Alesander IX

Late 298 AC"Pleasure doing business with you!" Ser said cheerfully. The knight of roosters looked as if he wished to be anywhere else. Well could Alesander Frey understand the man. The first time Al approached the Dreadfort, the triangular merlons on the walls reminded him of nothing so much as teeth, making the castle take on the aspect of a great beast emerging from the bleak surroundings. Al watched bemused as the southron knight departed with his kinsman and a chest of coin the poorer. This one was not the first nor the last. The dungeons of the Dreadfort were full to bursting with prisoners: knights and lords and heirs taken in the battles against the boy king and his Lannister kin. Al himself had made more in ransoms than he had in any tourney melee. Mayhaps it was folly to speak of war as "business," yet there they were. He was enriched, and his castle fund with Elia grew by a few thousand dragons. Plans for land and a keep in Dorne had already been drafted. Maester Tybald helped them, at Ser Domeric's request. Domeric clapped his hands, looking ever so pleased. As well he might be. The Dreadfort had a new granary, monstrously huge, and sprawling glass gardens. Salt beef and butter and pork were laid in, cartfuls every day, fattening their larders for the winter to come. The hall was a merrier one, with songs of a night, and the dishes increased in variety with that Dornish cook Prince Oberyn sent, along with more fruit and spices than they knew what to do with. Even dour Lady Bolton, Ser's mother, seemed cheered by the changes. Above all, his sister, now a Bolton herself, showed her influence. A new facility for assembling Bolton Bags was being constructed on the Weeping Water, the manufactory at Barrowton proving insufficient to meet demand. Highborn guests visited often, seeking her favor, and the servants smartened up to receive them. Every chamber had fresh rushes, and new tapestries hung on the walls. Serving men wore new, clean livery, and the Dreadfort itself smelled sweet. "A lady's touch," Ser Domeric said. "Father gave Alyx and my mother leave to redecorate. We just need to keep it harmonious. See there? There's a tapestry of me scalping the Mountain. Our bedposts are topped with carved skulls. You can put a candle in their mouth if you want, looks great at night. We can have nice things, but we need to keep it Bolton, you understand." "Keep it Bolton," Al repeated. There was no danger there. A Dreadfort with finer furniture and fresh rushes was still the Dreadfort. If anything, the reputation of Ser's family was even fiercer than it had been. "Where is Alyx, anyway? It seemed you two could hardly bear to be apart since the wedding." Domeric smiled. "Working, what else? There's a fishing village at the mouth of the Weeping Water. She has a notion to expand the docks and turn the place into a proper port. There's some dredging work to be done, I understand, but there are men in Braavos knowledgeable in such matters. If all goes well, we could ship our wool down the river and let trading galleys from the Free Cities take it off our hands. That's worth a decent amount of coin. There's a lot of sheep country in my father's lands. It's not all bags and tourneys and ransoms, you know. Ah, and there could be good mining in the Lonely Hills. That prospector we used in the Vale is up there now." Al smiled. "That sounds like my sister. Mother always said she had a merchant's heart. Finding ways to make more of her husband's lands must be thrilling for her." "That's so," Domeric agreed. He put an arm around Al's shoulder. "Now come on, let us leave matters of ledgers and the counting house to my lady wife, and be about our own business. Your wife is supervising Arya and Brad in the yard." They walked together through the Dreadfort's bailey, sharp walls and massive towers looming overhead. The summer snows had melted as rapidly as they came, the day proving unseasonably hot. Here and there, little piles of receding white clung to the ground, but they would not last. The ground was firm and hard, at least. Even after rain or snowmelt, the North did not stay muddy for long. Dreadfort men practiced sword and spear and axe, drilling under the captain, a man they called Steelshanks. Al didn't know his real name. They raised their weapons in salute ere the heir approached. Domeric favored them all with a raised hand and a slight smile. They crossed the open ground where the footsoldiers had their practice, and continued to the wide lanes where horsemen plied their trade. Men in steel on monstrous destriers galloped hard with lances couched under their arms, riding furiously for the quintains, dummies men used for tilting practice. There was many a strike and a snap as they broke lances and sent the quintain spinning. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.Meanwhile, Elia was supervising Arya and his little brother Bradamar riding ponies. They had smaller lances and were taking turns riding at rings. Arya's wolf, dread Nymeria, not to be confused with Lady Nym, Ser's heavily pregnant paramour, loped around with a tongue lolling, thoroughly enjoying the action."How are they doing, Elia?" Domeric asked. "Arya is a decent rider, but Brad holds his lance steadier. Both do well, I think. They have the stuff of knights. Arya is better than I was at the same age." That seemed to please Ser quite a lot. "Excellent. You two are very good, but you were my first squires. These two will be even better, proper killing machines once we're through. The day you stop improving is the day you start dying. Speaking of which." Domeric held up a hand to keep Al from following and left for the little armory that was stocked with training weapons on the other side of the yard. He returned shortly with two hammers.Alesander raised an eyebrow. "Warhammers? They seem pretty small, Ser." Ser Domeric shrugged. "Maybe they aren't absurdly heavy like King Robert's monstrosity, but these are more practical. See the little hammerhead? You can put a lot of force in a very small area. There's a spike on the other side that you could easily drive through armor. I saw the Vale knights use them to great effect in the last war. They might be better for dealing with heavily armored opponents than battleaxes. There's a lot of carryover with swordplay as well. You'll see."

Domeric handed him one hammer. Al tested the weight. It was pretty light, with a handle a little over a foot long. He gave it a few experimental swings, and found he was pretty fast with it. "Handy," Al said grudgingly. It just didn't...look terribly impressive. The hammer part of the warhammer looked a little too much like the kind of hammer a carpenter used to drive nails. This was a weapon of war?

Ser must've seen his skepticism, because he told a squire loitering near the water bucket beneath the western wall to go and fetch an old breastplate and greathelm. When the squire returned, Ser fastened the old armor to a straw dummy. After taking a few warm-up swings himself, Ser Domeric snapped the little warhammer back and uncorked a blow too fast for Alesander's eyes to follow. There was a great thunderclap when the hammer struck the old breastplate. "Hear that?" Domeric asked excitedly. "Loud as a gunshot! Think that might've broken a few ribs or caved in a breastbone?" Al nodded, studying the ruin the little hammer had wrought. That breastplate was good steel. You couldn't argue with results, as Ser liked to say. Then something stopped his train of thought. "Gunshot, Ser?" Domeric had that look of having said something he shouldn't have, but soon his features evened out into a slight smile. "Never mind that; now check out the spike!" He turned the hammer over and drove the spike right into the steel greathelm, punching a hole right through. It would've been a killing blow if there was a man's head within. "You've made your point," Al said. "So what? We train with warhammers today?" His master nodded. The part about carryover from swordplay proved true. A lot of the same things they practiced regarding timing and angles worked for warhammers. They were perhaps more limited on defense, and shorter range, but if you could get close, it would be devastating against a man in plate. They swung a lot faster than battleaxes and didn't tire you so fast. Once again, Al could only bow to the wisdom of the knight he squired under. Queer sayings or no, the notion of warhammers had promise. They spent the rest of the morning at their practice, Al and Dom with hammers, Elia helping the young ones catch little dangling rings on their lances. At the midday meal, Dom and Alyx were talking over matters on the Weeping Water when Maester Tybald begged a private word. Dom departed with Lord Roose, and when he returned, there was a smile on his face. "Lord Tyrion Lannister complains of Ironborn reavers on his coasts, but lacks the strength to see them off," Ser Domeric told them after the meeting. "King Stannis has offered me the position of temporary Warden of the West. It looks like one last ride before winter!"