Chapter 53: The Cost of One Fall

The camp was waking when Aries spread a clean cloth beneath Jon’s armour. Beyond the canvas, a horse struck its manger with one impatient hoof. Men called for water, and from the castle came the faint, uneven piping of musicians trying a tune. Bracken had been fed; Patch lay tethered beneath the wagon, gnawing a bone. When Aries lifted the tent flap, morning light caught the helmets laid out along the horse rail. Above them the household’s black banner stirred in the sea wind.

Arthur held the black breastplate in place while Aries fastened it over Jon’s quilted coat. The page had laid every piece upon the cloth in the order Gawen had taught him, but his fingers kept slipping at the buckle beneath Jon’s arm. Arthur steadied the strap without taking it from him.

“There. Draw it through.”

Aries obeyed. He glanced up at Jon, then back at the buckle. “Are you frightened, my lord?”

“A little.” Jon raised his arm so the boy could reach more easily. “All men feel fear, Aries.”

The page stopped working. “But what of brave men?”

“They feel it too. Bravery is being afraid and still doing what you know you must.” Jon waited until Aries met his eyes. “You master the fear as best you can. You need not pretend it is not there.”

Arthur checked the fastening, his expression thoughtful. “Your lord has the right of it. I have gone into battle afraid.”

Aries stared at him. “You, ser?”

“More than once.” Arthur spoke without a smile. “It did not keep me from my duty.”

For a moment the boy looked from one of them to the other. Then he nodded and reached for the next strap. His hands were steadier now. Jon let him finish before bending his knees and raising both arms. The shoulder plates moved freely, silver-grey mail showing between them. He had practised in the harness until he could forget its weight. This morning he kept noticing it.

He tested the shield grip and made a short cut with the blunted sword, then sent Aries to eat with Gawen. Arthur took up the helm. Outside, Waymar was laughing at something Robb had said.

Jon waited until the page had gone. “Waymar may take the black. I have dreamed of him dying in a wood beyond the Wall.”

Arthur put the helm down and drew the canvas flap shut. “What do you mean to do?”

Jon could still recall the broken sword and the blue eyes from the opening of the first book. He had read those pages in another life, scarcely troubled by the death of a proud young knight. Now he knew how Waymar laughed, and how readily he quarrelled with his brothers.

“Offer him a place, if I find work for him on Dragonstone. He has asked me to write.” Jon tightened his glove. “I cannot tell whether that saves him. I want him to have another choice.”

“Then make the offer.” Arthur settled the helm and fastened its new chin strap. When they came out, Robb was attempting to eat bread while Martyn tied his vambrace. Theon sat on the rail with his archery prize, the silver gull, fastened at his throat.

“Your helm makes you look nine,” Theon said.

“Come and try it on. We shall see whether it improves you.”

Robb laughed around a mouthful of bread. Brynden took the heel from his sword hand and put it into the other so Martyn could finish fastening the vambrace.

Jon took off the helm to eat the heel of bread Arthur offered him, still warm beneath its coating of dripping. Robb was disputing which of them Harry would attack first. Farther down the lane, a herald called the squires to the field; servants carrying cushions and wine jars hurried past the awning, followed by children running to find places near the ropes. Jon swallowed the last bite as Tomas came for them.

* * *

The way to the field passed between pavilions bright with morning dew. At the larger tents, squires knelt to buckle greaves while their masters drank or watched the boys going by. Beyond the horse lines a hedge knight was shaving with a knife in the polished back of his shield. He paused with his chin lifted when Arthur passed, then called good fortune to Jon.

The galleries were filling. Royce men held a passage open beneath the principal canopy, where Yohn’s guests were taking their seats; along the far rope, townsfolk stood four deep behind the servants and grooms who had come early. A pedlar held up a tray of little painted knights, loudly promising that his black one would win. Jon smiled at that until he saw the long white sword resting against its shoulder. The knight was meant for Arthur.

Aries took Jon’s cloak and helm near the entrance. Ysilla was coming down from the castle with a little company of young women, her bronze skirts lifted clear of the mud. She saw him and said something to Myranda, who looked across at once. The girls altered their course.

Theon slid off the rail. His fingers went to the silver gull at his throat.

“Lord Black.” Ysilla stopped before Jon. The breeze had loosened a strand of brown hair against her cheek, but she left it there. She was holding a narrow length of bronze silk. “Will you wear my favour today?”

Behind her, Rowena Grafton exchanged a quick glance with Rosamund Arryn. Jon saw them trying not to smile.

“With pleasure, my lady.” He offered his arm. Sansa’s grey-blue direwolf was already fastened above the elbow. Ysilla laid her ribbon beside it, leaving the little wolf uncovered.

She drew the silk taut against the dark plate, her mouth set in concentration as she tied it. Jon held still until she looked up. He bowed his head to her, and the small smile she had been trying to contain came plainly into her face.

“There. Now you must do well.”

“I intend to.”

Rowena had unwound a red ribbon from her wrist. “Ysilla cannot have all the luck. Will you carry mine as well?”

“And mine?” Rosamund asked. She had a pale green ribbon folded in her hand. “If there is still room.”

Jon laughed and held out his other arm. Rowena moved close to tie hers while Rosamund waited beside her, answering Myranda’s murmured remark with a shake of her head. Ysilla stepped back to let them, though her eyes followed Jon’s face when he thanked each of them.

“I won a contest yesterday,” Theon said. “He has not won anything yet.”

“We know you won,” Robb told him. “You have scarcely spoken of anything else.”

The girls laughed. Theon gave Robb a wounded look. “I am surprised you find it so amusing. They walked straight past you as well.”

“Not all of us.” Jeyne Waynwood had come round Myranda with a folded strip of silk in her hands. She looked at Robb rather than Theon. “May I?”

Robb’s grin faded into a look of startled pleasure. “Of course, my lady.”

He offered the wrong arm first, then moved his shield so she could reach the other. Theon’s expression brightened considerably. Jon caught his brother’s eye over Jeyne’s bent head and raised one eyebrow. Robb gave him a look that promised a reckoning.

“You had better win now,” Robb said when Jeyne had finished. He nodded at Jon’s ribbons. “There will be a great many disappointed ladies if you do not.”

“You may help me by yielding quickly.”

“You can ask when you have caught me.” Robb was smiling again. Beside him, Theon looked from one decorated arm to the other and spread his empty hands.

Myranda caught one of them. “Come. Your contest was yesterday. You may help me find a seat.”

Theon bowed over her hand, recovering his dignity with an effort that made Rowena laugh again. They went towards the gallery together. Ysilla lingered long enough to wish Jon good fortune in a quieter voice, then followed her companions up the steps. Halfway up she looked back. Jon was still watching; this time she smiled without lowering her eyes.

“Lord Black. Lord Robb.” Strong Sam’s call brought them round. Runestone’s master-at-arms stood beside the entrance with his horn beneath one arm. “Your swords, if you please.”

His men inspected the sixteen entrants’ swords, shields and helms. The white boundary had been marked afresh inside the ropes. Beyond it Maester Helliweg waited with his helpers, folded canvas and splints laid ready beside their tent.

Jon raised his arms for the inspection. Sunlight moved across Mott’s breastplate, drawing a smoky sheen from the black surface. It seemed almost glassy when he turned, then darkened again. The knights nearest the entrance stopped talking. One leaned across the rail to follow the movement of the overlapping plates.

“There,” Grafton said to Yohn from the high rail. “The finish I told you of.”

A knight beside him leaned forward. “Enamel?”

“Dragonglass worked into the finish,” Jon answered. He raised his shield for the marshal, the overlapping plates moving with his arm. “Tobho Mott made it.”

“To the boy’s drawings,” Grafton added.

The knight looked from the armour to Jon’s face. “Yours?”

“Some of them. Master Mott sent the others back with objections.”

Grafton chuckled. Jon heard him telling his neighbour that he meant to have a suit made for Gyles. Above their heads, the Royce standard cracked in a gust, and the cloth along the front of the gallery lifted to reveal a row of boots and embroidered hems. Ysilla had found a place near the front with Rowena and Rosamund beside her. Jon raised his arm to them before Arthur settled his helm and fastened the chin strap.

Arthur pressed the shield once to test Jon’s grip, then leaned close enough that only Jon could hear. “Make them fight at your pace.” He met Jon’s eyes through the raised visor and gave him one firm nod. Jon lowered the visor and turned towards the field.

Beside them, Brynden stopped Robb with a hand against his chest. His eyes travelled from the helm to the shield, then down to Robb’s feet. He tapped the toe of Robb’s forward boot with his own. Robb drew it back a little, settling his weight, and looked up. The Blackfish gave a small, approving nod. His hand closed firmly upon his great-nephew’s shoulder; the stern mouth softened, and Robb’s answering smile lost its teasing edge.

The herald called their names as they passed through the gate. Robb received a great shout from the Stark men. Then came “Jon Black, Lord of Dragonstone!” and the household answered so loudly that heads turned all along the gallery. Tomas stood beneath the sable banner with Gawen beside him. For a moment Jon saw his men as strangers here must see them: black cloaks among the Vale’s bright colours, young faces waiting for him to look their way. He lifted his sword. The answering cheer followed him onto the grass.

Sam raised his horn. “Yield, or cross the boundary, and you are out. Last man standing wins. One blast to begin. Two to hold. Three to stop and clear the ground. No blows at a fallen man. If a helm comes off, give him room.”

The boys answered that they understood. Jon and Robb were among the youngest; most of their opponents had longer arms and another two or three years of growth. Robb rolled his broad shoulders beneath his mail. Farther down the line, Mychel Redfort asked for another field sword; the grip of his first shifted under his hand. The weapons man exchanged it and set the faulty blade aside.

At the rail, Martyn wished Robb luck while Tomas sent Olyver and Jorren back to their places. Their argument over the wagers was growing louder. Theon had found a seat beside Myranda; he cupped his hands and called something Jon could not catch through the helm. Robb evidently heard it. He turned and made a rude gesture low behind his shield.

Across the field Robar fastened Waymar’s shield, bending close to hear his brother through the bars. Waymar raised his chin impatiently. Bronze Yohn watched from the high rail. Near Mychel stood Domeric Bolton, testing the grip of the shield Alester had borrowed yesterday; three white scars crossed its painted face. Mychel said something that made him laugh. Then Lyn Corbray came to the rail, Lady Forlorn at his hip, and his squire straightened.

Robb touched shield rims with Jon. “Harry will come for us, unless Waymar reaches us first.”

“Harry wants his dragon.” Jon glanced towards the blue-and-white falcon on Harry’s shield. “Let him come. We shall see how eager he is to collect it.”

Robb lowered his voice. “Stay close if you can.”

“If I can.” Jon settled his feet. The first horn sounded.

The horn was swallowed by the first clash. Men shouted from every side of the field, and the nearer voices came strangely hollow through Jon’s helm. A sword struck his shield hard enough to drive its rim against his chin. He braced, caught a glimpse of Morvan Melcolm reaching past the attacker’s shoulder, and knew what the two older boys intended. They were going to crowd him off the field.

“Left!” Robb struck Morvan’s shield before the Old Anchor boy could turn it. Jon yielded a step to the other youth, a Shett, who followed with a broad cut meant to drive him farther. Jon slipped to his sword side. The blade swept past; his own struck beneath the raised arm while the boy was still turning. Shett’s heel crossed the white line. The marshal called him out, and the shouting beyond the ropes rose sharply.

Morvan pressed Robb towards the boundary. Robb caught the next cut on his shield, planted his feet and drove forward. The older boy tried to brace against him, but Robb kept coming. Morvan crossed the line backwards and nearly sat upon the rope. Robb caught his elbow before he fell.

“I should have brought the horse,” Morvan said, shaking his head. Theon cheered from the rail.

Robb came back towards Jon grinning through the bars of his helm. They met near the centre as the fighting closed around them. A blade glanced from Robb’s shield; Jon caught the arm behind it with a short, hard cut. The attacker fell back into another boy, and Robb drove them apart with his shoulder. They had done this upon wet grass at home, with Martyn calling corrections and Arthur waiting to punish the smallest opening. Here every blow brought a roar from beyond the ropes.

Harry found them there. He came behind a Waynwood boy and struck sharply at Robb’s shield, drawing him away. Jon kept the Waynwood occupied. The older youth was strong, but each time he raised his sword Jon was already moving. He struck the exposed wrist, caught the boy’s shield with his own and drove him across the boundary.

A blade scraped Jon’s right shoulder plate as he turned back. He moved with the blow, heard steel grate against steel beside his ear, and found the Hunter youth pressing after it. The boy tried to use his greater reach. Jon stepped close enough to spoil the next cut, struck his shield aside and made him retreat. A Coldwater boy came between them before he could follow.

A pale scrape marked the black finish. The steel beneath had held. Jon had a moment to be grateful to Mott before the Coldwater came at him.

Across the field, Mychel entered each fight when a shield turned, struck once and went away before the answer. Artys Elesham followed him so intently that he crossed the line without Mychel needing to push him. The heir to the Paps looked down at his boot, bowed to the marshal and left with his face red beneath the helm.

Waymar drove straight at his opponents, forcing them to meet him. A Belmore boy rushed in shouting; Waymar slipped aside, hooked the shield and put him on both knees. He waited for the boy to yield, hauled him up and turned into the next blow.

Jon sent the Coldwater backwards with two quick strokes. Somewhere beyond his left shoulder Harry called, “Hold still, Stark!”

“Give me a reason!” Robb answered. Steel rang against a shield, followed by a shout of laughter from the rail. Then three horn blasts tore across the field.

Jon lowered his sword on the second. Around him half the boys still moved.

“Stop!” Strong Sam roared. Edd’s cousin Andrew Tollett had gone down in the thickest knot. His helm had turned until the eye slit faced his shoulder. One boy tripped over him. Another stepped backwards, iron heel lifting above the hidden neck.

“Behind you!” Jon shouted. The boy heard only a voice. Waymar saw the foot.

He caught the retreating fighter by the belt and flung him aside. The effort pulled Waymar down as well. His face struck the inside of his helm when he hit the ground; a late sword blow caught his shoulder. He covered his head, rolled free and came up without a weapon, spitting blood through the bars.

“Three horns!” he screamed. “Are you deaf? Stop!” The field obeyed him before it obeyed the gallery.

Strong Sam and two marshals drove everyone back. Helliweg cut Andrew’s chin strap and lifted the helm without turning the head. The boy’s uncle, a stout Tollett knight from the main household at the Grey Glen, fought the rope until Sam barred him with one arm. “Let me through. He is my sister’s son.”

“Wait.” Sam held him back while Helliweg bent over the boy. Silence spread from the rope to the high seats. Somewhere beyond the tents a horse stamped twice.

Then the boy coughed. His uncle’s knees nearly failed. The cough came wet. Helliweg turned Andrew upon his side and cleared blood and a broken tooth from his mouth.

“Canvas,” he ordered. “Four corners. You, lad. Take that one.”

Edd had come through the gate behind the helpers. He knelt where Helliweg pointed and closed both hands on the canvas. His face had gone pale, but he lifted steadily when the maester gave the word and went with them towards the tent.

Strong Sam walked among the remaining entrants. “Who swung after the third horn?”

A Templeton squire looked at the ground. Sam took his sword and sent him out. Then he waited until every remaining boy was looking at him.

“When the horn sounds, you stop. All of you.”

They nodded. Marshals carried away the loose weapons and broken shield pieces before Sam allowed anyone to take his place. Harry picked up Waymar’s fallen sword and brought it to him hilt-first. “Here.”

Waymar took it and tried his shield arm. He winced, raised it again, and nodded when Sam questioned him. Harry glanced towards the gate, where Andrew’s uncle was following the canvas, then went back to his place.

When Sam sounded the horn again, the boys moved cautiously. Harry gave ground before Robb, offering him a gap beneath his shield. Robb checked his advance. The blow Harry had meant to catch him with fell short, and Robb’s answer sent him stumbling back. Brynden struck the rail once in approval.

Mychel came for Jon while his head was turned. Jon heard the rush of boots, caught the sword on his shield and answered with a cut that drove the Redfort squire back upon his heels. Mychel retreated between two other fighters. The Hunter boy took his place.

The long sword came down at Jon’s head. He turned it aside and struck the boy’s breast before the blade could rise again. The Hunter staggered. Jon followed, his point level with the opening beneath the helm. “Yield.” The boy did. Jon lowered the sword and let him pass.

The Coldwater was waiting when Jon turned. Jon beat his sword aside and closed before he could bring it back, driving him over the white line with a crash of shields. Nearby, the squire with the split shield yielded to Waymar. Six remained, spread across the churned grass.

Mychel tried to draw Domeric forward with a high feint. The Bolton boy stayed where he was. When Mychel changed his stroke, Domeric was ready: he turned the blade, stepped in and struck the breast beneath it. Mychel staggered. Before he could recover, Domeric’s point was waiting beneath his chin.

“I yield.” Mychel lowered his sword, then gave Domeric a rueful clap upon the shoulder. As he left the field, Jon saw Lyn take his hand from Lady Forlorn’s pommel. He said nothing to his squire.

Harry came for Jon with his shield high. He was breathing hard, but his sword hand was steady. “Still have my dragon?”

“Come and take it.” Jon settled his shield. Beyond Harry’s shoulder, Robb and Domeric were closing upon one another.

Jon gave him room to begin. Harry struck at his head, recovered and came again, the falcon upon his shield rising with the blow. Jon met the first cut and stepped away from the second. Harry followed more quickly, determined not to let him escape.

The third stroke was the one Jon wanted. He moved as Harry committed to it. The blade passed his shoulder, and Jon’s sword came down upon the arm extended after it. Harry’s grip opened. His sword struck the turf before he could recover, and Jon was beside him with his point beneath the edge of the falcon shield.

Harry stared at the empty hand, then at Jon. A flush showed through the bars of his helm. “I yield.”

Jon stepped away. Harry retrieved his sword and ducked beneath the rope. Tomas raised his fist, and the household answered with a roar, sword hilts hammering against shields. Aries was at the rail beside Gawen, jumping to see over the men in front. “Lord Jon!” His high voice broke through the deeper shouting. “Come on, Lord Jon!”

Robb and Domeric’s swords struck together a few paces away. Domeric turned the heavier stroke and tried to slip past Robb’s shield. Robb moved with him. Their shoulders met; for a moment they strained together, boots tearing the turf. Then Robb straightened his legs and drove him back. Domeric tried to break clear, but Robb’s next cut knocked his blade wide. The blunted point stopped against the Bolton boy’s breast.

“Yield,” Robb said, breathing hard.

“I yield.” Domeric let his shield fall. “No horse to blame this time.”

“You blamed the saddle.”

“It was a poor saddle.” Domeric’s laugh came faintly through his helm. He tapped Robb’s shoulder with his fist and went towards Lord Redfort, who was waiting at the rope. The old lord clasped the back of his neck as he ducked through.

Waymar was coming towards Jon. Above the bars of his helm his grey eyes were fixed and bright. He had his shield high again, and Jon could see the fresh blood upon his lower lip.

“You promised me a fight,” Waymar said.

“I thought you promised me one.”

The first stroke came before Jon had finished answering. Waymar’s blade rang against the top of his shield; the second swept low, fast enough to make Jon spring back. The Royce men cheered. Waymar followed with a thrust, trying to catch him before he had found his footing. Jon turned it past his hip and struck the exposed ribs as he went by.

Waymar wheeled after him. His answering cut swept through the space Jon had left. Jon was already close, pressing Waymar’s sword arm outwards with his shield while his own blade came across the unguarded breast. Waymar stumbled back a step. Jon followed, stopping his point at the hollow beneath the helm before the shield could come between them.

For a heartbeat Waymar stood rigid. Then his shoulders sank. “I yield.”

Jon drew back. Waymar caught his forearm briefly, hard enough for Jon to feel it through the glove, and went to his brothers. Robar held the rope for him. Along the gallery people were rising from their seats, looking from Jon to the far side of the field.

Robb stood alone, his sword lowered. Mud streaked the direwolf upon his shield. Beneath his visor Jon could see the breadth of his grin.

“Well,” Robb said. “There you are.”

“I have been here all morning.”

Two blasts of Sam’s horn held them apart. A marshal hurried in to collect the split shield and a sword left near the boundary. The noise beyond the ropes kept swelling. Men at the wine stalls turned to ask what had happened; someone shouted the answer, and they came running back with their cups.

“Both Ned Stark’s sons,” Yohn said. He had risen at the high rail, one great hand spread upon the wood. “He should have come south to see this.”

Jory Cassel heard him. He lifted his fist, and “Winterfell!” rang out from the grey cloaks. Jon’s household took it up beneath their black banner. The two standards strained in the same wind above them while the herald called Robb’s name and then his own. Jon looked across the open ground at his brother. They had been boys with wooden swords in the yard beneath the broken tower. Now the lords of the Vale stood to watch them decide a tourney.

Robb raised his sword in salute. Jon answered. At the gallery rail, Jeyne Waynwood was calling something to Robb; beside her Ysilla had clasped her hands so tightly that the knuckles showed white. Jon caught one glimpse of Arthur, still beside the gate, before he faced his brother again.

“You could yield now,” Robb said. “Spare your fine armour.”

“And let you tell Bran?”

“I would tell everyone.”

The horn sounded. Robb came in hard.

His first stroke boomed against Jon’s shield. The second forced Jon a pace back, and Robb was there with his shoulder before the ringing had left his ears. Jon felt the greater weight behind it. He gave ground, turned his shield to let Robb slide past and went for the opening beneath the sword arm.

Robb checked himself. His feet stayed beneath him, the short steps Brynden had drilled into him holding his balance. His shield swept Jon’s point away. The answering cut skimmed the black breastplate and drew a shout from the gallery.

“I remember that one,” Robb said.

“So you should. I have shown you often enough.”

Robb laughed and came again. Jon moved before the blow fell. He caught it at an angle, letting the heavier blade run past his shield, and struck Robb high upon the arm. Mail took the cut. Robb swung back fiercely, but Jon had gone beyond its reach. Another step, a flash of the black shield, and Jon’s sword cracked against his brother’s thigh.

Robb faced him again with a grunt. He had stopped smiling. Jon knew that look from a hundred mornings at Winterfell: the blue eyes narrowed, the jaw set beneath the helm, all his brother’s attention upon him. Robb wanted this. He would hate being given any part of it.

The next rush carried them across the middle of the field. Robb kept his shield close, cutting only when Jon came within reach. Jon made him turn, showing him an opening at the shoulder, closing it as the sword came down. The blow shook Jon’s forearm even through the shield. He answered low, then high, too quickly for Robb to strike between. Steel clattered upon wood. A strip of paint flew from the direwolf’s muzzle.

“Stay there!” Robb snapped as Jon slipped away again.

“Harry asked first.”

Robb’s breath broke into a laugh. He shook his head once and advanced. Along the rope Martyn was leaning forward, his mouth moving with advice Jon could not hear. Beyond him, Aries shouted until his voice cracked. The sound followed Jon as he circled, loud on one side of the helm, muffled when he turned.

Robb tried to pen him against the boundary. He moved across Jon’s path instead of following, using his reach to close the easy way out. Jon let him think he had it. Two steps brought Jon near the white line; a third would take him out. Robb drove forward behind the direwolf, sword raised for the cut that would leave him nowhere to go.

Jon went towards him.

Their shields met with a crack. Robb bore down, stronger in the crush, and Jon let his own shield give. As Robb’s weight came forward, Jon stepped round his sword side. His blade beat the raised weapon outwards; his shoulder struck beneath Robb’s arm. Robb tried to turn, but his weight still carried him forward. Jon’s shove took him sideways. He fell heavily upon his shield, his sword skidding from his hand.

Jon stopped over him with his point held clear. The field seemed to wait.

Robb looked at the sword, then up at his brother. “I yield.”

The horn sounded. Jon lowered his blade, and the cheering broke over them. The gallery was on its feet. Through the bars he caught Ysilla clapping with her hands held high, Rowena beside her, a flutter of pale sleeves along the rail. Theon’s whistle pierced the din. Beneath the black banner, Aries had both fists in the air and was still yelling Jon’s name, his face alight.

Jon offered his hand. Robb pulled his left arm from beneath the shield with a sharp breath. He flexed the fingers, winced, then took Jon’s hand with his right and hauled himself up.

“Your hand?” Jon asked at once.

“Under the shield.” Robb tried the fingers again, his smile tightening. “I should have landed on you.”

“You would have had to catch me.”

Robb gave a breathless laugh and put his sound arm round Jon’s shoulders. They stood together while the Stark men hammered upon the rail. Jon could feel his brother’s weight against him, warm through the mail and quilted coats. He raised his sword to the grey cloaks as well as the black. The shout that answered them seemed to fill the field.

Martyn met them at the rope. “I have been shouting myself hoarse over you two for years. At last someone joins me.” His weathered face was bright with pride. He lifted Robb’s helm away and squeezed his good shoulder before noticing the way he held the other hand. The smile faded a little. “Let me see.”

Arthur loosened Jon’s shield strap and took the helm from his head. Cold air touched Jon’s wet face. The crowd seemed suddenly twice as loud.

“Very well done.” Pride showed plainly in Arthur’s face. He gripped the back of Jon’s neck for a moment, smiling. Jon found himself smiling back before he could answer.

Beyond the knight’s shoulder, Rylas was laughing with his head thrown back. Gawen had caught Aries by the coat to keep him from climbing through the rope. Jon raised a hand, and their noise redoubled. It was impossible to maintain a lord’s gravity before faces like those.

Brynden had come to Martyn’s side. He listened to Robb’s account while Martyn eased off the glove, exposing two swelling fingers. “You kept your feet under you,” the Blackfish said. There was warmth in his voice. “Until the last.” His gaze passed over Jon, unreadable, then returned to the injured hand.

Yohn called Jon forward. The herald waited beneath the gallery with the prize laid across a cushion, its silver hilt bright against dark cloth. Jon stripped off his gauntlet to receive it.

“To Jon Black, Lord of Dragonstone, winner of the squires’ melee!” The herald lifted his voice over the last words, but the household nearly drowned him out.

Yohn put the sword into Jon’s hand and gripped his shoulder. Up close, the old lord’s weathered face had creased into a broad smile. “Tell your father that both his sons did him honour here. I shall tell him myself when I next have the chance.”

Jon turned towards Robb. His brother had heard; his face was flushed beneath the damp red-brown hair, and for a moment he seemed to have forgotten the hand Martyn held. Jon wished Eddard could see him. He raised the prize, and Robb lifted his sound fist beside the direwolf as the cheering began again.

* * *

Helliweg’s tent smelled of vinegar, blood and wet wool. Hanging blankets divided it into narrow rooms. A boy groaned behind one while a helper washed a cut. Andrew Tollett was awake. He had vomited twice and kept asking who had won. His uncle held the basin and wiped his mouth whenever he tried to speak. Edd stood beside them with a cup of water, waiting until the maester said Andrew could drink.

He straightened when Jon entered. “My lord.”

“Stay with him.” Jon looked past the hanging blanket at Andrew’s battered face. “Has he asked to ride again yet?”

“Twice, my lord. His uncle has been answering that part.” Edd lifted the cup when Helliweg beckoned him closer, one hand steadying his cousin’s wrist while he drank.

Waymar sat on a chest nearby. A knot darkened his shoulder where the late blow landed, and his lip was swollen. With his collar open and one slender arm held close, he looked younger than he had beneath the bronze-edged coat. When Andrew’s uncle looked towards him, he stood.

“I should have stopped sooner.”

“You caught him before the foot came down.” The man gripped Waymar’s forearm. His hand shook once before he released him.

Robb’s fingers were bruised but whole. Helliweg bound two together and told him to rest the hand for three days. Robb began to object, saw Brynden watching and took the water Theon offered him instead. The Blackfish asked the maester to repeat the care his niece’s son would need, then drew Robb into the light to inspect the binding.

Theon glanced at the blanket hiding Andrew. “I thought he was dead.”

“So did I,” Robb said.

Arthur took Jon’s helm and checked the chin strap where he had fastened it that morning. Helliweg made Jon raise both arms, asked whether anything hurt, and sent him away with instructions to wash and eat. Waymar waited beyond the hanging blanket.

“I did say you would not find an easy opening,” Waymar said. His swollen lip pulled awkwardly when he smiled. “I had hoped to be right.”

“You nearly caught me with the low cut.” Jon rested the prize against the chest. “And I owe you thanks for Andrew.”

Waymar glanced towards the blanket. “I saw him fall.”

“And went in after him.” Jon waited until Waymar looked back. “Would you come to Dragonstone? After your spurs?”

Waymar straightened. “To serve you?” The smile faded as he considered it.

“I need men who keep their heads when a field breaks apart. Think about it. I shall write when I have seen the island.”

“I would like to see it.” Waymar rubbed a thumb along the bronze edge of his coat. “But I have not decided where I shall go after my spurs. I have thought of court.” He met Jon’s eyes again. “I cannot promise you more than a visit.”

“A visit would be welcome.”

“Then write.” His smile returned, pulling at the swollen lip. “I still want to hear about the ships.”

Jon clasped his offered forearm. A son of Runestone could expect a welcome in halls where other young knights waited at the door. Waymar liked him; he was still weighing what service to Lord Black would mean. Jon let the matter rest when Robar called from outside, and Waymar went to join his brother.

Harry waited beyond the tent flap with his shield against his leg. He asked after Andrew, and his shoulders eased when Jon told him the boy was awake and talking. Then he reached into his purse and brought out a gold dragon.

“Your winnings.” He held it out with his chin raised. “I do pay my wagers.”

“I never said otherwise.” Jon took the coin. “Your wrist?”

“It bends.” Harry demonstrated, then stopped with a grimace. “I thought I had you with the last cut.”

“I was counting upon that.”

Harry gave a reluctant laugh. Theon had come out behind Jon and watched the coin disappear into his purse.

“An expensive morning,” he said.

“Then lend him a stag next time,” Jon answered. “He will blame you when he loses it.”

“I shall choose a better wager next time,” Harry said. When Robb came through the flap, he asked about his hand. Domeric caught up with them beside the horse lines, carrying his scarred shield beneath one arm.

“Your father will enjoy hearing that,” he told Robb. “The last two on the field, and both from Winterfell.”

“Tell him yourself when you come north.” Robb touched his good hand to Domeric’s shoulder. “I want another race.”

“With a saddle you approve of,” Jon said.

Domeric looked at him, then laughed. He walked with them towards the pavilions while the marshals began taking down the melee ropes.

Before the evening meal, Jon wrote home. His black plate stood beside the washbasin, with a fresh scrape across one shoulder. The prize sword lay beside his nameday blade on the trestle. Robb occupied the second chair with his injured hand resting on a folded cloak. He had begun his letter to Catelyn three times.

“Tell her they are bruised,” Jon said. “Martyn will.”

“I am telling her.” Robb covered the page with his sound hand. Theon lay across the bed, polishing his silver gull with a strip from Robb’s old shirt.

“Begin with Andrew Tollett living,” he said. “If you tell them about the fall first, they will think him dead before they reach the end.”

Jon put Andrew’s survival at the top of his own page, then described Waymar’s rescue. He wrote that Robb had beaten Domeric, and that only the two of them had remained when Sam cleared the ground for the last fight. He could still hear the men calling Winterfell. For Arya he added: I struck one for you, though not upon the head. Robb says I should have let him hit me more often.

For Bran he drew Runestone’s east gate and added what Alester Arryn had told him of receiving his first real sword at thirteen, taken from his uncle’s armoury and his own responsibility to keep clean. He included Robar Royce’s victory in the men’s melee and Theon’s shooting in the sea wind.

He told Sansa he had worn her direwolf, and that it had survived with only a muddy corner. Beside the washbasin, Aries had laid the other favours upon a clean cloth. Robb caught Jon looking at them and began to grin. Jon dipped his pen again. His sister would hear about the ribbons soon enough from Theon; he would leave him something to tell. Robb would take home Ysilla’s bronze bead and ribbons from the stalls, with Arya’s horse, Bran’s little boat and Rickon’s rattle.

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Robb read the sentence about Sansa’s direwolf. “You will never hear the end of that.”

Jon smiled. “She asked me to tell her.”

He drew Eddard’s page closer. Most of what he had written concerned the tournament and the men he had met. At the bottom he added: I wish you had been here.

Arthur stood at the door. Jon turned the page towards him, and the knight read it without touching it.

“Send it,” he said.

Beside them Robb started again, this time admitting at once that his fingers were bruised.

* * *

That night Gawen’s shield dried beneath the black awning. Tomas had scraped away the last weathered blue line beneath the boss; fresh black paint covered the wood from rim to rim. Gawen turned it towards the brazier, studying it. His patched mail hung nearby, ready for the morning.

Pate Shett sat on an upturned grain measure with Runestone beer in his hand. Kennet had found the only stool. Strong Sam moved the shield a little farther from the heat before the paint could blister.

“It suits you,” Pate said.

Gawen looked up, surprised. Sam rested a hand briefly on his shoulder.

Pate rose. “Should Lord Black ever release you, there is work worth asking after here. Mooncrest needs a master-at-arms whose knees do not sound like kindling, and Ser Lymond can scarcely bend his.”

“He has only just sworn,” Kennet said.

“I know. I am not asking him to leave.” Pate looked at Gawen. “I wanted you to know.”

Gawen set the shield down beside Tomas. “Thank you. I am staying with them.”

Pate nodded and gripped his wrist. He and Kennet left soon afterwards. Sam lingered to finish his beer, then told Gawen to get some sleep.

“I never slept before my first joust,” Gawen said.

“Then try to do better before this one.” The old man cuffed him gently and went out.

By morning the wind had lifted the mist from the lists. Bright horsecloths moved among the tents, and the bells upon one charger’s bridle rang whenever he tossed his head. A groom led him past a hedge knight’s shaggy gelding, whose owner was covering a split in his saddle with a strip of rawhide. Farther up the slope, pages struggled to lift a helmet crested with painted wings. Jon could smell hot iron from the armourers’ shelters beneath the salt air.

Trumpeters were taking their places beside the gallery. The lords had come in their richest cloaks, the women in silk beneath fur-lined mantles; below them, men who had slept under carts pressed against the barriers to see the same field. When a gust caught the standards, their shadows passed over the long dividing rail and the fresh sand spread where yesterday’s ground had turned to mud.

Yohn had left the jousting to his sons. He sat among his guests beneath the Royce canopy, a bronze clasp fastening his dark coat, and beckoned the herald closer whenever a name was lost beneath the noise. Below him, Andar waited for his lance. The heir to Runestone looked up once; his father raised his cup.

Arthur selected three sound lances while Gawen braided his mare’s mane and checked her feet. Jon held her as he mounted. “Good fortune, Gawen.” The knight nodded through the open visor, too intent upon the field to find an answer. He walked the mare far enough into the lane to let her see the bright galleries and flapping cloth, then waited while the first pairs rode.

There was talk of Arthur’s appointed bout wherever Jon went. Men laying wagers on the joust asked whether Corbray would still want his meeting if he fell. Others had come chiefly to see Dawn drawn. Jon found Arthur looking past them towards Gawen at the end of the lists.

Hugh Tollett won his opening course against a Hersy knight. Edd ran to meet him with the next lance, smiling before he remembered to keep his eyes on the horse. Hugh took the shaft and said something through his visor. The smile vanished, and Edd went back to collect the broken ash.

Ser Andar Royce met a Coldwater knight in the next course. Their first lances broke against the shields. On the second pass Andar struck high and square, lifting his opponent backwards over the saddle. The knight landed heavily, then rolled onto his knees and waved away the men running towards him. Yohn applauded with his guests while Andar rode back to see that the man was sound.

Robar Royce met Ser Hervey Breakstone in another opening course. Hervey saluted the gallery with his lance upright, the red hammer bright upon his shield. He broke wood on the first pass and missed on the second. Robar broke both. On the third Hervey struck first, but his point glanced off the bronze shield; Robar’s lance burst squarely against the hammer.

When the marshals gave Robar the course, Hervey sat motionless until his groom touched the bridle. He removed his helm. His face had gone dark, and Jon saw the protest form upon his lips. Then he shut his mouth, rode across and offered Robar his hand. The words were too low to carry, but the courtesy was exact.

“He will dispute it over supper,” Alester murmured beside Jon.

Arthur watched the young heir turn his horse. “He gave Robar the courtesy he was due.”

The herald called Gawen’s name and service, his voice carrying down the lists. “Ser Gawen, sworn to Lord Black of Dragonstone!” Jon brought him the plain black shield. The knight settled his arm into the straps and looked once towards the household crowded at the rail. Then his visor came down.

Donnel Waynwood waited on a grey courser at the other end, the painted wheel upon his shield facing Gawen’s black. The trumpet sounded. Jon heard the mare gathering speed before the gallery began to shout.

The two lances broke almost together. Donnel’s struck high, splinters scattering across Gawen’s helm. Gawen found the centre of the wheel; the blow rocked Donnel backwards, but he rode through it. At the far end the mare slowed with her tail streaming and Gawen still firmly in the saddle. Jon released a breath he had scarcely noticed holding.

On the second pass both points slid off the shield rims. The third brought them together nearer Jon’s end of the lists. He saw Donnel’s lance dipping too soon, saw Gawen hold his own steady above the mare’s neck. The crash shook loose a shower of pale wood.

Gawen pitched backwards. His left foot slipped in the stirrup, and the gallery gave a great, wavering cry. He drove the heel down, let the mare carry him another stride and hauled himself upright. Across the rail Donnel was still riding, but Gawen’s lance had broken squarely while his opponent’s remained whole. The marshals gave Gawen the course.

House Black struck sword hilts against shields. Pate waved his cap from the southern rail. Kennet held up three fingers. Strong Sam shoved between them and shouted Gawen’s name. Jon raised one hand. Gawen bowed to him before he looked anywhere else.

A Waynwood page came to collect the broken shaft from Donnel’s shield. Jon watched Gawen walk his mare back, turning her away from the splintered wood beneath the barrier.

Ser Symond Templeton met Hugh Tollett in the next round. The grey mare came straight and fast, Hugh’s lance held steady above her neck. Both men broke wood on their first two passes. On the third, Hugh’s point slid off Symond’s shield. The Templeton’s lance struck beneath the upper rim of Hugh’s and drove him backwards. Hugh clung to the saddle, one foot free of its stirrup, while his mare veered towards the rail. He dropped his lance, gathered the reins and brought her clear before she struck it. The judges gave the course to Templeton.

“He kept his seat,” Jon said. Gawen had brought his mare alongside the rail to wait for his next opponent.

“And saved the mare. Many men would have hauled her straight into the barrier.”

Hugh rode out beneath a scattering of applause. Edd reached for the bridle. His brother shook his head and stayed mounted until they had passed beyond the gallery. When he finally let Edd take the mare, he stood staring at the broken edge of his shield. There would be no purse from this tourney.

Robar Royce came to meet Gawen in silvered steel edged with bronze, his stallion’s cloth embroidered with the black studs of Runestone. A shout ran along the gallery as the host’s son saluted his father. Gawen raised his lance in answer. His brown mare looked small beside the stallion, her freshly braided mane bare of ribbons, the black shield showing the pale scars Donnel had left.

Both lances broke at their first meeting. Robar rode so close that his horse struck the dividing rail with a shoulder. Jon heard the crack through the cheering. The mare flinched and came away high-headed, foam bright at the bit.

Gawen dismounted. Murmurs moved through the gallery, but he ignored them and ran both hands down the mare’s left shoulder. A grey Runestone groom held her head and watched the nostrils. “She seems sound, ser. Took a fright when the stallion struck the rail.”

“So did I.” Gawen stroked foam from the mare’s bit.

The groom smiled and returned the rein once her breathing had steadied.

Arthur came to the rail. “He is riding close to the rail. Keep the mare straight if he strikes it again.”

On the second pass Gawen held the mare a little farther from the barrier, keeping her straight despite the stallion bearing down upon her. His lance broke across Robar’s bronze shield rim. Robar’s point slid past the black shield.

Robar called for another lance. On the third pass he changed his line and struck the centre. Gawen tried to turn the shield, but the blow arrived first. His shield flew wide, and the blow lifted him from the saddle.

Gawen struck the ground shoulder first and rolled. A hoof came down beside his helm, close enough to fling mud across the visor. Jon lurched towards the barrier. The brown mare ran six strides before Gage caught her; Arthur was already crossing the rail when Tomas barred Jon’s way with one arm.

Helliweg hurried through the opening with his helpers. Arthur had reached Gawen and was telling him to lie still. Jon stayed at the rail, his hand clenched so tightly that the nails hurt.

Gawen rolled onto one knee. Arthur steadied him until Helliweg had examined his shoulder, then helped him across to the tent. No rib was broken, but the maester cut the leather points rather than drag mail over the swelling. Gawen went grey as the rings came free.

“Those were my best laces,” he muttered.

“I shall have someone bring you more.” Helliweg lifted the arm carefully and began to bind it.

Gage came in to say the mare was sound. Gawen relaxed against the chest at once. Pate brought his dented helm, and Kennet followed with a cup of watered wine. Strong Sam stayed at the door until the maester told him the shoulder would mend.

Aries brought the clean shirt from Gawen’s chest. He stopped when he saw the discarded mail and the knight’s white face. His hands tightened upon the folded cloth. Jon had seen that frightened stillness after the wildling attack. Gawen held out his sound hand.

“The shirt, lad. Not a shroud.”

Aries came nearer. “Wylla said not to let you do that again.”

“Did she? She should have told Robar.”

The boy managed a little laugh. He left the shirt where the maester could reach it and sat outside with the knight’s gloves, rising when he saw Jon approach.

Jon entered when Helliweg had finished the binding. Gawen tried to square his shoulders.

“Stay as you are.” Jon crouched beside the chest. For a moment he had no question that did not sound foolish. He looked at the sling instead. “Can he ride tomorrow, Maester?”

Helliweg tightened the sling. “At a walk. The left arm lifts nothing, not even a saddle he claims is light.”

“Then he rides at a walk. Tomas, see to his tack until the arm is sound.”

Gawen thanked him. Robar was waiting outside when they left the tent. He clasped Gawen’s good arm and said he would welcome another course when he was fit.

“I shall try to stay in the saddle next time,” Gawen said.

Men called encouragement as Gawen crossed towards the black awning. He tried to acknowledge them and winced at the pull upon his shoulder. Olyver ran ahead to find a chair. Jon stayed beside his household captain until he was seated.

Hugh Tollett stood at the edge of the awning, his battered shield against one leg. He had come looking towards Arthur, but his eyes followed Jon as he asked Gawen whether the sling was pulling at his neck. Gawen told him it was well enough. Jon checked with the maester’s helper before letting the matter rest.

The jousts continued while Gawen rested beneath the awning. Trumpets called riders back to the lists; now and then a roar drew every face towards the field. Robar lost his next course to Lyn Corbray. Andar lasted longer, unhorsing Ser Symond Templeton after three hard passes. Boys went about gathering broken lances in armfuls. Horses stood steaming beneath blankets where their riders had left them, and the armourers’ hammers worked without ceasing.

At last the herald called the final pair. The noise changed as men hurried back from the wine stalls and the higher benches emptied towards the front. Ser Andar Royce would meet Lyn Corbray.

Andar’s helm bore a fresh dent above the brow, and splinters clung to the bronze rim of his shield. He waited while his squire tightened a strap. Across the field, Lyn entered in white steel worked with black ravens. Mychel took Lady Forlorn while a groom brought the first lance. Jon remembered Andar standing beside his father when Corbray had spoken of lords past their prime. The heir to Runestone watched Lyn take his place, then lowered his visor.

At the first horn Lyn’s courser sprang forward so quickly that Mychel had to leap back from the pounding hooves. Andar came from the other end with his shield high. Jon heard the horses before the lances met. Lyn’s ash burst squarely against the bronze rim; Andar rocked backwards, caught himself and rode through with most of his own lance still whole.

The Corbray men cheered. Mychel held out a fresh lance. Andar walked his horse back to the end of the lists, shaking feeling into the fingers of his shield hand. Above him, Yohn sat forward in his chair. He did not call out.

Both men shattered lances on the second course. A fragment struck the front of the gallery and brought a cry from the women nearest it. The riders were already past. Andar settled his dancing horse with a hand against its neck. At the other end Lyn cast away his broken shaft without looking at it and held out his hand for another.

The trumpets called them back. Jon leaned forward beside Robb. Andar had begun turning his shield sharply at the moment of impact, trying to shed the point. Lyn waited at the far end with his lance upright. Then he lowered it, and the courser sprang forward.

They came together beneath the galleries. Hooves struck the sand in heavy, uneven thunder. Andar’s point glanced from the raven shield; Lyn’s followed the turn of the bronze rim and struck squarely beneath it. Wood burst across Andar’s breast. He rose from the saddle, one boot catching in the stirrup before it tore free.

Jon saw the sole of that boot against the sky. Then Andar hit the ground upon his back and rolled. Yohn was on his feet. Mychel cheered from the far end, but the Royce men watched their lord’s eldest son struggle onto one knee.

Andar waved his squire aside and stood. He pulled off his helm, breathing hard, and bowed towards the winner. The applause came raggedly at first, then swelled as Lyn wheeled beneath the Corbray banner with his broken lance raised. He had beaten both of Yohn’s elder sons today. Robar clapped from the gallery, his mouth set, while his father sent Helliweg down to the field.

Lyn rode beneath the high seats and saluted the host. Yohn returned it. His gaze went back to Andar as the maester reached him. The younger man shook his head at a question, tried his shoulder, then let Helliweg lead him beyond the rope.

At the gate Lyn dismounted into Mychel’s waiting hands. He was smiling when he took back Lady Forlorn. Jon saw him look towards Arthur before turning down the lane between the tents.

Above them, Yohn spoke to the herald. The man waited for a lull, then called out that Ser Arthur and Ser Lyn would meet upon the field after breakfast on the morrow. Those who wished to watch should delay their departures.

Lyn stopped and looked back. He raised one hand to the gallery, and the Corbray men cheered him again. Arthur watched him go, then asked Sam to have the ground cleared of broken lances. Along the ropes, men were already arguing over what they had seen and what they would see tomorrow.

Jon went back to the black awning. Hugh Tollett had drawn a stool beside Gawen; Edd stood a little behind his brother with the repaired helm beneath his arm. Gage was helping Olyver put away the spare lances. The men had made room around their captain without being told.

“You seem well settled,” Hugh said to Gawen.

“I am.”

“I meant the service.” Hugh glanced towards the men, then lowered his voice. “Does Lord Black have places for another knight?”

Gawen rested his good forearm on his knee. “He needs men who can teach riding. He saw your course against Templeton.”

Hugh’s mouth tightened. “A pity I did not give him a better end to it.”

“You brought the mare clear when she could have broken a leg.” Gawen saw Jon approaching and began to rise.

“Sit,” Jon told him. He took a stool from beside the awning pole and turned it towards Hugh. “Could you teach a boy to recover as you did?”

The knight put a hand on his dented shield. “I have taught men on my father’s land. Riding, spear and lance. They had poorer horses than yours.”

“How many?”

“Six at a time. I cannot promise they would win you a tourney.” He stopped, hearing how it sounded, and looked directly at Jon. “They learned to keep their seats.”

“Come to Dragonstone and show Gawen how you teach. If he is satisfied, there will be wages and a place in my household for you. You would answer to him.”

Hugh looked at Gawen’s sling, then at the plain black shield resting beside the chair. For a moment Jon thought pride would make him refuse. Pate Shett called to Gawen from the horse line and received an easy answer; Hugh waited until the interruption had passed.

“What wages, my lord?”

Jon named the wages Gawen had received for teaching before taking the captaincy, with food, lodging and a horse kept at House Black’s expense. Hugh looked up sharply at the sum. He leaned forward while Jon finished, his thumb stilled against the split in his shield.

“I should like that very much, my lord.” Hugh’s answer came quickly. He glanced at Edd, who was staring at him with a hopeful expression. “I must speak to my father first. He expected me home after the lists. It need not keep us long.”

“Then speak to him, and write to me before you set out. I will pay for your passage to be tried.”

Hugh bowed his head. “As soon as I have spoken to him, my lord.”

Edd had shifted the helm to his other arm. Jon looked up at him. “You may come too, if that is your wish.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “With my brother, my lord?”

“If you choose. Can you read?”

“Yes, my lord. And reckon.” He glanced at Hugh. “I keep what we spend on the road.”

“With an account of every copper I ought not to have spent,” Hugh said. His tone still held its old impatience, though he was smiling now.

“Then I can find you work as well,” Jon told Edd. “There is a great deal to keep in order on the island.”

Edd looked from Jon to Gawen, as though expecting someone to explain the jest. “I should like to come, my lord.”

“Put his name in your letter, Ser Hugh.”

The knight agreed. Edd stepped forward to help his brother gather the shield and lances. When Hugh turned away, the boy looked back and gave Jon a shy, quick smile. It changed his face enough that Jon almost failed to recognise him again.

Gawen watched them go. “You mean to take both?”

“I mean to give them both a chance. Tell me plainly how Hugh does when you try him.” Jon glanced at Gawen’s shoulder. “When you are fit. We have time to wait for their letter.”

Jon looked past him towards the smaller tents, where men were already bundling their belongings for the road. “Speak to the hedge knights as well. Corentin of Wickenden, and the younger man who travels with him.”

“Mael of the Ford.” Gawen shifted his arm in the sling. “I saw them at the weapons tent.”

“Find out whether they would take service on Dragonstone. You saw Corentin fight. He kept his head when that Redfort drove him back.” Jon glanced towards the old knight’s white fox shield, propped against a wagon. “Ask whether he can teach. I shall need more men for that than Hugh alone.”

“And the others?”

“Speak to any you think worth bringing to me. Ask Sam what he knows of them. I want men who can teach sword and shield, or ride out with a patrol and bring it home. Find out whom they have served, and whether they are free to leave.”

Gawen nodded and braced his good hand upon the chair.

“After you have rested,” Jon added.

“I can still talk, my lord.” A smile tugged at the captain’s mouth. “I shall find them before supper. If they want the work, I will bring them to you.”

* * *

Rain began while they were changing for the closing feast. Jon could hear it pattering upon the courtyard puddles as he crossed beneath the covered walk. Through the open hall doors came warmth, fiddle music and the smell of meat turning before the hearth. Wet cloaks steamed along the walls. Above the dais, bronze lamps lit the old runes and drew points of fire from the cups being carried to Yohn’s table.

Jon wore his other new coat, black-covered buttons and braid upon black, with a narrow belt gathering its velvet skirts. He had fastened Sansa’s favour to the sleeve again. The other ribbons lay safely folded with his belongings; one still bore a smear of mud.

Lyn held a knot of knights at the Corbray table, his prize purse lying beside his cup. Jon heard him describing the last pass to Templeton. He made the turn of Andar’s shield with one hand, then drove two fingers beneath it; the men nearest him laughed and called for wine. Corbray looked up as Arthur passed. He kept his eyes upon him until Yohn’s steward brought the household to their places.

Robb struggled with a trout baked in clay until Jon showed him how to break the crust with the back of his knife. Jon’s prize sword rested against the bench. Twice Robb had asked to see it, and twice Martyn had reminded him of his bound fingers. Farther down the table, a serving girl warned Olyver that the pie he had reached for contained lamprey. He chose another, to the amusement of the men beside him.

The chief lords had their places near Yohn again. Nestor was telling Anya that the forty-two promised riders would leave for the Gates the next morning. Tollett’s six were ready at last. Grafton’s factor had arranged fodder for the patrol horses; Lord Belmore, still bargaining over what he might contribute, had drawn his stool closer to the merchant. Yohn set down his cup and glanced towards them. The factor withdrew, and Belmore straightened his coat.

Yohn rose before the next course. The hall quieted gradually, the last laugh coming from a knight who had not seen him stand.

“We have our winners,” he said, “and before I drink to them, Maester Helliweg tells me Andrew Tollett has eaten and is demanding his horse. His uncle has refused him. Sensibly, for once.”

Andrew’s uncle stood with his cup. Men struck the tables in approval, and Jon felt Robb’s shoulder ease beside his own.

“To Ser Robar Royce, who won the melee; to Ser Lyn Corbray, who won the joust; to Jon Black, who won the squires’ melee; and to Theon Greyjoy, who shot better than any man here cared to admit.” Robar rose to the cheers and bowed to his father. Beside him Andar raised his cup, smiling despite the stiffness in his shoulder.

Yohn waited while the men raised their cups. “And to every rider who has left good ash in my grass.” He lifted his wine. “I thank you for coming to Runestone.”

Lyn rose with his cup to acknowledge the men calling his name. “Your sons made me earn it, my lord.” He bowed towards Yohn, smiling broadly, then turned to include Andar and Robar. Andar returned the courtesy with his sound arm. Robar drank and set his cup down hard enough to spill a little wine.

Theon rose to the toast with a pleased colour high in his cheeks. Myranda applauded him from the neighbouring table. When he sat, Robb leaned across Jon to ask whether the Vale’s finest archer might pass the butter.

“You may call me Theon,” he said, and passed it.

Servants threaded the noisy tables with the second course. They carried platters of roast lamb crusted with herbs, bowls of buttered leeks and small pies whose broken lids let out the scent of pepper. Above the clatter, a singer tried to persuade the far end of the hall to join his refrain. By the third attempt they were doing so with more strength than tunefulness.

At the lower benches a knight with his arm in a sling tried to cut his meat one-handed; his companion took the knife and helped him without interrupting their argument about the joust. Farther along, squires had cleared a patch among the cups to send two spoons at one another like lowered lances. One spoon struck a cup, spilling beer into a man's lap. He snatched it from the boy responsible amid a roar of laughter.

Lyn came up to the dais while the servants were clearing the dishes. Men shifted upon their benches to let him pass. He stopped beside Arthur, his cup held loosely in one hand.

“I had hoped you would ride today.”

“I came to see Lord Jon compete.” Arthur set down his knife and looked up at him.

“So you did. A fine showing.” Lyn glanced at Jon, then back at Arthur. “I shall try to give you a better morning than I gave our host’s sons.”

“They rode well.”

“Very well.” Corbray’s smile deepened. “It was worth winning.” He lifted his cup. “Until tomorrow, Ser Arthur.”

Arthur inclined his head. Lyn drank, still watching him, then went back through the benches. Andar had heard every word. He sat with his uninjured hand closed about the stem of his cup, while Waymar leaned forward to say something to Robar. Farther down, a young knight called out odds on the morning’s fight. Lord Redfort turned his head, and the offer went unanswered.

Jon watched Corbray take his seat. When a servant brought the wine jug, Lyn covered his cup and sent her on. His squire bent to hear him, then hurried from the hall. Whatever pleasure he took in the attention, he meant to be ready.

Yohn summoned Gawen after the second course. The knight went with his arm in Helliweg’s sling and grass still ground into the black surcoat. “You came back without arms upon your shield,” Yohn said.

“Lord Jon has named no charge for the household shield.”

“Yet every man on the field knew whose colours you wore.” Yohn gave him the broken lance head from his victory over Donnel. One side had been scraped pale against the Waynwood shield.

Strong Sam struck both palms on the table. Pate shouted Gawen’s name; Kennet raised his cup. The knight stood awkwardly before the dais, his good hand closed around the lance.

“You rode well,” Yohn said. “Come back when the shoulder mends.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

At the lower table Sam poured Gawen wine and made room beside the brazier. The knight laid the broken lance where his old friends could see it. Pate picked it up at once, turning it to examine the splintered point. Gawen caught Jon’s eye and nodded towards two men farther along the bench.

Mael was on his feet before Jon reached the bench. Corentin of Wickenden rose beside him, his bent nose casting a crooked shadow in the firelight. Both bowed. The younger knight’s faded blue surcoat had been brushed clean, and he was smiling openly now that Gawen had called Jon over.

“They were glad of the offer, my lord,” Gawen said. “Neither is sworn elsewhere. Ser Mael has already asked which harbour they should ride for.”

“Corentin and I served together at Wickenden,” Sam said. “He is good with a blade. I cannot tell you what sort of teacher he makes.”

“Nor can I promise to make every boy a swordsman,” Corentin said. His eyes stayed upon Jon. “But I can teach them to keep their shields where they belong.”

“Then come and show my captain.” Jon drew a stool close enough to speak beneath the singing. He offered them passage to Dragonstone and their keep while Gawen tried them at the work. Wages would follow if they entered his service, at the same rate he had offered Hugh.

“When could we sail, my lord?” Mael asked. Corentin had set down his cup and was watching Jon closely.

“Send word from Gulltown when you are ready. I shall arrange your passage. You would answer to Ser Gawen.”

“We can be in Gulltown within the week,” Corentin said. “I would be glad of the work.” His lined face eased into a smile. “Glad of a place to stay, too. We have spent enough nights wondering whether the next inn will trust us.”

Mael nodded. “And the horses, my lord? May we bring them?”

“Bring them.”

The younger knight thanked him at once. Corentin asked how many men Gawen meant them to teach, and moved his cup to make room as the captain drew closer. Jon left them bent over the table together, the two hedge knights listening eagerly while Gawen described the work waiting on Dragonstone.

When Jon returned, Ysilla made room beside her. Her eyes went at once to Sansa’s favour upon his sleeve.

“Yours is safe,” he told her. “Aries would not let me put it away until he had brushed the mud from it.”

“I was not asking for it back.” She smoothed a fold in her skirt, then met his eyes. “You were very good yesterday.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Waymar told me how well you fought. He had not said how quickly.” Her voice had grown quieter beneath the hall’s noise. “I could not see your face through the helm. When that boy fell, I thought—” She stopped.

“Andrew is awake. Helliweg expects him to mend.”

“I know. Father told us.” Ysilla glanced towards the Tollett table. When she looked back, the smile returned, less certain than before. “I was glad when you took the helm off.”

Jon thanked her. For all the laughter when she had tied the ribbon, she had watched the whole fight from that rail. He drew his stool closer so she need not raise her voice, and asked whether Waymar’s shoulder would keep him from dancing.

Myranda leaned across to ask Theon about his prize bow. Soon he was describing the cliffs of Pyke, with targets set in turf and gulls hanging in the wind beyond. She listened long enough to make him forget that he had told the tale before.

The musicians began a quicker measure. Jeyne Waynwood came to claim Robb, who rose at once to offer her his sound hand. His bound fingers kept the other stiff, but Catelyn’s lessons saved his feet. Ysilla offered Jon her palm.

“You danced well before. Can you manage this quicker measure?”

“Well enough to oblige you.”

“Then show me.” Jon rose and took her hand. Black silk glimmered between the velvet skirts as he turned into the dance. Ysilla looked down, then up at his face. “Black does make your eyes look brighter.”

“So Wylla tells me,” he said, smiling.

Ysilla laughed. He knew the figures now; Sansa had made certain of that. In his other life he had been a poor dancer for years, until his wife had tired of having her shoes trodden upon and taught him herself. For a moment he remembered her laughing at him across their kitchen. Then Ysilla’s hand tightened upon his and he followed her into the next turn.

Ysilla warned him of a variation in the next turn and lifted her bronze skirt clear of his boots. He followed her lead back into line, passing close enough to the fire to feel its heat upon his cheek. Across the hall Waymar raised his cup. Jeyne released Robb’s bound hand before a turn could pull it and guided him by the elbow instead.

At the lower tables Pate had drawn a serving woman into the dance. Strong Sam clapped time on Gawen’s sound shoulder until the knight said he wished to keep one arm fit for use. Sam settled for the tabletop.

When the tune ended, Jon returned Ysilla to her place and thanked her. She asked whether he would come to Runestone again, and he told her he hoped to. He found Arthur beneath a narrow window with a cup of watered wine. The panes had misted; beyond them the tournament field was no more than a few lamps shaking in the rain.

Lord Grafton joined them carrying his own cup. “I have sent for my harbour master’s reckoning,” he told Jon. “You shall have it before you sail.”

“Thank you. I have written to Ethan.”

Grafton nodded. His eyes moved to Arthur, and the easy tone left his voice. “Marq would have tried to make you ride today.”

“He would.” Arthur lowered his cup. “He never liked to see a good lance standing idle.”

“He had great faith in knights.” Grafton looked towards Dawn, then back at Arthur’s face. “Two men asked me today whether I had come to Runestone to follow that sword again.”

Arthur’s fingers stopped upon the stem of his cup. “What did you tell them?”

“That Lord Royce had invited me to a tournament. One seemed disappointed. He was very young when my brother died.” Grafton turned so that the three of them stood closer to the window. Behind him, a servant passed with a dish of pears. He waited until she was gone. “They remember the banners over Gulltown. I remember what it cost to open the harbour again.”

“I came to see my nephew fight,” Arthur said.

“I know. And I am glad to see you alive. You must know that too.” Grafton’s voice softened, but he kept looking at him. “I buried my brother and swore to Robert. He confirmed my rights, and my people needed their trade. I mean to keep that oath.”

Arthur was silent for a moment. “I have not asked you to break it.”

“No. You have not.” Grafton glanced across the hall. Gyles was seated with Robb and Alester, listening to a knight describe the pass that had unhorsed Andar. The young Arryn raised a hand to dispute something; Gyles turned towards Robb, smiling. “There were men waiting to tell Marq what honour required of him as well. Few of them stayed to help me afterwards.”

Jon watched the older lord rub a spill of wine from his thumb. Grafton had been willing to argue over every year of the harbour dues. He spoke of this more quietly, with his shoulders held stiff beneath the burning tower on his cloak.

“Your ships will be welcome on Dragonstone,” Jon said. “I intend that the voyage should profit both of us.”

“Then let us see to that, Lord Black.” Grafton offered him his hand, and Jon took it. To Arthur he gave a grave inclination of his head before going back to his family.

Jon watched Grafton rest a hand upon his son’s shoulder and bend to hear what he was saying. He would need to offer Grafton more than the chance to avenge a dead brother. Beside him Arthur took a slow drink, then put his cup upon the sill. They listened to the music until another tune began.

Robar joined them at the window, stepping aside to let a pair of dancers pass. Waymar followed with his cup. The elder brother rested a hand upon the sill beside Arthur and looked at Jon.

“Are you ready to take charge of Dragonstone, my lord?”

“As ready as I can be without having set foot on it.” Jon shifted to give Waymar room. “Ethan has kept it for me, and I have men I trust. Now I want to see what needs doing with my own eyes.”

“You will have work enough.” Robar glanced at Arthur. “I hope there will be time for visitors. I should like another pass with Ser Arthur.”

“You would be welcome,” Jon said.

“And I would be glad to oblige you.” Arthur’s mouth curved. “You gave me a good bout.”

Waymar asked about the ships Jon meant to build, and Robar drew up a stool while Jon answered. Yohn saw his youngest leaning closer to listen. Near the end of the meal the old lord drew Jon beneath the gallery, where the music covered their low voices.

“Waymar tells me you offered him service.”

“After his spurs, if I have work for him. He has given me no answer.”

Yohn watched his youngest showing Robar a shield turn with an empty cup. “He likes you. You have given him much to talk of these past days.” His gaze returned to Jon. “But our name would find him a place in any hall in the Vale. He has grown up knowing it. He will want to choose well.”

“I would expect him to.”

“You have a fine household. He has seen what you can do with them. What place would he have on your island?”

“I shall know more when I have seen it myself.” Jon followed the old lord’s glance towards the dais, where Andar was speaking with Lord Redfort. The Royces had made marriages and served beside those families for generations. He had yet to govern a day on Dragonstone. “He can judge what I have built when he visits.”

Yohn nodded slowly. “Give him time. Press him, and he will refuse because he dislikes being pressed.”

“I can wait.”

“Then keep writing. He will be pleased to hear from you.”

“Would you rather he stayed?”

“I would rather all three stayed.” Yohn’s voice had roughened. He drank before speaking again. “That is not what I brought them up for. The choice will be his when he is ready.”

Back in the black camp that night, Aries wrote to Wylla that Gawen had hurt his shoulder but could still complain. He asked Jon to check that part before sealing the letter; he did not wish to frighten her with the wrong words. Jon read it and handed it back. The boy added, in a smaller hand, that Bracken was well and Patch had not bitten anyone. Only then did Jon put it with the packet for Dragonstone.

Their friends came to find them while the servants were packing. Alester sat upon a chest and asked whether Dragonstone might have room for another knight. Gyles stood beside him, turning Jon’s prize sword carefully to catch the lamplight upon its silver hilt.

“Write to me,” Jon told Alester. “Tell me what service you are free to take. I shall know what I can offer when I have seen the island.”

The young Arryn nodded. “I will, my lord.”

Morvan wanted to know about the pastures. He had already asked Gawen whether he might breed from the brown mare, only to be told that he must speak to her owner. Jon promised to consider it when Morvan had a stallion worth proposing. Gawen, listening from his chair, insisted that he would have a say in that judgement.

“He has become very grand since he won a broken stick,” Robb said.

“A fine broken stick,” Gawen answered, and the boys laughed.

Gyles handed Jon back the sword. “I should like to hear how the market fares. Father says the first ships will tell us more than all his stewards’ reckoning.”

“You shall hear. Though I expect questions in return.”

“You will get them.” Gyles smiled. “I have been saving them since the armour.”

Harry had come too, claiming to be looking for a glove. Alester found it beneath the stool, but he stayed until Anya’s page came to fetch him. At the flap he paused.

“You can write about something besides the lists,” he told Jon. “I know how I did here.”

“I shall tell you how I find Dragonstone. You can tell me whether Waymar has stopped boasting.”

Harry laughed and took his leave.

Arthur came back while Jon was fastening the lid of his chest. He laid his sword belt beside his bed and began loosening the points of his coat.

“Winning has made him very sure of himself,” Jon said.

“He was sure of himself when he asked.”

Jon let go of the buckle. “How good is he?”

Arthur paused with one lace between his fingers. “Quick. Stronger than he looks. You saw how he recovered when Robar drove him back.” He drew the lace free. “I shall need to be careful.”

Jon had watched him fight a hundred times with blunted steel or ash. Tomorrow there would be no maester setting a bruised finger straight if Lady Forlorn slipped past his guard. He looked at the long sword lying beside Arthur’s bed.

“Jon.” Arthur had crossed to him. “I know what he carries.” His hand rested briefly upon Jon’s shoulder. “Get some sleep.”

Jon nodded. He lay awake long enough to hear the last men returning from the castle, laughing as they stumbled between the tents. Beside him, Arthur’s breathing had already settled.

* * *

By the time Jon had broken his fast, men were gathering at the field again. The rain had passed in the night. Water hung along the ropes, and shallow pools filled the hoofprints beside the jousting barrier. Strong Sam had marked out firmer ground beyond it. The galleries still stood, their cloth dark with damp; laden carts waited on the road while their owners went to find a place.

People were coming down from the castle. News of the challenge had travelled beyond the tournament camp; men from the town stood upon carts to see, and servants still in their aprons crowded behind the household guards. The gallery filled from end to end. Below it, a hawker lifted his tray above the press and shouted his prices until the herald raised a hand.

Lyn came through the entrance beneath the Corbray banner. His surcoat was clean, the three ravens dark against white wool. He carried the lighter helm he had worn in the melee; Mychel followed with his shield. At Lyn’s hip, the heart-shaped ruby of Lady Forlorn caught the morning sun. He stopped to answer a man at the rope, smiling, then walked out onto the grass.

“Ser Lyn Corbray of Heart’s Home,” the herald called, “bearer of Lady Forlorn, victor of the joust!”

The answer came loudly from the camp side of the field. Lyn glanced towards it, smiling, and lifted a gauntleted hand.

Arthur waited beneath the black awning while Martyn checked his armour. Aries stood close with his helm in both hands. The page had asked twice whether Arthur wanted anything else. Both times Arthur had thanked him and said no.

“Corbray is ready,” Sam told them. “He has been asking what keeps you.”

“Then we should go.” Arthur took the helm from Aries and settled it over his head. Martyn fastened the strap beneath his chin.

Jon went with him to the rope. The herald drew breath again.

“Ser Arthur Dayne of Starfall. The Sword of the Morning, bearer of Dawn!”

Voices rose all along the field. Men pressed forward behind Jon; somewhere above them a bench scraped as its occupants stood. Arthur acknowledged the gallery with an inclination of his head and walked onto the grass. Lyn watched him come.

“You have had time to rest?” Arthur asked.

“More than I needed.” Corbray smiled past him at Jon. “Will your lord permit us to begin?”

Arthur gave him no answer. He turned to Yohn, who had come down from the gallery with his sons. The lord’s dark coat was fastened at the throat. Beside him Andar stood with one shoulder held stiffly beneath a fresh surcoat. Helliweg had found no hurt beyond bruises, but the night's rest had done little to ease them.

“You have your swords and your witnesses,” Yohn said. “A yield ends the bout. So does my command. If either man falls, his opponent will give him leave to yield. There will be no quarrelling with my judgement afterwards.” He looked from one knight to the other. “Do you understand?”

“I do,” Arthur said.

“Of course, my lord.” Lyn settled his helm and fitted his arm through the shield straps. Mychel fastened the chin strap, drew the shield secure and retreated beyond the rope. Lord Redfort made room for his son beside him.

Jon stayed with Martyn and Robb. Theon had stopped making wagers. Beneath the awning, Gawen leaned forward in his chair until Tomas brought it nearer the rope.

Arthur drew Dawn. Even after the herald’s announcement, the sight of it brought a murmur from the stands. Sunlight lay white along the blade. He handed the scabbard to Martyn and settled both hands upon the hilt. Opposite him, Lady Forlorn came free with a soft scrape, dark ripples showing in the steel. Lyn lowered his visor. Arthur did the same.

Sam blew the horn.

Lyn was upon him before its last note faded. Lady Forlorn flashed past the painted shield towards Arthur’s face, met Dawn and came round low. Arthur withdrew his leading leg. His answer struck the shield with a crack that brought a shout from the gallery, but Lyn was already turning beneath the blow, his own sword coming back towards Arthur’s side.

Dawn caught it. Their blades scraped together as Arthur stepped away, and Lyn followed hard enough to leave a strip of lifted turf beneath his heel.

Jon had seen Corbray fight in the melee. There had been men there who scarcely managed a defence before Lyn put them down. Now the same sudden changes drove Arthur across the grass, the grey sword appearing above the shield, then beside it, the shield itself thrusting forward whenever the blades met. Arthur’s greatsword moved close about him. He gave ground, stopped, turned a cut and answered. Lyn checked his advance to catch the returning edge.

They parted with a full sword’s length between them. Shouts of encouragement crossed the field. Lyn circled towards the rising sun, making Arthur turn with him. Jon waited for another taunt, but Corbray kept his visor down.

He tried Arthur’s sword hand. Dawn lifted clear, then fell towards the ravens on his shield. Lyn caught the blow at an angle and thrust beneath it. Arthur turned his body as the grey point passed, bringing his blade across to drive it away. For a moment they were close enough that Jon heard the grunt inside Lyn’s helm.

The shield swung towards Arthur’s face. He stepped back before it reached him, and Dawn struck its lower edge as it passed. A sliver of painted wood sprang into the air.

Lyn came after him at once. This time Arthur held his ground. Steel rang against steel; the shield knocked Dawn aside and Lady Forlorn followed into the opening. Arthur’s hands turned, bringing the pale blade back across the thrust. Lyn’s point slid past his shoulder.

Robb caught Jon’s sleeve with his good hand.

Arthur pressed forward along the crossed swords. Lyn broke away, his boots dragging furrows as he recovered his distance. His shield had a long pale gash beneath one raven. He raised it higher and waited.

The shouting thinned. Near Jon, a man who had been calling wagers lowered his cupped hands. The fighters’ breathing carried when they came towards the rope, harsh behind the steel of their helms.

Lyn let his sword sink a little. Jon saw the invitation and the waiting feet beneath it. Arthur approached with Dawn held low, its point steady. Lyn lunged behind his shield.

Arthur turned the thrust aside and moved with the rush. The shield scraped past his breastplate. Lyn twisted to follow him, Lady Forlorn sweeping round, but Arthur’s answering cut forced him to lift the shield instead. Dawn struck close to its upper rim. A red heart split beneath the edge. Arthur drew the blade clear as Lyn recoiled.

Corbray stood breathing with the shield against his chest. His head turned a little with each movement of the white sword. Arthur waited just beyond his reach. His own breath was coming deeply now.

Jon had practised with him for years. He knew the patience, knew how little warning Arthur gave when he chose to move. Lyn had begun waiting for that movement too. His blade made a small, restless turn beside the broken heart.

He struck at Dawn itself, trying to drive it aside, and closed as the swords met. The impact carried through Arthur’s arms. He braced, his rear foot biting into the turf. For a breath they strained against one another; then Arthur gave a little and turned. Lady Forlorn slipped past him. Dawn came free against the shield with a blow that jolted Lyn’s arm against his body.

Arthur followed before he could settle. Corbray caught the next cut, but his shield sagged under it. He brought Lady Forlorn fiercely towards Arthur’s head. Dawn rose to meet it, and Arthur stepped close behind the crossed blades.

Jon saw their hands come together. Dawn’s guard caught beneath Lady Forlorn’s. Arthur turned his hilt with both hands, forcing Lyn’s sword hand back until his fingers opened.

The ruby flashed. Lady Forlorn struck the grass.

Lyn bent after it. Dawn’s point stopped before the slit in his visor, close enough that he could not lift his head.

He went still. The edge of his battered shield touched the ground.

Silence spread from the ropes to the gallery. Jon could hear someone breathing beside him; he realised it was Robb. Arthur held the sword steady while Lyn crouched before it.

“Enough,” Yohn called.

Arthur stepped back at once and lowered Dawn. Strong Sam came between the knights. Beyond his shoulder, Lyn straightened slowly, his empty hand still half closed.

“Ser Lyn?” Yohn said.

The answer came harshly through the helm. “I yield.”

The cheering broke over the field. Jon felt the rope pull against his fingers as people pressed forward, and the marshals spread their arms to hold them back. Above the noise rose Arthur’s name, taken up again from the crowded gallery. The Sword of the Morning turned towards Yohn and bowed his head.

Mychel hurried onto the field. He picked up Lady Forlorn and stood holding it while his master pulled off his helm. Lyn’s hair lay wet against his forehead. His mouth was open as he drew breath. He looked at Arthur, then at the sword in his squire’s hands.

Arthur approached him. Mychel stiffened, but the older knight merely offered his hand.

Lyn let him wait. People nearest them fell quiet, watching. Then Corbray took the offered hand, briefly and hard.

“Ser Arthur.”

“Ser Lyn.”

Lyn reclaimed Lady Forlorn. Mychel reached for the ruined shield, and this time his master let him take it. They walked from the field together, Lyonel falling in beside them at the gate.

Arthur returned to the rope. Martyn took Dawn while he removed his helm, then passed it back and held the scabbard steady. Sweat had darkened Arthur’s hair at the temples. His breath came deeply, but Jon could find no blood upon him.

Jon passed him the waterskin. Arthur drank, then looked towards Aries, who had begun to speak and lost his words. He rested a hand upon the page’s shoulder and bent to listen. Jon stood beside them while the crowd called for another glimpse of Dawn.

Around the Corbray banner, men were leaving the rail. Lyn stood with his head bent towards Lyonel while Mychel waited beside them, the ruined shield at his feet. Jon could not hear what the brothers said. Then Yohn reached Arthur and clasped his hand, and the cheering rose again.

“Now,” the old lord said, with a glance towards the battered shield, “perhaps you may both let my servants take the field down.”

Arthur smiled. “I have kept you long enough.”

“You have given them something to talk of while they work.” Yohn turned to Jon. “Come and take leave before you ride.”

* * *

By the time Arthur had washed and changed, the bright field was disappearing beneath teams of servants. They pulled pegs and rolled wet canvas while armourers gathered sound pieces of ash. Everywhere Jon went, men stopped him to speak of the fight. Helliweg’s helpers lifted a Coldwater youth with a broken arm into one wagon. Andrew Tollett rode in another beside his uncle, pale and furious at being forbidden a saddle.

Hugh brought his mare across while Edd carried their rolled blankets. The knight thanked Jon for the offer of a trial and promised to write as soon as he had spoken to his father. Edd bowed beside him.

“You will put your own name in the letter?” Jon asked the boy.

“Yes, my lord.” He hesitated. “I shall likely have the writing of it.”

Hugh gave a short laugh and told him to fetch the saddle. Edd went, but he looked back once before they took the road towards the Grey Glen.

The black camp came down around Gawen’s bound shoulder. Strong Sam held the mare while he mounted.

“Do not make it twelve years again,” Sam said.

“I will write,” Gawen promised.

“You had better.” They clasped wrists. Pate handed Gawen a skin of Vale red, and Kennet forgave all but one of the three stags.

“That one you can pay when you come back.”

Gawen laughed and put the wineskin away. Jon had taken leave of Yohn in the courtyard while Arthur spoke with his sons. The lead riders were forming when Waymar hurried from the gate with his cloak half-fastened.

Waymar offered his forearm. “Good fortune on your island.”

“And to you here.” Jon clasped it. Behind Waymar, the men were already taking down the cloth above the galleries. “Give my thanks to your father.”

“You gave them in the court.”

“Then give them again.” Jon mounted beneath the plain black banner with the direwolf beside it. Waymar remained at the gate until the road curved behind the wall.

* * *

On the second afternoon after they left Runestone, the road descended through grey pasture into Gulltown. Wet masts crowded the bay, red tiles had gone brown in the rain and smoke lay flat above the chimneys. Robb rode with his bruised hand inside his cloak. Gawen carried his broken lance across the saddle, the splintered head wrapped in a cloth to keep it dry. Neither could hold a shield; both had spent half the morning explaining why the other’s injury was more shameful.

The roundship waiting for Robb and the Stark party lay at the east quay. Black Tern’s berth was empty. Beneath the warehouse arch, Lord Grafton’s clerk handed Jon a copy of the raven from Dragonstone. Marrec’s five transports had arrived safely with Hewyn’s six hundred men, Wylla, the workforce and their families. William had his clock benches under a roof; Ewan’s smiths were setting their anvils. The heavy ironwork had taken another tide to unload, but no one had been hurt. Voss had delivered Jon’s letters and was bringing Black Tern back for the household.

Jon read the page twice. Ethan had added at the foot: Wylla has possession of the kitchen. He smiled and put the letter inside his coat while Tomas settled the remaining harbour charges with the clerk.

The clerk had another letter beneath Ethan's. Its seal bore a crowned stag.

“This came yesterday, my lord. His Grace's command was that it should reach you before you sailed.”

Jon broke the wax. Arthur had stopped beside him; farther across the court Robb was helping Hallis count their chests.

The first lines gave Robert's titles and Jon's own. He read on.

You are to attend us at King's Landing before proceeding to Dragonstone. We have heard enough of your clocks from other men. Come and let us see what Ned has been keeping to himself.