us speak of it. Arthur and the others were there, and for a little while I thought we would have to kill them to reach her.” His eyes lowered to their joined hands. “Then she called my name. I could hear her from the yard.”

The grip about Jon’s fingers tightened. He did not move.

“I had been looking for my sister since the war began. Every rider who came from the south, every prisoner who might have seen her. By then Father was dead. Brandon was dead. I thought if I could only find Lyanna—”

He stopped. Beyond the water the pines stirred, shedding cold drops from their needles.

“There was a woman upon the stair carrying a basin. I remember stepping aside for her. Such a small thing. She was coming down and I let her pass, as though there were no hurry.” His mouth pulled tight beneath his beard. “The water was red.”

Jon could have supplied what came next. Wylla beside the bed. Arthur in the doorway. The names and the dying promises. He had carried scraps of that room since infancy and fitted other men’s accounts around them. But he had never heard his father describe the stair.

“She knew me. She even tried to make a jest of how long I had taken. I began talking of horses and litters and fetching a maester. Wylla had to tell me she could not be moved.” Eddard swallowed. “I had brought men all that way, and there was nothing for them to do.”

“Father.”

“Let me say it.” His voice was unexpectedly harsh. His hand eased at once. “Please, Jon.”

Jon went still.

“They brought a child to her. She could scarcely lift her arms, so I helped her hold him. I had not yet seen Robb. Catelyn had written that I had a son, but I did not know how to support a baby’s head.” A breath escaped him, almost a laugh and too painful to be one. “Wylla showed me.”

He looked up. His grey eyes shone in the moonlight.

“That child was you. Lyanna was your mother. My little sister.”

Jon felt the warmth of his father’s hand against his own. He had known what Eddard had come to tell him. He had not prepared himself for the way he would say my little sister.

“She told me who had fathered you. I asked her plainly, and she answered me.” Eddard’s voice had become very level, each word deliberate. “You are Rhaegar Targaryen’s son.”

Eddard watched him without blinking.

“I brought you north as my bastard because I could keep you alive that way. I called you my son, and afterwards Robert gave you a name of your own. But your mother named you Aemon.”

Jon put his free hand over Eddard’s.

“I know, Father.”

For a moment nothing changed. Then Eddard’s fingers loosened beneath his.

“What do you know?”

“Whose son I am. The name she gave me.”

Eddard withdrew his hand. He rose so abruptly that his boot struck the crock and sent it rolling against Jon’s thigh.

“Who told you?”

Jon caught the salve. “Arthur confirmed it. I knew before I asked him.”

“Before?” Eddard looked towards the path where he had left the guards. When he turned back, the grief in his face had sharpened into alarm. “How? Has someone approached you?”

“No. No one.” Jon stood. “I dreamed of the tower. Of her. I knew things I could not have learnt at Luwin's table. I took them to Arthur because I knew he had been there.”

His father studied him. “What things?”

Jon hesitated. Bloodraven had no place in this conversation, nor the books he had read in a life Eddard could never understand. The room itself had been real. So had the woman dying in it.

“She asked you to keep me safe. She made you promise as her brother.” His voice lowered. “And she asked you not to let me be ashamed of being hers.”

Eddard looked away.

Water lapped against the stone. Jon heard his father take a breath, hold it, and release it slowly through his nose.

“You heard her?”

“Pieces. I cannot call them back whenever I wish.”

“Her voice?”

“Sometimes.”

Eddard shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he was looking at Jon’s face as though searching for something there.

“How long have you known?”

“Years.”

His father’s jaw set. “And Arthur knew you knew.”

“Yes. He wanted me to speak to you. I asked him to wait.”

“All this time.” Eddard took a step away, then stopped beside the pool. “I spoke to him about it only the other evening. He sat across from me and let me wonder how I was to tell you.”

“That was my doing.”

“He should have told me.”

“I asked for his word.”

Eddard turned. “You went to Arthur with this. Why could you not come to me?”

The question struck harder than anger would have done. Jon had imagined this often enough, and in those imagined conversations he had always found an answer that spared them both.

“I trusted you with my life.”

“Then why did you not tell me?”

Jon looked down at the little crock in his hand. The lid had picked up grit from the stone. He brushed it clean with his thumb, aware that he was delaying as surely as Eddard had delayed.

“At first I wanted to know what was true. Arthur would answer me. You would speak of something else whenever I came near asking about my mother.” He looked up. “Afterwards, I thought you should choose when to tell me. I knew you were afraid of it.”

“And you let me go on thinking you knew nothing.”

“I thought I was being kind.” Jon could hear how poor it sounded. “And I did not want you to think I had been looking for another father.”

Eddard’s anger faltered, but it did not vanish.

“You should have come to me.”

“Yes,” Jon said. “I should.” He put the salve inside his coat. “You should have come to me too. Knowing why you would not speak did not make it easier to sit beside you and wait.”

At last Eddard sat again. He rested his elbows upon his knees and rubbed both hands over his face. When they fell away he looked exhausted.

“I saw Rhaegar’s children after the sack,” he said. “Tywin had them laid before Robert. Rhaenys was a little girl. Aegon was still a babe.”

Jon knew their names. He knew what had been done to them. He had thought of those murders often when planning walls and training men. He had seldom thought of Eddard standing in that hall.

“I told Robert what I thought of it. We quarrelled. Then I went south, and when I came back I had another of Rhaegar’s children in my keeping.” He stared across the water. “You know Robert saw you when he judged Arthur. Has Arthur told you he held you?”

“Yes.”

“Your eyes were open,” Eddard said. “He looked straight into them. Then he said you had Dayne eyes, and Arthur agreed with him. Robert began to jest about Ashara. The others laughed. I stood there thanking the gods that he thought me faithless.”

A muscle worked beside his mouth.

“Then you caught his hair. Just here.” Eddard touched the side of his own head. “He swore, and then he laughed. I stood close enough to take you from him. I had to keep telling myself not to reach.”

Jon’s hand moved towards him, then stopped.

“I watched his hands,” Eddard said. “I knew how strong he was. I had seen him break a man’s breastplate with his hammer. You were lying in his arms, pulling his hair, and I could not make myself look at anything but his hands.”

He fell silent. Jon sat beside him.

“I understand why you called me yours,” he said.

“I do not regret that.” Eddard turned towards him at once. “Whatever else you think of me, do not think I regret bringing you home.”

“I don’t.”

“Catelyn believed I had betrayed her. I let her. Men praised my honour while you bore the name of my supposed dishonour.” He pressed his lips together. “I kept telling myself you were safe. When you were older, I would explain. Then you were older, and I found another reason.”

Jon sat with him until his father could look at him again.

“Tell me what she said about Rhaegar.”

“She said she chose him.”

“And you believed her?”

“She was dying, Jon. She could barely speak. Yet when I asked whether he had taken her against her will, she found strength enough to be angry with me.” His gaze went to the water. “Aerys had learnt who wore the laughing-tree helm at Harrenhal. She said his men had come for her. Rhaegar reached her before they could take her.”

Jon had heard the account from Arthur. He wanted to hear what his father had made of it.

“Did she say why she stayed with him?”

“She loved him,” Eddard said reluctantly. “She told me they had sent word. I never received it. I had questions enough to keep us there until dawn, and she was struggling for breath.”

Sent word.

Jon’s attention sharpened.

“To you?”

“She did not say. Only that they had tried to reach us.”

“By raven? Or a messenger?”

Eddard looked at him. “I did not ask.”

Jon glanced down at their hands. His father had been sitting beside a dying sister. Of course he had not asked which rookery she had used.

But someone else might know.

Arthur had been there. He might remember who carried the letters, where they were meant to go. Until Jon knew that much, he could not even tell where to begin looking.

Varys?

The Spider had served Aerys. Rhaegar’s movements would have interested him, and Jon knew how readily the man could help a king discover one secret while keeping another buried.

Petyr Baelish came to mind as well. Jon remembered what Brandon’s name had meant to him, and what he would later do to the Starks. But Petyr had been young then. Had he possessed any means of reaching those letters? Jon would have to establish that; knowing the man he became was not enough.

A messenger could have died upon the road. A raven could have fallen. There were innocent explanations, and Jon would examine them.

He would also find out whether anyone had deliberately kept his mother’s words from reaching her family.

“You are very quiet,” Eddard said.

“I was thinking about the letters.”

“So have I.”

The weariness in his father’s voice stopped Jon from asking anything more. There would be time to question Arthur privately.

He would begin there. However long it took, he meant to learn what had happened.

Jon looked at his father again. “You were angry with her.”

“Yes.” The answer was immediate. Eddard looked at him squarely. “With her for going where I could not find her. With Rhaegar for taking her there. I had ridden half the realm wanting answers, and she was dying before I could ask for them.” His voice roughened. “Then she needed help to hold you, and I could not go on.”

Jon watched a thread of steam thin above the pool. “What was he like? When you saw him yourself.”

Eddard took time over that.

“I scarcely knew him. Arthur can tell you how he spoke among friends. I heard him sing at Harrenhal, and watched him ride.” He rubbed a thumb along the edge of his sleeve. “Your mother wept at one of his songs. Benjen caught her at it and made certain she knew he had seen. She emptied her wine over his head.”

Despite himself, Jon looked up. “All of it?”

“Enough that he smelt of it through the feast.” For an instant the memory softened Eddard’s face. “He tried to pretend he had spilt it himself. She would not let him.”

Then his gaze fell, and Jon could see the rest of Harrenhal returning to him.

“When Rhaegar won the joust, he rode past his wife to give Lyanna the roses. Robert had been laughing a moment before. I remember how suddenly he stopped.” Eddard drew one hand across his beard. “I thought the prince had insulted them both. Perhaps I should have looked more closely at my sister.”

“Had she wanted to marry Robert?”

“No.” Eddard’s answer was quieter now. “She knew he had a daughter in the Vale. She asked what reason she had to expect him to be faithful. I told her he would love her.” He looked towards the horses. “She had not asked me whether he could love.”

Jon had read that conversation in a book. He had never imagined Eddard remembering it with such shame.

“That does not excuse Rhaegar,” Eddard said. “He was already married. Elia had borne him children. Whatever he felt for Lyanna, those people were still his responsibility.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Arthur loved him. He will remember good in him that I never saw. There may have been much of it. But three of the finest swords in the realm stood outside that tower while his wife and children were left with Aerys.”

“I am not asking you to praise him.” Jon met his eyes. “I wanted to know what you remembered. You need not make him better for my sake.”

Eddard considered him for a moment. “Your mother believed their vows made her his wife. Arthur brought out the papers while she was still alive. He has told you about those?”

“The vows on the Isle of Faces. Howland keeping the papers.”

“She said Rhaegar’s forebears had taken two wives.” Eddard’s mouth tightened. “I cannot tell you what a king or a High Septon would make of that. I can tell you that she believed him.”

“Did she have much time with me?”

Eddard looked at Jon’s hand, resting upon his knee.

“Very little.”

Jon had known that too. His throat tightened nevertheless.

“Was she able to see me properly?”

“Aye. Wylla brought you to her. She saw your hair and your eyes. She knew whose child she was holding.” Eddard’s voice grew unsteady. “She made certain we heard the name she wanted. Rhaegar had wanted a conqueror’s name, but she chose Aemon. For the maester at the Wall.”

Eddard looked down at Jon’s hand. “She said he might have been king, but chose to serve instead. She was determined we should hear her. Aemon. She would not let us call you anything else.”

Jon swallowed. “I wish I could remember it better.”

Eddard’s hand settled over his, warm and heavy.

“She told me you had my frown.”

Jon stared at him.

“I said you had no frown. She said I could not see it from where I was sitting.” His father’s mouth tried to form a smile. It failed. “She had strength left for that. To tease me about a child I had scarcely learnt to hold.”

For a little while Eddard could not go on. Jon turned his hand beneath his father’s and held it.

“Her breathing changed afterwards. I kept thinking the next breath would be easier. Wylla changed the linen. Howland stood by the window. Arthur held you where she could feel you against her.” Eddard’s voice dropped until Jon had to lean closer. “I held her, Jon. She was not alone.”

Jon bent his head.

He remembered his wife’s last illness, and the helpless attention with which he had watched her breathing. He had believed that experience would prepare him to hear this. Instead, he found himself trying to recover a woman’s face from the heat and blurred light of his earliest memories. All his knowledge of the world had given him so little of her.

“I know,” he said, but the words came badly this time.

Eddard drew him close. Jon gripped the wool at his father’s side. For a while he could feel Eddard trying to master his breathing, and then the effort ceased. His father’s cheek rested against his hair.

Neither hurried to move away.

When Jon lifted his head, the skin beneath Eddard’s eyes was wet. He wiped it with the heel of his hand, making no attempt to hide what he had done.

“I took you when she was gone,” he said. “You were crying. You caught your fingers in my mail, and I was afraid I would hurt them getting you loose.” He looked down at Jon’s hand. “I had promised to keep you alive. I did not know what to do when you were hungry.”

“Wylla told you.”

“Aye. She has been telling me what to do about you ever since.”

Jon managed a small, unsteady smile. His father watched it, then looked away.

“Does it trouble you?” Eddard asked. “To call me Father, knowing?”

Jon turned fully towards him.

“No. I called you that before we rode out,” he said. “I knew then. When I was hurt, it was you I wanted beside the bed. Knowing about Rhaegar never changed that.”

Eddard bowed his head. When he reached for Jon’s hand, Jon gave it to him.

“You may ask me about her,” his father said. “At any time. Even when it is hard for me to answer.”

“I will.”

The horses shifted beneath the pines. They had been away from the castle a long while. Still Eddard made no move towards them.

“Who else knows you have learnt this?”

“No one I have told. Arthur, and now you.”

Eddard nodded. His eyes went to the black coat upon Jon’s shoulders.

“You are going to Rhaegar’s seat with his closest friend beside you. You have soldiers of your own. Men will offer you things when they learn whose blood you carry. Some will have loved your father. Some will want a grievance settled at your expense.”

“I know what men may want of me.”

“You know what they may want of a wealthy young lord. This is different.” Eddard faced him. “Do you mean to claim his throne?”

Jon had expected the question. He had hoped it might wait for another night.

Beyond the pools lay Winterfell, with his brothers asleep beneath its roofs. Farther north lay a wall whose defenders could not find enough men to hold their castles. The books in his memory offered him a realm tearing itself apart while the dead gathered strength. He had no intention of letting events run their course merely to spare himself a difficult answer now.

“I mean to make Dragonstone strong. I will not spend my men’s lives avenging a man I never knew.”

“And if someone offers you a crown?”

“I would want to know what accepting it would cost.”

Eddard’s face closed. “That is not a refusal.”

“No.” Jon held his gaze. “I will not give you a promise I may be unable to keep.”

“Robb loves you,” his father said. “Have you thought what it would mean to ask him to choose between you and his king?”

“I have not asked it.”

“You must think of it before anyone else asks him.”

Jon looked down. He could defend his plans for hours; he had done so often enough. His father was asking him to imagine Robb receiving a raven and reaching for his sword.

“I will,” he said. “And I will not let men use my mother’s name to hurry me into a war.”

Eddard searched his face. He remained troubled.

“You are my son,” his father said at last. His voice had regained some of its firmness. “If you are in danger, send to me. Do not decide that you must face it alone because we have spoken of Rhaegar tonight.”

Jon nodded, then found he had to clear his throat to answer. “I will send.”

They gathered the horses. Eddard held Bucephalus’s bridle while Jon mounted, watching the sore hand upon the saddle bow. On the rise above the pools Jon turned to look back. The stone where they had sat was already lost beneath the steam.

Jory was waiting at the fork. He took one look at Eddard’s face and asked nothing, merely turned his horse towards Winterfell. The others fell in behind them.

As the Great Keep came into view, Jon thought of the rooms being shut for the night, of Wylla folding the last of his things and Arya asleep after declaring she would stay awake until dawn. For years he had measured the distance to Dragonstone impatiently. Now he found himself watching the light in a window until the turn of the path hid it.

At the stable Eddard stayed beside him while he loosened Bucephalus’s girth. He took the saddle when Jon lifted it down. There was still more to say; Jon could feel both of them searching for a way to remain a little longer.

“Come south when Rickon is older,” he said. “I will keep rooms for you.”

“When the North permits.” Eddard put the saddle upon its stand. “And you may come home whenever you wish.”

Jon looked at him across the horse's back.

“Write to me about her,” he said. “When you think of something.”

His father nodded. Then he came round Bucephalus and held Jon once more, the horse warm against their shoulders, and this time Jon did not try to find anything else to say.

* * *

Arthur was waiting upstairs. Five crows stirred upon the sill as Jon entered; Hugin protested when he closed the shutter against the night air.

“He knows,” Jon said. “That we have been speaking of my parents.”

Arthur set down the buckle he had been mending. “Was he angry?”

“Yes. With both of us.” Jon put the salve beside his bed. “He told me about Robert holding me. How he stood there watching the king’s hands.”

Arthur’s face tightened. Jon began to unfasten his coat, missed the fastening, and tried again. The knight rose to help him with the sleeve caught at his wrist.

“I will speak to him before we ride,” Arthur said.

Jon sat upon the bed and watched Arthur fold the coat. For a while he said nothing. Then he looked up. “Once we are settled on Dragonstone, I want to speak to Ethan about Oswell and Gerold.”

Arthur’s hands became still upon the folded coat.

“We have relied upon other men’s letters for too long,” Jon continued. “Ethan can tell us which reports he believes. Denys knows shipmasters we have never spoken to.”

“There has been very little we could trust.”

“Then we begin with what there is. Quietly. I shall not send an open letter asking two unpardoned Kingsguard to return.”

Arthur looked down at the coat. “They may still be protecting the queen’s children.”

“I am not asking them to leave anyone. I want to know whether they live, and whether we can get a message to them.”

The knight’s thumb moved over the folded collar. “Oswell would laugh himself sick. Searched for by a boy he once held in one hand.”

“He can tell me that himself, if we find him.”

Arthur smiled, though his eyes had reddened. He folded Jon’s sleeve again, more carefully than it needed.

“When we are settled,” he said. “We will speak to Ethan together.”

Jon nodded. There was nothing more they could do that night. Arthur banked the fire and returned to the loose buckle. Jon lay with his sore hand beside his face. The salve smelled of rosemary. He fell asleep listening to the knight at work.

* * *

Sunlight lay upon the kitchen table.

Jon knew the scratches beneath his hand. One ran almost to the edge, made when his younger child had dragged something sharp across the wood. His wife had refused to replace the table, even after the children had homes of their own.

The cupboard door was shut. That was wrong. He had spent years meaning to mend it, and it had never closed so neatly.

Behind him, a woman drew breath to speak.

He gripped the table. He had not heard her voice since the life in which he had buried her. Even knowing what had happened in the first dream, he almost turned.

“You are leaving the North.”

Bloodraven stood in the doorway. White roots ran through the frame beside his head. His red eye moved from Jon’s hand to the cupboard.

“Tomorrow,” Jon said. “You have seen the wagons.”

“I have.”

“I have not changed my mind.”

The old man seemed scarcely to hear him. “What is wrong with the door?”

Jon let go of the table. “You made this. You tell me.”

Bloodraven touched the doorpost. “I have only what you remember.”

The cupboard opened a finger’s breadth as Jon recalled the fault. One corner hung lower than the other; the light caught the worn place where his wife had pushed it shut with her hip.

The old man watched the change. Jon went cold. He had answered without speaking.

Jon tried to think of his bed. He could remember the room upstairs, but he could not feel the blanket or the pillow beneath his head. Behind him came the beginning of a laugh, too brief to tell whether it sounded right.

“Where is this house?”

Jon could have put every map in Winterfell before him and never answered. He kept his eyes upon the roots winding through the doorframe.

“Let me wake.”

“Who is waiting for you here?”

“No one.”

The answer caught in his throat. Behind him a chair scraped the floor. He knew precisely how she would be sitting, with one foot tucked beneath the other leg, turning something in her hands while she listened. He wanted to look so badly that he shut his eyes.

“Yet you will not look,” Bloodraven said.

Her sleeve brushed his arm. His hand moved before he stopped it. Jon pressed his palms together instead, driving his thumb into the scar until it hurt.

Comfrey. Rosemary. Eddard had rubbed the salve into his hand beside the hot pools. Arthur was sitting by the bed, mending his belt. Jon pictured the needle between the knight’s fingers and tried to hear it draw through the leather.

“The woman,” Bloodraven said. “What did she call you?”

Jon opened his mouth. For an instant the answer was there, as easy as turning when she spoke.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

The kitchen shuddered. A hand closed upon his shoulder, and Arthur’s voice reached him. Jon followed it, dragging a breath into his chest.

He woke sitting up. His hands were clenched together beneath his chin. Arthur eased them apart.

“You called me,” the knight said.

Jon had not heard himself. He touched his tongue to the sore place inside his cheek, then looked at the shutter. It was still dark outside.

“He came again.”

Arthur laid the unfinished belt aside. “What did he want?”

Jon could still hear the question. He had almost answered it aloud.

“Things I will not tell him.” He looked at Arthur. “If you hear me speaking in my sleep on the road, wake me. Make me answer you.”

Arthur drew the chair close enough to reach the bed. “I will.”

Jon lay down again. The crock of salve stood where he had left it. After a while he took off its lid.