Ser Gawen of Willow Creek lost his last hope of Vale service when his lance broke against Ser Morton Waynwood's shield. He reached after the blow instead of letting it go. His weight passed the saddle bow, the brown mare took another stride and Gawen fell hard on his back. A hoof struck close enough to throw mud across his cheek. Beyond the rope, the crowd groaned.
"The course to Ser Morton!" the marshal called, while Waynwood's men beat split lance wood against their painted shields.
Pate Shett leaned across the rope. "If falls won purses, your debts would be ended." Beside him, Kennet Coldwater held up three fingers to show which debt he meant.
Gawen stayed on one knee until air returned to his chest. He wiped mud from his cheek with the back of his glove and managed a lopsided grin. "Morton has half my lance in his shield."
"And all of himself in the saddle," Kennet replied. The mare had stopped at the end of the lists. A squire held her reins and ran one hand beneath the girth.
"She is sound, ser," the squire said.
The mare was unhurt; Gawen checked her legs, girth and stirrup leathers before seeking work. By noon Mooncrest's pavilions were coming down. The Gulltown merchant had hired six men already; the Corbray tents turned him away. A Royce man suggested Runestone when Bronze Yohn next gathered riders, but could give no date.
He returned to find Pate drinking ale on Kennet's folded cloak. Men stripped the white canvas from a Waynwood pavilion while a woman wrapped its cups. Green cloth fluttered over a cart of bedding. By the lists a fiddler still played to three boys and a drunk asleep against a wheel. Gawen hoped he had been paid in advance.
Gawen put his shield beside the mare's feed bag, pressing down a fresh splinter bright against the old grey wood. She nosed him for her customary oats; he gave her the little left. Two well-fed destriers passed towards covered quarters, their embroidered saddlecloths still clean. He watched them go, then unbuckled his dusty tack. Pate waited until the mare had finished before speaking.
"Good news," he announced. "You need never tilt again."
"Have you found me work?" Gawen asked.
"My cousin's good-sister needs a husband. She owns two geese."
Kennet pulled his cloak out from under Pate. "Her first husband ran away."
"I shall keep her in mind." Gawen tightened the straps around his bedroll.
Pate watched him for a moment, then put the ale down. "Nothing?"
"Nothing that pays." Pate had an uncle's table in Gulltown and work on the wool roads. Kennet's elder brother kept a place for him at Coldwater Burn. Neither was rich, but both knew where they would go when their purses emptied.
Kennet tapped the small purse beneath his jerkin. "Three silver stags, Gawen. I should like them back before another tourney eats them."
"You will have them," Gawen said.
"When?"
"I do not know." He looked at the mare eating beside the picket line.
Pate offered him the ale. "Come to Gulltown. My uncle can use another sword with the wool."
Gawen drank before answering. "For a moon. Then I am looking again."
"It would pay Kennet."
"And feed the mare," Kennet added.
"I know. But I have spent three years going from one road to another. I want service that lasts." Gawen returned the skin. "I am riding west. There may be work beyond the Gate."
Kennet studied him. "Do not go because you lost one tilt."
"It was my last entry bought on borrowed coin."
Pate rose and began gathering his own things. "We will ride with you as far as the turning."
Mooncrest dropped behind them beneath a high washed sky. Torn pennons snapped above the gate, and a cart carried broken barriers downhill for kindling. Pate improved Gawen's fall through the first mile. By the second, a lady had cried out from the gallery. Kennet said it had been a page spilling cider. Gawen let them quarrel. The road wound between sheep fields and old grey walls. Summer snow lay in seams high upon the Giant's Lance; below, rain had blackened the pines and filled the runnels.
"Strong Sam will hear about that reach," Pate said.
"He told me often enough not to do it." Gawen flexed his bruised shoulder.
Before Pate could answer, a horn sounded beyond the next bend: one clear note, then half another. A horse screamed. All three drove in their heels.
* * *
The high road narrowed between a broken stone wall and a pine slope steep enough to take a falling man. A wagon stood across the bend with one rear wheel dragged into the ditch. A tall timber cradle rose empty beneath torn oilcloth. One garron hung dead in the traces. The remaining team fought leather, wheel, and the weight beside them. Three northmen still held the road. Clansmen came from above and below: goat-hide mantles, round shields painted with blue jaws, short bows among the rocks. Gawen counted five on the lower road, three already at the wagon, and shapes moving through pine higher up. A rope ran from the mired wheel into the brush. They had pulled the wagon sideways after it entered the bend. One guard lay beside the rear wheel. Another had dragged himself against its rim, both hands pressed to his thigh. The grey-haired man among the traces held half a spear. A yellow strip of wool showed at the dead man's belt. The bowman above turned towards Pate. There was room for one horse between wall and wagon.
"I go first," Gawen said. "Kennet, break the lower rush. Pate, watch the rocks."
Pate bent over his horse's neck and followed. Gawen set his lance and took the gap between wall and wagon. The mare's shoes scrambled on wet grit. His point struck a bowman rising beside the wheel. He felt the ash bend and opened his hand before the lodged lance could wrench him from the saddle. A painted shield filled the road ahead. The mare struck it with her shoulder and stumbled. Gawen held his seat as an axe came down against his shield, numbing his left arm.
Gawen drew his sword. The axeman swung again. He caught the haft on his shield rim, shoved it aside and cut beneath the raised arm. Blood soaked the goat-hair cloak as the man fell against the wheel. Behind Gawen, Kennet's lance broke. Pate came through with his sword drawn, and the narrow road rang with iron and frightened horses.
Three clansmen were cutting the live team free on the far side of the wagon. The grey-haired northman among the traces had only half a spear left. Gawen slipped out of his stirrups, planted a boot on the wheel and climbed across the bed. An arrow struck the empty timber cradle over his back. He dropped among the traces as an axe hooked the northman's broken spear. Gawen cut the attacker down. The second clansman raised a stone axe, but the northman drove his spear butt into the man's mouth and Gawen finished him as he reeled. The third fled into the pines.
"After him!" Pate called. He had opened the lower road. Kennet followed with half his shield hanging loose. Two northmen came beside them, one clutching a blood-dark arm. The Painted Dogs broke upslope. One stopped to cast a stone. It glanced from Pate's halfhelm and split the skin below his ear. He turned after the thrower. Above him, another bow bent between rocks.
"Down!" Gawen shouted. Kennet seized Pate's cloak. The arrow passed over his helm and shattered against the stone beneath the chestnut's hoof.
Gawen caught Pate by the shoulder. "Leave them. There are more bows above us."
Pate looked up through the pines and lowered his sword.
The grey-haired northman came round the wagon, blood running from his scalp into one eye. "Help with the wounded."
Seven clansmen lay on the road. One garron was dead in the traces, and the living team still fought to pull clear of it.
The northman pointed with his broken spear. "Quent, watch the rocks. Wyl, sit before you fall. Osbert?"
"Here." Osbert lay against the wheel with both hands pressed to his thigh. Blood welled between the fingers. The man beside the rear wheel did not answer. The grey-haired captain knelt, put two fingers below the jaw, and covered the body with his own cloak.
"Harl is dead." The northman looked up at Gawen. "Ralf is my name. I need clean linen."
Kennet brought it from his pack. Ralf folded a pad and pressed it against the torn thigh, then put Gawen's hand over his own.
"Hold it there."
Osbert hissed as Gawen leaned his weight into the cloth. Ralf worked a binding round the leg while Kennet supported it. Pate fixed Wyl's injured arm between two pieces of broken lance. Quent never turned from the rocks.
When the bleeding had slowed, Ralf searched Harl's purse. There were six coppers and a whetstone. He put them back and tied the purse closed with the strip of yellow wool Rhea had given her father.
"From his daughter?" Gawen asked, looking at the wool.
"Rhea. She gave me one too." Ralf tucked the purse inside his coat.
One of the fallen clansmen still breathed, a youth with blue paint across his face. Kennet's lance head had entered below his ribs.
"Name?" Ralf asked, kneeling where the painted youth could see him. The boy spat blood across the road stones.
The clansman tried to answer, coughed blood and died before Ralf could ask again.
Kennet searched the bodies and held up a greasy twist of hide. "Dried goat. No blankets, pots, or climbing rope but their ambush line."
"They came from near," Ralf said. Quent found bundles of arrows under an overhang and the rope tied behind the rear wheel.
Gawen looked up at the bend. The rope and the hidden arrows had been ready for travellers long before Ralf arrived.
Ralf looked at Kennet's colours, Pate's badge, and Gawen's plain shield. "Whose men?"
"Coldwater," Kennet said.
"Shett," Pate answered.
"I am in no man's service," Gawen said.
They cut the dead garron from the traces. Pate led the surviving horses away while Kennet and Quent cleared the mired wheel. Gawen set his broken lance beneath the hub. At the second heave the wheel came up onto the road, and they blocked it with a stone while Ralf brought the wounded to the wagon. Osbert went into the bed, Wyl beside him. Harl lay beneath the empty cradle.
"What rode in that cradle?" Gawen asked as they shifted Harl beneath it.
"Lord Nestor's clock. We delivered it at the Gates of the Moon." Ralf drew his cloak over Harl's boots. "The keeper tried it for seven days. Nestor sent us home with his seal. No northbound ship at Gulltown would take our horses and wagon, so we are going home by road."
Osbert groaned as the wagon shifted. Ralf checked the binding once more, then helped Gawen spread the oilcloth over the men. Blood had stained the white falcon carved into the headboard.
They made only four miles before the light failed. The roughest stretches brought a cry from Osbert, and Ralf stopped often to examine his leg. Gawen rode last, listening for pursuit beneath the creak of the traces. None came. At dusk they found the remains of a watchtower beside the road.
* * *
A roofless watchtower stood by an old well where the road widened. Quent searched the broken stair. The wounded took the one dry corner. Harl lay against the wall, still wrapped in Ralf's cloak. Kennet discovered onions, bacon, barley, and no cook among the northmen.
"I can cook," Quent said.
Ralf looked at the pot. "You burned the last one."
"That was the fire."
Kennet kept the spoon. He did little better: the bacon blackened before the barley softened, though everyone ate it. Gawen walked round the wagon while some light remained, inspecting the arrow hole beside the carved falcon.
"The clock was out of reach before they stopped us," Ralf said. He sat on the hub splicing a cut rein. "An empty cradle for their trouble."
Pate stopped scraping scorched barley from the pot and stared at the white falcon. "Jon Black's clock rode this road?"
"Lord Black's," Ralf corrected.
"The boy with Arthur Dayne," Kennet said. Every Vale cookfire knew the black-clad child: Ashara Dayne's son, some said, or a northern witch's. All agreed the Sword of the Morning served him.
"Any other knights?" Pate asked.
"None when we left."
Gawen ignored Pate's look. "Who trains his men when Dayne rides with him?"
"Heward on foot, myself in the saddle. Household boys, not squires. Most have served near enough two years. They can handle a shield, but there are too many for me when the road takes me away."
"There is your place, Gawen," Pate said.
"You have no place to offer."
"A lord who sells clocks for six hundred dragons can feed one mare."
"If the price is true," Kennet said.
"He can pay a knight," Ralf answered. "He chooses his own men, and needs one who can teach. Ride north with us. I can feed you and the mare as far as Winterfell. After that, ask him yourself."
"Is that why you asked whose man I was?"
"Aye. You crossed that wagon when we needed you. I will tell him what happened."
Gawen turned the offer over. A long way for another refusal. Yet Ralf had seen him fight and had not asked who his father was.
"I will stand watches and help the team."
"You will be welcome." Ralf passed him the repaired rein to pack away.
Kennet spooned the last of the barley into Gawen's bowl. "Think before you wager. Winterfell is a long way from my purse."
"Which is why he chose it," Pate said.
Gawen ate the burned barley while they argued. Ralf lay beside Harl that night, his back against the broken wall.
The fire burned low against the tower wall. Kennet laid his damaged shield beside it and tested the loose edge with his knife. Pate had washed the blood from below his ear, leaving a pale strip through the road dust.
"You can have this strap," Kennet told Gawen. "The one beneath your knee is near gone."
"You need it for that shield."
"I need wood for this shield. Leather will not grow it back." He cut off the sound length and passed it across.
Gawen thanked him and worked the strap through the buckle by firelight. Pate held the lamp without being asked. From the dry corner came Osbert's uneven breathing and the quiet answer when Ralf asked whether he wanted water. They kept their voices low after that.
When the repair was done, Gawen rolled the old leather and put it away. Kennet had fallen asleep with his cloak round his shoulders. Pate was still looking into the fire. Gawen settled beside them, close enough for the same warmth to reach all three, and listened until it was time to relieve Quent.
At dawn they turned back towards the Bloody Gate. The wounded needed its maester, and Harl could not be carried home along the long road north. Osbert was given milk of the poppy while the wound was cleaned and bound afresh. Wyl's arm was broken but straight. The captain knew Kennet and Pate's uncle and had seen Gawen ride at Mooncrest. He took their account of the ambush without interruption. A clerk entered their names beside Ralf's, riders went to search the bend and a raven flew to Winterfell. Harl was buried beneath a cairn east of the wall.
Pate carried a stone large enough for both arms. Kennet fitted it above the cloak. Ralf stood with Harl's yellow wool in one hand until the last gap was closed.
At the western arch, Pate embraced Gawen hard enough to find every bruise.
"Write when you find your lord," Pate said.
"I will."
Kennet clasped his forearm. "And remember the three stags."
Gawen smiled. "You will have them before I enter another list."
"That is what I wanted to hear." Kennet lifted three fingers as they rode east. Gawen watched them round the bend, then tightened the mare's girth and followed Ralf west.
* * *
Beyond the mountains lay river fields, long hedges and muddy villages. Arryn riders left them at a ford; a wool train shared the road for two days. Gawen walked beside the mare each morning until his bruised side eased. Ralf let the team walk freely on sound ground and gathered them for descents. Rain entered Gawen's shoulder seam and sometimes drove him from beneath the wagon at night.
He learned to sleep through Quent's snoring. The man saved apple cores for the off-side garron and claimed the least-burned crust. They shaved hard cheese with daggers, softened oatcakes in onion broth and once bought a costly rabbit from a child. Gawen took his turn with the team; when a wheel sank into a causeway rut, he and Ralf lifted it with poles.
On clear days they dried blankets over the rails. Quent warmed his shirt across his shoulders before putting it on, sighing loudly enough to earn Ralf's headshake. Fresh hay instead of old wet straw began to seem a stable luxury worth paying for.
At an alehouse Osbert stretched his bound leg along a bench while Wyl cut his bread. Ralf found a private corner to change the bandages with hot water. After supper Gawen grazed the mare beside barley strips and watched two children drive geese home through a hedge. When he returned, someone had moved his bowl nearer the fire and left bread beside it.
The Neck's road seemed to float over black water. Gnats found every seam; low branches caught the cradle until Quent wrapped the carved falcon beneath the wagon. At the White Knife they met three northbound trade wagons. Garrick received Harl's news in silence. With him rode a grey-bearded man whose hands were scarred by saws and a black-coated youth with tools in oiled hide.
"Master Woods, Olyver," Garrick introduced them over cups. "Ser Gawen of Willow Creek. He helped Ralf on the high road." That evening he removed a cup from the fire circle and poured Harl's share into the earth. Gawen waited for a prayer.
"Northern custom?" he asked Ralf later.
"Garrick's."
The trains joined for the last stretch. By their third camp the drivers knew that Gawen checked his mare's picket before eating and would not dice for coin he lacked. He learned of Jon through quarrels: the boy could hear a poor axle before it turned; Dayne had killed a boar with Jon on its back. Garrick gave a longer account of Jon wading into a flooded lane to fetch a widow off her stool.
"Did he really ride the boar?" Gawen asked.
"No," Olyver said. "Jon braced the spear between the roots. Ser Arthur pulled him clear."
"The blow threw him off his feet," Garrick added. "That was dangerous enough without the rest."
Winterfell rose above the rain-dark pines beneath a broad cap of smoke. Round towers, square towers and old walls appeared one by one. Gawen had crossed the Vale looking for work and come halfway across the kingdom with Ralf. Now he wished he had mended his surcoat before leaving Mooncrest. The gate guards recognised the team and called down for news.
Ralf led the wagons through Winter Town to the Black Yard. Boys rode between close-set rails. Gawen was trying to judge their seats when he saw Arthur Dayne watching from the side in a rain-dark grey cloak, mud on one boot. Beside him stood a lean child in fitted black wool, cuffs turned back for work. Dark hair framed a long young face; a pale lock showed above the left temple. Gawen had expected a boy. He had not expected him to be quite so small.
Ralf dismounted. "We are home, my lord." The young file leader raised a hand, and the boys halted while the wagons came through the gate.
Jon Black looked first at the purse tied with yellow wool in Ralf's hand. "Harl's things?"
"Yes, my lord." Ralf passed the purse to him.
Jon held it against his coat. "Was it quick?"
"He was gone when I reached him. He had gone to help Osbert."
"I will go with you to Marya," Jon said. "Wylla has been seeing to her and the girls."
"Thank you, my lord."
"Harl's wages will be paid for six moons, and his road share with them. Luwin has the place of burial?"
"He does."
Jon returned the purse, and Ralf brought Gawen forward. The boy's purple eyes passed over the stitched shield, patched mail and worn spurs to the quiet mare. "Ser Gawen of Willow Creek. The letter named you, Pate Shett and Kennet Coldwater."
"They rode east from the Bloody Gate, my lord. Coldwater and Gulltown still have beds for them."
"Ralf says you crossed the wagon while arrows struck the cradle."
"Men needed help on the far side. The wagon happened to stand between us."
"Whom have you served?"
"Ser Samwell Stone taught me at Runestone. Strong Sam. I have ridden for the Coldwaters and Shett merchants out of Gulltown. I owe no service elsewhere."
"Then eat and rest. Ralf tells me you can ride and fight. Tomorrow I should like to see you teach."
Arthur offered his hand. Gawen took it, relieved not to be sent straight back into the saddle. A servant showed him a bed above the stable. He washed, slept an hour, then went with Ralf and Jon to return Harl's things to Marya before supper.
* * *
The following morning Gawen saddled the borrowed bay and rode it twice round the yard before taking a practice lance. Arthur waited on foot at the other end, practice sword in hand and shield raised. The household gathered along the rail. Gawen adjusted his grip, set his heels and brought the horse into a canter.
His first point slid off Arthur's shield. On the second pass he struck cleanly and heard the boys shout. Arthur gave him little room after that, turning his shield as they met and touching Gawen twice before he could recover. On the fifth pass an opening appeared below the shield. Gawen reached for it. Arthur turned, struck behind his hip and sent him into the mud.
Gawen rolled, stood and laughed. He knew what Strong Sam would have said.
"I wanted that one too badly."
Arthur handed the bay's reins to Tomas. "Show him."
Gawen stood beside the saddle and put his hand where his weight had passed the stirrup. "I could not reach him from a sound seat. I leaned instead of taking the horse closer."
Tomas mounted at Arthur's signal. Gawen watched him ride a slow pass, then another. The boy held the lance steadily, but stiffened when he expected the blow. Gawen had him lower it and ride through the turn again, using his knees while he kept his hands quiet. By the fourth circuit Tomas brought the bay round without tugging its mouth.
"Better," Gawen told him. "Now take the lance."
Ralf called Gawen across when the passes were done. Donnel waited beside the white-eyed gelding near the training lane. A deer hide hung over the far rail, and the horse kept turning its head towards it.
"He threw the boy on the hunt," Ralf explained.
Gawen watched Donnel hold the reins. "Give him a little more room." He moved the hide back from the lane, then walked beside the boy while they led the gelding past it. The horse snorted and stopped. They waited until it lowered its head before going on. At the end Gawen had Donnel turn it and walk back the same way.
"Do that again after he has rested," he said. "Do not try to force him through."
Donnel nodded. Ralf watched the horse pass the rail once more, then took the reins so the boy could join his file.
By noon Gawen had mud on both knees and three boys waiting to ask about their seats. It was a small household: patched shields, eight rough horses, no bright liveries. Yet Tomas kept the files moving without having to shout twice, and the boys listened when Gawen corrected them. He began to think he could be of use here.
In the hall Nestor Royce's seal lay beneath the keeper's account. Ralf sat at the lower end with a bowl of broth. Jon had the head of the table. Arthur stood near the hearth and let him speak.
"What would you begin with?" Jon asked.
"More work without the lance. Most can strike a target, but they stiffen when they expect a blow. I would have them turn and halt together until they scarcely need the reins."
Jon nodded. "You will work with Ralf. Heward keeps the foot drill, and Arthur the sword."
"I understand, my lord."
"Ride with me until the coming harvest. Teach the household, and take the field beneath my banner. I will keep you and the mare and pay your wage. If we suit one another, there will be a place for you on Dragonstone."
"Where shall I swear?"
"Before the heart tree this evening," Jon said. "Eddard Stark will hear it."
Gawen glanced at Ralf. "You have seen Dragonstone?"
"Aye. You will need to keep the salt off your mail."
"My castellan, Ethan Glover, commands five hundred men on Dragonstone," Jon said. "Two hundred from the North and three hundred sworn men of the island. The barracks and stables need work. I mean to put them right before we go."
"Then there will be work for me."
"More than enough."
Jon clasped his hand. At dusk they went beneath the heart tree. The godswood swallowed the noise of the castle after the first turning; under the branches the air was cool and smelled of damp earth. Gawen had left his spurs at the house. His boots made little sound upon the path, though Ralf's tread followed close behind him.
Eddard stood near the pool with Arthur and Tomas. Jon waited before the pale trunk, the last light catching the white lock in his black hair. Without the table between them, Gawen saw again how young his new lord was. Then Jon spoke his name, steadily and without a glance towards either man beside him, and Gawen knelt.
He gave the words they had agreed: his sword, his teaching and his service beneath the black banner. Jon received them with Gawen's hands between his own. A healed scar lay near the thumb of the small hand closing round his. When Gawen rose, Eddard clasped his forearm and welcomed him to Winterfell.
Ralf walked beside him on the way back. For once he had nothing to say about horses. They crossed the quiet ward and passed through Winterfell's gate. Below them the town's lights showed between the trees, and Gawen could see smoke rising from the kitchen where his supper waited.
Elspeth filled his bowl with venison stew, and Tomas showed him the place laid at the upper table. The household talked over the morning's riding while Gawen ate. Donnel insisted he had seen Gawen strike Arthur cleanly; Olyver had been fetching the gelding and wanted to hear it again. Across the room the new knight's damp cloak hung beside Ralf's, steaming gently towards the rafters.
Ralf drank once towards Harl's empty place. No one asked Gawen to retell the ambush. When supper ended, he went to see the mare. She had been rubbed down, her coat shining dark beneath the stable lantern. Fresh hay filled the rack, and her saddle cloth was dry.
Tomas found him there with the borrowed bay's bridle.
"Shall I bring him at first light, ser?"
"After Heward has finished with you. I will speak to him."
Tomas nodded and hung the bridle on its peg.
When Tomas had gone, Gawen finished with the mare and climbed to his room. The narrow bed stood ready beneath a sound roof. Kennet's three stags remained unpaid, and his purse was nearly empty. He set his boots beside the bed and lay down, stretching his stiff leg beneath the blanket.