"And just as Daenys foresaw the end of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men. 'Tis to begin with a terrible winter gusting out of the distant north. Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds. And whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living. When this great winter comes, Rhaenyra, all of Westeros must stand against it. And if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. A king or queen strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and the dark. Aegon called his dream 'The Song of Ice and Fire.'" - Viserys I Targaryen
Summary: "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." But what happens when a lone wolf yearns to truly live before dying? Trapped between her noble birthright and the impending army of the dead, a daughter of Winterfell finds an unexpected refuge in the fierce and untamed Tormund Giantsbane. Their connection forces her to confront the woman she is versus the woman she could be, if only she dares to want more than revenge.
Rating: Mature/Explicit
Category: F/M
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, mentions of past trauma and violence (canon-cypical), descriptions of grief and vengeance, explicit language, emotional turmoil.
Dividers: @firefly-graphics
Words: 13k
!!!English is not my first language!!!
The concept of death had become a constant term. At least for you. Death had been there, present in your life and in your family, since the very beginning. Like a cursed mark, it had always been there.
Father, mother, brother, uncles and aunts, loyal friends...
Death was no stranger, not a tale whispered here and there, nor a distant reality that made you wonder if and when it would happen around you. No, death was so present that you had almost grown accustomed to it at one point.
You yourself had caused a few.
Perhaps your political skills weren't as exceptional and (when convenient, especially) as pernicious as Sansa's. Perhaps you didn't wield a sword as formidably and lethally as Arya or Jon. And perhaps you weren't like Bran, who was...well, whatever he was now.
But the truth was, you used what you had at your disposal to make things happen, to bring vengeance to those people who had made the mistake of taking your loved ones away.
And you made sure they knew who was bringing death to them. Death was your pain and your retribution. And death would come for you too, eventually. It was the only certainty everyone could count on in life, even if most couldn't say when or how it would happen.
One way or another, death was an old acquaintance.
And that's why you didn't understand why, suddenly, the prospect of not surviving what was coming was distressing you so much. Putting everything into perspective in an annoying and inconvenient way.
The dead were marching towards Winterfell, and the armies were prepared — the last men from the Wall had already arrived, as had the remaining wildlings guarding Eastwatch. The warriors already had their swords sharpened and ready, the battlements in position, the catapults at their posts, trenches dug and reinforced.
You felt ready for a battle — The Battle. A battle that could start at any moment. Perhaps, if you were lucky, there would be another day or two to prepare. But maybe it would happen before dawn, in the next few hours. The men from the Wall said it would be soon. The anticipation was making you as sick as the increasingly real prospect of death.
It couldn't be fear. You weren't afraid to die — at worst, it would be a rest in absolute nothingness for you. At best, you would reunite with your loved ones, wherever they were.
It couldn't be fear that was keeping you so tense and uncertain.
You find yourself wandering, your fingers tightly gripping the wine goblet, wide eyes restlessly watching the people scattered throughout the great hall.
Despite the downright ominous cloud hanging over their heads, the men laugh as they eat. They drink ale and wine and speak loudly, as if this were an absolutely normal night.
Although the cold and snow are harsher than anything you've ever seen, the inside of the castle is filled with light and warmth, windows glowing and chimneys smoking — and you can't remember the last time you saw it so full of life. Which is, to say the least, contradictory, since death had never been such a likely outcome for everyone in Winterfell as it was now.
You wonder if it had less to do with them not fearing death and more to do with them being prepared for it.
Your eyes blink at the broad smiles on their faces, at the fierce gleam in their gazes, at the voices echoing loudly off the castle's grey walls. Out of the corner of your eye, you see that even Jon and the Dragon Queen are smiling at each other.
And, as you poke at a splinter in the large wooden table where you sit with your siblings and the Dragon Queen, a thought cuts through the confused fog of assumptions in your head, like lightning buzzing across a dark sky.
Perhaps they truly didn't fear death, because they had lived until now. They didn't want to die, of course, and they would probably fight as long as there was any remaining spark of energy in their bodies to avoid joining the Night King's army. But, in the worst (and most realistic, unfortunately) case of their deaths, they would be ready for it — because their lives had had some meaning.
Your lips part, and your heart feels too big for your chest as you sink, agonizingly slow, into that realization. You weren't afraid of death. You were frustrated at the thought of dying without having even truly lived to begin with.
What had you accomplished to this day, besides loss and vengeance?
Since the fateful day Robert Baratheon came personally to Winterfell to fetch your father, Ned Stark, to serve as Hand of the King in King's Landing, you had experienced nothing but pain and anger.
And then, when you finally return to the North and retake Winterfell, your home, alongside your siblings, ready to finally rest and at least try to find some sense of peace and satisfaction in life, the threat of death from Beyond the Wall emerges to put an end to that too.
You would die without having found any joy in life. Without having felt peace. Without having loved. Without having been loved.
As if drawn by a pulsating source of the feeling, your head turns to where Jon and the Dragon Queen are seated to your right. You watch them with a narrowed gaze, your heart beating painfully hard in your chest.
It's quite true that, despite the massive army of Unsullied, Dothraki, and the dragons — you, like every Northerner worth their salt, didn't know if you trusted the silver-haired woman.
But one thing had been evident from the first moment.
She loved Jon. Just as he loved her. The feeling shone in the way they looked at each other, as evident as the flames of a bonfire on a dark, freezing night.
You blink at the couple, feeling almost...
...jealous?
Gods, not that you didn't want Jon to experience that feeling. You were genuinely happy that he had found something good in this cruel and bloody world. Happy that he had loved and been loved in return, at least once.
But what about you? Would your entire life have been just an exhausting journey of deaths, vengeance, and duties?
You startle when Jon calls your name, your gaze quickly snapping up to him.
"Hey, are you alright? You've been staring for a while." He asks, tilting his head, one hand gently grasping your shoulder, his dark eyes narrowed with concern. Behind him, the Dragon Queen drinks some of her wine, violet eyes blinking slowly at you over the rim of her goblet.
"W-what? Yes, it's fine! I mean, as fine as it can be given the situation." You squeak, blushing at being caught in your stupid reverie, grabbing a slice of bread to disguise the nervousness bubbling underneath. "I guess I'm just not feeling very well, that's all."
Jon's expression grows even more concerned, worry evident on his pale features.
"What are you feeling? Should I call the Maester to see you?"
"Oh no, there's no need to bother the old man; the gods know he's probably filled his chamber pot twice by this hour and is snoring in his bed." You're quick to deny, rising from your chair in a graceful movement while trying to laugh, despite your nerves, to ease his worry. "It's just a bit of discomfort, nothing more. I just need some rest. I'll be in my chambers if you need me."
Jon barely blinks in the seconds that follow, staring at you with those big, dark eyes, as if he could read your soul. You subtly shift your weight from one foot to the other, wringing your hands in front of your body, trying to keep your face as impassive as possible under that gaze.
"Alright." He sighs finally, relaxing his tense shoulders, giving you a small nod of his chin. "But don't hesitate to ask one of the maids to fetch me if you feel you need anything."
"I will, brother." You agree with a forced smile, looking past his shoulder to nod slightly at the silver-haired woman. You don't wait for any response from her before turning your back on them, walking out of the great hall.
People laugh and slam their mugs on the table as you pass, nodding at you with respect and fierce pride — but you barely notice, too busy trying to leave the hall before anyone notices your state.
You stumble when you finally reach the corridor, feeling almost suffocated, as if your mind had been completely thrown off balance. It's ridiculous, and you have no idea where this untimely epiphany came from, you only know it's there and it seems to have come to stay. Suddenly it's as if...as if you were trapped, chained to duties and conduct, or something like that, but that's ridiculous. It's ridiculous. And yet...
You're so absorbed in your own feelings that you startle when you bump into someone else. Your forehead ricochets ungracefully off someone's hard chest, making you stumble backward with a humiliating sound of shock. Before you trip and fall, however, large hands close around your arms, steadying you.
"Easy there, little wolf."
You look up, your fingers frozen halfway to smoothing your sore forehead, your heart stumbling a beat in your chest.
Tormund Giantsbane stands before you, immense, his red beard wild and untamed like the very land he came from. His blue eyes stare at you with that curious and unsettling gleam — a combination of fire and ice that shouldn't exist, but burns nonetheless.
His hands still hold your arms, and you feel the heat seeping through your dress sleeves, as if his skin knew where you were cold and decided, unceremoniously, to warm you.
"You're looking like a deer surrounded by wolves, ironic as that may be," he comments with a lopsided half-smile, his voice too low and rough for the oppressive silence of the corridor. "If I were a suspicious man, I'd say you're running from something."
You open your mouth, ready to retort with your usual sarcasm, but nothing comes out. Because the truth is, he's right. And, worse than that, he saw. He always sees — with eyes that never pretend, that never disguise. Tormund may be crude, unpredictable, and inconvenient, but he is, above all, honest. And there's a part of you that envies that...fiercely.
"I'm not running. I just needed some air."
He lets out a small noise in the back of his throat. A sound that isn't exactly skeptical, but isn't agreeing either. It's a sound that strips you bare, as if saying: Lies aren't necessary between those who might not see tomorrow, little wolf.
You take a step back, but he still holds your arms. Lightly, but firmly. And when you look at his face again, you realize he's watching you as if he's waiting for something. A word. A gesture. A truth.
"You're not like them," he says, and for a moment, your mind races trying to understand if he meant the nobles, the soldiers...or the living in general.
"Not like who?" your voice comes out softer than you intended.
"Like everyone who pretends not to be afraid." He releases your arms slowly, as if the touch had been inevitable, but the absence was too. "You feel too much. That scares you, doesn't it?"
You take a deep breath, as if the air were thin. Tormund is too close. Not just physically, but emotionally too close, and that's what really makes you tense. It's what kept you away from the inconvenient and persistent man all this time. He speaks as if he could see things you yourself avoid facing. As if he could feel what's poorly hidden behind your pose of control and your lineage of ice.
"You don't understand," you say, shaking your head, and this time your voice has steel, has bitterness. "It's not that easy. I can't simply..." You wave your hand, as if you weren't even free enough to formulate the thought out loud.
"Because you're a Stark?" He understands and counters anyway, nearly knocking the air from your lungs.
"Because I'm a lady." Your reply comes out sharper than you intended, and its echo feels like a judgment in itself, something that sounds too loud in the empty corridor. Lady. As if it were a curse. As if it were a prison.
Tormund doesn't laugh, nor does he mock you — which was perhaps the most surprising thing, maybe even worse. He just looks at you for another moment and then says, with a seriousness you didn't expect from that loud, chaotic man:
"When the darkness comes and the dead are breathing down our necks, little wolf...it won't matter what they expected of you. It will only matter what you wished for and never had the courage to take."
Your chest aches, your eyes widen, and your lips are parted with an offended retort that never truly escapes. As if his words had struck a point you didn't know existed, a hidden corner between duty and emptiness.
He had always been inconvenient and sarcastic, a huge, crude man who never hesitated to say exactly what he thought to anyone, no matter how noble the person was. You envied how free he was with his own feelings, however irritating it was sometimes — which was most of the time, to be honest.
But now? His sincerity hits the icy walls around your heart, shatters the defenses carefully built over the years, leaves you as exposed and raw as a nerve. It's humiliating. Like a weakness that was always there, hidden and silent, yes, but blessedly a shame only you knew of. Until that moment...
But no more.
Now the damned Tormund Giantsbane knows it too.
"This..." you begin, steps unsteady and trembling as you stagger back, away from him and his irritating ability to see right through you. "This conversation...this...this never happened, do you understand? Just go your way and I'll go mine, wildling."
You turn before he can answer, walking with quick steps to your bedchamber, your breath catching in your throat.
You feel nauseous. Feet tapping through empty corridors, pressing the cold stone floor hard so you wouldn't turn around and do something stupid and reckless like go back to him...but you don't.
It was a familiar feeling to you, the pain of wanting something deeply but knowing it could never be.
When you reach your bedchamber and turn your head to look at the door to close it...there stands Tormund. Because of course he's there.
"Have you ever in your life listened to and obeyed a single thing anyone ever told you?" you ask breathlessly, frowning, your shoulders tense with frustration and anger.
Tormund is leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his broad body taking up more space than it should. He doesn't answer immediately. He just looks at you. His blue eyes are darker in the hearth fire and candlelight of the room, and the gleam in them...isn't mocking, as you'd expect from someone as undisciplined as him. It's quiet. Almost...careful.
And that irritates you more than any taunt.
"I do listen," he says finally, his voice deep and low, as if he didn't want to wake something that was already about to rise within you. "But I also see. And what I saw out there isn't something I can just ignore."
You shake your head, your fists clenched at your sides, as if that could contain the internal avalanche threatening to destroy you. "You saw nothing."
"I saw someone trying to hide a scream behind a pretty smile." He takes a step forward. Slow. Careful. As if you were a wounded wolf that might attack or flee at any moment. "I saw a woman who is tired of dying slowly just to seem strong and unshakable."
"You know nothing about me, Giantsbane."
"I don't know what you had for breakfast, if that's what you mean." He smiles, just one corner of his mouth. A stupid smile on his stupid bearded face. "But I know how to recognize when someone is about to shatter. I've seen it before. In men before battles. In women who lost everything. In myself."
You find yourself taking a step back. Not because you're afraid of him. You never were, to be honest, however chaotic and unpredictable the man was. But because you're afraid of yourself. Of what you feel. Of what you want. And of what you're about to admit, even if only in thought.
"What you're doing..." your voice is low, almost a whisper. "This is cruel."
He takes another step. Now he's inside the room. The shadows move around his broad shoulders as if the castle itself were breathing around his presence.
"No. Cruel is you continuing to pretend you don't want anything, little wolf. That you don't need anything." He stops a few steps from you, the air between you two thick, saturated with something that has no name. Something that is just body and heat. "But you do want. And I...I am here. And that won't change just because you said you can't."
You stare at him, feeling every beat of your heart like a drum inside your chest. You want to scream, punch something, run away.
But you also want to yield. You want to feel. You want...him. And that is unthinkable. Unforgivable.
"You don't understand...I-I am a Stark," you say, as if the name were a chain tied to your wrists, as if reminding yourself of that would bring back your sanity. "I cannot afford to want. To...feel, this way."
"Feel for me anyway." His voice is now a rough murmur. A grave, earthy thing that resonates right in your bones. "Let me show you, just once, what it's like to live. Before death comes knocking at our doors."
You are so close to him now. When did that happen? You don't know. Perhaps you were always destined for this moment. Or perhaps you're just…tired of denying the inevitable.
But then, as if something icy touched the center of your chest, reality returns, swift and cruel. You pull away, a sharp, almost trembling step, as if you had touched a live flame and been burned.
“No,” you whisper. And the word comes out like a blunt blade that cuts from within, tears irregularly and painfully. “It can't happen.”
Tormund raises a red eyebrow, the wild smile returning — slow and provocative.
“Can't?” He repeats, as if it were the funniest thing he's ever heard. “At this point in our lives, princess, do you really still care about what you can or cannot do?”
You turn your face away, your eyes burning wet, fists clenched as if holding a scream in your joints.
“You don't understand. I am a noble. And you…” your voice fails for a second, almost hesitant to utter the next words, knowing they weren't what you truly thought. But what did it matter what you thought, right? “You're just a damned wildling.”
He lets out a short, mocking laugh and scratches his thick, calloused fingers through his disheveled beard, as if he expected no less from you.
“Ah, there she is...there's the little wolf I know, biting with the right little teeth.”
“Tormund...”
“You want to know what I really am, pretty little thing?” He takes a step forward, his blue eyes sparking, crackling like the wood burning in your bedchamber's hearth fire. And, in that moment, you see how different you really are - there's something beyond mere numerical age in that gaze...there's the weight of experience, of burdens, of time. “I'm the guy who survived the cruel northern storm by eating rats and sleeping inside a dead bear. I'm the man who tore a wight's arm off with my bare hands while pissing in the snow.” He tilts his head, smiling with sharp, teasing teeth. “But if you think being a 'wildling' stops me from seeing the way you look at me...then you're blinder than a crow with no beak.”
You narrow your eyes, offended, confused about what, by the old gods and the new, he means, and...captivated? His controlled anger has a heat that invades, even without permission. And the way he speaks...so shameless, so raw. That's what drives you insane. That's what scares you.
“You are unbearable,” you murmur, your voice choked, the whole body trembling with the effort of not throwing yourself into the abyss he represents.
“And you are a liar,” he snarls back, low and rough, his large, tall body covered in leather and wild furs shadowing your much smaller, more delicate one. “Standing there with that voice of ice and that gaze of iron, but inside...inside you are burning, little wolf. I can feel it. Every time you pretend you don't want to kiss me. Every time you look at me as if you're ashamed of desiring what your people say is wrong.”
You look away, but he continues - he always continues.
“Let me tell you something, Princess of the North," he says the last part with a kind of amused disdain, as if it were a joke that never gets old you thinking you belong to the true North. "The world doesn't give a fuck about what's right. Nor about what's decent and proper. And it certainly doesn't wait. Not for nobles, nor for titles or permission. The world just takes. Tears away. Kills. And leaves you alone with the 'what ifs' echoing until your last breath, which, guess what? Might be much sooner than you thought.”
You stare at him, your chest heaving, your heart hammering against your ribs like a panicked prisoner. He is irritatingly articulate and coherent, far more than you would expect from any wildling, judging by the stories told.
“I can't.” Your voice is almost inaudible, a near-desperate whisper cast into the air. “Even if I wanted to...”
“You do want.” He says, firmly. Without hesitation. As if it were a truth as ancient as the winter that plagues the North itself.
You don't answer. You just stare at him with wide eyes and parted lips, your heart racing in your chest — and for the first time in a long time, you have no sharp reply, no excuse. Only silence.
He approaches once more, but doesn't touch you. Doesn't cross the final distance. He merely whispers:
“You know where to find me…if you want to know what it's like to be truly free before the battle against death begins.”
And then he turns and leaves, his footsteps echoing like muffled thunder down the stone corridor.
The door closes with a soft sound.
But inside you,nothing is quiet anymore.
---
You do not sleep.
How could you?
The war approaches like a creature with teeth of ice, growling in the distance, waiting for the right moment to devour everything. But, more than that, it's what had happened within the walls of Winterfell that keeps you awake — what he said, more precisely. What he made you feel.
You lie in bed, wrapped in soft, comfortable furs, but your whole body feels rigid, as if even the feather pillow had thorns. The chamber is almost dark, the embers in the hearth fire dying slowly, casting restless shadows on the stone walls. The hours pass, and your eyes remain stubbornly open, fixed on the ceiling. Fixed on him.
"Standing there with that voice of ice and that gaze of iron, but inside...inside you are burning, little wolf."
His words hammer in your head like a war drum. You turn over, pull the blanket up to your chin, turn over again. But there is no comfortable position when it is your soul that is restless.
Why did he have to say that? Why did he have to see something no one else saw...that no one else cared about? Why did he have to hit so true?
You hate that he's right. You hate even more that he knows he's right. He read you as if your skin were made of crystal, as if every crack were wide open.
And you are not used to being seen. Nor touched. Nor...examined in that way. Not at all, really.
You sit up in bed, your feet touching the icy floor. Your heart beats hard, frustrated and irritated. You think of everything you are about to lose: your siblings, your home, the peace you never had. You think of how you spent your whole life being everything they expected of you — noble, correct, cold, untouchable. How you mourned and fought tooth and nail for vengeance, even though you were too young for such things.
And you also think of how you never lived. Not really.
And now…now, because of a damned wildling who thinks he knows you better than anyone, it all feels like an even heavier burden than it already was.
You leap to your feet, your bare feet running across the stone floor. You grab the oil lamp with trembling hands, your thin, cold fingers slipping for a moment before managing to grip the iron handle. The flame rises, trembling too, as if it felt what was to come.
You throw a cloak over your nightgown, but not with the patience and delicacy of a lady. With anger. With haste. With fury. Your hair falls over your shoulders, loose and untamed after so much tossing and turning in bed. Your footsteps echo on the stone corridor as you cross the castle with a single purpose.
He is lodged in the east wing — where the less noble guests, the soldiers and foreigners who came to die together in this infernal battle, stay. The walls seem damper there, colder, if that was even possible. The air carries the smell of iron and smoke and doom.
You arrive before the door of rough, crude wood, coarser than those in the noble wing. And then you knock. One, two, three times. Bordering on impatience.
The door opens with a dry crack, revealing Tormund — hair disheveled, broad torso exposed, wearing only his wild leather pants, eyes slightly wide with surprise. The red beard looking even wilder in the lamplight.
"Look at that…" he says, blinking slowly, that damned mischievous smile forming. "The little wolf actually came."
You enter uninvited, pushing the door with your shoulder, your chin raised with indignant, petulant pride.
"You had no right to say the things you said," you blurt out, your chest heaving, the lamp shaking in your hand.
"Don't tell me you came here in the fucking middle of the night to tell me that?" He scratches the sparse hair on his defined stomach and gives you a slow once-over — from the cloak covering your body to the fire burning in your wide eyes. "Or did you come because you couldn't stop thinking about me?"
"You are unbearable, wildling."
"You've said that." He shrugs, walking to the corner table with a metal mug half-full of ale, or whatever horrible piss he drinks. "And yet, here you are."
"You messed with me, Tormund, and I want an apology!" Your voice rises, but it's hoarse with frustration, with emotion. "You...you made it seem stupid and wrong to be who I am. You scorned me for trying to do the right thing!"
He turns to you, finally serious, his intense blue eyes piercing yours like spears.
"I never said it was wrong to be who you are, little wolf. I just said you're pretending you're not something more."
"Gods, you are so dense! You just don't understand!" Your scream echoes off the cold walls. "I am a Stark! I was raised with rules, with expectations. I must serve my house, as is the duty of a noble lady. I have lived exclusively for that and for vengeance these past years. I...I never had the luxury of a choice!"
"You do now."
The silence after those two words is absolute. It cuts you deeply, leaves you breathless and stammering.
He takes a step toward you, and this time you don't retreat. Your body is tense, frozen, your eyes brimming with anger and frustration — not only at him, but at yourself. At everything.
"You think you can just show up and..." your voice fails. "...make me want something I can't have?"
"You can have it. You just don't have the courage."
He is before you now. The heat of his body is palpable. And yours is trembling.
"Are you going to kiss me?" he asks, his voice rough like the cutting northern wind. "Or are you going to keep pretending you came here just to yell at me?"
Your heart hammers so hard it feels ready to explode. The silence that follows is thick and sticky, like warm honey poured over an open, painful wound.
You stare at him, the lamp shaking in your hand, and only then do you realize — as if seeing for the first time, with eyes that seem to belong to someone elseb— how...bare he is.
The broad chest, covered in a layer of red hair, marked by scars that cut across his pale skin like trails of ancient battles. The shoulders are so wide they seem made to carry the world. The muscles in his arm contract slightly as he raises the mug to his lips, and even this simple gesture has a wild strength, a virility that frightens you.
You should look away. You should turn your back and run.
But you can't.
Your mouth goes dry. A blush explodes across your cheeks as if you'd swallowed fire.
You feel a strange pang in your stomach. Something alive. Something...dangerous.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
The smile that forms on his lips isn't as openly mocking this time. It's more restrained. As if he, too, is treading carefully on this cracked ground. As if he knows a single sudden movement would make everything collapse, would send you running out that door — the one you never should have crossed in the first place.
“Never seen a man without a shirt before, little wolf?” he asks, with that deep, rough voice that slides under your skin.
“Of course I have, idiot.” You answer automatically, but your own voice betrays you. Weak. Tense. Almost trembling.
He raises an eyebrow, taking a step closer. He still doesn't touch you, and that, for some reason you can't catalog, is worse than if he did.
“Men from your world don't have scars like mine. I bet they're all clean and polished, with hands as smooth as the soft sheets on your bed.”
“And you think that impresses me?” Your retort is more acidic than intended, said too quickly. A desperate defense against something that's already inside you, warm and pulsing, shamefully exposed.
“No. I know it doesn't.” He takes another step. Now you feel the heat of his body radiating against yours. The lamp trembles along with your hand. “But I think you're tired of living as if nothing could shake you. As if nothing could pierce those barriers you've built.”
Your eyes meet his.
You want to say something. Deny. Affirm. Cry. Spit. Scream. But all you can do is stand there, face raised, chin firm, and eyes brimming with frustration and desire. And he sees it all. Everything.
“You were raised to be perfect, weren't you?” he whispers. “To be some well-born lord's little doll, who will never know the scent of your desire, raw and true...nor the taste of your anger, alive and hot, the way it is right now.”
You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, as if that could push away what you feel. As if it could silence the body trembling beneath your skin, begging for a mistake.
“You know nothing about me.”
“I know enough to know that your body, right now, is being far more honest than that head of yours, little wolf.”
The air between you becomes impossible to breathe. Your heart beats too loud. Your parted lips feel the heat of his breath so close.
But you take a step back.
Unsteady and confused.
He doesn't stop you, however. He doesn't immediately chase after you. He just watches, his eyes burning in silence, like a patient predator who knows it will reach its prey eventually...inevitably.
"I-I can't," you say, as if the phrase were an anchor chained to your ankles, holding onto your sanity. "It shouldn't be like this. I…I was raised to belong to someone. To be given. And only then touched. And only then...loved."
The words come out trembling. Almost rehearsed. Almost...childish. Empty words, embedded in your mind over the years by society and duty. Words you don't even believe yourself, a notion of duty you never truly wanted.
But he doesn't laugh. He doesn't mock. He doesn't contradict you. Tormund just moves closer again. So close you can smell his skin — smoke, leather, and a wild hint of forest.
“What if, for one single night, you belonged to yourself?” he asks. “Not to your house or your duties. Nor to the dead. Nor to the fucking world. Just to yourself."
You want to say “no”. You need to say “no”.
But all that comes out is a sigh. Low. Deep. Painful. He doesn't kiss you. He merely bends his tall frame to rest his forehead against yours, letting your breaths mingle intimately.
A gesture almost reverent. Almost...pure.
"And maybe...a little bit mine?"
He whispers, and, not for the first time that night, you wonder if the mistake isn't in letting yourself be reached, but in living and dying without ever having felt anything.
And then, shattering the meditative, profound, and still disturbingly intimate silence, Tormund breathes, inappropriate and horribly sincere, as always:
"Tell me, little wolf, have you ever had a man before? Ever felt a cock inside you? Or would I be your first—"
"S-shut up!" you protest, your cheeks on fire and eyes wide, giving Tormund's chest a hard shove — which does nothing but make him stagger back slightly, barking out an annoyingly, deeply satisfied laugh. The horrible man! You know he knows perfectly well you've never lain with a man. That's the whole damn point of this moral debate! He was just being provocative and inconvenient, as always.
"Sweet girl," Tormund continues, despite your obvious embarrassment and the sharp look you shoot him. "I could fuck you 'til you couldn't walk. Oh, hell. No one's had this sweet cunt before, no one's seen this body without all the fine furs and clothes covering you. What a gift you'd give me, little wolf. All my—"
You make a noise somewhere between a disapproving grunt and a humiliated choke — flushed and utterly horrified by the man's vulgarity, who simply started spewing indecencies like a river spring. And horrified especially with yourself, for the sudden heat that courses through your body in response to that verbal depravity. Your slender fingers rise to your face to hide the scalding blush exploding across your skin. As if that could protect you, as if there were still salvation against what he is. Against what he awakens in your body.
“You are unbearable,” you repeat, your voice muffled between your fingers. “You…you can't just say those things to a lady, Tormund!”
“'Course I can,” he retorts, his laughter reverberating like thunder between the walls. “I can, and I will. Why the hell would I hide what I feel, huh? Never understood you southerners' habit of pretending you don't want to cum just because you're wearing pretty clothes.”
You choke, your eyes widening behind the cage of your fingers, shocked by the audacity, the crudeness — and, damn it, by the heat that runs down your thighs at the mention of something so explicit and dirty. Your body is betraying you in every possible way, and it's unfair. So unfair.
“By the gods, Tormund,” you snarl, pressing your fingers tighter against your eyes and flaming cheeks. “You are a depraved brute!”
Tormund laughs again, a guttural sound echoing off the damp walls of the room, as if your indignation were the best blanket for the sepulchral cold of that night. He doesn't move back, nor does he pretend regret for the boldness of the words he just spat out. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, his blue eyes narrowing with a mixture of amusement and something sharper, hungrier.
"Depraved, huh? Maybe. But at least I'm honest about what I want. You there, trembling like a leaf in the wind, pretending you don't feel the same heat rising up your legs right now." He tilts his head back as he takes another swig of ale and, beneath the disheveled strands of his reddish beard, you can't help but notice how the movement makes the tendons in his pale neck stretch, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly, a vein pulsing visibly under the skin marked by years of battles and merciless winters.
You lower your hands from your face slowly, your fingers still warm from the blush that spreads like wildfire across your chest, reaching the base of your neck where the dark cloak parts slightly. The air in the room seems thicker now, laden with the smell of smoke from the fireplace and his earthy odor – sweat, mixed with leather, fire, and something indefinably masculine that makes your stomach twist.
"Honest? That's not honesty, it's pure crudeness. You talk as if I were one of...one of your wildling women, ready to be taken in the snow without a second thought." Your voice comes out sharper than intended, laden with a frustration that goes beyond his words; it's the anger at yourself for feeling that treacherous throb between your thighs, a subtle pulsation you've never experienced with such intensity, as if your body were waking from a sleep forced upon it by years of duties and accumulated griefs.
He sets the mug down on the table with a dull thud, the sound echoing like a deliberate provocation, and crosses his arms over his bare chest, the red hairs bristling slightly with the movement.
"Crudeness, she says." He rolls the word lazily on his tongue, as if tasting it. "Ah, little wolf, if that's crudeness, then tell me what it is you're doing here, in the dark of night, with only a thin nightgown under your cloak, your hair messy as if you'd wrestled a wight in bed. You didn't come here to discuss salon etiquette with me." His eyes travel slowly down your body, not with immediate lust, but appraisingly, as if cataloging every involuntary tremor, every rushed breath that makes your chest rise and fall. You feel the weight of that gaze like a phantom touch, raising goosebumps on your skin under the light fabric, and for a moment, you hate how he seems to read every secret you keep – the untouched virginity, the repressed desire, the loneliness disguised as nobility.
"I came because you made me uneasy, you bearded idiot," you retort, taking a step forward without thinking, your chin raised in defiance, even as your heart beats like a war drum. The cold stone floor under your bare feet sends a shiver up your legs, contrasting with the heat radiating from him, now just an arm's length away. "You get in my head with this absurd talk about living before dying, as if it were that simple. As if I could just throw it all away – my house, my name, my...decency – just because a wildling with an inflated ego thinks he knows what I feel."
The words come out fast, punctuated by short breaths, and you realize, with growing panic, that you are closer to him than ever, close enough to feel the heat emanating from his exposed skin, to see the thin scars that cross his defined abdomen, marks from claws or blades that tell stories of survival you've only heard in tales around the hearth.
Tormund doesn't retreat; instead, he uncrosses his arms and slowly extends a hand, his thick, calloused fingers hovering in the air for a second before lightly brushing your arm, just above the elbow. The touch, even through the cloak's fabric, is surprisingly gentle for a man of his size, but electric, sending a spark that makes your muscles contract involuntarily.
"Decency is the word you use to hide, isn't it? To avoid admitting that you want to be touched, kissed, fucked until you forget the shackles that keep you chained to these...duties." His voice drops a tone, hoarse and laden with an intensity that is no longer just provocation; there's a vulnerability there, masked by the rough accent of the Free Folk, as if he were exposing not just desire, but the urgency to connect before the world ends. You feel his thumb trace a slow circle on your skin, and the simple gesture awakens a tingling that travels down your arm, reaching the center of your chest, where your heart seems to want to leap out.
You swallow dryly, your throat as dry as the Red Waste's sand, and try to pull your arm back, but your muscles don't obey immediately, betrayed by the spreading warmth.
"You think it's easy for me? I grew up watching my family be torn apart – a beheaded father, a murdered mother, a mutilated brother. I avenged what I could, killed those who deserved it, but it didn't set me free. It left me empty. And now you come, with your brutish ways, saying I should...what, exactly? Give myself to you as if it were a conquest? As if there were no consequences?" Your eyes fix on his, and for the first time, you see beyond the rough facade: there's a sadness there, an echo of the losses he himself suffered beyond the Wall, friends devoured by wights, clans destroyed by the eternal cold. It's this that disarms you a little, the realization that he's not just an inconvenient, ginger clown, but someone who understands the closeness of death in a way few nobles comprehend.
He lets out a long sigh, his chest rising and falling, and the touch on your arm firms, not possessive, but anchoring, as if wanting to keep you in the present.
"It's not a conquest, little wolf. It's a choice. Your choice. I'm not asking you to be mine forever – the gods know tomorrow we could be food for the dead. I'm asking you to be honest with yourself, just once. To set aside this armor of 'Lady Stark' and feel what your body is screaming for." His fingers move slowly up your cloaked arm, tracing a path to your shoulder, where the fabric naturally opens more, revealing the thin strap of your nightgown. The contact sends waves of heat that concentrate in your belly, an insistent throbbing that makes you instinctively squeeze your thighs together, mortified by the physical response you cannot control. He notices, of course – his blue eyes, irritatingly perceptive, darken, the pupils dilating in a way that frightens you as much as it excites you.
"Choice..." you repeat, your voice coming out as a hoarse whisper, your lips parted as your gaze involuntarily drops to his chest, tracing the lines of his scars with a curiosity bordering on fascination. One of them, thick and irregular, runs from his left shoulder to the center of his chest, as if something had literally tried to tear his heart out – and it probably had. "And if I choose wrong? What if this destroys me more than the battle coming our way?"
It's a perfectly sensible question, but even as you speak, you take a tiny step forward, your body betraying your mind, the cloak slipping a little more, exposing the curve of your neck where your skin contrasts with the blush rising there. The air between you vibrates, charged with tension, and you smell him more strongly now, invasive, mingling with the very scent of lavender and herbs from your bath.
Tormund leans his body down, his forehead almost touching yours again, but this time there's an urgency in the gesture, his warm breath grazing your cheek.
"Wrong would be dying without having tasted anything but pain. Let me show you, little wolf. Let me make you come so hard you forget the weight of your name for a while." The words are crude, explicit, but spoken with a sincerity that cuts like Valyrian steel – it's not just lust, it's an offer of escape, a moment of pure life amidst the chaos. His fingers slide from your shoulder to your neck, tracing the line of your collarbone with surprising delicacy, and you arch slightly, a low moan escaping before you can contain it, the sound echoing like a confession in the quiet room. His hand is large on your soft, immaculate skin, almost a profanation.
You close your eyes for an instant, the world reducing to his touch, to the heat building at your core, damp and insistent. When you open them, you see the desire mirrored in his eyes, but also a patience you didn't expect – he doesn't advance further, waiting for your consent, even as his body betrays the tension, his muscles rigid, the disturbingly visible bulge in his wildling leather pants. The sight makes your stomach churn with a mix of fear and excitement.
You bite your lower lip, lowering your hand to clench your fist against your chest, over the clasps of your cloak.
"I don't know how..." Your voice fails. The truth escaping through the crack in your armor. "I don't know how...how to do this."
Tormund stills, so close he breathes the same puff of air you exhale.
"Do what?" he asks, with a slight tilt of his head. His voice is lower now. "Want? Feel? Love?"
You hesitate. The air is so heavy it hurts to breathe.
"To be touched," you whisper, a confessional admission to the last person you ever imagined you would make it to. "To be touched. To let someone...see who I truly am. It was always a sin to me. Something to be avoided. Guarded. Used as a bargaining chip."
He moves even closer, raising his hand until his index finger and thumb fit under your chin, tilting your head upward. Slowly. As if facing a wounded, skittish wild animal – hurt, but wary.
"You're no bargaining chip, little wolf," he says, his rough voice carrying more tenderness than you expected to hear from a brute like him. "You're a woman. With flesh, blood, and will."
You look up. Your wide eyes meet his. And in that moment, you are trembling. But it's no longer fear.
It's something much, much deeper.
With his other hand, he captures yours, the one that was protectively curled against your chest, his long, thick fingers intertwining with your delicate, slender ones, squeezing with a gentle firmness, and guides it to his own chest, pressing it against the warm flesh where you feel his heart beating strong and rhythmic, like yours. He lowers his head slowly, his lips brushing your forehead in a surprisingly tender kiss, contrasting with the earlier crudeness, and you close your eyes, inhaling his scent, letting the moment stretch, your body relaxing involuntarily against his.
The kiss moves down to your temple, then to your cheek, each touch light, each moist, warm puff of his breath, each brush of his tall, broad body against yours, sending waves of heat that concentrate at your core, making the wetness increase, trickling down your thighs in a sticky, shameful sensation you try to ignore but can't.
He releases your hands and slides his own down your back, tracing the curve of your spine over the cloak, his firm fingers pressing into your tense muscles, relieving the rigidity accumulated from sleepless nights and repressed fears.
"Relax, little wolf. I won't bite...unless you ask." The tone is provocative, with a stupid humor that lightens the weight of the situation a little, making you huff a reluctant laugh, your shoulders relaxing an inch.
You feel his hands descend to the small of your back, lightly squeezing your buttocks through the fabric, a gesture that sends a shock straight to your clit, making it pulse with urgency.
"Tormund..." you whisper, his name a plea mixed with a warning, your hips moving involuntarily forward, grinding against the hard bulge in his pants, feeling the thick length through the leather, warm and pulsing.
He grunts low, the sound vibrating in his chest against yours, and immediately, he returns the motion, rolling his hips slowly, creating a friction that makes you gasp, the air escaping in short bursts as pleasure builds slowly, layer by layer. Shame burns in your cheeks, knowing you're rubbing against him like an animal in heat, but desire overpowers it, feverish and insistent, erasing internal dilemmas for an instant.
He captures your lips then, the kiss starting slow, exploratory, his beard scratching the sensitive skin around your mouth and chin as his tongue grazes yours, asking for entry with a patience that doesn't match the urgency in his eyes and the rough grunt in his throat. You open, hesitant at first, but soon reciprocating, tongues intertwining in a wet, hot dance, his taste invading – bitter ale mixed with something earthy, masculine – making you moan low, the sound muffled by the kiss.
His hands undo the cloak's tie with agile fingers, the fabric falling to the stone floor, exposing the thin nightgown, your breasts pressed against his chest, your hardened nipples rubbing against the red hair in a sensation bordering on torment. You feel the wetness between your legs increase, trickling slowly down your inner thigh, and guilt surges again – how can you be so aroused, so ready, with a man like him? – but the kiss deepens, his hands moving up to cup your breasts over the fabric, his thumbs circling your nipples slowly, sending sparks that make your hips move faster against his.
"That's it, feel," he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss for a second, his warm breath mingling with yours. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your stubborn little head insists on denying it."
You rise onto your toes and wrap your fingers around the back of his neck, pulling his head back down, kissing with more hunger now, your teeth lightly nibbling his lower lip, a bold, instinctive act that surprises even you, making him grunt in approval. The fingers of your other hand, remarkably trembling despite the surge of boldness, descend to his pants, hesitant, tentatively touching the bulge through the leather, feeling the heat and rigidity, the subtle pulse that responds to your touch.
"Gods, you're...oh," you whisper against his mouth, your voice breathless, choked with curiosity and a noticeable trace of fear, your fingers slowly tracing the outline, exploring the unknown shape pulsing under the pressure. He laughs low against your mouth, the sound vibrating on your lips, and guides your hand into his pants without any preamble, quickly undoing the laces with his other hand, freeing the thick, erect member, the skin warm and silky under your fingers, prominent veins pulsing to the rhythm of his heart.
You swallow dryly, the blush intensifying as you wrap your fingers around it, feeling the circumference your hand can barely contain, a viscous, pearly liquid trickling from the tip, lubricating the slow movement you initiate, pumping slowly, mortified by your own wantonness, but fascinated by his reaction – blue eyes half-closed, long, light eyelashes fluttering, the rough moan escaping his kiss-swollen lips.
"Careful, little wolf, or you'll make me come before it's time. That would be a bit disappointing, wouldn't it?" he warns, his voice tense, making you smile like an idiot against his neck, where you bury your face to hide the shame.
He returns the favor, his hands descending under your nightgown, lifting the hem slowly, exposing your thighs to the room's air, his fingers tracing the inner skin, climbing until they find the wetness between your legs, parting the folds with delicacy, his thumb finding your swollen clit and circling slowly. You gasp loudly, the sound echoing in the room, your legs buckling as pleasure explodes in waves, his middle finger sliding inside slowly, feeling the virginal resistance, the tight canal contracting around him.
"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice feverish now, his eyes fixed on yours as he adds another finger, stretching you carefully, the rhythmic movement creating wet sounds that embarrass but also excite you further. You cling to his shoulders, your nails digging into his flesh, moaning against his chest as pleasure builds, your body moving against his hand, seeking more depth, more pressure. Guilt throbs in the back of your mind – this is wrong, a Stark doesn't debase herself like this – but desire overpowers it, feverish and uncontrollable, erasing everything except the sensation of his fingers curling inside, touching a spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. Your other hand, still around his penis, freezes, unable to continue.
He slowly withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth, licking the taste with a satisfied moan, his eyes never leaving yours, an act that makes the blush burn like fire on your face, mixing colossal embarrassment with an excitement that makes your clit pulse emptily.
"Sweet, just as I imagined," he says, his voice hoarse, and you laugh, flushed and feeling completely insane for letting this happen. You push him onto the bed in a weak impulse he obeys without preamble, your bodies falling together onto the furs, laughing between kisses as hands explore, touch, squeeze, discovering every inch. He rolls on top of you, the kisses trailing down your neck, his beard scratching your skin, making you shiver all over.
The furs on the bed are warm from the hearth fire, but nothing compares to the heat exploding under your skin when he rises and kneels between your legs, still with his leather pants open, his penis frighteningly erect and wet, his chest heaving like an animal kept too long in a cage. His blue eyes don't leave yours for a single second.
"The whole world can freeze tomorrow," he snarls, his voice rough, laden with a promise both obscene and reverent at the same time. "But tonight...fuck...tonight you're all mine, little wolf."
You open your mouth to respond – to protest, perhaps – but he is upon you once more. The rough beard grazing your collarbone, the weight of his body pressing you into the furs in a firm, almost possessive, yet careful manner. As if testing your limits with every touch, every sigh, every low growl in your ear.
The difference in size between you is absurd. His shoulders cover you completely, his arms strong as tree trunks around your body, fragile compared to his. He is brute, warm, and heavy – the complete opposite of everything you were taught to desire.
And yet...it's all you want.
"You're so small," he murmurs, as if reading your thoughts, his lips sliding along your jawline. "So fucking delicate. A little southern flower...and yet, you came hunting me in the middle of the night, trembling with lust and rage. What a beautiful thing you are."
You moan, squeezing his shoulders, burying your fingers in his red hair, not knowing what to do with all the heat spreading through your belly, between your legs, all over your body. It's new. It's intense. And it's good. Frighteningly good.
His hands descend – too large for your body, fingers too rough to be gentle, and yet, and yet he is. He touches like a man who wants to learn your language. And you feel naked before you even are.
When he finally undresses you, it's painfully slow. It's nothing you'd expect from a wildling.
His fingers undo the ties of your nightgown, and a shiver runs up your spine as the fabric slides from your shoulders and reveals your skin to the flickering hearth light. He stops for a moment. His gaze fixed on you as if he'd just found a treasure.
"Look at this," he breathes, his voice failing for a moment, his eyes burning with pure fire. "No southern lord deserved to see you like this. No noble-born son with silken hands would know what to do with a body like this."
You close your eyes for a second, blushing to the roots of your hair. Shame envelops you like a wave, but you push through it as never before. Your hand, trembling, touches his chest again, explores the paths of his scars, and then slides down his belly. The muscles contract under the touch. He grunts low, his eyes fixed on you.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice low, warm. "Touch what's yours."
And then, he lowers himself.
His lips trace a wet path from your neck to your breasts, which he takes into his mouth like a thirsty man, his beard rubbing the sensitive skin, moans catching in your throat. He explores every part of you as if he wants to memorize it. As if he were saying goodbye to the world and this was the only piece of it worth remembering.
And when he finally touches you again between your legs – slowly, teasingly, knowing you – you let out a moan you've never heard come from your own mouth. A guttural, primal sound that seems to come from the depths of your soul.
"You're so wet for me," he says, his voice ragged, almost lost in the sheer pleasure of touching you like this. "So ready…so tight…"
He speaks without stopping against your breasts, sucking your nipples hungrily, his tongue swirling while one hand keeps your thighs open, his fingers focused on preparing you, stretching you with the two fingers he'd used before, adding a third with patience, his thumb lazily circling your clit, growling as he hears a mewl of pain from you. The wet sounds fill the air along with your moans, the pleasure building to the breaking point without rupturing, leaving you panting, sweaty, begging in incoherent whispers. You felt as if you were on the edge of a cliff, about to jump. But Tormund doesn't let you. All he does is let you dance on the edge.
The whole world seems to have stopped as you writhe on the furs, sweaty and panting, trembling and flushed, begging for things whose meaning you didn't even know. There is no more castle. No more war. No more dead marching beyond the Wall.
There is only heat. There are only two bodies – one wanting to learn, the other wanting to teach. And a desire that finally, finally, doesn't ask for permission to exist.
It feels like a lifetime of sweet, painful torture has passed before he deems you "ready" enough and rises from between your legs.
Tormund positions his body over yours with deliberate slowness, his knees sinking into the straw mattress covered with soft furs, his weight distributed so as not to crush you, yet still imposing, like a living mountain moving with an unexpected precision for a man of his stature. His blue eyes fix on yours, intense and laden with a mix of raw desire and a patience forged in battles beyond the Wall, where every thoughtless move could cost a life. The orange glow of the hearth makes his hair and beard seem on fire, highlights the darkness of desire in the clear blue of his eyes, casts shadows on his pale skin. He is beautiful in a way that steals the air from your lungs – a vision of beauty in its rawest form, forged by hard labor and the harsh winter that rules the wildlings' lives.
The tip of him, warm and pulsing, presses against your wet entrance, grazing the sensitive folds still throbbing from his previous touches, sending a shiver that makes your inner muscles contract involuntarily in anticipation. You feel his width there, thick and intimidating, the silky skin stretched over prominent veins pulsing to the rapid rhythm of his heart, and a subtle panic mixes with the excitement, making your stomach churn – will it fit? Will it hurt like the stories whispered by the maids in Winterfell suggested? He notices the hesitation in your gaze, the way your pupils dilate, and gives a lopsided smile, one corner of his mouth lifting beneath his disheveled red beard.
"Breathe deep, little wolf. It'll be a tight fit at first, but I promise you'll be begging for more after," he murmurs, his voice hoarse, tempered with that typical mischief, as if he were telling a sarcastic anecdote about boar hunting and not about to take your virtue, but his eyes betray genuine care, a vigilance that allows no rush.
He advances slowly, the broad head pushing against the initial resistance of your entrance, stretching your inner walls with a pressure that burns like a slow fire, a sharp pain radiating from your core to your thighs, making you gasp loudly, your lips parting in a sound resembling a night cat's mewl, half moan, half protest. His thickness is overwhelming, filling you inch by inch, the veins rubbing against your sensitive folds in a way that amplifies the sensation of invasion, as if your body is being molded around him, forced to adapt to a circumference that seems impossible to accommodate.
Tears well in the corners of your eyes, trickling slowly down your temples, warm and salty, mixing shame for the exposed vulnerability with the confused pleasure beginning to intertwine with the pain, a deep tingling that promises more if you can endure it. Your nails sink into his broad shoulders, digging into the flesh marked by old scars, leaving red half-moons on the pale skin, something he doesn't even seem to notice if not for the muscles contracting under the touch, as if absorbing your pain.
"Shh, easy now, my stubborn Stark," he whispers, halting his advance for a moment, his whole body tense with the effort of restraint, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead as he lowers his face to kiss the tears streaming down, his tongue grazing the salty skin with a tenderness that contrasts with the pulsing rigidity inside you. "Breathe with me, it'll pass, and then it'll be like riding a purebred for the first time – scary at first, but then you don't want to stop."
You inhale deeply, your chest rising and falling against his, your breasts pressed against his warm skin covered in red hair that itches lightly, relieving some of the tension as your body slowly adjusts to the intrusion. He resumes his movement with patience, pushing in a little more, his thickness making its way through the wetness that facilitates but doesn't eliminate the initial burning, a stretching that makes your inner muscles contract in involuntary spasms, sending waves of pain mixed with pleasure radiating to your still-sensitive clit. A low moan escapes your throat, hoarse and ragged, as the tears continue to flow, blurring your vision of his face above, his blue eyes now half-closed in concentration, his beard rubbing against the flushed skin of your cheeks and chin with each heavy breath he releases. Your nails dig deeper, tracing red lines on his shoulders, and he finally reacts, grunting low, a guttural sound that vibrates in his chest and echoes in yours, but instead of recoiling or showing any discomfort, he kisses your exposed neck, lightly nibbling the skin to distract you, his voice coming out in a mischievous whisper:
"That's it, mark your wildling, little wolf. If it hurts too much, tell me, but I bet you're feeling that good tingling now, aren't you? Your body knows what it wants, just relax and give it what it wants." The humor in his voice is light, like a taunt between friends in a tavern, but laden with an intimacy that soothes, making you laugh weakly through the tears, the tremulous sound easing the tension as your body relaxes a little more, allowing him to advance another inch.
Finally, with a controlled thrust, he buries himself completely, his base pressing against your outer folds, his thickness filling you to the limit, a sensation of fullness that transforms the pain into a bearable, almost pleasurable throb, your inner muscles contracting around him in waves that make you both moan simultaneously – yours high and surprised, his deep and satisfied, like a rumble of approval. He remains still for a moment, allowing you to grow accustomed, sweat running down his back as his large hands envelop your hips, his thumbs tracing gentle circles on your skin to distract from the residual burning.
"Fuck, you're killing me," he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. "The tightest, the hottest...fuck, no one's ever had you before," he murmurs, his voice hoarse now, laced with that explicit malice that deepens your blush, but also with a clear care in the way he tilts his head to inspect your face, wiping the tears with his calloused thumb. "There, little wolf, the worst is over. Now it's just the good part, I promise. Tell me when you're ready. Or don't. I don't mind staying here the rest of the night, just feeling you pulse around me. Warming my cock with that tight cunt." The words are dirty and explicit enough to make you look away and pout in feigned offense, but they're spoken with a light, sarcastic tone, as if he's mocking his own impatience, easing your embarrassment with humor, making you nod slowly after a moment, your eyes meeting his in a silent connection that goes beyond the physical.
You signal with a subtle shift of your hips, testing the sensation, and he begins the initial rhythm slowly, pulling back just a little before pushing back in, a gentle back-and-forth that allows your body to adapt, his thickness brushing against sensitive inner spots that send sparks of pleasure up your legs, transforming the aching throb into rising waves of ecstasy. The sounds start low – yours a hitched sigh, mixed with soft moans that escape with each thrust, his rough grunts echoing in the room, accompanied by the wet sound of friction, a subtle schlick that is both embarrassing and arousing.
Your nails relax a little on his shoulders but remain dug in enough to anchor you, while the tears slowly dry, replaced by a flush of pleasure spreading across your chest. He gradually accelerates, the rhythm gaining strength, his hips meeting yours with more insistence, making the bedwood creak against the stone floor, a rhythmic sound punctuating each thrust.
"That's it, feel how you swallow me whole?" he growls low, his voice feverish now, his eyes fixed on yours as one of his hands moves down to circle your clit with his thumb, amplifying the pleasure, making you arch your back with a loud moan that echoes off the grey walls. The malice returns full force in his words, whispered between heavy breaths: "You're moaning like a wolf in heat, Stark. I bet the guards outside are wondering if I'm killing someone in here."
You open your mouth to reprimand him for such humiliating vulgarity, but all that comes out is a louder moan when he pushes particularly deep. The rhythm intensifies, the thrusts deeper and faster, his thickness filling and retreating in a cycle that builds unbearable pressure, the wet sounds louder now, mixed with your moans growing in volume, hoarse and desperate, and his grunts becoming more primitive, like the snarls of a wild animal. The bed begins to thump against the wall more forcefully now, a dull, repetitive bang echoing like a war drum, the wood groaning in protest as bodies collide with increasing force, sweat running down glued torsos, mingling your scents. He doesn't speak anymore, and that must mean something - he only makes sounds you thought, until that moment, only an animal would make.
Your nails dig deep again, tracing red grooves on his back as the pleasure peaks, your inner muscles clenching around him in spasms, milking him, making him groan loudly, the sound echoing like a triumphant roar as he speeds up even more, the thrusts irregular now, strong and deep, the bed banging hard against the wall in a crescendo that culminates in his climax, warm, thick, and pulsing inside you, filling you with a sensation of completeness that leaves you gasping.
The silence that follows is heavy. Not with guilt, but with intensity. As if nothing else mattered. As if, for a moment, the whole world had stopped spinning. Tormund collapses partially on top of you, supporting his weight on his forearms, panting, his face buried in your neck. His beard prickles, his chest rises and falls in a frantic rhythm against yours, which is in no better state. His breath hits your skin warm, his fingers still gripping you as if fearing you might disappear.
And you...
You feel more alive than ever before.
He finally collapses beside you, pulling you to his chest, heavy breathing mingling with yours in the post-climax silence, the room filled only by the distant echo of the old bed settling. Bodies still glued, damp with sweat, intoxicated by pleasure, muscles soft and trembling. The hearth fire crackles beside you, casting golden shadows on the stone walls.
You curl into him. There are no words or sarcastic, inappropriate comments from him now, and strangely, it feels right, the silence. Just skin, heat, and ragged breath.
Sleep comes without warning.
You fall asleep right there, wrapped in the furs of the bed and the scent of Tormund — wood, sweat, leather, and a hint of wild fire that is his alone. The last thing you feel is the weight of his large hand stroking your hair, surprisingly gentle for such a brute man.
---
The next morning, the cold seeps through the window cracks like a cruel warning. You wake with a slight shiver, your eyes opening slowly, adjusting to the grey light of dawn. For a confused, sleepy moment, you don't know where you are.
The first thing that helps you regain clarity is the heat. Not from the furs. Not from the hearth fire still burning weakly in the corner of the room. But the heat of his body, of the muscular leg entwined with yours, of the large hand resting unceremoniously on your bare waist. Of the warm breath hitting the nape of your neck, soft, rhythmic.
Tormund Giantsbane is sleeping deeply. And you should thank the gods for that. Because if he were awake...he would certainly comment. It's what he does. Talk, talk nonstop.
You turn your head slowly and carefully to look at him, avoiding sudden movements so as not to wake him. His chest rises and falls slowly, the red hair clashing blatantly with the light color of the pillow. There's something peaceful about him now. Almost beautiful, if you didn't know the kind of chaos that lived under that skin.
You sit up even more slowly, your muscles sore and sensitive betraying the intense night, a burning between your legs that makes you blush in response. You pull the blanket up to your chin and look around with the eyes of a frightened deer, as if someone might be spying — which is absurd. No one would dare enter there. But the weight of reality arrives like a muffled, yet dangerous, thunder.
You spent the night in the arms of a wildling. The natural enemy of your people. A man most would consider unfit even for a maid. And you are a Lady Stark. Daughter of the North. Sister to a king. Oh, you needed moon tea, urgently.
You move slowly, as lightly as possible, gathering every shred of your dignity as you slip out of bed. Your legs still annoyingly shaky. Your body marked where he held, kissed, possessed.
You hold your breath as you pick up the crumpled nightgown from the floor, eyes frantically searching the space for the cloak, stumbling silently as you dress. Every rustle of fabric seems deafening.
You don't dare look at him during the entire process — but you feel him waking before you even hear him.
"The day has barely broken and you're already trying to run away, little wolf?"
His voice shatters the silence like the grunt of a beast. Low. Dragged by sleepiness and laden with something dangerously satisfied.
You freeze.
"Never took you for a fool, princess," he grumbles, turning over in bed, the sheets slipping enough to reveal his bare chest covered in red hair. "After last night, you really thought I'd let you leave without even a good morning kiss?"
"It's not as if this...meant anything," you murmur, hurrying to dress now that subtlety is gone. "It was a mistake. A moment of weakness. The world is ending and I...I lost my head."
He laughs. A deep, hoarse, lazy, even disdainful sound. Utterly insolent.
"If that was losing your head, I want to see you completely insane next time."
His laugh drags to the end of the words."Fuck, what a night. My little wolf Stark moans loud. Trembles. Digs her nails in. You were born for this, you know? For me."
"Gods, shut up," you snarl, turning to him, eyes narrowed, heart racing for a thousand reasons, cheeks stained crimson. "You can't...you can't just say these things, as if everything were fine! I am a Stark. A noble. And you...you are Free Folk!"
"Precisely," he replies, sitting up, the sheets falling dangerously around his hips. The muscles of his abdomen contract as he rests his forearms on his knees, a crooked smile playing on his lips. "You spent your whole life being what others told you to be. Last night, for the first time, you were who you wanted to be. Honestly, I thought a bit of kisses and a good fuck would make you less...rigid, little wolf. Clearly, I underestimated your Stark stubbornness. My bad."
You try to look away, blushing even more. But the way he speaks, as if he sees you, truly sees you, is unbearable.
"You don't understand," you whisper, your voice choked. "If they find out…if they see…I could lose everything. My name. My honor. My place among my people."
"And what do you gain, then? A cold title? An empty bed? A husband chosen by some political dance and formal dinners?"
He stands up slowly, his feet touching the icy stone floor, his eyes fixed on yours. Naked. Shameless. A pagan god forged in snow and battle.
You swallow dryly, your face now blushing violently, averting your gaze — but he is there, coming towards you. One step. Another. You retreat until your back touches the cold wall.
"You don't have to love me," he says, his wild eyes burning. "You don't have to promise me anything. But don't tell me you didn't like it. That you didn't want it. Because I felt it. Every fucking inch of your body screamed for me last night."
"I..."
You want to deny it. You want to run. You want to forget. But all you can do is stand there — with your back against the stone, your body half-dressed, your eyes locked on his, and your heart racing like a warhorse in battle.
He stops a few inches away.
"What scares you more, little wolf?" he whispers, his hand rising to touch your face with a gentleness that shouldn't belong to that man. "The dead outside...or what you feel in here?" His palm slides down and touches the space over your chest, your heart.
You close your eyes. A stubborn tear escapes, but he catches it with his thumb.
Silence.
And then, instead of fleeing, as you probably should, you lean upward. Your lips meet. Softer this time. Slower. As if sealing something silent between them, a pact made between the beast and the wolf. There is no hurry in this kiss. Only heat. Only discovery.
Tormund kisses you with restrained hunger, as if savoring you. And when his hands slide down your waist again, you not pull away.
He breaks the kiss for a moment, just enough to look into your eyes, his breath warm and moist on your lips. He holds your face more firmly, looking deep into your tear-filled eyes before growling:
"Survive this. Stay alive," his voice turns into a hoarse murmur as he says your name, "and then you'll be mine again. One night, one month, or forever. Just survive this and we'll see about the rest. Promise me."
Your heart clenches in your chest, a tightness that isn't just fear of the impending battle, but something deeper, more treacherous – the recognition that he sees beyond the facade of the untouchable noble you built over years of loss and vengeance. You swallows dryly, your throat parched, and looks away at the uneven stone floor, where the scattered furs bore witness to the night's chaos.
How to answer that? How to promise anything when the whole world seems about to collapse under the weight of the marching dead? Your mind spins in circles, remembering Septa Mordane's lessons on honor and duty, the countless cold nights in Winterfell listening to stories of Northern heroes who, in none of those stories, not once, yielded to wild impulses. But here you are, you body still marked by his hands, his scent imprinted on your skin, and a treacherous part of yourself wants to grab that promise like a shield against the emptiness that has always accompanied you.
Your eyes return to his, meeting that intense blue gleam, now softened by a vulnerability you didn't expect – as if he, the giant who often laughs at death, was genuinely afraid of losing you.
You knows you shouldn't promise anything. Not that you would survive, and certainly not that you would think of an "after" the battle that included...him. In the remote chance you were both alive after the Night King, what kind of future could there be for a Lady Stark and a wildling? The prospect was laughable.
And yet...
You scoffs, pushing his hand away from your face lightly, but without any real force, your fingers brushing his for a second longer than necessary.
"Don't get your hopes up, wildling." You murmur, half-sulking, half-moved. "But...but I will try. To survive, of course. Both of us. And after...yes, after we'll see."
The words come out as a reluctant concession, not exactly a promise, but enough to make his eyes shine with disguised triumph. He nods, pulling you into a bear hug, making you struggle and gasp for air while cursing him, his warm, solid body against yours, the smell of fire and leather invading your senses once more, before releasing you with a kiss on the forehead. You roll your eyes, relaxing your body against his, returning the hug, a blush rising again, mixed with a frustration bordering on laughter.
You deny yourself any blossoming feelings, labeling them as mere physical attraction, a distraction, a taste of true freedom before the end. Yet, the longer he holds you there, caged in his strong arms, the more it sounds like a lie, your heart tightening with a concern that goes beyond duty or attraction.
Yes, you both would survive.
And after that? Well, after that you think you might come to like the inconvenience of thinking of a version of your life that included Tormund Giantsbane in it, if fate allowed.
Started Game of Thrones like last night and because it's such a big thing I know a lot already, and due to that I knew what the White Walkers were even before they came on page because what else could have caused several knights to "freeze to death"? But when they actually appeared I obviously liked it and their introduction in the first chapter only made me more disappointed in how I heard they were defeated in Season 8 that may or may not exist. My only real gripe with the book was the fact that up till he was referred to by his full name, I thought Ser Waymar and Royce were two different knights because George R.R. Martin kept switching the referrals. But I suppose it's something you have to get used to in high fantasy because J.R.R. Tolkien did the same thing in The Silmarillion when he randomly switched between the names of the characters between their Common and other names mid-paragraph.
