Chapter 223

Knights laughed unrestrainedly facing the cold wind of the valley beside a barren hill.

A young Tyrell officer, his hands bound in iron chains, crouched miserably before their horses, bewildered and nervous as he glanced around at the enemy cavalry.

He must have been bewildered, how he had so quickly gone from pursuer to captive; even Rica felt it dreamlike.

Following the she-wolf, they led a small cavalry unit to hover endlessly near Hearthwood, observing or harassing the Tyrell-Bolton allied forces, and precisely loosing feathered arrows at any enemy who dared show his head outside the camp.

When Bolton and Tyrell dispatched large detachments of pursuers, they turned and retreated, luring the pursuers along, then reversed direction and flung their bows and crossbows backward. Shrieks and the sounds of falling horses continually came from behind, while the pursuers dwindled in number.

Everyone knows the she-wolf's swordsmanship is superb, but her archery is no less impressive; along the way Rica had never seen her waste even a single arrow.

In the repeated horseback chases, the commanders of the Tyrell and Bolton armies finally realized that ordinary pursuit tactics would not work against her; after losing two squadrons of nearly a hundred men each, they at last dispatched large bodies of cavalry to approach from all directions.

Rica felt that, had she not been wary of the youths' lives beside her, she might already have launched a countercharge against several reckless Tyrell horsemen.

In this endless game of role‑swapping cat‑and‑mouse, they taunted the enemy forces; this novel and daring tactic had already made the escort cavalry beside them scream with excitement.

They played from morning until noon; at the very last moment they seized the opportunity, launched a counter‑charge, and knocked the leading Tyrell officer from his horse; when the pursuers fell back and then surged forward again, two riders calmly scooped up the officer and flung him onto an empty mount.

The process was enjoyable, but their arrows had been exhausted, leaving no way to continue the game; Rica had not expected to reap a captive at the game's end—a pleasant surprise.

"What is your name, ser?" the she-wolf said, and they rode their horses slowly in a circle around the prisoner.

"Damn, it's a woman!" he exclaimed, head raised in dismay, his eyes tracking the she-wolf as if only now recognizing the leader of this cavalry, "You are Maege Stark!"

"Correct, ser!" the she-wolf laughed lightly, "Don't look so astonished; the mud on your coat of arms hides your identity, so I could hardly guess who you are, nor would it astonish me much—you still haven't answered my question."

"Rolan Rowan," the prisoner replied listlessly.

"Rolan Rowan, are you a knight?" the she-wolf halted her warhorse, leapt down, and drove the prisoner back beneath a stone hill, "A scion of House Rowan?"

"Lord Mathis Rowan is my uncle," the prisoner gazed at the she-wolf, one hand already behind his back, "Ser Garland Tyrell personally dubbed me a knight."

"With such a noble status you shouldn't do foolishness," the she-wolf pulled his hand free, drew the dagger hanging at his waist together with its sheath, brandished it before his eyes, then hefted its weight, "This dagger is not bad. You could sell it for a good price."

The dagger was wholly golden, shaped like a golden root, its hilt fashioned of perforated metal resembling deliberately left rootlets; Rica could not tell whether it was solid gold or gilt, but the metal had been polished to a bright sheen, and she thought it likely the former.

"Do you lack gold?" the prisoner, relaxing his tension, grew calm, "My uncle will ransom me."

"Your uncle can ransom you only after he has my consent."

"So will you consent?"

"Let's see if you have any other use!" the she-wolf drew the dagger and gestured at his throat, "You weren't asking whether I lack gold, were you? The Freys have collected centuries of tolls and already sent them to the North." She smiled brightly, "Ser, you should know the North is vast and empty; hauling prisoners on march is most inconvenient, and you are merely a distant nephew of the earl, not his son; besides, the North is far from… well, where is the Rowan earl's domain? Anyway, the North is too far from the Riverlands, so dealing with someone like you would be both troublesome and burdensome. You don't know that the scholars of Winterfell highly prize ravens that can fly to Oldtown; they would hardly want to waste their few black birds on gold."

"I can ransom myself," he said, pulling at the chain on his hand, "If you release me to return, I can bring gold or any other treasure you desire to the North, or more conveniently, deposit the gold in the Oldtown bank and have a note sent north."

"Save it, ser, do you think I'm that easy to fool? If a Rowan ser were that wealthy, why would he march with the host to the North?"

"I can swear on my knighthood."

"You could swear on anything else, but here in the North your Seven Gods trinkets are useless."

Rica felt she liked hearing such words.

"I am not swearing by the gods; I swear by my honor as a knight."

"Ha, that's even funnier—what honor do southern knights have nowadays? Your Frey allies, Walder Frey and… they're knights too; do they have any honor? Oh, and your regent, Jaime Lannister—Lady Catelyn released him; do you see him observing honor?"

"I am not like them; I am a Rowan, not a Lannister or—"

"Ser, what I value is not your honor, nor your surname," the she-wolf raised her voice, lifted the dagger in her hand, and shouted to the surrounding cavalry, "Do you know where the great Rowan earl's lands lie? Whoever gets it right, this dagger is his!"

"Oldtown!" a soldier shouted.

"Is that Highgarden?"

"Highgarden!" another soldier answered.

"More foolish—that's Tyrell land."

Rica clutched her head, regretting she hadn't studied more; she felt the name on the tip of her tongue, yet no matter what she could not utter it.

"Casterly Rock," "Storm's End," "Dragonstone," "Eyrie"—the castle names they shouted grew ever more numerous, yet also ever more absurd.

Rica had to admit that House Rowan was truly obscure.

The absurd names came one after another; finally all the soldiers burst into laughter, having utterly abandoned the question—and also the beautiful dagger.

"You heard it—no one in the North cares about the prestige of Lord Rowan, nor about House Rowan and its kin."

"Perhaps I need no ransom; you have only how many men, thirty? Maybe the Bolton and Tyrell armies will soon surround you. You broke from the host and pressed this far—surely you have no supplies?"

"Perhaps, perhaps, you don't know how many of these stock phrases I've heard, but you are sharp," the she-wolf rested one hand on her sword, "If supplies run short, I would have even less reason to keep a useless prisoner."

"Then tell me, what do you want me to do?"

"Good!" the she-wolf shoved the dagger back into his groin, patted his shoulder, "I have seen many banners in the camp, but not a single twin-tower flag." Maege put away her smile, returned the dagger to its sheath, "Solve this puzzle for me, and you may be sent to White Harbor—you may choose to sail or swim."

"You're asking where the Freys have gone," he said with a smile, "What if I can't answer? Swim?"

"Then it's a pity. Lord Rowan will lose an insignificant nephew, I will end a boring conversation; in short, the South will lose one excellent knight who values honor and promise, while the North will gain a rotting corpse awaiting decay—given this cold, if no beast finds it, your body will be preserved until spring."

"You've won, she-wolf; I hope you too value knightly honor," he straightened his body, faced her defiantly, "Why not? The Freys are whores; last time they split, they chose to march west, and now they may be preparing to sneak across the White Knife—ha, perhaps they want to learn your trick of attacking Twinspire!"

Hearing this, Rica felt she almost screamed, and instantly her scalp began to prickle.

"The Pools' estate lies north of Winterfell, on the west side of the Kingsroad; if the Freys were to sneak across the White Knife, they could not possibly pass by the villages along the way untouched, just as Bolton does to the villages on his route."

He hastily turned his gaze to the she-wolf.

"Where are they, and how do they intend to cross the river?" the she-wolf wiped away her smile.

"I am not familiar with the North; that is not my aim, I have long forgotten the name." He seemed to be admiring the she-wolf's new expression, "As for crossing the river, heh, the Freys have lived by the banks for only a few short centuries—enough for them to learn how to cross; moreover, I have heard the White Knife is far gentler than the Green Fork, and now it is winter, I do not think a river is that hard to ford."