Chapter 50: The Dividing Sea

The first draught horse stopped at the foot of the loading ramp. The planks shifted beneath his hoof, and he pulled back against the halter. Ralf waved the dockmen away before their shouting frightened him further.

“Bring his team-mate,” Jon said. “And spread more sand. He cannot get a footing there.”

A groom led the quiet garron onto the ramp. Ralf covered the bay’s eyes and brought him alongside. The horse shuddered, took a step, then followed his companion aboard. Jon stayed by the ramp while the next pair came up.

Beyond the ships, White Harbor climbed in white stone and dark slate towards the New Castle. Morning sunlight caught the upper windows while the quay remained in shadow. Fishwives were already calling beneath the gulls; a porter passed Jon with a basket of silver herring that dripped upon his boots. He had begun to know which bell belonged to which sept. Soon he would have to learn another harbour.

Captain Voss gathered the masters beside Black Tern. Five of the seven ships would sail straight to Dragonstone under Marrec of Broad Oak, carrying Hewyn’s six hundred foot, their families and the workshops. Tern and the remaining roundship would take Jon’s party to Gulltown. Ser Gawen kept his fifty household guards by the Vale baggage while Martyn arranged places for the Stark escort.

Loading took most of two days. Wagons came apart on the stones; children slept against bundles of bedding while their parents waited for the right ship. Jon went through the horse stalls with Ralf, then found Master Woods carrying a little girl aboard. She had refused the plank until he offered to let her steer him by the ears. Her mother followed with their blankets, laughing and trying not to cry.

Mors followed his instrument chest down into Broad Oak’s hold before the crane had begun to lift the empty sling.

Wylla shaded her eyes. “He means to sleep upon it.”

“Callum says he slept beside it in Lannisport.”

“Then at least he will feel at home.”

The engineers and their siege engines went with Hewyn. Lorren and Willen would tend the legion; Denner remained with Jon. Cadan and Lucan carried their lesson books aboard with the other pages, but Aries brought his bedding to Tern. He watched Cadan disappear below before he turned away.

William’s craftsmen were among the last to board, still arguing over where to put their benches. Perkin had the buyers’ letters inside his coat. As each ship filled, someone else vanished below its deck. Jon kept looking back to find one more person he had not spoken to.

The wicker mews for the five crows went beneath Black Tern’s afterdeck, well away from the cookfire and the horses. Hugin bloodied one porter’s thumb. Munin watched the man return in leather gloves and tried the other hand. “Your birds dislike sailors,” Theon said. “Perhaps they object to the smell.”

“Keep your hands away, then,” Jon said.

Martyn pointed out Theon’s berth beside Hallis. Theon regarded the guard’s broad shoulders with dismay.

“Does he snore?”

“Dreadfully,” Hallis said.

Olyver came up from the hold carrying his saddle, pale at the prospect of sleeping below the waterline. Gage took it from him.

“Come on. I found us a place near the hatch.”

Bucephalus came last. The stallion had watched other horses vanish below decks until sweat darkened his neck. Jon removed the saddle cloth and led him to the foot of the ramp. Pitch, dung, bilge and river salt breathed from the open hold. A block squealed overhead. Bucephalus planted all four feet. “Let me,” Ralf said.

“Stay beside him,” Jon said. “He will follow me.”

He eased his fingers round the lead and walked halfway up the sanded ramp. Bucephalus stretched his nose towards him. For a moment the stallion stood motionless; then he came forward in a rush. Jon stepped aside as Ralf caught the cheekpiece. Together they brought him through the hatch.

“I take the remounts straight to Dragonstone,” Ralf said as they settled him. “The grooms know his feed. Gawen has their names, but it is you he will look for when they lead him ashore.”

Jon nodded. He knew the arrangements, but it was harder to imagine the yard without Ralf in it. “Have Ethan show you the southern paddock wall before you turn the horses out. It needs mending.”

“I shall, my lord.” Ralf rubbed the stallion’s dark forehead and began undoing his tack.

Elspeth served their last hot supper ashore from a brazier on the quay: cod cheeks browned in butter over barley and onions, with a jar of preserved cherries. Sailors ate after the household, except Voss, who chewed beside a piling while judging the water. Mairi had tied each serving spoon to its pot handle.

“I am not losing another one,” she said when Callum watched her. He found seven oatcakes in the packet his mother had sworn held six. Mors reached across the barrel and took the spare before Callum could put it away.

Garrick left Tomas the papers for the two wagons going to the Vale, then sat upon an upturned bucket with his supper. For once there was nothing waiting to be loaded. Wylla made room for Jon between herself and Arthur as the bells sounded across the water.

“You have hardly touched the cherries,” Wylla said.

Jon looked down. He had pushed one round the edge of his bowl until the syrup streaked the barley. “Bran will say they were his.”

“Bran says that of anything he sees you eating.” She put another on his spoon. “Go on.”

He ate the cherry, then reached for another.

Wyman had offered chambers, but Jon slept aboard to settle the men and horses. Robb and Theon joined him with Jory and Hallis. Before they laid out their bedding, Voss showed them the open hatches and the sweep of the yard while Tomas kept the household clear of the running lines.

“If the watch calls for room, my lords, give it at once,” Voss said. “Especially here.” He pointed to the tiller.

Theon moved his bedding a little farther away.

* * *

Lord Wyman came down to the quay before dawn, with Ser Wylis supporting one arm and Ser Wendel burdened by two more baskets. The ebb already tugged Black Tern against her stern lines. Wyman caught William long enough to remind him of the smaller clock he had ordered, then let the craftsman go.

“Write to your father when you reach Gulltown,” the Lord of White Harbor told Jon. “He will be waiting for news.”

“I will, my lord.”

Wyman rested a broad hand on his shoulder. “And give Ethan my greetings. He has been asking for hands and tools long enough. Now he shall discover what feeding them costs.”

Jon smiled, though his throat felt tight. Behind Wyman, Garrick and Tomas clasped arms. Ralf was saying something to Bucephalus’s groom that he had surely told him twice already.

Wylla found Jon beside Broad Oak’s gangplank and drew him into her arms.

He held her tightly. On parchment it had been sensible to send her ahead. On the quay he kept finding reasons to delay her.

“If Ethan has given you a damp room, take mine,” he said.

“I mean to inspect yours first. That is half the reason I am going.” She straightened his collar. “Arthur will bring you after the lists.”

“And you will write when you land.”

“Before I unpack, if the maester will lend me his birds.” He held her a little longer, then let her reach the gangplank.

Aries waited until Jon had let her go. Then he offered Wylla the small bone comb from his travelling bag.

“You packed yours,” he said. “But this has smaller teeth.”

She took it, looked at the red hairs still caught between them and put it in the pocket of her gown. “I shall bring it out when you arrive.”

He tried to nod. She drew him against her instead and kissed the hair which would never stay brushed.

“Write to me. Cadan has left you paper.”

“I can tell Jon.”

“Write your own letter.”

When she went aboard, Aries remained beside Jon with his hand tight upon Patch’s lead. Jon stayed with him while the last baggage was carried up the plank. Neither tried to speak over the harbour noise.

Mairi gave Gage a bundle of shirts, pointing out which were his and which belonged to Rylas. Elspeth left the household onions, oats and the cook she had engaged in White Harbor. She was still telling the man how much barley the guards ate when Marrec called the last passengers aboard Broad Oak.

Jon went aboard to take leave of Mors and Callum. Their chest was dry and wedged fast. William checked his tools beside it; Perkin had put the accounts on a high shelf, and Clem settled the raven cages clear of the spray.

Hewyn met him back on the quay with the final count. Four hundred spearmen and two hundred swordsmen had embarked. Colin’s place had been filled; all six centuries were going south at their full strength. The cooks, families, engineers and pages had been counted separately.

“Master Marrec commands the passage,” Jon told him. “When you land, keep the centuries together until Ethan shows you their quarters. He knows you command them in my absence.”

“Aye, my lord.” Hewyn folded the roll. “We shall be ready when you come.”

They clasped forearms. Hewyn went aboard, and the last plank came up.

Black cloaks lined the rails and quay as the ebb took the five ships. Olyver shouted to Murch, his words lost in the wind. Mairi waved from Broad Oak’s stern, Elspeth beside her pots. Hewyn’s men, the horses and the dismantled works were going south, and with them the woman who had carried Jon hungry through his first winter. He watched Wylla’s hand upon the rail as Broad Oak passed the fishing boats.

“She will have found fault with the kitchen before you arrive,” Arthur said.

Jon rubbed his thumb along the quay stone. “I hope so.” He stayed until he could no longer distinguish her from the other figures aboard.

Arthur stood close enough that their sleeves touched. Voss called from Tern that they must come aboard. Jon put a hand upon Aries’s shoulder and waited while the boy wiped his nose. Then they went together.

Robb nearly lost his hat while bowing to Wyman. Theon caught it against the crane post and handed it back.

“Thank you.”

“Hold on to it next time.” He helped Robb up Tern’s gangplank. The roundship had warped out to wait for them; Voss brought Tern alongside. Only those two turned towards Gulltown. The Dragonstone ships were beyond the harbour mouth before Jon’s sail filled.

Before land faded, Voss showed the boys the flags by which his ships spoke to one another: where to sail, when to draw close, when help was needed. The roundship answered Tern’s signal. Beyond her, White Harbor dwindled to a pale streak beneath the hills. Jon looked until the separate houses were gone.

By night they had met the long open-water swell. Worse weather in another life had done nothing to prepare Jon’s present stomach. He found air and a view of the horizon, kept one hand for the ship and drank sparingly. The habits returned more readily than his balance. He could let the younger men think he had read them somewhere.

He reached the lee rail, lost his supper, rinsed his mouth and stayed upright through pride. Robb found the next stretch of rail. Hallis suffered behind him with the stern silence of a man who feared vomiting near his lord’s heir might be treason. Theon walked past with hard bread between his teeth. “Stark and Black have conquered all firm ground.”

Jon held out one unsteady hand. “Give me that bread before I fall.”

Theon passed it over. Jon broke off a corner for himself and gave the rest to Robb. Before he could swallow, Black Tern dropped into a trough. Theon seized a stay. The colour left his face.

“You were saying?” Robb asked faintly.

Theon disappeared down the ladder with one hand over his mouth.

Arthur caught Jon as another roll threw him towards the rail. “Sit down. You will feel no better for standing.” He helped him against the bulkhead, where the deck still seemed to move inside his skull.

Aries brought his cup and a damp cloth, bracing himself before offering either as Gawen had taught him.

“Wylla says only a little at once.”

Jon took the water. “How are you managing?”

“All right.” The boy swallowed. “If I do not look down the hatch.”

“Then sit here.” Jon shifted to leave room on the sheltered side. Aries lowered himself carefully beside him, the cloth clenched in his fist. For a while they watched the rail lift against the darkening sky.

“Is it like this all the way?” the page asked.

“It will get easier. Tell Denner if you cannot keep water down.”

Aries tucked the empty cup between their feet where it would not roll away.

Below, frightened horses struck boards. Tomas inspected the lashings with a bucket over one arm. Olyver lay where dung, bilge and his own sickness contended. “No window,” he told Gage.

“Keep your eyes shut.” Gage crawled down beside him, green about the mouth himself.

At dawn, buckets passed from cask to stall through a darkness full of stamping hooves. Gawen and the carpenter checked the slings. Jon carried water until the passage grew crowded, then sat outside Bucephalus’s stall with salt bread and a cup. Two horses refused to drink; their groom kept offering water when the swell eased.

He slept there with his cloak under his head, waking at Bucephalus’s calls or a hard drop of the hull. When Tomas found Gage nodding over an empty bucket, he sent him to his hammock and took the next turn himself.

* * *

In fair weather Voss kept the roundship close enough to read her signs. Sick men, damaged gear and thirsty horses kept both masters busy, but neither raised a call for aid.

Life narrowed to watches, hard bread in pea broth and the measure of a sleeping place. Grooms watered the animals first. Grey and black cloaks shared an awning too cramped for rank. Hallis learned that Rylas snored; Rylas learned that Hallis spoke softly to the sea when he thought no one listened.

Robb helped Jory stitch a split glove. Theon spent much of his time with the sailors. He knew sails and tides, though he was less familiar with Voss’s broad-bellied ships than with the longships of his childhood. At noon he joined Jon and Robb beside the helmsman. The roundship was falling behind, and Voss had shortened sail to wait for her.

“She is slow,” Robb said.

“Deep in the water,” Theon answered. “Look at her stern.”

By the fourth afternoon Jon could eat without regretting it. The sea had turned a hard blue, flecked with white, and Robb stood with him watching the roundship ride the swells. Theon had just begun an account of a voyage from Pyke when he stopped speaking.

“Her helm.” He pointed. “Voss!”

The roundship was swinging across their wake. Her sail shook, filled with a crack, and drove her bow towards Tern. A man at the stern waved both arms. For an instant Jon could see the pale oval of his open mouth, but the wind took his shout.

Voss called to his helmsman and the deck tilted beneath them. Sailors ran for the ropes. Jon caught Robb’s sleeve and pulled him clear of their path.

“Tomas, get our men forward. Leave the sailors room.” He turned to Aries. “Find Denner. Bring him here, then stay by Arthur.”

The page went at once, one hand sliding along the rail. Behind Jon, Arthur caught a guard’s loose cloak before it dragged across a rope running through its block. The cloth jerked taut in his fist.

Tern turned away. Across the narrowing strip of water, men scrambled to lower the other ship’s sail. A horse screamed below her deck. Then her bow began to fall behind them, close enough for Jon to hear someone shouting for an oar.

Theon remained beside the flagman, his face intent. “They’re trying to steer her with the sweep.”

Three sailors wrestled the long oar into place at the roundship’s stern. Voss brought Tern clear and took in sail until both vessels had slowed enough to launch a boat. It dropped into a trough, vanished behind the swell, then rose with its rowers bent over their oars. Robb gripped the rail. Theon counted the strokes under his breath.

Stolen novel; please report.

The boat returned with an injured sailor and word that an iron fastening at the tiller had broken. The freed timber had struck the man and thrown him against a post. He came aboard holding his arm to his chest, his lips grey beneath his beard.

“Here,” Denner said, making room beneath the afterdeck. “Sit against this.”

Arthur held the lamp while Jon steadied the sailor’s good shoulder. Denner cut the sleeve away. The man swore when the cloth moved; at the sight of the swelling his gaze darted to Denner’s face.

“Can you mend it?”

“I can bind it so the ship’s movement hurts you less. A maester must look at the joint.” Denner lowered his voice. “Move your fingers for me.”

The sailor obeyed, watching his own hand. Jon stayed until the binding was done, then sent Tomas for dry bedding.

By sunset the carpenter had secured the tiller. Voss kept the roundship well astern, with less sail for the night. No man or horse had gone into the sea.

Robb found Theon beside the helmsman. “You saw it before any of us.”

“She turned the wrong way.” Theon shrugged, but there was colour in his face that had nothing to do with the wind. He began to explain how the sail had caught her. Robb listened without interrupting.

Jon left them there. For once Theon had forgotten to make a boast of something he did well.

* * *

Gulltown came out of the morning haze on their sixth day at sea. First Jon saw the watchtowers, then roofs climbing behind the walls, and at last the crowded harbour beneath them. A Braavosi vessel lay at anchor with great painted eyes upon her prow. Beyond her, red and yellow cloth stirred above a Pentoshi deck. Fishing boats threaded between the larger hulls, their crews shouting at men who answered in other tongues.

The air smelled of tar and drying fish. As Tern drew in, the sound of hammers reached them from a shipyard, quick and uneven beneath the harbour bells. Upon a stony island within the harbour stood the Motherhouse of Maris, its pale walls bright against the water. Jon remembered the name from Fire and Blood. Lady Jeyne Arryn had died there. A woman now stood at a low landing beating out a rug, too distant to know that anyone was watching.

Theon was naming the foreign ships when Robb caught his arm.

“There. The black trout.”

Ser Brynden Tully waited beside the landing with six mounted men. He was tall and spare, his blue cloak faded at the shoulders, its lining the dull red of dried river mud. An obsidian fish clasped it above his mail. Wind had reddened his clean-shaven face and left deep creases beside his mouth; the grey in his stiff hair had nearly conquered the auburn. A roan horse snapped at the boy holding its reins. Without looking round, Brynden caught the bridle and drew its head away.

Jon had imagined the Blackfish often while reading about Robb’s war. The man on the quay wore one glove with a badly mended thumb and looked impatient to be out of the port.

Then he saw Robb, and smiled.

Robb was first down the plank. Brynden held him at arm’s length, his deep blue eyes narrowing beneath heavy brows as he studied the boy’s face. Then he drew him against the black fish upon his chest.

“Cat’s mouth,” he said. His voice was rough, with a rasp that remained even when he laughed. “And her hair. Did Ned teach you that solemn look?”

“Mother says you are to keep us out of trouble.”

“She used considerably more parchment to say it.” Brynden released him and greeted Martyn. Theon bowed and received a courteous word. Robb turned as Jon joined them.

“Uncle, this is my brother, Jon Black, Lord of Dragonstone.”

Brynden’s smile faded. His gaze touched the white lock at Jon’s temple before passing to the men behind him. He inclined his head. “Lord Black.”

“Ser Brynden.” Jon returned his nod.

Jon knew what Catelyn’s uncle saw. Ned Stark had brought another woman’s child home to his wife. Now that child held Dragonstone, with his own armed men and Arthur Dayne to guard him.

Jon turned to the knight beside him. “Ser Gawen of Willow Creek, my household captain.”

“An honour, Ser Brynden.”

“Vale-born?”

“Runestone, ser. I trained under Strong Sam, Lord Royce’s master-at-arms.”

“I know Sam.” Brynden looked Gawen over more closely. “He will have had words about that new harness.”

“He has not seen it yet.”

“He will.” The Blackfish watched the guards come ashore. One had his helm beneath his arm, exposing a face scarcely old enough to need a razor. Farther down the quay, Martyn’s weathered men gathered round the Stark baggage.

“A young household,” Brynden said. “How many?”

“Fifty, besides their captain,” Jon answered.

Tomas sent the first arrivals clear of the landing. When a laden cart forced them aside, the guards moved together and left room for the next men off the plank. Brynden watched without comment. His eyes returned to a fitted breastplate, then to the mail beneath it.

“Expensive to arm so many. Whose purse keeps them?”

“Mine. The clock works paid for the harness and pay their wages.”

“And if the buyers cease to come?”

“Their wages are put aside. I do not spend coin I have not earned.”

Brynden’s gaze rested on him a moment. Jon met it. A porter shouted for someone to move a barrel; neither looked towards the noise.

“And you mean to take them all to Dragonstone?”

“They have sworn to me, ser. I mean to keep them.”

Robb stepped closer, still smiling. “Wait until you see them in the yard, Uncle.”

“I have asked about their keep.” Brynden’s voice eased for him, though he did not smile. “Steel is the beginning of the expense.”

“Jon knows. He pays them before he buys anything for himself.”

The Blackfish looked from Robb to Jon. “My niece writes of the time you spend together. Her sons will feel the parting.”

Her sons. Jon felt the old exclusion, made sharper by the farewell at White Harbor.

“I shall miss my brothers too.”

Brynden drew off his mended glove. “Robb will have duties at Winterfell.”

“I know where he belongs, ser.”

Robb’s smile had faded. Jon turned slightly to leave him room beside his great-uncle, and Brynden addressed his next question to Gawen.

“How long have you had these men?”

“The captaincy is new. I have trained with them for four years. Some have served Lord Black since he was six.”

Brynden gave a short nod, then asked which road Gawen had last taken to Runestone. Jon remained beside them, listening. The Blackfish had finished with him.

Arthur came down the plank. Brynden’s eyes went to Dawn’s pale hilt, then rose to Arthur’s face. He straightened and let Gawen’s answer end before speaking.

“Ser Arthur.”

“Ser Brynden.”

For a moment neither offered more. Jon heard a sailor dropping the mooring rope behind them.

“Lord Royce will be pleased to have you in his yard,” Brynden said at last.

“I shall be pleased to see him.”

The Blackfish returned Arthur’s bow, exact and unsmiling, then turned to the approaching harbour steward.

Grafton’s steward received them beneath a banner showing a burning tower. The berths and a warehouse court had been reserved; fodder waited for the horses. Gawen and Martyn settled the unloading while Jon watched the direwolves go ashore. One older dockman touched a younger man’s arm and murmured something that Jon could not hear. Both looked away when Robb passed.

“Lord Grafton will receive you this evening,” Brynden said.

Jon thanked the steward. Gawen sent Tomas to see the court and went to the horse ramp himself.

* * *

Denner accompanied the injured sailor to the room Grafton’s steward had found for him. The lord’s maester would examine the shoulder. Gawen sent a guard with the medicine chest, and Jon asked for word before they left for Runestone.

Voss stayed ashore long enough to settle the next passage. The roundship would remain at her hired berth while Jon went to Runestone. After the tourney she would take Robb, Theon and the Stark escort back to White Harbor.

“I shall bring Tern to Dragonstone with your letters,” he said. “Marrec should have your people ashore before we arrive. Once Ethan can spare one of the empty transports, I shall bring her back with me for your horses.”

“Will you be here when we return?”

“If the wind allows it. I will not promise a day I cannot command.”

“Then we wait here if we must,” Jon said. “Send news ahead if you can.”

Brynden set his cup upon the quay wall. “I shall see the Stark party safely aboard before I return to the Bloody Gate. Grafton’s steward knows where to find us if your sailing is delayed.”

By late afternoon the two wagons were ready in the warehouse court and the horses were feeding. Jon left three of the crows with a paid keeper. Hugin and Munin would travel to Runestone in covered baskets upon a quiet packhorse.

Aries found Jon beside them. “Will Wylla have got there?”

“Not yet, perhaps. She is sailing straight to the island. We have stopped here.”

“She will be there before us.”

“Yes.”

The boy considered that, then took out the sheet Cadan had left him. He had written two crooked lines about Bracken and one about being sick. Jon helped him finish the last word before Voss collected the letters.

By evening the baggage was ready for the road. Brynden expected to reach Runestone in two days. Gawen stood by the inland gate for a while after the work was done, watching carts come down the street whose turn he still remembered.

Grafton’s invitation found Jon washing salt from his hair. He dressed in black wool, tied the wet strands at his nape and rode up with Arthur, Robb, Theon and Brynden. Gawen came as captain; Martyn brought four grey cloaks. Aries followed on Bracken, sitting very straight in his clean coat, while Patch stayed behind with Gage.

They climbed away from the waterfront through streets where upper storeys leaned over the cobbles. A goldsmith was bringing in a tray of silver buckles. From an open bakehouse came the smell of hot pastry, soon lost beneath the sour stink of a gutter. Two women in a seamstress’s doorway stopped measuring a length of blue silk to watch Arthur pass. One whispered to the other. Farther up, a dray of wine casks blocked the street, and even the Knight of the Gate had to wait while its driver backed a protesting mule out of their way.

Grafton’s hall stood above the roofs, its windows catching the last of the light. Servants took their cloaks beneath the entry arch. Aries hesitated when a page reached for Jon’s, then surrendered it with an earnest warning about the clasp. Jon touched his shoulder as they went in.

The hall was warm with people and candlelight. Tapestries hung between the windows, their ships and hunting parties almost lost in the folds; above the high seat, the burning tower of House Grafton shone in red and gold thread. A small fire stirred in the hearth. Jon smelled beeswax, roasting meat and the herbs crushed beneath passing shoes. Somewhere beyond the tables a harp was being tuned.

Merchants in fur-edged gowns sat among the knights. Their chains were heavier than some of the sword belts. A green glass jug stood before each group of guests, thin enough for the wine to shine through it. Jon had seen no such glass in Cerwyn’s hall. Here a servant carried three jugs by their handles and set them down without a glance.

Gerold Grafton rose to receive them. Broad through the shoulders and shorter than Brynden, he had dirty-blond hair brushed back from a damp brow. He rested one hand upon his chair as his eyes settled on Robb.

“Lord Stark’s heir is welcome beneath my roof.”

His voice carried to the nearer tables. Robb bowed. “My father asked me to thank you for receiving us, my lord.”

“Your father’s friends were less courteous when they last came in strength.”

A knight near Grafton’s chair stopped turning his wine cup. The steward waited with a hand upon the back of Robb’s seat. Jon saw his brother glance towards Brynden, who stood still, his mouth set beneath the lines of his cheeks.

Grafton smiled. “But we have had peace for years. I hope Lord Stark keeps well.”

“He does, my lord. Thank you.” Robb’s ears had reddened, but his voice held.

Jon remembered what had happened here. Lord Marq Grafton had fought for the Targaryens; Robert had killed him beneath these walls. There would be men in this room who had fought beside him. No one had needed to name the battle.

“Ser Brynden, you shall sit beside our guest from Pentos,” Grafton went on. “He says we serve his wine too cold.”

“Then let us drink it before he has time to complain again.”

The merchant laughed. The steward pulled out Robb’s chair, and conversation began to return to the nearer tables.

Grafton offered Arthur his hand. “Ser Arthur. It is good to see you well.”

“And you, my lord.”

The greeting was lower, almost private. Grafton held his hand a moment, and the knight beside the chair rose far enough to bow. Arthur answered both with grave courtesy. Jon watched Brynden notice. The Blackfish’s expression did not change, but he waited until Arthur had passed before taking the place beside Robb.

Grafton turned to Jon. “Lord Black. Welcome to Gulltown.”

“Lord Grafton.” Jon bowed. “I thank you for sending your maester to our injured man.”

“He will be cared for while you are at Runestone.” Grafton beckoned to the two boys beside his wife. “My sons, George and Gyles.”

George gave Jon a proper bow. His younger brother, Gyles, was thirteen, lean and dark-haired, with ink beside one thumbnail. He made his courtesy carefully, then looked past Jon towards Arthur. Recognition widened his eyes; he glanced at Dawn and back at the knight’s face. Jon greeted them both before asking George whether he would ride with them to Runestone.

“I am staying in Gulltown,” George said. “Gyles goes with Father.”

“I hope to offer your ships as good a welcome,” Jon told their father. “There are repairs to make to my harbour first.”

“Then you will find men here worth knowing.” Grafton indicated the shipmasters. “We shall put you near them.”

The first dishes gave everyone something to attend to: fish baked with fennel, mussels steaming in their shells and loaves whose thin crust broke beneath the knife. Aries took his place among the pages behind the chairs. When the Pentoshi merchant used a small silver pick to free a mussel, Theon watched and managed the next one without spilling broth down his sleeve. Robb asked a shipmaster about the painted vessel in the harbour, and gradually the stiffness left his shoulders.

Jon had scarcely tasted his fish before Grafton asked about the ships bound for Dragonstone.

“Men, stores and craftsmen,” Jon said. “Hewyn commands the six hundred foot. My household stays with me.”

“A great many mouths for an island.” Grafton cut a piece from his loaf. “Your clock buyers will follow you south, I take it?”

“I hope so. We have written to them.”

The Pentoshi merchant leaned past the wine jug. “Your factor has written to a kinsman of mine. He saw a clock in Oldtown and now he must have one for the room where he receives his guests. He feared his captain would have to sail all the way to White Harbor.”

“Dragonstone will be nearer. Tell him to ask for William or Perkin when he puts in.”

“A captain likes another cargo to pay for his voyage,” said the shipmaster beside Jon. He had a thin brown face and a scar across two knuckles. “Your folk will need feeding while they build. What are you offering for provisions?”

Jon set down his knife. “That depends on what you bring, and when. We shall have need of more than one shipload.”

The man began to name prices. Across the table, two merchants stopped their own conversation to listen. One had wool awaiting a buyer; the other knew a man with barrels of salted mutton. Jon asked about both. He remembered reading of the Vale’s sheep, but had never imagined discussing their wool with butter cooling on his fingers.

“Ethan Glover governs for me until I arrive,” he said. “Send him your terms. A ship bringing provisions to us can take clocks back to their buyers.”

“Provided I can unload.” The shipmaster held up a finger. “I have seen your harbour. I cannot lie there three days while men find me a berth.”

“Nor can I pay you for three days’ idleness. Write that into the agreement. Ethan will tell you what he can receive.”

Grafton wiped his mouth, watching the exchange. “You shall have a place at my table whenever you pass through Gulltown, Lord Black. It appears my merchants will insist upon it.”

There was laughter at that, and Jon answered with a smile. Beyond the jug, Brynden was asking Robb about the northern lords who would ride with him when he came of age. He had heard the trade talk; Jon had seen him listening. He offered no opinion of it.

The servants cleared the shells and brought capons glazed with honey, young onions and a haunch of mutton carved at the sideboard. Its fat hissed when the carver set the platter over a warming pan. The harp began in earnest. A lady farther down the table recognised the tune and sang a few words until her husband drew her back into their argument.

Beside Jon, Theon had persuaded Robb to try an olive without warning him about the stone. Robb bit down, stopped, and gave him a look of lasting reproach.

“Have you never seen one before?” Theon asked softly. “The lady opposite has noticed.”

“Then stop telling her.”

Jon pushed the dish towards Robb for the stone. Theon leaned nearer. “You rescue him from everything. Let the Vale see a Stark make one mistake.”

“They have met you. They will allow for the company he keeps.”

Theon’s smile sharpened, but he left Robb to the next olive. His warm thanks to the servant pouring wine earned a dry look from Martyn.

Brynden asked for the olives and took two. The old knight beside Grafton had been listening to Robb describe their practice at Cerwyn.

“The squires’ melee, then?” he asked Jon. “There will be lads at Runestone keen to measure themselves against Ser Arthur’s pupil.”

“I hope there will.”

“They had best mind their feet,” Robb said. “I did not.”

The knight looked towards Arthur. “Is he so quick?”

Arthur’s eyes rested on Jon. “He learns quickly. It has been some time since I needed to show him the same mistake twice.”

Jon felt several faces turn towards him. Praise was common enough at a feast; Arthur gave little of it without meaning it. Gawen raised his cup to hide a smile.

Brynden looked at Robb. “Then you know what you must work on before the melee.”

“We have been,” Robb answered readily. “Martyn makes certain of that.”

The Blackfish nodded to Martyn. When Jon glanced his way, Brynden was already asking Robb about his shield.

When the knight turned to another guest, Robb asked Brynden about Aunt Lysa.

“Well enough herself,” Brynden said. “Though she frets over little Robert. Her last letter says he is still small and weak, and often ill. The maester has had little success with his shaking.” He set down the olive he had been about to eat. “She has waited a long time for that child.”

Robb’s smile faded. Arthur asked whether Lord Arryn had sought another maester’s counsel. Brynden regarded him briefly. “I have not been told, ser.”

“Do you see them often?” Jon asked.

“They are in King’s Landing. I have the gate to keep.” Brynden turned back to Robb and asked whether his mother still received Lysa’s letters regularly.

Jon turned his cup between his hands. In the books, Lysa had helped Petyr Baelish murder her husband. His death had brought Robert north; her letter accusing the Lannisters had drawn Eddard into the quarrel. Jon had set it all down beneath Jon Arryn’s name in his black book years ago. The clocks had brought him buyers at the Gates of the Moon, but no one close enough to Lysa to tell him what was happening in her household. He still had no evidence he could put before Eddard. Across the table, Brynden bent his head to hear Robb over the music. This was no place to ask after his niece’s servants.

By the time the pears arrived, the windows had gone dark. Their sweet wine syrup carried the scent of cinnamon. Grafton’s daughter Rowena came down from her mother’s place, drawing her skirt clear of a servant with an empty platter. She looked little older than Jon. A question for Brynden about a cousin travelling from the Gates was soon answered, but she stayed by Jon’s chair to introduce the young knight who had been seated beside her.

“Ser Alester Arryn. He and his sister are riding to Runestone tomorrow.”

Alester bowed, perhaps twenty, fair-haired, with a new sword belt and a silver falcon on his blue coat. His sister Rosamund wore green. A pearl came loose from her hair net; she caught it before it fell among the dishes.

“From the Eyrie?” Robb asked.

“Three streets below this one. The Gulltown branch.” Alester spoke readily of his father and grandfather marrying merchants’ daughters. His elder brother worked beside their father; Alester had spent the past few years in a kinsman’s yard. Rosamund gave the pearl to their mother and blamed a saddlebag for the broken net.

“Your brother packed it beneath his spurs?” Theon asked.

“My brother knows what pearls cost. You need another culprit.”

“I offer my sympathy, then.”

“You may keep it. The thread is easily mended.”

“Will you ride near us tomorrow, Lord Black?” Rowena asked. “Rosamund knows all the villages along the road.”

“Gladly, if your father has no objection.” Jon turned to Rosamund as well. “I have never been this way. You must tell me where to look.”

“You can sit your horse beside mine,” Rosamund said.

Rowena glanced at her friend. Rosamund returned the look without yielding her place. Jon’s loose white lock had fallen towards his eye; when he pushed it back, Rowena’s gaze followed his hand. He smiled at her and asked how long she meant to stay at Runestone. She had an answer ready, and several things she wanted to see there.

Theon straightened the silver fastening at his throat. “I have not ridden the road either.”

“Then we shall be quite a party,” Rosamund said, and turned back to Jon to ask whether his horse was the great black they had seen below.

Robb leaned towards Theon. “Try shaking it. Perhaps they haven’t seen the silver.”

Theon dropped his hand. “Have another olive.”

Alester smiled across the exchange. “If my sister has promised to show you the road, Lord Black, let her finish naming the villages before you ask her another question. Otherwise we may still be outside Gulltown when the tourney begins.”

“He is trying to say that he does not know their names,” Rosamund told Jon.

“I know the ones with inns.”

The steward called Rowena back to her mother’s guests. She made Rosamund promise to wait for their party in the morning and gave Jon a parting smile. Alester and Gawen fell into talk about a bridge beyond the city. When another guest asked Alester about Lord Arryn’s intentions, he corrected him readily.

“My lord cousin has not entrusted me with his counsels. You must ask the Hand, not his distant relation.”

They left while the musicians were still playing. Cool air met Jon beneath the arch, carrying the smell of the tide. Aries held his cloak ready and fastened it with fingers sticky from the pears. Gawen brought the horses, but Robb chose to walk the first steep street beside Brynden.

“Was I meant to answer Lord Grafton?”

“What would you have said?”

“That Father had cause to fight.” Robb looked back towards the lit windows. “He spoke as though I ought to be ashamed of him.”

“He wanted to see whether you could be made angry.” Brynden’s voice was quieter now. “You thanked him for his hospitality. That was enough.”

“I meant the thanks.”

“You may mean them. The beds are dry and he fed you well. Neither obliges you to quarrel over the war for his amusement.”

Robb considered that as they walked. Brynden slowed to keep beside him, one hand loose upon the reins. With his head bent and his rough voice lowered, he looked so much like a man Jon could have spoken to that the exclusion stung again.

Jon drew Bucephalus aside to let a woman with a basket pass. Arthur waited with him until the horse settled.

“Are you tired?” his uncle asked.

“A little.” Jon looked down the street. Robb was asking another question. “I had hoped to hear him talk about the Ninepenny Kings.”

Arthur followed his glance. He said nothing for a moment. “He has stories worth hearing.”

“I know.” Jon gathered the reins and went on. He would listen when he could. He would not trail after Robb to earn a place in the conversation.

The household slept in the warehouse court, where the smell of wool and pepper lay over the damp stones. Gawen and Martyn agreed the posts; Tomas placed Jon’s guards before lying down. Beyond the wall, a ship’s bell marked the changing watch.

At dawn the city gates opened. The grey direwolves and Jon’s plain black banners passed beneath the arch, Brynden’s black trout between them. Gawen of Willow Creek led the way. Behind came Grafton’s riders with Alester and Rosamund Arryn, with servants, packhorses and a wagon whose driver was still eating his breakfast.

Rowena and Rosamund joined Jon beyond the walls. Rosamund began naming the villages ahead; Rowena wanted to know whether Bucephalus would let her feed him an apple. Aries watched her hand with anxious attention until Jon showed her how to hold it flat.

Lady Grafton called the girls back before they reached the first orchard. Brynden had drawn Robb to his side and was pointing out the road. Jon turned once in the saddle. The city had hidden most of the sea, but sunlight still caught the upper masts. Somewhere beyond them, five ships were carrying his people towards home.

He faced the road again as Arthur came level with him.