Myr gave Viserys and Daenerys one night beneath Narbo Vhassyl's roof and no second. The merchant had offered Viserys coin, rooms, and the use of shipmasters who still remembered dragon banners. In return, Daenerys would be raised behind his gates and one day wed his son. Her brother might visit when Narbo allowed it. Daenerys drew closer to Viserys's chair, long silver-gold hair falling over the shoulder of her faded gown. Her violet eyes stayed on the merchant. "I can learn Myrish," she said. "And I will be kind to Beloro. But why cannot Viserys stay too?"
Narbo turned his bronze keys around one thick finger. "Your brother has business elsewhere. You would be well cared for."
Daenerys took Viserys's hand. "I am going with him."
When a servant barred the dining-room door, Viserys drew Ser Willem's old sword. His silver-blond hair slipped from its thong as he struck at the man's arm. Daenerys caught his sleeve and shouted his name. A honey dish broke against the floor as the servant fell back. Narbo ordered the servant away from the door. Only then did Viserys lower the blade, breathing hard. The merchant had no wish for a killing in his dining room; he sent four armed men to escort the siblings out and a fifth for a healer. By dawn he had withdrawn his promises and spoken to their landlord; the siblings found their rooms locked against them. That night they slept in a sail loft above the Split Net, sharing fish stew while rain dripped through the roof. Below them a glass merchant spoke of a northern boy called Jon Black, of a stag clock in King's Landing, and of Robert granting Dragonstone to his bastard lord.
"Our father's seat," Viserys said. "Given to Stark's bastard."
"The boy does not live there," Daenerys answered.
"He will."
Daenerys tested the hatch latch, then set her wooden dragon beside the single blanket. "I should like to see the clock." Viserys wrote Jon Black's name in the household book.
The blanket smelled of tar. Daenerys drew its edge over her feet and listened to the men below moving benches for the last drinkers. A lantern shone through the gaps in the loft boards. Each time someone passed beneath it, the light disappeared and returned in narrow yellow bars across Viserys's face.
He had laid the sword within reach and was trying to smooth the torn page where he had written. One corner had been wetted in the rain. She set her dragon on it to keep it flat.
"The ink will stain him," Viserys said.
"Only his feet."
Her brother looked at the little carving, then wiped his fingers on the cloth from their supper. He pushed the last piece of fish towards her. She ate it slowly, taking out the bones. Below, the merchant had begun telling the clock story again for a man who had missed it, and the same names rose through the floor: Winterfell, the king, Dragonstone.
Daenerys knew the island only from Viserys's stories, and it angered her when other people spoke of it as though it were no more than a place to unload a ship. She asked Viserys whether their mother's chamber had looked towards the sea.
"All the chambers heard it," he said after a while. "Even with the shutters closed."
He took the dragon off the drying page and gave it back. They listened to the rain until the voices below grew quieter. When he lay down, Daenerys moved close enough to share the blanket and kept hold of his sleeve.
* * *
At House Black the gate clock missed its last stroke. Pate the bellman looked up, counted under his breath and reached for the hand rope.
"Leave it a moment," Jon called. He had heard the catch slip. "I am coming up."
An onion seller beneath the arch supplied the missing note with a shout. Three of the household boys joined him until Elspeth appeared at the kitchen door with their breakfast. They abandoned the bell for their bowls.
When Winterfell's first clock was new, people had left their stalls to watch it. Now they complained when a bell failed. Jon climbed with Pate and Olyver. A full moon after the mill field, Olyver was back at light shield drill by Luwin's leave, but still favoured his left arm at the grille.
"Let Pate take that."
The bellman secured the weight. By lamplight Jon found wool and chaff clogging the locking catch. The oak case had dried and opened at its upper joint, admitting dust from the loading carts. He showed Pate where to close it and fit a leather strip along the lid. Olyver fetched a narrow hook and clean cloth, then held the lamp while Jon cleared the groove.
"That was clean when we fitted it," Olyver said.
"It will not stay clean with the lid open here." Jon oiled it sparingly. Pate released the weight, and one late note sounded over the market.
"The White Harbor clock has the same door," Olyver said.
"I will send leather for its lid with Garrick, the carter. Tobren can have it fitted when they clean the movement." Jon looked at him. "If Luwin allows you to ride, you can go with the wagon and show him."
"To White Harbor, my lord?"
"You have been asking to go back."
Olyver was grinning when they went down to breakfast.
Rain came at noon, hammering the shingles and driving brown streams through the gate. Garrick's men covered their loads while Woods's carvers carried pale boards into shelter. Jon was eating mutton broth with black bread and roasted onions when Master Branch's son Cley came through the arch, muddy to the knees.
"The lower drain is blocked, my lord. Water is in Donella's house."
Elspeth took Jon's bowl as he reached for his cloak. Jon called, "Tomas, bring Gage's and Rylas's files and the grain cart. Wylla, clear the apprentice loft. Take Mairi and dry clothes for the children. Cley, come with me. Arthur, send word to Poole."
Arthur dispatched a page before following. Donella's house stood below the cooperage where three crofts met the drain. Water crossed its threshold, turning rushes against the wall. A barley sack split as men lifted it from the meal chest to a storage bench. Donella stood upon a stool, her bad knee straight beneath her skirt.
"How high when you left?" Jon asked Cley.
Cley pointed to a dark ring on the stool leg. Water already lapped above it. "I could see water running through at first light, my lord. The cooper has been planing beneath his platform. The shavings have packed the mouth."
"Get the children out. The dry sacks go on the cart. Keep the wet ones apart." Jon moved a loose bench against the threshold so Donella could step down without putting her bad leg in the water. Tomas and Gage helped her across to the higher doorstep. She kept looking back at the split sack.
"That was for winter, my lord. My daughter has nothing put by."
"You shall have barley from mine. How much have you lost?"
"Three sacks spoiled. Six still dry."
Jon sent a boy to the storekeeper. Wylla arrived with two women, wool and linen held above the water, and took the smallest child while Mairi wrapped the other two.
"The loft is ready," Wylla told Donella, but the widow refused to leave until someone looked at her house. Her daughter stayed with her on the dry step while Wylla took the children ahead.
Under the awning Jon had the three wet sacks opened. Drain water had soaked the barley; none would be dried and passed off as sound. He ordered it carted away and entered three replacements against his stores. Behind the houses, the cooper's work platform of bark, waste staves and old hoops crossed the brim-full channel. Fresh oak shavings packed the timber grate beneath it.
The cooper stood under his door hood with a maul across one shoulder. He took it down when Jon approached. "My father bent hoops there, my lord. We have always worked above the run."
Jon waded to the edge of the platform. Fresh shavings choked the narrow opening beneath it. Above the blockage, water from House Black's new ditch was pouring into the old channel. The bank beneath the turn had begun to crumble. He had followed enough floodwater through farm ditches to recognise the mistake. A clear new drain could still drown the house below it if the old outlet could not carry the flow. His own work was feeding this blockage.
"Clear your hoops off it," he said. "Cley, take up those boards."
"There are finished casks on it, my lord. A season's work—"
"Then move them now. Cley, start at this end." Jon pointed to the dry ground against the wall. Arthur stepped beside the cooper and took the maul from his uncertain grip.
"Show the boys where you want your hoops," Arthur said. The man swallowed his next objection and obeyed.
Cley levered up the boards once the casks and hoops were clear. The boys passed their loads towards the dry road, heavier sacks slung two boys to a pole. Tomas caught Cressen's end when he stumbled; Edden carried clothing and blankets. Water tore through the shavings. The cooper lunged after a spinning hoop, saw the depth and cursed.
Poole arrived with Hallis as the water fell below the ring on Donella's stool. He heard the cooper and checked the water roll beneath waxed hide: the channel belonged to Winterfell, and no lease allowed it narrowed. There would be a hearing tomorrow.
"Could someone look at the bank before night?" Donella asked. "It is still crumbling."
"Brace it before you leave, Cley. I will pay the men." Jon sent her bedding up to the loft. When Wylla returned, Donella left with her daughter, leaning on the nurse's arm. Tomas brought out the last dry sack while Jon followed Cley to the bank.
* * *
Eddard heard the quarrel in the small hall the next morning. The cooper argued that his father and grandsire had worked above the channel. Cley described the shavings he had pulled from the grate. Donella brought a bowl of swollen barley and laid it beside a ruined blanket.
The channel was to remain open. The cooper would rebuild his platform against the far wall and pay for Donella's bedding; Jon would strengthen the lower bank against the faster water from his ditch. When the cooper began again about his grandsire, Eddard stopped him.
"The channel must be kept clear," Eddard said. "You knew where your shavings were going."
The cooper lowered his head. "Yes, my lord."
Afterward Eddard gave Jon the water map. "Take Robb when you inspect the bank. He has finished his lessons."
"I heard that much," Robb said from beyond the door, both cloaks in his arms. Eddard walked them to the stair.
They found Cley and his father setting willow against the bank. Donella sat in the sun with the salvaged blanket while her eldest granddaughter carried out wet rushes. Jon greeted her before she could rise on her bad knee, handed Robb his cloak and climbed into the channel. The lower water showed fresh scour beneath the bend. He tested the earth with his heel, broke away the loose face with a spade and drove a stake through Cley's willow.
"Carry it round the turn. Stop short and the water will eat behind the last stake."
"Does the willow hold it?" Robb asked.
"Until the bank binds again. Bring that basket of small stone."
Robb poured behind the weave while Branch worked ahead with the heavier maul. Robb's cuffs were muddy by the straight run. Jon retied his hair and climbed out for the well water Donella's granddaughter brought. Branch examined the work from above and pronounced the edge sound.
"Leave room to walk it," Jon said. "They must be able to clear the run without climbing the fence." Donella called her thanks as they passed; her meal chest stood open and dry in the afternoon light.
That evening Lord Willam Dustin's rider warmed his hands beside the common-room fire while Woods unrolled Barrow Hall's measures. Lady Barbrey wanted black oak, twelve bronze studs and no carved figures.
"My lady says a clock should tell the hour," the rider reported. "She will not pay for little figures to dance round it."
Woods laid his drawing of the case beside the measures. "Some moulding at the corners, perhaps? The broad panels will look very bare."
"Give her what she asked for," Jon told Woods. "The oak will be handsome enough polished. Does she want the bell heard in the hall or the outer ward?"
"The outer ward, my lord."
"Then it needs a broader bell. I will write to her about the price."
Ralf spread the Gates of the Moon route beside three horse lists and Lord Arryn's sealed order, answering the enquiry Osric had brought from the king's feast. The earnest had come through White Harbor. Nestor Royce would receive the falcon and oversee its keeper's trial at the Gates; it need not climb to the Eyrie. Even so, the measured stair turn was too narrow for the wings. Woods would pack them separately.
"Harl, Osbert, Wyl and Quent beyond White Harbor, if Lord Stark releases them," Ralf said. "Garrick takes the wagons to the quay; I go from the ship to the Gates and back."
He would be gone more than a moon, longer if a ship home delayed him. Beyond the door the boys were bringing in their eight garrons.
"We hunt in three mornings," Jon said. "I want you there before you leave."
"I will be there, my lord."
When Ralf had gone, Jon had supper in his upstairs chamber with Eddard, Arthur, Wylla and Luwin. Through the window they could see Gared waiting in the yard with a strip of blue cloth tied about his sleeve. Munin watched him from the counting-room ridge.
"She has her eye on that ribbon," Eddard said.
"She had the other end this morning." Jon watched the crow sidle along the slates. "He had to trade her a crust for it."
Eddard left with Luwin before the lamps were lit, Jory and the grey-cloaked escort waiting below. Wylla took the bowls downstairs. Arthur waited for her footsteps to pass.
"Tonight?"
"As far as the well. Gared has leather to fetch from the tanner. I can leave her on the roof now; it should be no different in the lane."
Arthur looked at the pillow Jon had set on the bed. "Return when I call, even if you lose him."
"I will." Jon sent Gared word to go, with no instructions beyond keeping the blue cloth uncovered and taking his usual road. Arthur shut the door and sat beside the bed. Munin tore at cooked liver on the counting-room ridge. "Ready?" Arthur asked. Jon settled against the pillow, put his hand in Arthur's, nodded and closed his eyes.
Cold rain struck black wings. Claws gripped the wet slates, and the taste of liver filled his mouth.
The first beat lifted her scarcely above the ridge. Jon felt the effort between the shoulders that were no longer his and the sudden purchase of air beneath the feathers. He banked over the stable, one wing tipped towards the wet yard, then rose on the wind running up the slope.
The warm stable yard fell away beneath him. The market's noise broke into separate sharp cries, wheel squeals and hammer blows, none of them belonging to the place where he would have put them from the ground. Sunlight flashed on a bucket at the well. For an instant he wanted its bright rim more than he wanted the boy in blue.
He turned back. Below him lay the hall, forge, sheds and pale practice posts, with the new drain running brown beyond the wall. Gared's blue sleeve showed between two market carts before the boy reached the end of the nearest roof. Jon knew the passage beside it because he had walked there that morning, and he kept Munin above its line until the boy emerged.
Jon followed him from ridge to ridge. He vanished beneath the eaves, appeared beside stacked barrels and crossed the market well behind a shaggy horse. Then another patch of blue moved towards the cooperage. Jon turned after it. The man went into a pale-boarded shed before he could see his face.
A bright hinge caught Munin's eye. She landed beside it and pecked the iron before Jon could turn her. Below the gutter a butcher threw out a strip of fat. Her hunger rose at once. Jon felt Arthur's hand, faint but still there, and heard his name. He stopped trying to turn the bird. Holding to the pressure about his fingers, he let her go after the fat.
The chamber tilted as his own eyes opened. Jon held still against the pillow until bed, shutter and Arthur's face had settled into their proper places. Arthur still held his hand.
"I held Gared to the market well," he said after a moment. "After that there was a dark cloak and something blue at the cooper's shed. I could not see the face."
"We can ask Gared," Arthur said. "When you can stand."
Arthur gave him water and waited beside him. Jon drank without help. When he stood, he kept a hand upon the bedpost until the last dizziness had passed. Voices were rising from the evening market below.
"I want to see the lane," Jon said. "The roof hid the way. I could not tell where she had turned."
Arthur brought his boots. "Then we walk it together."
At the foot of the stair Wylla looked up from a basket of washing. "Have you been asleep?"
"For a little while." Jon fastened his cloak. "We are going to the tanner."
"Then come back before the lamps burn out. I have your clean shirt here."
Jon took Arthur's arm through the gate. The lanes had looked flat and orderly from the sky. On the ground, upper storeys leaned over gutters. Yards hid behind walls no higher than Jon's shoulder. The ditch smelled of dung, wet bark, and opened earth. At a dye yard women turned black wool through steaming water, their hands stained blue to the wrists. Across the lane, a smith watched a House Black timber wagon pass his unlit forge and shut the door when Jon looked back. Near the market corner a woman waited with a thin boy pressed against her skirt. "My boy went to your gate twice, my lord. They told him the beds were full."
"The household is full," Jon said. "But we are taking apprentices for the works. Ask Perkin at the gate to enter his name."
"My sister's Gared eats meat every day and learns his letters," the woman said.
"So do the apprentices. If he is willing to learn a trade, have him come tomorrow."
She drew her boy aside. At the open cooper's shed an old man sat astride a hoop, blue wool round his throat. The cooper directed Jon two lanes east, beneath the black roof.
Gared was there holding a wet hide. Roof, steam and black coat had hidden him from the air; the blue cord still circled his arm. He began to bow.
"Keep hold of it. Finish your work first."
The tanner grunted his thanks. When the hide was over its pole, Gared confirmed he had come by the well and the covered passage. Tollen had the leather ready but needed help with the hide.
Out of his hearing Jon looked back. From above he had seen one roof. Here three doors opened into separate yards. "I followed the man at the cooper's shed."
"The same blue round his neck," Arthur said.
They took the shorter lanes home, Jon counting turns while Arthur pointed out the junction where he had left Gared's road. Munin had finished the fat and settled on her roof, indifferent to the boy. At his desk Jon fitted the three doors into the blank space on his drawing while Arthur stood beside the lamp.
"Did you hear Bloodraven?" the knight asked quietly.
"I heard nothing from him."
Arthur waited while Jon marked the last doorway. "Enough for tonight."
Jon cleaned the quill and laid it beside the corrected drawing. He would take it down to the market in daylight. For now he was content that he had found his own way back from the bird.
In his sleep, Jon heard someone walking across a roof. He looked up into a crow's face, then found himself beneath white walls above a muddy yard. Torn wedding silk hung from a gallery. A battered knight lowered his lance. Men tore dragons from their breasts; hammers struck stone. Jon tried to follow one scene, but another took its place. Maynard Plumm waited beside a well in a purple cloak. His face changed when he turned, growing old, then young again. One eye shone red.
"What are you showing me?" Jon asked.
"You recognised him before he turned," Bloodraven said. "Where have you heard of this wedding?"
"You chose a conspicuous cloak." Jon kept his attention upon the well.
"I had watched another road for a long while. Then yours crossed it." The young face aged again. "You were not the eyes I expected to find here."
Bran came to mind, the boy the books had sent north. Bloodraven had named no one. Jon would not supply a name for him.
"You brought me," he said.
"And you see more than I have shown." The voice thinned until the hammering almost drowned it. "You will need that sight for more than kings." Jon tried to turn, but the yard was gone. He woke with dried blood beneath one nostril.
Arthur rose from the chair beside the hearth. "Jon?"
"He spoke. There was a wedding."
Arthur brought a cloth for his nose and sat upon the bed. Jon pressed it beneath one nostril.
"You were bleeding before you woke."
"It has stopped."
"You could not hear me." Arthur's voice sharpened. "I called you three times."
Jon lowered the cloth. Arthur was still dressed, though the hearth had burned nearly to ash. He rubbed both hands over his face.
"We leave this alone."
"The dreams?"
"The birds. The horse." Arthur looked towards the shutter. "Whatever lets him reach you."
"He reached me before I knew what I was doing. Refusing to learn will not keep him out."
"And you believe he will teach you how to shut him out?"
Jon paused. "He may teach me enough to discover that myself."
Arthur rose and went to the hearth. He moved a fallen log with the poker, scattering sparks, then set it down harder than he intended.
"You cannot treat him as another craftsman with something useful to teach you."
"I know what men say about my father's family. Madness in the blood. Dreams mistaken for prophecy. I know what my grandfather became."
"I stood beside your grandfather."
"I know."
"You know what you have been told." Arthur turned back. "I watched men search his face before answering a simple question. Your father was different, but once he believed a thing had been foretold, it was hard to make him consider anything else."
"Then question me. You have never needed leave."
"And when I tell you this is too dangerous?"
"Tell me how to make it safer. The gift will still be there."
Arthur looked at the blood upon the linen. "I cannot follow you into these dreams, Jon. Tonight I could do nothing but keep calling."
Jon laid the cloth upon his knee. "A crow could show me an ambush before we rode into it. I could look beyond a wall and see how many men held the gate. Bloodraven understood what that was worth."
"He used more than birds. Men vanished because they spoke against him."
"Then warn me when I begin doing the same. Learning his craft does not oblige me to serve him."
"You think he will ask nothing in return?"
"I expect him to ask. I have not promised to give it."
Arthur remained by the hearth. Jon waited until he looked up.
"This gift came through my mother. My father left me a claim men would kill me for. I mean to win that throne, Arthur, and live to hold it. I shall need what both of them gave me."
"And if this kills you before you ever leave Winterfell?"
"Then we learn slowly. With you beside me."
Arthur came back to the bed. "When I say you have had enough, we stop. No waiting until your nose bleeds."
Jon glanced at the cloth. "Agreed."
"And you tell me what he asks of you."
Jon hesitated.
Arthur pulled his chair closer. "Especially the things you think I will dislike."
"He asked how I recognised someone in the dream."
Arthur watched him. "Who?"
"Let me tell you what I saw first."
Arthur brought water. When Jon had washed, he began describing the white walls and the man beside the well. The knight listened before reaching for his parchment. Outside, a cart rattled beneath the window, bringing the first flour to the bakehouse.