294 AC
"There's nothing so handsome as sharp steel," her mother told her once. Only now, across the sea, did Mordaena Solel truly comprehend those words.
They called her the Lady of Sparrows, queen of courtesans, the beauty of Braavos. Men opened each other up with bravo's blade and dagger, spilling their lifeblood upon cobbled streets, just to have a sigh from her or gaze into her deep, dark eyes. Her father, Alandro Solel, had been the finest young sword in the city at that time. Small wonder she was born of their union.
"I accepted your father's seed as much for blood as coin, little one," Mother said. Father slew a dozen men in duels and earned the right to sire a babe on the Lady of Sparrows. The story always thrilled her to recall. Now she had a killer of her own.
Domeric Bolton had a sweet voice and sweeter steel. Father had much good to say of him after they watched him compete in the Westerosi game of war. When he stuck the big dumb knight with his own dagger, she let out a gasp of pleasure.
"I would not fear to leave your protection to him, dear daughter," Father said, munching on roasted nuts with all the rest. "He is swift and sure, even with all that heavy iron weighing him down."
"So you approve of my pale suitor?" she teased. Of course he would approve. Father would never refuse her anything.
"I can read maps as well as any man. It would not be as it is in Braavos, with buildings packed so tightly they must lean on one another. Your beau is heir to leagues of land, broad and empty. A swift horse could not run from one side to the other in a week's time." His tone grew serious. "You see how easily he had one hundred gold dragons from the lord of runes? One day of riding would be enough to keep you in luxury for a year. I should call myself a foolish father to deny you such."
"And songs of a night," Mordaena added fondly. "He can sing in High Valyrian too, and I've been teaching him the tongue of our city. I should like to spend my days here, cold or no, he'll keep me warm."
"And this of the lizard lions, there is sense to it. We have discoursed at length how dainty bags would win a lady's favor."
"I shall have the first!" Mordaena declared happily. "My man is but young, yet already rich and fierce. He'll give me strong babes, I know. If his father should insist he wed, what of it? His heart shall belong to me. Am I not the daughter of the Lady of Sparrows?"
"You are at that, child," Father agreed.
***
The lord of the red castle was sad to see them go, as well any might be. In Braavos or elsewhere, a voice like her Domeric's was rare. Even so, once her man said his vow before his god of the wood, he insisted there was urgent business in his family's lands. To her surprise, Lord Horton refused a small share of Domeric's gold, which she appreciated.
More to spend on me.
They departed with an honor guard of twenty knights to see her man safe to his kin. There were wild men in the mountains, they said, and the road was perilous. Her father would join them with some of his workers. Lizard lions could be found on the way, in a place called the Neck. Once there, they would take a few. Domeric assured them that a tannery could be built upon the Barrow River, which belonged to his mother's sister. She had lands as vast as his father's. How lucky could a girl get?
Every day they rode, and every night they listened to sweet song over the fire. She and Domeric shared a bedroll of a night, but did not lie together, not fully. That would have to wait until her father gave her formally into his hands. Yet stealing a kiss was nothing, and the press of his hard, strong body made it easy to slip away into dreams. More and more, Mordaena realized the wisdom of her mother. "There's nothing so handsome as sharp steel."
When they passed the gate of blood, Domeric and the other knights grew warier. He kept his mail on at all times, and eyed the ridges above with a suspicious glare, watching for anything amiss.
Other girls might find it fearful, but the prospect of a battle thrilled her! The custom of these lands, where a knight's lady would favor him with a token, touched upon a deep desire hidden in her heart. Duels among the bravos had their charm, but Mordaena wished for war. Let her man slay not a paltry dozen, but hundreds, men in steel, not silk. She spoke such secret words to Domeric, shivering in his arms with the moon above. He declared she would have her heart's desire. Her token was still in his possession, and any foe he slew would be in her name. Aye, and as many handbags as she could wish, silk, velvet, and jewels! He would write songs for her, new songs, with melodies never heard before in these lands. They would dine on delicacies, not stinting on the spice, and she would live in a castle, not a garret above a canal. Her sons with him would be soldiers, and her daughters wives to rich merchants, or even knights.
Could any girl be luckier than Mordaena Solel?
Her dreams came true the very next day. Domeric's horse snorted and grew agitated. He ordered their archers to string their bows. This proved wise, for savage, hairy men in skins came pouring out of the high places, both fore and aft. Her man drew steel and ordered her to the ground in a harsh voice.
"MORDAENA!"
Her name was his battle cry! That horse of his was red as blood, biting and kicking. Domeric's blade bit as well. With silver slashes, he cut down one ragged man in skins, and then two more. Even huddled upon the rocky road, she gasped with every gout of blood!
This was a bold big warband that assailed them, who dared combat with a score of knights, but her man counted for twenty more. His archers of the red castle shot the straighter, quickly silencing the wild bowmen on the crest of the ridge and the few pelting them with rocks from above. That seen to, Domeric put spur to horse and charged!
"MORDAENA!"
The chief of these men was mounted on a skinny garon, and Domeric met him blade to blade. Their swords kissed once, then his red horse did a spin like a dancer, kicking two men who tried to come behind him. He came about with a spinning slash that bit deep into the arm of the chief, who screamed in pain, a high scream that carried in the pass. With a final stroke, Domeric took his head.
Out of the corner of her eye, Mordaena could spy her father, bravo's blade in hand. He stuck two of the wild men, who collapsed, clutching their bellies.
Once Domeric had slaughtered the foes in front, he quickly scanned the field for her. Their eyes met, and he knew she was safe and happy. That seen to, he reversed course and charged to the rear, outpacing the Redfort knights at his side. He careened into the enemy like a war galley at flank speed, slaying with sword and kick of horse alike.
Mordaena heard more than she saw: steel on steel, steel on flesh, and the screams of man and horse. Domeric was everywhere, riding to where the press was thickest, dealing death and singing a song of steel and blood. She loved him.
She loved him.
It was a fearful thing to realize, but her prayers to her mother's goddess of courtesans had been answered. Sometimes girls get their wish.
Like the last chord of a love ballad, Domeric cut down one final man, and the only sounds left to hear were the moans of the dying. He checked on her once more.
"Are you well?" he asked in Braavosi, and she loved him all the more.
"Yes!" she answered in the common tongue. Mordaena vowed to learn his words as well as he learned hers.
"Good. Our archers shot down the ones trying to flee. I don't think any got away." He drew a small knife from his belt. "Would you care for some trophies?"
"More than anything!" she answered in excitement. Domeric helped her to her feet and then knelt over one of the ragged men he cut down. "This is a flaying knife. You might call it the trademark of my house."
"Trademark?" she asked in confusion.
"Like a maker's mark," he explained. "We flay men, we Boltons. I thought to make a gift of their scalps to you. Would that please you?"
Her giddy smile was answer enough, and Mordaena watched with pleasure as he cut around the dead man's hairline. Up close, the savage looked skinny and underfed. Mayhaps they attacked from desperation and not boldness. Well, dead was dead. With careful cuts, Domeric finished his work until he could lift the scalp away by the hair, leaving a bloody bare head behind.
This, he did, for half a hundred corpses. Domeric didn't slay them all, of course. His knights and her father did their part, but the scalps would all belong to her. With every one added to her collection, her love for Domeric grew.
"Oh, what's this? He's still alive," Domeric said when he took a youth by the hair.
"Mercy! Mercy!" the boy cried.
For a moment, her man considered the boy, then he smiled slightly. "I know just what to do with you," he said happily.
"Mercy!" the lad repeated, the words loud and strong though he was bleeding from at least two wounds.
"Can you walk?" Domeric asked.
The youth found he could, and stood before them.
"Looks like you're the sole survivor, my friend. Seems today is your lucky day." Domeric took up his shield and pounded it once, making the boy jump. "See here? See the flayed man painted on the shield? To attack that is death. Attack the flayed man, and your scalp belongs to me. Go. Spread the word."
The wild youth nodded furiously and limped away.
Once he was gone, one of the knights of the red castle spoke up. "Letting him go was not a kindness, Ser Domeric. Like as not, a shadowcat will take him."
"I didn't mean it as a kindness," Domeric answered. "He only needs to live long enough to send a message. Come along, let's get back on the road."
She couldn't resist kissing Domeric then. There was blood on his face, though it was dried and she couldn't taste it; the red made him look all the handsomer in her eyes.