Chapter 82 - The Field of Banners

The herald had to begin twice.

A man selling cherries beyond the fence shouted over the king's name, and somebody farther along the bank answered him with a price so insulting that half the commons laughed. Ser Aron Santagar turned towards the noise. The seller lowered his basket. Beneath the royal canopy, Robert leaned back in his chair and waved for the herald to continue.

Jon could see the field through the open gate, broad enough for a charge until he considered how many boys were waiting to make one. The grass had been cut short. Near the entrance, watering had left a darker strip beneath the turf, and a cartwheel had pressed a shallow groove across it. At the far end the ground rose towards the river fence. A dropped shield could slide back down that slope. So could a boy.

He tried to stop examining the ground and listen.

The herald read out the prizes: six thousand six hundred and sixty-six gold dragons and two-thirds of a dragon to the winner, half as much to the last boy defeated. He lingered over the king's generosity, then lowered the parchment a little to look at them.

"A yield ends the contest for the man who gives it. Call clearly, raise a hand or your weapon and withdraw under the marshals' protection. A dropped sword does not put you out. A broken or loose helm does. No thrust to the face or throat. No blow after a yield. Where a marshal puts his staff, you stop."

At the word man, the boy ahead of Jon straightened beneath a coat of mail that still had room for him to grow. His companion whispered something. Both looked solemn when Santagar glanced their way.

"Your fathers may dispute the result afterwards," the master-at-arms told them. "You will obey it while you are on my field."

Jon looked down as a loose end of silk stirred against his breastplate. The black dragonglass finish caught the sun along the curve of his shoulder; two ribbons were knotted at a fastening high upon his right arm, bronze beside green.

Ysilla had taken the bronze one from her wrist beside the tents. He remembered her holding it against the black steel, then looking up to ask whether he would wear it. She had stayed close while he answered, her fingers still upon the ribbon. Margaery had found him there a little later. The green silk had marked the passage in the small book he had brought down in his pouch; she had drawn it free herself and tied it beside Ysilla's. He could still picture her concentrating upon the knot, then smiling when she found him watching her.

Robb was straightening Betha's red favour above his gauntlet. She had given it to him at the tent ropes, and he had held his arm out so solemnly that Theon had begun to laugh. He had stopped when Myranda Royce called him over. Now a cream ribbon lay against Theon's dark sleeve, and he was looking towards the galleries as carefully as Robb.

They went through the gate.

The noise changed as Jon emerged. What had been a confusion beyond the tents became a wall of faces and lifted arms. Men were standing upon carts behind the common rail. A woman held a little girl astride her shoulders, one small shoe planted against her cheek. Farther up, beneath the awnings, ladies shifted their skirts to make space for late arrivals while servants struggled along the benches with cups. The wind lifted the edge of the royal canopy and laid a brief wash of sunlight across Cersei's crimson sleeves.

Joffrey sat beside her, a small coronet bright upon his yellow hair. Sandor Clegane stood behind his chair with one hand hooked into his belt. Jon looked for Arthur and found him near the gate, speaking to Barristan. His uncle watched the shield, then Jon's face. Jon flexed the fingers around the grip where Arthur could see.

Robb nudged him with an elbow.

"Over there."

Jon followed his glance. Wendel Manderly had risen to his feet before anyone had fought a stroke. Beside him, Wylis was trying to persuade him to sit down. Martyn stood at the lower rail with Tomas and several of the household, all of them turned towards the boys. Gawen had brought Jon's spare gloves for some reason. He held them folded in one great hand.

Robb lifted his sword. Wendel answered with his cup, slopping a little wine over the rim.

It was absurd how much better that made Jon feel.

The companies were finding places without being directed. Patrek Mallister pushed between Hoster Blackwood and the Bracken youth, turned the latter by the shoulder and pointed him towards the western boys. The Bracken answered sharply but moved. Hoster watched him go, then pulled a younger Riverlander closer rather than follow. Beyond them, Lancel had gathered the Crakehall and Brax boys around a shield painted with a golden lion. He was speaking quickly; the Crakehall nodded, while the Brax youth kept looking at the Reach.

Beyond Patrek's company, Eddison and Aleyx stood shoulder to shoulder, their shields touching. Aleyx said something through his open visor; Eddison nodded and moved half a pace back.

There were enough green shields at the other end to make Jon reconsider Harry's warning. Red and green apples stood beside roses, a crane beside a tower, and the grapes of the Redwynes moved towards the front. Loras was among them. His helm had a narrow gilt crest, without the extravagant flowers Jon remembered from another tournament that had not happened yet. Even at this distance he stood easily in his armour, shifting his sword from one hand to the other while a Fossoway youth spoke.

Horas looked towards Jon. This time he held the look.

"Leave him until we have room," Domeric murmured.

"I was looking at the rest."

"So was he."

Harry beckoned his own boys to a place on Jon's right. Mychel stood nearest the gap between the two companies, Artys beside him, while Waymar kept turning to examine their opponents. At the near side a Stormlander with a small shield was getting directions from the taller boy wearing Dondarrion's lightning. Several Crownlanders had come to stand close by them. Jon recognised the Rykker warhammers from the supper tables and a red chevron on white. He knew the lord who bore that last device; he could not have put a name to the narrow-faced youth behind the shield.

Aurane noticed him looking.

"Don't expect them to stand with us because we sailed here together."

"I wasn't."

"Good. The Rykker boy has been telling everyone he'll send me back to the ships."

Theon leaned forward. "What did you say to him?"

Aurane's mouth moved behind the open cheekpieces. "Nothing he liked."

Harry lowered his visor. "They've agreed something with the storm boys."

The boy with the lightning had reached across to tap the Rykker shield. Both nodded. An arrangement made with a few words, easily broken. Jon had spent years teaching men to dress ranks and listen for orders. These boys had been brought up to expect somebody to follow them, and most had never needed to obey anyone their own age. That would matter once the shouting began.

It would matter to his own company too, if he mistook friendship for a drilled century.

"Keep room to move," he told Robb. "If they press us, don't stand for the sake of it."

Robb settled his helm. "You keep up."

Jon smiled despite himself and lowered his visor.

The field shrank. There was Robb's grey shoulder on his left, Aurane a little behind his right, the bright grass ahead. He could no longer see the ladies or the king. He could hear his breathing and a faint creak each time he tightened his shield hand. The armour smelt of warm leather and the oil Gawen used upon the hinges.

A trumpet sounded.

For a heartbeat nobody moved. Then a boy somewhere to the right yelled, and the whole field seemed to answer.

The Reach crossed towards the western company at a walk that became a run. The Crakehall met them with his shield forward. Jon saw the collision lift him onto his toes; the boys behind him closed in, and the distinct colours vanished into a crush of shields, shoulders and raised swords.

"Here," Harry called.

The Stormlanders were coming at the space between the Vale and Jon's five. They had chosen it well. Mychel moved left to close it as Robb stepped forward, but a Crownlander ran past the first pair and made for Aurane.

Jon stepped across his path. He had time to see an open mouth behind a bar of steel before the boy's sword struck.

He turned his shield into the cut without lifting it far. The wood cracked against his forearm. His own blade met the returning stroke near the other boy's hilt, checked it, and slid down onto the knuckles of the sword hand. The boy swore and stumbled sideways, still holding on. Before Jon could follow, a second shield struck the first boy from behind and drove him back into Jon.

Jon tried to give ground. Someone's heel was under his boot. He could not lift his sword without striking the helm pressed beside it, and the shield was squeezing the breath from his chest. Robb's blade came down across the newcomer's arm. The boy twisted with a cry, taking the weight with him. Jon dragged his foot free.

"Room behind!" Theon shouted. "Move!"

Aurane backed away beside him, his shield knocking against Jon's sword arm. Jon went with him. Three paces, no more, before the attackers caught them. A narrow-faced Crownlander went round Robb's left; another boy thrust his shield into the gap. Robb's grey sleeve vanished behind it.

A blow caught the top of Jon's shield. Pain went down from the bruise in a hot streak. He let the shield sink rather than fight it and stopped the next cut with his blade, hard enough to feel the shock in his right hand too. His opponent wore three pale birds on a dark surcoat. Jon did not know the house. He knew the boy was taller, and that every time he recovered his sword he raised his elbow before bringing it down again.

Jon waited for the elbow. He stepped forward as it rose, cramped the swing with his shield held against his ribs, and drove his sword's rounded point into the padded belly below the breastplate. The boy folded with a grunt. Jon turned the next cut across his upper arm.

"Yield."

The boy shook his head and swung from the waist. Jon stepped outside it. Aurane's blade struck the boy's shield from the other side, and his resistance went out of him.

"Yield! I yield."

A staff appeared. Jon withdrew at once, giving the boy room to get past. He had expected to feel pleased with the first success. There was no time. The Rykker youth came through the opening behind the marshal, stopped short of the staff, then drove at Aurane as soon as it was lifted.

Harry was shouting to Mychel. Two Stormlanders were driving the Vale boys towards the rail on their right; another few steps would leave Harry with nowhere to retreat. He struck the nearest shield, turned, and called his company towards the river end instead. Artys went first. Waymar hesitated, sword still raised against an opponent who was backing away.

"Waymar!"

He came, angry at being called off, and the Vale company moved across Jon's right instead of being pinned against the rail. The Stormlanders followed. For a few breaths their movement drew some of the pressure away.

Jon turned his head, searching for grey. Six paces away Robb's sword rose between two helms, then vanished again. Domeric was nearer, a long blade scraping down his guard as he tried to get across. Behind them the Riverlanders were being driven backwards. Patrek shouted a warning that the hammering shields swallowed. Jon saw the apple shields pressing Hoster Blackwood and understood: another step back would crush them against the boys already fighting there.

Jon started to warn Domeric. Theon had seen it already.

"Behind you, Bolton!"

Domeric looked, struck the long sword aside and moved. Jon followed, but the boy in front of him refused to let him go. A cut struck his breastplate with a flat, startling crack. He felt the force through the padding and heard a cheer from the galleries. The boy cut again, trying to make him back into the Riverlanders.

For an instant Jon saw the brewery passage instead of the field: too little space, people behind him, somebody counting on his retreat. He swore, caught the next stroke on his sword and turned his body sideways to slip past a shield. He could not command a way through this merely by seeing that they needed one.

Robb made it.

His brother had stopped retreating. He struck the narrow-faced Crownlander's shield twice, driving him towards the taller Stormlander beside him. The two boys fouled each other's feet. As the Stormlander tried to recover, Robb went shoulder-first into the space between them.

"Jon! This way!"

Theon reached him first. His sword flashed low, across the Crownlander's thigh, and the boy went down onto one knee. Robb did not wait to claim him. He turned on the Stormlander, meeting the sword meant for Theon's back, while Domeric slipped through beside them.

Jon struck his own opponent once more and followed. Aurane came last, breathing loudly, his shield askew. The opening was narrow enough that Jon brushed Robb's arm as he passed.

"Keep going," Robb told him.

They went. The companies that had been driving them together struck each other instead. A Bracken shield crashed against the boy in Dondarrion colours. The Stormlander struck back at once, and the Bracken abandoned his retreat to answer him. Patrek's voice rose above them, calling his companion back.

Jon stopped only when there was grass between them and the nearest swords. His heart hammered under the breastplate. Robb bent briefly with his hands on his thighs, then straightened when he saw Jon looking.

"You all right?"

"Yes." Jon swallowed. "That was well seen."

Robb glanced back at the confusion they had left. "I wasn't staying in there."

From the galleries came a bellow of "Stark!" Jon could have picked Wendel's voice out of a storm. Robb heard it too. His sword lifted a little, almost before he meant it to, and another cheer answered from farther along the benches.

Theon caught his shoulder and turned him.

"Enjoy it later."

The Rykker youth had followed Aurane through the gap.

He came with two companions. One was small and fast, carrying a buckler scarcely larger than a plate. The other had already lost his shield and held his sword with both hands.

"Say it again, Waters," the Rykker called.

Aurane's sword came up. "You heard me."

The Rykker drove at him. Aurane met the first blow badly. The rim of his shield dipped; the Rykker boy struck at his hand and Aurane flinched, exposing his side.

Jon moved to help, but the small boy intercepted him. The buckler slapped his blade aside; a quick cut stung his thigh. Behind the little shield the boy was grinning. Jon let him come again, turned the sword outward and stepped past the buckler as it followed. His blow caught the boy in the ribs. The grin vanished. He retreated towards his friends, leaving Jon a clear view of Aurane.

Aurane was on one knee.

The Rykker youth had pressed his shield down and was trying to get a stroke beneath his raised sword. Aurane's bandage showed dark at the edge of his glove. He twisted free of the shield, swung once at the other's shin and missed. When the next blow struck his guard, his sword fell.

"Yield," he gasped. "Damn you, I yield."

The Rykker boy stopped. Whatever he had said about ships, he gave Aurane room to stand, then wheeled to meet Domeric. A marshal led Aurane out with a hand beneath his elbow. He looked back once, furious, and Jon lifted his sword to show that he had seen.

Robb and Theon drove the two-handed swordsman away together. He retreated into another fight, where a Riverlander caught him across the shoulder and made him call his yield. Jon followed the small boy towards Domeric. For a little while there were only the four of them, the Crownlanders and the hard business of finding room for their swords.

The small boy yielded after Robb caught him squarely upon the helm. The Rykker held on longer. Domeric made him retreat into the open, and when Theon came round his other side he called his yield and lowered the blade with a disgusted shake of the head.

A shout behind Jon made him turn.

Harry was coming towards them with Mychel. Artys walked between two marshals, holding a torn strap and trying to explain something. Waymar had stayed on the field, but he was well away from Harry now, fighting beside the Bracken boy against a pair of Reach youths.

"Artys's helm came loose," Harry said, breath catching between the words. "He wouldn't leave until they made him."

"Where are you going?" Robb asked.

"Where they aren't." Harry nodded towards the Reach. "Come on."

Jon looked past him. Loras had cut free of the larger struggle. Two boys lay near the river fence, one getting up, the other already raising his sword to yield. Loras turned towards a third before the second had finished speaking. He did not hurry; he simply arrived while the other boy was still trying to decide whether to attack.

Jon had seen that economy in Arthur, although Loras was quicker to press an advantage and less willing to wait. The boy's shield moved just far enough. His sword returned to guard before his opponent's had finished falling.

Then a Fossoway shield crossed Jon's view, and he had his own fight to attend to.

The apple upon the shield had been split by a cut. Jon put another across it and felt the boy behind it brace for a third.

He did not give him one. He backed away, drawing him towards Harry, then turned to meet the second Fossoway as that boy tried to come between them. Harry understood. His blade struck the first boy from the side while Mychel moved behind Jon to keep a third opponent out.

They gained a few paces towards the river. Jon took a blow upon his shield and heard Harry's sword strike the attacker before he could answer. Beside them Robb and Domeric drove another boy back. For a little while Jon could hear his friends calling to one another above the noise.

Then the western boys broke through the Reach.

The Crakehall was in front, broad shoulders hunched behind a shield that had lost most of its paint. Lancel followed with the Brax youth and another boy wearing a lion. A fifth dragged one foot. They had paid for their passage, but the boys who tried to follow them were paying too. The Crakehall turned without warning and struck a pursuer so hard upon the helm that a marshal hurried in before anyone could decide whether he had yielded.

"Leave him," Lancel called. "Keep together."

The command surprised Jon. In the yard Lancel had watched Jaime as if every careless word ought to be remembered. Now three boys listened when he spoke, and the fourth held his place despite the leg. Somebody in the western seats shouted his name.

The Reach pursued. The western company changed direction, making for the gap beside Harry, and the boys coming after them spread wider. Harry would have to meet the westermen or let them through his company. He raised his shield.

"Hold there!"

Lancel did not.

The Crakehall struck Mychel's shield with his own. Mychel skidded a pace, planted his foot and held. Harry hit the Crakehall's sword arm. Behind them the Reach boys arrived, and the space where his friends had been moving so neatly became a knot of strangers again.

Jon met a cut, answered it, heard Theon swear and lost sight of him.

A shield caught Jon in the back. He stumbled towards a boy with a crane upon his surcoat, who tried to drive his sword into Jon's breast before he recovered. Jon turned enough to take it on the steel at his side. He felt the rounded point slide and heard the scrape as it went past. He struck the boy's extended arm, then the edge of his shield, forcing him to turn away.

Behind him Theon was laughing, though it sounded strained.

"Come on, then. You wanted me."

The western boy with the injured leg had his blade raised to yield. Theon had turned from him to Lancel, who retreated with his sword held low. He looked frightened. Theon followed one step, then another.

"Don't chase," Jon shouted.

Theon stopped, but the Brax boy was already coming round him. Lancel's sword rose as Theon turned. It struck his ribs beneath the arm. Theon drove the Brax youth back with a furious cut, tried to recover his shield towards Lancel, and took a second blow across the thigh.

He went down hard upon one knee. The Brax boy put his point against Theon's breastplate and waited.

For a moment Jon thought Theon would try to rise into it.

Then his sword lifted.

"Yield." The word came through clenched teeth. "Yes, I said it. Get that thing out of my chest."

Lancel drew back. Theon pushed himself upright without accepting the marshal's hand, tested his leg and limped towards the gate. Ser Harras stood at the rail. Theon glanced towards him, then lowered his head and kept walking. Jon remembered the knight telling him to give his mother something to boast of.

***

Jaime watched Lancel draw the Brax boy back towards the rest of the westermen. He had expected his cousin to stand over Greyjoy enjoying himself. Instead Lancel had let the marshal through and looked for his companions.

Perhaps some of those questions in the yard had been worth answering. Jaime had grown tired of hearing how quickly he could beat this man or that. Lancel ought to remember what he had done today: make Greyjoy think him frightened, draw him out, and let another boy help him win.

Beside Jaime, Barristan turned towards an attendant. "Water for Greyjoy. Have someone look at that leg."

Arthur was watching his own pupil. Out on the grass, Black started after the departing westermen, checked himself and went back to Stark. His shield hung low.

"How bad is the shoulder?" Jaime asked.

"Bad enough. He is to yield if the hand weakens."

"He agreed to that?"

Arthur's eyes stayed upon the field. "He heard me."

Jaime looked at him. At thirteen he would have heard the warning too, then done precisely what he meant to do. He remembered very little of the men who had warned him before his first melee. He remembered everyone who had watched him win.

Black moved nearer his brother. The Stark boy shifted his shield to give him room, and Jaime saw Arthur's fingers loosen upon the rail. Jaime followed Barristan back to the royal seats, leaving Arthur at the rail.

***

Domeric touched his shield against Jon's to draw his attention.

"Higher ground."

The river end was clear for perhaps ten paces. Beyond it the fence was lined with servants and boatmen, their faces sunburnt, their hands white upon the rail. Domeric began moving that way, Robb between him and Jon. Harry followed with Mychel, calling to Waymar.

Waymar had acquired an unlikely companion. The Bracken boy was still beside him, both backing away from a Reach youth with a long-handled blunt axe. Hoster Blackwood ran across their path, struck at the axeman's exposed side and brought him round. The Bracken immediately closed from the other side.

The axe went down. Its owner tried to recover it and found three swords waiting.

He yielded so loudly that the men at the rail laughed.

"I had him," the Bracken told Hoster.

Hoster began to answer, but Patrek arrived, breathing hard. "Stay with us, Hoster."

"He was going to get behind you."

"So would the other one, if I hadn't stopped him." Patrek jerked his head. The Bracken boy looked as though he might object to receiving orders from a Mallister, but followed when Hoster did. Waymar watched them go before coming back to Harry.

"You might have called sooner," he complained.

Harry stared at him. "I did."

Mychel made a sound that might have been laughter if he had possessed the breath. Jon raised his visor just long enough to drag air into his mouth. The world widened and grew terribly bright. Sweat ran from his hair into one eye. He blinked it clear, saw a marshal looking towards him and lowered the steel again.

The slope was not steep, but it gave them firmer footing than the churned grass below. For the first time Jon could see more of the field. Across a gap in the fighting, Eddison was giving ground before another boy with a long axe. Aleyx stepped beside him and struck the hands upon the haft. The boy turned to answer. Eddison came in under the axe, shield first, and drove him sideways; Aleyx followed with his point at the boy's breast until the empty hand rose. Near the entrance, two attendants carried another boy between them with his feet clear of the ground. His shield remained where he had dropped it.

Jon had no idea how many were left. Fewer. He could hear individual swords now beneath the crowd.

His left arm shook when he held the shield away from his body. He brought it close and waited until it steadied. The fingers still closed properly. The pain was worse, but it remained pain, and Arthur had told him what else to watch for.

Robb saw him testing the grip.

"Give it a moment."

"They won't."

"No. But you needn't run down to meet them."

Loras was coming towards the slope with Horas and Hobber. A boy bearing a green apple remained beside them. From the other side, the Crakehall and Lancel had turned back towards the Riverlanders; neither could afford to let Patrek strike them from behind.

Harry looked along their company. Six now, with Waymar returned. More than the four approaching, though none looked fresh enough to enjoy the advantage.

"They'll try to draw us down," he said.

Loras stopped below the slope. His sword tip moved as he looked from one face to another. Then he stepped towards Mychel, struck once and withdrew before Mychel's answer reached him.

Mychel held his place.

The next attack came from Hobber at the opposite end. Domeric met him, but Horas moved with his brother, trying to pass Jon on the outside. Robb checked him. For a few strokes the Reach boys pressed both ends of the company while Loras waited in the space between.

Jon realised what he was waiting for a breath before it happened.

Waymar followed the green apple downhill.

"Mychel, close!" Harry shouted.

Mychel stepped into the gap. Loras arrived before his shield was settled. The first stroke hit the rim and turned it; the second caught Mychel upon the side of the helm. He reeled. Harry drove at Loras, who gave ground at once, leaving Mychel upright but badly placed.

The green apple struck him from the side.

Mychel called his yield and stood very still until the marshal reached him.

Waymar turned back, too late. Harry drove his own shield against Waymar's and shoved him into the vacant place.

"Here. Stay here."

For once Waymar said nothing.

Jon had no time to watch further. Horas had found his left side. He struck high upon the shield, stepped away from Robb's answering sword and came back to the same place. Jon lowered the rim a fraction, inviting the stroke to pass above it, then met Horas's blade with his own and struck across the exposed arm.

Horas retreated with a sharp breath. He looked at Jon's shield as he did.

He had noticed.

Domeric made Hobber give ground. Jon went with him, keeping the Redwyne brothers apart, and for three or four paces the slope was theirs again. Then Loras crossed in front of Harry and caught Domeric between two attacks.

Domeric saw him. He turned out of Hobber's reach rather than try to face both, and Jon moved to occupy the space he left. Loras followed Domeric, sword quick against his guard. One stroke drew the shield outward. The next came low. Domeric checked it and struck back, forcing Loras to take a short step away.

Jon could not have said which of them would win. That troubled him more than he expected. Domeric was good; he had been good before they came south. Yet Loras seemed to learn something from every stroke, changing the next before his opponent could settle into an answer.

Hobber struck Jon's sword aside. Jon turned back to him.

Hobber drew back from Jon's answering cut. Beyond him, Domeric pressed Loras with two short strokes, making him retreat. He followed with a third. Loras stopped giving ground and stepped past the falling blade; his sword caught Domeric beneath the raised arm. Domeric's elbow clamped against his side. Before he could turn the shield, Loras had his point against his breast.

Domeric lifted his sword to yield. Loras withdrew, touched the sword lightly with his own and turned away before the marshal had reached them.

That small courtesy cost him nothing. Jon resented him for having time for it.

Then Hobber came again, and resentment became a very poor substitute for attention.

The Redwyne's sword struck Jon's helm. Light jumped across his sight. He staggered, caught himself and found Robb's shield between him and the next blow.

"Back," his brother said.

Jon went back. He hated needing it, and went.

His vision cleared almost at once. He could hear Robb and Hobber fighting, Harry shouting somewhere on his right, a woman screaming a name from the galleries. He drew breath through his nose, felt no wetness there and raised his sword.

Hobber drove Robb towards him. Jon stepped aside, caught Hobber's next stroke upon his blade and held it long enough for Robb to strike beneath the arm. The Redwyne twisted away with a gasp. Robb pressed him once, twice, then stopped as Hobber raised his sword and called out.

A marshal stepped between them.

Across the field Lancel had lost his helm. He stood with both hands spread while Santagar pointed towards the gate. His mouth worked soundlessly at this distance. The Crakehall remained, now beside Patrek against the green apple and the boy wearing lightning. Hoster Blackwood limped towards the rail. The Bracken was already there, one hand held beneath his opposite arm, watching Hoster with an expression Jon could not read.

Harry came to stand beside Robb. Waymar was gone; Jon had not seen him fall or yield.

"Royce?"

"The Dondarrion boy," Harry answered. "Caught him turning." He drew a breath. "That leaves me."

Robb glanced towards Jon. They were three together, with six or seven other boys scattered across the grass.

Harry lifted his sword slightly.

"As we agreed?"

Robb nodded. "As we agreed."

There was no room for a ceremony. Horas was coming up the slope again and Loras had turned towards Patrek's fight. Jon moved to meet the Redwyne. Behind him he heard Harry's sword strike Robb's shield, and the men at the river fence began shouting for the Vale.

***

Margaery had lost sight of her brother twice, and both times somebody had chosen that moment to speak to her.

Now she stood, although her mother had already asked her to sit once. A lord in front of them kept leaning into her view. Through the space beside his shoulder she could see Loras turning away from a boy with a silver eagle upon his purple shield. The boy's sword was raised. He was leaving. Loras was still on the field.

"There," she said, touching Elinor's wrist.

"I can see him."

Elinor was standing too. Their abandoned cushions had slipped against the back of the bench. Somewhere beneath them a servant was trying to recover a fallen cup without putting his head between the knees of a shouting lord.

Mace had ceased to care where anyone sat. He was calling to Loras as though his son could hear useful instructions from this distance. Beside him Garlan watched in silence, one hand curled upon the rail. His sleeve had ridden back from a bruise Margaery did not remember seeing yesterday.

Jon stood near the river end with Horas before him. Dust dulled his black breastplate; a pale scar crossed the helm. As he turned beneath a blow, the green silk at his arm flickered into view beside Ysilla's bronze. Margaery had tied the knot herself, smiling at how solemnly he held still for her. Now she could see him struggling to lift the shield. He had kept that arm close at breakfast too.

"He's hurt," she murmured.

"Several of them are," Olenna replied. Her grandmother had remained seated, though she held her chin a little higher to see past Mace. "Your brother has taken his share."

Margaery looked for Loras. The Crakehall was driving him back, a much broader boy whose battered shield hid almost everything above his belt. She had missed the stroke that made her brother stumble. Her hand tightened upon Elinor's wrist. Loras recovered, struck at the edge of the great shield and slipped aside before the answer came.

"Come on," she whispered.

The Crakehall's reply rang across the grass. Loras went back a pace, then forward, and the western benches erupted in protest at something Margaery could not see.

A little farther along, Betha Blackwood had both hands pressed upon the rail. Robb Stark and Harry Hardyng were fighting directly beneath the river banners. Betha followed every movement; when Robb staggered, her lips parted. The woman beside her said something and drew her back from the edge. Betha let herself be moved but did not sit.

Robert's laugh rolled over the nearer voices.

"Still your rose, Baelish?"

Petyr stood below the king's chair, neatly dressed and apparently untouched by the heat. "Lord Mace's son has given me no reason to change my mind, Your Grace."

"My son will give you a purse for your judgement," Mace called without looking round.

"Then I shall hope His Grace is equally generous in defeat."

Robert slapped his thigh. "I'll take Jon Black. Five hundred. Against that knife you keep showing off."

Baelish's hand went to the dagger at his belt. Margaery saw the smooth black hilt before his fingers covered it.

"A dear little blade, Your Grace."

"Not if you're so certain."

For a moment Baelish looked towards the field. Jon and Horas had moved away from the slope. Loras was still circling the Crakehall. Then Petyr smiled and bowed.

"As you wish."

Margaery scarcely heard the rest. Loras had got inside the Crakehall's reach, and both boys were struggling so close that she could no longer see either sword.

She caught Elinor's hand without meaning to. Beside her, Garlan leaned forward.

***

Horas struck the shield again.

The rim knocked against Jon's breastplate. His elbow went back with it, dragging at the bruised shoulder, and for a moment he could do nothing but keep his teeth together. Horas was already drawing back for another. Jon turned away, letting the cut scrape down the shield, and retreated off the slope.

The Redwyne followed behind his own shield. He no longer reached after Jon with those long, impatient strokes. He crowded him, made him set his feet, then hammered the same high corner of the wood. Jon cut at his wrist as the sword came back. Horas covered it and struck his thigh instead.

The earlier bruise had stiffened. His leg nearly gave beneath the blow.

Over Horas's shoulder he saw Harry drive Robb backwards along the higher ground. A low cut, then a high one. Robb's shield rose. Jon looked for his brother's answer and lost his own.

Horas shoved the sword arm across Jon's chest. Steel cracked against his helm. His boot slid in the wet grass; he caught himself, felt the pull inside his thigh and heard a cheer from the Reach seats.

"Turn and fight, bastard."

Close enough to hear the satisfaction through the visor. Two days of Lord Black, and this was what Horas had been waiting to say.

Jon drove at him.

The first cut knocked the Redwyne's sword aside. The second struck his shield. Jon brought the third round harder, wanting the sound it would make against that grinning face, and Horas stepped inside it. His shield hit Jon beneath the left arm.

No breath came.

Jon stumbled away with his sword too far out to help him. Horas followed. Somehow Jon brought the blade back in time; the swords scraped together beside his visor, and their shields ground against one another as both boys tried to push.

He was close enough to see sweat shining on Horas's upper lip.

Tyrion had called him a bastard over wine, and Jon had kept smiling. Now the Reach was cheering while Horas drove him backwards, and he wanted the boy down, wanted those voices quiet. He was being childish. He had raised children in another life; he should know better than to lose his temper over a boy's insult. His left arm shook between their shields. He was spending what strength he had left trying to shove through Horas's guard.

Jon stopped pushing.

Horas lurched into the space he gave him. Jon turned sideways, letting the shield scrape past his chest, and pulled his sword free. He struck behind the Redwyne's knee as the boy went by.

Horas stumbled but stayed upright. He wheeled with his shield across his body, and Jon backed beyond the answering cut. Grass lay between them again. He dragged air into his lungs.

Jon kept him turning, meeting the closer cuts on his blade and letting the wider ones pass. Whenever he threatened the sword arm, Horas dragged his shield across to cover it. Jon waited for that movement, then struck the thigh below. The Redwyne swore and pulled the leg back.

Jon did not follow. Behind him Harry shouted something at Robb. Their swords clanged, and Jon kept his eyes upon Horas.

The Redwyne came in with a short cut across his shield. Jon turned with the stroke, hit the forearm as it passed and struck low again. Horas's knee bent. He drew back, pressing his lips together while he shifted his weight onto the other leg.

At the rail behind him the Dondarrion boy sat with a marshal crouched before him. The green apple had been left face down upon the turf; its owner was being taken towards the gate. Jon had missed both defeats. Farther along, the Crakehall's shield rang under Loras's sword.

Horas shortened his steps. His shield had sunk to protect the leg.

Jon raised his sword as though to cut over it. His forward thigh lay open beneath the lifted arm.

Horas struck at it.

Jon snatched the leg back and beat the descending blade towards the ground. The tip bit into the turf. He stamped upon the steel before Horas could recover it, turned outside the boy's sword arm and brought his point up against the breastplate.

Horas hauled at the hilt. Jon kept his weight upon the pinning foot. The blade flexed beneath his boot, but the point at the Redwyne's chest stayed still.

"Yield."

Horas tried to bring his shield round. His own extended arm was in its way. For a moment his eyes remained fixed upon Jon's through the bars of the visor.

The nearest marshal was coming towards them.

"I yield."

Jon lifted his foot as the staff passed between them. Horas snatched up the sword, wiped its wet end against his surcoat and walked towards the gate, favouring the leg he had tried to hide.

Jon let his sword point sag. He had wanted more from beating him than this aching arm and the chance to breathe. He took the breaths anyway.

Robb and Harry were still on the slope, but Harry no longer held the higher ground. Robb had worked round him. Now they fought across the slope, moving towards the river fence and back again.

The Crakehall called his yield.

Loras withdrew his sword while a marshal went to the western boy. Jon watched the Crakehall bend with his hands upon his knees. Apart from the fight at the river end, no other swords remained raised.

Loras turned.

One gilt ornament on his helm had folded flat. His green surcoat was torn beneath the arm, and pale wood showed through the ruined paint along his shield's upper rim. His breath moved his shoulders. Jon had scarcely finished his second breath when the Tyrell came past the marshal towards him.

He lifted his sword.

The books had made much of Loras Tyrell. Jon remembered flowers, victories, Jaime seeing himself in the younger knight. He had never read anything about the sound of Loras breathing inside his helm. Nor could he remember anything that would help him now.

Santagar moved aside to give them room.

Loras struck once at the shield and withdrew. Jon's answer passed in front of him. The next cut began towards the helm, then straightened into a thrust. Jon turned it with his sword and stepped right. His answering stroke met the green shield.

Loras moved round towards Jon's injured side.

The blow caught the top of his shield. Jon turned right with it, sparing the shoulder, and found the Tyrell's sword coming back towards his head. He ducked. Steel rang against steel; the cut glanced off his helm, leaving a thin ringing in his ears.

He had no time to clear it. Loras threatened the knee, drew Jon's sword down and cut high again. Jon stopped that one, but his blade was still above his head when the point drove into his breastplate.

He stumbled back two paces. The Reach benches roared.

Loras came after him. Jon struck for the leg and found empty air. He tried to close behind his sword; the Tyrell's shield stopped him, and a cut came round its edge. He had to back away again.

Every retreat gave Loras room for the next stroke. Jon could feel himself being driven across the field, could hear the cheers getting louder each time his feet hurried to catch up with him.

He caught a cut against the strong part of his blade, close to the hilt, and turned it outward. His own sword struck beneath Loras's raised arm.

The Tyrell grunted and drew away.

Jon went after him. One step, and Loras's sword came back across his head. He checked himself so abruptly that his heel dragged a strip from the turf. The cut hissed across the front of his visor.

His stomach tightened. He had almost given the boy his head for one good blow to the ribs.

They circled. Jon pressed the shield against his body to take some of its weight from the arm. His wet glove slipped upon the grip; he closed his fingers harder. The inside of his helm smelt of hot leather and his own breath.

"Highgarden! Highgarden!" The cry came from close behind Jon. He had almost reached the fence. He moved sideways, hearing the boards creak beneath the spectators leaning over them, and Loras came with him.

This time he waited until the sword moved before choosing his way back. He retreated along a curve. Two cuts struck his blade; the third swept past his shoulder. Jon answered low and caught Loras upon the forward thigh.

Loras's reply hit Jon's upper arm.

His shield dropped. He got it up again with a sound he would have been ashamed to hear from another boy. He retreated with his sword extended, making Loras go round its point.

Through the gap beside the marshal, Jon could see Arthur standing at the gate. His uncle's arms were folded tightly across his chest. Jon closed and opened his fingers inside the glove. They obeyed. He looked back before Arthur could raise a hand.

Loras shifted his sword towards the high corner of the shield. Jon's body was already preparing to turn right. Twice the next cut had found him there.

He made himself step left.

The blade passed behind him. Jon struck Loras above the sword elbow, but the Tyrell turned with him before he could strike again. The answering blow drove his shield back against his chest. Jon staggered, recovered and kept moving left.

Loras came with him, his sword held nearer his body now.

The cartwheel groove lay behind Jon. He glanced towards it, then at the gate beyond. Loras saw the glance and moved to cut him off. The boy would not walk blindly into bad ground. Jon felt a brief, unwilling pleasure at that, even with his arm hurting and his breath nearly gone.

He crossed the groove himself. His heel sank into the damp earth; he pulled it clear before Loras could close. The Tyrell followed at an angle and cut towards the shield.

Jon met the blade. Instead of knocking it away, he kept the swords pressed together as he stepped in. Loras began to draw his weapon back. Jon let it go, turned his wrist and struck hard across the outside of the sword hand.

The fingers held.

Loras drove his shield into Jon's chest. Air burst from him. The sword cracked against his helm before he could retreat, and for one frightened instant he thought his legs would fold.

He stayed up. Loras had stepped away too, opening his fingers and closing them again upon the hilt. Jon needed three short gasps before he could draw a proper breath.

At the river rail Harry struck high. Robb caught the blade on his shield and drove beneath it. Their shoulders met. Harry tried to turn, but Robb's foot had crossed behind his heel.

Both boys fell.

Jon heard the northern benches before he saw Robb rise. His brother still had his sword. Harry lay on his side with the shield trapped underneath him; as he struggled to free it, Robb set his point against the breastplate.

Harry's sword rose in yield. Robb drew back at once and lifted his visor while the marshal helped Harry up.

Loras raised his blade. Jon turned back, unable to spare his brother even a shout. His right hand ached around the hilt, and the shield straps had begun to chafe his forearm. Loras reset his own grip once before coming forward.

Jon let the shield sink a little.

Loras cut towards the opening above it. Jon began to turn right, then saw the angle change. The blade was coming round towards the other side of his helm, where his own turn would carry him.

He stopped with his weight upon his rear foot.

The cut passed in front of his face. Loras was already recovering it, but Jon's sword had never left its place. He struck the wrist again.

Loras's hand opened. The sword fell beside his boot and bounced upon the grass.

He thrust his shield at Jon and bent for it. Jon kicked the weapon farther away, then stepped towards the empty sword hand. The shield swung round. He drew back enough to escape the rim and laid his blade across Loras's exposed upper arm.

"Yield."

Loras wrenched the arm back and drove at him with the shield. Jon gave way. As the rim passed, he struck the outside of the Tyrell's thigh and stepped across his path to the fallen sword.

Loras turned with him. His empty hand closed, opened, closed again. Jon could hear his breath rasping through the visor. He still had the shield. He was still looking for a way past.

Santagar approached with his staff lowered.

"Yield, Loras."

The boy looked from Jon to the sword lying beyond him. One brown eye showed through the slit, furious and wet with effort. Jon held his blade ready. He had no wish to hit that hand again.

At last Loras raised it.

"I yield."

Santagar put the staff between them. Jon stepped back while Loras collected his sword in his left hand. The right stayed curled against his breastplate as he walked towards the gate.

Robb was coming down the slope.

He had lowered his visor again. A smear of earth crossed the grey wolf upon his shield; the hem of his surcoat hung loose where someone had cut through a fastening. Jon looked past him to Harry, who stood beneath the rail with one hand on a marshal's arm. Only the two of them remained.

From the northern benches came a shout of "Stark!" Someone answered with Jon's name. Wendel was on his feet, his face red, apparently prepared to cheer whichever boy was nearer. Even the men who had been calling for Highgarden leaned forward to watch.

Jon lifted his sword. Robb touched it with his own.

"Again," his brother said.

"Again."

Robb's helm dipped towards the shield Jon held against his ribs. For an instant Jon expected a question about the arm. None came. Robb set his feet and struck.

Jon turned the high cut with his sword and began the answer he had used against Robb a hundred times. His brother's shield was already waiting. The rim knocked Jon's blade aside, and the next cut struck his thigh where Horas had struck it.

His leg bent before he could stop it. He recovered behind his shield, dragging the foot back rather than lifting it. The bruise had stiffened beneath the padding; now the pull inside his thigh hurt whenever he tried to turn.

Robb followed, but not too far. Jon's answering cut passed short of him. He had been so pleased to see his brother still standing that he had begun as though they were back in the yard, with all morning to undo a mistake. Robb meant to win.

Jon struck at the shield, turned the blade and tried to reach the upper arm. Robb caught both cuts. The third Jon shortened, bringing the edge down towards the hand instead.

Robb drew it away and hit him in the ribs.

"I saw you do that," he said through the visor.

Jon heard Theon laughing beyond the fence. He tried to breathe deeply and regretted it. Robb had found the side Horas's shield had battered; drawing air stretched the hurt beneath his arm.

His brother gave him no time to settle. A thrust drove him back, a cut wrenched against his blade, and the wolf-painted shield blocked his way when he tried to turn out. Jon caught the next stroke on his own shield. Pain ran from shoulder to elbow. He pushed his sword forward to keep Robb away and let the shield rest against his ribs.

It would be a good victory for Robb.

The thought came with such relief that Jon almost let the point sink. His brother had beaten Harry, kept their friends together, fought his way here. There would be little shame in losing to him. Jon had lived a whole life before this one, had known victories and the fierce pleasure of achieving things no one in these stands would understand. He could still remember them. Robb had all that ahead of him.

A blade flashed towards his face. Jon met it late, close to the hilt. Their shields struck together, and through the narrow slit he saw his brother's blue eyes fixed upon him. Robb drove forward again. He had felt Jon falter.

Jon gave ground. His sword hand ached from gripping the hilt; the battered shoulder would scarcely bear another hard block. He could yield and be glad for his brother. He could let Arthur take this damned shield away.

Robb's next stroke hit his breastplate squarely. Jon stumbled, brought the point up from near the grass and heard the northern benches roar. His brother came after him with his shield high, quicker now, certain enough to press where he had waited before. He was beginning to believe he had won.

Beyond him, above the shouting faces, Robert sat beneath his crowned stag.

Jon wanted that man's throne. He would have to persuade men to risk their lands and sons upon a claim most of them had never heard. They would look for strength, for someone who could win. The triumphs of his other life would mean nothing to them. He needed victories they could see, every one he could earn, however small.

He could not give this one away.

Robb struck again. Jon went with the pressure instead of trying to stop it, backing at an angle so the following cut scraped across his chest. His answer struck the outer edge of the wolf shield. Robb turned it away and brought his sword over the rim, making Jon retreat once more.

When the shield came home, its lower edge dragged against Robb's hip. His brother hitched it up. There was a moment when the breastplate showed beside it, scarcely wider than Jon's fist.

Robb saw where he was looking and closed the gap. Jon's breath rasped inside his helm. He had found an opening; reaching it would be another matter.

"Don't let him rest!" someone shouted.

Robb needed no urging. He drove Jon towards the dark strip of watered turf. Jon felt the cartwheel groove beneath his heel and moved along it, keeping his feet apart. His brother followed on the firmer grass, struck high, then swept his blade low. Jon caught it close to his hilt and turned it outward. Robb recovered before he could answer.

For a breath they stood within reach, both struggling for air. Beyond Robb's shoulder Arthur stood at the gate with his arms folded tightly across his chest.

"I'm sorry, brother," Jon managed.

"For what?"

Jon drove forward. His blade cracked against Robb's, knocked the point wide and came straight back towards the helm. Robb threw his shield up. Jon reversed the cut before it landed, sweeping down beneath the lifted rim.

Steel struck Robb's thigh. His knee bent. He answered at once, a hard blow across Jon's breastplate that drove the breath from him.

Jon stumbled half a step and went straight back at him. His sword struck high, glanced from the iron rim and came round low enough to make Robb drag the shield down. Before his brother could settle behind it, Jon struck at the exposed sword arm. Robb caught the cut on his blade. Jon turned with the contact, forcing the swords outward, then tore his free and brought it back across the wolf's painted muzzle.

Wood splintered. Robb retreated, and Jon followed with everything he had left. His shoulder burned beneath the shield straps. He kept that arm tight against his ribs and worked the sword in short, savage strokes, turning his body behind each one. Steel rang against steel; the wolf shield jerked up, then sideways. A shout came through Robb's visor, lost beneath the next blow.

Robb struck back over the rim. Jon caught the blade close to his hilt and drove it aside, but the effort wrenched his wrist. His fingers hurt so badly that he could scarcely bear to close them harder. He did it anyway. The next stroke battered the shield towards Robb's chest. Another caught its outer edge as his brother tried to straighten it.

Jon's thigh pulled sharply. He shortened his step without breaking off, sword rising towards Robb's face. The shield rose to meet it. Jon dropped the point instead and struck the thigh again. Robb lurched, recovered and swung hard enough that Jon had to lean away. The blade scraped down his breastplate.

He had no breath left. He struck again.

The cut hit the shield's outer rim, turning it away from Robb's body. Jon let his blade slide free, drew the hilt to his hip and drove the blunt point into the opening. His whole weight followed it. The injured leg shook beneath him, but he kept going, forcing Robb backwards before the shield could close.

His brother recoiled onto the leg Jon had struck. The heel dug into the turf, the knee failed him, and he fell onto his back. His sword hit the ground and slipped from his hand.

Jon stopped above him, chest heaving. For a moment he could only watch Robb struggling to draw breath. His own arm would no longer hold the shield clear of his body. He let it hang against his side.

Robb rolled enough to free his shield from beneath him, then lay back and pushed up his visor. His face was flushed, his mouth open. Those blue eyes rose to Jon's.

Jon dropped his sword into the grass and stretched out his empty hand.

"Yield?"

Robb stared at him, breathing hard. Then his eyes closed. He let out a long breath, and for a moment all the disappointment showed plainly upon his face.

"I yield."

He looked up again. His mouth moved into a tired smile.

"I thought I had you."

He took Jon's hand. Beneath the dirt, Jon recognised the pale stitching below the thumb of the old glove he had given him. He braced his good leg and hauled, and Robb pushed himself upright. They stood with their hands still clasped, close enough that Jon could hear his brother swallowing air.

"So did I." Jon tightened his grip. "You can fight Loras first next time."

Robb laughed. Jon tried to join him, felt it catch beneath his ribs and laughed again despite the pain. They released their clasp, and his brother pulled him into an embrace, careful of the arm between them. Jon held him with his good hand at the back of his neck. The cheering swelled around them; Wendel's voice broke upon Robb's name, and someone by the gate began hammering the rail.

An attendant gathered the fallen swords while Santagar raised his staff towards the royal gallery. The herald took up Jon's name, his title, the victory. Robb drew back, still grinning, and turned with Jon towards the people cheering at the fence.

***

Robert's laughter reached Jaime before the herald had finished.

"They make them tough in the North, don't they?" The king slapped his knee and turned towards his eldest son. "Are you watching, boy? Neither one would give an inch."

Tommen was clapping beside Myrcella, who held the back of his tunic to keep him from leaning too far over the rail. Joffrey had been watching too. At his father's words he drew himself upright, his mouth tightening.

Cersei gave Robert an angry look.

"He has eyes, Robert." Her voice was cold. "You need not address him as though he were a fool."

The king snorted and turned back to the field. Jaime kept his face still. Below them, Arthur's arms had fallen to his sides. He watched the boys separate, rolled his shoulders once and went through the gate. Jaime had seen him wait more easily for grown men to come at him with sharpened steel.

***

Jon could no longer bear the shield. He loosened the grip, found that the arm straps still held it and swore under his breath.

A hand caught the lower rim.

Arthur had reached him.

"Let me."

His uncle loosened the fastening before lifting the shield clear. Jon's arm hung at his side, aching so fiercely that he had to wait a moment before speaking.

"I can feel it."

"I should hope so." Arthur looked into his visor. "Can you see me clearly?"

"Yes."

"Then stand still."

He lifted the visor, and air touched Jon's wet face. The field rushed back in colour: torn grass, the yellow canopy, a marshal carrying off a shield that had been split almost in two. Beyond the fence Wendel had abandoned any pretence of sitting. Tomas was shouting with both hands cupped around his mouth.

Arthur looked from Jon to Robb. His hand rested briefly at the back of Jon's neck before he reached to straighten the loose strap beneath Robb's chin.

"Well fought. Both of you."

His uncle was smiling, openly, and Jon had to swallow before he could answer. Beside him Robb stood a little straighter.

Gawen arrived with water, the spare gloves still tucked beneath his arm.

He worked the fastening beneath Jon's chin. The helm came away with a pull at his hair, and the wind struck his scalp so pleasantly that he closed his eyes. Martyn had reached Robb. When both boys were bareheaded, Jon could see the reddened cheek and the dirt caught in his brother's hair.

Jon drank too quickly, coughed and spilled half the cup down his breastplate. Robb laughed at him, then took the cup when Jon held it out.

"Slowly," Arthur said. Robb, who had begun drinking just as greedily, lowered it with water running down his chin.

Beyond them Garlan was kneeling beside Loras, examining the hand Jon had struck. Loras pulled it back, opened and closed the fingers, then held it out again when his brother spoke. The movement made Jon conscious of his own knuckles. Everything was beginning to hurt now that he had time to notice it.

Robb looked at the dent in Jon's helm, then at his face.

"Did I do that?"

"You never got that high."

Robb snorted, ran a thumb over the mark and gave the helm to Gawen. His own hung from Martyn's hand. He rubbed his damp hair back and stayed beside Jon while Gawen collected their swords from the attendant.

Boys who had yielded were gathering near the gate, some offering congratulations, some looking at the ground when Jon caught their eyes. Eddison stood with Aleyx beneath the rail, helping him ease off a dented helm. Both looked up at Jon's name. The little Crownlander with the buckler lifted it to show the fresh mark in its rim. Jon touched his own thigh and shook his head. The boy grinned again. Farther along, the Crakehall sat with a cloth pressed against his mouth while the Brax youth argued with an attendant about the cut which had made him yield. Neither looked happy. Both looked very young without their helms.

Loras came over with Garlan. The curls at his brow were pasted dark with sweat. A red mark crossed one cheek, and his lower lip had swollen where it had met his teeth. He had given Garlan the sword but kept the shield himself, as though surrendering both would be too much.

Loras stopped before Jon. For a moment neither spoke. Around them the other boys were congratulating Robb, and someone called for Loras from the Reach benches.

"Well fought," he said at last.

Jon offered his hand, saw which wrist Garlan had been examining and lowered it again. "And you."

Loras followed the movement. His mouth tightened, but he gave a short nod. Garlan spoke quietly beside him and took the shield. This time Loras let him have it, turning towards his father's voice.

Santagar came to find them. He glanced towards the gallery as he approached.

"His Grace is coming down."

Robert had left his chair beneath the canopy. At the foot of the steps he looked across the field towards Jon, then beckoned Barristan closer. The old knight bent his head to hear him. Arthur watched them for a moment before turning back.

"Kneel, Jon."

Jon looked at him. Arthur had put his hand upon his sword.

"On one knee."

The movement hurt. Jon set his right knee upon the grass, still trying to understand, and heard the steel come free above him. Robb had gone very still.

Arthur stood close enough that Jon could see the wear upon his sword belt. He had buckled it for him often enough, impatient to finish and get to his own lessons. Now his uncle rested the flat of the blade against his shoulder.

"You have learned to fight," Arthur said. "Last night you chose to use what I taught you for people who had no one to fight for them."

Jon swallowed. The hands resting upon his knee had begun to tremble.

"Will you defend those who cannot defend themselves, keep faith with those who trust you, and honour your sworn word?"

"I will."

Arthur touched his other shoulder. The blade lifted away.

"Then rise, Ser Jon."

For a moment Jon stayed where he was. Arthur sheathed the sword and offered him a hand. Jon took it, felt himself drawn up, and found the pride in his uncle's face harder to bear than the words had been.

He had pictured this before, though never at the end of a melee with his arm throbbing and grass caught in the straps of his greaves. Arthur had always been in those pictures. He had not realised how much it mattered until he looked past him and saw Robert approaching.

His uncle had seen the king coming too. Perhaps that was all there was to it. Jon could not help thinking of Rhaegar, and of how many promises Arthur was still keeping.

Robb caught his good arm. "Jon." His brother was grinning so broadly that for a moment Jon forgot everyone else. Then the people nearest the rail took up the name with its new title, and Robert reached them.

The king slowed. His eyes went from Jon to the sword at Arthur's hip. The smile remained upon his face for another instant before it vanished.

"You might have waited, Dayne."

Arthur inclined his head. "I have trained him since he first held a sword, Your Grace. It is an honour I hoped to give him."

Robert's mouth tightened. Then his eyes moved to Robb. He glanced once more at Arthur, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

"Keep that sword sheathed a moment, Dayne." His hand closed upon Robb's shoulder. "Come here, lad."

Robb went red. "Your Grace?"

"Did you think I came all this way to watch you drink water? Down on your knee."

Robert held out his hand to Barristan. The white knight drew his sword and laid the hilt into it. Robb knelt where Jon had knelt, his eyes fixed upon the king.

"I heard what you did last night," Robert told him. His voice carried now. "You helped bring those children out, and carried the frightened little one when he would go to nobody else. And I saw you this morning, keeping your friends together when half the field wanted to knock them apart."

Robb's lips parted, but he found no answer. Robert settled the blade upon his shoulder.

"Will you stand for those who need you, keep your word, and do your duty however hard it comes?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I will."

"See that you do." The sword touched his other shoulder. "Rise, Ser Robb Stark."

The king hauled him to his feet before he could rise unaided. The cheer from the northern seats carried over the rest. Wendel had both arms in the air; somewhere close by Theon was shouting Robb's name.

He turned towards Jon as the king gave the sword back to Barristan. They looked at one another, both smiling, and Jon remembered the boys they had been, striking at one another beneath Winterfell's grey walls. He had wanted this for Robb as well. His brother would remember the king's words all his life; when Jon asked him to choose, this morning would be among the things he asked him to turn against. He wished he had not thought of that now. Robb was still smiling at him, and Jon reached to clasp his arm.

***

Oberyn had watched Arthur through both knighthoods. The man had scarcely taken his eyes from Jon while Robert stood over the other boy. Now the brothers were grinning at one another, and Arthur smiled with them, without seeming to know he did it.

Obara leaned past her father. "They'll have him at a feast before I've had my bout."

"Look at his arm."

"I can wait until it mends." She sounded offended that he thought she would not.

Oberyn gave her shoulder a brief squeeze. Below them, Jon bent to hear something Robb said. Dirt streaked his white forelock. Without the helm he looked young enough to be sent away to wash by somebody's mother.

Rhaenys ought to hear that part as well. The letters would give her a victor, a rescuer, a young lord collecting honours in Robert's court. He could tell her how the boy had needed help to stand, and how Arthur had touched his neck before letting him go. He wondered what she would make of that care. His gaze stayed upon Arthur. When Dorne pressed Rhaenys's claim, the man would have to choose. Oberyn did not envy him that. He could see what the boy meant to him. But his niece came before Arthur's happiness, before the affection that had survived between old companions. Aegon. Elia. His fingers curled into a fist. He looked up towards the royal canopy, where Cersei sat with her golden-haired children and Jaime stood behind her chair.

Robert laughed and caught Robb by the shoulder again. Oberyn's jaw tightened. The king had always found it easy to rejoice over the children of men he loved.

Beside him Obara began applauding as the steward carried out the purses. Oberyn joined her. The boy had earned his victory. Doran would hear that from him too.

***

Jon watched the steward approach Robb with the prizes. The man bowed, addressed him as Ser Robb, and presented a purse with a sealed order for the balance of his winnings. More than three thousand dragons. Robb looked from the gold to the parchment, then back again. He had known the prize before entering; apparently that had not prepared him for being given it.

Jon received his own purse and an order for the remainder of his winnings. He could already think of uses for it on Dragonstone. Ten thousand promised to two boys for a morning's fighting, besides the jousts, archery, feasts and all the rest. Robert spent the realm's wealth as though the cheering would put it back. Jon watched him laughing with Robb and felt the irony settle. Soon enough, if his plans held, those debts would be his to settle. If Robert had borrowed the prize money, Jon might yet pay interest on his own victory.

He had wanted to win. For much of the contest he had wanted nothing else.

"Another thing," Robert said. "Baelish."

Petyr had come down from the gallery with the others. At the king's summons he stepped forward, carrying a dagger across his palms.

Jon's attention fixed upon the smooth black hilt. Dragonbone, perhaps. When Robert drew the blade, dark ripples ran through the steel. A Valyrian dagger belonging to Petyr Baelish, offered in a wager over a tournament: Jon felt his fingers tighten upon the purse.

"Your lordship has cost me a favourite possession," Petyr told him pleasantly.

Jon looked from the dagger to his face. "I did not know I was fighting for it."

"Neither did I, until His Grace proposed the wager."

"You backed the wrong boy." Robert turned the dagger in the light. "Valyrian steel. Worth a better wager than you made, Baelish."

Petyr's smile held.

Robert slid the blade back into its sheath and offered it hilt first.

"For the winner. Keep it."

Jon took it with his right hand. The hilt was warm from Robert's grasp.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

He could think of very little else to say. He remembered a bed, a sleeping child, a woman gripping a blade with both hands. Having the dagger did not mean he had prevented any of that. A man who meant to kill a child could find another knife. Still, he closed his fingers about this one with a satisfaction he could not show.

Petyr watched him looking at it.

"More to your taste than cups, Lord Black?"

"I hope the cups will serve me well." Jon looked up. "You still have the hall set aside for my showing after the tournament?"

Petyr's smile deepened at the mention of the hall. "Of course, my lord. The same hall, after the tournament. I have seen to it myself."

Robert turned back towards Robb. Petyr withdrew a pace. Jon watched him go, unsettled by the satisfaction in that smile.

Tyrion slipped between two lords to stand beside Jon. "Knighted at twelve. Daemon Blackfyre won his spurs at twelve, after a squires' melee." His eyes fell to the dagger. "A royal gift as well."

Jon stared at Tyrion.

"Don't spoil the day with that dragonspawn," Robert snapped, his face darkening.

Then he turned to the boys and smiled. He wrapped an arm about each, pulling them close. Jon stiffened beneath the weight on his sore shoulder.

"Boys of the North! Ned's boys." Robert laughed. "Gods, to see Ned's face when he hears of this! You'll write to him, Robb."

"I will, Your Grace." Robb's voice shook on the last word.

Robert released them. Nearby, Yohn Royce rested a hand on Harry's shoulder and bent his head to speak to him.

Up in the gallery Cersei remained in her chair. Joffrey had risen to look over the rail, his fingers closed about it. His mother touched his sleeve. He sat, and Jon could no longer see his face past the men standing before the royal seats.

Renly guided Loras through the gathering with a hand between his shoulders, Mace following close behind. As he brought Loras before the king, Arthur touched Jon's elbow. "Come. The maester is waiting."

He was grateful for the excuse. The king's pleasure had drawn people onto the field, and Jon could feel his arm stiffening while he stood. He bowed again, entrusted the purse to Gawen and carried the dagger himself.

Arthur looked at it, then at the way Jon held his left shoulder.

"We will admire that afterwards."

***

The awning trapped the smell of wet padding and a basin that needed emptying.

Tomas had found him a place on a bench. Jon laid the dagger beside him and sat while Gawen and Arthur began undoing the straps.

"You and I are knights now, aren't we?" Jon asked him.

Tomas smiled. "Yes, my lord. You made a fine showing."

"Aye," Gawen agreed. He eased Jon's arm aside to reach the last buckle. The breastplate shifted away from Jon's chest, still hanging from the one fastened strap, and cool air touched the damp linen beneath. Jon shivered, jerking the buckle in Gawen's hand and making him swear.

"Hold a moment, my lord."

"I am trying."

"I know." Gawen's voice softened. "Nearly done."

On the next bench Aurane watched a fresh bandage go around his hand. Monford stood over him, listening to an account that seemed to grow more detailed whenever Aurane approached the moment he had dropped his sword. Farther in, Theon had pulled his padded coat open and was examining a purple mark upon his ribs.

"I had Lancel moving," he insisted.

"You did," Domeric agreed. "Towards the other boy."

Theon looked up, then back at the bruise.

Domeric handed him a cup. There was no triumph in his face, only tired amusement. After a moment Theon took it.

Jon had expected the maester's examination to be worse than the fight. In some ways it was. There was no opponent to watch, no next stroke to keep his mind away from the thumb pressing into the bruise. He sat with his jaw clenched while the man asked him to lift the arm, close his hand, turn the wrist.

Nothing appeared to have broken. The swelling was worse. The advice had not improved with the result of the melee.

"Rest it."

Arthur answered before Jon could. "He will."

Jon looked at his uncle. Arthur held the look until he stopped considering an argument.

Gawen laid the black breastplate upon a folded cloth. In the shade the finish was still handsome. Where the sun reached it, every scrape was plain. One bright line crossed the place where Jon knew the earlier flaw had been; he could no longer distinguish it from the damage earned this morning.

Harry came in with Mychel and Artys. Waymar followed, telling Yohn that the boy with the lightning had struck while he was turning.

"Then you should have turned with your shield towards him," Yohn replied.

Waymar closed his mouth.

Harry sat beside Robb. Both had washed, though neither had got all the dirt out of his hair. He looked at Robb's scraped glove, then offered his hand. Both winced a little as their fingers closed.

"We should have stayed together longer," Harry told Jon.

"Until we'd beaten the Reach?"

"Until you'd beaten Loras, at least."

"Then you'd have had both of them to fight," Theon said. He nodded towards Robb. "You had enough trouble with one."

Harry began to answer, then stopped as Betha Blackwood came beneath the awning with Hoster and an older woman in black and red. Hoster's knee had been bound. He wanted to know whether the marshals had found the strap from Artys's helm; while Artys explained where he had left it, Betha stopped before Robb.

"Ser Robb." She dipped her head, smiling.

Robb looked up at her and coloured. He had put the red ribbon inside his helm when he took off his armour. He drew it out before setting the helm aside, then seemed to realise that he had cleared a place for her upon a bench full of discarded armour.

"Forgive me." He moved the shield as well.

She remained standing, but her smile widened. "My cousin said Hardyng would have you. Then there you were at the end, with your brother."

"I was wrong," Hoster said over his shoulder. "You needn't tell everyone."

"I have only told Robb."

Garlan ducked beneath the awning behind her, holding the canvas clear for Margaery and Loras. Betha moved nearer Robb to let them pass. Loras had a clean cloth wrapped around his wrist and stopped beside Jon's bench, looking at the maester as the man packed his things.

"Will the shoulder mend?"

"If he allows it."

Loras accepted that with a nod. He turned his own wrist carefully. "The first stroke hurt worse. I thought I could keep hold through another."

"You nearly did." Jon remembered the empty hand reaching for the sword, and how little time he had had to stop it.

Loras looked towards the field, where a groom was leading a restless horse past the awning. "I shouldn't have let you get so close."

"I couldn't reach you from anywhere else."

The corner of Loras's mouth moved. He seemed about to answer when Garlan asked Harry how he had fallen. Harry put a foot out to show him, and Loras turned to watch. Robb began explaining where his shield had been. Betha waited until he had finished, then touched his sleeve.

"Will you still go to see the little boy?" she asked quietly.

"Yes. Martyn is coming with me." Robb glanced towards the older woman. "After I have changed."

"Then I shall ask you about him when you return."

She touched Hoster's sleeve when he showed signs of settling into a longer account of the melee. Robb watched her go. Theon opened his mouth, saw Jon looking at him and closed it long enough to take another drink.

Margaery had stayed beside Jon's bench, waiting while he followed Betha and Robb's exchange. When he looked up, she gave him a small curtsy.

"Ser Jon."

He began to rise. She put out a hand at once, stopping short of touching his bruised shoulder.

"Please stay there. I wanted to congratulate you." Her smile came back as he settled. "I could scarcely sit still through that last bout. Every time your brother drove you back, I thought he had you."

"He came close enough."

"And you still won." She looked towards the field, where men were carrying the dividing barrier into place for the jousts. "I was sorry for Loras. He wanted it so much. But you were very good."

Jon accepted the compliment with a smile. She had wanted Loras to win; it was gracious of her to come and congratulate him anyway.

"Thank you."

"I was glad when your uncle drew his sword." She spoke more quietly now, her eyes returning to his face. "After what you did last night, you deserved that. Those children might still be there if you had left it to someone else."

He looked towards Arthur. His uncle was listening to Garlan, one hand resting upon the back of Robb's bench.

"I always hoped he would be the one," Jon said.

"He looked so proud of you."

Jon nodded, unable for a moment to say anything more. Margaery let him look. When he turned back she was still smiling, without the teasing he had expected after the curtsy.

He reached for his cup with the wrong hand and stopped with a sharp breath. She picked it up and put it into his right.

"Will you let him make you rest now?"

"I don't think he means to give me much choice."

"Good." She drew a stool nearer and sat while he drank. Across from them Loras was asking Harry to show the step again; the demonstration ended with Garlan catching his brother's shoulder before he backed into a basin. Margaery laughed, and Jon found himself laughing with her.

Arthur brought his clean shirt. Gawen helped him into it, left arm first, while the others made room for two more boys seeking water. A herald outside called for the first pair of knights. The crowd answered with a cheer quite different from the one Jon had received, deeper and more expectant. Great horses began moving towards the lists.

He had thought the noise would make it impossible to be tired. Instead it seemed to pass around him. Robb was still smiling. Theon had found someone else to argue with. For once Jon could sit among them without deciding what ought to be built, bought or prevented before the year was out.

Then Gawen stopped fastening his cuff.

"Mind the rope, lad."

Hal stumbled beneath the awning, catching himself against the pole. One of Jon's guards came after him with a hand outstretched, but the boy had already seen Jon and was trying to straighten. His hair clung wetly to his forehead. When he pushed it aside, Jon saw the swelling around his left eye, the bruise darkening beneath it.

"My lord—"

He could get no farther. He bent with both hands upon his knees, dragging breath through his open mouth. One knee had worn through his breeches; dirt and blood showed beneath the torn cloth. His jerkin hung from one shoulder, its fastening ripped away.

Jon rose, leaving his cuff open.

"Hal?"

"They came to the shop." Hal swallowed air. "My aunt—"

"Where is she?"

The boy tried to answer. His mouth worked, but all that came was another harsh breath.

"Alive, my lord," the guard said quickly. "At the sept. We brought her out."

Harry broke off in the middle of a sentence. Margaery rose and drew her stool towards Hal while Harry cleared a helm from the bench. Hal shook his head at both of them. He caught Jon's sleeve instead, leaving a dirty print upon the clean linen.

"They hit her. She wouldn't let go of the till." He squeezed his good eye shut. "He hit her, and she went down. I tried to get to her."

Jon covered the boy's hand with his own.

"Who did this?"

"One of the men that takes the pennies. There were others with him. Everybody'd gone to watch." Hal looked towards the field, where another herald was calling. His swollen eye watered. "She was on the floor. There was blood in her hair."

Arthur came beside them. "Did she speak to you?"

Hal nodded, then shook his head. "After. She did after. But when I called her—"

His fingers tightened upon Jon's sleeve. Jon could see him trying to master his face, biting his lower lip until it trembled. This was the boy who had asked for a sword last night, unwilling to be left behind.

"Our men?" Jon asked the guard.

"Fought them off. One took a cut across the arm. He's with her still." The man glanced at Hal. "They fired the upper room before we drove them out. We got everyone down. The neighbours helped with the water."

Jon looked again at the torn jerkin. There was soot upon it, worked into the cloth at the shoulder.

Beyond the awning, hooves hammered down the lists. The crash of a lance brought a roar from the crowd. Hal flinched, and Jon felt it through the hand still clutching his sleeve.

Rilla had caught his sleeve before he left her. Your man stays? She had needed to open the shop again in the morning. He had known it, and left her there while he came back to the castle.

His guards had stayed. She was bleeding all the same.

"Get the horses," Jon told Gawen.

Arthur reached for his cloak. Robb was already coming round the bench, and Theon pushed his cup aside to follow.

Jon loosened Hal's fingers only to take his hand. The boy looked up at him, his breath still coming too fast.

"She kept asking where you were."

Jon led him out beneath the ropes.