297 AC
Domeric Bolton stepped over the crude barrier they tried to create, nothing more than a waist-high pile of rocks and sharpened stakes that weren't terribly sharp. For this, he wore his full suit of plate, coming on this mountain fastness like some demon out of hell. The terror it caused was worth bearing the extra weight.
"It's him!" someone shouted, then a youth, more of a boy, really, tried to stick a spear in his belly. It didn't even have a metal tip! They were down to wooden sticks with fire-hardened points. When his pointy stick failed to penetrate the flayed-man breastplate, the boy had just enough time to realize he was dead before Domeric raked a sword across his throat. The wildling did not fall immediately; instead, he ran in the other direction, frantically clutching the spurting gash across his neck. Soon enough, his blood pressure cratered, and he lost the strength to stay upright. Dom stepped over him just like the wall.
He felt a bit like Darth Vader, just plodding forward with no sense of urgency and batting away attempts to hurt him with contemptuous ease. They seemed to move in slow motion as he cut them down, though they were in ragged skins and he in complete steel. The ones who followed took scalps from the fallen, no doubt to lie and boast to his fellow clansmen of all he killed by himself. Domeric did not begrudge them their trophies. He'd long ago lost track of his own scalp collection. Was it over one hundred? Surely, it must be by now. This was the third tribe they managed to corner in one of their rude shelters, cut into the mountainside itself.
The very young and very old were already long dead. Beardless boys stood in his way, and not for long. It was nice to get some practice with a longsword again. Dom was used to fighting men in armor and generally preferred the lance or battle axe. He found himself feeling thankful for his squires. It was they who would have to hone his blade after he'd abused the weapon, cleaving so much meat and bone.
Three youths formed a human barrier, standing shoulder to shoulder and sealing the cave's mouth with their bodies.
I'll make a game of it, he thought. Could he kill all three before they could touch him? He made a false step, stamping on the ground and feinting high with his sword. All three reacted, clutching their weapons above their heads to ward off the blow. Instead, Domeric went low, slashing one boy's inner thigh where he knew the artery was, and opening up another's belly on the backswing. The third one didn't even have time to react as Domeric stepped forward for real this time and thrusted the point of his longsword through the wild boy's heart. He twisted once and withdrew the blade.
Some Shadowscalps were on them before they even died, pushing and shoving for the right to scalp a still-breathing foe. Man, they'd really taken this whole scalping thing to heart. It was basically their culture now.
The women and children did not even have the strength to cry as he forced his way inside over the corpses of their sons and brothers. Skeletal women and dirty, naked children with distended bellies were all that remained. Some lay still, maybe dead already. Domeric didn't even know which clan this was supposed to be. Moon Brothers? Milk Snakes? Burned Men? In the end, it made no matter. They were gone.
"SCALP-TAKER! SCALP-TAKER! SCALP-TAKER!" the men cheered at his back. When he looked over his shoulder, he realized there were far more dead bodies than he remembered making himself.
"We'll handle these, Scalp-Taker," said one of their clansmen, Morf, Domeric thought his name was. Those women and children who survived would be merged into the clan. He was glad for that much mercy.
Domeric studied his squires. Both Al and Elia looked lean and hard now, seasoned by months of war in the mountains. There was a coldness in their eyes, the unmistakable coldness of real killers. In dozens of small battles, skirmishes, and ambushes, they'd collected many a scalp as well. It was a harsh thing to put a teenager through; the two hardly bickered anymore, though. Rather, they stayed close and learned to rely on one another. It was a harsh world, and Domeric couldn't protect them forever. It was better if they saw reality early.
"Ser?" Al asked. Elia just stared quietly.
"Let's go back to the Moonfort," Domeric said. "The mountains north of the High Road are pretty much picked clean. Let's see how Conn is doing to the south."
***
The Moonfort was an ugly, squat tower of rough-hewn stone that commanded the whole southern plateau of the mountain range. It'd taken two months to build and was only big enough to house one family plus servants. But to Conn and his Shadowscalps, it seemed like a palace. Conveniently, the sacred grove of weirwoods was within a day's journey. The place didn't have much, but there was a kitchen with an oven, so they could have fresh-baked bread to go along with their salt beef.
"How did harrying the south go, Conn?" Domeric asked when he found the young man eating on the ground floor. They'd managed to assemble a small table and passable chairs out of fresh-cut timber, even without a proper carpenter. There was a fire roaring in the hearth. In late summer, it was chilly at this altitude in the evening. Once night fell, it would grow even colder.
Tyene Sand was sitting on the warchief's lap, giggling like a schoolgirl. Conn really did clean up nice. With decent grooming and a few months of having enough to eat, he could pass for a male model. Conn, son of Coratt, had perfect teeth, high cheekbones, and dark blue eyes that smouldered in the light of the fire. Plainly, Domeric could understand the Sand Snake's infatuation.
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"You were right, mighty Scalp-Taker," the man said. "After we used your plan of starvation and squeezing, they tried to flee into the low valleys." He smiled triumphantly, showing off those perfect white teeth set in a well-formed angular jawline. "I know every place where we used to come down from the high places to raid the Andals. My men were waiting, and many a scalp was taken. We've made permanent camp at those chokepoints you spoke of. Nothing gets in or out. They starved. They died. Soon or late, there will be only one clan, and their scalps will belong to us. I have already hung hundreds from the boughs of the heart trees to glorify the gods!"
Domeric smiled at the thought. They would have to visit the grove and give thanks. "Good. Now you know how to fight and how to win. Your Shadowscalps have steel, and I've been training the ones under me. They get better with sword and spear all the time."
Conn fed Tyene a strip of roasted meat off the tip of his dagger. "Your woman is wise, Scalp-Taker. She makes sure my men do not hunger, even as we strip the mountains bare. We've never eaten half so well!"
He meant Alyx Frey, not Lady Nym, who shared his bed on campaign. His bride-to-be was in charge of logistics and planning, coordinating everything they needed from her chambers at the Gates of the Moon. Domeric could honestly say he was looking forward to marrying her. She was beautiful and smart, and, most importantly, had the right sort of mindset for where he wanted to take House Bolton. Thanks to her Braavosi mother, she understood mercantile matters and how to use their family's assets to best advantage. Speaking of which...
"I need to talk to that prospector." Domeric stood up from the table.
"The one who digs and sifts? I can hardly understand him," Conn said.
"He will make much wealth for us, my love." Tyene gave Conn a kiss on the cheek. "Once these mountains are ours, mining will be the root of our wealth.
Ours, she said. Domeric chuckled. She'd latched onto Conn; that was plain, already planning their future and everything. "Listen to Tyene, Conn. You remember when I explained to you what the king's peace was? Once there is only one clan, and you are lord of the high places, you can't raid the Vale anymore. You will send metal down, and food, wine, women, and wool will come back up to you. It's called trade. Tyene, make sure he understands 'trade,' please."
Having her as Conn's "handler" might work out best for everyone. She would be just the lubricant they needed to smooth the transition into joining the wider realm. When he left them, Tyene was whispering in Conn's ear, a hopeful sign.
Wonder of wonders, Alyx had found a Braavosi prospector, a man most knowledgeable in ores. He came up to the Moonfort on a donkey wearing purple velvet. When Domeric approached, he raised his head. "Back from your warring against the barbarians, Ser?" Imeco Oranis had a sardonic smile on his face as he sat on a bench and played with something Domeric couldn't quite make out between his fingers. He actually looked more Lyseni than anything, with his deep blue eyes and pointed silver-gold beard. Dom wondered if he was teased as a child.
"Yes, Master Oranis," he answered in Braavosi. "You have good news for me, yes?"
"These lands are rich in copper and lead," Oranis declared cheerfully. "With proper investment, large-scale extraction could begin within the year."
Domeric's face fell. "Is that all?" He'd been hoping the Mountains of the Moon might at least have iron.
Imeco Oranis stroked his beard, and his smile only grew. "All? My lord of Westeros is not familiar with copper and lead, I take it?"
"They're useful enough metals, I suppose, but pretty common, aren't they?"
The Braavosi just laughed at him. Was it something he said? Domeric forced himself not to say something in anger or reach for his sword. A couple of days ago he was stacking bodies. Once killing became a habit, it was hard to break, even for petty slights. Alyx had gone to a lot of trouble to find this guy. He'd let it slide. "You going to let me in on the joke?" he asked sourly.
Oranis' laughter tapered off after a moment. "Since my lord's lady is of mine own city, I shall be merciful. Here." He pressed a small rock into Domeric's hand.
"What is it?"
That smile grew wider. "Look closer, Ser."
He thought he saw something glint as the sun was setting; it looked like...holy shit! "Silver?" Domeric could barely breathe.
"There is a technique, Ser," Oranis said in a self-satisfied tone. "Heat ore of copper or lead in a crucible until it flows like water, and you can separate liquid silver from it. These are fine ores you have in your Moon Mountains. Much silver, I deem. It is no Casterly Rock, I grant you, but wealth is here, so swears Imeco Oranis. We shall all grow very rich if you can keep the wild men away."
Killshot, Domeric realized. Every mountain Conn cleared would attract miners seeking their fortune. A silver rush would squeeze the mountain clans into nothing. The main thing was making sure House Bolton would get a share. He'd have a talk with Alyx once he came down the mountains.