"I've often heard that women fight above the throat," Jaime quips, leaning some against a glass standing. Glancing into it and studying the mounted, ornamental blades and their fancy hilts, golden casing, tassels, and briefly his own ghost-clear reflection before looking back at her. "But I can't say the sentiment takes physical blades into account."

Words and insults, the kind of daggers assigned to glaring, poisons consumed. The work of the female, typically.