Tom makes spitting noises when some of his vines are cut, but more roots and branches emerge to hold Alain upside down in a spread-eagle, to immobilize him in a torture rack of wood and leaves and earth. The grass beneath Alain's head seems to grasp upwards hungrily for the blood that splatters and sprays across it. Tom laughs, a cruel, ugly sound.

"Well done, lass." He lowers a bough of soft leaves. "Wipe your face. You don't need to watch his death rattles, I'll make sure he won't go anywhere."

Another branch emerges to rest at the small of Arya's back in a gentle, guiding touch, urging her to turn her back on the man writhing and bound in the last throes of mortality.