Alesander VII

They caught the sellswords in open ground. Ser Domeric did not give the order to accelerate to a gallop until the foreigners were in sight. Alesander knew them for foreigners by their queer dress and queerer gear. One rode a white-and-black-striped horse, he saw, and another had a many-colored cloak of feathers, like that prince of the Summer Isles he'd seen at court. But Al's mark was a big fat man with copper skin brandishing a curved sword, almost like a sickle.

Even though Ser had not granted Alesander Frey leave to ride in tourneys, he still practiced with the lance wherever he could. This time, he'd lowered a war lance and couched it, shorter and heavier than the ones used in tourneys that were designed to break, aye, and tipped with sharp steel. A high sun glinted off the point for half a moment. The shock ran up his arm, down his spine, and into his stirrups when they made contact. The big fat foreigner went flying out of the saddle that seemed too small for him, a big fat hole gushing black blood from his left breast. The war lance didn't break, and he drove the point through a man in dark robes like some sorcerer out of a story. When Al spitted his lance through a third man, the point got stuck on the back of his shirt of rusted ringmail, and the weapon was wrenched from Alesander's grasp. The two horses blew past each other, one with him on it, and the other with a dead man impaled on his lance. Then he drew his sword.

Elia, his wife, and wasn't that a queer thing to say, rode at Alesander's side, dealing death while protected by an iron-banded shield strapped to her left arm, painted in their new colors: twin red castles on an orange field, the Freys of North and South.

"Yield, ther! My company yieldths!" screamed a man with an absurd black beard hanging from his chin and a chain of many coins of many lands hanging from his neck. He must've been in charge, because the men remaining to him threw down their weapons. Fools. Better a quick death in battle than what Ser had planned for them.

Ser Domeric lifted the visor of his helm. The red steel was wrought in the shape of a flayed man in agony, mouth open in a silent scream. "Wonderful! You and your men shall accompany us to Harrenhal!"

Al, Elia, and the rest went to work, binding the wrists of the prisoners and lashing their horses together to be dragged back.

"Conn was right again!" Elia said brightly.

And wasn't that a wonder? Conn, son of Coratt, or, to be more correct, Lord Moonfort, could find a trail better than any hound, even in unfamiliar lands. His Shadowscalp clan, er, men-at-arms, could hide in short grass, completely disappear, and be on you before you knew what was happening. These sellswords were the ones tasked with watching the High Road and the Ruby Ford. Conn found them, somehow, even as they took pains to avoid the Kingsroad, and led Ser and company right to them. The rest was butcher's work.

"I'll say," Al agreed. "I'll tell you, I like this much better than fighting in the mountains."

"Aye. Plenty of room to ride and fight. I like seeing them before I kill them. They say the Kingslayer is three days to our south. Lord Horton and the main body of the army will camp by Harrenhal tonight, but we'll have a jolly time tangling with Lannister outriders while we wait."

If anything, married life had increased his Elia's bloodlust. They wed before the sacred grove of weirwoods in the mountains while the knights of the Vale gathered. It was a short, simple ceremony, as Northern weddings are. They shared a single bedroll now, and Tyene Moonfort taught his wife how to brew moon tea. There would be time enough for babies later.

"Right, you lot, scalp the bodies and leave them where they lay. You may take personal spoils, but be quick about it. We need to head back while there's still daylight," Ser ordered.

***

"What ith the meaning of thith, ther?" demanded the absurd sellsword captain. He and all his men were bound and on their knees in Harrenhal's godswood.

Ser Domeric backhanded him with a gauntleted fist, sending teeth flying. The goatlike man groaned and fell, unable to rise since his ankles were bound as well. "Silence, foreign devil. You're about to do the only productive act of your entire miserable existence."

Alesander laughed out loud. "I can't believe Lady Whent allows this."

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Domeric smiled. "Oh, we're old friends. We always stop here for a night or two when we ride up and down the Kingsroad. I've done it ever since I was knighted. An evening of song is always welcome, and the lady gets lonely sometimes. She'll thank us when she has a proper heart tree. Speaking of which, Tyene?"

"Aye, I've got it," she answered. They had a pale sapling with roots bound up in a roughspun sack. "I found a certain man when Conn and I went down into the lowlands on business. He manages Lady Waynwood's fruit orchards, you see, and taught me everything I need to know about transporting and planting young trees. Half the godswoods in the Vale have a heart tree now, albeit young. When I offered a Bolton Bag in exchange, they fell all over themselves to agree."

"Outstanding," Domeric said in appreciation. He had a spade in his hands and did the digging himself while they talked. "And how are your experiments going, Sarella?"

The two sisters, Tyene and Sarella, were as different as sisters could be. White and black, dark and light, but they both had a hairline that hinted at a widow's peak and their father's viper eyes. Tyene was wed to Conn, and as Lady of the Moonfort, presided over a mountain fief with silver mines that poured their bounty down into the lowlands like snowmelt feeding rivers and lakes. Sarella was of a more scholarly disposition and endlessly fascinated by weirwoods, which could be watered with blood.

"I've measured that sapling half a hundred times. It grew even on the journey, detectably larger than it was when we took it out of the ground. I only fed the soil a few drops of blood a day, but it was enough."

Domeric nodded, not looking up while digging. "Good, good, and how many did you bring?"

"They sprout like weeds, Domeric!" Tyene gushed excitedly. "We've got dozens, bagged up and ready to plant. Most are headed for Dorne, as we planned. The lords and ladies there will gladly accept them as gifts, but sweetening the deal with a handbag would help."

"That's no problem," Ser agreed easily. "Once we put Stannis on the throne, I'd like to see if he'll accept one for the Red Keep." He finished digging. "Okay, ready to plant."

The sellswords, many of whom did not speak the common tongue, just looked on with dead, confused eyes. No doubt they expected something different of their captivity. Who gardened in front of prisoners? Well, they weren't prisoners.

Tyene took out a dagger, cut the bag of soil that bound up the roots of the weirwood sapling, and placed it in the hole while Domeric covered up the roots with dirt.

"There," Ser said with some satisfaction. Jack-o-nose and Obara brought forth a wooden rack such as a butcher might use to hang a freshly slaughtered hog. It looked a bit like a gallows. They braced the rack and anchored it with hooks directly over the weirwood sapling.

Sarella took out a ledger. "Ready when you are, Ser Domeric."

The sellswords looked even more puzzled than before. At Ser Domeric's signal, Al and Elia wrenched the bound sellsword captain to his feet. He immediately started sputtering wildly. "What ith the meaning of this?" He wasn't terribly heavy as they hung him from the butcher's rack by a hook, upside down.

Domeric took out his scalping knife, sharp as a razor, and the goaty man realized the truth.

He wasn't a prisoner; he was a sacrifice.

Ser cut his throat and let the blood drain, soaking the ground where they planted the weirwood sapling.

Seeing this, the rest of the prisoners started to shout and struggle like flies caught in a spider web. But Al and Elia had tied the knots themselves. Al was confident with his knots. They weren't going anywhere.

Once the captain's blood slowed down to a trickle, Domeric lifted him off the rack and gave the body over to some soldiers with a wheelbarrow. "Dump this one and come back for the rest."

The ones who spoke the common tongue started begging. "Please, Ser! I'm too amusing to die!" begged a fool in faded motley. "Spare me, and I'll make you laugh. I swear it."

"The gods need your blood more than I need to laugh," Ser Domeric said as he hung the man on the hook. He did chuckle a bit as the man tried to keep talking even as his throat was cut.

They did it again.

And again.

And again.