Chapter 78 - The Dragon's Teeth

The movement passed beneath Jon's palm and up his arm.

He followed it into the root. Cold earth closed about him; somewhere above, branches stirred in wind. He reached towards them and lost the feel of his hand. For a moment he could not remember whether he had been standing or kneeling. There was only the weight of earth and a faint, irresistible movement towards the light.

Jon pulled back. His knees struck stone.

The cave returned around him. Water dripped into a hollow beyond the roots. Bloodraven sat where the white wood had grown about him, his thin face scarcely distinguishable from it until the red eye moved.

"You forgot where you were."

Jon pressed his palm against his thigh. "I hold five birds at a distance now. I am working towards more. This is different."

"And when one is frightened?"

He remembered Hugin fleeing a hawk, five birds scattering, his own shoulder striking a wall. He had bitten through his lip before he could release them. Afterwards, Munin had perched upon his knee and picked at a loose thread while he sat waiting for the room to stop turning.

"That is why I need teaching. Especially if I am to use them where I mean to go."

Bloodraven's long fingers rested against a root. Jon waited for the refusal, or the warning he had already heard from every man who spoke of those waters.

"What do you expect to find?"

"Books. Gold. Enough to build what I have begun." Jon met his eye. "If you know something that would help, tell me."

Bloodraven looked down at Jon's hand.

"Feel your heart before you touch the root again. Your body is waiting in your bed. Remember how to find it."

Jon listened. At first the falling water distracted him; then he found the beat beneath his ribs, hurried by his stumble. He let it settle. When he could hold his attention upon it without forgetting the cave, he laid his palm against the wood.

Red light shone through the broken roof of a carriage.

Jon stood inside it, the floor tilted beneath his feet. His first glance found the doors. One had been driven inward until its bronze hinges stood crooked; a man hammered upon the other with both fists. Water lapped at the lower edge and came through in little spurts each time he struck it.

"Leave it," someone gasped. "Help me."

The king sat upon the rear bench beneath a fallen roof beam. He was a broad man, his wet golden hair plastered to his temples, a little silver showing in the beard along his jaw. A cut above his eyebrow had filled the wrinkles beside one eye with blood. His circlet had slipped down over the other. Small golden lions ran about it, their raised heads catching the red light when he moved.

A heavy chain lay across his breast. One of its links had snagged upon the torn velvet of his coat; beneath it, an emerald swung against a button as he strained forward. His left hand was trapped between the bench and the beam. Jon could see two rings beyond the wood, one broad and plain, the other set with a dark red stone. The fingers beneath them had swollen purple.

His right hand held a sword across his knees. Water trembled along the dark ripples of the blade. Rubies burned in the eyes of its lion pommel.

Brightroar.

Jon knew it before the man at the door turned.

The fellow was younger than the king. His hair had been shorn close, and a bronze collar lay against the raw skin at the base of his throat. Blood ran from his knuckles. He caught the beam with both hands and braced a foot against the bench.

"Lift," the king said.

The man pulled. Tendons stood out beneath his jaw; his foot slipped upon the wet leather, and he fell hard against the king's knees. Tommen cried out. The beam had moved scarcely the width of a fingernail before settling again.

"It will not lift, Your Grace."

There was a guard upon the forward bench, half hidden behind the man's shoulder. A broken spearshaft protruded from his chest. He had both hands cupped about it, as though he could keep the wound closed by holding everything still. His lips moved when the king looked towards him. Jon could not hear what he said above the water.

The man in the collar looked at the guard too, then reached for the shaft.

"Leave it in," Jon said.

Neither turned. The man drew back without touching it, perhaps afraid of making the wound worse, perhaps because he could think of nothing to do. Jon stepped towards them and caught his shoulder.

His fingers closed upon nothing.

The king's breathing had grown loud. He tried to pull his hand free, dragging his sleeve back until Jon saw the pale wrist and the wood pressing into it. A faint wet sound came from beneath the beam. Tommen stopped and bent his head.

"Then cut the hand off."

The collared man stared at him.

"Take the sword."

He thrust Brightroar's hilt towards the man. The carriage shifted before the fellow could grasp it. Water surged over the king's knees; he snatched the blade back against himself, and the man fell sideways into the broken door. The guard's head struck the wall. His hands stayed upon the spear.

Jon braced himself against the roof. His palms passed through it.

He could hear their breathing, smell the mud and old leather, but he could not move so much as a splinter. Still he tried the beam. He set his shoulder against it and pushed, furious at the ease with which he passed through the wood.

"Take it," Tommen said again.

The man crawled back. Water dragged at his coat. He reached for the sword, stopped, and looked from the king's arm to the beam above it. There was scarcely room to raise the blade. Tommen saw where he was looking and began to pull at the cloth about his wrist with his teeth.

Jon looked up. A roof rib had split close to its fastening. Every movement of the carriage opened the split a little farther. Beyond it lay a sloping surface of red glass, smooth enough to catch a wavering reflection of the water running over it. He could see no sky.

He had practised escaping flooded compartments. There had been men waiting beyond the exercise, hands ready to help if someone lost his nerve. He found himself searching for them now, for a hatch, for any space beyond the broken carriage large enough to hold a breath.

Water poured through the split.

The king flinched. His circlet slipped from his brow and struck the sword with a clear little ring before falling between his knees. It lay beneath the water, one lion's head caught against a fold of velvet. He did not look after it.

The collared man began to scream.

Jon tried to lift his hand from the root. He could no longer find it. His chest tightened with every breath the trapped men took; the roof seemed to descend towards his face. The man had both hands over his head now. Tommen was calling to him, first angrily, then with a change in his voice that made Jon reach for the beam once more.

"Your heart," Bloodraven said.

Jon heard hammering, water, the king calling for help. He tried to turn towards the voice and found only the bronze door.

"Find your own."

He stopped reaching for the carriage. Beneath the pounding in his ears he found another beat, quick but steady. He held his attention there. Wool brushed his wrist. His fingers were clenched in a blanket.

The screaming continued. Jon fixed upon the wool, the place where its edge scratched his skin. He could feel the root beneath his other palm now. He pulled away.

The carriage vanished.

Jon knelt before Bloodraven with his hand lifted from the wood. For several breaths he could only stare at his unbroken fingers. His left wrist ached, though nothing had touched it.

"Tommen Lannister."

"Yes."

His old knowledge had ended with a vanished fleet. He had just watched its king offer his hand for a chance to live. The man with the collar had not even been a name in the history Jon remembered.

Yet he thought of Tywin, of what recovering that sword would buy him. He could see the lion pommel as clearly as the swollen fingers. The thought shamed him without becoming less tempting.

"Where was he?"

"I have shown you what I can." Bloodraven's eye remained upon him. "You found your way back. Practise with one bird until fear no longer makes you forget it."

Jon lowered his hand. "Keep my own heartbeat beneath its own?"

"While it is calm. You will have little time to learn when it is frightened."

He rubbed his wrist. He meant to take men into those ruins. Arthur. Gawen. Tomas. He had been counting stores and measuring how much a ship could carry; he would have to explain to them why he believed they might come home. Whatever he remembered of this world, he had known nothing of that carriage.

"Show me again."

Bloodraven looked at the hand upon his wrist. "You are shaking."

"Then I shall wait until I stop."

He woke alone, his fingers tangled in the blanket. Dawn had not yet reached the shutters. A servant crossed the passage outside, a key scraping briefly in a lock farther along. Jon listened for water until the rustling of the crows brought him back.

He found his heartbeat and counted ten steady beats. Then he lit a candle and reached for his writing things. His first drawing put the doors too far apart. He crossed it out and began again, marking the broken hinge, the fallen beam, the place where the glass had shown through. Beyond that narrow opening he left the parchment bare.

By the time the shutters began to lighten, he had drawn the little lion upon the sword's pommel. He could still hear the king asking for help.

He set the inkpot upon the drawings and opened one shutter. Munin hopped onto the sill, spreading his wings in the cold air. Hugin remained beside the water bowl, watching his companion with one bright eye.

Jon drew his chair away from the table and sat with both feet flat upon the floor. He put two fingers against his wrist. Once he had found the pulse, he closed his eyes and reached for Munin.

His claws gripped the stone. Air stirred beneath his breast feathers; the open window pulled at his attention, though the bird had not moved. His heart beat so quickly that Jon could scarcely distinguish one stroke from the next. Somewhere behind it, much fainter, was the beat beneath his waiting fingers.

He held both. Munin turned his head towards the table, where the inkpot caught a little light. Jon let him look. He could still feel his own pulse, and the pressure of his heels against the floor.

Then something clattered in the court below.

Munin sprang inward from the sill. For an instant Jon had only wings, a white ceiling rushing closer, the need to turn. His fingers slipped from his wrist. He tried to find them and felt the bird's claws curl instead.

He held back the urge to force Munin down. Beneath the flutter of wings he found a heavier beat, then the chair beneath his thighs. He opened his eyes as Munin landed upon the bedpost.

The crow shook himself and began to settle his feathers. Jon stayed seated until his breathing eased. He had kept hold for perhaps seven breaths before the noise.

He tried again when Munin was quiet. This time he withdrew while the bird was still upon the bedpost, following his own pulse back to the chair. His hand remained steady when he reached for the quill.

***

Aries knew the way to the dragons now.

"Are you sure?" Gawen asked.

"I talked to the pages and servants," Aries said. "There's a shorter way past the kitchens."

Hot bread and singed feathers scented the kitchen court. Aries led them through it, waiting at every turn for the others. Men carried trestles towards the great hall. A woman bearing yellow flowers made Gawen step aside; two boys followed with a basket between them, arguing over which prince had the nameday.

"The little one," Aries told them.

"They are both little," one boy answered, and hurried on before his companion could strike him.

Tomas laughed without looking over his shoulder first. It was good to hear.

Hal had asked leave to visit his aunt after breakfast. Jon had promised Rilla a visit too, but the royal household had filled his day. He had asked Hal to give her his good wishes and ask after Benn. He hoped to see her before they left.

He walked beside Arthur through a passage opening onto the bay. The arches faced east, and between their pillars the water shone so brightly that he had to narrow his eyes. Below the walls, a fishing boat crept past a galley at anchor. Its sail looked scarcely larger than a napkin from this height. Washing flapped from a servants' window above them; a sleeve brushed the stone each time the wind turned.

Ser Vaelor Scales stopped to look out. He had come from the stables with Tomas and Gawen; Aries had persuaded them to join him upon learning none had seen the skulls. For a little while the knight watched the galley's oars. Behind them a kitchen servant hurried past with an empty basket, leaving the smell of onions in the warm passage.

"I was told you had horses to inspect," Jon said.

"They will keep until we return, my lord." Vaelor looked at Aries. "He was very particular that I should come."

"You said a whale was bigger."

"I said I had seen a whale."

Aries considered the distinction unimportant. He hurried ahead to the servant waiting with the keys.

Arthur had missed last evening's visit; he had been with Oberyn.

The servant opened the cellar door. Aries went down three steps, remembered himself, and waited for the lamp.

Daylight entered through narrow windows high in the wall. Last night the skulls had appeared one by one in torchlight; now Jon could see their ranks stretching across the cavernous room. Dust lay pale in the seams of the floor. The draught from the door stirred it about their boots, then died as the servant pulled the heavy wood closed behind them.

The nearest skull was small enough for Gawen to have carried beneath one arm. Beyond it the heads grew larger. Horns pointed into the aisles; jawbones rested upon wooden supports where the weight would have broken their joints. Light caught the ridges above empty eyes and left the jaws in shadow. At the far end, the room seemed to narrow about Balerion.

Gawen stopped on the lowest step.

"Gods preserve us."

No one laughed at him. Tomas took the lamp from the servant and raised it. A long black tooth shone above his head.

"That is not the largest," Aries said, almost reverently.

Vaelor walked past him, his boots loud upon the stones until he stopped beneath Balerion. Jon had seen him judge a mounted man with one glance at his seat and hands. Now the knight tilted his head back, trying to find the far side of a creature's mouth.

"There," Aries said.

"Aye." Vaelor let out a breath. "There."

Jon joined them beneath the great jaw. Seeing it again did nothing to diminish it. He could imagine muscles drawing the bones together, a tongue moving behind the teeth, breath hot enough to make men shrink away before the flame came. A whole horse could have vanished into that mouth. Men had climbed upon the living creature and asked it to carry them over cities.

He had known ships whose guns could destroy a town beyond the horizon, stood beside machines too heavy for a hundred men to shift. None of that made this ordinary. Balerion had been alive.

Jon put his hand upon the bone. It was cold and smooth beneath his palm. Along the edge of the jaw, a groove ran deep enough to take his finger. He followed it until it vanished into shadow, trying to imagine the living flesh that had covered it.

"Would you have ridden him?" Aries asked.

"If he let me."

The answer came so readily that Gawen looked at him. Jon tipped his head back towards the great horns. He was trying to imagine the first moment after the ground fell away: the castle dropping beneath his feet, the bay opening beyond it, the weight of something immense and living carrying him out over the water.

"You would have to hold on," Aries said.

"With everything I had." Jon heard the eagerness in his own voice and laughed. "Wouldn't you?"

Aries looked up once more. "I would want someone in front of me."

"That could be arranged."

For a moment Jon wanted it so badly that he could almost feel the wind. He kept his hand upon the cold bone.

Tomas came closer with the lamp. The flame trembled as he raised his arm, and the tooth above him seemed to move.

Gawen caught his elbow. "Mind your head."

"I can see it."

"I could not stop looking at the one beyond it."

Tomas lowered the lamp a little. The two young men stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the jaw. At their backs, Vaelor had taken off his glove to touch the bone himself. Aries watched each face in turn, plainly pleased that his descriptions had proved inadequate.

Aries tried to peer between them. Jon's first impulse was to lift him for a better look, as he had once lifted his own children. His hand moved before he remembered himself.

"Come round here," he said instead.

He took the lamp from Tomas and held it where Aries could see past the wooden support. The boy crouched, then turned his head to follow the row of teeth into the dark.

"They go all the way back."

"Aye. Take your time."

Jon waited until Aries had looked his fill before handing the lamp back. Tomas moved aside to let the boy stand beside him. Jon rested his hand against the jaw again.

"They hung above the hall," Arthur said.

His voice brought Jon back. His uncle was looking along the row, rather than at the greatest skull.

"All of them?" Tomas asked.

"All of them. You could scarcely look towards the throne without seeing their teeth."

Aries moved closer to Jon. "Did the king like them?"

Arthur understood which king he meant. "He liked men to remember them."

Jon looked from Balerion to the last hatchlings, scarcely larger than hounds. There was the end of an empire, laid out where servants might bring visitors for a copper. The Romans had quarried their ancestors' monuments for stone; Robert had at least kept these whole.

Back on Dragonstone, Jon's mended red shell stood in its cradle with daylight showing through the missing pieces. He had no creature sleeping inside it. No amount of wanting would turn an empty shell into an egg.

But there were others.

He remembered three eggs given to a frightened girl at a wedding. Fire, blood, a dead husband, a woman burned alive. He did not know which part had made the miracle possible, nor whether the people living it understood any more than he did.

He would not build a plan around putting Daenerys through it.

Their searches had found nothing certain. Qavo had given them places to begin, and captains were listening, but Viserys and his sister could pass between merchants' houses while a letter crossed the sea. In the history Jon remembered, the marriage to Khal Drogo still lay ahead. He should have time. He would be a fool to treat that memory as a promise.

He wanted them found before Illyrio could offer Daenerys as the price of an army. Viserys would be harder. Hunger and humiliation had helped make him cruel, but a roof would not make him reasonable. Jon would not place his people beneath his uncle's temper. Safety could be offered without obedience. Once he knew where they were, he could decide how to reach them and what he could safely tell them.

The eggs were another task. Find them, learn whether they could be bought or taken from Illyrio, and learn what waking them required. The books and ruins might hold answers. He would need better evidence than a half-remembered funeral pyre before he put anyone near a fire.

Gawen measured a tooth against his forearm without quite touching it. Tomas raised the lamp, and Aries insisted he had chosen a small one. Jon smiled despite himself.

Then a voice came from the stair.

"They have that effect upon almost everyone."

Lord Varys stood in the doorway in pale silk, holding a little lamp. Behind him the servant with the keys straightened hurriedly.

"Forgive me. I had no wish to disturb your pleasure."

Jon took his hand from the bone. Arthur had already turned.

"Lord Varys," Jon said. "Have you come to see them too?"

"Today I came to find you. Though I am glad your guide brought you down by daylight. One sees so much more."

His gaze travelled from Aries to Vaelor before returning to Jon. Gawen lowered his arm. The easy talk had stopped.

"Is something wrong?"

"Nothing whatever. The queen's steward asks that your larger gifts be brought into the hall before the meal. He has been told there is an object which will require rather more room than a necklace."

"My man Perrin has made the arrangements. If the steward wants them changed, I will have Perrin speak to him."

"I shall tell him. There is much curiosity about what you have brought." Varys came down another step. "Ships arriving with prisoners are common enough. Ships arriving with craftsmen, children, and gifts for a prince make a happier story."

"Some of the children were prisoners too."

"And fortunate to have found you."

Tomas shifted the lamp. Its light passed over the eunuch's powdered face; the pleasant expression did not change.

Jon remembered another cellar and two men discussing how long a war might be delayed. That conversation might not have happened yet, but Varys had ways through this castle which did not require a man with keys.

"They would have been more fortunate never to need finding," Jon said.

"Indeed. Their new lives have interested many people. You may expect questions today."

"Then those who have them can ask me."

Varys inclined his head. "A most agreeable answer." He looked up at Balerion. "His Grace could not bring himself to have these destroyed. For all the unpleasant memories."

"I am glad he kept them."

"You admire dragons?"

Jon glanced at the tooth hanging above Gawen. "Do you know anyone who could stand here and feel nothing?"

For the first time, Varys smiled without immediately speaking.

"Very few, my lord."

Varys offered them a guide to the practice ground. Jon thanked him and declined. They were collecting his brother on the way.

Varys stood aside as they climbed. Aries looked back twice. Jon took a last glance at the vast black head before following Arthur.

Outside, Vaelor drew a long breath of the warm air.

"I withdraw the whale," he told Aries.

The boy grinned all the way back to Robb's rooms.

***

Robb was fastening his sword belt while Martyn urged him to change his boots. Theon sat upon the window ledge eating an apple.

"Tell him," Robb said when Jon appeared.

"What am I telling him?"

"These are perfectly good."

Martyn held up the other pair. "These are broken in, my lord. The new ones rubbed yesterday."

Jon looked at Robb, who looked down, then surrendered by sitting on the bed.

Robb tugged one boot off and dropped it beside the bed. "You took a fleet against pirates, and I am still being told what to put on my feet."

"Bad boots would have troubled him there as well," Martyn said.

Theon bit into his apple to hide his smile. Robb reached for the old pair, his ears reddening.

"I would have come," he told Jon, more quietly.

"I know."

"I can do more than listen to the tale afterwards." He worked his heel into the boot. "Every man we meet asks about your ships. Then they turn to me and ask whether Father is well."

Jon sat beside him for a moment. He had enjoyed telling his brother what had happened at sea; he had not considered how often Robb must have heard others ask for the same story.

"You will have something to tell him after tomorrow."

Robb looked up. "If I beat you, I shall send a raven before supper."

"Tell him about the boots too," Theon said.

Robb threw the discarded boot at him. Theon saved his apple at the cost of a bruised shin.

"You took long enough," Theon said. "Have you bought the skulls?"

"I could not decide where to put them."

"Over your gate. No one would trouble you for a toll twice."

Aries told them how Vaelor had stopped beneath Balerion. Robb forgot his grievance and asked Arthur whether the dragons really had hung above the throne. He looked disappointed that he had never seen the hall that way.

"Father did," he said.

"Your father had other things upon his mind," Arthur answered.

Robb glanced at him, then returned to his bootlaces. Theon slid off the sill and took his sword. They left with Martyn and two northern guards.

Robb heard the swords before Jon did. He quickened his step beneath the colonnade, then stopped so abruptly at its end that Theon nearly walked into him.

"Seven hells. Where are we meant to fight?"

The practice yard lay open to the sun between walls of red stone. Men crowded its shaded edges, with squires crouching at their feet to buckle greaves and boys standing upon the lower rails to see over shoulders. Farther out, the earth had been churned pale and loose by horses. A lance broke beyond the press. One half spun above a rider's shoulder; the other dragged beside the saddle until he flung it clear. The applause had scarcely begun when a groom ran into the lane after a horse that had turned across it.

"Back, there! Leave him room."

Ser Aron Santagar caught a boy by the shoulder and moved him out of the groom's path. The boy stumbled into his friends. Santagar waited until the horse had been led away, then sent him to gather the broken shaft. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, his coat brushed and belted, but horse dust had spoiled one boot. By the gate, Barristan Selmy let another groom lead his mount through, then pulled it shut.

The mounted practice ran along the far wall, divided by a low timber barrier. Between it and the colonnade, separate patches had been left for swordplay. Every time a bout ended, someone stepped forward before the last pair had got their helms off. Water splashed beside Jon's boot. Its bearer murmured an apology and shouldered on, leaving a dark trail across the dust.

Robb turned towards the weapon rack, but a broad boy wearing the Crakehall boar backed across his path with two shields. He gave one to a younger Lannister and held the other while a boy in Brax colours struggled to lengthen its strap. Jaime Lannister stood behind them, showing Lancel how to settle an ash sword in his hand. Jon had seen the king's squire carrying cups on his earlier visit. Here Lancel scarcely took his eyes off his cousin.

"Never mind the rack," Theon said. "Find us somewhere to use them first."

"There," Robb said, pointing to a pair who were unfastening their helms.

"Someone has beaten you to it." Theon nodded towards the Bracken youth stepping into the vacant space.

A long-faced boy in Blackwood colours barred his way with the flat of a wooden sword. Jon could not hear the first exchange. He heard the next well enough.

"You have been standing there since we arrived."

"Waiting for you to finish hitting the ground."

Patrek Mallister reached between them and pushed both blades down. "Then take opposite ends and settle it. You are keeping everyone waiting."

The Blackwood went willingly enough. The other looked back at his companions before following. Robb grinned.

"Hoster Blackwood. The Bracken came with his lord's cousins."

"I might have guessed," Jon said.

Above the practice ground, women had begun filling a terrace beneath a yellow-and-white awning. A servant was bringing out another chair, though most of the younger ladies had left theirs to lean upon the stone balustrade. Myranda Royce's laugh carried over the blows below. She stood with Rowena Grafton, while Ysilla listened to something Wynafryd Manderly was saying. Wylla had found a place from which she could see the horse lane; she waved both hands when she caught sight of Robb.

He waved back and nearly walked into a shield.

"That will be difficult to explain tomorrow," Theon said.

Aurane lowered it. His pale hair had escaped its tie, and one sleeve was dark with sweat. "I thought you had all decided to sleep until the feast."

"Jon found the dragon skulls," Robb said. "Give him time and he'll try to put one back together." He nodded towards Aurane's shield. "Are you using that?"

"I have finished being beaten with it."

"By whom?"

Aurane pointed with his chin. Ser Garlan Tyrell was backing away from two men near the armoury door. A third waited behind them for room to strike. Garlan moved sideways as he retreated, forcing the nearer man across his companion's path; the third had to check his advance or hit his friend. Garlan's sword flicked against the first man's ribs. Then the other two were upon him, and Jon lost the blades among their shoulders.

"All three?" Robb asked.

"He says it is useful," Aurane answered. "I found it more useful when I was watching."

Domeric came away from the rail with a cup. "He lets one of you think he has him. Then the others discover they are in the way." Beyond him, Obara Sand was testing a spear's balance while her father spoke to Balon Swann. Oberyn saw Arthur and lifted a hand.

Robb took Aurane's shield. "You can tell me afterwards. Jon owes me a bout."

He said it loudly enough for Santagar to hear. The master-at-arms looked from them to the patch where the Blackwood and Bracken were striking at each other with more energy than judgment.

"Three bouts there already," he said. "They can yield the ground. Padded coats, helms and ash swords. If either of you wants steel, you may ask me again when these boys are no longer underfoot."

Robb was already reaching for a coat. Jon took the one beside it and found a split seam beneath the arm. He put it back. Aurane handed him another without being asked.

Arthur had stopped beside Yohn Royce. The old lord greeted him with a hand upon his shoulder, then moved aside to include Martyn in the conversation. By the time the Bracken boy had finished disputing the last blow, Jon and Robb were ready to take his place.

Robb held out his arm while Jon pulled the shield strap tight. "Do you still lift your elbow before you cut?"

"Do you still tell me what you are looking for?"

"Sometimes I tell you the wrong thing."

Harry Hardyng called to Mychel and Waymar and started round the rail towards them. Artys Elesham came close behind, still tugging his glove into place. Jon lifted his sword in greeting.

The Vale lads squeezed in beside Domeric. Harry put one boot upon the lower rail. "I have a stag on Robb."

"Didn't you learn your lesson at Runestone?" Jon asked.

"I did. I'm only risking silver this time."

Harry looked towards Robb. "Do not make me regret this."

Martyn came to the edge of the ground as Robb settled his helm. He checked the tie beneath his chin, then Jon's. "Three bouts. A clean blow ends each. You have a whole field to fight tomorrow."

Robb lifted his sword in salute. Jon answered. Around the timber the conversation continued; someone was trying to borrow Harry's gloves. Jon wanted a sword in his hand and his brother before him, with nothing to settle beyond which of them was quicker today.

Robb's first cut struck the upper half of his shield. Jon caught it squarely and thrust beneath the returning blade. His point met wood. Robb had turned his shield in time, and the answering stroke cracked across Jon's raised guard hard enough to jar his wrist.

He knew that strength. He had spent years learning not to meet it with his own.

Jon gave a pace, drawing Robb after him. The red-haired boy came readily, sword lifting beside his cheek. Jon waited for the shoulder to turn. At Winterfell that small movement had told him where the cut would fall before Robb knew he had given it away.

The shoulder turned. Jon raised his shield towards his left temple.

Robb's sword stopped above the rim. For an instant it hung there, and then the point dropped. The wooden edge slapped the outside of Jon's sword arm, just above the elbow.

"Robb," Martyn called.

Jon stepped back, his hand tingling. He had begun lifting his own blade too late; Robb was already out of reach, grinning beneath the helm.

"You remembered," Robb said.

"So did you."

Someone upon the terrace clapped. Harry held out an empty palm to Theon, who pushed it away. Robb glanced towards the sound, then caught himself and faced Jon again. He had earned the point. Jon disliked how much he wanted the next one.

The crowd beside the colonnade shifted. Fair hair showed above a green coat, and men who had been talking turned to bow. Joffrey came to the rail with Sandor Clegane behind him. The prince's riding switch tapped once against his boot as he looked over the practice ground. Jon lowered his sword and bowed with Robb.

"Lord Black." Joffrey's eyes moved to the ash blade. "I thought you had used steel against the pirates."

"I did, Your Grace."

"Then why are you playing with those?" Joffrey glanced towards the weapon rack. "Fetch them proper swords."

Robb's fingers tightened upon his hilt. Jon rested his point in the dust and waited for Santagar, who had already turned towards the prince.

"They will finish with the weapons they were given, Your Grace. They have two bouts left."

Sandor gave a rough laugh. "Put an edge on them. They'll soon stop leaving their arms out."

"Ash for the boys," Santagar said. "The steel is in use at the far end, if Your Grace wishes to watch."

Joffrey looked from him to Jon. He had expected the weapons changed; that was plain enough. Jon kept his face still. After a moment the prince leaned upon the rail and flicked the dust from his sleeve.

Jon took his place again. Robb's shield had risen almost to his eyes.

"You have already hit me," Jon said quietly. "There is no need to hide."

Robb let it fall an inch. "Come and try the other side."

This time Jon began. He struck at the shield rim, withdrew before Robb's sword could come down upon his arm, and tried the same place again. Robb gave him wood each time. He was waiting for Jon to reach farther.

Jon let the third cut turn into a thrust. The point went towards Robb's face and stopped short of the bars; Robb's shield jerked up to cover them. Jon was already stepping across to the sword side. He turned his wrist and struck Robb's ribs before the shield could come down.

Robb's breath left him with a grunt.

"Jon," Martyn said.

They separated. Robb pressed his elbow to the place, then rolled his shoulder and nodded when Jon looked at him. Above the rail Wylla called that he ought to have kept the shield lower. Her sister drew her back from the edge.

"Ask her to come and hold it," Robb muttered.

Jon laughed. The sting in his own arm had become a dull ache. He could feel sweat gathering beneath the padded collar, and beyond Robb's shoulder the sunlight upon the red wall made him narrow his eyes. They changed ends before the last bout. Robb took the brighter ground without complaint.

The next exchange was longer. Robb kept his sword close, cutting from the wrist instead of giving Jon those broad openings. The first stroke struck the shield. The next glanced from Jon's blade and slid towards his fingers. Jon snatched his hand back and thrust for the belly; Robb turned enough to catch it upon the lower corner of his shield.

Their feet scuffed across the dry earth. Jon worked towards Robb's sword arm, but Robb went with him, denying the easy step that had won the second bout. A cut at the head made Jon lift his shield. Robb struck the same place again and came forward behind it.

Jon braced for the weight.

It did not come. Robb checked just out of reach. Jon had leaned into the shove he expected, and for a moment his sword hand lay forward of the shield. Robb cut at it.

Jon turned his blade and caught the blow near the hilts. Robb stepped in at once, his shield coming across to pin Jon's sword hand between them.

Jon gave ground. The shield brushed his knuckles, but his wrist was clear before Robb could bear down. Robb reached after him. Jon knocked the extended blade down, stepped to his left and brought his sword back across Robb's exposed upper arm.

"Jon," Martyn called. "Two to one."

Robb stopped. For a moment he looked at the strip of ground Jon had given up, then lowered his sword. He took off his helm and pushed his damp hair back without looking towards the terrace.

"I thought I had you."

"You nearly did." Jon pulled off his own helm. "And you had me cleanly with the first. I was still watching your shoulder when you changed the cut."

"One out of three."

Jon caught his brother's forearm before Robb could turn away.

"You have got better. You kept me from your sword side in the last bout. I couldn't do what had worked before."

Arthur had come to the rail. "Your feet were better too. You came in behind your shield. It was reaching after him that gave him your arm."

Robb looked from Jon to Arthur. "Then I should have stopped."

"And made him come to you," Arthur said.

Martyn nodded. Robb looked down, tracing the last step with his boot, then returned Jon's grip before letting go.

Patrek leaned across the rail. "How did you turn the first cut? I thought you were going for his head."

"So did he," Robb said. A little of his grin returned. He raised the sword to show him, and Hoster Blackwood came closer. Martyn took the blade away before Robb could strike anyone by accident and let him demonstrate empty-handed. Jon accepted Domeric's water and stood back to give them room.

Joffrey had gone to the horse lane. Sandor followed a pace behind. A page climbed off the mounting block as the Hound approached, taking his cup and a forgotten glove with him.

Harry was counting silver into Theon's palm. He paused when Myranda called down to ask how much he had lost. Theon held the coins up for her to see, which brought a fresh round of laughter from the terrace.

Ysilla had moved to the balustrade beside her. She smiled when Jon looked up and touched two fingers to the bronze ribbon at her wrist. He lifted his cup in greeting. Rowena leaned near her ear; Ysilla gave her a small shove without ceasing to smile.

The attention had spread beyond the ladies he knew. A freckled girl beside Loras's brown-haired sister watched him over the terrace rail. Farther along, two golden-haired girls with lions upon their sleeves had abandoned a game of counters. One whispered to the other when Jon pushed the damp white forelock out of his eyes. He tried to fasten his loosened hair and found that he had lost the tie. Theon watched him search his sleeves with a broad grin.

Robb came back carrying his shield. "Your turn."

"I have given you all a great deal to watch already."

"You have given us a great deal to hear," Patrek said. "Come on."

Theon glanced towards the terrace, then took Jon's sword. "I hope your father has brought enough silver."

Lord Jason Mallister had stopped beside Yohn. He watched his son fasten the shield without joining the laughter. Theon's smile stayed in place, though he pulled his glove tight enough to make the leather creak. Jon remembered Seagard, and whose brother had died beneath Lord Jason's sword. He wondered how often Theon could look at a Mallister without remembering it too.

They began quickly. Theon was lighter on his feet, drawing back from Patrek's first cut and striking at the knee as the other boy recovered. Wood tapped padding. Patrek acknowledged it with a dip of his sword and began again, lower behind his shield.

Theon feinted high. Patrek hardly moved. The low stroke that followed cracked against the bottom of the shield, and Patrek came forward before Theon could draw it back. His answering cut drove Theon's sword across his own chest. Theon had to spring away to free it. Patrek followed and touched his breast before the shield rose. They stepped apart.

"He has seen that one," Robb said.

"You all have," Jon answered.

Theon found another. He struck twice above the shield, making Patrek raise it, then turned the next blow towards the exposed sword arm. Patrek caught it near his hilt. Theon twisted free and went in hard behind his shield, driving him back a step. A shout rose from the terrace. Theon heard his name and pressed farther.

Patrek's heel slipped. His weight went onto his rear foot, but his shield stayed between them. Theon reached around it for the ribs. Patrek turned with the cut, carrying the wooden blade past his side, and brought his own sword down upon Theon's shoulder.

Santagar called the halt. Theon stood with his sword still extended, looking at the place he had meant to hit.

"I shall have you at the butts," he said at last.

"If I am foolish enough to go there with you."

Patrek offered his hand. Theon took it, and the two came back arguing over the first blow. Lord Jason gave his son a brief nod. Jon moved aside to make a place on the rail; Theon sat heavily and reached for the water without looking up at the ladies.

Another pair took the ground before Theon had finished his water. Robb had to lift their borrowed shields off the rail to let the new fighters through. Behind them a servant raised his tray above the crush and called for room. Cups vanished from it as he passed; by the time he reached Jon, only the empty ones remained.

Jon let the noise wash over him while he loosened his coat. There were banners here he knew chiefly from accounts of the men who would die beneath them. They belonged to people who borrowed gloves, argued about horses and asked their mothers for more silver. He wanted Robert's crown. He could not afford to think of the families who held up that crown only as names to be moved about a map.

"You will need more than a good sword arm tomorrow," Arthur said. He was watching the boys make room for the next bout. "At melees as large as the king's, men stand with their countrymen. They know whom they can trust at their backs. It is often kingdom against kingdom until the field thins."

Harry turned to look across the yard. Jon followed his gaze. Lancel had put down the sword Jaime had given him and was calling the western boys away from the horse lane. The Crakehall came at once; the Brax boy held up a finger while he finished with the shield strap. When Lancel spoke, both bent closer to hear him over the blows.

Beyond them, Balon Swann had stopped a pair of boys to correct the way they were carrying their shields. A third waited with a cloak bearing the purple lightning of Dondarrion. He interrupted, pointing towards the mounted lane, and the others turned to watch the stormlander riding back along it. Across the lane the Reach boys had gathered about a shield laid on a barrel. Two red-haired youths were arguing over something marked upon its back. One called to a companion who was still practising; he finished his bout and joined them.

Patrek looked over Robb's shoulder at Hoster. The Blackwood had gone back to the boy from House Bracken, and the two were arguing again.

"I had better settle that before tomorrow," Patrek said. He went to them, catching the Bracken by the elbow when he would have walked away. Whatever their fathers thought of one another, Patrek plainly meant to have the riverlanders together.

Robb followed him with his eyes. "Jon and I will stand together."

"I know," Mychel said. "I spent most of Runestone trying to separate you."

"It will be harder this time." Robb turned to Domeric and Theon. "You two with us?"

Domeric nodded. Theon rubbed the shoulder Patrek had struck. "Provided you remember that I have a back as well."

"And me," Aurane said. "That makes five."

Harry came off the rail. "The Vale boys are with me."

Mychel nodded. Waymar was still counting the westermen; Artys followed his gaze and frowned.

"There are rather more of them."

"Then help us at the start," Jon said to Harry. "We will do the same for you. Nine is enough to make them think before they come at us."

Harry considered the other groups, then looked at Robb. "We stay close until the large companies are broken. After that, the Vale fights for itself."

"Agreed," Robb said. "But give us warning when you mean to turn on us."

"We say so and step apart," Jon said. "No one gets struck by a man he thinks is guarding his back."

Waymar nodded. At Runestone he had gone into the crush to pull Andrew Tollett clear. Jon remembered the iron-shod foot rising above the boy's neck. Knowing who would help him up mattered more than any jest about tomorrow's winner.

Harry held out his hand to Robb. "The North against the Vale at the end, then."

"If you get that far," Robb said.

"Keep Mychel from running away," Jon told Harry. "We shall find you."

Artys looked at the Redfort boy. "I shall mind the boundary this time."

"I never asked you to follow me over it."

The laugh went round them. Harry gave Robb's hand a last squeeze before letting go.

A groom called to Aurane from the horse lane and held up three fingers. Aurane answered with an impatient wave, then caught Jon by the sleeve.

"Our turn. We have the lane for three passes."

Jon looked towards the groom. "You have been arranging this?"

"Since before breakfast. I spoke to Ser Aron while you were still wandering about the keep."

Gawen had brought Jon's harness down with the horses. The borrowed coat came off, and for a few minutes Jon had only the breeze against his damp shirt while buckles were loosened and the pieces laid ready. He welcomed it. Then the weight settled over him again, breastplate against padding, black steel cupping his shoulders. Sunlight drew a smoky sheen across it as Gawen tested the fastening beneath his left arm.

Robb helped with the last strap, pulling it snug before he stepped away. "Keep your shield up. Aurane has been promising to knock you off since we arrived."

Jon looked towards the pale-haired boy, who was already calling for his horse.

At the lane, Ser Aron was explaining to a squire why a shaft split below the head must be put aside. Arthur took it, ran his thumb along the crack and passed it back. The next lance was sound. Jon received it after he was mounted and let the butt rest against his boot while the horse sidled beneath him.

Tomorrow's joust was for knights; the king's officers had barred boys under sixteen from it. Jon and the other young nobles belonged in the squires' melee. Here there were no heralds or prizes, only three practice passes upon a shorter course.

"Shield only," Santagar told them. "A clean break counts. Ride through, let the horse slow, then turn. I will have no one wheeling into the next pair."

Aurane nodded solemnly from behind the green shield with its silver seahorse. Jon knew him well enough to distrust that expression. He lowered his visor before Aurane could see him smile.

The horse's neck shone dark with sweat. Jon let it walk to the end of the barrier while Gawen came beside him, one hand loose upon the bridle. The lane seemed longer from the saddle, though not long enough to forgive a wandering lance. At its far end a groom stood clear of Aurane's horse and lifted an empty hand.

Jon settled the shield against his shoulder. The weight of the lance pulled at his right elbow. He brought the point higher, found the place upon Aurane's shield where he meant it to land and waited for Santagar's arm to fall.

The first strides threw him back against the saddle. He came forward with the horse, knees closing, the wooden barrier sliding past his left side. Aurane was approaching too quickly for the careful picture Jon had made of him. Green shield, the dark slit of a helm, a pale lance head shaking towards his chest.

Jon lowered his own point.

The impact knocked his shield towards his face. His lance scraped across Aurane's instead of taking it squarely; he felt the shaft bend, then spring straight as they passed. Aurane's point slid off the lower edge of the black shield. Both rode on with their lances whole.

At the end Jon raised his weapon and breathed out. Gawen caught the bridle once the horse had slowed.

"You looked at his point."

"I saw it coming."

"So did your horse. He kept going."

Jon turned his head. Gawen was smiling beneath his beard. Beyond him Loras Tyrell leaned upon the barrier, watching Aurane turn at the other end.

"He pulled his shield across too soon," Loras said. "You both did."

"Thank you," Jon answered. "I shall try to be less obliging."

He returned to his place. From the terrace came a call he could not make out. He kept his eyes at the far end while Aurane settled the green shield. This time Jon chose the centre of the seahorse and refused to look away from it.

The horse gathered speed. The lance grew heavier as he lowered it, its long shaft trembling with every stride. Jon brought his elbow closer to his body. The silver beast rose and fell before him, close now, close enough that he could see a scrape through its painted belly.

His point struck below it.

The shaft bowed and burst. Splinters flashed past his visor. Aurane's lance struck too low, skated beneath the black shield and went wide of Jon's thigh. Jon rode clear with the broken butt beneath his arm and heard Robb shout before he could lift his head.

Santagar held up a finger towards him. "One to Lord Black."

At the far end Aurane raised his lance in acknowledgment. Jon gave him a brief salute with what remained of his own. When the groom brought the replacement, he had to uncurl his fingers before he could take it.

"You are holding it as though someone means to steal it," Gawen said.

Jon loosened his grip. There was one pass left. Across the yard Aurane had stopped smiling. He settled his shield higher and tested its angle with a small turn of his elbow.

Jon knew what was coming. Knowing did not make the approach any slower.

They met level with the middle of the barrier. Both points found the shields. Jon heard his own lance crack, felt Aurane's blow drive through wood and padding into his shoulder, and for a dreadful instant the horse seemed to be going on without him. He clenched his knees and dragged his weight forward. The shield rim struck his helm. He could see nothing but black wood until he forced it down again.

The horse was still beneath him. He was still in the saddle.

At the end he lifted his visor and sucked in air. Across the lane Aurane had stopped with a broken lance across his thighs, one hand braced upon the saddle bow. Then he looked up and began to laugh.

"Two to one," Arthur called from beside the master-at-arms. "Lord Black."

Jon turned towards the sound. Robb was striking Theon's arm with an open palm; Theon was trying to keep him off long enough to collect a wager. Ysilla applauded from the terrace, and several girls beside her joined in. Others were leaning forward to see whether Aurane would dismount. An older lady on the terrace called down that she wanted that grey brought round again before anyone took it away.

Gawen took Jon's lance. "Stay there a moment."

"I can get down."

"Then do it slowly."

Jon passed him the shield first. His left shoulder protested when its weight lifted. He swung a leg over and landed with more care than he wished the watchers to see. The ground felt very still after the movement of the horse. Gawen watched his face while he loosened the strap at his throat.

"Lift the arm."

Jon did. It rose above his head, though the movement drew a sharp ache through the muscle. Gawen made him lower it again and took the helm without further comment.

Aurane came round the end of the barrier with his hair plastered to his brow. He was flexing his fingers.

"Eight moons," he said. "Eight moons waiting to give you a proper blow where someone could see it."

"You might have waited long enough to win."

Aurane put his head back and laughed. Jon caught his hand before he could clap the sore shoulder. They stood grinning at one another, filthy and winded, until the groom asked them to move out of the way.

Arthur joined them beneath the arch. He pressed two fingers lightly against Jon's shoulder through the padding and watched him wince.

"That is enough for today."

Jon had no wish to argue. The ache was spreading down his arm, and his right hand had begun to shake now that there was no lance in it. He let Gawen help him out of the harness. Beside him Aurane took off his own glove and found a blister rising at the base of his thumb.

Aurane wetted a cloth and wrapped it round his palm. Across the yard his brother raised a hand to call him over. Aurane's expression changed; he gave the spare cloth back to Gawen and went. Jon followed once the last buckle was free.

Lord Monford stood with a red-haired man whose cloak was fastened by a cluster of golden grapes. Two lanky youths waited beside them, so alike that Jon needed a second look to distinguish their faces. Loras came from the horse lane and supplied the names.

"My uncle, Lord Paxter. Horas and Hobber are my cousins."

Paxter greeted Arthur and Jon, then returned to a tale about a cargo refused at Duskendale. Monford knew the captain; at the merchant's name he shook his head, and Paxter laughed. They spoke easily of men and ships Jon had never heard of. Then Paxter turned to the voyages Monford's new associates intended to make.

"Where will your prizes be sailing, Lord Black?" Paxter asked.

"First I must have them fit to sail," Jon said. "Some came home badly knocked about."

Paxter waited, still smiling. He had not asked about repairs.

"There will be holds to fill on the return," Monford said. "If your factor gives my steward a reckoning of what you need from Pentos, we can see where the voyage might profit us both."

"I would rather hear what you have in mind yourself. Come to me after the jousting."

"Gladly."

Monford had offered a reason to meet again without answering the question about their plans. Paxter accepted it as readily as he had the talk of his captain. Jon listened more closely when they resumed.

Ysilla and Rowena came down from the terrace while the older men talked. Two girls followed them, with a maid carrying a basket and reminding Rowena that they had meant to fetch her mother's gloves. They stopped at the rail to let a groom pass.

"You kept your seat," Ysilla said to Jon.

"For a moment I thought I had left it behind."

"We saw."

He looked at her. She smiled, and Rowena's companion hid a laugh behind her fingers. Jon could feel the damp collar lying crooked against his neck. He straightened it with his good hand.

One of the twins had been about to speak to Ysilla. He waited while she asked Jon whether his shoulder hurt, then rested his forearms upon the rail.

"The short course helps. A horse has scarcely begun to run before you meet."

"Tell mine," Aurane said. He had returned in time to hear. "I should like him to take it more gently."

The other twin smiled. Loras was looking back towards Garlan and did not seem to notice.

"Horas," the first boy said to Jon. "We have not spoken."

"Jon Black."

"I had gathered that."

The smile had not left his face. Jon waited. Horas looked from him to the girls, then down at the black shield Gawen had set against the wall.

"You will find the lists different tomorrow."

"I shall be watching them," Jon said. "Like you."

Hobber turned a laugh into a cough. Horas's colour rose. "I meant the melee. There will be rather more to watch than one rider coming towards you."

"I hope there will," Robb said. He had come up with Theon and was looking frankly at Horas now. "We did not ride all this way for one."

"There is ground free beside the rack," Horas told Jon. "We might see what you have learnt before then."

Jon looked across. A boy was rolling up the sleeve of his practice coat, the arm beneath it red where a blow had landed. Beyond him three Reachmen were calling another of their companions over. He was tired, his shoulder hurt, and Horas was offering him a fight because Ysilla had asked after it. The recognition made the invitation less tempting, not more.

"Tomorrow," Jon said. "I have finished today."

"Already?"

"I have three passes in my shoulder already. You can have your chance in the melee."

Gawen lifted the black breastplate from the bench and turned it over to check a fastening. Ysilla had gone quiet. Rowena took the basket from her maid and asked whether they were going up to the keep.

"Tomorrow, then," Horas said.

He went to the rack. Hobber hesitated, gave Jon a brief nod and followed. A few moments later Horas was facing the boy with the rolled sleeve. His first cut made the other lift his shield; the second caught the exposed arm before it could withdraw. He stepped away at once, ready for the answer.

"He is good," Aurane said.

"I can see that."

Jon watched another exchange. Horas wasted less movement now that there was a sword in his hand. It would be foolish to mistake a boy's resentment for an inability to do anything about it.

Rowena's maid reminded her of the gloves. This time she listened. Ysilla offered Jon a last smile before following, and Horas missed the beginning of his opponent's attack while watching her go.

"That," Theon said, "I can understand."

Robb laughed. Aurane did not look quite ready to leave them when Monford called again.

"Will you sit with us tonight?" Jon asked him.

"If I am not wanted elsewhere."

"Ask your brother. I would like you there."

Aurane studied him for a moment, then nodded. "So would I."

At the armoury door Garlan had finished helping one of his opponents unbuckle a shoulder piece. He looked towards Arthur, saw him free of the older lords at last, and crossed the yard with his practice sword held by the blade.

"Ser Arthur, will you give me a bout?"

Arthur looked at the sword in his hand. "Have you enough left for one?"

"I have been saving it."

Jaime Lannister heard him from among the westermen. He left Lancel holding the practice sword and came towards them, his attention upon Arthur. Barristan was nearer the horse gate; he turned at Jaime's approach and asked Santagar to clear the ground beyond the armoury door.

Arthur gave Garlan a small nod. "One bout."

The young knight smiled and went to fetch his helm. Loras saw him coming and followed at once, asking something Jon could not hear. Garlan answered without stopping. He had a close brown beard and his brother's handsome features in a broader face; beside Loras's restless brightness, his composure had seemed almost quiet. Now he was testing the grip of his sword with unmistakable eagerness.

The word reached the horse lane before Garlan fastened his helm. Riders checked their mounts; boys lowered their swords and came towards the rail. Lancel brought the westermen behind Jaime. Patrek arrived between the Blackwood and Bracken, still talking to both. Paxter and Monford left their conversation unfinished. Balon Swann called the stormland squires out of their way, while Thoros abandoned his cup to follow Beric Dondarrion.

Above them, women pressed along the terrace. An older lord stood because everyone before him had. The boys who had been arguing over weapons now stood shoulder to shoulder with visiting lords. From the keep steps to the horse gate, everyone watched Arthur and Garlan.

Lyn Corbray stayed where he was. Lady Forlorn hung at his side, a red stone bright in the sunlight. Mychel had gone to him when summoned and now held his cloak. Jon remembered Runestone and watched Lyn's face as Arthur chose a practice sword. The knight's mouth tightened, then relaxed into a smile that did not reach his eyes.

Santagar sent two boys to move a rack away from the clear ground. The last pair of fighters yielded it willingly when they saw who wanted the space. Gawen took Arthur's grey-white cloak and helped him with the padded jack. Arthur bound back the black hair that had come loose at his neck, settled a plain helm and drew on his gloves.

"You are smiling," Robb told Jon.

"Am I?"

"Like you knew what would happen before the rest of us."

Jon looked towards Garlan, who was waiting with his sword upright in both hands. "I should like to see how long he makes Arthur work for it."

Loras heard. "Longer than you think."

"I hope so."

The two knights saluted. Sandor's mouth twisted.

"Pretty fucking manners. Are they going to kiss as well?"

Joffrey laughed. Sandor did not look at him. Garlan had taken his first step forward, and the Hound was watching the swords. Around them the talking stopped. A horse stamped beyond the ring of spectators; Jon could hear the leather of Garlan's glove tighten upon his hilt.

Garlan struck at Arthur's hands. Arthur drew them back and cut towards his head. Garlan's blade came up to meet it with a sharp ring. He stepped to his left as the swords parted, trying to reach Arthur's sword side before the older man could turn.

Arthur turned with him. His point caught Garlan's blade and pushed it past his ribs. The young knight withdrew before the counter could reach him.

The step gained him nothing. Garlan did not repeat it at once. He moved nearer, struck high and followed the checked blow with a thrust from below. Arthur caught both. Steel flashed between them, the blades meeting close to the hilts before sliding apart with a sound that set Jon's teeth on edge.

Garlan pressed harder. A cut at Arthur's left shoulder became a thrust towards his breast. Arthur took a pace back. Garlan followed, keeping the point before him, and Arthur retreated again.

"There," Joffrey said from beside Barristan. "He has him going back."

Jaime had ceased smiling. His eyes followed Arthur's leading foot.

Garlan began another thrust, then checked it. Arthur's sword had turned across his own, close enough to catch and carry it aside if he drove on. Instead Garlan drew away. The answering cut passed before his helm with room to spare.

"Why did he stop?" Joffrey asked.

"He saw where he was being led," Barristan said.

Joffrey glanced towards Sandor for an answer he liked better. The Hound's eyes remained upon Arthur. The prince turned back to the bout.

Garlan circled back towards the centre. His first rush had brought him close to the rack before he realised how far he had travelled. He looked down once to place his feet, then raised his sword again. Arthur waited.

The next attack came lower. Garlan cut at the forward thigh, made Arthur draw it back, and sent his point up towards the opening beneath the arm. Arthur turned it outward. Garlan followed the turn, stepping in until the swords crossed almost at the guards.

This time he had made the older man meet his strength. Arthur's boot scraped back through the dust. Garlan drove after it, shoulders behind his hands, trying to bear the blades aside far enough to bring his own point home.

Arthur yielded.

The resistance vanished so suddenly that Garlan's arms went forward beyond his balance. He caught himself with a long step and twisted after Arthur, dragging his sword around. The blade arrived just in time. Arthur's cut rang against it beside his ear.

Garlan had stopped the blow, but not comfortably. His right knee bent almost to the earth. He forced it straight and backed away with his sword between them. Jon heard Loras draw a breath beside him.

"He was waiting for the push," Robb murmured.

Jon nodded. He glanced at Robb, who had stopped rubbing his arm and was watching Arthur's feet. Both had been too eager for the last touch in their own bout. Jon had got clear in time; he could easily have been the one looking for his balance.

Arthur did not chase him. That seemed to irritate Garlan more than the counter. He shook one hand loose upon the hilt, took a breath and came forward again.

He showed Arthur a cut at the hands, much as he had begun. Arthur raised them out of reach. Garlan had already checked the stroke, ready to catch the return as it came down towards his head.

Arthur's sword began to fall. Garlan lifted his own across its path.

Before the edges met, Arthur stopped the cut and drew his point around the end of Garlan's blade. His hands came forward instead of down. The blunt tip struck the padded coat beneath Garlan's raised arms.

The young knight went still. Then he lowered his sword and looked at the point resting against his breast.

"I yield."

Arthur withdrew the blade. Garlan lifted his visor, breathing hard, and held out his hand. The applause broke around them as Arthur took it. On the terrace people straightened from the balustrade and began talking at once.

Garlan did not leave the ground. "Would you show me that last stroke again?"

Arthur raised his sword slowly. Garlan set his own across its path, as he had a moment before, and watched the blunt point travel round the end of his blade. He tried to follow it. His hands were too high; the point reached his coat while his sword was still coming down. This time it barely touched him.

Garlan lowered his hands and tried the defence again. Loras had come through the rail to see. When Arthur repeated the movement, Garlan caught the blade and held it away from his body.

"There," Arthur said.

"Thank you, ser."

Jaime watched Garlan try the movement once more with his own blade. Arthur took off his helm. Sweat shone in the hair at his temples, black threaded with grey. Garlan had made him work, and earned the applause that followed him off the ground.

Yohn reached over the rail to grip Garlan's shoulder. Balon Swann, beside him, offered the young knight his water. Lyn Corbray turned away and called for Mychel to bring his gloves. The ordinary work of the yard began again, though the men nearest Jon were still arguing over the last stroke.

"Your uncle made good use of the ground," Oberyn said. "Did you have much room to give way against the pirates?"

Jon turned. The prince had come from the spear rack with Obara beside him. She carried a blunted ash spear loosely in one hand. Oberyn's orange sleeves were pushed back from his wrists; he looked as though he had found the morning much to his liking.

"Not often. At doors, on stairs, I had men close behind me." Jon glanced towards Robb. "I could step clear of him. If I had tried that in some of those passages, I would have struck a wall."

Oberyn nodded. Beside him, Obara shifted the spear to her other hand.

"Have you fought one of these?"

"In practice."

She was taller than several of the men at the rail, long-legged and broad through the shoulders. Brown hair had been pulled away from her face; a strip of leather held it at the nape. The hand upon the spear was hard with old calluses.

"You are quick coming in past a sword," she said. "I should like to see whether you can get past my point. Will you spar with me before you leave?"

Robb stopped listening to Garlan.

"When I can lift my shield without regretting it," Jon said.

"Tomorrow, then?"

"After the melee. If you have not had to carry me off it."

Obara looked him over, taking the answer seriously. "Send word when you are ready. Bring the shield."

"I shall."

She nodded and went to ask Arthur about the final thrust. Oberyn watched her for a moment before turning back to Jon.

"My daughter is already planning your defeat," Oberyn said with a smile. "I would be careful what you show her tomorrow."

The prince drank from his cup. Beside him Robb was looking at the spear with an interest Jon was certain would become helpful advice before the day was out.

A page reached Barristan at the edge of the ground. The Lord Commander bent to hear him, then beckoned Jaime from the rail. Jaime exchanged a few quiet words with Arthur as he passed. The two white cloaks went beneath the colonnade together.

Their departure seemed to remind others of the hour. Santagar called for the borrowed swords. Grooms came to reclaim horses; ladies upon the terrace began finding the cloaks and gloves they had left upon other people's chairs. Someone was looking for a lost brooch. Aries had been watching from beside Gawen and now asked whether there was still time for one bout. Gawen promised him the quieter yard another day, then sent him to fetch Jon's belt.

Ysilla passed above them on her way to the stair. "Lord Black."

Jon looked up. She rested a hand upon the stone, leaning far enough to see beneath the awning.

"Save me a dance tonight."

"I shall."

Ysilla smiled. Rowena called her from the stair, and she went after her, glancing back once before the red stone hid her from view. Jon was still looking towards the stair when Aries came with his belt. He took it and began to buckle it, aware of Theon's grin beside him.

Behind them, the last pair unbuckled their helms while Santagar checked the returned weapons at the rack.

They were leaving the practice ground when a young man in Arryn blue came beneath the colonnade. He waited for a groom to pass, then bowed to Jon and Arthur.

"Lord Black. Ser Arthur. Lord Arryn asks you to attend him. His High Holiness is with him."

"Your name?" Jon asked.

"Hugh, my lord. His lordship's squire."

Hugh of the Vale. Jon looked again at the rough young face. He remembered a new knight dying beneath Gregor Clegane's lance, blood spilling through a gap in his gorget. Here Hugh wore a plain wool doublet and waited to be told whether his message had been understood.

"We will come." Jon gave his gloves to Gawen. "Tell Perrin we shall be a little longer. Robb, I will find you before we go into the hall."

"Lord Black. A moment, if you can spare it."

Petyr Baelish had come from the steps with a clerk beside him. He dismissed the man with a word and turned towards Robb. A silver mockingbird fastened his cloak; grey showed in the dark hair above his ears. His smile made the interruption seem a pleasure offered to them both.

"And this must be Robb Stark. Petyr Baelish. Your mother and I grew up together at Riverrun."

Robb offered his hand. "Lord Baelish."

"You have her eyes." Petyr held his hand a moment longer. "We were very dear friends. She could make me do almost anything in those days."

Jon had heard enough about that friendship in another life. Baelish had boasted in this very city of taking both Catelyn and Lysa's maidenheads. Robb knew none of it. He was smiling at a man who spoke warmly of his mother.

"Then you have something in common with our father," Jon said. "What can we do for you, Lord Baelish?"

Petyr's gaze shifted to him. "I wished to ask about those cups. Porcelain, I am told. I have seen merchants keep poorer pieces locked away, and you bring whole cases. How did you contrive it?"

"Better clay and a great many spoiled firings. Our potters put more work into them than the finished cups suggest."

"And the salt? White as snow, without a speck in it. You will have cooks quarrelling over that." Petyr looked from Jon's sword to his face. "A soldier, an inventor, and now a merchant. Dragonstone has kept you busy."

"The ships need something to carry when they are not chasing pirates."

"Then let us find them buyers. You have goods that would sell well beyond these shores. I know men in the Free Cities who could place them in houses where price is seldom the first question. A few introductions might spare you years."

Jon raised one brow. "In what capacity would you make them? As Petyr Baelish, or as the king's master of coin?"

Petyr laughed, spreading his hands. "The master of coin, naturally. The Crown has every reason to invest in promising endeavours. His Grace favours you, does he not? I should be remiss if I failed to consider how that favour might profit you both."

"I will think on it. We are expected by the Hand."

"Ah. The children in those fighting pits. A shameful business." His smile faded appropriately. "I hope his lordship has better news for you."

He stepped clear of the passage. "Until this evening, Lord Black. Robb, it was good to meet you. Give your mother my fondest regards."

Robb promised he would. Petyr went towards the yard, stopping beside a lord who had called his name.

Hugh waited ahead of them. Jon looked from the squire to Baelish and felt how little distance there was between the men he remembered and those standing before him. After the feast he would make time to set down what he knew. Arryn's murder, Lysa's part in it, the summons that had brought his father south: he had postponed them while ships and workshops demanded his attention. Keeping Arryn alive would be a beginning. Stannis already held a different seat; the old sequence could no longer be trusted. He wanted Robert's throne, but a civil war now could destroy his family and everything he was building before he was ready to contend for it.

"Petyr, was it?" Robb stopped at the stair that led to their chambers. "I shall write to Mother and mention him. An interesting man. What do you think he wanted?"

Jon watched Baelish's retreating back.

"Everything."

***

The High Septon occupied the broadest chair in Arryn's chamber. White silk lay in heavy folds over his belly, and a cushion supported one swollen foot. His great crystal crown rested beside a silver cup. Sunlight caught its points and scattered pale colours over the table.

Arryn rose to receive them. Arthur bowed beside Jon; the High Septon extended a soft hand and pronounced a blessing before inviting them to sit.

"One of my brethren wrote to you about the people brought from Lys," he began. "His account interested me greatly. Lord Arryn tells me there are now more than three thousand."

"Three thousand two hundred, counting the children, Your High Holiness."

"And you continue to bring them?"

"As we find room and work for them. Some have wives or children still held elsewhere. My agents ask after them."

The High Septon settled his hands upon his stomach. "A husband freed while his wife remains in bondage has little peace in his freedom. I am glad you have considered it."

"They remind us."

Jon remembered what he had read of the men who had held that office. Religious scruples had proved flexible enough when wealth or influence was at stake. This one had died in a riot; his successor's murder had cleared the way for the High Sparrow. For now, the old man sat comfortably in his white silk, taking an interest in Ned Stark's son and the people he had freed. What did he truly want?

"We hear much of your victories," the High Septon continued. "This deserves to be heard as widely. Your father's honour is well known, Lord Black. It pleases me to find it in his son."

Jon thanked him.

"Yet you keep Lord Eddard's gods, I understand."

"I do."

"The Mother does not withhold her mercy until a man knows her name." He smiled. "You have done a work dear to her. I would have the Faith help you continue it."

"What help do you propose?"

"Septons who can teach, septas who can tend the children. Men who will hear the newcomers' troubles and help them find their kin. There are charitable households throughout the realm who would gladly give to such a cause, if it were commended to them."

Arryn leaned forward. "That could be of considerable help. Your officers have homes to find and work to arrange. Men and women accustomed to caring for children would ease their task." He turned to the High Septon. "How would you provide for them?"

"Through a house at Blackburn. Lord Black might grant the ground and undertake its building. The Faith would appoint its keeper and gather alms. Each ship would deliver its people into his care until their needs were known and places found for them."

"My officers already receive them," Jon said. "They explain their freedom in their own tongues and find out what work they can do."

"And they would have assistance. You have many calls upon you."

"You could meet the proposed keeper," Arryn suggested. "His duties can be settled before he sails."

The High Septon inclined his head. "Certainly. I would also invite Lord Black to the Great Sept. We could give thanks for those delivered from bondage and announce the work before the congregation. Other lords might be moved to follow his example."

There it was, offered as generously as the teachers. Ned Stark's son before the altars, the High Septon blessing his work, the freed people entering a house governed by the Faith. By the time the tale reached Oldtown, few would trouble over who had begun it.

And what a triumph for the man who brought him there. The first to win one of Eddard Stark's sons from the old gods. Jon could imagine the claim travelling through the septs. Whether he had actually changed his faith might matter very little once enough people had heard it.

He had chosen the Valyrian families deliberately. He wanted them free, and Dragonstone needed their labour. He also meant them to become a loyal core of his own people. His forebears had remained a small Valyrian dynasty among far more numerous Andal subjects, dependent upon great houses with ambitions of their own. When he finally stood before these families as Aemon Targaryen, he wanted them to know the ruler under whom they had made their homes. Their children would grow up on his lands, with their future bound to the island's prosperity. He would not hand their settlement and schooling to men appointed in King's Landing.

"I thank you for the offer, Your High Holiness. My officers will continue to settle the newcomers, and I will choose the masters for their schools. We have no need of another house to direct that work."

The High Septon's smile faded. "Men serving the Faith must answer to it. I could not send a septon who would be forbidden to discharge his duties."

"Then I will find other masters."

"Jon," Arryn said, "you have found good use for learned men before. Surely their duties could be agreed without turning away everyone His High Holiness might send."

"I would have them teach children who keep different gods. I will not give the Faith charge of those schools."

"A septon teaches what is true, Lord Black. You cannot ask him to put the Seven aside when a child seeks instruction."

"Those who wish to hear him may do so. Their schooling will remain in my care." Jon set down his cup. "And I must decline the thanksgiving. I keep my father's gods. I would not have my presence before your altars taken to mean otherwise."

"We have welcomed men of your faith before," the High Septon said.

"I do not doubt it. But this would be a ceremony in my name."

The High Septon looked towards Arryn. The Hand said nothing. He had offered a way to continue the discussion, and Jon had refused it.

"My brethren will wish to hear more about these schools," the old man said at last. "One of the Most Devout will seek you this evening. I trust you will hear him."

"I will hear what he has to say."

He had agreed to nothing else. Yet the High Septon spoke as though the matter must remain open until Jon gave a different answer. His refusal would now be discussed by men who had a sept in almost every town of the south.

Arthur helped the High Septon rise. An attendant came forward with his crown; another took his arm. Jon bowed as their white robes passed through the doorway.

Arryn waited for the door to close. "I think you refused more than you needed to. The Faith could have spared you much expense, and those children need teachers now."

"I will pay for their teaching myself."

"Then see that you find the masters. It would be a poor bargain if the children waited while we argued over who should instruct them."

Jon inclined his head. Arryn had seen a useful offer lost. He could hardly tell him what else he meant those schools to serve.

The Hand nodded and moved a packet bearing the Guild's seal. "Ser Jaime's account has led us to two stores. The vessels have been removed, and the families above them are safe. The Red Keep is still being searched. Beneath the Dragonpit we have a blocked passage that cannot be entered until the masonry is supported. I have ordered the adjoining rooms emptied."

Arthur asked whether Jaime had been told.

"He has the report. We will speak further when the Guild knows more."

Jon glanced at the sealed packet, then back at Arryn. "And the fighting houses? I would arrange the visits you promised yesterday."

"You may visit the children. I have reconsidered the rest."

"You gave me leave to hear what your men had learned."

"And I withdraw it. They have work enough without a second party questioning the same people. You will not take your guard through those streets looking for suspects."

"The men who escaped have had eight moons to find other cellars."

"I know how long it has been." Arryn's voice hardened. "This is the king's city. The inquiry is mine. If you learn something, bring it to me, at any hour. You have no leave to pursue it yourself."

Jon could feel Arthur beside him, waiting. He understood the order. He also knew what an empty cellar meant when the men who had used it remained free. Arryn would not be moved by another argument now.

"You will hear if I learn anything," he said.

Outside, Hugh was waiting beside the door. Jon thanked him and followed Arthur towards their chambers. They still had to wash and see that Perrin had the gifts ready. Beyond that lay the feast, and after it the time Jon had promised himself. He would make it, however late the king kept them.