The first blade left its sheath beneath the Tower of Joy before Eddard Stark knew whether Lyanna still drew breath. Steel whispered all along the shelf of red stone. Willam Dustin raised his shield. Theo Wull brought his long axe across his chest, the edge scarred from the Trident, while Ethan Glover and Martyn Cassel spread apart to give one another room. Their horses edged back as the men crowded the narrow approach. Howland Reed waited a horse-length behind Eddard, peering past the three white cloaks towards the tower door.
The tower stood white against the blue sky, its long shadow reaching across the red stones. Nothing grew around it save thorn, yellow grass and one twisted tree with a lizard sleeping upon its bark. Three tired destriers waited in the tower's shadow. Foam had dried grey upon their bridles. The men before the door looked no fresher.
Ser Gerold Hightower had streaks of rust at the joints of his enamelled plate and a new white scar along his chin. Ser Oswell Whent's bat-winged helm threw crooked shadows across his face. Between them stood Ser Arthur Dayne, black hair damp at his temples, both hands upon Dawn. The pale greatsword did not shine. It seemed to gather the light and hold it cold within the blade.
Eddard swung down from his horse. Every bone in him protested. He had ridden from a murdered city to a starving castle, and from Storm's End into mountains where each path forked twice before it descended once. Dust had worked beneath his mail until his shoulders were raw. He pushed sweat-dark brown hair from his eyes with the back of his wrist and looked past the swords again. He was too tired for courtesy and far too frightened for patience.
Eddard said, "I thought to meet you beside the Trident."
"We were not there," Ser Gerold replied.
"Rhaegar was. I watched Robert break his breastplate and the river carry away his rubies. Aerys is dead as well. So are Princess Elia and her children. What king remains for you to guard here?"
The White Bull's broad face did not change. "A king is dead. Our vows are not."
"My sister is behind that door."
"Your sister is under our protection."
Willam gave a harsh laugh. He and Lyanna had ridden together often when his father brought him to Winterfell, and she had once broken his nose with the pommel of a blunted sword. He had boasted of it for half a year. "If this is protection, Hightower, I should like to see what you call captivity."
Oswell's sword slid free. "Come and see."
"Gladly."
Willam strode forward. Mark Ryswell caught the rim of his shield, but Willam tore it from his grasp and made another step. Oswell shifted his weight onto his rear foot. Eddard saw the cut before it came: a short blow over the shield, point turning for the throat. He began to call Willam's name. Mark moved faster.
He drove his shoulder into Willam's back and thrust himself between the two men. Oswell checked the stroke so close that the edge opened Mark's cheek. A red seam appeared beneath his left eye. Willam crashed into him from behind. Mark fell to one knee, one arm hanging, and Arthur lowered Dawn.
Eddard drew Ice. "Hold!"
Theo Wull roared the same word in the Old Tongue. Martyn caught Willam around the chest. Ethan seized Mark by the belt and dragged him clear of Oswell's point. Gerold drew his own sword. Ten men stood one breath from killing one another for kings who were dead and a woman none of them could see. Then a scream came through the tower wall. It was thin at first, almost lost beneath the horses and the harsh breathing of armed men. It rose until it seemed to tear itself upon the stones. At the end came a name.
"Ned!" Ice grew heavy in Eddard's hand.
Howland was beside him. The crannogman's little bronze scales clicked softly as he dismounted. "She knew you had come." Another cry sounded above them. This one ended in a woman's hurried pleading and the faint, angry wail of a newborn child.
Willam stopped struggling against Martyn. His shield sank. "Gods preserve us."
Mark wiped the blood from his cheek. "You heard her. Let her brother through."
"Alone," Gerold said.
Eddard lowered Ice. "Howland comes with me."
"Alone."
"He knows herbs and healing," Eddard said. "Let him help her."
Gerold's stare remained fixed upon him. Oswell glanced at Arthur. Of the three, only Arthur looked towards the shuttered window. "Let Lord Reed enter," the Sword of the Morning said. "Lady Lyanna asked for her brother, not another slaughter beneath her window."
For a moment Eddard thought the White Bull would refuse his sworn brother. Then Gerold returned his sword to its sheath and stood aside. Eddard gave Ice to Martyn and followed Howland through the door. The tower swallowed light. The inner air was thick with smoke, hot stone and the copper stink of blood. On the first turn of the stair a brown-skinned woman named Sarra met them carrying a basin red to its hammered rim. She wore a faded blue dress dark with sweat between her breasts. When she saw Eddard's grey cloak, she began to weep without stopping her feet.
"Hurry," she said. "She has waited for you."
The stair curved tightly. Eddard struck one shoulder against the wall and hardly felt it. Howland followed close enough that his breath touched Eddard's neck. Above them a baby cried, paused, then cried again with a stubbornness that sounded too fierce for so small a body.
Lyanna lay in the upper chamber beneath linen that had once been white. Sunset poured through the western window, colouring the walls like old gold and the blood like black wine. A brazier burned though the room was stifling. Bundles of yarrow and shepherd's purse hung from a cord. At the bed's foot Wylla bent over the newborn, rubbing his back with a square of rough wool. Eddard knew his sister by her eyes.
Everything else had been changed. Her face was narrow and grey. Sweat had pasted her dark hair to her temples, and pain had bitten the colour from her lips. Lyanna, who had never crossed a yard when she could run it, lay so still that the small movement of her fingers seemed terrible. Those fingers found his when he knelt.
"You took your time," she whispered.
He pressed her hand between both of his. It was colder than the stone outside. "The roads were bad."
"You were always slow on a horse."
"Only when you cheated."
"Only when you saw me cheat."
For the smallest instant her crooked smile returned. Eddard tried to answer it and failed. The sound that came from him shamed him less than all the tears he had refused since King's Landing.
"We need a maester," he said. "I have men below. We can carry you—"
"No." Wylla did not soften the word. Her sleeves were rolled above strong brown forearms striped with blood. "Move her and she will be dead before you reach the door. The babe came wrong-way round. She has lost too much."
"There was a maester," Arthur said from the threshold. He had sheathed Dawn before entering. "A summer fever took him. We sent to Starfall three days ago."
Eddard rounded upon him. "Three days?"
"Ned." Lyanna squeezed his fingers. "Not now."
Wylla brought the child. He was wrapped in undyed wool, dark-haired and furious, with one tiny fist pressed against his mouth. Two fine threads of silver ran through the wet black hair above his brow. His face had the pinched, unfinished look of all new babes, yet the eyes that opened beneath it were not Stark grey. They were a deep, clouded purple. Lyanna saw Eddard see them.
"Aemon," she said.
Wylla laid the babe against her, but Lyanna could not lift her arms. Eddard supported the small head with one hand and his sister's shoulder with the other. The child's warmth seeped through blood-wet linen.
"Rhaegar wanted a conqueror's name," Lyanna said. Her breath caught. She waited for it to ease. "I wanted Aemon. The maester at the Wall. He could have been king, Ned, and chose to serve instead."
"Rhaegar was his father."
"Yes." The simple answer hurt more than any defence could have done. Eddard looked at Arthur, who had gone to one knee on the far side of the bed.
"Robert says he stole you."
Lyanna's eyes sharpened. "Robert says many things loudly."
"Did Rhaegar take you against your will?"
"No. Not as Robert means it." Pain moved across her face. "The king learned who wore the laughing-tree helm. I do not know how. His men came upon us north of Harrenhal. They killed one horse and scattered the men with me. Rhaegar reached me before they did."
Eddard remembered the little mystery knight who had humbled three squires' masters, and Aerys shouting from his dais that the tree upon the shield mocked him. He remembered Lyanna's torn hands the following morning and her mare lathered beneath a blanket.
"Why did you never tell me?"
"You were in the Vale. Brandon would have ridden at the king with a sword in each hand. Father would have followed." A bitter breath escaped her. "They did so anyway."
"You might have sent word after."
"We sent word. I do not know why it never reached you." She shut her eyes until the pain eased. "I chose him, Ned. Do not let Robert say I did not."
Eddard wanted to know why they had stayed hidden while Brandon and Rickard died. He could not bring himself to ask it with Lyanna struggling for each breath. The child shifted against his palm. Lyanna made a small sound and turned her face towards him. Arthur lifted a narrow packet from beneath his surcoat. Oilskin covered a roll of parchment no thicker than two fingers. A black key hung upon a cord at his throat.
"Their vows," he said. "Rhaegar's account and the marks of those who stood witness on the Isle of Faces."
"He was wed to Elia," Eddard said.
"He did not cast Princess Elia aside," Lyanna answered. "He said his forebears had taken two wives." She looked towards Arthur, then back to Ned. "I believed him."
"A hidden parchment will not make this boy safe."
"No," she said. "You will."
The fear in her face made him cold. It was not fear of pain or death. It was the fear of a mother who knew what had been done to Elia's children.
"Robert saw them laid beneath Lannister cloaks," Eddard said. "He did not order their deaths."
"He smiled at their killer."
Eddard had no answer. Robert had not smiled, but he had turned his face from the bodies and accepted Tywin's bloody gift. To Lyanna there would be little difference. "Promise me," she said.
"I will take him north."
"Promise me as Ned. Not as Lord Stark, not as the friend who loved him before he wore a crown." He bent until his brow touched hers. She smelled of salt, fever and the lavender water Sarra had used upon her hair.
"I promise. No man will kill your son while I have breath to stand between them."
"Do not teach him shame for being mine."
"Never."
She turned her eyes towards Arthur. "You promised Rhaegar."
"Before the heart tree and before the Seven," Arthur said.
"Then promise me."
Arthur laid one hand over the child's feet. "My sword, my honour and every day left to me are Aemon's."
Lyanna's breath left her slowly. Her fingers eased in Eddard's grasp. "He has your frown," she whispered.
"He has no frown."
"You cannot see it from there."
Those were the last clear words she spoke. Soon her breathing became a wet rattle. Wylla changed the cloths and Sarra brought hot water that could do nothing. Eddard held his sister as the red sun touched the mountains. Arthur held the child against her breast. Howland stood at the window with his head bowed, giving them what little privacy a room full of death allowed. When Lyanna died, the babe began to cry.
Eddard took him because someone must. He had never held Robb, the son born to a wife Eddard scarcely knew. He had expected a newborn to weigh more. He opened his mouth against Eddard's throat, hunting warmth, and his tiny fingers caught in the links of Eddard's mail.
"Aemon," Arthur said.
Eddard looked down at the silver threads in the black hair. "That name will kill him."
* * *
They ate after dark because Wylla made them. Sarra found a heel of goat cheese, six onions and flatbread hard enough to break upon a pommel. Theo Wull cut strips from a kid slaughtered two days before and held them above the fire on his dagger. Grease hissed into the coals. No one had appetite for it, but Wylla went from man to man with the same command.
"Eat a little."
She had washed the child and wrapped him in clean wool. Lyanna lay above them beneath a grey sheet. The ten men sat or stood around the tower well, still keeping apart as they ate. Arthur carried the babe into the firelight. Gerold and Oswell rose. The seven northmen did not.
"This is Prince Aemon Targaryen," Arthur said. "Rhaegar's son by Lyanna Stark, born of vows they made before the old gods."
Five faces altered. Willam shut his eyes. Mark touched the cut Oswell had given him. Ethan Glover stared at the infant, while Martyn Cassel looked first to Eddard. Theo spat a shred of gristle into the fire. Howland alone showed no surprise among Eddard's companions; he had heard Lyanna.
"Do not call him prince again," Eddard said.
Arthur turned. "He is Rhaegar's son, Ned."
"His mother asked us to keep him alive. Robert called Elia's children dragonspawn after seeing what Clegane and Lorch had done. Would he spare this one because you call him prince?"
"I will hold my tongue before strangers. That does not mean he has no right to the name."
Gerold held out both hands. Arthur hesitated, then placed the child in the White Bull's arms. The old knight handled him with unexpected care, broad gauntleted hands cupping the wool without touching the face. He lowered his great shoulders over the bundle, shielding it from the wind as instinctively as he had barred the tower door.
"Queen Rhaella lives," Gerold said. "Prince Viserys lives upon Dragonstone. The queen must hear of Rhaegar's death and the child's birth."
"You mean to leave?" Oswell asked.
"Our king's surviving household is besieged."
Arthur's expression hardened. "Our prince is here."
"The queen has children who need our swords as well."
"Rhaegar's son needs a sword here."
Oswell removed his bat helm. Sweat had flattened his black hair, and Mark's blood still marked the edge of his blade. "Then we divide. Arthur stays with the boy. You and I go to Dragonstone."
Gerold returned the child. "Choose, then."
Arthur did not look towards the road. "I have."
Oswell gripped his forearm. Their quarrels had been sharp during the journey south, yet grief made no room for one now. "Keep him breathing until we find you."
"Find the queen," Arthur answered. "If she has received Rhaegar's letter, listen before you judge."
Gerold took one sealed page from the oilskin packet and put it beneath his breastplate. The rest he returned to Arthur. "I will listen. I promise nothing beyond that."
Willam Dustin stood. "Before white cloaks ride away and leave us holding half the realm's treason, I should like to hear what Lord Stark intends."
"The boy goes north as my son," Eddard said.
Willam studied him. "By what mother?" Eddard had no answer ready.
"My wife will ask why seven men returned from three white swords," Willam said. "She will know I lie before I open my mouth."
"Tell her Mark saved us from behaving like singers' fools," Martyn said.
"That is no lie," Mark replied. "Though I would prefer the song to leave out the part where Willam struck me from behind."
Willam looked at his sagging arm. "Can you lift it?"
"Enough to strike you when it mends." The laughter was brief and ragged, but it was laughter.
Theo crouched nearer the fire. "The clans remember Lyanna. Give me a word to keep and I will keep it. Ask me to forget her son and I will call you craven."
"No forgetting," Eddard said. "No crowns either."
Ethan Glover rubbed the two crooked fingers Aerys's gaolers had left him. "And if Robert questions us apart?"
"We tell one tale," Mark said. "Lyanna died in the mountains. The three knights yielded her. No man drew more blood than this." He tapped the cut on his cheek. "The child needs a tale as well."
"Starfall," Arthur said. "Ashara was with child."
Eddard looked at him. Arthur's face had gone very still. "Was?"
"Her daughter was born without breath twelve days ago. Ashara is dead."
The fire cracked. Eddard heard again the music at Harrenhal and Brandon urging him towards a woman with laughing violet eyes. "How?"
"She fell from the Palestone Sword."
Arthur spoke as a man might report a mortal wound before battle ended. Only his hand betrayed him. It closed around the oilskin packet until the parchment bent. Eddard rose. "Arthur—"
"Please, Ned." Arthur looked down at the bent packet. "The realm already puts your name beside hers. Let them believe the boy was hers too."
"You would give your sister's honour to this?"
"I would give all that remains of mine."
Wylla came to stand beside Arthur. "Ashara loved children. She would not begrudge a living babe her empty cradle. Do not make the lie fouler than it must be."
Howland held out his small leather salve chest. "Put the papers here. I can keep them safe at Greywater. Arthur, take the key."
Eddard disliked how readily the choice presented itself. He disliked more that no better choice existed. "No man here is sworn to put this child upon a throne," he said. "You are sworn only to silence and to his life. Willam?"
"For Lyanna."
"Mark?"
"For Lyanna," Mark said. His wounded arm rested awkwardly across his knees. "And for the boy."
"Ethan?"
"You brought me out of King's Landing alive. I can carry one more burden."
Martyn rested his hand upon Eddard's shoulder. "He will have a place at Winterfell."
Theo grunted. "And in the mountains, if the south comes hunting."
Howland closed the packet inside his chest. "The Neck has many roads that are not roads."
No one knelt. No one needed to. The promise passed around the mean little fire with bread, meat and a skin of sour wine. Ten men who had come to kill one another watched Wylla put Lyanna's son to her breast.
Before dawn Gerold Hightower and Oswell Whent rode south. Oswell carried his white cloak rolled beneath his saddle straps. Gerold wore his, grey with dust, until the road bent from sight. They meant to find a ship and reach Dragonstone, and nothing in their parting closed the road home. The others turned towards Starfall with Lyanna between them and the child hidden in Wylla's arms.
* * *
Lord Ulrick Dayne heard them in a solar above the Torrentine. He had not changed the black robe worn for Ashara. Purple shadows lay beneath his eyes, and her silver-and-amethyst hair net remained upon the table beside an untouched cup of lemon water. Arthur told him the truth without ornament. Eddard watched grief strike a man already hollowed by it.
"You would name Lyanna's boy as the child Ashara bore," Ulrick said at last.
"Your sister's dead daughter will remain hers," Eddard answered. "The living boy will be said to be Ashara's. I will acknowledge him and take him north."
"Men will call her whore."
"Men already do," Arthur said.
Ulrick's look could have cut mail. "Do not tell me what men say of my sister."
Arthur accepted the anger. "I know what they say of her. I would not ask this for myself."
From the balcony came the unceasing rush of the Torrentine. Below, pale towers caught the evening sun. Wylla waited in the adjoining chamber with the child, while Sarra helped the silent sisters prepare Lyanna for the north.
"Why should I spend Ashara's name on a northern lord's lie?" Ulrick asked.
Eddard could have spoken of kings and armies. Instead he put Lyanna's last words before him. "Because his mother begged me not to let him die."
Ulrick closed his eyes. When he opened them, he touched the hair net with one finger. "Ashara's girl is buried beneath the dawn wall. No singer knows she was a daughter. My household book says only that a child came before its time. One line can be mended. No more. I will not have a chest of false seals and paid tongues beneath my roof."
"One line," Eddard agreed.
"Wylla had milk because she lost her own babe. She will be seen nursing yours. Arthur will say his sister asked him to guard her child. I will say it as well. The rest will be done by Harrenhal gossip and the malice of bored men. Those require no coin."
"And the women who attended Ashara?" Arthur asked.
"They loved her. I shall tell them a living child will die if they speak of the dead one. If love and my word cannot hold them, silver will not."
He poured the lemon water at last and drank, grimacing at its warmth. "Snow? A babe born in Dorne would commonly be called Sand."
"He will be reared in the North and acknowledged as mine," Eddard said. "Snow is the name he must answer to there."
"Then choose him a good given name. He will hear the other often enough."
Eddard looked through the open door. Wylla had lifted the infant to her shoulder. Arthur followed his gaze. "Jon," Eddard said. Jon Arryn had given him a second father and a home when Aerys demanded his head. It was a name that carried love without awakening any dead dragon. Arthur said nothing until Lord Ulrick had altered the single line and pressed the sword-and-star beneath it. In the passage he caught Eddard by the arm.
"You will tell him his true name when he is old enough."
"When it is safe. Until then, he must be Jon to everyone."
"Do not come to love the lie more than the boy."
Eddard pulled free. "Do not mistake a sword oath for the knowledge of how to raise a child."
Wylla stood ten paces away, the child asleep against her shoulder. She looked from one man to the other. "If either of you wakes him after I have fed him," she said, "the Sword of the Morning may walk him until dawn, and the Lord of Winterfell may clean what comes out the other end."
Arthur's mouth almost smiled. Eddard went to take the boy. "Give him here."
"Wash your hands first," Wylla said.
* * *
By the time Eddard's tents were pitched outside King's Landing, summer rain had turned the fields to brown paste. Five armies had eaten the orchards bare. Their cookfires smoked from dawn until moonrise, fed with green wood stripped from fences and roof beams. Men in crimson cloaks queued beside men in river-blue for water that tasted of horse piss. The red walls beyond the camps looked clean at a distance. When the wind shifted, the city breathed out char, opened drains and the sweet rot of shallow graves.
Lyanna's coffin stood in the rear of Eddard's pavilion upon two trestles. It was black pine from the rainwood, rubbed with beeswax and bound in iron. The silent sisters had packed her body with salt, myrrh and bitter herbs for the long road home. No craft could return movement to her face. Death had made Lyanna solemn, and solemnity had never belonged to her.
Arthur sat beside the cradle with Jon in the crook of one arm and a cup of goat's milk in the other hand. A twist of boiled linen served as a teat. Most of the milk wet the boy's chin.
"You hold him too flat," Eddard said.
"Wylla says I hold him too stiffly."
"Wylla is right."
"Wylla has informed me she is always right where babes are concerned."
"She will inform you of the same thing where men are concerned."
Arthur shifted the child against his chest. The boy coughed, swallowed and fixed those dark eyes upon the milk as if offended by its poor service. Without white cloak and bright armour, Arthur looked younger. His red wool surcoat was plain, his mail patched at one shoulder, but Dawn rested within reach against the tent pole. He could settle the greatsword without a glance; settling one small head in the crook of his arm took all his attention.
Eddard sat opposite with a wooden bowl of barley stew cooling between his hands. Wylla had sent it with an order to finish every spoonful. Bits of carrot, leek and salt mutton floated beneath a skin of fat. He had taken three mouthfuls in half an hour.
Jon began to fret. Arthur put down the cup and walked him between the table and the entrance, stopping each time the little face screwed up against his shoulder.
"Have you tried the other shoulder?" Eddard asked.
Arthur shifted him. Jon burped milk onto the red wool.
"There," Eddard said.
"You might have warned me."
"I did not know either."
Arthur found a cloth. When he looked up again, the moment's ease had gone. "Will Lady Catelyn let him remain?"
"She knows he is coming."
"That is not what I asked."
Eddard rubbed a hand over his face. He had written four lines to a wife he scarcely knew, asking more generosity than he had any right to expect. "She will have a place prepared. Beyond that, I cannot tell you. Nor can you judge her before you have met her."
Arthur wiped the boy's chin. "I would not have him grow up unwanted."
"Neither would I." Eddard held out his arms, but Jon had settled against Arthur's shoulder at last. He let his hands fall. "Keep walking. He likes that."
Arthur made another slow circuit. Outside the pavilion someone dropped a bucket and swore. Both men looked towards the entrance.
A guard spoke, and Howland Reed entered without waiting for leave. Water shone upon his hood. His mud-coloured cloak made him seem part of the wet day until he lowered it.
"Robert is coming," he said. "Jon Arryn sent word ahead. The king has dismissed his guard at the northern lines, but Barristan walks twenty paces behind him."
Arthur reached for Dawn. Eddard held the rear hanging aside. "Take the boy out that way."
"Robert should see Lyanna first. Martyn will meet you beyond the horse lines."
Howland held the hanging aside. Arthur tucked the child beneath his cloak, leaving space for him to breathe. "If he demands to see the babe?"
"That question comes later, before Arryn and witnesses. Go."
Arthur paused beside the coffin. His free hand touched the black lid, then he vanished through the rear of the tent. Howland went out the front to meet the king. Eddard set aside the uneaten stew and opened the coffin. Robert arrived like weather.
He brushed past the guard at the entrance with rain on his black velvet shoulders and mud to the tops of his boots. The crowned stag at his throat was yellow gold, too bright for mourning. He had not yet grown fat. War made him enormous: broad chest, arms that strained his sleeves, black hair plastered against a brow still flushed from the ride. Rain ran over his clean-shaven jaw. His blue eyes went past Eddard towards the coffin. Rhaegar's wound still stiffened one leg, though he would rather limp than accept a cane.
"Ned Stark." He caught Eddard by both shoulders and drew him into an embrace hard enough to hurt. "Gods, I thought Dorne had swallowed you."
"It tried."
"Dorne has poor taste."
Robert laughed. Eddard could not, and the laughter died between them. "You found her," Robert said.
"I found her."
His gaze went to the rear hanging. "Let me see."
"Robert—"
"Do not bar me from her now."
The king had gone out of his voice. Eddard led him behind the hanging. Robert stood above Lyanna for a long while. Outside, a mule brayed and a captain cursed men hauling a wagon from the mud. Water dripped steadily from the pavilion ropes. None of it seemed to reach the small dark chamber around the coffin.
"They made her look old," Robert said.
"She was tired."
"Of him?"
Eddard looked down at his sister's hands, folded over grey wool. "Of all of us, perhaps."
Robert reached towards her cheek. His fingers stopped before touching it. "I kill him every night," he said. "The Trident changes, but he is always there. Sometimes the water is blood. Sometimes it is black, and every ruby on his breast turns into an eye. I strike him until there is nothing left, and still I hear him saying her name."
"Rhaegar is dead."
"Not enough."
Eddard said nothing. He looked at the bloodless hands folded over Lyanna's breast.
Robert's hand closed. "He stole this from me."
Eddard felt Lyanna's cold fingers around his own and heard her say that she had chosen. The truth rose towards his mouth. He swallowed it with the taste of betrayal. "She was never a thing to be stolen," he said.
Robert turned his head. "You sound like her."
"Someone should."
Anger flashed, quick and familiar. For a heartbeat they were boys at the Eyrie again, ready to strike and forgive in the same hour. Then Robert looked back at Lyanna and the anger emptied out.
"Leave her here," he said. "I will build a tomb above the bay. White marble, seven lamps, singers on her nameday. She would have sun."
"She will go home."
"I am asking, Ned."
"And I am answering. Brandon waits in the crypt. Father waits. Her place is beneath Winterfell with the kings of winter, not on a hill strangers choose because the view is fair."
"There is me."
"You are not her home."
Robert flinched. Eddard regretted the cruelty, not the answer. "She was to be my queen."
"She was my sister."
The king bent his head. When he spoke again the words were rough. "Take her north, then. I will send an escort."
"My own men will bear her."
"Stubborn, frozen fool."
"Drunken stormlander." A breath of their old affection passed through Robert's face. He put one hand upon the coffin lid.
"I would have made her happy."
Eddard could not grant him that comfort. He gave the only one he could. "You would have tried."
Robert stood with her until the rain slackened. He left without asking where Ashara's child slept.
* * *
Arthur's judgement was held that afternoon beneath the cloth-of-gold roof of the royal pavilion. Jon Arryn sat at Robert's right, his broad shoulders square beneath plain blue wool. Ser Barristan Selmy stood behind him in a new white cloak. His pale blue eyes rested upon Arthur a moment longer than courtesy required before he brought them back to the king. Stannis Baratheon remained near the map table, rain-dark leather creaking when he moved. Three lords from the rebel host and two septons had been brought to witness whatever oath Robert chose to accept.
Arthur entered carrying Dawn at his side and the infant in his arms. Wylla followed with a satchel of clean linen, a horn spoon and the expression of a woman prepared to rebuke kings if they handled the babe badly.
Robert looked from the sword to the child. "You bring a shield to your own judgement."
"I bring my sister's son," Arthur said. "He requires feeding."
"Everything requires feeding. Armies, priests, bastards." Robert crooked a finger. "Let me see him."
Eddard's heart beat against his ribs. He stood close enough to intervene and knew how useless intervention would be if Robert understood. Wylla took Jon from Arthur and placed him in the king's arms before hesitation could become suspicion. Robert held the child as he might hold a helm of unfamiliar make.
"His head, Your Grace." Wylla slipped her hand beneath the small neck until Robert adjusted his hold. Jon's eyes opened. In the strong afternoon light their purple was clear. Robert grunted.
"Dayne eyes," Robert said.
"My sister's eyes and Lord Stark's dark hair," Arthur said, giving the rehearsed answer without haste.
"Ashara was a beauty." Robert glanced towards Eddard. "You hid that fire from me, Ned. All those years in the Vale, blushing at every ankle, and you were only saving yourself for the finest maid in Dorne."
No one laughed until Jon Arryn did, softly. Eddard managed a grimace that Robert mistook for embarrassment. Robert bent his head to look at Jon again. The babe caught a lock of black hair above the king's ear and pulled. The king swore, then roared with laughter.
"Strong enough to make war upon a king's head. What do you call him?" Robert asked.
"Jon Snow," Eddard said, and kept his gaze upon Robert rather than the purple eyes.
"Snow? He was born in Dorne."
"I have acknowledged him as my son. He will be raised in the North."
"Jon for our old falcon?" Robert passed the child back to Wylla. "A solemn name for a solemn little face."
Jon Arryn let affection show, but only for a moment. "Ser Arthur. Your white cloak was given for life."
"The king whose guard I served is dead. His named heir is dead. I surrendered the cloak at Starfall and came here to submit my sword to judgement."
"You call this submission while Dawn remains belted at your hip?" Robert asked, all laughter gone from his voice.
Arthur drew the pale blade. Ser Barristan's hand moved towards his own hilt. Arthur turned Dawn flat across his palms and knelt. "Dawn belongs to my house. My life is mine to yield. I acknowledge you as king and will keep your peace. I ask leave to serve my sister's son as his uncle and sworn shield."
"You ask leave to choose your own service," Stannis said.
"Let him answer," Robert said. "What if I require you at court?"
"I would ask to remain with the boy. I have no other service to offer willingly."
Robert leaned back in his chair. "Aerys filled his guard with proud men. One stabbed my enemy in the back, one died well at the Trident, and three hid in Dorne while others fought. Why should I suffer another careful oath?"
Arthur's gaze did not leave him. "Because killing me gains you a song and an enemy in House Dayne. Letting me guard an infant gains you peace from both."
"And because he yielded when he might have fought," Eddard said. "No northman died at the tower."
Ser Barristan spoke at last. "I have crossed swords with him, Your Grace. If Ser Arthur had meant rebellion, men would have died before he came beneath your roof."
Robert rubbed the place above his ear where Jon had pulled his hair. "Very well. Keep your dawn sword and your bastard prince." Jon Arryn's gaze flicked to Eddard. Stannis went still, and Barristan's hand remained near his hilt.
Then Robert grinned. "Every babe is a prince to the fool who must wipe his arse. Rise, Dayne. Break the king's peace and I will finish what judgement spared."
Arthur rose and sheathed Dawn. "I will keep your peace, Your Grace."
The king watched him cross the pavilion but let him pass the guards. Wylla followed with Jon.
* * *
The council that followed began with grain and ended with Dragonstone. Jon Arryn had a chart of Blackwater Bay spread beneath four cups. Tywin Lannister sat where the light best showed the gold thread in his crimson sleeves. His green eyes moved from speaker to speaker while his hands rested still upon the table. Hoster Tully wore river-blue wool; when Robert spoke, he lifted his auburn head with the wary attention of a father counting how every royal favour might wound his daughter. Stannis stood rather than sit. Mark Ryswell stood behind Eddard's chair.
"The royal fleet is broken," Jon Arryn said. "Dragonstone still flies the dragon banner. Lord Velaryon offers submission if his lands and titles are confirmed. Lord Celtigar will follow whichever choice costs him less."
"Stannis will take the island as soon as he can put men beneath its walls," Robert said.
"With ships that must first be built," Stannis answered.
"Then build the ships and take what remains of Aerys's fleet when the garrison yields," Robert said.
"I need seasoned timber, rope and sailcloth," Stannis said. "And money to hire crews. New hulls are of no use without them."
Robert poured wine. "You have begun already, I hope."
"I have men buying seasoned timber from the yards. New oak is being felled to replace it."
"Then see that my master of coin pays them," Robert said.
Jon Arryn moved one cup from King's Landing to the black island painted in the bay. "Once taken, Dragonstone must be held by a hand the narrow-sea lords cannot bend."
"Yours, Ned," Robert said, looking across the painted bay. "A hard seat for the one man here I trust not to sell it."
"No. Whatever gift you mean to offer, I have Winterfell and a realm's width of road between it and this table," Eddard replied.
"The war is won. The North can endure one season without you while Dragonstone cannot," Robert argued.
"The war being won is why I mean to go home. My bannermen followed me south; they should not be ruled by ravens because victory found me another castle," Eddard said.
Robert's cup struck the table. "I offer you the seat of dragon princes and you answer as if I proposed a damp cellar."
"It is an unconquered fortress in a hostile sea. Give it to Stannis." Stannis's face revealed nothing, but his eyes moved once towards his brother.
"Stannis will have Storm's End," Robert said. "Renly is six and sleeps through councils. I will not make my brother wait on a child for his father's seat."
Stannis looked directly at his brother. "Storm's End?"
"Must I say a gift twice before a Baratheon hears it?"
"You will not regret it," Stannis said.
Robert turned back to Eddard, still angry. "If you are too good for Dragonstone, your bastard may have it."
Hoster Tully shoved back his chair. "Your Grace, a jest at Lord Eddard's expense need not become a grant that troubles his lawful heir." Tywin only lifted one pale brow.
Robert saw their faces and warmed to the spite of it. "Aye. Jon Snow, Lord of Dragonstone. Rhaegar's old seat bestowed upon the natural son of the man whose sister he stole. Even the dullest singer can make a verse from that."
"The babe cannot hold it," Hoster said. "Whose men will?"
"His father can name men who can until the boy is grown. I have just offered Ned the same burden," Robert answered.
"My daughter's lawful son is heir to Winterfell. A royal grant to his bastard brother will make ambitious men count the boys against one another," Hoster warned.
"And Robb will remain my only heir," Eddard said. "Dragonstone cannot give Jon a claim to one stone of Winterfell."
"Will he? This other boy is guarded by Arthur Dayne, acknowledged before half the realm and now raised to a princely seat."
"Then put it in the grant," Eddard said. "Jon receives no claim to Winterfell."
Robert slapped the table with his palm. "Then the matter is plain. One boy receives the North, the other receives a smoking rock and fishermen too proud to pay their dues."
Tywin's voice was smooth. "The rock commands the mouth of the Blackwater. A child established there by royal favour may be seized by men still loyal to House Targaryen."
"Then give him men who will keep them out," Robert said. "Ned has no shortage of those."
Stannis put one blunt finger upon the chart. "The grant has merit. Velaryon and Celtigar distrust one another and would each resent the other above him. A Stark household is outside their quarrels. Men on Crackclaw Point still boast of First Men blood; a northern lord may win fairer hearing there than another court favourite."
"A northern castellan would still be a stranger to them," Hoster said.
"Better a stranger than either house's rival," Stannis answered. "They can bring their quarrels to him instead of fighting over the island."
Eddard studied the black shape beneath Stannis's finger. "What will holding it cost?"
"The island has fish, stone, sheep and harbour dues," Stannis said. "Not enough if thieves keep the accounts. Enough if they do not. Pay the garrison's arrears, mend the cisterns and leave coin for roofs and hulls. Do not bury a prince's ransom there."
Robert laughed. "Hear that, Tywin? My brother has found thrift. Give the boy three stout chests when the gates open and enough grain that his new men need not eat him. The rest he may wring from his smoking rock."
"You have not asked me to accept," Eddard said.
"I am asking now, before half this table finds a different reason to dislike the answer," Robert said.
Every man at the table watched him. Hoster's mouth tightened at the insult to Catelyn and Robb. Tywin waited for his answer. Stannis kept one finger beside the island at the end of its sea lane. Robert was still grinning. Did he truly expect thanks for this? Eddard saw violet eyes beneath black hair.
"I will answer before we ride north. A gift made in anger deserves one sober night before it binds a child," Eddard said.
Robert opened his mouth. Jon Arryn raised a hand. "Dragonstone is not yet ours to give. Lord Eddard may have one night."
"One," Robert said. "On the next I mean to be drunk."
"How shall we tell the difference?" Stannis asked. His dry answer caught Robert first; the king threw back his head and laughed until even Jon Arryn's solemn mouth bent.
* * *
Eddard's last supper in the camp was cold mutton, oatcakes gone soft with damp and onions roasted black in their skins. Mark Ryswell sat across from him, his cheek healing into a red crescent. Howland ate slowly at the table's end. Martyn Cassel guarded the door. Arthur stood by the cradle until Wylla shoved a bowl into his hands and told him that sworn swords died of hunger as readily as other fools.
"Accept the island for him," Arthur said after his first mouthful. "Robert will not offer such walls twice."
"You did not hear the council or the spite in which he made the grant," Eddard replied.
"Mark told me what was said," Arthur answered.
Mark peeled an onion. "I told him what was said, not what answer to give."
"The island is a fortress," Arthur continued. "No army reaches it without ships."
"Every man who wants Dragonstone will learn Jon's name and ask why a northern bastard received a dragon's seat," Eddard said.
"Every man who sees his eyes will wonder already."
"Children are forgotten every day when no banner, sword, or castle keeps their names before the realm," Eddard said.
Howland tore an oatcake in half. "Not children carried by the Sword of the Morning."
Arthur inclined his head to the crannogman. "Nor children who resemble a woman half the court once watched dance with Lord Stark. Calling him Ashara's son will not make people forget him."
Eddard cut the mutton and found it pink beside the bone. "If I accept, Jon remains at Winterfell. I will not send him to a castellan while he is still at the breast."
"No one asks it," Mark said. "Let Ethan inspect the place when the gates open. He knows stores, and he has spent too long having other men decide what use remains in him."
"He would take the post?"
"Ask him." Mark laid down his knife. "Willam has Barrowton. Theo has the valleys. Martyn is already at your door. None of us left Lyanna's son behind at the tower. There are men to send if Ethan needs them."
Arthur looked at Eddard over the cradle. "And when you die?"
Eddard's knife stopped.
"Robert can summon him whether he has a castle or not. But without one, what refuge will he have if you are gone? Your heir will have a mother who fears him. Give him Dragonstone and he has his own household, men sworn to him, a place to go."
"Catelyn will not murder a child."
"I did not say she would. I said she would not protect his rights as she would Robb's. Why should she?"
That was harder to answer. Eddard looked towards Martyn's shadow beyond the canvas. After the long journey north he would bring Jon into his wife's hall and expect her to make room for him.
"He will be raised with my children," he said. "He will have a home before he needs a fortress."
"Then give him both."
Wylla came from behind the hanging, rubbing the child's back. She had been listening. "Take him, my lord. I have had him all through your supper."
Eddard put down the knife. Jon settled badly in his arms, kicked, and caught his thumb. A milk bubble shone at one nostril. Eddard adjusted the wool until the small face was clear.
"I will accept for Jon," he said. "Ethan goes to White Harbor to await the surrender. Once he has inspected the island, we will know what men and stores to send. Jon stays north until he is old enough to understand what he has been given. And Arthur—there will be no court of exiles gathering there. No preparations for another war."
Arthur's face closed. "I will not raise men for an infant."
"Nor teach him that his first duty is to avenge his father."
"I will teach him about his father."
"When he can keep the truth to himself."
Arthur looked at the sleeping child. "You will have to tell him someday, Ned."
Eddard stroked the little fist around his thumb. "I know."
Howland reached for the chest beside his chair. He checked its fastening and drew his cloak over it. Mark resumed cutting his onion; after a moment, he pushed half onto Arthur's untouched trencher.
* * *
The boy understood the name before he understood the hands that held him. Aemon. It reached through hunger, cold and the crushing weariness of a body that could not turn itself. Sounds came blurred, faces swam close and vanished, light stabbed even through shut lids. He had died an old man. Before that there had been naval service, years of civil engineering, and the farm work his father had taught him long before either. He had studied Rome until he could argue over a road traced across a fragment of ancient map. He had buried his wife, raised a son and a daughter, and lived to hold their children. All of it belonged to him still. A steel deck rolled beneath remembered boots; his daughter bent over his chair to tell him something he had pretended not to hear. Then hunger cramped his belly and he cried, furious that crying was all this body could manage.
Then there had been heat, and the woman's voice giving him a name between failing breaths. He wanted to mourn her. Instead his mouth opened, searching for milk, and he cried until someone brought him to a breast. Later Eddard lifted him. Jon tried to turn towards the sound of his name, but the man had to support his head. He lay against the warm hand, exhausted by the effort.
He listened for names whenever the men came near. Eddard Stark. Arthur Dayne. Robert Baratheon. Dragonstone. He knew them from books, but Arthur lived, seven northmen lived, and Lyanna had named him Aemon. None of the accounts he remembered gave Jon Snow this beginning. Before trusting them, he needed to hear more. His earlier life was his alone; he would give no one here that secret. Leaves whispered where no leaves grew. A pale face watched from the bole of a red tree, not near, not whole. For a heartbeat one red eye opened in darkness.
Why can I not follow your thread? Perhaps the words were a dream. He listened for them again, frightened that someone might have heard the thoughts he could not yet speak. Eddard's thumb lay against his palm. He closed his hand upon it and tried to stay awake, but the heartbeat beneath his ear grew faint as sleep took him