Chapter 51: We Remember

Theon looked over the apple trees, the stone-walled fields and the long green folds of the land, and found fault with all of it. “There is too much grass. Even that sheep has given up hope of finding rock.”

Munin flew from an apple tree to the wall beside Jon. Hugin stayed on his saddle roll, picking at a cord until Jon moved it. Their empty baskets swung on the packhorse, ready for the crowded road ahead.

Hallis glanced at the sheep. “It looks well enough to me.”

Robb laughed, startling his bay. “Close the space,” Martyn called. “Jory could ride a cart between you.” They let the grey cloaks catch up. Brynden drew his roan alongside Robb and resumed their conversation. At the head of the black column, Jon rode between Gawen and Arthur. Bucephalus had sweated through his saddle cloth despite the cool wind, salt-laden from a sea hidden beyond the hills.

The scar in Jon’s palm had stiffened around the reins. He shifted them to his left hand and flexed his fingers. “How far to the next village, Gawen?”

“Three miles beyond the bridge.” Gawen looked along the hedges. “Unless they have moved the village since I was here.”

“How long has it been?” Jon asked.

“Twelve years.”

At a path through the alders, a grey-bearded man carrying a rabbit stepped aside. He looked at Gawen, looked away, then turned back. “Mara’s son?”

“Aye. Who is asking?”

Gawen took a moment to recognise him. The man had bought leather from Mara years ago; his sons now kept the business. They spoke of the old shop until Brynden called from ahead. Gawen wished him well and rode on. When Jon asked the Blackfish whether the bridge ahead would take their wagons abreast, he received a brief “One at a time.” Brynden waited for Robb to draw level, then asked him about Bran. Jon gave the order to his own men.

They crossed the bridge one wagon at a time and reached the next village early in the afternoon. A flock was being driven off the road into an orchard; the last sheep balked at the gate until a dog came round behind it. Apples lay bruised in the ruts, and the wheels of the baggage wagons crushed their sweetness into the mud. A woman shook a cloth from an upper window as the riders passed. Somewhere behind the cottages a mill wheel knocked steadily beneath the sound of running water.

Lord Grafton took rooms at the inn for his family. Alester and Rosamund followed him inside while their servants carried up the travelling chests. Jon chose the fallow field across the stream for the two households. There was dry ground for the tents, grass for the horses and a stretch of close-cropped turf beside the wall. Martyn walked across it, testing the ground with his heel.

“Bring out the practice swords,” he told Jory. “We have daylight enough.”

Robb was already unfastening his cloak. Six days aboard ship had left them all restless. Jon gave Aries his sword belt and sent him for his padded practice coat. Jory brought shields and practice helms from the wagon.

Alester came across from the inn carrying his practice sword. Gyles followed with a small leather-bound chronicle beneath his arm, one finger marking his place. He shut it when Jory began handing out shields.

“Are you joining us?” Robb asked him.

“I came to watch. Alester said we should see nothing worth the journey until Runestone.” Gyles looked towards Arthur, who was testing a wooden blade. “He was wrong.”

“I said the roads would be dull.” Alester offered Robb a sword. “Try that one.”

Robb turned it in his hand. “Then we had better keep you entertained.”

Gyles smiled and tucked his book inside his coat. He settled on the wall beside Jon as Theon pulled on his gloves. Across the field, Tomas had the household pairing off with practice swords; Gawen joined him when he had finished seeing to the horses. The guards at the road and bridge kept their posts.

Theon beckoned Robb onto the turf. “Come on, Stark.”

His first cut caught Robb high on the shoulder. Robb swore beneath his helm, and Theon was still grinning when the answering blow knocked his sword wide. He threw up his shield. Robb struck it hard enough to make him stagger, followed him in and drove the rounded wooden point against his belly.

Theon doubled over with a grunt. “I felt that.”

“Keep your shield down, then,” Martyn said. He gave Theon time to straighten before waving them on.

This time Theon circled, making Robb turn after him. His blade flicked towards Robb’s face, dropped and came in low. Robb caught it on his shield, stepped close and struck him across the chest before he could get away. Martyn called the bout. Theon lowered his sword with a look at the patch of turf his heel had torn up.

Robb’s laugh came breathless through the helm. Gyles applauded from the wall. Faces had appeared at the inn windows; across the stream, Rowena and Rosamund settled beneath a pear tree with a maid carrying their cloaks.

Robb turned towards Jon. “Come on, then.”

Arthur checked the glove over Jon’s scar. “Do not grip so hard.” Jon eased his fingers round the wood and raised his shield. Brynden stood near Robb’s end of the field, one boot upon a low stone. Wind stirred the grey in his hair. He watched Jon take his place without a greeting.

Robb came straight at him. The first blow boomed against Jon’s shield and drove its rim into his shoulder. Jon gave ground beneath the next. His brother had the stronger arm, and he knew better than to stand there trading blows with him. As Robb lifted his sword again, Jon darted in. His point caught the padded coat beneath Robb’s raised arm, and he was away before the descending blade struck grass.

Robb looked down at the place Jon had hit, then back at him. The grin had gone. “Again.”

“Keep after him,” Brynden said. “He wants room.”

Robb pressed closer this time. Their shields crashed together, and Jon felt his brother’s weight drive him back a step. He let Robb come on, then sprang aside. Robb checked himself quickly, but Jon’s sword was already coming round. Wood cracked against his ribs.

“There,” Martyn called. Robb stopped with his sword halfway raised.

“You could have let me enjoy beating Theon a little longer.” He pushed up his helm, damp hair sticking to his brow.

“You will enjoy it longer if you stop fighting me afterwards.” Jon lowered his shield. His shoulder ached where its rim had caught him; Robb would be pleased to hear that, so he kept it to himself.

Gyles laughed. Alester was looking from Jon to Arthur. “Twelve?”

“On the road,” Jon said.

The young knight shook his head. “At twelve I could scarcely get near my master.”

“Neither can I.” Jon glanced towards Arthur, who had heard and was smiling. Beyond him, Rosamund leaned close to Rowena. Both girls laughed when Jon looked their way. He returned a small smile, then turned as Theon stepped in front of him.

“My turn.”

Theon used his reach well. His first thrust stopped short, drawing Jon’s shield forward; the second scraped along its upper edge towards his face. Jon jerked his head aside and felt the wood brush his helm. Theon came after him, quick and eager, his sword arm stretching out again.

Jon struck it at the wrist. Theon hissed and snatched his hand back, but Jon followed the retreating blade, drove his shield against Theon’s and laid his sword across the older boy’s belly.

Martyn called them apart. Theon pulled off one glove to inspect his wrist.

“I prefer the bow.”

“We know,” Robb said. “You tell us after every practice.”

Alester asked Arthur something in a lower voice. Jon caught the words quick hands.

“And he went in when Theon was drawing back,” Arthur said. “The stroke was half the work.”

Martyn took Theon’s sword to show him where he had overreached. Brynden called Robb aside and made him advance with shorter steps, stopping him whenever his weight carried him too far. Jon turned to Alester. “Will you have a bout?”

The young knight was already reaching for his shield. He kept his cuts short, making Jon work to find an opening. Jon tried to draw him forward with a retreat. Alester followed only far enough to clip his shoulder, then slipped back out of reach.

Robb cheered. Jon rolled the stinging shoulder and looked at Alester afresh.

They met again with a crack of wood. Jon struck high, let Alester turn the blow and came back low so quickly that the young knight had to retreat. Jon stayed close. When Alester’s shield dipped to protect his thigh, Jon’s sword rose past it and stopped beneath his chin.

Alester went still, then stepped back. They faced each other for the last pass. This time he attacked before Jon had quite settled. Jon’s shield flew up to catch the cut; his answering stroke caught Alester across the wrist. The sword jumped from the young knight’s fingers and fell into the grass.

For a moment Alester stared at it. Then he shook out his hand and laughed. “I felt certain I had you after the first.”

“So did I,” Robb said.

Gyles brought the water. Jon took a long drink while Robb began explaining precisely where Alester had caught him.

“You remember my mistakes very well,” Jon said.

“I have had to wait for one.” Robb was grinning. Gyles laughed and moved along the wall to make room for them both.

Alester sat on the grass with his sword across his knees. He kept looking towards Arthur while Gawen spoke to him. At last Jon asked whether there was something he wished to say.

“I should like a pass with him.” Alester rubbed a thumb along the wooden guard. “I have wanted that since I was younger than you.”

“Ask him.”

The young knight rose before his courage could fail him. He approached Arthur with a bow and made the request in a voice rather more formal than the one he had used upon the field. Arthur heard him out. “Before we ride tomorrow. Bring your shield.”

Alester came back smiling. Gyles leaned forward. “You must wake me.”

“You could ask for a turn yourself,” Robb said.

“I should like to see what happens to Alester first.” Gyles glanced at the knight’s sword, then at Arthur. “I have read about Harrenhal. I never thought I should meet any of them.”

Jon remembered the men the books had given him: their deeds settled, their deaths already written. Beyond Gyles, Arthur was laughing at something Gawen had said. “There will be plenty worth watching at Runestone.”

“Will you be knighted if you win?” Gyles asked Robb.

“I do not know. Father never was.” Robb loosened the strap of his glove. “Most of our lords keep the old gods. Smalljon Umber would think you mad if you told him he needed spurs to fight.”

“I should not tell an Umber anything of the sort,” Alester said. “But I waited years to hear someone call me ser. My elder brother will have our lands and most of Father’s trade. A good showing here might bring an offer of service.”

“Your father has ships enough to keep you busy,” Gyles said.

“He has offered me work with them. My brother means to double their number.” Alester smiled, though without much amusement. “He says we have made a place of our own in Gulltown and ought to be proud of it. He would rather buy another ship than wait for someone at the Eyrie to remember us.”

“There is sense in that,” Gyles said.

“Aye. He has a head for it, and he likes the work.” Alester looked towards the practice swords. “I grew up hearing of the Falcon Knight. Of the kings our family put into the field. I wanted a part of that.”

“Your brother never did?” Robb asked.

“He says our forebears would have been glad of his silver when their armies needed feeding.” Alester laughed at that, briefly. “Perhaps they would. I should still like to be remembered for something I did with a sword.”

Gyles nodded, his eyes following Alester’s towards Arthur. When Robb asked which knights they should watch at Runestone, he put down his cup and began naming them. He knew who had won at the smaller tourneys as readily as Alester knew their horses. Robb disputed one of his choices, Jon asked about another, and neither noticed the light failing until Martyn sent them to wash.

By supper, the practice swords lay in a bundle outside Martyn’s tent. Wylla’s jar of mustard stood between Jon and Aries in the open doorway of Jon’s own. She had packed wool shirts too, and enough dried apples for the tourney. The page wiped mustard from his thumb before sitting; Bracken was settled and Patch back from the horse line. Arthur cleaned his sword while Jon ate beef and bread. Gyles and Alester had gone back to the inn when Lord Grafton sent for them. Beyond the ropes, Robb was helping Jory hang the damp practice coats where the wind could reach them.

“Do you wish we had sailed with the others?” Jon asked.

Arthur looked up. “Do you?”

“No. I want to see Runestone. And there are men here I may persuade to come to Dragonstone.” Jon reached for another piece of bread. “But I wish Wylla were here.”

“She will be waiting when you arrive.”

Jon pictured her walking through Dragonstone with Ethan, demanding to see the kitchens.

Martyn had them out again while the inn servants were carrying bread to the upper rooms. Mist lay in the hollows beyond the stream, and sheep called from a hillside Jon could scarcely see. He ate a heel of bread while Aries brought his padded coat.

“I want to practise in the new armour,” Jon told Arthur. “Against you, if you will. I have hardly fought in it.”

“After Alester. Fetch it out.”

Aries hurried to the chest. He lifted the black breastplate in both hands and waited while Jon finished dressing. Arthur helped settle the weight upon him, checking the straps as the page fastened them. Jon raised his arms. The broad shoulder plates slid over one another with a soft scrape; bright steel bordered the deep black, and grey mail showed where his elbows bent.

“Turn a little,” Gyles said.

Jon looked round. The boy had come across with Alester and Robb. All three were watching the breastplate. As Jon turned, a pale, smoky shimmer moved across the black and vanished beneath his arm. Gyles leaned closer. “I thought that was a reflection.”

“So did I, when I first opened the chest.” Jon buckled on his sword belt. Rowena called to her brother from the bridge, asking what had caught his eye; he waved her over. By the time Aries brought the helm, the girls had joined them and a pair of Grafton knights had left the inn steps to look.

Gawen and Martyn were already at work on the turf. Gawen drove the captain’s shield up with a heavy cut and lunged beneath it. Martyn twisted clear, caught the sword against his own shield and shoved it aside. Gawen leapt back, but Martyn’s point caught his chest before he could get clear.

“Again,” he said, rubbing the place Martyn’s point had reached.

He gave the same hard stroke, then pulled it short. Martyn’s shield rose to meet a blow that never fell; Gawen’s sword struck his side. The captain answered at once, catching Gawen across the shoulder before he could withdraw. They broke apart laughing.

“That would have hurt,” Gawen said.

“Then stop admiring your work.” Martyn lowered his sword. “You could have had your turn yesterday.”

“The horses would have been grateful.” Gawen handed his practice sword to Arthur and went to help Tomas, who was calling the next household pair onto the far end of the field.

Alester stood ready with his shield. He saluted Arthur, a little stiffly, then came forward. Arthur let him strike. His shield took the blow, his sword caught Alester’s return, and a moment later the young knight was staring at a wooden point beneath his chin.

He tried again, more cautiously. Arthur walked him backwards with two brisk cuts, waited for him to set his feet and struck his shoulder while he was preparing to answer.

“You stop to choose the blow,” Arthur said. He had Alester raise his sword again and showed him the shorter movement. “From there. Try it.”

Alester did. Arthur caught it, nodded and made him repeat it. When they finished, the young knight bowed over his sword, red-faced and smiling.

Gyles leaned towards Robb. “All Gulltown will have heard about this by the time we get home.”

“Will he mention being hit?” Robb asked.

“Often and by Ser Arthur Dayne,” Alester answered. “I doubt anyone will be surprised.” He offered Jon the sword. “Your turn.”

Jon lowered his visor. The field narrowed to a strip of damp grass and Arthur’s waiting figure. He rolled his shoulders once, feeling the plates settle, and raised his shield. Along the wall, Lord Grafton joined his children. His gaze travelled over Jon’s harness before he said anything to Gyles.

Arthur’s first cut struck the shield with a crack that rang inside Jon’s helm. Jon answered low. Arthur turned the blade, stepped in and drove him back with a brisk stroke at the head. Jon caught it, felt the force run through his arm and sprang aside, as he had against Robb.

Arthur turned with him. The wooden point knocked against Jon’s breastplate before he could bring his shield across.

“I saw that yesterday,” Arthur said.

Jon drew a breath through the narrow opening in his visor. Beyond the wall, Robb was grinning. “So did everyone,” Jon said.

Arthur lifted his sword again. This time Jon held his ground long enough to make him commit to a cut, turned it on his shield and struck towards the ribs. Arthur’s blade met his with a jolt. For several blows Jon could do nothing but defend. Wood battered his shield; his breath grew loud inside the helm. He found room for a quick stroke at Arthur’s upper arm and felt it land—just as Arthur’s point struck his chest again.

“Better,” Arthur said. “But where was your shield?”

Jon looked down. He had dropped it to reach farther with the sword. Arthur tapped its edge, then moved his own shield aside to show him the opening.

“Again. Keep it close.”

They worked through the exchange slowly. Jon watched the point this time, lifted the shield as he struck and felt Arthur’s answering blow stop against it. On the next attempt Arthur made him do it at speed.

By the time he called a halt, sweat was running down Jon’s neck beneath the quilted collar. Aries took the shield while Jon pushed up his visor. Cold air touched his wet face. He could turn, crouch and strike freely in the armour, but fighting inside it left little room to forget his own breathing.

Brynden stood beside Robb, looking towards Arthur. “That is why you keep the shield up after you strike,” he said. “A touch will please your friends. It will not stop the other man’s sword.”

Robb nodded. When Jon looked over, the Blackfish was already taking Robb’s shield to show him. Arthur waited until Jon had caught his breath, then asked whether anything pinched.

“No. My shoulders are tired.”

“They will be.” Arthur helped him remove the helm. Along the far wall, Tomas sent two fresh men to relieve the guards at the bridge. The men coming off duty brought their shields to Gawen, who made room for them among the others practising.

Lord Grafton came over as Aries wiped the sweat from Jon’s brow. “May I see that, Lord Black?” He indicated the breastplate.

Jon turned towards the light. One of Grafton’s knights bent closer; the other asked whether it was enamel. Grafton shook his head slowly. A cloudy gleam moved across the black as Jon breathed.

“Who made it?” the lord asked.

“Tobho Mott, in King’s Landing. I sent him the drawings.” Jon lifted his arm so they could see the overlapping plates. “He made some changes of his own.”

“Good work.” Grafton studied the shoulder, then returned to the breastplate. “But I have seen blackened steel. I have never seen it take the light like that.”

“He used dragonglass from Dragonstone in the finishing. Ethan sent him a parcel to try.”

Alester looked up sharply. “Dragonglass?”

“The armour is steel,” Jon said. “Mott has not told me how he worked the glass into the finish. Several trials failed before he was satisfied.”

Grafton passed a thumb along his beard. “What did he charge?”

“Seventy dragons, with the trials.”

The knight beside him let out a low whistle. Grafton only looked towards the girls and the men still watching from the bridge.

“There are men at Runestone who would pay that simply to be seen in it.” He turned back to Jon. “Could Mott make another?”

“I can ask him.”

“Do. Gyles will need a harness of his own soon.” Grafton glanced across the practice field. The household’s plainer steel was dark beneath the mist; none of it held the shifting lustre of Jon’s breastplate. “Your men’s armour came from your works?”

“Aye. My armourer Noll fitted them. The smiths and their tools are on the way to Dragonstone.”

“Then perhaps there is more than one sort of buyer for you here. Knights who need good harness, and lords who must have whatever their neighbours have admired.” Grafton’s mouth creased. “I know men who bought your clocks for much the same reason.”

“There is always something Jon means to make a profit from,” Robb said. “You should see the letters he gets.”

Jon gave him a sideways look and smiled. “Keeping fifty men in armour is expensive.” He turned back to Grafton. “I mean to sell finished harness when the works are ready and my own men are supplied. You would need an armourer here to fit it properly.”

“That can be arranged. My ships could bring it back from Dragonstone.” Grafton looked again at the black breastplate. “And I should like to hear Mott’s answer.”

“So should I.” Jon had thought first of the orders his own workshops could fill. Watching the older lord study the finish, he wondered how much a few wealthy buyers might pay for it. Dragonstone had no shortage of dragonglass. He would need to discover what Mott was willing to make, and on what terms.

“Send Gyles’s measures to Ethan,” he said. “Noll can see to a harness. I shall ask Mott about the finish separately.”

Grafton offered his hand. “You shall have them.”

At the inn door Lady Grafton called for her husband. Rowena stood beside her, ready for the road, and Rosamund was trying to tell Alester something while he watched the household. Jon bent to gather his gloves. When he straightened, both girls were looking his way. Rosamund said something that made Rowena hide a smile against her sleeve.

Gyles picked up the glove Jon had missed and handed it to him. “Rowena will ask about you all the way to Runestone.”

“You can tell her I am riding just ahead.”

Robb laughed. Alester called for their horses before Gyles could answer; Rosamund was beckoning impatiently from the inn door.

They were mounted before the mist had left the higher fields. The road climbed between orchards and sheep pasture, then turned along a ridge from which Jon could see the sea again, blue beyond the folds of land on the far side of the peninsula. Carts coming towards Gulltown were piled with fleeces. Their drivers drew aside for the mounted company, and the smell of lanolin lingered after the last cart had passed. Far inland, cloud lay across the mountain tops; closer hills were marked by shepherds’ paths, white sheep scattered beneath the rocks.

Gyles rode beside Robb once the road widened, with Alester between Jon and the verge. The young knight asked about the games at Winterfell and wanted to hear how their mock battles were judged. Gyles interrupted to ask whether the visiting lords had stayed to buy clocks. Robb began describing the festival, Jon corrected his claim to have beaten everyone worth beating, and Alester insisted upon hearing who had beaten Robb instead.

At the next village the road narrowed between an alehouse and a low stone wall. A carter had drawn his mule aside, but there was scarcely room for Bucephalus to pass the axle. Jon brought him through at a walk. Children stood upon the wall to watch the horses; below them, a woman held a smaller boy by the back of his tunic as he leaned towards Jon’s stirrup. Men in the alehouse doorway made room for Arthur, their talk fading beneath the clatter of hooves. Farther along, an old fellow kept cutting back his hedge, pausing only to lift a hand against the dust.

Beyond the cottages the riders spread out again, and Arthur drew alongside Jon. There was something Jon had meant to ask him since his last ride with his father.

“Father told me about Robert holding me. When he judged you.”

Arthur glanced at him. “Aye.”

“And what he said about Ashara.” Jon kept his voice low; Martyn was only a few horse lengths behind them. “You had to stand there and listen.”

“I wanted him to believe it.” Arthur’s thumb moved along the worn edge of his rein. “I had helped put the thought in his head.”

“Does it still anger you? When people call me hers?”

“When they speak of her as though they knew her.” He looked towards Jon then, and the tightness about his mouth eased a little. “Not with you.”

Jon nodded. He had no answer that would make the lie easier for either of them. They rode on beside the hedge until the road climbed clear of it and Runestone came into view, its weathered walls high above the bright canvas spreading down the slope towards the sea.

* * *

The lane into the tournament camp was thick with horses. A groom backed into Jon’s path with both hands on a destrier’s bridle, cursing softly as the animal shied from a hammer ringing under a smith’s awning. Through the drifting smoke Jon could see the white barrier of the jousting lists. Beyond it, men were driving stakes around the open ground for the melees, their blows lost beneath the smith’s. Runestone rose above everything, grey walls streaked by rain, with bronze banners stirring from the towers.

“Brynden! Who have you left to mind the Gate?”

The Blackfish turned in his saddle. Ser Symond Templeton had risen from a bench outside a blue pavilion, leaving a cup in the hand of the man beside him. Nine stars had been sewn upon his breast. He came through the horse line smiling, though his gaze travelled past Brynden to the men still filing off the road. Alester straightened in his saddle.

“Men who can manage without me for a few days.” Brynden reached down to clasp his arm. “Are you riding, Symond?”

“I am. I was about to ask you the same. Yohn has been rather pleased with himself, and now you appear with half the North.”

“I have come to see my great-nephew fight.” Brynden beckoned Robb closer. “This is Catelyn’s eldest.”

Templeton studied Robb with a smile. “Your great-uncle will have plenty to tell you afterwards, win or lose.”

“He has already begun, ser.” Robb brought his horse alongside Jon’s. “My brother and I are for the squires’ melee.”

“Lord Black,” Gyles supplied, leaning forward far enough for Templeton to see him. “We have been riding together from Gulltown.”

“Ah. Young Grafton.” Templeton greeted Jon with a courteous inclination of his head, but his attention caught on Arthur before he could say more. His brows rose. “Ser Arthur. I had heard you might come.”

Behind him, the man on the bench lowered the cup he had been about to drink from.

“Lord Royce was kind enough to invite us,” Arthur said.

“Then we shall see you in the lists?”

“Only in the practice yard. Lord Yohn and I mean to try each other with swords.”

Templeton’s smile widened. “He kept that to himself.” He glanced towards the towers, then back at Arthur. “I shall look forward to watching.”

Lord Grafton called to him from behind the wagon. Templeton raised a hand in answer, still looking at Dawn, while Brynden urged his horse through the opening beside the smith’s awning. Alester lingered until Rosamund asked him to let her pass. Jon heard Grafton and Templeton greeting one another behind him; a groom shouted over them for someone to catch a loose mare.

The crowd thinned where the lane turned uphill. Along the castle wall stood broad pavilions with room between them for servants’ fires and tethered horses; farther out, guy ropes crossed so closely that men had to stoop beneath them to reach their own tents. Robb was craning past a purple awning, searching for the Redfort colours and Domeric. Jon caught the smell of roasting onions as the wind shifted, then horse dung, and saw Aries turn in his saddle to look for the cookfire.

Beyond the last pavilion, hedge knights had made their camps beneath wagons and small patched awnings. A grey-haired man in a faded green surcoat was oiling his mail beside the road, with a brindled hound asleep across his boots. His younger neighbour had a blue cloak spread over his saddle to dry. Both stopped work when Dawn came into view. The younger man rose so quickly that he struck his head against the wagon.

Theon had fallen behind to peer at an awning where a woman was filling cups from an open cask.

“Before you ask,” Martyn told him, “you come to me before leaving our camp.”

“I was admiring the signs.”

“Admire them from your saddle.”

Theon obeyed with a small bow which made Jory look twice to see whether he had been mocked.

The steward had reserved ground beneath the Redfort rise for the Starks and a strip beside the eastern ditch for Jon. Aries followed him across it, carrying his cloak. Refuse had washed down from the horse lines. Above them, open ground adjoined Robb’s tents.

“Where would you put ours?” Jon asked.

“Up there. Beside Lord Robb’s.”

“And if his tents were somewhere else?”

Aries looked back at the ditch. He scraped his heel through the dried wash, turning up a strand of fouled straw. “Still up there. That will come through our tents when it rains.”

“Aye.” Jon asked the steward for the higher strip. Gawen and Martyn made room by moving the Stark horses north. Aries led Jon up to the crest and stopped to stare at the painted pavilions and the white barrier of the lists.

“Is that where you ride?”

“The knights joust there. We fight in the squires’ melee beyond that rope.” Jon pointed to the wider field. “Stay this side of the horse line until the grooms have finished bringing them through.”

Aries followed his pointing hand, trying to take in the whole field. “May I watch when they practise?”

“With Gawen. Find Tomas first and show him where I want my tent.”

The boy ran back down the slope with the cloak held clear of the mud.

As the first tent rose, Robb sent a boy across the lane to Domeric’s Redfort pavilion. Gawen remained mounted, watching the lower wall. Jon brought Bucephalus beside him.

“Will your old master be in the yard?”

“I would try the practice yard. He kept us there until every man had had his turn.” Gawen smiled. “I wonder if he still does.”

“Bring him to meet me. I would like to thank him for teaching you.” Gawen nodded and rode beneath the bronze banners.

* * *

Domeric Bolton found them before the castle did. He came through the Redfort horse line with a harp case on one shoulder and a glove in his teeth. He pulled the glove free, a grin spreading over his long face. Robb was off his horse before Martyn could forbid it. Their forearms struck; then they embraced with the hard awkwardness of boys who had expected letters to be enough. “The Vale says you killed Jon and lost the flag. At least putting him in the mud first was a mercy; he is too pale.”

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“The flag survived, and so did Jon. Only two of your four letters managed the same,” Robb replied.

Jon clasped Domeric’s arm. “It is good to see you.”

“And you.” Domeric bowed to Arthur, then greeted Theon with the exact courtesy their acquaintance warranted. His warmth towards Robb did not extend to the ironborn.

A sandy-blond boy on a polished chestnut called, “Tell them how Lady Anya’s granddaughters beat you at tiles.”

Domeric sighed. “Harrold Hardyng, Lady Waynwood’s ward and heir to everything he sees.” Harry came down the slope in blue wool and bright mail. His deep blue eyes moved from Robb’s direwolf to Jon’s plain black badge, then stopped at the pale streak in Jon’s hair.

“Which of you is best at anything worth winning?” Harry asked.

“You will have to find out in the melee,” Robb said. He held out his hand. “Robb Stark.”

Harry clasped it. Jon offered his hand next. “Jon Black. Domeric wrote of you.”

“He has told me about you too. Those battles you hold, with the flags. Does everyone obey when you tell them they are dead?”

“The judges make certain of it.”

“Even you?”

“Especially him,” Robb said. “I made sure of that.”

Dimples appeared when Harry grinned. “Domeric said you had. And your men went on fighting?”

“One of my men, Tomas, took the flag,” Jon said. “He did not need me to tell him how.”

“I was supposed to be keeping it,” Domeric admitted. He shifted the harp case on his shoulder. “Harrion had gone too far from the flag. I should have called him back.”

Harry looked from Jon to Robb with fresh interest. “I should like a turn at that.”

“You will have both of us in the melee,” Robb said.

Lady Anya watched from the rise, her green mantle close beneath its black-wheel clasp. She looked pleased to see her ward making friends with Winterfell’s heir.

Donnel Waynwood arrived with dust on his boots and news from the Bloody Gate. He greeted the boys, but his voice fell as Brynden came within earshot. “Two pack mules gone from the eastern way. One driver found with a split crown. The clans took flour and left wool.”

Brynden turned towards him. “Hungry men, then. How many tracks?”

“Nine. Perhaps eleven where the ground turned stony.” Donnel dismounted to speak with Brynden as Martyn told Robb that Lord Royce was waiting.

Bronze Yohn received them at the court well. Age had greyed his hair and softened nothing else; even beside his sons he was exceptionally tall, the cup in his gnarled hand scarcely larger than a child’s. His dark coat bore a square bronze clasp worked with signs older than the castle. Andar stood watchful at his right; Robar, broad-shouldered and rugged, kept looking towards the arriving knights. Yohn said, “Ned Stark sends two sons, a Greyjoy and enough steel to steal my supper.”

“My father sends his greetings,” Robb said, bowing.

“And you have your mother’s face.” Yohn clasped Robb’s shoulder, then turned to Jon. “Lord Black. Welcome to Runestone.”

“Lord Royce.” Jon returned his greeting.

Yohn looked him over, taking in the straight back and the boy’s face above the black collar. “I hear you have taken one of my master-at-arms’s pupils into your service.”

“Ser Gawen. He has gone to find him.”

“Then Sam will want supper in the yard. We shall have to drag them both indoors.” He turned to embrace Brynden. The two old friends began insulting each other before they had let go. Martyn received a warm greeting and a question about Ser Rodrik’s health.

Yohn saw Arthur and handed his cup to Andar. Two squires stopped pretending to water horses.

“Ser Arthur. You received my letter?”

“I did, my lord. I have come prepared to disappoint anyone who hoped I had grown slow.”

Yohn held out his hand. “Three passes in the practice yard at dawn. Sam will find us swords.”

“At dawn.” They clasped hands. The squires remembered their horses, though neither went far.

Behind the older Royces stood Waymar, slender in black wool edged with bronze. He was four or five years older than Jon, with a handsome face and an impatient expression. His eyes were grey like his father’s, but they kept moving from Jon’s badge to Dawn.

Jon knew the face from a description he had read in another life: the young knight in a sable cloak, defiant with a broken sword in his hand. He could almost feel the cold between those trees.

“Lord Black?” Yohn said.

Jon realised he had been staring. “Forgive me. I am tired from the journey.”

“My youngest son, Waymar.”

Jon greeted him and took the offered cup. Waymar answered politely, though he still looked puzzled.

Andar caught Waymar before he could escape towards the horses and introduced the ladies. Ysilla Royce wore bronze silk, a linen-chest key caught among her girdle beads and a servant waiting for it. Myranda had come from the Gates of the Moon and was disputing Andar’s supper arrangements. Beside her, Jeyne Waynwood watched with the air of someone who knew how it would end.

Myranda put a finger on Andar’s page. “Lord Tollett beside my father, please. They have been discussing those extra mountain patrols since the last wedding. Father would like to know when the riders are coming.”

“Lord Tollett asked for a place near Belmore.”

“He can have Belmore on his other side.” She waited until Andar changed the name, then stepped back with a satisfied smile.

Ysilla gave the servant her key. “You have found room for your men, Lord Black?”

“Beside my brother’s.”

“Good. The lower strip floods. I told the steward yesterday.”

Jon thanked her. She glanced at the white lock against his dark hair, clearly curious, then asked whether Lady Sansa had come. He explained that his sisters had stayed at Winterfell.

“Mine would never forgive me for leaving her behind,” Myranda said.

“You have no sister,” Jeyne observed.

“An advantage I appreciate whenever I visit Ironoaks.”

Robb laughed. Ysilla asked about Rickon, whose birth Eddard had mentioned in his letter, but the servant returned with the key before Jon finished answering. She sent him to the right linen chest this time. Yohn had Andar take the travellers’ chests inside and kept them by the well.

“Nestor tells me your clock has made the Gates of the Moon intolerable,” Yohn said to Jon. “Every visitor asks to hear it strike. Does Dragonstone earn its keep as well?”

“The harbour brings in dues, though much of it needs repair. The island grows too little grain. My castellan, Ethan, has had to buy from the mainland.”

“You will want good captains,” Yohn said. “Gulltown has men who know those waters.”

“That is one reason I came. Gawen knows knights here too. I shall need men to train horse as well as men to sail ships.”

Yohn followed his glance towards the lower yard, where Strong Sam had begun shouting Gawen’s name. “Then you have come at a good time.”

* * *

Strong Sam, Runestone’s master-at-arms, struck Gawen’s shoulder hard enough to stagger him, then embraced him before either could pretend at dignity. Kennet Coldwater pushed through the grooms behind him, narrow-faced with one nicked ear. Pate Shett followed, broader than Gawen remembered. “I said you would find a lord.”

“You said I would hang in Gulltown.” Gawen embraced Kennet before he could demand his three stags, then caught Pate by the shoulders. “Gods, you have grown fat.”

Strong Sam took him by both shoulders and looked him over. “A captain now, they tell me.”

“Lord Jon’s household.” Gawen had prepared for laughter, but Sam looked towards Jon, then at the black-cloaked men waiting beside the horses. “Fifty of them,” Gawen added.

“And can you keep fifty in order?”

“You kept more.” Gawen grinned. “I learned to shout from you.” Sam snorted and released him, keeping one hand upon his shoulder a moment longer.

Pate admired the mare’s legs. She belonged to House Black, Gawen told him; he had ridden her since autumn.

“He has done well by you, then?” Kennet glanced towards Jon.

“Aye. He has.”

Sam found a crooked repair beneath Gawen’s saddle skirt and demanded an awl. Soon they were on an upturned trough, Sam pulling out stitches while Gawen cut fresh thread. Olyver stopped to watch, delighted to find someone who could correct his riding master. Sent for water, he came back quickly enough to hear the worst.

* * *

Six Corbray riders entered the court while Strong Sam finished with the saddle. Their slender leader wore white steel beneath a pale cloak. He pushed shoulder-length brown hair behind one ear before dismounting. A ruby like a drop of fresh blood burned in the pommel of the sword at his hip. Domeric named him before any northern boy could ask. “Ser Lyn Corbray. Mychel serves him.”

Mychel Redfort rode one place behind his knight, lean and still in Corbray colours. He clasped Domeric’s arm after dismounting, then returned to his master before the greeting could become a reunion. Lyn saw Dawn.

Men made room without being told as Lyn crossed to Arthur. “I came hoping the herald had written Dayne among the lances. If he has not, write it now.”

“I have not entered,” Arthur said. “I am here with my nephew.”

Lyn’s gaze moved over Jon, taking in his long limbs and fine black cloak before returning to Dawn. “Runestone is well guarded. Surely the boy can spare you for an afternoon.”

“My answer is no.”

Lyn’s smile lingered. “Prince Lewyn was less reluctant to meet me.” Mychel lowered his eyes. Jon remembered what the songs left out: Lewyn Martell had already been wounded when Lyn came upon him.

Arthur’s face went still. “Lewyn was my sworn brother.”

“So I have been reminded.” Lyn rested his hand upon Lady Forlorn’s ruby pommel. “A man might think I had done wrong to fight him.”

“You are speaking to me now.” Arthur’s voice had lost its warmth. “Leave him out of it.”

Gage moved to Jon’s shoulder and Rylas to the other. Tomas brought the nearest file closer without drawing a sword. Yohn came down the hall steps, his cup still in his hand.

“You have your answer, Corbray. Leave Ser Arthur in peace, or leave my house.”

For a moment Lyn looked at Yohn. Then his hand fell from the pommel and he bowed. “My lord.” He gave Arthur one last, measuring glance before calling Mychel to attend him.

Arthur waited until Lyn had crossed the yard before turning back to Yohn. Robar asked to watch the dawn practice.

“You may try me afterwards,” Arthur said.

“If Sam leaves us any swords.” The old master snorted and went to find a groom.

Robb caught Arthur by the stairs. “Why will you fight them in practice but not enter the lists?”

“I can leave the practice yard when I choose. And I have had my fill of tournaments.” Arthur rested a hand on his shoulder. “Come at dawn if you want to see.”

By afternoon Olyver had heard that a secret wound kept Arthur from the saddle. Gawen’s laughter brought men from the next tent to ask what had happened.

At the herald’s bronze awning, separate sheets lay open for the melee, the squires’ melee, the joust and archery. Jon and Robb gave their names for the squires’ field. The clerk asked Jon’s age again when he said twelve, then wrote it down. Waymar entered beneath Runestone, Harry beneath Lady Anya’s protection and Mychel Redfort as Ser Lyn Corbray’s squire.

Theon read the board. “Sixteen boys beat one another with dull swords so their mothers may call it harmless.”

“The bows are on the other sheet,” Jon said. Sea wind snapped the little flags above the clerk.

Theon took the quill. “At last the Vale offers sense.” Gawen entered the joust as Ser Gawen of Willow Creek, in the service of House Black.

The two hedge knights from the wagons joined the line behind him. Up close, the older man’s nose bent sharply to one side, and the white fox on his shield had been painted over several deep cuts. He gave his name as Ser Corentin of Wickenden. The younger knight, Ser Mael of the Ford, kept rubbing the place where he had struck his head.

“Both fields?” the clerk asked Corentin.

“The melee. My horse has carried me here; I will not ask him to earn the purse as well.”

“He tried to bite the farrier this morning,” Mael said.

“A dispute over the price.” Corentin turned towards Arthur, and the humour left his face for a moment. He bowed. “Ser. I saw you ride at Harrenhal.”

“Then you have seen me unhorsed,” Arthur said.

“I had wagered otherwise.” Corentin’s crooked smile returned. “A pleasure to see you on your feet.”

Arthur laughed. Mael bowed in his turn, more stiffly, then asked the clerk to put him down for the melee beside Corentin. Jon noticed how carefully the younger knight had polished the steel at his wrists. The blue surcoat hanging over it had been faded by more than one summer on the road.

Beyond the awning, a knight in a faded grey-and-black surcoat was arguing with a lance seller. He kept one hand upon the three shafts he had chosen while the other searched a purse. Beside his mare stood a thin youth with a saddle across his arms and a helm hanging from its bow. Dark hair stuck damply to his brow. His long face had the patient misery of someone who expected the argument to end badly and leave him carrying the lances as well.

“Eddison,” the knight called, without turning. “See whether our cousin has finished with the clerk.”

The thin youth looked towards a boy being fitted with a field shield. “He has, Hugh. He is explaining how he means to win.”

“Then fetch him.”

Jon had stopped beside Arthur. Eddison. The name fitted the face so well that for a moment he saw black wool and snow instead of a worn brown coat. In the books, Dolorous Edd had grumbled through dangers that sent other men running. He had helped Sam out of the slaughter at the Fist and stayed loyal when the Watch turned upon itself. Jon had never expected to find him carrying a knight’s saddle at Runestone.

“That lad beside the grey mare.” Jon pointed him out to Gawen. “Do you know him?”

“Hugh’s brother. I have seen them at the smaller lists. A poor branch of the Tolletts.” Gawen glanced at the seller. “Hugh will want a better price than that.”

“Come with me.” Jon crossed the trampled lane. Gage moved ahead to clear a passing horse; Arthur and Gawen followed, with Aries close behind.

Edd saw them coming and shifted the saddle higher against his chest. He bowed as far as the load allowed. His eyes went from Jon’s silver fastenings to Dawn and then dropped.

“Eddison Tollett?” Jon asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I am Jon Black. How old are you?”

“Sixteen, my lord.”

“Are you riding in the games?”

“No, my lord. It would upset the horse. She is used to seeing me walk.”

Aries looked at the mare before he realised it was a jest. Jon smiled. Edd’s mouth scarcely moved; he seemed more concerned that the helm might slip from the saddle.

“You may put that down while we speak.”

Edd glanced towards his brother. “If it pleases you, my lord.” He laid the saddle on a dry rail and caught the helm before it swung against the wood. One strap was coming loose. He tucked it safely inside, then stood with his hands together, waiting for Jon’s next question.

“Have you come far?”

“From the Grey Glen. Our cousin Andrew is trying the squires’ melee. That is him with the new shield.” Edd nodded towards the youth at the clerk’s awning. “His uncle brought him down from the main household. My brother and I took longer.”

“One horse?”

“One horse, my lord.” His eyes briefly met Jon’s. “Though she eats as if there were two.”

The lance seller had finally released the shafts. Hugh Tollett came across with them under his arm, his surcoat pulled straight and the purse hidden. He was some years older than Edd, with his brother’s long nose, a heavier jaw and a short brown beard. The rings of his mail shone, but the leather at his elbows had been mended more than once.

“My lord.” He bowed to Jon, then more deeply when he recognised Arthur. “Ser Hugh Tollett. Has my brother been troubling you? My apologies. Our father hoped he might be of some use to me as a squire.”

His smile invited Jon to share the disappointment. At the word use, he looked at Edd’s empty hands. Edd took up the saddle again without answering.

“I came to speak to him,” Jon said. “He was answering my questions.”

“Of course, my lord.” Hugh’s smile thinned. He glanced towards Gawen, recognised him and gave a stiff nod. “Willow Creek. I heard you had found service.”

“With Lord Black.” Gawen rested a hand upon the rail. “You have entered the joust?”

“I have. There are men here worth meeting with a lance.” Hugh shifted the three shafts against his shoulder. Up close, one had been scraped clean of another rider’s paint. “Lord Yohn offers a purse worth the journey.”

“Would you take service in the south?” Jon asked.

Hugh’s chin lifted. “For a lord who has use for a knight. I have spent enough years looking after our father’s few fields. There is little there to divide between sons.”

His gaze had returned to Arthur. Jon could almost see him deciding whether to ask for a pass. Beside him Edd adjusted the weight of the saddle and waited, looking down at the rail where Jon had told him he could set it.

“I shall watch for you, Ser Hugh,” Jon said. He turned back to the younger brother. “And I hope we shall speak again, Eddison.”

Edd looked up, plainly surprised. “You are kind, my lord.”

Hugh thanked Jon for his good wishes and sent Edd ahead with the mare. The squire had to turn sideways between two carts. He kept the saddle clear of their muddy wheels all the way through.

Gawen watched Hugh follow him. “He rides better than he speaks.”

“We shall see.” Jon lingered until Edd had disappeared among the tents. He remembered the man in a black cloak, doing work his sworn brothers trusted him to do. Here his own brother had scarcely allowed him to finish a sentence.

Lady Anya bent her greying head over the clerk’s shoulder to read Harry’s entry. “Have you given your age correctly?”

“I have not forgotten it.”

“You forgot it when you asked for the men’s melee.” She returned the sheet and greeted Jon. “You go on to your own seat after the lists?”

“When my ships return, my lady.”

“Then I wish you a fair wind. Lord Stark will want to hear how you find it.”

Harry was looking towards the practice yard. “Will Ser Arthur be there before breakfast?”

“Most likely,” Jon said. “You would be welcome to join us.”

“After you have taken my message to Lord Redfort,” Anya told Harry. “I gave it to you before we came down.”

Harry found the forgotten page beneath his belt and made his farewells under Anya’s eye. As she went to Lord Belmore, Grafton joined Jon outside the herald’s shelter.

“At Gulltown you said the harbour needed work,” Grafton said. “Will there be room for more shipping when it is done?”

“That is what I intend. Ethan has begun the repairs. I shall see what else is needed when I reach the island.”

Grafton moved aside to let two grooms pass with a restive courser. “You will need grain while you build. I have merchants who can bring it regularly. Good grain, carried dry, with another cargo following when the first is sold.”

“What would you ask of me?”

“Half your usual harbour dues on my ships for three years. It would make the voyage worth their while while your market is small.”

Jon looked towards the crowded stalls below the lists. He wanted that press of buyers on Dragonstone, with flour in the bakers’ bins and ships coming back because they had sold well. William’s clocks could pay for much of the beginning. They could not go on paying for every new mouth and every wall Jon meant to raise.

“Half dues on grain for one year,” he said. “Other cargo pays the full charge.”

Grafton studied him. “A ship seldom carries grain alone.”

“Then Ethan can charge separately for what she brings. If your merchants fill her with wine because it sells better, the concession will do little to feed my people.”

The older lord rubbed a thumb along his beard. A shout went up from the practice ground; he waited for it to fade. “A year is little time to establish a trade.”

“It is a year’s help in establishing it. I must repair the harbour out of what it earns. Promise four grain cargoes within that year, with the first sailing as soon as Ethan can receive it, and I will give you the reduction.”

“Storms may keep a ship in port.”

“Ethan will understand a storm. He will also know if a promised cargo has been sold somewhere else.” Jon held Grafton’s gaze. “Your men can settle the quantities and prices with him. I will write tonight.”

Grafton’s mouth curved. “Lord Stark has let you do your own bargaining.”

“I shall have to pay for it.”

“So you shall.” He offered his hand. “Let us begin with the four cargoes.”

Jon clasped it. “Have your harbour master send Ethan the draught of the ships. He must know which berth will take them.”

“And when those ships return, might they carry some clocks? There are buyers in the Vale still waiting.”

“Your merchants may buy from William as the others do. He will tell them when their orders can be ready.”

Grafton nodded and went back towards his pavilion. Jon watched the burning tower pass between the banners. Merchants could earn well carrying what his craftsmen made. He intended to keep the workshops themselves, and the money they brought in, for the army and ships he would need. For now, four reliable grain cargoes would give him room to build.

* * *

By the time they entered the hall, the long hearths were red with fallen embers and men were shedding damp cloaks into their servants’ arms. Runestone’s walls rose pale above the smoke. Bronze lamps hung between old shields; below them, the crowded benches shone with spilled wine. Jon caught the smell of roast meat as a carver lifted the lid from a steaming dish. Across the hall, someone called for room for another guest, and a whole row of men shuffled along laughing.

Andar met them at the foot of the dais and led them to the places prepared beside his father. Jon sat at Yohn’s left, with Arthur beside him; Robb had the place on the other side of their host, close to Brynden. Grafton greeted Arthur from the next chair. Beyond him Lord Hunter was easing his swollen foot onto a stool, his mouth drawn tight until a servant had the cushion where he wanted it.

Aries took Jon’s black mantle and folded it over his arm. A page called from behind the chairs, and the boy turned quickly, hope flashing across his face before he saw who had spoken. Jon laid a hand briefly upon his shoulder. Aries looked back at him, swallowed and reached for the wine jug.

Below the dais, Martyn and Jory had places with the visiting household knights. Gawen was beside Strong Sam, already smiling at something his old master had said. Farther down, Theon had contrived to sit near Myranda Royce. Robb spotted Domeric among the younger guests and raised a hand; Brynden caught his attention with a quiet word as Yohn stood.

“Welcome to Runestone. You have come from the mountains, the coast and the North to share our table and try our field.” Yohn lifted his cup. “Eat well tonight. We shall have enough lean faces at the lists tomorrow.”

The answering cheer drowned the musicians. Jon drank with the others, and the servants came forward with white loaves and dishes of venison, the meat dark beneath its pepper sauce. Robb watched a carver cut him a generous slice. Across Yohn, Brynden asked after Catelyn, bending his grey head to hear the answer.

Grafton waited until Arthur had been served before leaning towards Jon. “I have been telling Lord Hunter you mean to buy sheep.”

“Breeding ewes, if we can agree a price. And good rams.” Jon turned towards the lord of Longbow Hall. “I shall need wool for my people while the flock grows.”

Hunter studied him over the rim of his cup. “That we can supply. Has your steward written to anyone?”

“Not in the Vale. I will send him word tonight.”

“Then I shall have mine write to him.” Hunter put down his cup and reached for the bread. “Buy northern fleeces if you wish, but look at ours first.”

Jon had every intention of doing so. The Vale’s sheep had stayed in his memory from Fire & Blood, along with Daemon Targaryen’s ugly jest about them and the women of the Vale. Sitting beside Bronze Yohn, he kept that recollection to himself.

“Getting them safely to Gulltown will be the trouble,” Grafton said. “The wool wagons have begun hiring guards of their own.”

“They might hire more if your buyers paid what the wool was worth.” Hunter tore a piece from his loaf. “They do well enough when they sell it across the narrow sea.”

“They will do less well if the clans take the wagon.”

Lord Belmore looked up from his trencher. The lord of Strongsong sat with Lyonel Corbray and Horton Redfort, close enough to have heard them. “Two pack mules taken this week. Sheep before that. How many men must lose their goods before the Bloody Gate sends riders?”

Brynden’s hand stilled beside his cup. “The Gate has sent riders. They cannot watch every track between your holdings.”

“The driver was found,” Yohn said. “Donnel brought word this afternoon.”

“Found with his head split,” Belmore answered. “Were the thieves found?”

“No.” Brynden’s voice had gone flat. “We shall have a better chance when men who know those tracks come with us.”

Horton Redfort laid down his knife. He was a grey-haired man with a neatly kept beard, milder in the face than Jon had expected of Domeric’s master. “The Strongsong men know those hills well enough, Benedar.”

“Strongsong has its own roads.”

“So has Longbow Hall.” Hunter shifted his foot, wincing. “Lord Arryn asks for men as though none of us had need of them. I should like him to come home and see what he is asking.”

“He is the king’s Hand,” Anya Waynwood said.

“He was our lord first.”

Nestor Royce had been listening beside her. The High Steward set his wine down. “He left me to govern in his absence. I need your answers here. Sending every refusal to King’s Landing will not make the road safer.”

For a little while only the near end of the table fell quiet. Farther along, a lady laughed at something Jon could not hear; behind him a servant waited with a dish of onions, uncertain whose trencher to approach.

Lyonel Corbray took the dish from him and served himself. “Heart’s Home can send four mounted men. For a month. Tell me where they will be fed and who will command them.”

“They report to me at the Gates,” Nestor said. “I shall name the captain.”

“I can provide fodder at the stopping places,” Grafton offered.

“Perhaps Gulltown could pay for the riders as well,” Belmore said. “You collect dues on everything they protect.”

“And you sell the fleeces.” Grafton gestured towards Jon. “Here is a man ready to buy them. You might both gain by getting his flock to my ships.”

Hunter chewed slowly, looking past him at Jon. “We shall want the places named before we send anything.”

“They will be,” Yohn said. “Runestone will send twelve.” He looked towards Horton, who nodded and promised eight. Anya offered a dozen from Ironoaks, to leave after the joust; they could give Nestor the month Corbray had offered, then their own lands would need them. Lord Tollett, seated beside the High Steward, said six of his riders might be spared.

“Might,” Nestor repeated, leaning closer to him.

Belmore had been watching Jon. “Lord Black has fifty well-mounted men, if the herald tells it truly.”

“They sail with me.”

“A few might find useful employment here.”

Jon met his eye. “They are already in my service. Their work is on Dragonstone.”

He could still see the three covered bodies in the yard at home. He had paid for those horses and trained the men who rode them; he would not leave a handful behind to oblige Belmore over supper.

The older lord held his gaze, then turned back to Grafton. “Fodder, you said. Delivered where?”

Yohn called Donnel Waynwood over from the knights’ table. As the carvers returned with fresh meat, Donnel bent beside Nestor to name the roads where the wagons had been taken. Ser Symond Templeton joined the argument over the safest stopping place. Jon listened while Grafton disputed who would carry the fodder and Anya insisted that someone send her captain the route before he left. Belmore had asked loudest for protection and had yet to promise a man. Jon remembered him accepting Littlefinger’s gold in the books, and watched how often he glanced towards Nestor before speaking.

The talk was still going when the venison dishes were carried away. Guests began leaving their places to greet friends farther down the hall. Waymar came up behind Robb with a cup in each hand.

“Domeric has brought out his harp,” he told Robb. “He says you know the words.” He handed him a cup and offered the other to Jon. “Will you join us, Lord Black? My sister has kept places for you.”

Yohn heard and smiled at the eagerness in Robb’s face. “Go on. We shall settle the roads without you.”

Jon made his courtesies and rose with Robb. Arthur came down beside him. As they passed the household table, Gawen lifted his cup; Sam had a hand upon his shoulder, and Pate and Kennet were laughing too hard to explain what had been said. Aries lingered at the smell of the hot pie between them. Jon sent him to eat with Gawen, and the boy’s thanks came out so quickly that Sam looked round.

Ysilla had kept one of the nearer tables while servants cleared others for dancing. There were pears and little honey cakes among the cups. Jon sat between her and Arthur, who took the end of the bench nearest the aisle. Robb settled opposite them, beside Domeric and Gyles; Alester and Rosamund were farther along that side. Waymar drew a stool to the table’s end at Arthur’s elbow. Beyond Ysilla, Myranda was laughing at something Theon had told her.

“Tell them how high it is,” Myranda urged Theon. “The tower that bends in storms.”

“I said the sea reached it.”

“You said its upper windows.” Her brown eyes widened with solemn interest. “Two hundred feet above the water.”

Theon looked from her to Jon, who raised his cup and left him to it. “I may have added a little.”

“Then I may give you half a dance.” She laughed at his expression and turned as Ysilla touched the silver fastenings on Jon’s sleeve.

“Was that made in King’s Landing?” Ysilla asked.

“Winter Town. Cob cut it, and Mairi and her women did the sewing.”

“I have not seen a front cut like that.”

“I drew what I wanted. They made it fit.”

She studied the way the collar met the slanting front, then touched the straight clasps upon her own gown. “My father’s tailor will ask me to describe it.” Her gaze fell to the grey-blue favour beneath the fastenings. “And who sewed that?”

“My sister Sansa.”

Ysilla bent to look at the little direwolf. “She sews beautifully.”

“I promised to tell her if anyone noticed.”

“Tell her I did too,” Myranda said, leaning past Ysilla to see it.

Jon turned his sleeve for them. He had deliberately worked modern touches into the cut, adapting what he remembered to the cloth and workmanship available in Winter Town. He had been indulging his own tastes; it had not occurred to him that someone else might want a coat like it. Yet Ysilla was already speaking of her father’s tailor. Could there be a market for it?

“Did you draw the clocks as well?” a boy beside Waymar asked. Ysilla named him as Artys Elesham, heir to his uncle’s seat at the Paps. He was fifteen, narrow-faced and freckled, with ears made more prominent by a close haircut. “They say you were five when you made the first one, my lord.”

“Five,” Robb said. “I was there.”

Artys looked between them, his lips parting. “I thought they must have mistaken your age.”

“The drawings were mine,” Jon said. “Woods, our carpenter, made the wooden parts. Mikken worked the iron. It took us a good while to make them run together.”

“You could hear it across the workroom.” Robb grinned at him. “I stayed to watch it strike. It made an awful noise.”

“And now the Hightower has one,” Artys said.

“A rather better one. William oversees the clockmakers now.”

Waymar had been listening over his cup. “Could you make one small enough to carry?”

“Not yet. I should like to.”

“Father would buy it,” Gyles said. “He asks the hour whenever we have left the clock behind.”

Jon smiled. “He would have to let William settle on Dragonstone before giving him another order.”

“Is that where you go after the tourney?” Waymar asked. When Jon nodded, the Royce boy leaned forward. “Does the mountain really smoke?”

“So my castellan tells me. I have not seen it yet.”

Waymar looked surprised. “You have never been?”

“Ethan has governed for me while I have been in the North. I shall have plenty to learn when I get there.”

“You must write and tell me. About the ships too.” He lifted his cup towards Jon. “We get plenty here, but Father would never give me a fleet of my own.”

“I shall tell you what it costs to feed the crews. He may have spared you something.” Jon touched his cup to Waymar’s. There was eagerness in the young man’s face, and Jon was glad to have something to set beside the memory of him standing with a broken sword in the snow.

Arthur accepted a cup from a servant. Artys glanced towards him and lowered his voice. “Does Ser Arthur teach both of you?”

“Jon every day. Me when I can join them,” Robb said. “Ser Rodrik teaches me at Winterfell. Martyn too.”

“When did you begin with a real sword?” Jon asked Alester. “Bran has been asking Father for one.”

“Thirteen. My uncle gave me a plain blade from his armoury. I kept it cleaner than anything else I owned.”

“I shall tell him.”

“Tell him about the cleaning too. My uncle never let me forget it.”

Artys glanced towards Arthur. “Have either of you beaten him?”

“Not yet,” Robb said promptly.

Arthur looked over, the corner of his mouth lifting. Across from him Alester laughed. “I had my turn this morning. I shall need rather more practice.”

“You had your sword out too far,” a young knight beside Rosamund told him.

“You were not there, Hervey.”

“I have known you long enough.” He made his bow across the table to Jon. Ser Hervey Breakstone, Alester explained; they had served in the same household. The young heir was broad through the chest, his brown hair sleek above a small, carefully tended moustache. A hammer worked in red garnets fastened his cloak. He turned towards Arthur. “Will you watch the joust, ser?”

“Jon’s captain is riding. I shall be there.”

Hervey’s fingers closed briefly about the garnet hammer. “Then I hope to give you something worth watching.”

Rowena Grafton had been whispering with Rosamund. Now she looked towards Jon. “I heard Ser Lyn would have beaten him, if they had fought today.”

Alester stopped smiling. Beyond Rowena, Mychel Redfort lowered his eyes to his cup.

“Come to the practice yard at dawn,” Jon said. “Watch Ser Arthur with Lord Yohn and judge for yourself.”

“Sam will have us there before either of them,” Waymar said. He reached for another cake. “He has promised to make certain we sleep tonight.”

“I expect he means it,” Arthur said, and the boys nearest him laughed.

The joust held Alester’s attention. He and Hervey began disputing the horses they had seen at the lists, and Robb listened closely as they spoke of which were likely to shy at broken lances.

“My father has told me what replacing him would cost,” Alester said. “Five times.”

“Then he knows you well,” Arthur answered.

Harry had joined Mychel in arguing that the squires’ melee would be worth watching as well. Domeric drew Robb into it, and soon the boys were naming whom they most wanted to face. Jasper, one of the Redfort sons, lifted his cup towards Harry.

“Harry ought to win. He has lost one lordship already. We must leave him something.”

Harry’s smile remained a moment too long. “It was never mine.”

“You might have told your admirers. Some of them had you sitting in the Eyrie until Lady Lysa gave Lord Arryn a son.”

Jon saw Anya turn from Lady Grafton near the end of their table. Harry had not seen her. He set his cup down too hard. “Lord Robert is—”

“Lord Arryn’s heir.” Anya rested her hand upon her ward’s shoulder and looked at Jasper. “Have you news that Lord Arryn lacks?”

“Only a jest, my lady.” Jasper lowered his cup.

“Then choose another.”

She stayed long enough for Harry to look up at her, then returned to Lady Grafton. Harry sat staring at his trencher, red above the collar. Robb pushed the cakes towards him.

“Will you come for me first?” he asked.

Harry glanced at him. “If you are still on your feet when I reach you.”

“You will have to hurry.” Robb grinned, and Harry took a cake.

Domeric brought his harp onto his knee. The Royce boys called for a song Jon did not know, and Domeric obliged, his fingers finding the air while Waymar supplied the first line. Several voices joined him. Gyles leaned towards Jon to tell him the words, only for Alester to disagree with the ending. By the second verse Robb had joined in the refrain.

Lord Hunter came down from the dais as the song ended, leaning upon his stick. He stopped beside Alester’s shoulder.

“Lord Roland’s son. Your father bought the wool from my western flocks.”

“He did, my lord.” Alester had straightened at once.

“Have you brought him fresh custom, or do you mean to ride?”

“I am entered.”

“An Arryn in the lists. One forgets you city cousins still do that.” Hunter gave Jon a nod before passing on to greet an older knight beside the hearth. Alester set his cup down carefully.

“He might have wished you luck,” Robb said.

“My father could buy half the mounts on the field.” Alester spoke quietly, beneath the sound of Domeric tuning a string. “It would not make him an Arryn of the Eyrie in Lord Hunter’s eyes.”

“Because he married a merchant’s daughter?” Jon asked.

“And his father before him. They like our silver well enough. They ask which battles our grandsires fought when we seek their daughters.” His thumb passed over the falcon upon his breast. “I should like them to remember something else when they hear my name.”

“Then beat his man tomorrow,” Robb said.

Alester’s mouth lifted at one corner. “I shall try.”

Across the table, Hervey was telling Rosamund something that made her laugh. Alester watched them a moment, then leaned nearer to Jon. “My mother would be pleased if he called upon us. He will inherit, and his family need not ask whether Father can afford a dowry.”

“Would your sister be pleased?”

“She likes him well enough. Whether she would marry him, I cannot say.” Alester glanced back at her. “Father’s merchants bring proposals whenever a son needs ships or silver. I should like her to have a choice beyond them.”

Gyles had stopped turning his cup. “My mother receives those letters too.”

“Then you understand.” Alester looked towards the lords who still lingered above them. “If I win a purse here, I can pay my way at the next tourney. Father would pay, but I want to win my own silver. And if a great lord takes me into his service, I shall meet families Father knows only across a counting table. I might find Rosamund a proposal she would welcome.”

“You could ask her which families she likes,” Jon said.

“I have. She told me to win something before I promised to introduce her.” His rueful smile drew a laugh from Robb. Rosamund heard her name and looked over; Alester lifted his cup to her and she shook her head, smiling.

Domeric returned to the tune he had played before. This time Robb sang the words he had learned at Winterfell. Jon beat the measure against his cup while Waymar tried to keep the Vale boys singing their own ending. Robb raised his voice, and Domeric kept playing until neither side could go on for laughing.

The fiddler by the hearth had other intentions. He tried a quicker measure while servants lifted the last cleared boards from their trestles. Myranda rose before the flute joined him.

“You may have your half a dance now,” she told Theon.

“I thought you promised me one.”

“You may have the other half if you keep off my feet.” She offered her hand, and he took it with a bow that would have satisfied Sansa.

Ysilla held out her hand to Jon. Near the hearth, Anya had caught Robb before he could follow Domeric and brought Jeyne Waynwood to him. She smoothed her granddaughter’s sleeve, said something that made Robb straighten, and waited until he offered his hand.

“Sansa has had you taught?” Ysilla asked as Jon took his place beside her.

“Sansa has had me corrected.”

“Then she is likely a good teacher.”

Robb turned the wrong way at the first change and recovered with a grin. Jeyne called something across the line that made Ysilla laugh. The figures carried Jon away from his partner and back, past Ser Edmund Waxley’s brown-haired daughter Alysanne and then Rosamund. Alester had persuaded Rowena to join him; Melesa Belmore waited at the edge, counting the steps before accepting a partner.

When the dance brought Jon back to Ysilla, he saw Anya watching Robb and Jeyne. “She has chosen his partner carefully.”

“And made certain Lady Catelyn’s uncle saw her do it.” Ysilla glanced towards Brynden, who stood near the dais speaking with Andar. “Jeyne likes your brother, though. She asked whether he would dance again before her grandmother went to find him.”

Robb was listening earnestly while Jeyne showed him the turn he had missed. Jon hoped their elders would give them the length of a song before deciding what it meant.

When they returned to the table for their cups, Jon told Ysilla that Sansa had asked whether the Royce ladies wore bronze in their hair.

“Sometimes.” She turned her head to show him the small beads among her brown hair. “Your sister has sent you with questions?”

“A page of them.”

“I should like to see it.”

He brought it out. Ysilla read the questions about gardens and sleeves, smiling, then called a page for parchment. Rowena came to look over her shoulder as she began describing the folded head-cloths worn by the older ladies. Soon they were disputing which colour was most admired in Gulltown.

“Write both,” Jon said. “She will choose the one she likes.”

“Then she must write and tell me.” Ysilla added her name at the foot of the page. “Will you ask her?”

“She will be pleased.”

Before he left them, Ysilla loosened a bronze bead from the end of her hair ribbon and put it into his hand. “For the question you did remember.”

Jon thanked her. Robb was trying another dance with Jeyne, his face hot and cheerful. Arthur had risen from the bench; Aries waited beside him with Jon’s cloak. Jon was gathering Ysilla’s note when Lady Anya stopped beside the table.

“You have made friends here, Lord Black.” Her gaze rested briefly on the bead in his palm.

“Lady Ysilla has been answering my sister’s questions.”

“Then Sansa will be sorry she missed us.” Anya drew her mantle closer as a servant opened the hall doors. “Does Lord Stark intend to choose a wife for you as well as advise you about your new seat?”

Jon closed his fingers over the bead. In his old life he had stood beside his grown children and listened to people ask questions very like that. He had not enjoyed it on their behalf. “My father’s counsel matters to me. The choice will be mine.”

Her brows lifted a little. “And has he spoken of anyone?”

“He has not.”

“You will find that other fathers have.” She let him see her smile. “Harry would like to write to you. I should be glad of it, provided you forgive a young man who sometimes needs reminding to answer.”

“I should like to hear from him.”

“Then I shall tell him so.” She inclined her head and went to collect her ward. Jon watched Harry listen to her, glance towards him and attempt to conceal his pleasure by finishing his wine.

Aries helped Jon into his cloak near the doors, with Arthur waiting beside them. Robb joined them, loosening the clasp at his throat. Behind him Theon was still looking back towards the dancers.

“Why does Alester not ask Lord Arryn for a place?” Robb said. “The Hand must have use for another knight. He could introduce him to half the lords in the realm.”

“Perhaps he has asked,” Jon said. “We have known him two days.”

“Then why should Hunter speak to him like that? He would never have said it to Lord Arryn.”

Theon turned from the hall. “Alester is one of the Gulltown Arryns, Robb. There is merchant blood mixed with all that noble falcon blood. You heard what he said about his grandmothers.”

“His father is rich.”

“Rich enough to lend Hunter silver, I daresay. That will not make Hunter forget where it came from.” Theon drew on one glove. “Unless he wants to borrow some more.”

Jon smiled at that. Robb did not. Beyond the doors, servants were carrying empty wine jars across the passage; Robb waited for them to pass before speaking again.

“The Arryn name ought to count for something.”

“It does,” Jon said. “He has been well taught, he can afford good horses, and men hear him out. But he wants a great lord to take him up and help him restore his family’s standing. That asks more than a place in a household.”

Robb glanced back into the hall. Alester had joined Rosamund and Hervey beside the emptied tables; he was laughing at something his sister had said.

“Why should that trouble anyone?”

“Your uncle told us Lord Arryn’s son is often ill.” Jon kept his voice low. “Imagine Yohn or Belmore taking Alester everywhere, praising his blood, speaking of what a fine knight an Arryn ought to be. Men would ask why they had chosen him.”

Theon’s hand slowed upon the glove. “And whether they were looking beyond the sick boy.”

“Harry comes after him,” Robb said. “We heard that at supper.”

“He does. Alester is a distant cousin; I am not saying he has a better claim.” Jon glanced towards the hall. “But a powerful lord making much of an ambitious Arryn would attract questions. The lord might prefer a young knight whose name gives him less to explain.”

“Alester wants to win tourneys.” Robb’s brow had drawn tight. “He has said nothing about the Eyrie.”

“I believe him. Other men may choose what they hear.”

Across the passage Brynden had stopped speaking to the steward. Jon caught the movement at once: the slight turn of his head, then the stillness as his eyes settled upon them. The Blackfish stood with his hand upon the back of an empty chair. Jon had seen that look on the practice field when Robb was about to make a mistake.

He met it briefly and turned back to his brother.

“He admires the main branch,” Jon continued. “He wants the same respect for his own. Winning here would give a lord a reason to choose him that everyone could see.”

“A good sword arm,” Theon said. “And his father paying for the horse. There are worse men to take into service.”

“Then someone ought to take him,” Robb said.

“Someone may. He has only just been knighted.” Jon fastened his cloak. “An introduction from the Hand could help. It would not make Hunter admire his grandmothers.”

Brynden crossed the passage. “My niece’s son may outlive every man in this hall.”

Theon lowered his hands. Robb turned towards his uncle. “We were speaking of Alester.”

“I heard.” The Blackfish’s eyes remained on Jon.

“I hope he does, ser,” Jon said. “Alester could still serve well.”

Brynden studied him for a moment. “Such talk travels farther than you intend, Lord Black.”

“I shall remember.”

The knight turned to Robb and reminded him of the early start. His voice softened when Robb asked whether he would come to the yard, but he offered Jon nothing more. As they went towards the stairs, Theon bent close enough for only Jon to hear.

“You saw him listening.”

“As soon as he turned.”

Theon looked back once. Arthur followed without speaking, his hand resting upon Dawn’s hilt.

Upstairs, Jon set the bronze bead beside Ysilla’s note and Sansa’s seal bag. He wrote briefly to Ethan about Grafton’s grain cargoes and Hunter’s sheep, then added the request for Gyles Grafton’s harness. Noll would need his own letter, and Mott another about the black finish. When Arthur shut the door, Jon set down the quill.

“Grafton speaks to you differently.”

Arthur sat on the edge of his bed. “He can speak of his brother without wondering whether I shall call Marq a traitor.”

Jon glanced at the unfinished letter. “Will he expect me to share his quarrel with Lord Arryn?”

“Perhaps. You need not answer a question he has not asked.” Arthur set Dawn beside the bed. “Deal fairly with him. But do not mistake his welcome to me for a promise to follow you.”

Jon nodded. Grafton had bargained hard over the harbour dues despite that welcome. He drew another sheet towards him and wrote Noll’s name at its head.

Outside, Gawen called Tomas over to the horse line. Jon waited for the voices to pass beneath the window, then drew his chair nearer Arthur.

“What did you make of Harry?”

“He was more interested in my sword than in what his guardian was saying.” Arthur’s smile faded. “I heard what Redfort said at supper.”

“He has been hearing it for years, I expect.” Jon turned the empty cup between his hands. “I wondered how much of his eagerness is his own, and how much has been put there.”

“Anya knows what men may want from him,” Arthur said. “She will watch those who come too close.” He regarded Jon for a moment. “Have you seen Harry holding the Eyrie, in one of your dreams?”

“No.” In the books Jon remembered, little Robert had still been alive. Harry’s inheritance was a possibility others meant to use, not an ending he had read. “I know where he stands in the succession. I intend to keep the acquaintance.”

“Anya will weigh it. To her you are Ned Stark’s son, with a castle and a growing fortune of your own.”

“Then she has reason to let us become friends.” Jon rested his forearms on his knees. “When I make my claim, I would rather the men of the Vale had more to judge me by than my name.”

Arthur nodded slowly. “Yohn invited you here. He has been asking about your men and your island. Spend some time with him as well.”

“I mean to. And Domeric knows the people I have yet to meet.” Jon rose to finish Sansa’s letter. “We have a few days left.”

“Has he said anything of returning to the Dreadfort?” Arthur asked.

“He expects to stay at Redfort a while longer. I asked him to write before he goes north.” Jon paused beside the table. “If he does, I want to know which road he takes.”

“We should keep him in company,” Arthur said.

“Aye.” Jon sat and drew the letter towards him.

Arthur lay down. Jon finished Sansa’s letter and packed it with the bead and Ysilla’s note. He left his gloves where Aries could find them and went to bed.