Alyx III

Mordaena and the hairdresser were arguing in rapid Braavosi about the best way to style Alyx's hair. Though Alyx spoke it oft with her mother, she found she could only catch every other word.

"...the curls, you see?"

"I see, but we must have layers. It would be better to trim and tease..."

On and on they bickered. Some of the baby weight had come off Mordaena, but she was still quite plump. Even so, Alyx had heard Domeric was already visiting her bed again now that little Yesenys had a full-time nursemaid.

Meanwhile, Alyx smiled at her reflection in the looking glass. It was silvered and clear as crystal, as high as she was tall. There was only one glass so fine to be had in all of Myr. For her special day, no expense would be spared. Grandfather himself had made the journey, coming up the Neck in a litter accompanied by half a hundred aunts, uncles, cousins, and half-siblings. The Dreadfort was full of Freys. How not? This was the highest-profile match her house had made since Genna Lannister.

Eventually, the argument ended; the hairdresser, brought over special from Braavos, and Mordaena came to an uneasy accord. With a teasing comb and tiny silver shears, they nibbled at her ebon ringlets. Alyx's hair was rather unique, about halfway between her mother's tight kinky curls and her father's straight black. Watching them at their work in the looking glass proved amusing.

"You will be a surpassing beauty this day, I vow," Mordaena declared stoutly. Though a concubine, she was the first of Domeric's loves, and Alyx and Lady Nym oft took their cues from her in matters social. Mordaena was a master of the courtesan's art of charming conversation, learned from her mother, the Lady of Sparrows. In many ways, it was she who held the family together while Domeric was away at war.

There was hardly any jealousy, though holding little Yensenys, her betrothed's darling daughter, made Alyx crave a baby of her own fiercely. Nymeria, too, usually so skinny, had a gigantic belly, though the maester said she had a few moons yet to go.

It will be my turn soon, Alyx thought. This night, mayhaps. She was between the floods, the perfect time. If the gods were good, she would give Domeric the first of many trueborn sons, a strong boy with those ghost-grey eyes she loved so well.

Once her hair was as it should be, it was time to dress. Her mother, dark Betharios Frey, formerly of Braavos, and Domeric's aunt Barbrey, brought forth her gown. It was blue velvet, slashed with cloth of silver, with long, dagged sleeves. The fringes and collar were trimmed with Myrish lace and sable. Late summer in the North was brisk and chilly, so she'd be grateful for the fur. The older ladies helped her lace up the bodice. Alyx watched it all, bemused, as the looking glass told all.

Always a big-boned girl was Alyx Frey, with broad shoulders and a thick waist. When her moonsblood came, and she flowered into womanhood, her breasts grew heavy and her legs long. They named her fat-titted cow, her jealous cousins, and even "aurochs" for her height and build. Alesander, her knightly brother, had grown into a bull for true as he rode in battle at Ser Domeric's side. Alyx was cast in the same mold, though a womanly one. Now she stood a head taller than even her lady mother. She was almost of a height with Domeric himself.

It was to the good, she decided. Their sons would be big and strong, and their daughters robust and fertile. Mordaena's babes would be Solels, after the Braavosi fashion, and Domeric's paramour Lady Nym would have Snows. It was only she who could make baby Boltons. Domeric's father, Lord Roose, had only the one son and was not like to have more. Filling the Dreadfort with children would fall to her.

The gown made her bosom look even larger than usual, and the smooth fabric clung to her flared hips. When she twirled before the looking glass, the skirt fluttered pleasingly. This would be the last day she wore Frey colors. A lifetime of pink lay ahead.

Mother wept softly as she put a few final adjustments on the dress. "My son a knight and my daughter lady of a great house. It was more than ever I dared to dream, Alyx."

"And Brad's a squire!" little Arya Stark piped up, making everyone laugh, even Mother through her tears. She was one of Domeric's ladies too, though not in that way. "He's a good fighter."

"I'm pleased to hear it, child," Mother said kindly.

Ser Elia, the warrior woman, came next. She bore a box of jewels. All the ladies took their turns bedecking her, helping her into rings and hanging a heavy chain around her neck. To finish, Lady Barbrey presented her with a silver circlet.

"See here? It's studded with pink diamonds, rubies, white diamonds, and sapphires, the colors of Bolton and Frey. You will shine today when you wed my boy."

When she said "my boy," the lady's voice grew thick, for she regarded Ser Domeric as a mother regards her son. Barbrey set the circlet lightly over her curls, careful not to spoil the hairdresser's work.

Last of all came Meera Reed, whose father Domeric liked well. She gave a gift of beautiful shoes of tooled lizard lion leather with two-inch heels. They fit like a dream, comfortable and easy to walk in. With these, she would be perfectly eye to eye with her husband.

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Once all was prepared, Alyx left her chambers, flanked by all her ladies. Mother was there, and Lady Barbrey Martell, Mordaena Solel, Bethany Bolton, Domeric's solemn mother, Lady Nym, Meera Reed, Elia, and Arya. Father waited at the base of the stairs and fastened a Frey maiden's cloak about her shoulders. She took his arm, and they made their way to the Dreadfort's godswood. A light layer of snow carpeted the land, crunching under the heel of her new shoes. Bright afternoon sunshine reflected off the endless white and was caught in her jewels. The circlet became a halo when Father took her before the god.

Ser Domeric was waiting in pink finery, attired as fitting a warrior petty king of the first men. His supple boots were lizard-lion leather, dyed bright as burnished copper. His cloak was a shadowcat pelt, and there was a stylized flayed man in red rubies stitched into his pink doublet.

Half the Freys were waiting there, and all the North, it seemed. She could hardly look; so bright was the glare of sun on snow, but when Mordaena gasped in pleasure, Alyx peered up through slitted eyes.

There, upon the heart tree, whose smile bled red sap, must've been thousands of scalps hanging from the limbs and branches. They decorated the white weirwood as streamers or ribbons might decorate a lord's pavilion. How many battles must he have won to take so many? They called her love the Scalp-Taker, and only now did Alyx truly comprehend the title.

The god is smiling down on us, Alyx thought with a shudder. Such a sacrifice must be more than pleasing to the gods.

From there, all was but a blur. Father presented her, and when she knelt before the god, Alyx clutched Domeric's hands like a woman drowning in bliss. She wanted to savor every moment, but the moments passed too fast. Before she knew it, there was a Bolton cloak upon her back, and it was done.

She hardly recalled being led to the great hall for the wedding feast. The only words she could hear were her brother's. "She wore blue velvet~" sang Alesander, a song writ just for her, for this day. The tears came, and Domeric kissed them away. Many delicious dishes were brought forth, but Alyx could hardly taste anything. There was a fluttering in her stomach that no food could quench.

The people drank and danced, and came to give congratulations. Lord Stark's son came with his Dornish bride and a wolf like Arya's. "Father and Mother deeply regret they could not attend," he explained. "My lady mother has taken the younger children to Riverrun, and my father holds Winterfell while I guest here. There must be a Stark in Winterfell; he always told me."

Domeric did not seem to mind. "Please tell Lord Stark I wish him well. There will be guest gifts for your mother and sisters you might take back to them." The boy thanked him profusely, and Jynessa Stark as well. That one really liked feeding the wolf scraps under the table. "I like those wolves quite a lot," he told Alyx once Robb Stark went back to his place on the dais. "Arya's Nymeria is very smart and trainable. She'll be an incomparable asset in battle."

Alyx took a sip of wine and snorted. Even here, at his own wedding, Dom thought of wars and fights. Well, it was the Bolton way, and she was a Bolton now. Guest gifts and hospitality were another thing he took deadly seriously. Every lady got another bag, the earliest of the 299 models, which was still a few turns of the moon away. It seemed to go against merchant sense to be so generous with gifts, but sales were not affected at all. She'd seen the ledgers. One free bag sold ten or more.

Wine and a bit of food settled her nerves, and reality washed over her. This was real, and soon...

"The bedding!" a drunk man shouted, and before she could blink, the whole hall was calling for them to be put to bed. Had the feast lasted so long? It seemed hardly any time passed at all.

Jack-o-nose was present to make sure no drunken hands tore her good velvet when the men carried her off. He also made sure her costly jewels were all accounted for. Obara did the same duty with the women.

Her body was inflamed, but not by ribald jests. Alyx had been waiting for years, she realized, waiting and wanting. Once they were alone, with a good thick door between them and their leering guests, she could see Dom's body was lean and hard, corded by supple sinews. A killer's body. Domeric moved faster than any man she'd ever seen. At times, when she watched him in the yard, her eyes could hardly follow his movements. As she breathed and blushed, Alyx remembered a saying she'd had from Mordaena.

"There's nothing so handsome as sharp steel."

This man was sharp steel. He said not a word. She wanted him. He wanted her. That was plain.

He took her.

Alyx Bolton's world shrank. There was nothing but this bed. Them. Us.