LITMIR.BIZ

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A pair of widowed aunts. Nieces, nephews, cousins. I had thought you might consent …”

      “It must be a child of your blood.”

      “Bethany is only eight. A gentle girl, full of laughter. She has never been more than a day’s ride from my hall.”

      “Why not let her see King’s Landing? His Grace is almost of an age with her. He would be pleased to have another friend.”

      “One he can hang if the friend’s father should displease him?” asked Lord Tytos. “I have four sons. Would you consider one of them instead? Ben is twelve and thirsty for adventure. He could squire for you if it please my lord.”

      “I have more squires than I know what to do with. Every time I take a piss, they fight for the right to hold my cock. And you have six sons, my lord, not four.”

      “Once. Robert was my youngest and never strong. He died nine days ago, of a looseness of the bowels. Lucas was murdered at the Red Wedding. Walder Frey’s fourth wife was a Blackwood, but kinship counts for no more than guest right at the Twins. I should like to bury Lucas beneath the tree, but the Freys have not yet seen fit to return his bones to me.”

      “I’ll see that they do. Was Lucas your eldest son?”

      “My second. Brynden is my eldest, and my heir. Next comes Hoster. A bookish boy, I fear.”

      “They have books in King’s Landing too. I recall my little brother reading them from time to time. Perhaps your son would like a look at them. I will accept Hoster as our hostage.”

      Blackwood’s relief was palpable. “Thank you, my lord.” He hesitated a moment. “If I may be so bold, you would do well to require a hostage from Lord Jonos too. One of his daughters. For all his rutting, he has not proved man enough to father sons.”

      “He had a bastard son killed in the war.”

      “Did he? Harry was a bastard, true enough, but whether Jonos sired him is a thornier question. A fair-haired boy, he was, and comely. Jonos is neither.” Lord Tytos got to his feet. “Will you do me the honor of taking supper with me?”

      “Some other time, my lord.” The castle was starving; no good would be served by Jaime stealing food from their mouths. “I cannot linger. Riverrun awaits.”

      “Riverrun? Or King’s Landing?”

      “Both.”

      Lord Tytos did not attempt to dissuade him. “Hoster can be ready to depart within the hour.”

      He was. The boy met Jaime by the stables, with a bedroll slung over one shoulder and a bundle of scrolls beneath his arm. He could not have been any older than sixteen, yet he was even taller than his father, almost seven feet of legs and shins and elbows, a gangling, gawky boy with a cowlick. “Lord Commander. I’m your hostage, Hoster. Hos, they call me.” He grinned.

      Does he think this is a lark? “Pray, who are they?”

      “My friends. My brothers.”

      “I am not your friend and I am not your brother.” That cleaned the grin off the boy’s face. Jaime turned to Lord Tytos. “My lord, let there be no misunderstanding here. Lord Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Sandor Clegane, Brynden Tully, this woman Stoneheart … all these are outlaws and rebels, enemies to the king and all his leal subjects. If I should learn that you or yours are hiding them, protecting them, or assisting them in any way, I will not hesitate to send you your son’s head. I hope you understand that. Understand this as well: I am not Ryman Frey.”

      “No.” All trace of warmth had left Lord Blackwood’s mouth. “I know who I am dealing with. Kingslayer.”

      “Good.” Jaime mounted and wheeled Honor toward the gate. “I wish you a good harvest and the joy of the king’s peace.”

      He did not ride far. Lord Jonos Bracken was waiting for him outside Raventree, just beyond the range of a good crossbow. He was mounted on an armored destrier and had donned his plate and mail, and a grey steel greathelm with a horsehair crest. “I saw them pull the direwolf banner down,” he said when Jaime reached him. “Is it done?”

      “Done and done. Go home and plant your fields.”

      Lord Bracken raised his visor. “I trust I have more fields to plant than when you went into that castle.”

      “Buckle, Woodhedge, Honeytree and all its hives.” He was forgetting one. “Oh, and Crossbow Ridge.”

      “A mill,” said Bracken. “I must have a mill.”

      “Lord’s Mill.”

      Lord Jonos snorted. “Aye, that will serve. For now.” He pointed at Hoster Blackwood, riding back with Peck. “Is this what he gave you for a hostage? You were cozened, ser. A weakling, this one. Water for blood. Never mind how tall he is, any one of my girls could snap him like a rotten twig.”

      “How many daughters do you have, my lord?” Jaime asked him.

      “Five. Two by my first wife and three by my third.” Too late, he seemed to realize that he might have said too much.

      “Send one of them to court. She will have the privilege of attending the Queen Regent.”

      Bracken’s face grew dark as he realized the import of those words. “Is this how you repay the friendship of Stone Hedge?”

      “It is a great honor to wait upon the queen,” Jaime reminded his lordship. “You might want to impress that on her. We’ll look for the girl before the year is out.” He did not wait for Lord Bracken to reply but touched Honor lightly with his golden spurs and trotted off. His men formed up and followed, banners streaming. Castle and camp were soon lost behind them, obscured by the dust of their hooves.

      Neither outlaws nor wolves had troubled them on their way to Raventree, so Jaime decided to return by a different route. If the gods were good, he might stumble on the Blackfish, or lure Beric Dondarrion into an unwise attack.

      They were following the Widow’s Wash when they ran out of day. Jaime called his hostage forward and asked him where to find the nearest ford, and the boy led them there. As the column splashed across the shallow waters, the sun was setting behind a pair of grassy hills. “The Teats,” said Hoster Blackwood.

      Jaime recalled Lord Bracken’s map. “There’s a village between those hills.”

      “Pennytree,” the lad confirmed.

      “We’ll camp there for the night.” If there were villagers about, they might have knowledge of Ser Brynden or the outlaws. “Lord Jonos made some remark about whose teats they were,” he recalled to the Blackwood boy as they rode toward the darkening hills and the last light of the day. “The Brackens call them by one name and the Blackwoods by another.”

      “Aye, my lord. For a hundred years or so. Before that, they were the Mother’s Teats, or just the Teats. There are two of them, and it was thought that they resembled …”

      “I can see what they resemble.” Jaime found himself thinking back on the woman in the tent and the way she’d tried to hide her large, dark nipples. “What changed a hundred years ago?”

      “Aegon the Unworthy took Barba Bracken as his mistress,” the bookish boy replied. “She was a very buxom wench, they say, and one day when the king was visiting at the Stone Hedge he went out hunting and saw the Teats and …”

      “… named them for his mistress.” Aegon the Fourth had died long before Jaime had been born, but he recalled enough of the history of his reign to guess what must have happened next. “Only later he put the Bracken girl aside and took up with a Blackwood, was that the way of it?”

      “Lady Melissa,” Hoster confirmed. “Missy, they called her. There’s a statue of her in our godswood. She was much more beautiful than Barba Bracken, but slender, and Barba was heard to say that Missy was flat as a boy. When King Aegon heard, he …”

      “… gave her Barba’s teats.” Jaime laughed. “How did all this begin, between Blackwood

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