297 AC
Mordaena Solel had never seen a more beautiful sight.
Her babe, Yesenys, nursed gently on one breast, making hardly a sound. "Chill," Domeric called their firstborn, which Mordaena found apt. There was much of the North in this one. The people here were not so free with their feelings, stolid, even grim. The little one hardly ever cried. She would feed, and sleep, and soil her swaddling clothes, then do it all over again, day and night. The moon had waxed and waned since the blessed day their daughter came into the world, and Mordaena found herself almost shocked at the rate she was growing.
"You were just a little thing," she said softly, though her daughter paid no mind. "How big will you get, I wonder?"
The birth had been easy, thank the gods. Her mother, the courtesan men called the Lady of Sparrows, was known for her wide hips, and Mordaena had them too. With the crisp, clean air of the North and plenty of foods healthful to a woman great with child, the birthing bed proved hardly a trial at all. Ah, and Domeric's strong seed, one mustn't forget. A warrior like him would give her many strong children.
It was too early to tell much about the coloring. The eyes of babes changed, and they all come red and squalling. Well, mayhaps their babes would be as varied as Prince Oberyn's.
Yesenys loved music. Domeric would play the gentlest, sweetest melodies just for her, making his high harp with the silver strings sing a lullaby. Whenever he played for them, the baby's young eyes grew unfocused and soon closed. Sometimes, Mordaena herself would doze while her child was nursing, even somehow shifting her from one breast to the other whilst unconscious. Her body knew what to do, even napping.
Much honor had been done her, with Prince Oberyn and Domeric's beloved aunt presenting her costly gifts: silk and jewels and spices. The Sand Snakes from Obara, oldest and fiercest, to Obella, a wisp of a girl, attended her often to coo at the babe. Though warriors all, they had women's hearts. Mordaena could tell.
One such visited her this morning, while Domeric was in the yard. Lady Nym was tall and slender, lighter than her father, the prince, as one might expect from the old blood of Volantis, who were scions of Valyria before the Doom. If Mordaena could call any of the Sand Snakes friend, it was her.
"You wear motherhood well, my lady," Nymeria Sand told her, so courtly and correct. She withdrew a dagger from her Bolton Bag and used it to cut up an apple. They had many a barrel from when a trader out of Oldtown called at the mouth of the Barrow River. "Would you have a slice?" she offered.
"Thank you, no. My love brought me breakfast in bed, you see." She indicated the tray sitting off to the side. "He had a carpenter knock the little table together, made special to stand over my lap."
"Domeric loves you well," Lady Nym replied. "None of us have managed to seduce him, though not for lack of trying."
This, Mordaena knew full well. She would not begrudge her man the pleasures of another woman's bed whilst she healed, but he would have no other. Such loyalty was lovely, but he was promised to Alyx Frey and would wed her in a few short years. A concubine must not stand in the way of the wife, nor even a lover. Lady Nym was worthy, more than worthy. They could love for a little while. Much love had bloomed in Barrow Hall, now that she thought on it. Lady Dustin would wed the prince, and fierce Obara big-nosed Jack.
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Poor Tyene, fair and lovely, would never know her man, but mayhaps Lady Nym would serve. "We both know why you're here, my lady. If you would have more approval, you do."
A slight blush darkened the Dornishwoman's olive cheeks. "I am two and twenty, Mordaena, and have known other men, but none have ever moved me such as yours does. Strong and fierce, aye, but also kindly, especially with Elia. Our father taught us all to fight, but I think Domeric is more patient. Some girls bloom better with a patient hand, and our 'Lady Lance' has an ambition to ride in tourneys. Mayhaps she'll find her path as his squire. I think he would prove a fine father, and my body craves him; I'll not deny it." She looked down at sleeping Yesenys. "Ah, and they say the 'baby sickness' is catching. Well, if so, I fear I have it."
"Domeric should be praying in the godswood at this hour. I think Yesenys could do with some fresh air as well. Come then, and let us speak before the gods."
Mordaena was careful not to jostle her daughter when she rose from the bed. Maester Glendon found them on their way.
"My lady, a bird from the Redfort," he said. Mordaena thanked him and took the roll of parchment to Domeric at his prayers, Lady Nym following.
They found him before the heart tree, which had been festooned with the bodies of criminals. Headless corpses, hanged with lengths of hempen rope, dangled from the branches of the white weirwood, their lifeblood drained into the damp earth.
"This is my daughter," he said to the god with the face that bled red sap, the god of earth and wood and water. Domeric drew her close and kissed her on the brow. "Yesenys Solel is her name, the first of many, I hope."
"My love," Mordaena spoke up to get his attention, "a bird from the Redfort."
"Huh, it's been a while since I wrote them." He took the roll of parchment from her and broke the seal. "A tourney," he read aloud, "at Strongsong. They say the mountain clans war amongst themselves, spilling much blood. Many of the lords have driven them from their strongholds in the high places. There has been many a harvest, gone completely unmolested. Lord Belmore holds a harvest tourney to celebrate their good fortune. All the best knights of the Vale will be there. Alas, I can't leave you in this state."
Mordaena frowned. That would not serve. "You can," she corrected. "It is a short journey ahorse down the Kingsroad and up the High Road. Yesenys and I will keep. You will take Alesander and Elia for your squires. Mayhaps Obara will wish to stay close to Jack. Aye, and Lady Nym."
Domeric looked over her shoulder, where he couldn't fail to see Nymeria Sand, who was a head taller than her. "My lady," he greeted her with a slight bow. His eyes narrowed. "Is this what I think it is?"
"Yes," Mordaena answered steadily when it seemed Lady Nym grew tongue-tied. "You cannot keep to my bed forever. I haven't healed from the birth. I would have you share your tent with Lady Nym and get a child on her. She is my bosom friend, and such a thing would displease me not at all. Let her warm your bed of a night, and mingle your blood with Prince Oberyn's."
"You're serious." He sounded surprised.
"Quite. I'm not your wife, Domeric. What we have is different. What you will have with Lady Nym shall be different still. She will return to Dorne in time, with your baby in her belly, if the gods are good."
He still looked unsure. "And what do you want, Nymeria?"
The lady, so elegant and composed most times, swallowed nervously. "Just what Mordaena said, Ser Domeric. I'm getting to be about that age. I want a babe, and I've never met a worthier man." She looked down, going quiet in thought. "See there? Two white weirwood saplings are growing, sprouting up as we speak. Plant your seed in me, and I'll plant them in Dorne. One in Sunspear, and the other at Skyreach. I'm very close with the Fowler twins, and they will not deny me."
That must've been the right thing to say. Mordaena watched as the castle walls behind Domeric's ghost-grey eyes crumbled into dust.