Chapter 54: The City on the Hills

Robb had come down to the quay wearing Jon's gloves.

Jon noticed when his brother took hold of the rail beside him. The left glove fitted badly over the binding about Robb's fingers; the right had the little cut beneath the thumb where Jon had caught it on a buckle at Runestone. Neither of them mentioned it. Below the quay, a sailor fended the northbound ship away from a stone step with his boot. He had been doing it for some time, and each time the water pushed him back he swore with less invention.

“Father will ask about the king,” Robb said.

“You won't have seen him.”

“He'll ask what you meant to say.”

“I haven't decided.”

Robb gave him a look. “You decide what to say before breakfast.”

“Only to you. You ask difficult questions before I've eaten.”

Usually that would have earned him an elbow. Robb watched a man roll the last of their baggage down the quay instead. The chest had a black direwolf painted upon its side. Jon had seen it brought out of Winterfell's stores while they were still arguing over how many spare bowstrings Theon would need. It looked smaller here, scuffed and roped shut among bales belonging to strangers.

Their ships had been ready since dawn. Martyn had taken the Stark men aboard while Jory inspected the berths and Hallis fetched a sack left at the inn. Now the Blackfish was speaking to the captain, his shoulders turned to shelter a folded letter from the wind. He would ride back towards the Bloody Gate when the ship had gone. There was no one left with a reason to delay.

Across the harbour, Voss had a man aloft loosening Black Tern’s sail. Marrec had brought Broad Oak back from Dragonstone to carry the household’s horses; her broad hull rode low beside the quay, with the last bundles of fodder being passed aboard.

“You could still come with us,” Robb said.

Jon looked at him.

“I know. The king.” Robb scraped the toe of his boot against a stain on the stone. “I meant before he sent for you. You could have gone home once more. Father could have sent you south after harvest.”

Ethan was waiting on Dragonstone with the men and families Jon had sent him. Jon had explained at Runestone why he must follow them. He could have explained it again, and Robb would have stood listening until he finished.

“I have kept them waiting long enough,” he said.

“I know.”

Robb sounded older than he had any right to sound. His red hair had flattened on one side where he had slept on it, and someone had missed a patch of mud at the heel of his boot. Jon wanted, absurdly, to take him back to the inn and make him eat more than the bread he had torn apart at breakfast.

Theon appeared with the new bow in its case. He had polished the silver gull until it shone against his coat.

“Martyn wants us aboard.” He looked from one brother to the other, and some of the mischief left his face. “There is still time to change your mind. King's Landing is a long way to go for Robert to ask why you aren't taller.”

“Tell Father I was too busy beating his heir at swords to grow.”

“Tell him yourself,” Robb said. His mouth twitched despite him.

“I intend to tell him about the archery,” Theon said. “You may settle the rest between you.”

Theon was grinning, but when he offered his hand his grip was firm. Jon caught his forearm. They had bruised one another often enough in the yard that the courtesy felt strange between them.

“Keep practising,” Theon said. “You were almost tolerable by the end.”

“With a bow?”

“I was trying to leave it generous.”

He released Jon and went to join Jory at the plank. Martyn was taking the parcels for the younger Starks aboard himself. Theon stooped for the last of them, then looked back. He lifted the bow in farewell before following the captain onto the deck.

Robb had drawn off the left glove. “This is yours.”

“Keep it. I have another pair.”

“It doesn't fit.”

“Neither do half your own.”

Robb pushed it back over the bandage with his teeth, irritated by the need for help and determined not to ask. Jon caught the cuff before he could pull it against his injured fingers. He worked the leather down carefully. Robb let him.

“You'll have it swelling again if you keep doing that.”

“Denner said it was healing well.”

“He did not tell you to pull at it with your teeth.” Jon smoothed the cuff, then found he was still holding his brother’s wrist.

At Winterfell there had always been another meal, another lesson, the sound of Robb quarrelling with someone on the stair. Even when Jon had shut his door to work, his brother remained on the other side of it, liable to arrive with some urgent proposal involving horses or a wager he had already lost. Jon had built so much of his new life towards leaving that he had scarcely allowed for the silence afterwards.

Robb looked down at his hand. “I'll visit.”

“You will.”

“Father will say there's too much to learn at home.”

“Then persuade him there's something worth learning on Dragonstone.”

“There had better be. I don't mean to cross half the realm to listen to you talk about mortar.”

“I'll save the mortar for Theon.”

That brought a laugh, small and unwilling. Robb drew his wrist free and leaned beside him again.

“When I come,” Robb said, “I want you to show me the island. Yourself.”

“I will.”

“Not send Arthur while you stay indoors with your papers.”

Jon had been about to promise that as well. He stopped, remembering how often he had made Robb wait until he finished something.

“We’ll ride out,” he said. “You can choose the day.”

Robb looked towards the ship. Jory had turned towards them, but did not call.

“They’ll want you aboard soon,” Jon said.

“I can see that.”

He made no move to go. Jon stayed beside him while a sailor carried another bundle up the plank. Robb leaned his shoulder against Jon’s, and they stood watching the man find room for it among their chests.

Brynden had finished with the captain. He folded his letter into Jory's hand and came towards them without hurrying. Robb straightened from the rail.

For a moment Jon saw another hall, another gathering of northmen, a door closing where it should have remained open. The remembered story had blurred in places over twelve years. He could lose the name of a river, mistake which lord had spoken first. He had never lost the knowledge of what had been done to Robb.

The boy before him was rubbing at a mark on Jon's sleeve.

“Pitch,” Robb said. “You'll want another coat for the king.”

Jon drew him close.

Robb made a startled sound and then put both arms around him. The injured hand pressed awkwardly against Jon's back. Jon could smell the leather of his borrowed gloves, the soap from the inn, the familiar warmth of someone who had slept beside him through cold northern nights. He had once thought himself too old for this sort of grief. He had buried a wife in another world and carried the absence of children who could never know where he had gone. He ought to have learned how much could be lost.

Robb's grip tightened.

“You are coming home,” he said against Jon's shoulder.

“Yes.”

Jon would make that true. He could promise neither an easy voyage nor a peaceful life, but he would come north again and walk into that yard, and this boy would be there to complain that he had taken too long.

They stepped apart when Brynden reached them. The old knight gave Robb time to pull his glove straight before putting a hand upon his shoulder.

“Your captain is beginning to think I've sworn to keep him in harbour.”

Robb nodded. He started towards the plank, turned back, and for an instant Jon thought he meant to speak again. Instead he struck Jon lightly against the shoulder with his good hand, as he might have done outside the training yard, and went aboard.

Brynden remained long enough to give Jon a formal inclination of his head.

“Lord Black. Lord Stark’s name will be spoken when you reach the king. Remember that.”

“I remember my father, ser.” Jon’s voice stayed level.

The Blackfish looked at him for a moment, then turned to Arthur. “Ser Arthur.” He gave the knight a stiff, deliberate nod and followed Jory to the plank. On deck, Theon was already helping Robb argue for a place nearer the stern. Brynden went to them, spoke briefly with his hand upon Robb’s shoulder, then came ashore again. His groom waited beyond the baggage with their horses.

The sailors cast off. Jon watched the gap between ship and quay widen until it was too far to cross. Robb raised the borrowed glove. Jon raised his hand in answer and kept it there, feeling faintly foolish and unable to lower it while his brother was still looking.

Arthur stayed beside him until they could no longer make out Robb’s face. Behind them, Brynden mounted. He watched the northbound sail for a moment longer, then took the road through the city with his groom.

“We should go,” Jon said.

Arthur took the small bundle Jon had left against the rail and walked with him towards Black Tern.

* * *

For the first day Jon kept finding things he meant to tell Robb.

A seal surfaced beside Black Tern while they were still within sight of the Vale. Later, Voss let a young sailor climb out along a yard to free a fouled line, and Jon half turned to see whether his brother was watching. Aries stood there instead, pale about the mouth and holding the rail with both hands. Jon brought him water and stayed until he could bear to look up.

The wind held southerly through the next day, making them work for every mile. Broad Oak followed under shortened sail. Whenever her bows fell into a wave, Jon thought of Bucephalus below and wished he could spare the horse the motion. His own body had found its balance quickly. He still caught himself listening for engines that were not there; then a block creaked overhead, canvas cracked, and Voss called another order across the deck.

There was enough to occupy him. He went through Ethan’s letter with Arthur, sorted the requests that could wait, and wrote instructions for the work already begun. Yet when he stopped, the place beside him was empty. Robb would have found something to interrupt him for. Jon had not understood how much he had come to rely upon that.

On the fourth morning Aries woke him to say that he could see the castle.

Jon had fallen asleep with Ethan’s letter beside his pillow. He came awake at once when the page touched his shoulder.

“The Red Keep, my lord. Come and see.”

By the time Jon reached the deck, the headland had opened into hills covered with houses. Ships moved through the morning haze, their masts seeming for a moment to grow out of the city itself. Above them rose the Red Keep. The sun had reached its upper walls first, warming the pale red stone while the face of the cliff below remained in shadow. Round towers crowded the height, joined by walls in whose battlements Jon could make out the black pricks of men and spears. He tipped his head back as they drew nearer. From this side, the rock looked almost as formidable as the castle.

A shout brought his eyes down. A ferryman was poling across their bows with two passengers and a bleating goat. Voss leaned over the rail and told him what he might do with his pole. The man answered without looking round. Black Tern's bow lifted gently through his wake, and Aries laughed before catching himself.

Beyond the ferry, fishing boats nosed between heavier ships waiting for room at the quays. A galley's oars rose dripping as she backed clear of a berth. Years at sea had taught Jon to dislike so little room; he watched her stern until she was clear of the neighbouring hull. His own captain called for a line, and Jon moved Aries clear of the men coming forward.

He had seen pictures of this place in a world which did not believe it existed. None had given him the noise. Bells answered one another across the water. From a ship alongside came the hollow knock of a mallet, then a man singing several words behind his companions. On shore, a crane lifted a cask clear of a ship's rail while porters waited beneath it. Behind them the roofs climbed until they seemed to press against the castle walls. Jon tried to follow a street through the jumble and lost it beneath an overhanging storey. There were more houses beyond, and more beyond those.

Aries had stopped laughing. His fingers tightened upon the rail.

“That's where we're staying?” Aries asked.

“That is where the king has asked us to go.”

Aries looked from the castle to Arthur, who had come up behind them. “Have you been in all those towers, ser?”

“Most of them.” Arthur rested a hand upon the rail. “You will want your coat. There will be men waiting for us at the quay.”

The page hurried below to fetch the coat he had spent yesterday brushing. Jon remained beside Arthur and watched the shore approach.

The castle was no longer an illustration. Somewhere inside it Robert Baratheon was waking, or eating, or roaring at a servant because his belt had been pulled too tight. Jon would kneel to him. Men who had served Jon's grandfather would stand by while he did it, and men who had helped destroy his house would wonder whether Ned Stark's clever bastard was worth inviting to supper.

Arthur had fallen silent. Jon followed the direction of his gaze towards the walls above the river.

“What are you looking for?”

The knight rubbed his thumb against the rail. “There was a stair down to a small landing. We used it when the prince wanted to leave without taking half the household through the gates. I cannot see it from here.”

“For a boat?”

“Sometimes. Once to buy a harp string.”

Jon turned.

“He could have sent someone.”

“I said much the same.” A faint smile touched Arthur’s face. “The man had made a new harp. Rhaegar wanted to hear it. I spent most of an afternoon in the room over his shop while they argued about the way the strings were fitted.”

“Was it a good harp?”

“I thought so. Neither of them found my opinion much use.”

Jon smiled, then looked back towards the shore. He could picture Rhaegar bending over an instrument in a cramped room, intent upon a difference his guard could scarcely hear. Arthur had waited through that afternoon, probably bored and hungry. Jon would have given much to stand in that room for a few breaths. He wanted to ask what his father’s voice had sounded like when he was pleased, but a sailor passed between them with a line over his shoulder. Jon let him through. When he turned back, Arthur was looking at the vanished landing again.

They lost their wind behind a wine ship. Voss swore at her master's flag and ordered out the sweeps. Black Tern crept towards the quays while Broad Oak waited in deeper water for a berth.

Farther along the waterfront, a quay attendant was waving a small trading vessel away from an empty berth. A galley flying the crowned stag had turned towards it. The trader's master shouted back, pointing at the space he had been waiting for, but the attendant only waved harder. Jon watched the galley come in. He would need to ask what accommodation the royal ships already expected at Dragonstone.

The river's smell reached them with the noise: exposed mud and spoiled fish, tar from a caulking pot, a sour reek from the drains beneath the walls. Smoke from a woman's pan drifted across it all. She was frying dough beside the landing stair, turning each piece with two blackened sticks. Men with loads upon their backs stopped to spend a copper before climbing on. One tore his purchase in half and gave the larger piece to the boy following him with an empty basket. The boy ate as he ran.

There was scarcely a strip of shore without something built upon it. Storehouses stood behind the stone quays, their wide doors dark beneath painted signs. Between them, shacks leaned against one another under patched roofs. A woman had hung cups and cooking pots across the front of hers; they clattered whenever someone brushed past. Two men were arguing over a sack on a weighing beam. Even while they argued, the man tending the scale reached for the next load.

At the quay a man in the king's colours had been waiting long enough to take off his cap. He put it on again when he saw Arthur.

“Lord Black?”

Jon stepped forward before the man could address his uncle.

“His Grace's letter said you were expected. Lord Arryn asks that your household come to the keep. I've brought a groom for the horses.”

“Will the king receive us today?”

“Tomorrow morning, my lord. Unless His Grace sends sooner.”

Jon thanked him and called Tomas over. The lieutenant had already spotted the groom attempting to count the horses while Gawen, his left arm still in its sling, explained that the second ship carried most of them.

The servant's expression changed as more black coats came down the plank.

“Fifty household guards,” Jon told him. “Some will remain with the ships.”

The servant looked along the line coming ashore, taking in the matching black coats and the shields beneath their covers. He asked who commanded them.

“Ser Gawen,” Jon said. “Tomas is his lieutenant.”

The man repeated the names, then asked how many would remain aboard and whether Ser Arthur was to be lodged with Lord Black's household. Arthur requested the adjoining chamber. The servant took a folded leaf from his sleeve and added the names to it, bracing it against a cask while he wrote.

Broad Oak had secured a berth farther along the quay by the time Jon went to fetch Bucephalus. The horse disliked the plank, the shouting and a gull which chose exactly the wrong moment to rise from the water. By the time Jon had him ashore, he had an audience. One of the porters whistled at the breadth of his chest. Another asked what Jon fed him.

“Men who ask foolish questions,” Tomas said.

“He'll grow fat here, then.”

The porters laughed, and the horse put his nose against Jon's shoulder as though wounded by the accusation. Jon rubbed the white mark above his nostrils and led him clear of the cargo.

Beyond the landing, a cart with a broken wheel blocked the lane between a storehouse and a row of stalls. Its owner was still arguing with the man whose casks lay upon it. Tomas drew the household up clear of the porters trying to unload the heavier end, and the royal servant raised his voice to ask that Lord Black be allowed through.

The name brought a man out from beneath the storehouse awning. He had ink on the side of one finger and a silver pin holding his collar closed. He spoke to the servant first, glanced along the line of guards, then approached Jon.

“Lord Black? My employer has been trying to obtain one of your clocks since a customer in Maidenpool acquired his.” His eyes moved from Jon’s face to Arthur and back. “I had not understood that you were so young.”

“The clocks keep time regardless.”

The merchant reddened. “Of course, my lord. I meant no discourtesy.”

“Write to Osric, my factor in White Harbor. He will tell you when we can fill another order.”

The man repeated the name carefully. “My employer can also be of service here, my lord. He has supplied the keep for twenty years. If you need introductions, or goods brought through the king's officers—”

“What would he ask in return?”

“Only that you remember him when your next clocks are ready.” His smile became more cautious. “There are buyers who would pay well to receive one sooner.”

“There are buyers who have paid already. Tell him to write to Osric.” Jon kept his voice pleasant, then moved on as the porters cleared a way. Behind him, Gawen was quietly telling one of the younger guards to close the gap beside Aries.

They mounted where the lane widened before the River Gate. Beneath its raised portcullis, a watchman in black mail was using the butt of his spear to hold back a mule cart. His heavy gold cloak had slipped from one shoulder. He lifted it irritably, saw the king's servant and began clearing a way.

The older man beside him was looking at Arthur.

“Ser Arthur?”

Arthur inclined his head. “Good day.”

The watchman's mouth remained open a moment. Then he straightened and saluted, sharply enough that his companion turned to see whom he had missed. Arthur rode beneath the arch. The older man followed him with his eyes until a carter demanded to know whether he meant to stand there all day.

Tomas brought Aries between two household riders as the passage narrowed. Jon heard his lieutenant call to a man ahead to keep the far end clear. The orders passed back, shields turned to spare the people crowding the walls, and their horses went through in pairs. A woman carrying eels objected to the delay without lowering her voice. The watchman told her to wait. Jon heard every word of her answer as he emerged into the square.

Fishmonger's Square was wet underfoot despite the sun. Fish lay belly-up upon boards, their scales flashing whenever the awnings stirred. A seller split one open with a practised stroke, stripped out the guts and flung them into a bucket without breaking off her account of what her husband had done last night. Her neighbour had plainly heard it before. He was calling prices over her shoulder.

Bucephalus picked his way past a fallen basket. A small boy trapped an escaping fish with his bare foot and looked to the stallholder for praise. The man sent him after the others. On the opposite side of the square, a servant in good blue wool held a covered dish high while he searched for a dry place to put his shoes.

Someone called to the black-cloaked riders that there was room for them at his master's inn. Another offered stabling for half the price. Neither waited to learn whether they needed it. A girl with a tray of mussels tried to come between Jon's horse and Gawen's; Gawen put out his good hand, and she turned the movement into an offer to sell him supper. She had a price ready before he could refuse.

Jon found himself smiling. The city smelled worse than he had imagined. It was also doing a great deal of business.

They crossed a short stretch of the Muddy Way before turning into the Hook. The street curved uphill between houses close enough for neighbours to quarrel from their windows. A cooper worked in the open doorway of his shop, hammering a hoop into place while his apprentice held the cask. He scarcely glanced at the riders. Above him, a woman took her washing in before the dust reached it.

Jon caught a warmer smell beneath the sourness of the gutter. A baker was carrying loaves out upon a board, their crusts cracked and pale with flour. Aries turned in his saddle to watch him. Beyond the shop, wastewater had backed up around a drain choked with straw and scraps. A labourer knelt beside it with a hooked stick, dragging out a sodden mass while people stepped round his elbow. A thin stream began to run as they passed.

Jon followed the gutter downhill until it vanished beneath a doorstep. He would have liked to dismount and see where it went. Arthur caught him looking and drew alongside before he could slow the whole company.

“It will be there when we come down again.”

“I was only looking.”

“I know that look.” Arthur's mouth moved faintly. “You used to wear it outside William's door.”

Jon let Bucephalus lengthen his stride. The cooper's hammer faded behind them, then became audible again as they rounded the next bend.

Higher up, the Hook joined a broader road and the air moved against Jon's face. Shops gave way to walled gardens and houses set back from the traffic. Their shutters were painted; behind an open gate he glimpsed vines trained over a shaded walk. A woman in a litter passed with a strip of green silk fluttering from its curtain. Her bearers kept their eyes upon the road. The maid walking beside her looked over the escort, hesitated upon Jon's face, then hurried to catch up.

The Red Keep occupied the height ahead, on Aegon's Hill. Across the lower ground, sunlight glittered upon the Great Sept's dome. Its slender towers rose above Visenya's Hill; farther round, the Dragonpit showed black upon the Hill of Rhaenys. Jon slowed Bucephalus. At first the ruin seemed to be missing its far side. Then he understood the scale of the broken dome, the ragged edge where the roof had fallen inward. Grass showed high upon the walls. Birds rose from the gap and scattered above the hill.

Aries was staring towards the Sept.

“Seven towers,” Arthur told him.

“I can see six.”

“Keep looking as we turn.”

The seventh emerged from behind its neighbour. Aries smiled, then glanced at Jon to see whether he had needed the help too.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Jon's gaze kept returning to the Dragonpit. He had carried plans for so long in a book small enough to hide inside his coat. Here were the buildings themselves. He tried to set the ruined dome against the drawings he remembered and found that he had allowed it too little space.

At a public fountain, women waited with jars pressed against their hips. One held a child out of the horses' way while another made room for a water carrier to lower his yoke. Water spilled over the rim of a bucket and ran between the paving stones. Jon remembered the accounts of the Old King's works, the glazed pipes bringing water to the city, Alysanne insisting it be clean enough to drink. He watched a woman lift her filled jar onto a pad upon her head. She went on carrying it without a hand to steady it. Farther up, a beggar sat beneath the shutter of a house whose carved doorway had just been swept clean. His outstretched hand was scarcely raised before the riders had gone past.

The road opened onto a cobbled square before the keep's barbican. After the close streets, Jon could see the whole company behind him again: the black banner dipping in the wind, the luggage horses at the rear, Gawen watching the household come round the last bend. Above the gatehouse, the red walls rose steep enough to make Aries lean back in his saddle. Guards watched from openings under the battlements. Jon saw the narrow postern beside the great bronze gates, then looked up beneath the raised portcullis as they passed into shadow.

The outer yard was full of provisions and people who wanted them moved elsewhere. A line of mules stood beside the wall while servants shouldered hampers towards the kitchens. The sharp sweetness of crushed apples rose from one with a split lid. Near the stables a groom was backing a restive horse away from a cart; he called for another man to hold the cart's team, and received an answer from somewhere beneath it. Two guards in crimson cloaks stood at an inner doorway, golden lions sewn upon their breasts. A woman carrying a small coffer gave her name to one of them and waited while the other went inside. Men in the king's colours crossed the yard behind her without troubling them.

Their guide handed them over to an understeward, who already had a boy waiting to take their baggage. He asked Tomas how many horses had come up from the river and pointed out where the household could stable them. Jon stayed beside Bucephalus until he had heard the arrangements. Aries slipped down, still looking about him, and nearly backed into a maid with an armful of folded cloth. He apologised in such haste that she smiled before going on.

Above an inner arch, a crowned stag had been carved into a fresh block of stone. The blocks around it were weathered. Arthur looked up. His hand stopped upon the buckle of his sword belt, then resumed its work. Jon followed his glance and wondered what had stood there when his uncle last rode into this yard.

Jon had scarcely handed over his reins when a voice spoke Arthur’s name.

Barristan Selmy was coming down the steps. His white cloak stirred behind him, bright against steel polished so well that Jon could see the red of the walls along its curve. Sunlight showed every line in his face beneath the short white hair. He crossed the uneven stones with the balance of a man who still spent hours in the yard.

Arthur went to meet him. For a moment Barristan looked as though he would embrace him; instead they clasped forearms. His pale blue eyes searched his old brother's face. Arthur said nothing, but the tightness about his mouth eased.

Two men talking beneath the arch had stopped. One held a folded petition against his chest; the other wore a gold chain over plum-coloured velvet. Jon saw their attention move from the white cloak to Dawn at Arthur's side, then towards himself. The man with the petition leaned nearer his companion. Whatever he said did not carry.

“You are well?” Barristan asked.

“Well.” Arthur’s grip tightened before he released him. “It is good to see you here.”

Barristan glanced towards the inner arch. “We must find time to speak.”

“I would like that.” Arthur had smiled at last.

“I am glad to see you without a bandage,” Barristan added, lowering his voice. “Lord Yohn tells the Hand you disarmed Corbray. With Lady Forlorn drawn.”

“Lyn has none either.”

“Good.” Some of the concern left Barristan's eyes. “Winning the joust was not enough for him, then.”

“He won it fairly,” Arthur said. “What came after was another matter.”

Barristan glanced towards the men beneath the arch and left the question there. Jon stood beside the horses, aware of how much the two knights were leaving unsaid in the open yard.

Barristan turned to Jon.

“Lord Black. I am glad you have arrived safely. Lord Yohn's raven gave us something to talk about while we waited.”

Jon returned the greeting. Barristan's mouth curved.

“Both of Ned's boys in the final, and the Greyjoy lad taking the archery. Your father seems to have made good use of his yard.”

Jon smiled. “Theon will want that put in a letter.”

“I expect he will. And you have my congratulations upon the squires' melee.”

“Thank you, ser.”

Beyond Barristan, the man in plum velvet looked at Jon again. This time his glance stayed upon him. The man with the petition said something which made him nod towards Arthur. Jon knew how much of his victory he owed his teacher. He was less certain what these men would make of the teacher following him to Dragonstone.

The knight's eyes rested briefly upon Jon's white forelock. “Your father has written of you. His Grace will want to hear everything he left out.”

“He will have my answers.”

“I am certain he will have questions enough.” Barristan’s gaze lingered upon him a moment, then returned to Arthur. “You will be shown to your rooms. The Hand has business with the council this afternoon; a servant will bring word of tomorrow’s arrangements.”

Barristan walked a little way with them. From the next yard Jon heard the familiar impact of practice swords, followed by a man's impatient correction. Beyond the wall rose a slender pale tower, its stone startling among the red.

“The White Sword Tower,” Arthur said when Jon looked towards it.

“Where you lived?” Aries asked.

Arthur nodded. He had turned far enough to keep the tower in sight as they walked.

“Your old chamber has another occupant,” Barristan said.

“I should hope so.” Arthur looked back at him. “Does the window still let the rain in?”

“Only when the wind is from the sea.”

“Then it is still my chamber.”

Barristan's smile deepened the lines beside his eyes. A boy came hurrying across the court with a message for the Lord Commander, and he excused himself. He touched Arthur's arm before leaving, promising that they would find time.

The understeward led them beneath a covered walk, where the cool air smelled of damp stone after the warmth of the yard. Jon could hear footsteps on the floor above. An oak door opened ahead of them and a pair of servants came through carrying a rolled carpet, one walking backwards. The steward waited for them to pass, still explaining where Jon's men would take their meals.

In a recess beyond the door stood an old suit of black armour. A three-headed dragon spread across its breast, the red inlay dulled beneath a film of dust. One empty hand rested on a sword hilt. Arthur looked at it as they passed, then turned his face towards the stair. Jon glanced back once. The polished armour outside had been easy to see; he might have walked straight past this.

Their chambers overlooked a smaller court where a fig tree grew against the wall. Here the floor was covered with clean rushes, and a draught carried their dry, sweet smell towards the open window. A bed large enough for three boys stood beneath faded hangings. There was fruit upon the table and water in a glazed ewer, already beading with the coolness of the well.

Aries went to the window. “You can see the ships.” He leaned to one side. “I think that is ours.”

Jon joined him. Between two roofs he could make out the river and a patch of crowded quays. Aries pointed, but Black Tern's mast was too much like a dozen others for Jon to be certain. Below them a maid was shaking a cloth into the little court. She shook it again, harder, when a fig leaf caught in its fringe.

Behind them, Gawen lifted the latch of the iron-banded door and tried the connecting one with his good hand. Arthur went through to the adjoining chamber. Tomas left with the steward to see where the household would sleep, and two black-cloaked guards took their places in the passage. Jon heard one ask where the stair led and was pleased that he had not needed telling.

Aries set Patch upon the rug. The dog sniffed the leg of a chair, sneezed, and accepted royal hospitality by falling asleep beneath it.

Jon washed the harbour from his hands while Tomas went to settle the men. Gawen had claimed the chair nearest the door and was discovering that royal furniture did little for a bruised shoulder. Aries knelt beside the armour chest, checking the buckle he had meant to show the man who made it.

“Master Mott will want to see that in daylight,” Jon said. “Send him word that we have arrived. Ask when he can receive us.”

The page looked up. “Today?”

“We have the king tomorrow. The next day will do, if His Grace has finished with us.”

Arthur came back from speaking to the steward. “Arryn will see you before the audience. There will be a message in the morning.”

Jon dried his hands. Through the open window he could see a strip of the city below the hill. He had wanted to go straight back out, but there were men aboard two ships waiting to learn where they would eat and sleep, and a captain who needed to know how long his lord meant to keep him in port.

“Then we shall give the city a day of its own,” he said. “I want to see Mott's forge, the Dragonpit and the streets below it.”

“Wear boots you can walk in. There are three hills, and you will find a reason to climb all of them.”

“You remember the ways?”

Arthur looked towards the roofs. “I lived here, Jon. I can get you from a forge to a ruined stable without losing you.”

“And Flea Bottom?”

“If you mean to see it, we shall see it. Tomas will want men on both sides of you in some of those lanes.”

Jon nodded. “He shall have them.”

The afternoon went upon the business the voyage had left behind. Voss came up from the river to learn how long Jon expected to remain. He could give the captain no certain answer until he had seen the king. Tomas returned from the men’s quarters, agreed which guards would remain with each ship and took their requests for leave. Several wanted to see the city before dark; Gawen reminded them that their lord had not yet been received at court. They would have time enough afterwards.

They ate in their own chambers. By then the light had left the fig tree, though it still caught the highest windows across the court. A servant brought chicken with leeks, bread warm inside its cloth and a dish of pears. When he lifted the cover, steam clouded the silver briefly. Aries watched him carve, trying to see how he freed the leg so neatly without looking as though he were staring.

Gawen managed his knife with his good hand until Aries quietly moved the dish nearer him. The knight thanked him. Under the table, Patch waited for something to fall. From beyond the window came the clop of a horse crossing the stones, the sound of a bucket being set down, a woman calling twice for someone who did not answer. Jon broke his bread and passed the rest of the loaf to Arthur.

Arthur remained at the window a little while after the dishes were cleared. From the farther court came the voices of men changing the guard. At one name he turned his head, listening. A second man answered, and Arthur's hand settled upon the sill. Jon watched him until the voices moved away.

“Go and see them,” he said. “Gawen can bear my company.”

“I would sooner bear his,” Gawen said.

Arthur smiled at that, but stayed until Jon had cleared a place for his papers.

Jon took a clean sheet for his father.

He began with their safe arrival. He described the harbour and Barristan's welcome, told him Gawen was recovering and Aries had found seven towers upon a single sept. When he came to Robb, his pen slowed.

Robb was still at sea, making for White Harbor. Jon dipped his pen and wrote that his brother had fought well at Runestone. He added that he had promised to show him Dragonstone when he visited, and asked Eddard to let him come.

* * *

Arthur had loosened his sword belt when Gawen knocked upon the open door.

“Ser Jaime Lannister wishes to see you.”

Beyond the household captain, a white cloak showed in the passage. Arthur put the belt down.

“Is Lord Black asleep?”

“At last. He wanted to finish his letter to Lord Eddard.” Gawen glanced towards the adjoining door. “I told him his father would rather wait a day than have him fall asleep before the king.”

“Remain with him.”

Gawen returned to his chair outside Jon’s chamber. Jaime came in carrying his helm beneath one arm. Arthur closed the door and checked the latch of the connecting one. Jon had finally stopped moving about on the other side.

The chamber had been meant for one man. Arthur's travelling chest stood beneath the window, with a damp cloth spread over it; supper had left the smell of leeks in the room. The shutters were open, but the river breeze scarcely reached this corner of the court. Somewhere below, water trickled into a trough. He could hear a woman laughing in a room whose window he could not see.

Two candles burned upon the table. The shorter one guttered in the draught from the door, spilling wax down its iron holder. Arthur moved it away from Dawn's scabbard. There was scarcely room for Jaime to pass between the table and the bed. He waited while Arthur moved the chair, as courteously as any guest.

He had expected to know what to say when this moment came. He had spent years imagining it. Jaime was broader through the shoulders now, with a small scar beside his hairline that Arthur did not remember. Yet he still waited for Arthur to speak first. That was familiar: the brilliant young knight who could answer anyone else in the room and then turn to see whether Arthur approved. Arthur looked at the lion clasp at his throat, fastening a white cloak that ought to have meant more than it had.

“Barristan said you were here.” Jaime set his helm beside the wine jug. “I thought we ought to speak without the court listening.”

“That was wise.”

One corner of Jaime’s mouth lifted. His eyes stayed on Arthur’s face. “You used to sound more pleased when I managed it.”

Arthur did not answer. Outside, men were carrying benches from the hall. One struck the stair below the window, followed by a curse and another man’s laughter.

“How are Oswell and Gerold?”

“I will not speak for them.”

Jaime’s mouth straightened. He glanced at the second cup, then back at Arthur, and drew himself a little more upright. He kept his gloves on.

“Very well. How are you?”

“I have wondered what you would say to me for twelve years.”

“You might have written.”

“And you might have told Barristan why the king was dead when he returned.”

“He was wounded at the Trident. You know that.”

“I know where he was.”

“Then you know who was left.”

Arthur drew the other chair back. Its leg caught in a joint between the flagstones, making a harsh scrape. Jaime stepped aside to let him free it, but neither sat. The table remained between them, with Dawn laid across its width.

“I knighted you,” he said. “I watched you take the white cloak. When the ravens came, I would not believe you had done it. Then every account agreed. Your father’s army came through the gates. You killed Aerys. Lord Stark found you upon his throne.”

“Yes.”

“Elia was dead. Her children were dead.” Arthur had meant to keep his voice level. He heard it fail upon the last word. He pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth, waiting for his throat to ease. Jaime had gone very still across the table. “And you were sitting in his chair.”

Jaime looked down at the table. His lashes cast narrow shadows beneath his eyes. For a moment Arthur saw the boy who had stood before Gerold after some fault in his duties, waiting to learn how much the Lord Commander knew. Then Jaime lifted his head. His brows had drawn together, and the look he gave Arthur held none of his earlier uncertainty.

“Do you mean to hear me, or have you only waited twelve years for a chance to say it?”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Which part? The king’s death? You know how that ended.”

“Begin with the gates.”

“Aerys ordered them opened. Pycelle told him my father had come to save him. Varys told him to keep the army outside.” Jaime’s voice had become precise. “I was in the Red Keep. I did not give the order.”

Arthur held his gaze. “Did you know what your father intended?”

“No.”

“His men were wearing your colours.”

“And I was wearing the king’s. He made certain of that.” Jaime pulled at the wool near his shoulder. “When Rhaegar left, I asked to go with him. Aerys kept me. So long as he had me, he thought my father would behave.”

Arthur remembered the king watching Jaime kneel. They had known how deeply the appointment would wound Tywin. Arthur had watched Jaime receive it as an honour, had seen the pride with which he wore his white cloak, and had said nothing of the use Aerys meant to make of him.

“Rhaegar told me to guard his wife and children,” Jaime said.

“And you failed them.”

Jaime’s head drew back a fraction. A flush rose above his collar, and he opened his mouth, but Arthur went on, the words coming more readily now than he wanted them to.

“You swore your life to that family. You killed the king, and his grandchildren died within the same walls. Now you wear Robert’s cloak. Whatever he pardoned, he could not make the oath unspoken.”

“No. He could not.”

“You are an oathbreaker, Jaime.”

Jaime’s hand stopped upon the rim of his helm. For a moment his lips remained parted. He looked directly into Arthur’s face, his brow lifting a little, as though he had mistaken the words and meant to give him time to correct them.

Arthur did not.

The colour ebbed from Jaime’s cheeks. His eyes shone in the candlelight, and he blinked once, slowly.

“Say it again.” His voice was so quiet that Arthur heard the leather of his glove creak against the helm.

“I will not pretend you kept your vows.”

“You have not had to pretend anything. You have had twelve years without speaking to me.”

Arthur could not deny it.

“I thought if I could speak to you alone—” Jaime stopped. His nostrils flared as he drew breath. He pulled off a glove, caught one finger in it and dragged until the stitching gave. He threw it beside his helm. “Gods, I knew what Stark thought. I knew what the whole bloody court thought.” The last words came too loudly. His glance flicked towards the connecting door, and when he spoke again the roughness remained beneath the lowered voice. “I still wondered about you.”

“You swore those vows, Jaime. I heard you.”

“I swore other vows. You heard those as well.” Jaime’s bare hand moved towards Dawn upon the table, then stopped short of it. “To defend the young and innocent. To protect all women. You charged me to be just. Did the white cloak release me from that?”

“It did not permit you to kill the man entrusted to your protection.”

“Then what did it permit?” Jaime leaned across the table, his face close enough for Arthur to see the small pulse beating beside his eye. “Do you remember knighting me?”

“I remember.”

“I lay awake afterwards because I thought I might forget some part of it. What you said. How you held the sword.” His glance dropped to Dawn. He spoke more slowly now, and Arthur had to wait while he swallowed. “My father could have brought every singer in the west to praise me and I would have wanted to hear what you thought instead.”

Arthur remembered him kneeling in the trampled earth of the Kingswood. The battle was over; men were calling for water and horses, and Jaime had stared straight ahead while Dawn rested upon his shoulder. When he rose, he had looked at Arthur as though the words had changed him. Arthur had believed they should.

“I did not forget,” Jaime said. “I thought you meant every word you made me swear.”

He took a breath through his nose. It did nothing to steady him.

“What did you do when he went to the queen?”

Arthur’s eyes moved towards the door.

“Look at me.” Jaime stepped round the table. “You knew what happened in that bedchamber. You, Oswell, Gerold. You knew.”

“Yes.” The word was scarcely audible.

Jaime stopped close enough for Arthur to see the damp at his hairline. “She had armed men outside her door. She cried loudly enough for us to hear. Sometimes she begged him to stop.” He looked past Arthur towards the wall, his jaw working. “Darry was with me the night Chelsted burned. I said we were sworn to protect her. He told me it did not include protecting her from her husband.”

Arthur had heard of Chelsted’s death in Dorne. No letter had told him what followed in the queen’s chambers.

“I stood there,” Jaime said. “I had a sword, and I stood there until he had finished.”

A step sounded in the passage. Arthur held up a hand and waited until it had passed. Jaime watched him throughout, breathing through his nose. When he spoke again, his voice had fallen so low that Arthur had to lean nearer.

“Where was your honour then?”

Arthur had no answer he could bear to give. He had known about Rhaella long before that night. He had listened to Rhaegar speak of a different court, a better reign; he had put his faith in the son and continued to serve the father. The queen had remained in her husband’s chambers.

“Did Oswell laugh about something else? Did Gerold remind himself of his duty? Did you tell yourself Rhaegar would put it right one day?”

Arthur looked at him.

“You did.” Jaime gave a small, disbelieving nod. “Of course you did. So did I. If you could endure it, there must be a reason. You were the best of us.”

He had meant the last words to wound. Arthur heard the belief which made them hurt to say.

“I was there too,” Jaime said. “Do not think I have forgotten that. I stood outside her door. I stood in the hall while Rickard Stark burned and his son strangled himself trying to reach him. Gerold told me it was not for me to judge the king.”

“He believed obedience was what held the order together.”

“And what was it protecting?” Jaime’s bare hand closed against his chest, bunching the white wool. “Then you left me with him, and I had to decide which of your lessons I was meant to obey.”

Arthur’s anger had not gone. Elia was still dead, and Jaime had yet to account for the children. But he could remember Rhaella thanking him for some small service, her sleeve held carefully at the wrist. He had been courteous. He had asked nothing.

“We failed her,” he said. His throat was dry. “I failed her.”

Jaime stared at him. His brows were still drawn together, but his mouth had slackened. He took a breath as though to argue, let it out, and looked down at the wool gathered in his fist.

“Yes,” he answered at last. “We did.”

His hand loosened upon the cloak. He looked exhausted suddenly, but when Arthur moved towards the chair he shook his head.

“You have not heard the rest.”

“Then tell me.”

“Tell me what you would have done first. You are Ser Arthur Dayne. There is a song for every man you ever killed. There ought to be an answer for this.”

“To what?”

“To a king who orders his own city burned.”

Arthur waited for the qualification. A street of rebels. A gatehouse he could not hold. Jaime gave him none.

“All of it.” Jaime’s hand opened between them. “The Red Keep. The Sept. Cellars full of pots, with people living above them who knew nothing of it. He meant to burn his own city.” His voice rose, and broke upon the last word. “Tell me what you would have done. You, Arthur. I needed to know, and you were not there.”

Arthur searched his face. Jaime’s chin was raised, challenging him, but there was no answering curl to his mouth. A bead of sweat ran from his temple and caught beside the scar. He seemed unaware of it.

“Wildfire?” Arthur heard how little voice he had put into the word.

Jaime gave a sharp nod. The word was out now, and he seemed unable to stop.

“I heard the reports. I stood beside his chair while they told him where the pots had gone. Chelsted tried to stop it. He gave up the Hand’s chain. Aerys had him burned and gave it to Rossart.”

Arthur remembered hearing that a pyromancer wore the Hand’s chain. He had taken it for another of Aerys’s insults to the lords who had failed him. He had not imagined what Rossart had done to earn it.

Arthur put his hand upon the back of the chair. He had begun to feel the heat in his face despite the cool air from the window. “How much?”

“Enough that he thought Robert would have no city to take.”

Beyond the window, a man called for help with a bench. Another told him to lift his end. The scrape of wood upon stone came clearly through the casement. Arthur looked towards Jon’s closed door, then back at Jaime. There had been children sleeping in those rooms when Aerys gave his order. Servants in the kitchens. Men holding the gates for him.

“Tell me about that day,” Arthur said.

Jaime turned towards the window. He did not look out. His reflection stood faintly in the darkened glass, the white cloak clearer than his face.

“We could hear the fighting. Men came in with blood on them, asking for orders. I sent to the king for leave to make terms. There was no holding the castle against the army inside the walls.” He swallowed. “He wanted my father’s head brought to him. That would prove I was his servant.”

“And Rossart?”

“Had his own command. To light it.”

Arthur’s grip tightened upon the chair. “With Aerys still in the keep?”

“He meant to burn with it. He thought something would come out of the fire.” Jaime looked back. The crease between his brows had deepened. “A dragon. Himself, remade. I do not know what he thought any longer.” His voice thinned. “He was pleased, Arthur. Men were dying below the walls, and he was pleased.”

Jaime turned from the glass. He no longer seemed to be waiting for Arthur to interrupt him. His eyes moved towards the door and lingered there while he spoke.

“Rossart had dressed as a common soldier. I caught him at a postern before he could get out. He fought.” Jaime glanced at the hand from which he had torn the glove. “Not well. I killed him and went back to the throne room.”

Arthur could picture that hall too well. He had stood beside its doors through summer heat and winter draughts, watching petitioners approach the iron steps.

“Aerys saw the blood and asked whether I had brought my father’s head. I told him it was Rossart’s blood. He went for the throne.” Jaime swallowed. “I pulled him from the steps and cut his throat. Before he could find someone else to send.”

Arthur let go of the chair.

“You could have taken him prisoner.”

“And guarded him where? With whose men? Mine were losing the gates of the keep. His pyromancers needed a word. If one came through a door while I was finding somewhere to lock His Grace away—” Jaime broke off and pressed his lips together. “I had a sword in my hand. I knew I could stop him.”

He faced Arthur fully. His breathing was audible in the pause, and a muscle worked beside his mouth. He had stopped trying to smooth his expression.

“Which vow was I meant to keep? The one that left him alive to give that order again, or the one you made me swear with your sword on my shoulder?”

Arthur could not answer.

Jaime kept looking at him. When he spoke again, his voice dropped on Arthur’s name.

“Arthur. Would you have let him do it?”

“No.”

The answer came before Arthur had considered what it admitted. He held Jaime’s gaze and said it again.

“No. I would have stopped him.”

“Even if you had to kill him?”

Arthur looked at the rumpled wool of Jaime’s cloak. He had spent years imagining himself in that hall, always finding a way to reach the king, protect the children, bring the garrison to its senses. In none of those imaginings had a man been running for a postern with leave to burn them all.

“If I could stop him no other way,” he said, “yes.”

Jaime’s eyelids lowered. He turned his face away and drew a breath which ended in a small, unsteady sound. Arthur waited for him to speak. Jaime pressed the heel of his bare hand against his mouth instead.

Arthur drew out the chair again. This time Jaime sat. He did it abruptly, as though his legs had become tired all at once.

Arthur poured water from the ewer. The spout clicked against the cup as he poured; he steadied the ewer with his other hand. Jaime watched the water settle before taking it. A red mark crossed his palm where the glove’s seam had pressed.

“Why did you never tell Ned Stark?”

“He found me with the sword across my knees. He looked at the body. Then he looked at me.” Jaime stared into the cup. “You know how he looks at a man he despises.”

“He might have listened.”

“Would you have?”

Arthur stood beside the table. He wanted to say yes. Jaime had heard enough lies spoken in a kindly voice by older knights.

“I should have.”

“By the time Robert came, everyone had found a use for what I had done. My father had a son who had helped win the war. Robert had a dead enemy. Stark had a man to hate.” Jaime’s thumb moved against the cup. “I let them have it.”

“And the other pyromancers?”

“I found two in the days afterwards. Belis and Garigus. They knew the plan. They would have done it if someone had told them Aerys still wanted it done.”

Arthur lowered himself into the other chair. “You killed them.”

Jaime nodded.

For a little while neither spoke. Arthur could hear the draft stirring the curtain behind him. He had come into this room prepared to face a betrayal he understood. Now he was trying to imagine the boy moving through a conquered castle, searching for men who might still destroy it, while every white brother who had taught him duty was dead or far away.

But Elia had been there too.

“The children,” he said.

Jaime shut his eyes. His face had begun to regain a little colour; now it drained again. The cup stopped short of his lips.

“Do not ask me to leave them out of it,” Arthur said.

“I am not asking.”

“Where were you when your father’s men reached the holdfast?”

“I cannot tell you the moment they reached it. I did not see them enter.” His eyes opened. “I was in the hall when men found me with Aerys. Crakehall was there. Men who had known me as a boy. They looked to me for what should happen next.”

“And you stayed.”

“Yes.”

Arthur waited. Jaime put down the cup with both hands.

“I thought my father would keep them. Alive. A prince and princess were worth more than prisoners taken from the street.”

“Rhaenys was a little girl. Aegon was still in his cradle.”

“I know what she was.” The words came sharply, and Jaime looked up with sudden anger.

“Then tell me what you did to protect her.”

Jaime held his gaze. His lips moved over an answer he did not give. Then his eyes fell, and he bent forward with his elbows upon his knees. His hair slipped over his brow. He left it there.

“I thought she was safe from my father’s men. I thought Elia would yield the rooms and they would put guards at her door. I did not go to see.” He looked up at last. “I told Crakehall to spread word that the king was dead. I sat down. By the time I knew what had happened in the holdfast—” His voice failed. He bent his head again. “I did not go to see.”

Arthur remembered Rhaenys pulling at her father’s sleeve while Rhaegar tried to finish speaking to him. He had made her wait. Some matter concerning horses, he thought, though he could no longer be certain. He remembered her small hand far more clearly than the thing which had seemed important enough to keep her standing there.

Arthur rubbed beneath one eye. He looked at Jaime until the face before him was quite clear.

“Gregor Clegane,” he said. “Amory Lorch. They still serve your father.”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever asked him to answer for them?”

“No.” Jaime got to his feet so abruptly that the chair struck the wall. He caught it, then left his hand upon its back. “I have never asked him. There. You need not drag that answer from me as well.” He looked at Arthur. “Where were you?”

Arthur stayed seated. The question had come at last. On the other side of the connecting door, the boy he had kept safe was sleeping.

“I was obeying Rhaegar.”

“So was I. He left his family with me and went to fight Robert. He said there would be changes when he came back.” Jaime’s voice shook upon the last words. He stopped until he could control it. “He never came back. Neither did you.”

“His wife was here,” Jaime said. “His children were here. What could he have needed of you that mattered more?”

Arthur could not tell him. Jaime watched him struggle for an answer, and the anger in his face changed to something harder to bear.

“Still his secret, then.”

“It was his command. I chose to obey it.” Arthur looked up at him. “I cannot swear that I would have saved them if I had stayed. I have wanted to believe it badly enough.”

Jaime’s hand loosened upon the chair. “I wanted you there.” He turned partly away, making an effort to hold his voice steady. “When I heard you had survived, I thought you would come.”

Arthur felt the shame of that more keenly than the accusation. News had reached him that Jaime lived. He had been glad, then furious with himself for being glad. Barristan’s letters had let him go on knowing without ever asking Jaime to tell him what had happened.

“I ought to have asked you myself.”

Jaime looked away.

“I was ashamed of you,” Arthur said. “I thought you had chosen your father’s victory over the king’s life. I was wrong about why you killed Aerys.”

Jaime turned back. “You believe me?”

The question rose a little at the end. His eyes moved over Arthur’s face, searching it as he had when Arthur called him oathbreaker. Arthur could see moisture clinging to the lower lashes. Jaime tried to smile; the effort pulled at his mouth and failed.

Arthur nearly reached for him. He kept his hands upon his knees.

“I do.”

Jaime’s breath caught. He lowered his head too late to hide it, and a tear slipped down beside his nose. He brushed it away hard with the back of his hand, scowled at the damp upon his skin, and went to the window. His shoulder caught the curtain as he passed. He stood with it lying across his arm until he noticed and pushed it aside.

Arthur let him stand there. He had no forgiveness to give for Elia, and no way to make the years they had lost harmless.

“Killing Aerys stopped him from burning the city,” Arthur said. “You should not have had to face that alone.”

Jaime bowed his head. Arthur could see his reflection in the dark glass, broken by the lead between the panes. His eyes were closed. Below them, the last bench was carried away. A door slammed, and the passage outside fell quiet. The shorter candle spat as its wick sank into the wax.

After a while Arthur stood and went to the window, leaving a little space between them.

“The pots,” he said. “What became of them?”

Jaime looked at him.

“You stopped the men who meant to light them. Was the wildfire taken away?”

“I do not know.”

Arthur stared out at the roofs. A light moved behind a shutter on the opposite side of the court. He had seen a woman leaning from that window earlier, beating dust from a folded cloth. He wondered whether anyone had ever searched beneath those rooms.

“Barristan must hear this.”

Jaime’s shoulders drew back. He turned from the window, his eyes narrowing. His face was blotched beneath the eyes.

“He will ask you questions,” Arthur said. “So will the Hand. If there is still wildfire under people’s houses, they need men who know how to find it.”

“And you will tell them all of it?”

“I will go with you. You will tell them.”

Jaime rubbed his thumb along the sill. Arthur waited. He would not permit another twelve years of silence, but this first answer had to be Jaime’s.

“Barristan comes off his watch before dawn,” Jaime said at last. “I will bring him here.”

“Wake me.”

They returned to the table. Jaime picked up his helm and looked at the wine Arthur had never poured.

“The boy,” he said. “You are taking him to the yard?”

“In the morning.”

“I might come. After we have spoken to Barristan.”

Arthur studied him. Jaime had recovered something of his easy voice, though it was hoarse now, and he was looking at the torn glove instead of Arthur. His hand rested beside it. He had not picked it up.

“Come,” Arthur said.

Jaime nodded. At the door he turned as though he meant to say something else. Arthur waited, and for once Jaime did not fill the silence with a jest.

“Before dawn,” he said.

Arthur opened the door. Gawen looked up from his chair. Jaime acknowledged him and walked away, the white cloak passing through the pools of lamplight along the passage.

Arthur remained there until he could no longer hear the steps. When he went back inside, the room smelled of hot wax. Jaime’s cup stood where he had left it, still half full. Arthur took out a sheet of parchment and drew the taller candle nearer. He wrote the names of the three pyromancers before he could forget one. At the end of the last name, his pen stopped. He sat listening for a sound from Jon’s room until the ink had dried.