297 AC
Before they left for the tourney, Domeric's Aunt Barbrey organized a goodbye feast with trestle tables set up right there in the godswood.
Dusky Sarella Sand, who was the most inquisitive of her sisters, had been studying his master's gods. Every day she came to the godswood, but not to pray. Rather, she measured the trees with a length of knotted string, recording her findings in a ledger daily.
"Why does blood make them grow?" she asked, puzzled. Alesander noticed she'd hardly touched her food. "There's salt in blood, and all know that's bad for growing things. Why does blood feed the old gods?" She bent down and touched one of the white-barked saplings that had sprouted under one of the hanged criminals. Any man whose head was separated from his shoulders by Lady Dustin's justice fed the gods with his blood, and the effects had been strange indeed. Alesander could swear the heart tree's expression had changed since the last time they came here.
"The gods are everywhere, Sarella," his Ser explained. "They're in every field and every stream, every rock and tree and acorn. They're in the food we eat and in the air we breathe. They're in us, and in death we return to them." His voice got quieter, more remote, sounding almost like his creepy father. "Oh, yes, and they can bring us into being, for their own purposes. Life is one great web, and who's to say where it's all going? The weirwoods are not the gods, just their faces. We see only this little bit above the surface. None knows how deep the roots go."
"But blood!" Sarella almost shouted in frustration. "Why blood? It shouldn't be. How can trees grow so fast? It doesn't seem natural."
"Blood is life and light, sweetling," Prince Oberyn explained. He refilled Lady Ellaria's goblet from a flagon of wine he'd taken from a serving girl, and then turned and did the same for Lady Dustin. "You will learn this when you go to the Citadel, if that is still what you mean to do. The archmaester with the mask of Valyrian steel knows where to find the choicer tomes."
The bookish daughter drained her own goblet in one swallow, and filled it again. Her face was pinched as if the wine were sour.
***
They left behind the Lady Mordaena and her babe, as well as Sarella, who wanted to study more. Lady Dustin and the prince had a wedding to plan, but most of the Sand Snakes rode with them. As for himself, Alesander never paid much attention to the septon when he was a boy at the Twins. His mother said the time was better spent on sums. He wasn't quite sure if he must take his Ser's gods for his own, but Alyx surely would. There would be no sept at the Dreadfort when Domeric was lord, of that Al was quite sure.
They heard Ser and Lady Nym coupling in their tent every night. Al was quite used to it, since Domeric did the same with Lady Mordaena. When he looked at Elia, his fellow squire, "Lady Lance" gave him the rudest look he'd ever seen. "Don't get any ideas, Al!"
He wasn't! Honest!
The only thing he liked about Elia Sand was sharing the workload. They cared for Ser's horses and took turns scouring his mail. Other than that, she was a menace. When it came to riding at rings or tilting at quintains, she was so good it shamed him. Alesander got a bit of revenge when it came to wooden swords, for he was much bigger and stronger than her. Even so, there was small honor in swatting at a girl, even one as unnatural as Elia Sand. The only time she ever had a civil word to say to him was after a song. Ser warned him his voice might be changing soon, and if Alesander's father were any indication, his voice would be deep. He might lose the ability to sing some of his familiar songs. Best to use his boy's voice while he could.
Obara and Jack-o-nose also shared a bedroll, and it drove Tyene Sand quite mad. She started lying with the soldiers at random, changing men like breeches. None said aught against it, none dared.
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No one who grew up in the Twins could be a stranger to what men and women got up to at night, but it still made Al a bit uncomfortable. Tyene looked so innocent, but somehow was the most wanton of them all. It was the "Dornish way," Ser Domeric explained to him the day they stayed at the Crossroads inn. The innkeeper was a fat old woman who chewed sourleaf, staining her teeth and making it look like she was bleeding from the mouth, but she had extra applecakes for Al and Elia, so she couldn't be all bad.
Everything changed when they turned east and started climbing the High Road.
"Keep your mail and helms on at all times," Ser ordered. "Hone your blades and keep them loose in their scabbards. We keep double watch, starting now. The last time I passed through here, the wild men attacked, even though I had a knightly tail."
The first day nothing happened, nor the second, neither. But on the third day, an armed man was standing athwart their path.
Ser drew steel at once, making the rest of them do the same. He and Elia shared a look. "I've never been in a battle before," she said, sounding almost frightened.
"Me neither," Alesander answered her.
Jack and Obara each had charge of the flanks and were examining the ridgeline for an ambush.
"Who are you?" Domeric demanded.
The man took off his iron halfhelm, revealing himself not to be a man, but a comely youth, mayhaps a few years older than Alesander. He had a shadowcat pelt for a cloak and a shirt of rusty ringmail underneath. "Would you be the Scalp-Taker?" he asked. "Your shield has his mark."
"Recognize my sigil, do you? Yes, I'm Ser Domeric Bolton, the knight of the flayed man. Now tell me who you are."
The youth bowed slightly. "Domeric Scalp-Taker, I am Conn, son of Coratt, chief of the Shadowscalps. We fight in the way you taught us."
Domeric looked down and examined him closely. "Would you be the boy I spared? The last survivor from that battle?"
"Aye," Conn answered. "I was once a Stone Crow, but you wiped out most of the men of my clan in a single battle; never has such fury been seen in these mountains. I took the lesson. You fight like a shadowcat, swift and smooth, cutting and killing like a dance. We try to fight like you, Scalp-Taker, and take scalps." He reached for his belt, and Elia tensed. "See here? I've wound together a belt of scalps, all the enemies I've killed. We war with the Moon Brothers and Burned Men, taking many a scalp. Have you come to lead us to glory?"
Ser considered him a moment. "Who are your gods?"
"I can take you to our sacred grove, Scalp-Taker. We hang the choicest scalps from the branches!"
Domeric's shoulders relaxed instantly. "So you keep the true gods. Very well. I have some business at Strongsong, but after that I should be glad to fight with you. How many men do you have?"
"Five of dozens, fighting men who have taken a scalp from a dead foe, half again as many boys who have not. We Shadowscalps are a new young clan, but every one of ours is as fierce as a shadowcat. Under the mark of the flayed man, we cannot be defeated!"
"Very well," Ser agreed. "When the moon turns, we'll meet back here. Scalps we'll take in plenty, and we'll bring live prisoners to your sacred grove. The gods are hungry. I'll show you."
Conn blew a horn, and men on shaggy garons came riding down out of the hills. They raised their weapons, chanting: "SCALP-TAKER! SCALP-TAKER! SCALP-TAKER!" One of them brought Conn a horse of his own, and the youth rode off with them.
The party watched anxiously as the Shadowscalps rode out of sight. If the wild men had attacked in force, Alesander did not doubt Domeric's victory, but not without losses.
"He was sooooo handsome!" Tyene blurted out.