Chapter Text
129 AC (Year of the Dance of the Dragons)
Samwell Blackwood VII
Samwell watched the rising sun crest over the horizon in flashes of yellow and orange, before spilling into the sky like a rushing wave. Beautiful, if ordinary in the Riverlands—looking at the sunrise alone, one might be forgiven for thinking today would be a normal day as well. It was strange; you would think that the Gods would have prepared something special for the heralding of their prophet. The first step to a blessed kingdom, if you would.
But nothing.
The rustle of the wind made the great plain dance in patterns of shadows and light frolicking in waves across the flatlands, only broken by the Red Fork cracking across the landscape. Riverrun sat in the distance—too far to see, but there irregardless of what he was doing. He heard the camp waking up, with the clatter of night shift guards going to bed, joked and jostled at by their well-rested companions for the bags under their eyes. It was the parting of day and night, marked by the men rising to see the dawn.
It was a nice dawn if nothing else. Samwell could admit to that, but…
"Is this really wise?" He couldn't help but ask. "The last person you told tried to get you committed to the Seven." It had only been the lack of concrete proof and the Septon thinking the man had gone mad that had saved Alysanne from a dreary life as a Septa. Father probably would have caved if people had started pointing fingers about witchcraft, no matter how much Alysanne would have hated it.
But now she was going to expose herself to the entire army? Was this really the plan of the Gods?
"It won't be the entire army," his sister corrected, tender grass trampled underfoot as she shifted her weight. "Just the commanders. For now. They simply don't take me seriously enough for the plan to go forwards."
"But this early in the war and people will turn on you if they hear about a—" Samwell could barely keep the disdain out of his voice. "—so called witch." That had been the entire rationale as to why she'd stopped telling people as a child; it had only been because the Maester had thought the servant mad that the burn scar around her ankle was small.
Samwell had always known that she would have to reveal it some day—but he couldn't push away the trepidation that today wasn't the right day. It was better to bide their time and wait. Even if he believed that they would triumph in the end, there was no need to be so hasty. Why throw away the lives of good men if there was a better—safer—option.
Perhaps becoming Lord Blackwood had given him new perspective; the title settled easier on his shoulders, less of a burden and more of a responsibility. Not quite there yet, but soon.
"Nobody who doesn't see it will believe any rumors," Aly waved off his concerns. "Though, really that's it's own problem. I need people to start viewing me as more than a broodmare waiting to be mounted."
Samwell spluttered. "I'd have the men executed or cleaning the latrines if they said that. Even if they don't know the truth, you're still my sister."
Aly shrugged. "I'm a woman grown yet unmarried in a war where alliances will sign the peace. You can't fault them for their reasoning, even if I disagree."
"Do you plan on marrying the Tully boy? I mean Kermit, not the one you kidnapped." He'd almost forgotten about the hostage they had; frankly, he wasn't sure what they were going to do with him.
"If I did?" Aly's tone was lighthearted, floaty in a way that told Samwell she was trying to get a rise out of him; he knew her well enough to see that.
"The Gods said you were ordained to be Queen of the Riverlands, yes? Not Lady Paramount by marriage?" Samwell didn't bring up the point that she wasn't supposed to marry a non-believer—a heathen—because that seemed presumptuous.
Florian, perched upon her shoulder, shot Samwell a look, one oddly emotive in those beady black eyes. It looked almost amused. Aly's stare, on the other hand, was unimpressed. "I should hope I don't become a prisoner in someone else's home. I wouldn't stand for that at all."
"Tied down by marriage or by children?"
His sister ran two hands through her hair, jostling Florian off of her shoulder with an offended squawk. Samwell watched as the small raven flew upwards in a spiral, a black smudge against the lightening orange sky. "Marriage is a social tie and nothing more. I'm fine with that."
"And children?"
Aly shook her head. "When was the last time you spoke to your wife?"
Samwell noted her dodging of his question, but paid it no mind. She would need an heir eventually anyways, should everything go well. As for his wife…well… "We've been on the war trail the past few weeks."
"You haven't even written any letters? We do have ravens to deliver mail."
Truthfully, he hadn't thought much about her anyways—which, now that he considered it, was rather rude. He hadn't been quite courteous about it, but she'd essentially been left alone in a mysterious castle rumored to be the home of bloody savages. Or whatever the Septons nattered on about to the masses about the 'godless heathens' of Raventree Hall. Samwell scoffed. "She's doing fine, I'm sure."
Aly sighed, crouching down and dragging her black dress across the ground. She placed her hand palm down and dug her nails into the dirt, leaving half-moon indents in the ground. "Do you plan on having such a dreary marriage? You'll be with her for the rest of your lives."
"There's simply too much to do at the moment."
His sister scooped up the clump of dirt, studying the root network in her hand. With her other hand she coaxed a worm out and watched it curl lightly around her finger. She studied the worm intensely as if she could see right through it—squishy guts and viscera laid bare on her table. And then she turned that chilling stare onto him. "There's only so much time in the world. Try and get along with your wife. Women have the capacity to make your life miserable, and you hers as well."
Samwell held his breath against those green eyes, not speaking until she diverted her focused attention away from him. He could have sworn his knee twitched as well. "You're trying to divert the question," Samwell eventually said. "You don't really think this is a good idea."
"It'll work." Alysanne stood back up, shaking the dirt off but keeping the worm cradled in her hand. "Everybody has their part to play in this story. I'm just stepping up front stage for once."
"What do you need me to do then?"
She pinched the worm by its end between her fingers. Samwell watched it squirm as she slowly added more and more pressure on it, until it popped. He hid his flinch at the gray stain on her hands. Inside to out. "A meeting."
"What?" Samwell was still focused on why she'd killed a worm. Which was strange, wasn't it? He'd literally killed men on the battlefield—people with wives and kids and family and dreams that they were supposed to go back to, ended at his blade. Why was this so jarring?
"I need you to call a meeting of all the minor Lords and the commanders. Tell them it's a war meeting or something. Conferring about how they'll handle the Tullys when we arrive at Riverrun's gates tomorrow."
Samwell nodded. He could do that.
Alysanne paused; Samwell wasn't sure she would continue until she did. "And Samwell?"
"Listening."
"Put a bag of apples in the tent. I need to go and get Roland."
That made him raise an eyebrow. Why on Earth did she need a bag of apples? "No need to get him directly, is there? You can just call him to the meeting."
"He'll get me the sacrifice I need beforehand. Power doesn't come for free. The Old Gods always want equal exchange."
A sudden thought struck Samwell like a flash of lightning, crackling and leaving his mind twitchy with fearful suspicion. "What animal are you sacrificing? I could order one from the camp kitchens. Chicken? Cow?"
His sister grinned, almost feral and uncontrolled. The expression cut across her face as if a knife had sliced across and ripped a wound open. And then it was gone, stitched up behind that ever calm expression. Samwell didn't know how to decipher it.
"Everything is as the Gods will it."
...
Oscar Tully II
The next time Oscar got to see anybody was about a week after they'd taken Stone Hedge. From what he'd heard—which was very little to begin with—the Blackwood army was to march for Riverrun on the morn. All the news he received was from the group of servants assigned to his caring; he'd chat with them when they brought food, asking about their days or about the weather or about what was to happen to him.
He only ever got answers to two of those queries. Three guesses as to which ones and the first two guesses didn't count.
He swallowed the last bite of his bread—slightly stale, but certainly passable. When would someone be visiting? If it was anybody, it would likely be the bastard and Oscar didn't particularly want to see any of his captors, thank you very much. Except maybe to ask them whether he would be going with them to Riverrun.
Well, at least the only good part of being a prisoner was that it meant any marriage proposals for his hand were postponed for the foreseeable future.
It was a decent trade. Freedom for freedom. The Gods were funny like that. Oscar was almost tempted to not escape if presented the opportunity. Make sure Kermit's all set up and the war is over—then, get Kermit married to some dainty lady (not Alysanne Blackwood anymore, of course) before hightailing it off to Essos and fighting his way to glory.
Oscar could see it now. He'd make a name for himself in the wars the Free Cities always fought. Starting low, but working his way up until he had enough money to form his own Company. Like the Winter Roses or whatever those exiled Northmen called themselves. He didn't remember the name, not really; it was what they stood for that resonated with him.
A chance for something of their own without Father's beady watchful eyes peering over his shoulder. A place where none of his secrets would matter, not if he could just fight well enough. Besides, Essos was much more lax with—
A clatter of something being knocked over jerked him out of his thoughts. Then, the sound of shattering glass. He creaked open the door to his room. Oscar nodded in deference at the two guards standing at the exit of the corridor—this had once been the Bracken family wing but now it was no more than a prison block.
His comfy prison block at least, he corrected himself. Much better than if the Blackwoods had kept him in the dungeons, as one might do to a hostage. Though in truth, he wasn't quite sure what he was. No bargaining had happened with Kermit—at least, not that he knew. Maybe he was here as a threat, to make sure Kermit did nothing. That was action, he supposed.
Oscar knocked on his neighbor's door, footsteps light against the rug underneath his heels. No response. He glanced around him in the wait, purposefully not looking behind him at the guards with their sharp swords and gleaming armor.
Just refuse to look. He could feel the coziness, the midday sun shining through the window onto his face, the plush yellow rug under his feet, the peace he felt with every deep breath. In. Out. In—
The thud of a heavy object toppling to the floor boomed out, breaking whatever quiet he might have found. Then, a man's angry scream and the sound of a slap, which quickly had Oscar yanking open the door.
"Lord Bracken!" were the first words out of his mouth. Humphrey Bracken stood over his wife, hand outstretched in a clear admission that he'd hit her. Even now, Oscar could see the red handprint forming on Lady Bracken's face. "What are you doing?"
That was a stupid question. Oscar had literally seen what he was doing.
Evidently, Humphrey Bracken—was it still Lord Bracken if he'd been dispossessed of his castle?—found the inquiry as dumb as Oscar had, because his face twisted into a scowl, fat jowls jiggling and belly heaving. "Boy! These are my rooms!"
Technically, they're now Lord Blackwood's. But Oscar didn't say that. He didn't have a death wish. Instead, he looked at Lady Bracken, who was now cradling her wounded cheek with a gentle hand. He extended a hand to help her up but pulled it back as she flinched. "My lady, are you alright?"
Lady Bracken did not react to his words, eyes wide and unfocused. "You can't take the comb, you can't. It's all I have left. All I have left…"
"Silence, woman!" Humphrey Bracken said, kicking at his wife—who was still on the floor. Oscar rushed over to stop the man by holding him back, but he was still a growing boy and the Bracken must have had a hundred pounds on him. The push back as a response sent Oscar tumbling backwards into a nearby cabinet.
This wasn't going to work by himself.
"Guards!" Oscar cried, not taking his eyes off of Humphrey Bracken and his poor wife. One gone mad and one cruel as cruel could be. Were Oscar to get married—forcibly—he wouldn't abuse her, no matter how much he would resent her.
That was a stupid thought. Get it together.
Not a moment later did the guards peer through the door, eyes first wide in surprise and then narrowed in suspicion. "Get Lord Blackwood," one of them said to the other. The guard who stayed held Humphrey Bracken back at sword point, forcing him to get away from his wife. Oscar sat down onto the floor, a good distance away Lady Bracken and the sharp weapon in the room.
It would make sense that the Blackwoods' should be so furious; it was hardly good bearing upon themselves to have their hostages maim each other under their 'supervision'.
The clattering of three sets of footsteps back should have been the end of it, but when Oscar looked up at the door, he saw not Lord Blackwood—but the two people who had made him a hostage in the first place. Lady Blackwood—Alysanne, as she'd told him to call her for some strange reason—and the bastard. Why was she here? Violence was no war for women to fight.
Her green gaze was piercing even as it lingered on his person for only a moment—he was an afterthought here. It landed on Humphrey Bracken and stayed there singularly. "This makes the choice significantly easier then," she murmured nonsensically.
"Odd choice," the bastard—Roland, if he recalled correctly—replied. "Too noticeable."
"There's a reason why the families of Westeros have stayed lords and kings for so very long. It's in their blood. Smallfolk, well…"
"Not in name, but in blood?" Oscar could almost feel the tangible hope in the bastard's question. Odd.
"Nobody will miss a wife-beater. Least of all his family." Alysanne nodded at the guard, addressing him with an order. "We will be taking him from here. Lord Blackwood has asked for the ex-Lord Bracken to be brought into the woods."
The guard nodded, sheathing his sword with his eyes still fixed upon the Bracken.
"And the children?" Lady Bracken suddenly asked. "What of the children?"
Alysanne pursed her eyebrows. "What of the children? They stay here with you." And then she turned that needle-sharp stare upon him—she knew of all his secrets already, but it was then that he wondered how exactly she'd found everything out again. He'd been subtle. He'd been discreet. It wasn't fair. "Come with," she said with a smirk.
Oscar blinked at her. "Pardon?"
"You're heading into the forest with us as well. Better you understand what you're dealing with so you might convince your brother to lay down his arms." She said it so matter-of-factly, as though she already knew whatever Oscar saw would convince him.
And with that, knowing and reminding himself that he was still a hostage, not matter how decently they treated him, Oscar nodded and stood to follow.
...
Samwell Blackwood VII (2)
Alysanne arrived with two more people than Samwell expected. She brought with her Roland, the Tully boy—who had on a pair of shackles upon his wrists, and a blithering Lord Bracken, escorted at swordpoint by Roland. The extra inclusion filled his stomach with a weighty dread. With narrowed eyes, he said to Alysanne, "Tell me I'm overthinking this."
"Religion has always been your forte," she said instead. She dusted off her black dress—nowadays it seemed that all her dresses were black. He'd once assumed it was to show her devotion to the side they were nominally on, but black hid bloodstains the best.
The Tully boy's eyes darted from left to right, from Alysanne to Roland to the Bracken. They hadn't told him either—in a detached way, Samwell saw the wisdom in bringing him. It would irreparably scare him into being a believer and convincing Kermit. It was the right thing to do, as much as Alysanne revealing her place to the commanders would be…
"This can't seem right," Samwell said, pleaded. "Surely there's another way."
"Big miracles require big sacrifice. And the big players play big games." Then, Alysanne laughed—shoving Lord Bracken down by the foot of a tree. Just a normal tree—not a weirwood—only a moment's away from the stump he'd used to practice. There the lord cowered, Roland pushing his sword to only a finger's length away from the Bracken's face.
"Stop squealing," the bastard grumbled—which did not stop the Bracken.
Alysanne continued on. "I never read up on the proper way unfortunately. The gods don't care too much, as long as they receive what is owed."
The proper way? Samwell thought back to his own studies. She can't be asking me to tell her how to do a blood eagle, can she? That memory he'd had all those years ago flaoted to the front of his mind like a ghoulish spirit digging its claws into his brain. "This can't be what the Gods want."
"Don't tell me what the gods want, Samwell!" Alysanne snapped. "I imagine I know better than all of you what they expect from me. I do what must be done…" Her voice trailed off at the end into a whisper, so much that Samwell knew it had to be from remorse. That was it. She did feel remorse at what had to be done here, but it was for the Gods.
(And if it had to be anybody—Samwell shot the Bracken a look—the Gods could scarcely have chosen better than a wife-beating Bracken.)
Even so… "I—I'll have no part of it," Samwell said. "I'll stand over here then. With the Tully." With a rough hand on the boy's shoulder, he dragged them both backwards. Samwell took a step back, and then another, until his back was flush against a great oak. The rough bark against his coat and skin made his back itch. He could feel the tenseness of the Tully boy's shoulder—and gripped tighter in case he tried to run.
"Craven," Roland scoffed, before pulling a wicked dagger out of his tunic. Its sheath was made of steel—and the blade inside gleamed the same as Alysanne took it.
"What is going on?" Oscar asked. He stared at the dagger with a gleam in his eye Samwell could only ascribe to fear. Without anything else to clue him in, he wouldn't have known, would he? Nobody ever knew—that had been the whole point.
"Watch," was all Samwell could say—and he saw the horror dawn on the boy's face—in the eyes of a boy who'd not only never seen the light of the Gods but was watching a human sacrifice. Samwell pushed down the guilt festering in his chest and held the boy's head up to watch. The boy didn't even think to close his eyes when it happened—when Alysanne gut the man from neck to sternum.
Samwell made sure the boy saw the power and nature of the Gods—keeping his eyes on the Tully all the time, keeping his gaze on anything except what was happening. Only after the gurgling and pained noises and sound of tearing flesh stopped did Samwell actually look upon the scene.
Then, he looked away immediately, swallowing down the urge to vomit. Intestines and viscera littering the trees like a macabre flower arrangement. And those lifeless eyes.
And Alysanne's hand in the Bracken's chest, digging around bloodily for what he imagined was the man's heart. A crack-snap rang out, akin to stepping on a twig—but Samwell knew it was a rib.
If this is what the Gods desire. If this is what the Gods desire.
A rustling of fabric clued Samwell in to Alysanne standing up. He turned back around, finally dropping his hands from the Tully boy's face. He stared directly at his sister then at Roland—who looked giddy and oddly apathetic respectively. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth was curved in a small smile, like she was savoring a good meal.
Samwell felt the words form on his tongue—the accusations, the retorts, the frantic screams. Instead, with more calm than he thought he could muster, he heard his mouth ask, "Do you need anything more from me?"
"The meeting," Alysanne said.
"What?"
"The meeting with the commanders," she prompted, eyes still closed. She rubbed at the corner of her right eye, leaving a drying smear of blood like a wing of kohl. "To tell them."
"Right," Samwell replied after a moment of pause. "They're expecting you in an hour or two."
Roland stood there, silent as the grave. Not speaking—and Samwell wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he spoke. This can't be what the Gods want! This can't be what is meant for Alysanne, is it? It was different with animals. Samwell could have rationalized that, but this? That was a Lord, even if he'd been a Bracken.
You could only then see the sacrifice for what it was: a payment in kind.
As Samwell turned to leave, janky footsteps caused by his own disbelief—Alysanne's control seemed to still be perfectly fine and why was that?—his sister called out again. "Samwell. Leave the boy."
Samwell stared at the Tully, who himself was still frozen in shock at the viscera of an offering to the Gods, and sighed. He was too tired to care, frankly—let Alysanne do as she would. Let the Gods do as they would.
"Clean up before the meeting," Samwell said, shaking his head, though why precisely, he could not know.
He didn't want to know.