Chapter 49: Two Colours Southbound

The wagons stood ready in the Black Yard before sunrise. Morning mist drifted under the open gate, hiding the wheels and the feet of the folk who had come down from the winter town. Jon waited beside the mounting block while Garrick and Callum finished repairing a wheel.

“Hold the lamp nearer,” Garrick said. “I cannot see a damned thing.”

Callum straightened from the wheel. His mother stepped out of the crowd, caught his face between floury hands and kissed him before he could turn aside. “You have eaten nothing.”

“I had bread.” He tried to escape without dropping the hammer.

She thrust a warm bundle inside his coat. The men nearest laughed; Callum went red and hurried back to the wheel. Behind him, craftsmen were settling their children among the bedding on the freight wagons. Six hundred foot waited beyond the baggage, packs upon their shoulders; nearer the wall Tomas held the fifty mounted household guards beneath the sable banner. The engine crews and Otho’s builders travelled with their equipment, their apprentices walking beside the loaded carts.

Jon looked along the mounted files. Three younger riders wore black where Finnan, Keir and Struan once had. He still searched for the dead boys before he remembered. His hand tightened upon the rein, and Bucephalus tossed his head.

Arthur brought his horse alongside. He watched Jon ease the glove away from his scar, then lowered his voice. “I spoke to your father before dawn.”

Jon looked up. “What did he say?”

“He wanted to know why I had let him wait so long. I told him I was sorry.” Arthur looked towards the castle. “He heard me out.”

“Is he still angry?”

“Yes.” The knight’s mouth tightened. “I gave him cause.”

Jon settled the rein in his other hand. Through the mist he could see a groom leading Bran’s little grey pony down from the castle, with his brother running beside it. He thought of Eddard holding him beside the hot pools, trying to speak through his grief. There had been time for another visit that morning, if Jon had gone up sooner.

“They are waiting for us,” Arthur said.

Jon nodded and called to Rylas to bring the grey as a remount. Gawen checked Aries’s girth, then sent the page and his dog clear of the moving teams. The six centurions’ pages were already by the service wagon, receiving Heward’s last instructions.

Beyond the gate, seamstresses stood with their children; smiths came black-handed from banked fires; carters shouted counsel at sons who had heard it all night. A small girl wore a scrap of black wool pinned to her cap. When Olyver’s mother warned him not to let a Vale maid steal his good cloak, the girl laughed louder than anyone.

“I have no good cloak,” Olyver protested.

“Then marry before she sees it.” Even Tomas smiled. Olyver stared between his horse’s ears while red climbed above his collar.

William came out of the work hall carrying its keys. He stood a moment with his hand upon the door before giving them to Lord Stark’s keeper.

“Everything aboard?” Jon asked him.

“The four unfinished clocks, and every tool worth taking.” The clockmaker glanced back through the doorway. Pale patches showed where the benches had stood; a heap of curled shavings remained beneath the window. “It looks larger empty.”

Jon knew which bench had stood in each place. He had meant to go inside once more. Garrick called for the gate to be cleared, and William pulled the door shut.

The first team moved. Iron rims ground over damp stone; chains tightened down the line. Mors walked beside the instrument wagon while Abel rode with the travelling coin beneath his boots. Wylla helped Mairi secure a loose bundle, then climbed up beside her. Jon waited for their wagon to pass, then rode through the gate.

The Stark riders waited beyond the bend under grey direwolves. Martyn Cassel commanded them, with Jory at Robb’s right and Hallis behind. Theon rode at Robb’s other side, his fine cloak and carefully arranged collar still untouched by the road. Neither boy commanded so much as a pack pony; Martyn had made that plain. Jon could have followed the wagons towards the kingsroad. Instead he turned Bucephalus towards the family waiting below the castle. Robb and Theon followed him and dismounted. Rickon slept against Catelyn’s breast beneath a river-blue cover. Sansa stood with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel; Arya’s tight braids pulled at the corners of her eyes, and mud already stained one knee. Bran wriggled down from the little grey pony Harwin was holding before Jon had both boots from the stirrups. “Runestone has seven towers,” he said into Jon’s belt. “Cley told me.”

Jon steadied Bran with a hand on his shoulder. “Then I shall count them for you.”

“And the stairs. Cley did not know how many stairs.”

“If Lord Royce lets me wander about his castle.”

“He will. Tell him I want to know.” Bran pointed at Winterfell’s broken tower. “See if theirs is as high as that one.”

Jon pulled his little brother’s hood straight. “Keep off that roof while I am gone.”

Bran looked aggrieved. “I was only showing you.” He hugged Jon again before running to Robb. Arya waited until Jon crouched.

Arya put both hands upon Jon’s shoulders. “Mother looked in the wagons.”

“Did she find you?”

“I was looking for Patch.” Jon raised one brow. She held his gaze for a moment, then kissed his cheek so quickly that he felt only the cold point of her nose. “If Robb falls, you must catch him before you laugh,” she told Theon.

“I shall do my best,” Theon said, gathering his fine cloak clear of her muddy boot.

Arya looked past him. “Jory, you watch them.”

Jory bowed from the saddle. “Aye, my lady.”

Sansa gave Jon a proper kiss and smoothed the sleeve upon which she meant him to wear her favour. “Bring me a Vale song that no one knows here.”

Jon brushed a fleck of road dust from Sansa’s pale blue sleeve. “If I hear one worth carrying, I shall make Robb remember the tune.”

Sansa lowered her voice while Jeyne listened openly behind her. “And discover whether Royce ladies set bronze beads in their hair or only upon their gowns.”

“I shall ask,” Jon said. Jeyne whispered something to Sansa, and both girls laughed.

She caught Robb’s hand before he mounted. “Bow before asking a lady to dance.”

“I know how to bow.”

“Then remember to do it before you take her hand.”

Robb looked towards Jeyne for support and found her smiling at the ground. Theon laughed.

“You had best practise too,” Sansa told him.

Catelyn put Rickon into Septa Mordane’s arms and drew her eldest son close. She held him long enough that his face changed against her shoulder. When she stepped back, her hands remained on his arms.

“Listen to my uncle,” she said. “And write to me when you reach White Harbor.”

“I will, Mother.”

She drew his collar straight, though it was already straight. “If you are hurt in the squires’ melee, tell him. I know you, Robb.”

“Only bruises, Mother. I shall be all right.”

Catelyn looked at Theon. “You will tell Ser Brynden if he will not?”

The careful face he had worn on his first days at Winterfell came over him, though it no longer fitted as well. “I will, my lady.” Catelyn’s gaze moved to Jon. She did not open her arms. She looked at his scarred hand, at the new black cloak, and at the boys waiting beneath his banner.

“Luwin has copies of the letters for Gulltown and Runestone,” she said. “Send a raven if the road changes. Do not let Robb decide a change is too small to trouble us.”

“I will write, my lady.”

She nodded and turned back to Robb. Jon stepped away to let her have him for the few moments that remained.

Eddard had taken Martyn and Gawen aside. He clasped each captain’s forearm, then spoke briefly to Tomas as the last loaded team passed.

“I shall ride with Robb once we clear the town,” Jon told Arthur. “Tomas will bring the household close at the bridges.”

Arthur nodded. Martyn called the Stark riders into line, and Wylla leaned from the wagon. “Excellent. We may leave before somebody remembers another instruction.”

Eddard smiled despite himself.

Eddard embraced Robb first and spoke something into his hair that Jon did not hear. He gripped Theon’s shoulder next. When he came to Jon, his hand settled behind the boy’s neck. Jon noticed the breadth of it, the old scars across the knuckles. Last night those hands had trembled as Eddard told him about Robert holding him.

“Write from the harbour,” his father said.

“I gave Lady Stark my word, and I mean to keep it.”

Eddard’s hand remained behind Jon’s neck. “In your own hand. Luwin will send me the accounts whether I ask or not.”

“Even if all I have to tell you is that Theon snores?”

“You do not need to tell him that,” Theon said from beside Robb.

Eddard’s mouth moved beneath his beard. He drew Jon close. The leather of his surcoat smelled of woodsmoke and horse. Jon remembered holding his own grown son at a gangway while his daughter laughed because he would not let go.

Jon put both arms around Eddard and held on. “Come north before the next harvest, if you can,” Eddard said quietly. “Bring Wylla and Aries.”

“I will try. You need not wait until then to write to me either.”

“Luwin will complain of the ravens.” Eddard held him a moment longer.

When they parted, Eddard touched the pale lock in Jon’s hair once, as if he had forgotten how many eyes were present. Arthur saw. His face did not soften, but when Eddard held out his arm, the Dornishman clasped it. “Bring him back,” Eddard said.

Arthur’s gaze followed Jon among the waiting files. “I will keep him as well as I know how.”

Eddard’s voice fell below the creak of harness. “He is my son, and neither crown nor island alters that.”

“I know.” Arthur held his gaze. Eddard kept his hand upon the knight’s forearm for another moment before releasing it.

Pate waited by the mounting block with his cap in his hands. He had oiled the winding handle until its grip shone. “I checked both pins before dawn, my lord.”

“And your apprentice?”

“Can do it without my standing over him.”

“Then let him, sometimes.” Jon clasped the bellman’s hand. “You have earned a morning in bed.”

Pate laughed, clearing his throat before he could answer. Behind him, a woman pressed a linen parcel into Jon’s hand: the small honey cakes he used to eat on the workshop stair. She had brought enough for Robb too.

Jon loosened the cloth enough to see the cakes. “With the nuts in them. You remembered.”

“Your favourites, my lord.” She tucked the cloth over them again. “I have been baking those for you since you could barely reach the bench.”

He smiled and thanked her. She stood back to let a groom through with a greeting for White Harbor; Jon repeated the name and asked which quay.

Wylla watched from the wagon. One of the women who had whispered outside his nursery was telling a younger maid that he always remembered a kindness. The younger woman nodded; she had known no other Jon. Arthur kept the lane clear for them. Eddard waited without calling the boy away.

Old Nan made Arthur bend so she could kiss his cheek. “See that he eats.”

“Wylla has already told me.”

“Then you cannot plead ignorance.” Mikken gave Arthur two newly riveted straps for Dawn’s harness and told him to oil the buckles before the crossing. Arthur thanked him as Garrick raised an arm from the lead wagon. They mounted. Winter town children ran beside them as far as the last croft, touching stirrup leathers. Murdo’s mother rode with him to the rise, where Master Venn and Rusk waited while Davie said his last words to his father. The two boys rejoined their files at Tomas’s call, each looking back. Ewan raised his hammer from the moving freight wagon; William rode behind, counting his apprentices once more. Bran had climbed onto his pony and waved both arms. One pale tower sank, then another. The last was lost behind the pines. Jon’s eyes stung as Bucephalus carried him down the farther slope.

* * *

At their first halt south of Winterfell, Elspeth uncovered the honey loaves she had baked for Jon’s twelfth nameday. The household gathered round beneath an ash tree at the roadside. Hewyn’s men beat spear butts against shield rims until Garrick shouted for them to stop frightening the teams. Robb held up twelve fingers, borrowing two from Theon. “There. A man grown.”

The men crowded round with warm honey bread. There was no hall or proper table, only an upturned grain measure beneath the ash. Arthur brought out a long bundle wrapped in oiled wool.

The leather scabbard beneath was plain. So was the sword: castle steel, straight and clean, a narrow channel down the blade, a blackened crossguard and round iron pommel. Ewan had forged it to Arthur’s measurements, shortening the blade and bringing its balance back to suit Jon’s reach. Jon drew a handspan. The edge gleamed cold in the morning light.

“Try it,” Arthur said.

Davie peered around Tomas. “What is its name?”

“Sword,” Arthur said.

“Dawn has a name.”

“Then you may think of another,” Arthur said. “I have none for it.”

Jon belted it on, the point clearing the earth exactly, and drew once more to feel the balance. Arthur watched his wrist.

“How is the grip?”

“Better than the old one.” He opened and closed his hand before sheathing it. Robb stepped forward with a broad road dagger, its antler grip dark from use.

Wylla folded her arms. “If the presents are finished, the bread is cooling.”

“It was Jory’s,” Robb said. “He robbed me for it.”

“I named a fair price,” Jory called.

Jon turned the dagger in his hand, testing the grip before thanking Robb.

Arya had sent a small whetstone wrapped in torn russet wool. Her letters climbed across the page: FOR THE TRUE SWORD. Jon tried the stone with his thumb and put it in his belt pouch. Sansa’s favour was already safe in her seal bag, ready to wear in the squires’ melee.

Tomas cut another honey loaf while the men crowded round Jon to inspect the dagger. “Let him eat,” Wylla told them. “You may admire the edge after he has finished.” Olyver surrendered his place with a bow and took a larger piece of bread on the way past.

Eddard’s letter waited in Sansa’s oiled pouch. Jon broke the grey wax beneath the ash. The page within bore only a few lines. Robert made you a lord when you slept inside my bent arm. Twelve years seemed a long road then. Learn from the Vale. Do not spend horse or man to prove you have learned. Write of good days as well as ill ones. Winterfell is your home while its stones stand.

Bran had drawn towers along the foot of the page. Sansa had labelled one RUNESTONE. Across another, Arya had drawn a rider falling headfirst and then scratched it half away. Rickon’s small hand had smeared the corner near the seal. Jon read the letter twice. The bread had cooled before he remembered it. Wylla said nothing, only broke off a fresh warm piece and traded it for the cold one in his hand.

“I was eating that,” Jon said.

“It is cold.” Wylla rested a hand on his shoulder, then left him with the letter.

Robb waited until Wylla moved away. “What did Father write?”

“He wants me to write of something besides the work.” Jon passed him the letter. “You may tell him you saw me eat my nameday bread.”

Robb read it beside him. He smiled at Bran’s towers, then grew quiet. Beyond the ash tree the men were packing away their bowls and bringing up the horses.

“When you come north again, I shall ride out to meet you,” he said, handing the letter back.

“I shall hold you to it.”

“You should. Otherwise he will send me,” Theon said. “And I mean to be comfortable at Winterfell by then.”

Jon folded the page and put it carefully away. He finished his bread while Robb described what their father had written to him. Most of it concerned his temper, his mother’s letters and the money he had lost at archery.

* * *

Castle Cerwyn’s squat towers rose before midday. Robb still knew two of the shepherds by name. Garrick called the planned halt after thirteen miles, leaving daylight to inspect the wagons, ease the teams out of their first day’s collars and make camp. Jon rode forward to hear where Lord Medger’s steward meant to put them.

Lord Medger’s steward led them to a field beside the stream. It looked broad until the wagons, beasts, soldiers and craftsmen’s families began filling it. Hewyn placed his centuries beyond the baggage road. Tomas took the horse lines, while Martyn set the grey tents on the dry rise. Together they walked the stream bank and posted a pair of men below the alders, where the bend was hidden from camp.

By supper the tents were up and the horses fed. Elspeth served barley, ham and peas from a great pot over the middle fire, feeding Stark men as readily as her own. Davie fell asleep over his last spoonful. Gage shook him awake and sent him to bed, where Murdo shifted his blanket to make room.

At dusk Cley Cerwyn came down from the castle and demanded news of the Vale from men who had never seen it. Olyver told him of roads cut into sheer mountains and ladies with moonstones braided through their hair. Murdo added that a silver chain held the Eyrie beneath the moon. “It stands on a mountain,” Cley said.

“The chain holds up the whole mountain,” Murdo replied gravely.

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Cley looked sidelong at Robb, suspecting that he was being made a fool of.

Robb put grave thought into it. “Sansa told me much the same.”

“Sansa has never seen it either,” Cley said, but less certainly. Lord Medger’s steward arrived before Murdo could improve the moon. The lord expected Robb, Theon and Jon at his table.

“We have eaten already,” Theon said, looking at his empty bowl.

“There is roast capon,” the steward told him.

Theon stood, brushing grass from his breeches. Martyn sent all three to wash and change their muddy cloaks before they went up to the castle. Arthur and Gawen accompanied Jon, with Aries following close behind; Tomas remained in charge of the camp.

Cerwyn’s hall was warm after the damp evening. Servants carried roast capons to the high table, their skin glistening in the candlelight, while Lady Cerwyn questioned Robb about his mother and the younger children. Medger let his wife have the first of the family news before turning to the knights.

“Will you be entering the joust at Runestone? The Vale breeds good riders. Every second son with a horse seems to think a fortune awaits him in the lists.”

“I mean to try my luck, my lord,” Gawen said.

“Then guard your purse as well as your ribs. Some of them have been paying for their suppers with other men’s horses for years.” Medger glanced at Martyn. “And you, Cassel?”

“Lord Eddard has entrusted these boys to me. I shall have enough to occupy me.”

Theon opened his mouth, caught Martyn’s eye, and reached for his cup instead.

“And you, Ser Arthur?”

“I shall not enter the joust, but Lord Yohn would like a pass against me. I will oblige him. It would be discourteous to refuse our host.”

Medger gave a rueful shake of his head.

“Dayne against Royce. I would have enjoyed seeing that.”

“Then let us go,” Cley said at once.

His father looked towards him. Cley leaned forward, warming to the chance.

“We could ride with them. There is still time.”

“I cannot leave now. You know that.”

“I could go with Robb.”

“Cley. We settled this.”

The boy’s eager expression faded. He sat back, looking down at the bread beside his plate.

“Yes, Father.”

Medger watched him for a moment, but Cley had turned towards Robb.

“You will have to tell me about it afterwards,” he said. “All of it. Not only your own bouts.”

After supper, Jon had barely risen when the steward approached. He waited for a pair of servants to pass with the empty platters before speaking.

“My lord, might I trouble you for a moment?”

Jon followed him a few paces from the table. Arthur remained nearby while the steward drew a folded sheet from inside his coat.

“It concerns the windmill beyond the village. We replaced one of the arms last autumn, and now the new timber has split. The carpenter blames the wood. The miller says the whole thing has shaken worse since it was fitted.”

He opened the sheet to reveal a rough drawing.

“Lord Medger thought you might be willing to look at it, with all the work you have done at your own mills.”

Jon took the drawing towards the light.

“Did it shake before the arm was replaced?”

“A little, the miller says. Nothing like this.”

“Have him meet me there in the morning. The carpenter too.”

The steward’s shoulders eased. “Before you leave?”

“If you can have someone show me the way after breakfast.” Jon studied the drawing once more, then handed it back. “I should like to see the split timber. Ask them to keep it for me.”

When they left the hall, rain was sweeping across the field. Martyn sent a guard ahead for their heavy cloaks and kept the boys beneath the porch until he returned.

Heward was at the camp entrance when they returned, listening while Norren dealt with two of Third’s men. They had tried to leave for the alehouse without their decanus’s leave. The campidoctor had stopped them before they reached the road and sent for their centurion.

“Back to your ten,” Norren said. “No leave at tomorrow’s halt either.”

The men went without further argument. As Jon passed, the duty decanus was telling Heward who still had leave and when they were due back. Neither officer needed him to settle it. Heward went on to the next post; Norren returned to his century and the singing round its fire.

* * *

The next morning Jon visited the windmill with Woods and the steward. He stayed until Hobb, the carpenter, had taken down their advice for the repairs, then rode back to find the wagons ready and Martyn waiting at the road.

For two days the kingsroad became brown paste beneath iron rims. Water found the neck of every cloak and gathered inside Theon’s costly boots. When they turned onto the road for White Harbor, the rain followed them. Drivers laid brush beneath the wheels where the wagons sank; at night the horses were stripped, rubbed dry and fed before the men. Black and grey cloaks steamed round the fires.

Aries rode beside Gawen where the ground allowed and led Bracken through the worst ruts. Patch went on foot at halts or rode upon the service wagon, on the blanket Wylla had spread for him. Each evening the boy dried the dog, then changed his own wet stockings at Wylla’s insistence before taking the supper she had kept for him.

Jon’s scar ached until holding a spoon hurt. Wylla moved his bowl to his left hand while Lorren worked salve into the tight scar. At the healer’s urging he rode the quiet grey next morning. He wanted the use of that hand at Runestone.

Damp had found the swords as well. Jon discovered rust beside his guard and called Tomas over. Before supper the men sat drying their blades, oil rags passing from hand to hand.

Two days later, Martyn Cassel found an empty sheep market behind their inn. The ground had dried beneath its roof, and the captain had the trestles carried against the wall before calling for wooden swords.

“If you mean to enter the squires’ melee, you can spare an hour for this.”

Robb was already pulling off his cloak. Theon followed more slowly, rolling his shoulders after the long ride. Gawen brought practice shields while Arthur checked the binding around Jon’s hand. The scar still felt tight when he closed his fist, but the deep ache had eased with the rain.

“Does it hurt?” Arthur asked.

“It is stiff. I can hold a sword.” Jon tightened his grip upon the wooden hilt, then raised his shield. “Theon?”

The older boy smiled. “Are you certain?”

Jon walked into the open space. “Quite.”

Martyn made them wait while he kicked a loose stone clear. Then he stepped back and lowered his hand.

Theon came forward behind his shield. His first stroke tested Jon’s reach; the second came lower and faster. Jon caught it upon his shield and moved away before Theon could crowd him. The next cut passed close across his chest. He watched Theon’s face above the shield rim, waiting.

Theon followed. Jon had watched him spar for years. He knew the little lift of his chin before he pressed an advantage, and saw it now. Theon cut towards his head, ready to turn the stroke if Jon raised his shield.

Jon stepped towards him instead. He caught the stroke close to Theon’s hilt and drove his shield against the older boy’s sword arm. His own wooden blade struck the exposed ribs.

Theon grunted and stepped back.

“Again,” he said. His smile had gone.

This time he waited. Jon made him lift his shield with a cut towards the shoulder, then struck low. Theon caught that too and answered hard. Jon turned the blow aside, stepped past the edge of his shield and laid his blade across Theon’s chest.

“Enough,” Martyn called.

For a moment Theon looked down at the wooden sword. Then he huffed and lowered his shield.

“You have been saving that.”

Jon smiled. “I enjoyed it.”

Robb laughed, but stopped when Jon turned towards him.

“Your turn.”

“I saw what you did.” Robb took Theon’s place and settled his shield close to his body.

Jon could see the resolve in his brother’s face. Robb would not chase him. He met Jon’s first strokes squarely, kept his feet beneath him and answered with a sharp cut that Jon caught upon his shield rim.

Jon changed the height of his next two attacks, making Robb shift his shield, then struck it high and held his sword there for a heartbeat. Robb pushed against it and came forward.

Jon went with the pressure, turning aside. His shield checked Robb’s sword arm; his own blade slid free and struck beneath the raised elbow. He was clear again before Robb turned.

Robb stared, flushed and breathing hard.

“One more.”

Martyn looked at Jon’s hand. Jon opened and closed it, then nodded.

Robb came at him fiercely. Jon gave ground for three steps, stopped the fourth stroke against his shield and answered before Robb could recover. The wooden blade touched Robb’s breastbone and stayed there.

Beyond Martyn, several of the guards had stopped oiling their swords. Jon lowered his weapon. He was breathing more quickly now, but he could have gone again.

“I thought I had you moving backwards,” Robb said.

“You did. You came too far after me.”

Martyn took Robb by the shoulder and moved him back to where he had begun his last attack. “Here. You were still well covered here.” He glanced towards Arthur. “Jon barely let him finish the stroke.”

Arthur was watching Jon with an open satisfaction he seldom showed in the yard. “He saw the shield drop.”

Jon turned the practice sword in his hand. He had once needed Arthur to point out such openings after they were gone. Now he saw them as a man began to move, and his own answer came without hesitation. The years of bruises and repeated drills were serving him well.

Martyn called Tomas, Gage and Rylas over. “Now for the squires’ melee. You will need to watch someone besides the man before you.”

He put Tomas and Gage with Jon, Rylas with Robb and Theon. At his word the six closed. Theon tried to draw Jon away while Robb pressed Gage, but Jon stayed close enough to turn Robb’s next stroke and send Gage forward against him.

“Rylas, on your left!” Martyn called.

Rylas turned to meet Tomas. Theon struck hard at Jon’s shield, trying to stop him joining them. Jon held his ground through two blows, caught the third upon his sword and drove forward. Theon’s shield turned; Jon touched his shoulder and went straight to Tomas.

Rylas yielded with two swords before him. Robb tried to turn out of Gage’s reach, but Jon was already there. He stopped his blade against his brother’s shoulder.

“That is the bout,” Martyn said. “Robb, Theon, you let him keep his men together. Change sides. We shall try it again.”

Robb pulled off his glove and wiped his face. He looked at Jon, then shook his head with a reluctant grin. “I would rather be on your side at Runestone.”

“So would I,” Theon said. He was looking at the mark Jon’s wooden sword had left upon his coat.

They changed sides and fought again.

When Martyn called a halt, Aries hurried over with Jon’s cloak. He draped it over his lord’s shoulders, then lingered, watching Arthur return the practice swords to their rack.

“Why won’t you enter the joust, ser?”

Arthur turned. “You heard us at supper.”

“I know. But you could win it.” Aries’s face brightened as he said it. “You could win the whole thing.”

Martyn chuckled. “There will be a good many knights at Runestone who believe that of themselves.”

“But they would have to beat Ser Arthur.”

There was no boast in the boy’s voice. He looked towards the knight as though the answer ought to have been obvious, then remembered Martyn.

“Or you, ser. I’ve seen you ride.”

“Then I must have been having a good day.”

Aries smiled politely, but pressed on.

“You could win their horses and armour. And everyone would come to watch.” His words came faster now. “I could carry your lance. Or hold your horse until they called you.”

Arthur’s expression softened.

“You are already attending Jon.”

“I could do both.”

Jon lowered his head to hide a smile while he worked at his shield strap.

“Lord Yohn will have his passes,” Arthur said. “You may watch those.”

Aries’s eager look faltered. “Only those?”

“Only those. Jon is entering the melee. I mean to be free to attend him.”

“And I have Robb and Theon,” Martyn added. He rubbed a sore shoulder, glancing towards the pair as they disputed a blow beside the trestles. “Lord Stark expects me to bring them home whole.”

Aries followed his gaze. His mouth tightened; plainly, neither seemed to require quite so much looking after.

He turned back to Arthur.

“I still think you would win, ser.”

Arthur rested a hand briefly upon the boy’s shoulder.

“Then I shall try not to disappoint you when I face Lord Yohn.”

Aries straightened beneath his hand, his grin returning.

Gawen had been gathering the shields. He set the last against the trestle, then lingered beside Arthur, running a thumb over a worn buckle.

“Ser Arthur. If you have a little time before Runestone, I would be grateful for your advice.” His voice had dropped; he glanced at the other men before continuing. “With the lance. It has been a while since I rode against anyone worth the trouble.”

Arthur turned fully towards him. “Of course. What would you like to know?”

Gawen began to answer as they walked towards the stables. Martyn put down the practice sword he had been examining and caught up with them.

“I would hear this too, if you do not mind.”

Arthur made room for him. They went down the passage together, Arthur’s head bent towards Gawen. Jon heard the beginning of a question about the saddle; then a team clattered through the yard, and the rest was lost beneath the wheels.

They reached the ferry on the twelfth day. The ferryman waved the first wagon forward, but Jon held up a hand. The current had slewed the empty platform against its rope. As it rocked, the wet hemp dragged across the edge of a beam.

“Wait, Garrick. Look beneath that timber.”

The ferryman took off his cap. “It carried Lord Manderly’s wheelhouse in spring, my lord.”

“When did you last replace the rope?”

The man hesitated. Garrick crouched with a hook and drew the hidden length into the light. Pale fibres hung from it; beneath them, the rope had worn nearly halfway through. Jon dismounted and ran his thumb over the damaged place.

“Bring the teams back,” he told Garrick. “We shall put no one aboard until this is replaced.”

The ferryman had a sound coil in his shed. While Garrick helped him fetch it, Martyn rode back along the waiting column, turning the Stark horses off the approach so the carters had room to unhitch. Jon sent his own men to water the teams and bring the children down from the wagons. They would lose half a day here; he could see two mothers staring at the frayed rope.

Once the new line was secured, Garrick crossed with the ferryman to examine the far fastening. Jon watched the empty platform travel steadily against the current, then called for the first wagon.

Two mornings later the road had hardened. At the midday halt they changed two sore-backed geldings for remounts; Gawen led the geldings for the rest of the day. That evening pads and girths hung along the inn hedge in a clear wind. Jon brought the geldings a handful of oats. One kept nosing his empty palm while, across the yard, Martyn showed Robb how to find the sore place beneath a saddle. Theon stood holding both horses, listening despite the mud drying upon his boots.

* * *

After supper they gathered beside the tea-brown stream below the inn, under rain-washed beech leaves. For once there was dry wood enough for two fires. Robb and Theon brought the last of the walnuts Cley had given them at Castle Cerwyn. Gawen sat on his folded black cloak, boots near the warmth. Three grey stitches inside the collar marked it as his in Wylla’s hand. Robb cracked a nut with his dagger pommel. “Did you learn to ride at Runestone?”

“Aye. Strong Sam, the master-at-arms at Runestone, began teaching me while I worked in the stables. I had to finish with the horses before he would let me near a lance.”

Davie wriggled nearer. “Did you live in Runestone?”

“In the lower yard. My father was a saddler at Willow Creek. He took me along when he brought work to the castle, and the stablemaster found a place for me. Strong Sam had me carrying his shield soon enough. He lent me my first horse for the quintain.”

Rylas glanced at the old blue cloak beneath Gawen’s pack. “Who knighted you?”

Gawen turned one boot between his palms. “Ser Uthor Pryor, upon the Trident. A spear had opened his belly and Robert’s horsemen were forming for another charge. He had strength enough to strike my shoulder once and order me off the riverbank.”

Jon leaned forward. “Were you with him when Robert’s men charged?”

“Aye. We carried him as far as the trees. He died before we could find a maester.” Gawen turned one of the empty walnut shells between his fingers. “I still had his blood on my sleeve when they told us the prince was dead.”

For a while no one spoke. The fire crackled, and Davie pulled the blanket higher about his shoulders.

Robb glanced at the plain black cloak. “What will they say when you ride into Runestone in black?”

“Strong Sam will strike me for taking so long. Kennet Coldwater will ask for three stags I deny owing. Pate Shett will claim he always knew I would return a lord’s man, though he once wagered I would hang in Gulltown.”

“You can tell them you command Lord Black’s horse now,” Davie said.

Gawen smiled. “Kennet will still tell you how I was thrown out of a feast with half a capon in my cloak. He has been waiting years for a new audience.”

Jon thought of Winterfell. He had missed his wife and children in much the same way during his years at sea. Loving this household had given him another place to miss. Around the fire, every boy had turned towards Arthur. “No,” the knight said.

“We have not asked,” Robb protested.

“Your faces have.”

Theon chose his opening. “Did Bronze Yohn ever unhorse you?”

“No.”

“Then you unhorsed him.”

“Prince Rhaegar unhorsed us both at Harrenhal. Yohn first.”

Robb leaned forward. “Was he as large then?”

“Too large for his first horse. The bronze made him seem larger. Half the young knights wanted to strike those runes so they could boast of it.”

“Did you?” Gage asked.

“I wanted to unhorse him as much as anyone.” Arthur shifted the wrapped sword across his knees. “We practised together before the lists. My ash lance broke through his glove. He rode the next day with two splinters still in his palm and was laid up with a fever afterwards.”

Robb winced. Jon flexed his own hand inside the glove.

“He should not have ridden,” Arthur said. “Yohn will tell you otherwise.”

“Strong Sam never told me that part,” Gawen said.

“He was trying to put you on a horse.” Laughter ran around the fire. Theon waited until it faded.

“Did Rhaegar laugh when he put you down?”

Arthur’s fingers became still upon Dawn’s wrappings. “No.” His gaze had settled beyond the fire. Jon saw the change in his face and waited; Theon looked down at the walnut shell between his fingers. When Arthur spoke again, it was to ask Gawen whether Strong Sam still kept the same old courser.

Much later, the stream woke Jon with a sound like rain. For a moment he expected the close ceiling of his old cabin, then recognised the canvas. Arthur lay across the tent mouth. His head turned when Jon sat up.

“Another dream?”

“No. The water woke me.” Jon waited until the footsteps outside had passed. “There is something I meant to ask you. My mother told Father they had sent word. He never received it.”

Arthur pushed himself onto one elbow.

“Do you know how it was sent?” Jon asked.

The knight was quiet long enough for Jon to hear someone coughing beyond the canvas. “I remember her saying it beside the bed. I cannot tell you who carried it.”

“Did you see a letter?”

Arthur rubbed a hand over his face. “I cannot remember seeing one.”

“Or hear Rhaegar order one sent?”

“Not clearly enough to give you an answer.”

Jon lowered his eyes. He had hoped for more. A name would have given him someone to seek; a place would have given him somewhere to begin.

“When you remember those months, can you still separate what you saw from what you learnt afterwards?”

Arthur looked at him more closely. “Some of it.”

“Then begin there. Where you were. When you were with them, and when you were away. Anything said about reaching her family.” Jon drew the blanket over his knees. “Take time over it. If you are uncertain, tell me.”

“You think the message was stopped.”

“It may never have reached the road. I do not know.” He kept his voice low. “Father did not even know whether she meant a raven or a rider.”

Arthur’s gaze fell to Jon’s hand upon the blanket.

“He could scarcely bring himself to speak of her,” Jon said. “Even now.”

“I know.”

The weariness in Arthur’s answer checked him. He had heard it in Eddard’s voice beside the pools.

“I am asking because you were there,” Jon said more gently. “I need whatever you can remember.”

“Gerold and Oswell may remember something I do not.”

“If we find them, I will ask. For now, start with your own account. Keep it between us.”

Arthur nodded, then sat up and reached for the lamp. “There are some things I can tell you now.”

They spoke quietly while the camp slept. Jon let Arthur finish each recollection before asking him to return to the places where a name or a date was uncertain. When the knight could not remember, Jon left the question open. By the time they lay down again, the men outside had been relieved, and dawn was paling the canvas.

* * *

Three weeks after leaving Winterfell, they came within sight of White Harbor. Salt sharpened in the air as they rode on. First came smoke from herring sheds, then hot tar and the bitter oak used to cure fish. Carts pressed north with barrels; wool wagons creaked south; porters slept atop empty casks. Tomas closed four household files around Jon as the traffic thickened. Alasdair kept the other four around the wagons and remounts. Martyn did the same around Robb and Theon.

From the final ridge, White Harbor shone above the river mouth: whitewashed walls, grey-green roofs, cranes swinging over a thicket of masts. Davie began counting and lost himself at thirty-nine.

Colin’s pony shied from a fish cart. At Tomas’s call to keep the interval, he warned Gage, made room and let the pony look before walking it past.

“It dislikes the smell,” Colin said when they were clear.

“The fish or the cart?” Theon asked.

“Both, I think.”

“Then your horse has a sound nose.”

Ser Wendel Manderly came from the rope sheds with two covered baskets. He lifted one in greeting, then put both down to shove fish creels out of Garrick’s turning way. Sweat shone on his bald head; his broad moustache lifted with his grin.

“My father will charge you for every lamprey you crush,” he warned.

Garrick leaned from his saddle. “I hope we have missed them all, ser. I have no silver left for fish.”

“Then mind the next stack,” Wendel said. Lord Wyman waited below a green awning, his blue-green velvet straining across his great belly. Ser Wylis stood beside him, larger than Wendel, bare-headed and unsmiling beneath a heavy walrus moustache. Osric stepped out from beside the harbour men when Jon dismounted, tar on one sleeve of his familiar brown coat. He bowed, smiling, and asked after the northern road. Dock boys stopped their work to stare at Dawn’s pale hilt and the riders beneath the direwolf and black banners.

Lord Wyman gained his feet with effort and looked past Jon at the wagons. “Twelve years old, and you bring six black houses upon wheels.”

“Garrick wanted twelve.”

“Garrick may build his own port. Your Captain Voss has occupied seven berths and cursed me for every hour the carters kept him waiting. The tide favours departure the morning after next.”

“We shall be ready,” Jon said. “Osric, show Garrick where he can unload. Ralf will want to see the horse stalls before we bring the horses aboard.”

“The eastern crane is yours, my lord. Captain Voss has had six more stalls fitted.”

Wylis nodded. “There is room to spare if a partition breaks. The carpenters are still aboard; your horse master may speak to them.”

Jon thanked him and sent Mors with Osric to inspect the instrument ship’s hatch.

“Now you can eat,” Wyman said. “Wendel, bring those baskets here.”

Wendel obeyed with evident relief.

Wyman’s eyes found the new sword. “Winterfell steel?”

“Ewan forged it. Ser Arthur had him make it to fit my reach.”

“White Harbor must feed you, then.” Wendel lifted the coverings. One basket held white loaves, smoked eel, preserved cherries and almond cakes. The other held onions and hard ship bread. Elspeth distrusted the cakes and approved the onions, which made Wylis laugh.

Wylis had kept something besides supper for him. A cedar chest waited in a room overlooking the quay, brought north by a King’s Landing trader. Beneath its lid lay Tobho Mott’s letter: the newer measurements had reached him before the final riveting. The colour had caused the delay. One finish dulled under polishing; another came uneven from the fire. He had used up Ethan’s parcel of Dragonstone dragonglass, but gave no particulars of the Qohorik process. The returned drawings bore soot stains along their folds.

Jon set the letter aside and lifted the breastplate. The glossy black shone beneath his thumb; as he tilted it, a faint shimmer crossed the breast and was gone. Bright polished steel bordered it, following the curves he had drawn through three spoiled sheets. The throat caught the window in a thin white line.

Robb put his almond cake upon the chest and forgot it.

“You said you had ordered armour.”

“I did.”

“You did not say it would look like that.”

Arthur helped Jon into the arming coat and mail, then closed the breastplate and snug gorget. Broad black pauldrons overlapped his shoulders; smaller bright-edged plates followed his arms, opening over grey mail as he bent an elbow. Arthur knelt to buckle the greaves beneath the angular knee plates. Between the articulated thigh defences, a long skirt of mail hung from the waist.

Jon lowered his head to see his own knees. He had spent so long drawing the harness that he had almost ceased to imagine wearing it. When he straightened, Robb was grinning at him.

“Father ought to see you.”

“Help me with the other arm first.”

Robb worked the gauntlet’s fingers before helping Jon into it. Arthur fastened the last strap. Jon reached across his body; the shoulder plates shifted and settled without catching. Light ran along their borders as he turned towards the window.

Wylis brought Wendel and the trader in. Wendel bent to examine the overlap at the shoulder.

“May I?”

Jon offered his arm, raising and lowering it while Wendel tested the edge.

“I have worn dearer-looking work that pinched worse than a crab,” Wendel said. “Mott made this?”

“From drawings I sent him. He altered the shoulder before he finished it.” Jon turned enough for Wendel to see the back. “I had drawn it too close here. His letter says it would have caught when I reached forward.”

Arthur laid two fingers where the old design would have bound. “He was right.”

Wylis had been watching the light on the breast. “That is no paint.”

“No.” Jon ran his thumb over the black surface. The faint shimmer came and went as he moved beneath the window. “He tried several finishes before he sent it. I shall ask him about the work when I meet him.”

He meant to do more than ask. Mott had found a fault in an unfamiliar drawing from a boy in the North and solved it without spoiling the shape. The dragonglass had given him a finish no northern smith had produced. Jon wanted to meet the man in King’s Landing.

The trader cleared his throat. “Master Mott bade me say the rubbing cloths are in the bottom of the chest, my lord. He was particular that I should tell you.”

Robb lifted the folded cloths, found another wrapped piece beneath them and passed it to Arthur. Wendel moved aside so Jon could take a few unhindered steps across the room.

“Will you sleep in it?” Robb asked.

Jon looked round and found Arthur smiling too. “Give me a little longer.”

They did. Afterwards Robb rescued the cake from beneath a cloth while Arthur helped Jon out of the harness. Gawen called Aries closer to show him how its fastenings differed from the northern pieces. The page helped pack it with its helm for Tomas’s baggage; he would practise with Gawen before fitting it alone. Jon sent for Perkin to pay the trader the remaining thirty-five dragons and take his receipt. Mott’s letter stayed out for an answer that evening.

Back upon the quay, Black Tern rode low beside four broad roundships and two deep cogs. Fresh pitch made black scales along her hull. Men moved high in the rigging; cranes creaked above open holds; water struck the quay stones with a hollow slap. Captain Voss’s horn sounded once. Upon the quay, Tomas lifted his hand. Fifty shields turned edgewise together and went down towards the seven waiting ships.