Daenerys remembered Braavos by a red door swollen with rain. On the last morning Ser Willem Darry could still sit upright, six loose jewels lay beside Queen Rhaella's crown. His cough spotted the linen in his fist. He made Viserys count what each stone might buy while Daenerys divided one boiled egg between them. "The sapphire?" Willem asked.
"Passage for two," Viserys said. "Food after, if the captain is honest."
"Keep it somewhere dry." Willem closed the boy's fingers around the stone. "And keep your sister with you."
Viserys looked at the other jewels. "Which lord answered your last letters? Dorne, Ser Barristan, or any man who ate at Father's table?"
"No one has offered to take you," Willem said.
"Then write again."
Willem looked at the linen in his hand. "Bring me the ink."
Daenerys pushed her half egg towards him. "You may have this. I am not hungry now."
Viserys pushed it back. "Eat, Dany. You have had nothing since yesterday." He took a small bite of his own.
By nightfall Willem was dead. At dawn the creditor's men changed the lock. A porter broke the clay pot beneath the lemon tree, spilling black earth across the green tiles. Daenerys saved one hard fruit before they carried the tree away. A woman from the kitchens came in a flour-marked gown and knelt before her. "I have a warm bed for you near the Moon Pool," the woman said. "Your brother may fetch you when he has found a room."
Daenerys gripped Viserys's shortened sleeve. "I sleep where he sleeps."
"You are five, sweetling. One night apart is not forever."
"Men say that when they mean longer," Viserys said. He locked his hand around Daenerys's. "We go together."
The woman looked at Willem's empty bed. "I knew your mother's man. I would not hurt her."
"I said she stays with me." Viserys pulled Daenerys closer, and the woman let her hand fall.
One ruby bought half a cabin on a Myrish grain ship. When the red door disappeared between the wet warehouses, Viserys lifted Daenerys so she could see it longer. "When I have my throne, I will give you a thousand doors like that."
She held the green lemon against her breast. "I want that one." Warehouses hid the door. The ship carried them south together.
* * *
Theon slept badly after his first supper at Winterfell. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw Jory Cassel's open hand beneath the inner gate. Before the greetings in the yard, the guardsman had taken his gelding's bridle and asked for his knife.
Theon looked past him to Eddard Stark. Since Seagard, the northern lord had ridden at the head of the column beneath a rain-heavy grey direwolf. He had found Theon a dry cloak when the sea wind soaked his own, changed his horse when the first went lame and seated him near the evening fires, close enough that no man could throw Balon's last son among the baggage and call it chance. Eddard had never spoken the word hostage. Every courtesy carried it. "Why does he want my knife?" Theon asked.
"Ser Rodrik decides when the boys may carry their blades," Eddard said. "Give Jory yours."
"Then I am a prisoner," Theon said.
"No." Rain ticked upon the lord's black iron gorget. "You are my ward, and the surety King Robert put into my hands."
There it was, spoken without honey. Theon drew the blade. Good steel ran from a bone kraken whose little tentacles his thumb had worn smooth. His brother Rodrik had praised the balance. Rodrik lay below Seagard's wall now, his helm split, while Jason Mallister ate beneath his own roof. "Do your men yield theirs?"
Jory turned enough to show the bundled sword belts carried by a groom. "Those without leave do."
"When do I have it back?"
"When we have settled you in your chamber," Eddard said. "It stays there unless Ser Rodrik permits you to carry it in the yard, or I send you riding with men of my choosing."
Theon laid the knife across Jory's palm, hilt first. The guardsman wrapped blade and bone in oiled leather and carried it away.
He had said nothing more while the Stark children ran to their father. Now he remembered that as readily as the knife: men embraced in the rain, horses led away, Robb talking through his tears. No one had come searching for Theon.
After the morning meal, Eddard had taken him to his chamber. It stood off the family gallery, across from a stair watched by one Stark man. Clean grey blankets covered the bed; a white fur lay folded at its foot. Brown bread, a wedge of yellow cheese and three red apples waited beside a steaming basin. Iron bars crossed the narrow window. Eddard put the knife parcel upon the chest. "It stays wrapped here unless Ser Rodrik gives you leave to carry it." Theon looked past him. "Does that man guard me?"
"He guards the stair and the family rooms," Eddard said. "He will not shadow you through every passage."
"Does he follow me to the privy, or only stand where I must pass him to leave?"
"Use the outer stair if you wish for solitude. Jory will still know whether you are under my roof."
"And if my father rises again? What happens to me then?"
The question had travelled north beneath Theon's tongue. Here, in a warm chamber smelling of aired wool and apples, it sounded eleven years old. Eddard did not spare him by looking away. "King Robert holds your life against Balon's peace. If your father breaks the oath he swore, the king will name what he demands of me."
"My head," Theon said. "That is what every man in the yard heard beneath your courteous words."
Eddard did not answer at once. Theon watched his face.
"Would you do it yourself?"
"I pray your father never puts either of us in that position."
"That is not no."
"It is not," Eddard said quietly.
Theon turned towards the bars. "My father may not care."
Mercy from the man who might one day kill him was worse than hate. Theon wanted to strike something and found only bread, warm water and a lord refusing to lie. "May I write to Pyke?"
"Aye. Luwin keeps the rookery, but the seal will be yours."
"And go home?"
"When the king, your father and I agree the wardship is ended."
"May I keep the Drowned God?"
"No man here will force the heart tree or the Seven upon you."
"There is no sea here."
"No. But you may pray as you please. If a priest comes north, Luwin will tell you." Eddard moved towards the door. "My steward, Vayon Poole, will replace what the road and rain ruined."
"I need nothing."
Eddard glanced at the bread, then at the boy standing stiffly beside it. "As you say."
Eddard's gaze did not follow the knife when he shut the chest. It stayed upon Theon, steady and grave, until the boy looked away first.
After Eddard left, Theon had locked the knife away and tested the key twice. He ate one apple and hid another beneath a shirt before Poole came with clean clothes. That, too, shamed him in the darkness. He was Balon's heir, not some deck rat hoarding peel.
At supper he had sat between Robb and Ser Rodrik. The beef came pink at the middle, with onions blackened in dripping, mustard sharp enough to sting his nose and little oat loaves broken by hand. The place might be honour or watchfulness; Winterfell had a way of making one look like the other.
Robb asked about rope bridges, sea towers, seals, longships, drowned men and whether Victarion could lift a horse. "You may ask the next question after he swallows," Catelyn said.
Robb pushed half his beef onto Theon's trencher. "Then he should eat more quickly."
Theon cut each piece smaller than needed and chewed until Robb squirmed. Across from them, Jon held bread while Wylla settled Arya in the nurse's lap. Fire caught the pale threads at his temple. "Is that all you have to say about Fair Isle?" Theon asked him. "I know?"
Jon set down the bread. "What would you have me say?"
"Your sailors took coin for it. Mine died for honour and were called rebels afterward."
Jon's fingers tightened around his cup. "The men on Black Gull died too. I have their names. I have written to their families."
"You need not know a man to kill him."
"No," Jon said. He set the cup down untouched.
Eddard looked from one boy to the other. "This will not be settled across my supper table."
"He is Lord of Dragonstone," Theon said. "The ships bore his black cloth, whatever captain shouted the orders."
"Enough," Eddard said.
"My brothers did not begin it." Theon's voice rose on the last word.
"No," Eddard said more gently. "They did not."
Theon looked down. His face burned as though every person at the table could see the key against his chest. Robb left his beef untouched. He looked towards his father, then across at Sansa.
"We still have the little ships," he said at last. "Sansa put them in her fort."
"Arya kicked one," Sansa protested.
The infant woke and thrust one blanket-wrapped foot into the air. "There," Robb said. "She confesses."
"We made Salt Wraith fight three wolves and a crab," Sansa said. "The crab lost one claw beneath the settle."
Theon stared. "You made Gelmarr's ship fight a crab?"
"Sansa brought it," Jon said. "Robb wanted more ships."
Theon could have told them what had happened aboard the real ship. Instead he reached for his cup. "He would have killed the crab first." Robb brightened and began explaining where he had put the wolves.
After supper Robb led him to Luwin's curiosity chest and produced the kraken tooth. It was a whale's. Jon and Sansa followed because Robb had announced a judgement, while Theon suspected he wanted witnesses. "You see?" Theon held the yellowed tooth beneath the lamp. His usual sharp smile had widened; for once he looked at the thing in his hand instead of checking who watched him. "A whale's tooth. Krakens have beaks."
Robb frowned. "Which whale left a tooth shaped like that? Luwin never named its kind."
"I have seen one at Lordsport. Its jaw was longer than you."
"Maester Luwin says this came from Ib," Sansa said. She stood on tiptoe to look.
Robb took the tooth back. "Have you ever seen a living kraken, not one sewn upon a sail?"
"Men at Lordsport claim to have."
"But have you?" Jon asked from beside the chest.
"No. But a fisherman saw a tentacle take a man off Great Wyk."
"Was it one of your father's fishermen who saw the tentacle?" Robb asked.
"Lord Goodbrother's man, and half drunk when he reached Lordsport."
"Did anyone find the man it took?" Robb asked.
"No," Theon said. "The sea was rough."
Robb looked down at it. "Father sends men when someone goes missing."
"My father sent me here."
"After the battle," Sansa said softly.
"After my brothers died."
Robb lowered the tooth. Jon took it from him and laid it in the open chest. For a while no one spoke. Theon could hear Luwin moving papers in the next room.
"I do not want to talk of them," he said.
Jon nodded. He brought out a little horn cup from among the shells. "Do your men carve horn like this?"
Theon took it after a moment. A fish had been scratched into the horn. He turned it towards the lamp.
When Theon returned to his chamber, the hidden apple had rolled from beneath the shirt and bruised itself against the chest wall. He ate it in four bites, brown place and all.
* * *
Jon remembered more than Theon's betrayal. There had been the burned boys at Winterfell, and later Ramsay's prisoner: white-haired, toothless, afraid to speak his own name. He wanted neither future for anyone under this roof.
Here Theon was eleven, angry at every kindness and trying not to look hungry. He could obey every order Eddard gave and still lose his head if Balon rebelled again. Jon understood the purpose of a hostage. He had no wish to watch it fulfilled. Nor did understanding the boy make his sneers easier to bear.
Ser Rodrik put a padded point through Theon's guard twelve times on his first morning. He scarcely needed to shift his feet; Theon was sweating before the old knight breathed harder. "Dagmer says a man who waits has lost," Theon said after the sixth.
"Dagmer Cleftjaw may come tell me so." Rodrik tapped the open place below Theon's right elbow. "Until then, show me how you keep this rib."
"He split a man from collar to breast," Theon said. "No man rises from that cut."
"A dead man may still put steel through that open side before he falls. Close your shield and strike again."
Robb watched from the rail until Arthur sent him back to his own shield work. Jon came from the stable smelling of horse and lye, his practice sword short enough for his reach. Theon glanced at it and then at Arthur. "Do I fight the babe or his uncle?"
"You will use a lighter blade," Ser Rodrik said, handing him one. "And keep the blows below his shoulders."
Theon's first blow jarred Jon to the shoulder. Jon's hands were smaller, his weight scarcely half the ironborn boy's, and the heavier body closing upon him drew an instant flinch from flesh not yet hardened to blows. He yielded before the second stroke, turned the padded edge past his ribs and touched Theon's open side. Robb shouted from the shield rail. Theon swept Jon's legs upon the third pass, ignoring Rodrik's order to keep to their blades. The ground struck between his shoulders, sharp enough to fill his eyes with water. He rolled before Theon could stand over him. "Enough," Rodrik said.
"He can still fight," Theon protested, keeping his sword down.
"I said enough." Ser Rodrik lowered Theon's blade.
Jon got to his feet and wiped mud from his mouth. "You look where you mean to strike. I saw both cuts coming."
"You fall where I put you," Theon said, though he shifted his right arm closer to his side.
Jon spat mud out of his mouth and picked up his sword.
Theon stepped forward. Ser Rodrik laid his blunted point between them without raising his voice. "Tomorrow."
Theon's days took on Winterfell's shape. Sword yard before porridge; Luwin's histories before dinner; horse and household work after. Twice each week Ser Rodrik unwrapped the bone-handled knife and let him drill with it. Theon cleaned the steel himself and carried it back, wrapped, to his chamber under Jory's eye. At the stables, Hullen made Theon saddle, bridle and lift every hoof of a patient grey before allowing him beyond the first yard. "I rode before I could walk."
"Then we shall finish before the porridge cools."
Theon set the saddle too near the withers. Pyke ponies were built differently from the long-bodied grey. Hullen shifted it back without comment. Across the passage, Jon swept dung while Bucephalus watched every loose flap of cloth. "Lord Black," Theon called, "has Robert granted you the stall as well?"
"Hullen said I should know how to care for him." Jon pushed the fork beneath another heap of straw.
"Then the horse had the richer gift. You received a name and he received a lord to sweep his dung."
Harwin laughed. Jon tried not to. Theon saw and looked almost pleased. On the sixth day, three pages about Brandon the Burner persuaded Theon that Luwin would never notice one missing pupil.
The workshop door stood beneath a black lintel, secured by a new iron hasp. Woods had hung the key upon the high peg while he fetched timber from the store. Theon fetched a stool, opened the lock and pushed the door inward. Awls, files and hammers hung above the bench. Boxes of spare parts stood beneath the window. A slatted wooden casing stood ready for the clock's weights.
Above the bench hung Jon's first applewood wheel. One tooth leaned, another narrowed almost to its root, and grease had darkened the grain. Theon took it down. "So this is the wonder of Winterfell."
Jon stood at the door in a clean black tunic. Harwin waited behind him with a rinse bucket. Jon saw the open hasp, the raised cover and the wheel balanced upon Theon's finger. "Put it back and step away from the gears."
"Does this clock tell yesterday as well as tomorrow?" Theon asked, leaning over the exposed wheels.
"It tells the hour when it runs properly. Put it back."
Theon's smile thinned when Jon offered no defence. He hung the wheel upon its peg. "If you want men outside, hide the key."
"The key should not have been left there," Jon said. "You still knew the room was locked. Leave the bench."
"No one told me I needed a craftsman's leave to look at a toy."
"You needed mine. Harwin, stay at the door. Send the first passing man for Ser Rodrik and Master Woods."
"Fetch his nurse," Theon said. "I forgot to knock, and he has called half the castle."
Jon did not cross the room. The clock stood uncovered for work, its upper plate held by loose wedges. Theon reached past the exposed gears and laid his hand upon the weighted crossbar.
"Take your hand away," Jon said. "That is the last warning. Harwin, if he turns it, remove his hand from the bar and keep him clear of the bench."
Jon watched the hand. He remembered Theon taking Winterfell, but no memory could tell him what this boy would do. Theon turned the bar. A tooth slipped free with a clean iron click. "It moved."
"Harwin, take him away from it."
Harwin set down the bucket and caught Theon's wrist. Theon wrenched once as though Jory's open palm had found him again at the gate. "One turn cannot break a clock worth all this guarding."
Theon pulled away before Harwin could close both hands. His sleeve caught the weighted end of the bar and dragged it hard against the stop. A wedge sprang loose. Harwin hauled him away from the bench towards the door. As they reached Jon, Theon swung his free fist past Harwin's shoulder and clipped Jon's nose. Blood filled Jon's mouth. He started forward, wanting to drive his fist into Theon's face, then stopped himself. Harwin already had him. Jon pressed his sleeve to his nose and stepped back. "Leave the clock alone. Woods must see what moved."
Arthur arrived with Ser Rodrik and Robb. Theon stopped straining against Harwin.
"He ordered a stableboy to seize me."
"After I told him twice to leave the clock alone," Jon said through his sleeve.
Harwin confirmed it. Rodrik took charge of Theon while Woods, arriving with timber under his arm, found that the tilted plate had trapped a shaft. The wooden block that stopped the bar turning too far had cracked. Several gears would have to come out.
"How long?" Robb asked from the doorway.
"I shall know when we have it apart."
Theon looked at the fallen wedge. "I only caught it with my sleeve."
Wylla pressed clean linen beneath Jon's nose. "Lord Stark will hear this after Luwin sees whether the nose is straight."
In Eddard's solar the boys stood on opposite sides of the hearth. Harwin's grip was darkening Theon's wrist; Jon still held the linen. Arthur and Rodrik remained behind their charges, Wylla between them and the door. Woods and Mikken brought the displaced plate and broken stop.
Eddard heard what had happened. "Is any part untrue, Theon?"
"The key hung above the door where any boy with a stool could reach it."
"That is true and does not answer the question."
Theon looked at the hearth. "No part is untrue."
"Woods keeps the key after this," Jon said.
Mikken set the pieces upon Eddard's table. "The iron is sound. It will take time to fit it again and test the clock." Theon looked from the plate to Jon's bloodied linen.
"I want him with us when we open it," Jon said. "Six mornings carrying and cleaning. Woods decides what he may touch."
Both craftsmen nodded. Eddard made it his judgment. Next morning Theon carried charcoal while Jon and Olyver laid the parts on folded cloths. Woods gave him an upright for the new rail to saw. The cut wandered; he had to begin again.
Jon checked the removed shafts for bends and polished their ends while Olyver held the lamp. On the third morning Theon saw the iron plate rock. "Your bench board is high at that corner."
Jon laid the shaft in its box. "Show me."
Theon pointed beside the warm-water wall. One corner of the old oak block had darkened there. "It rocked when Olyver leaned across for the lamp. Pyke doors do the same. The sea side drinks salt and swells."
Jon held his rule across the block. The wood had swollen against the warm, damp wall. Woods knelt to examine it.
Theon helped Woods and Mikken replace it with a dry block set clear of the wall. When Olyver leaned across again, nothing rocked.
"You saved us a deal of work," Jon said. "Thank you."
Theon brushed sawdust from his sleeves. "Try remembering that when you tell Stark about the clock."
"I shall." Jon gave him the last upright. This time Theon's cut ran straight.
* * *
On the last evening of Theon's six days of work for Woods, Robb brought a candle into an unused linen room and announced that Winterfell possessed one gate Theon had not yet crossed. Jon was still with Luwin, copying Denys's return of the wounded. "The outer gate?" Theon asked. "Your father has explained that one."
"The crypt gate." Robb put flint, chalk and a little leather sack upon the linen press. "We go below, touch the lowest king we can reach and bring one scale of rust from his sword."
Olyver sat against the door with both hands beneath his thighs. Hallan Hornwood, left at Winterfell while his uncle visited the families of men lost in the war, looked at the candle and tried not to show that he feared the dark. Theon stared at the little sack. "That is grave robbing."
"Rust falls off," Robb replied. "We need only one scale from a king's old sword."
Theon looked at Hallan. "Will you keep hold of the candle, Hallan, or drop it when Robb begins crying?"
"I will not drop it," Hallan said too quickly. "You are the one who refuses to come below."
Robb opened the little sack. "I go beyond the black stone. You three keep the gate."
"I keep your gate while one little boy robs the dead?" Theon said. "I am Balon Greyjoy's heir."
"They are Stark dead, and you said the lowest king would frighten us," Robb answered.
"And Lord Black?" Theon asked. "His name is not carved upon any tomb below."
"Jon would stop us and tell Father," Robb said. "That is why no one sent for him."
They used a servants' stair after the supper lamps were lit. Olyver knew which boards complained; Hallan found each one with his heel. At the bottom, an iron gate stood closed between black stones. "A famous venture," Theon whispered. "Defeated by a key."
Olyver drew a strip of applewood from his sleeve and pointed to a gap beside the latch. "You can lift it through there. I saw when Father repaired the hinge."
"Why did he leave it like that?" Robb asked.
"Mikken has not made the new iron yet."
Robb took the strip and pressed the tongue back. Iron scraped. He handed the wood to Olyver and pulled the gate open. Cold air rolled up the steps carrying old dust, stone and the faint sourness of spent lamp oil. Pillars stood beyond, each row guarded by seated kings with rusted swords across their knees. Stone wolves watched at their feet. The candle reached the newest dead; farther in, men had no faces. Theon moved towards the black threshold. Robb caught his sleeve. "Not beyond that."
Theon looked down at Robb's hand on his sleeve. "I can hold it from inside."
"Only Stark blood crosses the iron gate," Robb said. "That is Father's rule."
"Your father calls me family at table when he wants me fed. At the crypt gate I become Greyjoy again."
"He calls you ward." Robb let go but did not retreat from the rule. "The crypt is different."
"It always is when a Stark wants something kept."
Robb flushed and crossed before anger found another answer. Olyver caught the gate as it swung. Theon took the outer bar, angry with himself for staying. Robb's candle went between the first pillars and vanished around the bend.
Jon came down the servants' stair with a taper. At the end of his lesson a kitchen boy had told him where Robb and the others had gone. He saw the open gate and the applewood slip in Olyver's hand. "Where is Robb?"
"Looking for the lowest king," Theon said.
"Hallan, fetch Father." Jon took a second taper from the wall bracket and lit it. "Keep the gate open. I will bring him back."
"Bring him back, Lord Black," Theon said.
Jon passed between the first pillars, keeping the wall on his right. The newest tomb stood near the bend. Lyanna Stark sat in pale stone with a winter rose upon her lap. Her sword bore less rust than the kings'. Taperlight moved across a young face worn smooth at one cheek by the mason's hand. Jon's step faltered for one breath. He brushed two fingers across the stone petals as he passed. "Your aunt," Theon said through the bars.
"My father's sister," Jon answered. Then Robb called from below.
"I am here," Jon called back. "Wait for me."
The tapers dwindled between the pillars. Olyver leaned against the gate, listening.
"We found one with half a nose!" Robb shouted.
"Did you take the other half?" Theon called.
A laugh came back, then the scrape of feet. Jon had found him.
A cold breath moved up from the lower crypt. Robb's candle vanished. One of Jon's tapers guttered, recovered, then went out as the draught strengthened. The second followed before he could shelter it. Jon's voice came hard and level through the dark. "Halt. Robb, take my belt. No one takes another step. Theon, strike the gate so we can hear you."
Theon snatched a loose stone from the stair and struck it against the iron bar. The blow rang between the pillars. He struck again, slower, and heard Jon answer.
"Keep doing that."
He kept striking until the rough stone bit his palm. Somewhere beyond the light Robb stumbled and swore; Jon hushed him. Their voices were nearer now.
Lantern light spilled down the stair before the next call. Hallan clung to the wall, weeping and breathless. Eddard arrived first, Arthur and Ser Rodrik behind him. Catelyn followed in a dark robe over her nightshift, copper hair unbound and a face far more alarming than any stone king. "They are close now," Theon said. "They are coming towards the sound."
Eddard took the lantern across the black stone. Arthur stayed at the threshold with Theon and Olyver, though his eyes fixed upon the darkness where Jon's voice travelled. The pale light found Jon with one hand on the wall and Robb gripping the back of his belt. Eddard put Jon's hand upon his own belt and Robb's on Jon's shoulder. He brought them out at the pace of Jon's shorter legs.
Only then did Hallan cry without trying to hide it. Arthur took the two dead tapers from Jon. "Whose plan?" Eddard asked.
Robb raised one hand. "I asked Olyver to show me the latch, but I lifted it."
"I showed him where the iron caught," Olyver said. "I knew Ser Rodrik meant it to remain shut."
"I found them after Robb went in," Jon said. "I sent Hallan for help. Then our lights went out." He looked towards Theon. "We heard him striking the gate all the way back."
Eddard took Theon's hand. The skin below two fingers had split. He turned it towards the lantern, and Theon tried to draw it away.
"It is nothing."
"It needs washing." Eddard released him. "Thank you."
"I dared him to bring the rust," Theon said. The admission came out angrily. He had not meant the thanks to make him confess anything.
Catelyn put a hand on Robb's shoulder and another beneath his chin, turning his face to the light. "You might have fallen."
"We found the king." Robb opened the sack. A single red-brown scale lay inside.
She stared at it until he closed the sack again.
"Upstairs," Eddard said. "We will speak of this in the morning. Harwin fetched us when Hallan came running, or we might still be looking for you."
Wylla met them at the upper door with blankets. She wrapped Jon first, rubbed his arms through the wool and slipped a hand inside his collar. "Cold right through."
"The tapers blew out."
"I heard." She drew the blanket over his dusty hair and kept an arm about him as they climbed.
Robb put the rust into Theon's palm. It broke to powder when his fingers closed. Robb and Olyver were given twelve mornings of cleaning and repair for the venture. Theon was given six for helping them open the gate; the hand he had bloodied bringing them home counted for the other six. Jon was not punished for going after Robb, but he asked to join the work. For six mornings he carried a hooded lantern below with Eddard and helped Robb clean the upper tombs. Theon remained outside. He scoured the gate, washed the stair and carried water. Olyver repaired the latch gap beside Woods and lost every free hour until the work was done. "Harwin betrayed us," Olyver said on the second morning.
"He brought Lord Stark," Ser Rodrik said. "Be thankful he did."
Hallan rode home under a Hornwood guard with a letter for his uncle. He begged Eddard not to tell how frightened he had been. Eddard let him read it: his part in opening the gate came first, then how he had run for help. Hallan folded the letter without asking again.
On the fourth morning Eddard brought two lanterns below. He made Robb wring the washing cloth before it touched old stone and showed Jon how soot gathered beneath a carved wolf's jaw. Theon scoured the iron from outside the black threshold. "You could let me clean a king," he said.
"The custom is older than either of us," Eddard said. "Only Stark blood passes the iron without my leave."
"I kept your sons from getting lost."
"You helped Robb open the gate." Eddard wrung out the cloth. "You know why you are here, Theon."
Theon scrubbed a red patch on the iron. Beyond the bars Jon was cleaning the petals of the stone rose.
"He looked as though he knew her."
"Jon has heard of Lyanna all his life." Eddard went back to his work.
Theon scrubbed until the rust reddened his fingers.
Twice during the punishment Ser Rodrik returned Theon's knife in the practice yard. On the second day he let Theon carry the wrapped blade back to his chamber without Jory beside him. Theon's thumb worried the cord around the hilt all the way upstairs.
Luwin brought parchment and plain grey wax on the seventh afternoon. Theon began Father, scraped it away, and wrote My lord father instead. He told Balon of the barred window, the locked knife and the sea too distant to smell. He wrote that Robb treated every answer as the beginning of another question, and that Jon Black worked like an old man until someone knocked him into the mud.
He did not write of apples, hot mustard, the place kept at table or iron ringing through the dark. Praise would look like surrender. Complaint would show how little cruelty Winterfell had given him. At last he wrote: I have not forgotten Pyke. "When will he answer?" Theon asked as Luwin sanded the sheet.
"Allow a moon," Luwin said. He folded the letter. "I will send for you as soon as there is word."
"And if he asks for me?"
"Lord Stark will have to speak to the king." Luwin pressed the seal into the wax. "This will go before dusk, my lord."
A week passed without an answer from Pyke. On the eighth evening after the letter was sent, Robb arrived with a copied drawing of Salt Wraith, a pine board and a pot of charcoal wash. Jon followed with brushes. The Stark man at the stair glanced through the open door and returned to his stool. The copied galley possessed a hull, a mast and a tangle of lines intended as oars. Half pointed the wrong way. Theon stared. "It resembles a fish after a cart has crossed it."
"It resembles the ship," Robb said.
"Salt Wraith has a higher prow. The steering oar belongs here, not wherever this tail is meant to be."
Robb handed him charcoal. "Show me."
Theon nearly refused. Boys asking of Pyke usually wanted tales of drowned men. Grown men wanted to learn how Balon had lost. Robb wanted the place of a steering oar. He redrew it. The long black line made the ship lean, so he corrected the stern and then the sweep of the hull. "There are more oars on one side," Jon said, holding down a curling edge.
"There should be the same number," Theon said. "Else she turns before the steersman touches his oar."
"Robb drew twenty-nine upon this side and only twenty-eight opposite," Jon said.
"Then Robb lost one beneath the parchment or inside his head. Salt Wraith carried the same number to port and starboard."
Robb counted, reached twenty-seven, began again and blamed the fold. "Did a raven come today?" he asked without looking up.
Theon's charcoal stopped. "No."
Robb bent closer to the board and counted the oars again. Jon held the curling corner flat for him.
"You have drawn that one twice," Theon said at last. "Give it here."
Jon copied the corrected hull onto the pine while the other two argued over the height of the prow. The wash spread darkly along the grain; there was room for the mast above it, but he had not drawn that yet.
Sansa came to fetch them for supper. She saw the drawing and leaned over it, blue eyes narrowing at the blank prow. Her finger followed the curve Theon had drawn before she decided the captured galley needed eyes. "A kraken," Robb said.
"Salt Wraith carried a horse skull upon her prow," Theon replied. "Gelmarr said it frightened greenlanders."
Sansa recoiled. "A true skull from a living horse?"
"Not living when they took the skull, no."
She took Jon's brush and painted two white eyes upon the pine board. "Ships should see where they go."
"Braavosi ships paint eyes upon their bows," Jon said. "Sansa's are not stranger than those."
"Ironborn ships have captains to see for them. Wood needs no painted eyes."
"Your captain put a skull there," Robb said. "That cannot see either."
Theon flicked wash at him. Jon ducked; black drops struck Robb's sleeve. Robb stared at the stain with delight and reached for the pot. They arrived at supper with black marks upon all three boys and two clean white eyes upon a board that had no mast. Catelyn sent them to wash. Sansa carried the board to table and claimed Salt Wraith as hers because only she had improved it. "No ironborn crew will sail beneath painted eyes," Theon said.
"Then I shall have Braavosi sailors," Sansa said. She held the board closer.
Theon looked to Jon. "Tell her she cannot steal my ship."
"It is my board," Robb said.
"I painted the eyes." Sansa put one hand over them.
Jon tore his oat loaf in half. "You should have finished the drawing before she found it."
Theon sat between them and reached for the onions. Sansa put the ship against her cup, facing him. He moved it a little farther from the gravy.
* * *
After weapons practice the next morning, Jon stayed behind while Robb and Theon went to wash. He asked Arthur to teach the boys he meant to take into his household.
"Twenty-five, if Father gives me leave."
Arthur kept one hand upon the sword rack. "You will need another man. When I am away with you, their training cannot stop."
"A drill master. I mean to ask Rodrik." Jon described the work he had planned, fitting runs, riding, weapons and letters between breakfast and supper.
"Leave them time to eat." Arthur freed the shield strap Jon was worrying. "And have the cost ready when you speak to Ned. He will ask."
"Will you come?"
"Aye. You make the request."
* * *
Robb found Jon over Poole's prices that afternoon. He set a wooden horse upon the corner of the account and asked whether it was another clock drawing.
"A household of my own. Boys to train here before I take them to Dragonstone."
"Twenty-five?" Theon had stopped behind their stools. "Who commands them?"
"I do."
"From a stool?"
Robb laughed before he remembered whose side he was on. "You used one when you wanted the workshop key."
"And reached it, didn't I?" Theon pulled the other chair round. "Borrow that one, Lord Black. It has proved itself."
Jon moved the ink clear of his sleeve. "Have you come to help?"
"I thought I was."
"Olyver might join," Robb suggested.
Theon bent over the reckoning. "His father has him at the clock half the day. Who carries for Woods while he learns a sword?"
Jon left a space beneath the wages. He would have to ask Poole what another lad would cost.
"Lord Stark will enjoy this." Theon tapped the empty line.
"He will listen," Robb insisted.
"Oh, he always listens. That is how he finds everything you hoped he would miss."
By the following afternoon Jon had the carrying lad's wage and the cost of the food. He washed his hands, folded the account and went to find Arthur before the last petitions were heard.
* * *
Eddard had scarcely dismissed the last petitioner when Jon laid his reckoning upon the table.
His father looked from the folded parchment to Arthur, who had followed Jon through the door. Rain darkened the knight's shoulders. He unfastened his cloak and hung it beside the hearth before drawing nearer.
"Another difficulty with the clock?" Eddard asked.
"No, Father. I want leave to gather a household."
"You have a household."
"Wylla and Arthur. I mean guards of my own."
Eddard opened the parchment. Jon had copied it twice to leave room between the sums, and Poole had supplied the prices for wool, boots and bedding. Even so, his father read slowly, returning to the first line after reaching the bottom.
"Twenty-five boys."
"Aged twelve to fourteen."
"No."
Jon had expected objections. He had not expected his father to finish before hearing him.
"Will you hear why?"
Eddard set the parchment down. "I will hear you. But you are not yet six, Jon. Your clock is unfinished, you have lessons with Luwin, and Arthur tells me he sometimes has to fetch you from the workshop for your supper. Now you propose to take responsibility for twenty-five other boys."
"That is why I brought the reckoning."
"The reckoning tells me what their coats cost."
Jon drew the chair nearer and climbed onto it. From there he could see the figures without having to stretch across the table.
Outside, a cart rattled beneath the window. Someone called for the driver to halt, and the sound of its wheels ceased with a long complaint from the axle.
Eddard waited until it was quiet.
"What has made you ask for this now? Has someone threatened you?"
"No."
"Then what are twenty-five boys to do that Arthur and my guards cannot?"
"They are not to replace Arthur."
"Nor could they."
Jon let that pass. "I want men who will go with me when I leave for Dragonstone. Men I have trained and lived with, not an escort chosen the week before I sail."
"Ethan has men waiting for you already. Two hundred of them went south at my command. The islanders who remained gave their oaths into his hands."
"I know. I am not asking him to send them away."
"Then why do you need another company?"
"Because a garrison is not the same as the men who ride beside me."
Eddard's fingers rested upon the parchment. Jon could see that the distinction had reached him, though it had not persuaded him.
"When you leave Winterfell," Jon continued, "you know who goes with you. You know which man you can send ahead, which one you trust with a message, who will take command if Jory is hurt. Ethan knows the men on Dragonstone. I know the names he writes."
"You will learn them."
"Aye. I would rather not begin learning everything on the same day."
Arthur drew up the other chair.
"He has a point, Ned."
"He has several. They do not make him old enough to keep twenty-five dependants."
"He would not be keeping them alone."
Eddard looked at him. "How much of this was your suggestion?"
"The number and the ages were his. So was bringing you the account."
"And the need for his own guards?"
"I have told him a lord ought to know the men who guard him."
"You might have added that there was no need to gather them before his sixth nameday."
Arthur settled his hands upon his knees. "When would you have him begin?"
"When he is older."
"How much older?"
Eddard's expression hardened. "Do not question me as though I have forgotten what Robert granted him."
"I have not forgotten what you accepted for him either."
The room grew quieter. Arthur had spoken without raising his voice, but Jon knew the look passing between them. He had seen it over letters from Dragonstone and whenever Robert's interest in him was mentioned. His father wanted more years. Arthur wanted those years used.
Jon wanted both, though he had little faith that wanting would obtain them.
"I am asking now because there is time to train them," he said, drawing their attention back to him. "Not because I mean to sail tomorrow."
Eddard sat back.
"Why boys, then? Let Rodrik choose six men who have served well. They can accompany you about Winterfell, and when you are older we can speak of more."
"Six men would guard me. That is not all I want."
"What else?"
"I want them taught together. Sword and shield, riding, their letters. I want them accustomed to taking orders from one another as well as from me. When I need more men, some of these should be fit to teach them."
Arthur glanced at Jon. He had heard the proposed exercises, but not all of what Jon meant to build from them.
"You are choosing your captains before you have soldiers?"
"I am giving myself years to find out which ones might become captains."
That earned him a longer look from Eddard.
Jon rested his forearms upon the table. "I do not need every boy to become an officer. Most will not. But I will know them by then. I will have seen them tired, angry, frightened, pleased with themselves. I would rather choose after that than because a man brings me a fine sword and a letter praising his courage."
"Good men can be found with both," Eddard said.
"And I shall want good men too. I need one now to keep the yard when Arthur cannot."
"Then you do acknowledge that experience has some worth."
"Enough that I want these boys to gain it before I depend upon them."
"They will be older than you," his father said. "Every one of them. Some will be twice your size."
"I have noticed that most people are."
"That is not the objection I am making."
"I know." Jon held his gaze. "They must understand whose service they are entering before they give their word. I will hear counsel from the men teaching them. I will not have my orders treated as suggestions because a boy can lift me."
"And when one does?"
"He answers for it."
"To Arthur?"
"To me. Arthur need not settle every quarrel in my name."
Eddard studied him over the open account. The answer had come readily; Jon could see his father wondering how much of that certainty would remain before an angry boy with broad shoulders and a practice sword.
Arthur leaned forward.
"He gives orders to men older than either of us in the workshop. They question him when the work requires it. He answers, or he has them show him what he has missed. They have not found him difficult to hear."
"Timber does not become resentful."
"Mikken does."
Despite himself, Eddard let out a breath of amusement.
Arthur continued before it vanished. "I would not leave him alone with them, Ned. Nor put steel in their hands because he asks it. But I can teach their weapons, and Rodrik will know a man who can keep order among them. Better we discover what Jon must learn while you are here to see it."
His father looked down again.
"Twelve to fourteen," he murmured. "Old enough to think a sword makes a man of them. Young enough to believe you when you say it does."
"I will not tell them that."
Jon's answer was quieter than the others.
For a moment he remembered his own son at twelve, all knees and elbows in a school shirt, indignant over some quarrel that had seemed likely to end the world until supper arrived. The boys he meant to summon would be no less children because they knew how to split wood or carry a sack of barley. Feeding them well and teaching them to fight would not change what he was asking of them.
He disliked that more than either man could know.
But he remembered another Winterfell, emptied of its strength; boys sent south with Robb and boys left behind when the ironborn came. He remembered what had become of the man sitting across from him. Those events were not a fate he intended to accept. They were warnings, and altering a warning's particulars did not make the danger disappear.
He could spend these years preparing, or discover later that he had mistaken his own reluctance for mercy.
Eddard was still watching him.
"They will begin with practice weapons," Jon said. "They will learn to obey a halt as readily as a command to strike. I want them alive and useful when they are grown. There is no purpose in ruining them to make a fine show now."
Arthur nodded. "I can answer for that part."
"And their letters?" Eddard asked. "You have written a tutor's work here as though Luwin has no other duties."
"He has more than enough. I thought someone who helps him with the copying might teach them the beginning. Luwin could judge whether the man is fit."
"What does a guard need with letters?"
"To read an order without finding someone else to read it for him. To keep a watch roll. To count what he is given and tell me what is missing." Jon touched the edge of the parchment. "You send Ethan letters because he can understand more from them than a rider's memory. I want men I can send away with work and expect an account when they return."
"Some will never have held a quill."
"Neither had I."
Arthur looked towards the window. Eddard's gaze remained upon Jon.
"You are not a useful measure of how quickly other children learn."
"No," Jon conceded. "That is another reason to begin early."
His father lifted the account again.
"Why twenty-five?"
"Four files of six, with one captain over them. Small enough that a man teaching them can see what each boy does. Enough to practise together and divide the work."
"You have already chosen this captain?"
"No. I have not chosen any of them."
"Not Woods's boy?"
"Olyver may ask for a place. His father must agree, and Arthur must judge him as he judges the others."
Arthur gave a slight nod at that.
Eddard moved his finger to the figures beneath the proposed wages.
"All of which returns us here. You have not sold a clock."
"Not yet."
"And you mean to feed them with the money from clocks you have not sold."
"I mean to ask you for an advance until I can."
"How long?"
Jon hesitated. A cracked piece of timber could cost another week; so could a tooth that would not fit.
"I cannot give you an honest day."
Eddard lowered the parchment.
"Then do not give me a dishonest one."
"I have not."
"No." His father rubbed a thumb along the fold. "You have not."
The fire shifted in the grate. Arthur rose to move a fallen length of wood back upon the embers, leaving Jon and Eddard facing one another across the table.
"There will be buyers," Jon said. "Once the clock is proved. Lords spend gold upon Myrish glass and hangings because another lord has them. A bell that rings without a man pulling the rope will not pass unnoticed."
"And when those buyers come?"
"First I repay what I owe you. Then I pay for the work needed to make the next."
"And after that?"
Jon saw no purpose in pretending his ambition ended with twenty-five.
"More, when I can afford them and have men fit to teach them."
Eddard glanced towards Arthur, who had returned the fire iron to its stand.
"This is a beginning to you."
"Yes."
His father was silent for a while. Below the window, the cart began moving again, its axle complaining all the way towards the gate.
"At your age," Eddard said at last, "I wanted a horse my father would not let me ride."
"Did he relent?"
"No. Brandon put me on it when Father was away."
Arthur turned from the hearth. "That explains a good deal."
"I fell into a dung heap." Eddard gave him a level look. "Brandon found it more amusing than I did."
Jon smiled, but his father's expression grew serious again.
"I cannot keep you from wanting more than your years ought to allow. I can require you to understand what you are asking. These boys will come because they are hungry, or because their fathers have no land for them, or because they have heard that Arthur Dayne will teach them a sword. Some will come for reasons they cannot explain. Once you receive their service, you cannot lose interest."
"I will not."
"You cannot send them home hungry because a lord delays paying for his clock."
"Then their food comes before another bench or another tool."
Eddard watched him for another moment before drawing the parchment back towards himself.
"Twenty-five at most. Their families hear plainly that the service may take them to Dragonstone. No boy still bound to another master enters your household without his release. Arthur judges whether they can bear the training, and you will not fill the number merely because you have beds prepared."
Jon straightened in the chair.
"And the trainer?"
"Speak to Rodrik. If he finds a man willing to take your service, bring him to me."
Arthur resumed his seat. "I will go with him."
"I rather thought you would." Eddard looked again at the account. "Poole will help you correct this. Food and clothing, Jon, not merely silver. There are things here you have priced once which will need buying twice before the year is out."
"Will you advance the first pay?"
"The first pay." His father folded the parchment and gave it back. "You will repay it from the clocks you sell. Poole will see to it."
Jon took the account with both hands. "Thank you, Father."
Eddard caught his wrist before he could slide from the chair.
"You still come to supper."
"I came yesterday."
"After Wylla went looking for you."
"The wheel was—"
"I know about the wheel."
Arthur was smiling now. Jon gave up the defence and tucked the parchment beneath his arm.
"I will come."
His father released him, but the hand that had held his wrist passed once over his dark hair before he stepped away.
Outside the solar, Arthur waited while Jon shut the door.
"Rodrik will be in the yard."
"Then we should find him."
"He may want to finish his supper before discussing your guards."
Jon looked towards the narrow window. The light had faded while they argued. From below came the smell of onions frying in dripping, and the sound of Robb calling for someone to move along the bench.
He turned towards the hall. Arthur followed without another word.
"Did he agree?" Robb asked as Jon took his place.
"Twenty-five at most. We still have to find them."
Robb turned immediately towards Theon. "I told you."
Theon lowered his cup. "All twenty-five?"
"All twenty-five," Jon said.
For a moment Theon looked genuinely surprised, which pleased Robb more than the approval itself.
"You thought he would say no."
"He did say no," Jon told him.
Robb looked back, confused. Theon's grin returned.
"And you kept talking until he changed his mind? Gods help your captain."
"Would you prefer I had stopped?"
"I would prefer to know how you managed it before I next ask for something."
At the head of the table, Eddard set down his knife.
"You might begin by asking for something reasonable, Theon."
Beside Theon, Robb was already asking when they could watch the choosing.
"When Rodrik can spare you," Eddard said. "You will not leave your own work because Jon has found more."
Robb waited until his father had turned to Catelyn before leaning closer. "We shall still practise together?"
"Aye. I have not asked Arthur to stop teaching me."
"With them?"
"Some mornings. Other times with you and Rodrik."
That satisfied him. He began proposing boys Jon had met at the harvest gathering until Theon asked whether all their fathers meant to send their heirs to guard Dragonstone. Robb told him he had only named two. Jon listened over his broth, thankful for a conversation in which he did not have to defend the whole undertaking before taking another mouthful.
* * *
Arthur went with Jon to find Rodrik after supper. The following afternoon they met him in the armoury yard, with an old soldier waiting beside him. The man had grey in his beard and carried an ash staff more often than a spear. One knee remained stiff when he walked; half his left ear was gone.
"Heward," Rodrik said. "He served under your grandfather, rode with your father's men before the knee went bad, and has spent the last years making himself useful wherever Winterfell needed an old soldier who could still shout."
Heward looked down at Jon. "Ser Rodrik says you want twenty-five boys made into a household."
"I do."
"Boys of twelve and thirteen."
"Some fourteen."
"That improves matters enormously." Heward's face did not change.
"Arthur will teach the sword," Jon said. "Hullen and the men he names will see to the horses. I want you over the yard."
"Doing what?"
"Teaching them to obey together. A good swordsman who leaves his place when he pleases is a danger to the men beside him. I want twenty-five boys who know where to stand, how to move when they are tired, how to keep their shields, clothes and weapons fit, and how to answer the first order."
Heward gave a slow nod. "That I know."
"There will be running. Wrestling. Stretching before hard work."
"Sensible enough."
"And lifting."
The nod stopped. "Lifting what?"
"Weights."
Heward glanced towards Rodrik. "For what work?"
"For no work but becoming stronger."
That earned Jon a longer stare. "Carrying stone makes a man strong."
"A load of stone may be too much for one boy and too little for another. I want weights we can add to as each grows stronger. They will learn to lift properly, with work for their legs and backs as well as their arms."
Rodrik folded his arms. "You have seen men trained so?"
"I know what I want the body to learn." Jon kept his answer there. "We begin light. No boy proves courage by ruining a joint."
Heward tapped the end of his staff once against the stone. "And when a boy cannot keep pace?"
"Then we find out why. If he is weak, we strengthen him. If he is hurt, we mend him. If he is lazy, you cure him of it."
Heward's eyes narrowed slightly. "And the one who decides he has had enough?"
Jon met his eyes. "You deal with idleness in the yard. If he wants release from my service, he asks me himself."
"I will feed them well, clothe them, pay them and teach them letters as well as arms," Jon said. "In return I expect obedience and work. If you think one of my ideas is foolish, tell me before the yard hears it."
"And if you still want it done?"
"Then do as I command."
Heward planted both hands upon the head of his staff. "When do you want me?"
"Before the boys arrive. I want the yard ready before they are."
"Then show me these weights of yours, Lord Black. I should like to know what foolishness I have agreed to before dawn finds me shouting it."
They brought Heward before Eddard that evening, as his father had required. Eddard lent him for the choosing; he would grant his release from Winterfell's service once Jon and the old soldier had proved they could work together.
Poole opened the chamber beside the armoury. Twenty beds stood among harness chests; five more could be brought from store, though two needed mending. Wylla had the chests removed and the worst mattresses set aside. The boys would eat beside Winterfell's guards at Jon's expense until he had a kitchen of his own. Heward took the room across the passage.
"Where do they sleep while you choose?" Wylla asked. "Some will come farther than a morning's walk."
Poole offered pallets in the lower hall for them and their kin. Jon had the cost entered with the first pay and Heward's keep. The applicants were to hear the terms when they arrived, before spending six days hoping for a place.
Master Hollan, the Winter Town scrivener, came next day carrying copied pages. He had a small, neat mouth and ink worked deep into the fingers that held them. Luwin knew his hand from years of fair copies and letters. In the maester's room Hollan kept his elbows clear of the drying herbs and asked how many boys knew their letters.
"We have not chosen them yet. Some will. Most may not."
"I must hear them separately. A boy who can read a little learns nothing from the alphabet every evening."
Jon agreed to groups divided by ability, one with Heward while the other learned. Luwin lent primers for copying. They settled Hollan's weekly pay for lessons after the midday meal, leaving his mornings free. He would hear candidates during the choosing and bring the accepted boys' work to Luwin after a fortnight.
"Your own lesson remains here," Luwin told Jon. "Their work does not replace it."
Hollan had been studying Jon's figures. He asked him to read a line, then looked at him longer before folding his account. Jon sent it to Poole. While Luwin returned to his herbs, Hollan moved a stool so the boy could help choose which pages to copy.
By the next fortnight Jon's sixth nameday had passed, and the lower yard was crowded before he finished breakfast. The call had gone through the winter town and the nearest villages: Lord Black wanted twenty-five boys, twelve to fourteen, for his household. Men repeated it over smiths' anvils and at the mill. Some boys came with a spare shirt tied inside a blanket; others wore their fathers' coats with the sleeves folded back. Poole's clerk explained the wages and the service on Dragonstone before directing those who needed a pallet to the lower hall. Jon had priced the food and the beds. Now he had to look each family in the face while they decided whether to trust him with a son.
He did not choose them in an afternoon.
For six days Heward, Arthur and Jon worked through them. Wylla kept the names of parents and kin beside Poole's clerk, because she cared less how straight a boy stood than whether anyone knew where to send if he broke an arm. Arthur watched hands, feet and eyes. Heward wanted to see what remained of obedience after breath and patience were spent. Jon wanted boys who could be taught together rather than twenty-five little champions.
Preventing the wars he remembered would not answer every danger. Beyond the Wall was an enemy a quarrel settled in King's Landing would do nothing to stop. He could not be certain when it would come south, or how much his own choices would alter what preceded it. The years he had asked for were useful only if he used them.
The first morning contained very little swordplay. Heward sent them round the yard in groups of six with sacks upon their shoulders. By the fourth circuit the tallest were breathing through their mouths. Gage, a boy with a round chin and a small upturned nose, tried to catch his slipping sack without slowing. Sand poured into the mud. When Heward called him back, he began scooping it up, more distressed by the waste than the laughter behind him.
They carried water next, then held practice shields until shoulders began to sag. Hullen lent them two quiet garrons. A lad who had boasted of riding since he could walk jerked the reins when a cart rattled past; his horse planted its feet. Rylas waited beside the second garron with a lock of hair falling over his eyes. He had a pointed chin and had never owned a horse. He put a hand against its neck, let the cart pass, then led it between the barrels without a pull.
The second day brought ash swords. Arthur paired the boys by size and called halt without warning. Jorren, square-jawed beneath pale brows, checked a stroke already falling towards his opponent's shoulder. The effort left his arms shaking. Arthur corrected his grip before letting them begin again. Robb and Theon watched from the rail with the families; Rodrik had kept them at their own lessons until now.
Theon had been leaning against the rail until a broad-shouldered applicant began driving his opponent backwards. Now he straightened, following the exchange while Robb called encouragement to the smaller boy.
"That one can fight," Theon said.
Jon watched Arthur move closer to the pair. "He has been taught."
"Aye. Give him a proper shield and he would trouble some of Rodrik's pages."
The larger boy struck again, caught his opponent's blade and forced it down. Before Arthur could separate them, he looked towards the rail to see who had noticed.
Theon snorted.
"What?" Robb asked.
"He had him beaten. Now he wants everyone to admire it."
Arthur sent them apart and gave the larger boy a correction. The boy began explaining what he had intended.
Theon's mouth crooked. "Oh, teach Ser Arthur. He has been waiting years for you."
Jon pressed his lips together. Arthur had heard; the glance he gave the rail was enough to make Robb stand straight and Theon lower his voice.
When the boy tried again, he kept his eyes upon his opponent.
"Better," Theon murmured.
"You could tell him that," Robb said.
"And spoil him?"
Rodrik called them away before the next pair began. Robb left looking back at the yard. Theon went with him, still following the movement of the taller boy's shield until the armoury door hid it.
The third morning was Jon's doing. There were no bouts at all. The applicants cleaned borrowed shields, sorted pegs, carried kindling, brushed horses and helped stack grain sacks beneath Poole's eye. Boys who had been eager when swords were offered became slower when given rags and buckets. One complained that he had come to become a guardsman, not a stableboy.
Heward looked at Jon. "There is one answer found."
The boy heard him and reddened, but stayed to finish the stall. Jon left his name on the roll. A complaint could be trained out of a boy who still did the work.
At noon Jon had them fed whether they remained in consideration or not. Brown bread, onion broth and cold beef went down the tables. When Heward questioned feeding boys already crossed from the roll, Jon tore his bread in half. "They came because I called. They eat before they go home."
On the fourth day Jon moved among the families, asking where they came from, who depended upon the wages and what they understood of the service. Hearing their prospective lord speak of crossing the sea made Dragonstone less distant than it had sounded in the clerk's announcement.
One mother took her son home. Jon did not argue. Another father asked how often a boy serving on Dragonstone would be allowed north. "I cannot tell you yet how often he can come home," Jon told him. "I can promise he will be paid, fed and given leave when service allows it. If that is not enough, decide now, before he gives me his word." The man looked at his son. The boy remained.
Hollan heard them in the lower hall while the next pairs waited for the yard. He wrote each name for its owner to try, setting a different passage before the few who could already read. Robb sat at the end of the table until Jon asked him to stop supplying the sounds. He flushed, then held his tongue while the boy beside him finished without help.
"Better?" Robb asked Jon afterwards.
"Now Master Hollan knows what the boy can do."
Robb looked back at the table, where the scrivener had covered half a word with his thumb. "Luwin does that with me."
Jon smiled and went to hear the next family.
By the fifth day the yard had begun revealing things no single contest could. Some boys blamed a partner whenever a file lost order. Others quietly tightened another lad's shield strap or shared water without being told. Heward changed an instruction halfway through a drill simply to learn who was listening. Arthur noted who needed one correction and who needed five. Wylla found two boys hiding blisters because they feared being sent home and marched both to Luwin before Heward could shout at them.
The sixth morning began in rain. Heward sent the remaining boys round the yard with sacks again. The smallest lost a shoe near the broken tiles by the wall.
"Two of you, help him," Heward called. "The rest keep moving."
Tomas stopped and took Olyver's sack, keeping him away from the broken tiles while Oren went back for the shoe. Rain ran from Tomas's straight dark brows over broad cheekbones. He brought up the rear carrying both burdens, one shoulder dark where the sacking had rubbed through his coat.
Heward took the extra sack from him. "Is he hurt?"
"No, master. There are broken tiles by the wall." Tomas glanced at Jon and straightened. "My lord."
Jon sent a stable hand for a basket. "Clear those before the next six go round."
Heward turned the waiting boys towards the other end of the yard.
Jon went down the line with Arthur. Six days had worn away much of the boys' swagger. Olyver stood near the end with his recovered shoe. Beside him, Oren had mud above both knees and a streak across his narrow nose. He blinked rain from pale lashes when Jon stopped before him.
"You went back too," Jon said to Oren.
"Only for the shoe, my lord. Tomas had him."
"Put it on, Olyver." Jon looked to Heward. "Keep the pairs for the longer runs. I want each boy to know who is falling behind."
Heward nodded and called the next six forward.
Arthur had crossed out more names than he had left. Jon went through the roll with him and chose Tomas as captain. Heward named four file leaders: Jorren, who had checked his blow; Rylas, patient with the horses; Olyver; and Gage, who now brought every sack back full. There would be six boys to each file. Arthur agreed, though he kept his finger beside Olyver's name until Jon had spoken to Woods.
"He still has work at the bench," the carpenter said when he was brought from the workshop. Sawdust clung to the damp front of his apron. "He knows which pieces are ready for the wheelwright. I cannot put any lad in his place."
Jon called Olyver over from the waiting boys. "Your father needs you. Do you still want a place in the household?"
"Aye, my lord." Olyver looked at Woods. "I can do both."
"You have not yet tried," Woods said.
"The yard comes first," Jon told them. "But he can work with you after lessons. I will pay another lad to do the carrying and rough work, so you have his time for what only he knows."
Woods studied his son's hopeful face. "We will see how much strength you have left after Heward has finished with you." He turned to Jon and touched his brow. "Very well, my lord."
Before the boys were called in to eat, Eddard read Arthur's roll beneath the gallery. Poole had placed the five spare beds; the chamber was ready, with meals beside Winterfell's men until Jon had a kitchen of his own.
"Heward has my release," Eddard said. "He may give you his oath. The boys answer to him and Arthur; both men answer to you. While they live within these walls, they still obey my castellan."
"Yes, Father. I want practice shields from the armoury tonight. Arthur begins at dawn."
"I shall tell Rodrik. There is room at the eastern wall."
When the last names were settled, Heward brought the chosen boys beneath the gallery. Their families crowded closer as Jon took his place before them, with Arthur beside the steps and Eddard remaining by the table. Some of the boys still watched the knight more closely than their prospective lord.
"Your names have been chosen," Jon said. "Before you give me your word, hear what I expect."
The talk beside the steps subsided.
"You will have the food, clothing and silver promised to you. You will learn your weapons, your horses and your letters. Some of you had begun that work before you came here. Others had never held a sword or read a word. I expect all of you to learn."
He looked along the line.
"Tomas will command the household. The men I set over you speak with my authority. You will obey them in the yard, upon the road and when I am not there to hear whether you do."
Tomas straightened beside the others. Jon let him feel the eyes turning towards him before continuing.
"I will train beside you. When you make a mistake, you will be taught to put it right. When you refuse an order, you will answer for it. Do not confuse the two."
One father shifted nearer the gallery, his cap held against his coat.
"This service will not end when you have earned a sword. In time I mean to take my household to Dragonstone. Any of you who cannot accept that must speak before we go to the heart tree."
Jon gave them time. He had no wish to discover later that a boy had mistaken being chosen for having no choice left.
"Those who give me their word will have mine. I will keep what I have promised you. I expect you to keep what you promise me."
No one stepped away. Robb stood beside Theon at the end of the gallery, quiet now; when Heward sent the boys to wash, they moved back to let the new captain lead them past.
By late afternoon the rain had stopped. The boys stood beneath the heart tree with their hair combed and the worst of the mud washed from their faces. Those of their kin who had stayed followed them from the gallery. Woods remained beside the path, turning a shaving between his fingers. Robb and Theon stood together by a root, the older boy with his arms folded. Wylla drew Jon's black collar straight before stepping back. Her thumb brushed the pale lock lying against his left temple.
"Keep your chin up," she murmured. "I stitched it to fit you."
Heward knelt first, awkwardly, upon his sound knee. Jon put his hands around the scarred hands offered to him. The old man pledged his counsel, the order of the yard and what strength remained to him, upon road and sea, until death or release before witnesses. Jon received him into his service and gave the promised protection, board, clothing and silver. Arthur helped Heward rise without making a show of it.
Tomas came next. He knelt on both knees and offered his hands. Up close Jon could see the thread where his mother had mended the cuff. The boy spoke loudly enough for those beside the path to hear.
"I, Tomas, give my service to Lord Jon of House Black. I will keep his peace, obey those he sets above me and stand beside my fellows, on land or sea, until death or lawful release."
"I receive your service," Jon said. "You shall have my protection, your board and clothing, and the silver promised you. Rise, Tomas."
Tomas stepped aside with his face flushed. The next boy had to hear Heward's prompting before he found his voice, but each spoke for himself. Jon answered each in turn. Woods stopped turning the shaving when Olyver knelt. Tomas's mother pressed her lips together and watched her son take his place beneath the tree. By the time Oren offered his hands, Jon's were cold from the boys' damp sleeves.
When the last had risen, Poole read back twenty-five names. Eddard witnessed the roll. Jon watched the ink dry beside his father's seal before he let Poole take it away.
The black cloth waiting in the armoury was plain northern wool. Wylla and two sewing women had cut badges from it while the boys were being tried. Their coats would take longer. Olyver held his collar for Woods to stitch, and Tomas submitted to his mother's needle with the same grave attention he had given the oath. Robb asked if he might learn with them on the morrow.
"You will have to ask Ser Rodrik," Jon said.
"He told me to ask you."
Jon looked across the yard. Rodrik's moustache twitched. "Come before breakfast."
Before bed Jon went to see their room. Heward had lit two candles, and the boys were carrying in the last of the bedding. Twenty-five narrow beds left only the passages Wylla had insisted upon. One blanket was already spread with carved game pieces. A lad at the window was unwrapping a heel of cheese from his spare shirt when Tomas noticed Arthur in the doorway.
They scrambled to their feet. Jon told them to finish settling in and sent Tomas for another basket of wood.
Olyver had put his bed beside Oren's. Woods had sent his son a little chest; most of the others had bundles which fitted beneath a pillow. At the far end, Tomas's mother was folding his cloak. She rose when Jon approached and curtsied awkwardly between the beds. Jon waited while she finished. He had once checked a grown son's bag for things the young man insisted he had packed. Her boy might consider the folded cloak a nuisance; Jon understood why she wanted to do this last thing herself.
"He is placed well here, my lord," she said.
Jon looked at the bed she had made, neater than any of the others. "He has earned the place."
Tomas returned with the wood and found her still there. She touched his cheek before leaving, heedless of the boys trying not to watch. Arthur held the door for her. Behind Jon, someone took the game pieces from the blanket, and the talk slowly began again.
Heward waited across the passage until the last mother had left. His own door stood open, the ash staff leaning within reach of his bed. He told Tomas where to find him if anyone needed help, then sent the boy back to his fellows. Jon could hear them comparing their new places as he and Arthur crossed the yard towards the family rooms.
At dawn Heward had the twenty-five waiting beside shields arranged by size. Jon joined Gage's file and took the smallest. Its rim reached too close to his chin; Arthur made him lower it while a leatherworker shortened the strap. The older boys watched without speaking.
"Learn the order, Tomas. You will have them ready before I come down tomorrow."
"Yes, my lord."
Heward began with the distance between one pair of feet and the next. Before he dismissed them, Jon's heels were sore and the same fault had been corrected three places along the file. He stayed with Tomas to call back three boys whose shield straps had slipped. They marked the leather for the craftsman, then went to eat.
At breakfast Robb regarded his own reddened palm. "I thought there would be more hitting."
"Arthur begins with swords tomorrow." Jon reached for the milk. His wrist shook, and he set down the jug before pouring.
"You can tell me afterwards whether you still want more." Arthur passed them the bread.
Beyond the hall, Heward was learning which names needed calling twice. After the midday meal he took half the boys to the yard while Master Hollan began letters with the others. Jon stopped on his way from Luwin's lesson to hear Olyver struggle through a passage. For once the apprentice had left the clock drawings shut.