Chapter 52: Blades and Arrows

Jon woke to Hallis’s voice below the stair. The Stark guard was asking Tomas where their men were to eat; the first platters were already being carried across the court.

Munin had found his guest-room window before dawn. She stood on the sill with the broken stalk of a cherry in her beak, watching while he pulled on his hose. Hugin answered the men below with a rasping “Hold.” Hallis looked up.

“Tell your bird I have heard him, my lord.”

Jon tossed the crow a crumb from last night’s bread. “He wants breakfast.”

The castle had scarcely slept. Hammers sounded at the lists until midnight; below the east wall a drunk sang four lines until someone bought him another song. Jon had lain awake through both and dreamed, when sleep came, of a blue eye opening under ice and a dead ranger behind it. His back was stiff, his hand sore and his temper no better.

Arthur waited outside in mail, a cloak thrown over it. He glanced at Jon’s face. “You heard the singer.”

“Every verse.” Jon flexed his stiff fingers on the way to the practice yard. Aries followed with the leather bottle and his half-eaten bread.

Strong Sam, Runestone’s master-at-arms, was setting ash swords and round shields against the practice rail. Robar Royce was tightening the straps of his own shield. Behind him, grooms had abandoned two horses at the trough to peer over the stable doors; Andar sent them back to work, but their heads soon reappeared. News of Arthur’s practice had travelled faster than the breakfast platters.

Robb beckoned Jon to a place beside Gyles and Alester. Gawen’s friends held the wall, Pate with a cup of hot ale and Kennet balancing two. Farther off, Mychel stood beside his master, Ser Lyn Corbray. Lyn had brought Lady Forlorn, but no practice sword.

Arthur handed the sheathed Dawn to Gage and took the shield Sam offered.

“Three passes?” the old master asked.

“Three.”

Sam came at him before the word had quite left his mouth. The first blow cracked against Arthur’s shield; the next would have caught his knee, but Arthur was already outside its reach. His point touched Sam beneath the ribs. The old master glanced down, grunted, and stepped back to begin again.

Pate slapped Gawen’s shoulder and shouted encouragement. Sam shortened his next cut, drawing Arthur’s shield low before turning the stroke at his arm. The ash brushed Arthur’s sleeve as he pulled clear, and half the men at the rail cried out.

“A touch,” Robb called, leaning forward.

They drew apart for the last pass. Sam pressed forward again. Arthur let the next stroke pass his shoulder, stepped in before the old master could bring the sword back, and pressed his shield against Sam’s weapon arm. His own blade stopped beneath the bearded chin.

Sam lowered his sword, shaking his head. “I thought I had you that time.”

“You nearly did.”

Sam snorted. He stepped out of the ring, rubbing his shoulder, and beckoned Robar forward.

The younger Royce attacked hard, cutting high and then at Arthur’s legs. Arthur gave ground just far enough to let the second blow pass. When Robar raised his sword again, Arthur struck his glove and touched his breast before he could bring it down. Robar hissed, then caught Arthur’s blade on his shield and tried to strike over its rim. Arthur turned the cut aside.

“Good,” he said. “Again.”

Robar was breathing through his mouth by the time Sam called a halt. He lowered his sword and worked feeling back into his fingers, still watching Arthur’s hands. “Ride the joust. I should like to see whether I fare better with a lance.”

“You have already given me enough work this morning.” Arthur rested the shield against his leg.

“Perhaps the songs have made him cautious,” Lyn Corbray said.

Brynden came down the stairs. “Lord Royce asked for a practice, Corbray. You can let it proceed.” He took his place beside Robb, giving Arthur a short nod when the knight looked towards him.

Before Lyn could answer, Yohn entered carrying an ash sword. His grey hair was damp at the temples, and one boot still bore stable dust. He looked at Robar rubbing his hand and smiled.

“My turn, Dayne. You have had time to warm up.”

“Sam has had his three passes. You may have yours.”

Their first meeting broke Arthur’s sword above the guard. The crack rang across the yard. A jagged length of ash spun into the dirt near the rail, and Gage stepped in front of Jon before it stopped rolling.

Yohn lowered his sword. “Sam, I asked you to find the man a weapon.”

“I did, my lord. I did not ask you to split it.” Sam took the stump from Arthur and tested another blade across his knee. Andar arrived while he was choosing and told his father that the bacon was already on the table.

“It will keep.” Yohn held out his hand for a shield.

This time he began slowly. Jon watched the long sword move above the bronze lord’s shoulder, saw Arthur lift his guard to meet it. Yohn struck the shield instead, driving it against Arthur’s chest, and followed with a cut that forced him to give ground. He was a large man, but he recovered his blade quickly; Arthur had scarcely turned one blow before another came at his legs.

Arthur moved to his right. Yohn went with him, his shield barring the way. Arthur’s point slipped beneath its rim just as the Royce blade reached his shoulder.

“Both dead,” Brynden called.

Yohn looked from the point against his coat to Arthur’s face. His smile broadened. “Again.”

They drew apart. The grooms had come out from behind the stable doors now, and Andar no longer troubled to send them back. Gyles rested both hands on the rail. Beside him Alester had stopped whispering advice to Robb.

Yohn tried to catch Arthur as he advanced, thrusting at his face and turning the missed thrust into a cut. Arthur took it on his shield. The impact knocked a little cloud of dirt from the leather, but he stayed close, where Yohn could not use the full length of his arm. His sword came up between them and stopped against the older man’s ribs.

Yohn lowered his eyes to it. “I felt that one.”

Arthur drew back at once. “Too hard?”

“Not hard enough to save you the last pass.”

Yohn drove him towards the rail. Each time Arthur tried to move clear, the broad shield was there to meet him. Jon saw the wet strip of earth behind Arthur’s heel a moment before Yohn glanced at it. The bronze lord raised his sword, inviting Arthur to retreat before the blow.

Arthur went forward. His shield struck Yohn’s forearm before the cut gathered speed, and his shoulder followed, close enough to spoil the thrust that came after it. Yohn braced and shoved him away. Arthur turned with the shove, drawing his sword arm back as though to strike at the head.

Yohn lifted his shield. Arthur’s blade passed beneath it and stopped against his breast.

The yard burst into noise. Pate struck the wall with the heel of his cup, spilling ale over his hand. Yohn stood looking down at the ash point, his mouth open; then he began to laugh.

Strong Sam gave the pass to Arthur. Yohn called for another judge.

“The bacon,” Andar reminded him. This time his father let him take the shield.

Robb leaned towards Brynden. “Is he as good as you remember?”

The Blackfish kept his eyes upon Arthur. “He is.” Robb waited, and after a moment Brynden added, “Watch his feet next time. Lord Yohn wanted him to step back. He had already decided to go forward.”

Arthur heard and inclined his head. Brynden acknowledged him without a smile. When Jon came to the rail beside them, the Blackfish asked Robb whether he had eaten and led him towards the stair.

Aries had picked up the broken sword. He turned it carefully, keeping his fingers away from the split.

“May I keep it?” he asked Arthur.

“The edge will put a splinter through your hand.” Arthur held out his palm, but Aries hesitated.

“You fought with it.”

Arthur’s expression softened. He crouched beside the page and pointed to the sound wood below the break. “Ask Sam if he can spare that much.”

“I can smooth it for him,” Gawen said. Sam gave a grudging nod, and Aries surrendered his treasure to Gawen as though it were Dawn itself. He followed close behind him towards breakfast.

They ate porridge, smoked fish and soft cheese on the outer stair, Jon beside Robb, Arthur and Waymar. His spoon stood upright in the thick porridge.

“Father says you let him drive you back,” Waymar said.

“I did. He nearly caught me against the rail with it.” Arthur took a piece of fish.

“He will enjoy that part.” Waymar reached for the platter just as Robar took the last piece. “Leave some for those of us who have not eaten!”

Robar waved it without turning. Robb grinned and pushed his bread across.

Waymar watched Robar go. “He has done that since we were small. If I answer Father correctly, Robar says the question was too easy. If I answer poorly, he repeats it at supper.”

Robb scraped his bowl. “Jon remembers every poor answer I have given. He drew me falling off a horse and sent it to Sansa.”

“You said it tried to eat you,” Jon said. “I had to give it teeth.”

Waymar laughed. “You quarrel like full brothers.”

“We are brothers,” Robb said. His spoon had stopped halfway to his mouth.

Waymar nodded and followed Robb to fetch more fish. Jon watched them laughing together across the court. The death he remembered would not leave him alone. He would write after Runestone; for now, he could do that much.

* * *

The tournament field was already loud when they came down from the castle. Trumpets sounded beneath the Royce banner, their notes almost lost among the men calling wagers along the ropes. Ladies gathered their skirts to climb the gallery steps; below them, a serving girl edged through the crowd with a basket of hot pies, protecting it with her elbow. Jon caught the smell of pepper and warm pastry before a groom led a sweating destrier across their path.

Beyond the jousting barrier, the knights were gathering for the morning’s melee. Squires knelt to buckle greaves or stood on tiptoe to settle helms. Hervey Breakstone’s red hammer shone freshly painted upon his shield. Near him, Ser Corentin was tugging his old mail over a quilted coat while Mael held his helm and watched the gallery fill.

Their melee would open the games. Tomorrow the squires would have this field, and Jon would be looking out through his own helm at all those faces.

Gawen stopped to watch a groom fastening a shield. Sam caught him looking. “There is still time to enter.”

“And have you tell me I tired myself before the joust?” Gawen smiled. “I know that one.”

Arthur and Martyn had found places beside their charges. Neither carried a tournament weapon. Behind them, Aries craned between two household men until Gage lifted him onto the lowest rail, with Tomas’s permission and a warning to keep his feet still.

Near the horse lines, Jon found Alester Arryn tugging at a shield whose leather grip had torn loose. His squire held it steady while he tried to pull the ragged end through its buckle. Domeric came from the Redfort tent carrying his own shield.

“Take this. Mine can wait until tomorrow.”

Alester glanced towards the marshals. “I could have that mended.”

“You could. They are calling your name.” Domeric held it out, hiding a smile. Alester looked from the broken grip to the field, then gave up and took it.

“I shall pay for any damage.”

“Bring it back with you.” Domeric helped him settle the straps. “Preferably still on your arm.”

Alester laughed, and his squire hurried after him with the helm. Jon watched Domeric turn the damaged shield over and call to a passing Royce page and ask where he might find an armourer. He remembered the Dreadfort’s master-at-arms studying his camp. Whatever he would one day have to do about Roose Bolton, he wanted this young man alive.

Robb beckoned from the rope. Beside him stood a long-armed youth with sun-bleached brows and an anchor worked upon his riding coat. Gawen introduced him as Morvan Melcolm, Lord Melcolm’s second son. He was sixteen, and old needle holes showed where his sleeves had been lengthened.

“He wants to buy Ser Gawen’s mare,” Robb said.

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“I asked whether he would sell her.” Morvan grinned. “There is rather a difference when you have my purse.”

His elder brother would inherit Old Anchor. Morvan wanted horses: good mares first, then a stallion worth putting to them. He had one mare of his own and an opinion upon every horse that passed. When Gawen asked about her breeding, the young man’s face brightened. The horn interrupted his answer.

The herald called for silence. Lord Yohn’s melee would be fought on foot, every man for himself. A man who yielded or crossed the boundary was out; when only one remained, the prize was his. Sam walked past the waiting fighters with the horn in his hand, reminding a marshal to keep clear of the gate. Up in the gallery, Yohn raised his hand. The horn sounded.

Twenty-four men came together across the trampled grass. The first scattered blows became a clatter of steel upon steel and wood. Beside Jon, Aries gripped the rail and stretched up for a better look. A knight in a blue surcoat went down near the middle; the man beside him stepped over his legs and caught the next blow on his shield while he scrambled up. Elsewhere a raised hand brought a marshal running, his staff held out to make room for the beaten man to leave.

Lyn Corbray fought near the far side, easy to follow in his pale surcoat. Mychel waited outside with Lady Forlorn. The blade in Lyn’s hand was a blunt tournament sword, but Jon found himself watching it all the same.

Alester had joined Ser Hervey Breakstone, the broad young knight with the red hammer on his shield. They held together while a Waxley and Ser Mael of the Ford tried to force them apart. Hervey took the Waxley’s blow on his shield; Alester struck past his shoulder, but Mael caught the blow and struck at the gap between the two young knights. They drew closer together. Robb’s shout of approval was lost beneath Corentin calling to Mael from farther up the field.

“See?” Rosamund said, appearing at the rail. “He does remember to use the shield occasionally.”

Ysilla moved her folded cloak to make a place beside her. She caught Jon’s eye and smiled; when he joined her, their sleeves brushed at the rail. Farther along, two girls whispered behind their hands and laughed when he glanced towards them. Jon gave them a brief smile before turning back to the field.

Alester knocked Mael’s sword from his grip. The hedge knight snatched at it with his left hand, missed, and raised the empty palm to yield. Rosamund forgot her mockery and cheered with both hands cupped round her mouth.

Then Lyn reached them.

Hervey turned to meet him. Lyn’s first stroke rang against the red hammer; his second slipped beneath it and caught Hervey hard above the knee. The young knight staggered. Alester moved to cover him, but the Waxley pressed in from the other side. Their little partnership broke apart in three hurried steps.

“He has left Hervey alone,” Robb said.

“He had to turn,” Jon answered. “The other fellow was behind him.”

Brynden stood at Robb’s shoulder, his blue eyes following the men. “Now he must get back.”

Alester tried. He struck the Waxley’s shield aside and forced a passage, but Hervey was already kneeling with one hand raised. Lyn turned upon Alester. The Arryn met the first cut squarely; the second glanced from the top of his shield and rang against his helm. Rosamund’s shout broke off.

Alester struck back, driving Lyn half a step away. He tried to follow, but Lyn caught his sword against the shield and came in close. Their helms knocked together. Alester staggered, his heel tearing loose turf, and went down with the borrowed shield above his head.

“I yield!”

Lyn checked his sword and went on without a glance at the stands.

Corentin lasted longer. A Redfort knight drove him towards the boundary, but the old hedge knight ducked the next cut and came back under his shield. The Redfort went down. Corentin stood over him until he yielded, then offered his hand. From outside the rope, Mael shouted through both hands, forgetting his sore wrist until he lowered them.

Corentin saw Lyn coming and settled behind his shield. He turned the first cut, but his legs had grown slow. Lyn struck twice in quick succession, giving him no time to answer, then thrust at his face. Corentin stepped back and planted his heel beyond the boundary.

The marshal’s staff barred his return. He looked down, swore, and raised his sword in acknowledgement. Mael called to him from outside the rope, still nursing his wrist.

The field emptied by twos and threes. Sweat darkened the cloth beneath the remaining men’s mail. Robar Royce brought down the Waxley, then stumbled clear of the falling man and nearly lost his own footing. Waymar struck the rail with his palm, shouting for him to turn. Lyn was coming.

Robar saw him in time. Their swords met above the bronze shield, loud enough to draw a cry from the gallery. Lyn pressed him across the grass, but Robar halted suddenly and struck back. The blow glanced from Lyn’s helm. His head jerked, and the Royce men roared.

Only Robar and Lyn remained. The other bouts had stopped drawing cheers; men pressed against the ropes to see the last two. Robar followed his success with another cut at Lyn’s head. Lyn raised his shield and stepped into it, so close that Robar could not bring his sword back freely.

Lyn’s blade struck the Royce’s weapon arm. Robar twisted clear and tried to regain the distance, but Lyn followed. The next blow caught the same arm. Robar’s fingers opened, and the sword fell between their feet.

He raised his empty hand. “I yield.” Lyn checked the stroke he had already begun.

Sam’s horn sounded over the shouting. Robar stood breathing hard, then offered his sound hand. Lyn clasped it. When he pulled off his helm, blood showed at the corner of his mouth.

“He is smiling,” Aries said, very quietly.

Lyn wiped his lip with his thumb. His gaze moved along the crowded rail and stopped upon Arthur. The older knight watched him without expression. Jon remembered Arthur’s answer in their chamber the night before. Lyn held the stare until Mychel touched his elbow and reached for his shield.

Alester came back with grass in his hair and Domeric’s shield beneath his arm. Its paint bore three fresh white scars. He began an apology, but Domeric took it and asked whether he could still bend both knees. Rosamund made him demonstrate.

Jon and Robb went among the stalls with Gyles and Alester while the marshals cleared the field. Gage and two guards followed. Gyles lingered over illuminated histories until Robb called him to watch a mummer in a horse’s head chase a child. Whenever he stopped for cider, the child pulled his tail.

At a stall of carved bone, Jon chose a boat for Bran. Robb found a squat horse for Arya, with its ears flattened back and its teeth showing. There were ribbons for Sansa, a rattle for Rickon, and a comb carved with little flowers which Robb bought for his mother. He kept looking through its wrapping as they walked, trying to judge whether she would like it.

At the archery call they turned towards the butts. Theon was already at the rope, studying the wind.

* * *

The butts stood beyond the gallery, facing the sea. Here the crowd spread out along a single rope, with no horses to block the view. Boys offered copper pennies on their fathers’ shooting; a woman with a basket of pies loudly refused every wager laid against her husband. He was the one-eyed fletcher, an unhurried man who checked each shaft between finger and thumb before laying it beside his bow.

Theon paced behind the shooting line. The gallery sheltered him from some of the wind, but the streamers beside the distant targets kept lifting towards the right. He watched where the other men’s arrows struck, then stooped to let a handful of grass fall through his fingers. For once he left the wind to spoil his careful hair.

Robb called for him to shoot before they all grew old. Theon ignored him. Beneath his bracer showed the black scrap Wylla had cut from a saddle roll in White Harbor; he had kept it after the repair.

His first shaft struck the inner red. Grey cloaks cheered. Some of the Vale men joined them, then fell quiet when the herald called his name. Theon heard the change. He reached for his next arrow with his usual smile.

“Again,” Robb called, louder than before.

The second went wide to the right. Theon waited for the streamer to fall, adjusted his aim, and put the third beside his first.

When the judges had walked the targets, five men were called to the farther mark: Theon, Waymar, Kennet, the fletcher and a Hunter man in a brown coat. The line went back to a hundred and twenty paces. Each would have two arrows; the two men whose best shots lay nearest the centre would shoot once more for the prize.

Kennet put his first into the red, but his second fell farther out. Waymar’s arrows struck close together, both well to the right of the centre. The Hunter did better. His companions began to shout, only for the fletcher to plant a shaft inside his. Behind Jon, a man cursed softly and passed a penny to his neighbour.

Theon’s first went low. Robb opened his mouth, then closed it. Theon stood with the next arrow resting against the string, watching the streamer beside his target. When he drew again, he held only a moment before releasing.

The arrow struck close to the centre. Jon could not judge how close from the rope, and neither could the men around him. They waited while the judges went out again. The fletcher’s wife tried to sell Brynden a pie. He bought it without taking his eyes off the targets.

At last the marshal called the fletcher and Theon forward. The others unstrung their bows. Kennet came back to the rope rubbing his shoulder, and Gawen made room for him beside Pate.

The fletcher shot first. His arrow struck in the red. He watched the shaft quiver, then looked towards Theon, his mouth set beneath his beard.

Theon raised his bow and lowered it again. The breeze touched Jon’s cheek, scarcely enough to stir his hair. Out by the butts, the streamer lifted almost straight. Theon waited until it sagged, then drew, aiming a little to the left of the mark.

No one at the rope spoke. The string snapped forward. His arrow struck, and the fletcher leaned to see past him.

The marshal went down the field with another man beside him. They laid a short cord against the painted centres, compared the two shafts, and bent to look again. Theon stood with his bow loose in his hand. Only the fingers of the other hand moved, rubbing slowly against his thumb.

“Greyjoy!” The marshal’s shout carried back to them. “By a finger’s breadth!”

Robb was the first to cheer. Grey cloaks answered him, then the black household and the crowded gallery. Jon caught Theon by the shoulder as he came off the line. His grin was broad and unguarded for once; it changed when he looked up towards the lords. Grafton was clapping, but without a smile. Men of Gulltown had died on Pyke. Jon doubted a well-shot arrow would make him forget them.

The fletcher returned from examining the butts and bowed. “Fine shooting, my lord. You judged that wind better than I did.” His wife had come to his side with the basket. He took a pie and offered it to Theon, smiling despite the loss.

“One for Robb as well. It may keep him quiet until supper.” Theon paid for two. Yohn’s prize was a fine yew bow with polished horn tips, and a brooch shaped like a silver gull. Theon tested the bow’s draw before sparing the bird a glance.

Myranda called that the gull sat crooked on his cloak. He set it straight and bowed to her, still holding his new bow. She applauded, and he looked more pleased than he had at the judges’ decision.

At midday the household crowded three tables under the black awning, trading accounts of the morning over bread and onion stew. Gage had found a smith for his loose shield rim. Olyver’s spiced wine tasted chiefly of water; the cook poured some into the stew while he complained of the price.

Davie brought a red paper bird from a mummer. While Murdo searched for the thread that moved its wings, Pate began drumming his spoon against the table. Jon turned at the sound, expecting Struan’s grin. The sight of Pate stopped him. His own spoon lay untouched beside his bowl.

“My lord?” Gage asked.

“Eat.” It came out sharply enough to silence Pate’s drumming. Jon drew a breath and looked back at Gage. “Forgive me. It was the spoon.”

Gage glanced along the table. His mouth tightened, then eased. “Struan did that every bloody meal. I used to threaten to feed it to him.”

Pate laid his spoon down. Tomas moved the bread within Jon’s reach. For a little while the noise of the other cookfires seemed very loud.

“Finnan would have wagered on Robar,” Olyver said at last. “If the odds were good.”

“He would have lost,” Gage said.

“Aye. Then he would have borrowed from Keir.”

Rylas smiled down at his bowl. “And Struan would have paid before Keir could refuse him.”

Rylas swallowed and looked away. Jon reached for the bread. He could hear all three of them in the argument, so plainly that he had to swallow before taking a bite. Olyver looked down into his bowl, rubbing at his nose. Then Davie asked for more stew, and Gage reached for the pot.

* * *

By evening cookfires shone between the pavilions. Lady Anya stood beneath Lord Redfort’s awning, speaking to him while a page held a lantern over a letter. Jon passed them on his way to the fire, where Domeric was tuning his harp. Robb and Theon had found stools beside Mychel. Artys Elesham sat with a cup held between his knees; Morvan Melcolm was cutting a bruised part from an apple with his belt knife. Gyles brought a stool to sit beside Robb. Alester followed, flexing his sword hand. He said it would feel better if everyone stopped reminding him of his fall.

Harry occupied two stools until Waymar lifted his cloak off the spare one and sat down.

“I was keeping that clean,” Harry said.

“Then wear it.”

Mychel sharpened a quill while they discussed the squires’ melee. He had watched the other boys practise and knew which struck hardest, which tired quickly and which kept looking towards the gallery.

“You have watched us too?” Robb asked.

Mychel smiled. “You and Jon always look for each other.”

“We fight well together,” Robb said.

“Then I shall try to keep you apart.”

Harry drew a silver stag from his purse and held it up to the firelight. “I will wager this that I last longer than you tomorrow, Jon.”

“You had better bring a shield as well,” Robb said. “He hits harder than you think.”

“I have seen him practise.” Harry rolled the coin across his fingers. “Though a stag is nothing to you, is it? Not with all those clocks selling.”

Jon set down his cup and took a gold dragon from his purse. He held it where the fire caught the king’s stamped face. “Then a dragon.”

Morvan stopped cutting his apple. Harry’s eyes flicked past Jon towards Lady Anya. She was still reading Lord Redfort’s letter, her head bent beneath the lantern. Harry looked back before she could raise it. His smile returned, wider than before, and he lifted his chin.

“A dragon, then. Have it ready. I would hate to send to your clockmaker for my winnings.”

“To whichever of us stays in the field longer,” Jon said.

“I heard you the first time.” Harry put the stag away with a careless snap of his purse strings. Theon pointed at him with the foot of his cup.

“So did we. You cannot claim afterwards that you meant Robb.”

“You will see me collect it.”

“He might,” Waymar told Jon. “You will have more than Harry to think about.”

“So will he.” Jon looked towards Mychel. The Redfort squire had stopped trimming his quill to listen, a small smile at one corner of his mouth.

“I shall aim for whichever of you is looking for the other,” Mychel said.

Artys shook his head when Morvan offered him a share of a wager on the winner. “My uncle would ask where the money had gone.”

“Tell him you were badly advised.” Morvan resumed cutting his apple. Harry laughed with the others, though he kept his back towards the light beneath Lord Redfort’s awning.

“Have you chosen a winner?” Theon asked Mychel.

“No.”

“I have,” Harry said.

“Yourself?”

Harry spread his hands. Theon leaned back on his stool. “Then I shall wager elsewhere.”

Waymar said Harry ought to have entered the men’s melee if he was so certain of himself. Harry asked why Waymar had not offered to take his brother’s place against Corbray. They were still arguing when Domeric began to play.

He chose the Vale air they had sung at the feast. Robb came in with the northern ending, and Waymar sang over him. On the next refrain each gave up a word until they had made a version none of them had heard before. Davie listened from beside the nearest tent, his broken paper bird in his lap.

Theon stretched his legs towards the fire. He had taken the silver gull off his cloak and was turning it between his fingers.

“Come down to the wine tents,” he said. “There is a widow who knows better songs than Bolton, and not one of her knights keeps his vows.”

Domeric picked another soft chord. “Perhaps she has met too many of your friends.”

Robb laughed. Theon reached for the cloak he had left on his stool.

“Come, then. Before the respectable men drink it all.”

“Tell Martyn where you are going,” Jon said.

Theon’s hand stopped. “Martyn has told me I must ask his leave.”

“Then why ask us before him?”

“Because I hoped to find companions, not another pair of guards.” He drew his cloak from the stool. “You have a castle to ride to when your father offends you. I have to explain why I should like a cup of ale.”

Robb looked up sharply. “He is responsible for us. It is not meant as an insult.”

“Easy enough to say when he must one day call you lord.”

Jon put down his cup. “I shall stay here. Robb can speak for himself.”

Theon’s smile returned, too bright. “Gods forbid I should tempt Lord Black into wickedness. He might charge me for the lesson.”

Domeric let the last note die rather than play over them. For a moment they could hear nothing but the fire and a distant cheer from the lists.

Then Robb stood. “I will ask Martyn. If he gives us leave, you can tell us how you intend to charm a woman who hears a hundred better lies a day.”

“Practice,” Theon said. “I have spent years listening to yours.”

Martyn allowed an hour with Hallis and another guard. Theon accepted, ostentatiously offering Hallis the place of honour. Arthur joined Jon at the fire as they left. Robb turned to promise he would be back in time; Theon drew him onwards.

When Hallis brought them back, the logs had collapsed to coals. Edd Tollett passed the fire carrying his brother’s helm. He stopped when Jon called to him, bowed, and waited beyond the circle of stools until Jon beckoned him nearer.

“Did you see the archery?” Jon asked.

“The last few arrows, my lord. Ser Hugh needed his mail cleaned.”

“Did the armourer mend that strap?”

Edd turned the helm to show the fresh leather. “Yes, my lord. Hugh complained of the price until the man threatened to put the old one back.” He glanced towards Gawen before adding, “My brother asks whether Ser Arthur will be in the yard again tomorrow.”

“Lord Jon fights in the squires’ melee,” Gawen said. “Ser Arthur will be with him.”

“I shall tell him, ser.” Edd bowed again. As he went, he stooped to pick up Davie’s paper bird from beside the fire and set it safely on the vacant stool.

Harry left for Anya’s rise, Mychel for Lyn’s pavilion and Domeric for the Redforts. Waymar stayed until Robar called from the wall. “You will not find an easy opening tomorrow,” he told Jon.

“I shall keep looking.”

Waymar grinned and went to his brother. Back beneath black canvas, Jon tried on the helm his leatherworker had been adjusting. The new chin strap fitted closely without pulling against his throat. He set it beside his bed and picked up the blunted field sword.

“Mychel has been watching us,” he told Arthur. “He will wait for the others to tire.”

“He is well taught.”

“So are we.” Jon turned the sword in his hand, satisfied with its balance, and laid it down.

Arthur looked towards the grey tents, where Robb was still laughing with Theon. “Keep your shield up when you go to help him.”

Jon smiled. Outside, Olyver was still asking after the wine seller, and Tomas and Alasdair were making their last round of the tents. Jon lay down while Arthur lowered the flap. Sleep came slowly, but this time he did not dream of the forest.