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We're All Going to Die	By : pip Category: G through L > Game of Thrones Views: 12196 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones and I make no money from this work of fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 12
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Chapter Thirteen

Brienne went to bathe before breakfast, and so did he. Tormund was surprised not to see Clegane at these times, in the men's baths. For all the banter between them, which he indulged in just to annoy Clegane, he appreciated having the baths nearby. Before all this began, there'd been a natural hot spring near his home north of the wall that he'd visited every morning, which he missed. Winterfell's bathing facilities were nowhere near the perfection of that, but they were warm and clean, and the proper way to begin each new day. Especially since they'd begun training with her. A good bath woke him up, sharpened his mind and made him ready.

Over breakfast, along with plenty of hot tea, Tormund listened to Brienne explain her plans for helping Podrick. It was a good plan, and he approved wholeheartedly, since it didn't involve actually defending the lad at all. He would do that all on his own, after a fashion. In Tormund's opinion, half of the trouble was that, as a southerner, he'd been coddled for far too long.

Clegane too, he seemed to be in agreement, and so it was settled. They went about their usual leisurely set up for sparring afterwards, and he found himself paying much more attention to the boy. Before now Tormund had barely noticed him, unless it be to notice Brienne knocking him down. Certainly, he was no coward, since he'd trained with Brienne for at least an hour every day before they came along. No small endeavour! Yet he seemed constantly nervous, fiddling and fussing about the place as the three of them prowled around him like predators. The spectators came too, amongst them the characters Podrick had been having to avoid since the previous afternoon. Tormund blew out a breath through his lips. Things were about to get a whole lot worse for him before they got better.

“Podrick,” Brienne said, when he'd finished helping her adjust her armour. “I know I've been neglecting your training over the past few days. You will stay here for a short while and help us to warm up.”

Tormund didn't miss the momentary grin on Clegane's face as Podrick blinked, startled and unprepared for this turn of events. Likely, he'd been planning to make a quick and sly getaway. “Y-yes, my lady,” he said, then glanced around him, looking up at the three of them as if he couldn't believe what was happening to him. He gave Brienne a look of mute appeal as if he didn't know what he'd done wrong and wanted her to tell him. She ignored it.

“Start with him,” Brienne said, giving him a little shove in Tormund's direction as he drew his sword, eager to begin delivering the lesson. The boy froze, and something in him was clearly terrified as he looked up at Tormund. These southerners kept their children for far longer than the free folk would even dare, let alone choose. Podrick should already be a man. Instead he was strange mixture of boy and man. By the time Tormund had been his age, he had already hunted, killed and skinned three bears as part of his rite of passage. More than any of his peers. To this day, their skins still made up part of the furs he wore. They had served him well.

“Ready your weapon, Podrick!” Brienne instructed, and the boy drew his own sword too quickly, clumsily, looking down instead of keeping his attention where it should be – on his enemy. As was usually the case, he was armed. Brienne insisted upon it whenever he assisted her, and he could have sworn Brienne had said he was becoming competent. To be fair to him, perhaps he was, against any ordinary adversary. Tormund decided to make his own assessment in any case.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked outright, staring hard and deliberately when Podrick looked up at him again, seeing the boy blink too often in sympathetic response. “Do you see death coming for you, boy?”

Before he could answer, Tormund attacked, to test his defensive skill. He stared the boy down as he did it, and roared, which did most of the job for him, and it didn't take much strength or technique to disarm him, hardly anything at all. Podrick gasped and froze, eyes glancing to his blade where it lay on the snow-covered cobblestones.

“Pick it up,” Tormund advised him, pointing with his sword, and decided then to start right at the beginning.

When they faced each other again, Podrick was pointing outwards with his sword, holding the hilt in both hands, feet planted wide apart, more tension in him than a coiled spring. “Let me hear you shout defiance at me this time, boy,” he said. “If you have to die, don't you fucking go quietly, do you hear?”

Podrick nodded once, white faced. He attacked again, and this time Podrick yelled at him, more in cornered fright than anything else, but it lent some passion to his defence at least. He was still easy to disarm, but it took an additional move to attain it. “Again,” Tormund said, and they practised together for around five minutes or so, with Podrick improving each time, that baby roar of his getting louder every time too. By the end, they were even managing to spar somewhat. Tormund was pleased.

“Good, good!” Tormund said then, jovial, clapping him heavily on the shoulder because he was a quick study and a pleasure to teach. “Use your fear. Use your anger. Turn it into fury, yes? Now to her,” he said, nodding at Brienne. Podrick gulped, and then turned and took a few steps to stand in front of her.

Brienne. She was his Goddess. Tormund sighed as he stared at her, unable to tear his gaze away. She thought she was a southerner, she thought she was one of these knights or whatever, but she wasn't. She was a wild one, and he knew it. Someone so powerful was born to be free, just like him. How could she be anything else?

“It might work for him. But don't you dare yell at me, Podrick,” she said sternly, and then Tormund knew she'd been watching. He hoped she watched him the way he watched her. He hoped she watched him fight, and liked what she saw. She drew her sword like an executioner, and Tormund only had eyes for her, the boy be damned.

“No, my Lady.”

She drew herself up to her full height, resplendent in that armour. She was the fiercest thing he had ever seen.

“Knights don't scream,” she reminded him.

“No, my Lady,” replied Podrick replied dutifully. And then she went for him. Unlike himself, she was completely merciless. Tormund watched it happen, and he wanted to be there, wanted to be the focus of that deadly attention so much he almost walked over and shoved the boy aside. He sighed, longing. Soon. It would be his turn soon.

Within three seconds the boy was face down in the dirt. “What did you forget?” she demanded without pause, motioning him to stand with the tip of her weapon, her eyes harder and colder than the mountains.

“Footwork, my Lady,” Podrick said, regaining his feet, only to scramble for his sword on his knees.

“Good,” she said, then frowned. “Up, now! Quickly.”

She struck again fast, and to the boy's credit, he managed a couple of parries before he was down again. She continued in a similar fashion, explaining each of Podrick's mistakes to him in an exact, precise fashion before sending him over to Clegane.

Their eyes met, and he smiled at her as she sheathed her sword for now. Things had changed. She didn't roll her eyes or look away as she had done in the past. Now instead he saw her remember the things they had done, imagine the things they might do, and her red lips relaxed from the tight, straight line they'd held when she'd been teaching the boy. She inclined her head a little, and smiled very slightly back. His hands ached to touch her, make her say his name, make her want it all over again. He could make her want it, every time he touched her. She knew it, he knew it. Ah! It was just a matter of time now. A very short time. Tonight, perhaps, and Tormund could almost taste it as his mouth watered.

As it was, that little smile was as good as an invitation from a lesser woman. Tormund knew that, and it was much more than a start. She knew where satisfaction was to be found, in love and war, and he heard himself rumble low in his chest. Only with them. Happy for now, he turned his attention to Clegane at exactly the same moment as she did.

Podrick was standing before him like some kind of sacrifice, sword pointed down to the ground, neck tilted at an almost unnatural angle because of the difference in their height. Actually, he'd kind of been like that with them all. Nervous he might be, but he had a lot of courage hidden away in there. Tormund defied anyone in Winterfell to face all three of them one after the other like Podrick had without turning and running away. Even Jon Snow would not relish the task they'd set to the lad. They were a frightening group of hard fuckers, and that was the truth.

“I don't think I've ever seen you fight, boy,” Clegane was saying, putting out his hands to straighten the boy's shoulders, pushing them back as if he was examining an animal to buy at auction. “Seen you lose plenty of times in the last few minutes though, before you even started.”

He nodded to Podrick's sword while the boy stood there, miserable and all but shaking in his shoes. “What's the matter?” he asked, sarcastic. “Is it too heavy for you now?”

The lad shook his head. “No, um...” He seemed to be searching around for something to call Clegane. “...Mister the Hound.”

Clegane laughed out loud, derisory. “Mister the Hound? Mister the fucking Hound?! All right, you're funny. I'll give you that.” He seemed to notice Podrick's growing terror. “What's the matter with you? Oh, you've faced scarier things than me,” he said, menacing. He nodded at Brienne and lowered his voice, but it still carried. “She's one of them.”

Podrick didn't seem reassured at all. Clegane sighed, as if it was something he'd come to expect.

“Well lift up that blade then. Keep it nice and still, and we'll see if I can hit it,” he grumbled in a temper. “And you'd better pray I don't miss, and take off your head by accident.”

Podrick gulped.

“Or maybe, if you're really unlucky I'll just lop the top off your skull, like a giant bloody breakfast egg.” He grunted, then grinned as if imagining it. “That'd be a sight...”

Tormund shook his head. He was sure he could see the boy tremble as he raised his sword. He was actually fumbling with the grip as Clegane stepped back, drawing his own sword and sweeping it in an impressive wide arc that knocked Podrick's weapon clean out of his hand in one stroke.

“Hmm...” Clegane all but growled, displeased as the lad scurried to get it back. “Hurry up.” When he was back, Clegane paused. “How did I do that to you?”

“Excuse me?” Podrick said, startled by the question. Clegane sighed, exasperated.

“I frightened you, and you let yourself be frightened. If you're frightened, you've already lost, see?”

Podrick nodded slowly, wide-eyed. “All right. Imagine this. If I hurt you, if I so much as break one of your fingers, she'll fucking kill me.” He glanced at Brienne. Podrick gulped, looked from Clegane to Brienne, then back again. He nodded a little less hesitantly. “Well, I don't want to bloody die. Not again. Not today. Now, shall we give it another go?”

Clegane made it easy on him, deliberately, gave him a chance, and the boy lasted longer than he had with either of them, though he was no match for Clegane's strength, and he was brought to his knees, trying to hold off a downward stroke. Clegane relented. “Much better. Now, go back to Tormund.”

They passed him around for the next forty minutes or so, one to the other, and they were each tutoring him in a slightly different way. By the end of it, Podrick was managing to do the job of warming them up, which was good enough. When Brienne let him go, those who had been lingering around the edges of their little arena had melted away. It was always possible that they'd seen who his friends were and decided against tormenting him any further. Then again, it was just as likely they'd seen him face something they couldn't. Cowards would always be cowards. There was no cure and no damned training for that in Tormund's experience. North of the wall they never did live long. Podrick, however, well he would do just fine.

Now was the time, and he'd been waiting long enough. By Tormund's reckoning, it was his turn first, and he drew his sword in eager anticipation, hopeful, exchanging a glance with Clegane across their little arena. Brienne looked from one to the other of them, and as always it was up to her, no matter what they might decide between themselves. To his delight, she turned in his direction.

Those eyes, icy blue and flinty, determined. Tormund felt himself grin as she began to close the distance between them, her strides getting quicker as he stared at her, as she stared at him. He could feel the pace of his heartbeat pick up in sweet anticipation. And then, from nowhere...

“Tormund!”

The spell was broken, and they were distracted, both looking up to see Jon Snow on the balcony staring down at them. Bad timing! Didn't the boy understand what was happening down below? He watched Brienne, and saw that wonderful, fatal attention shift to Clegane. Fucker.

With a quiet grumble, he sheathed his sword and went to see what Snow wanted, taking the steps two at a time. If this could wait until afterwards, they would have words about it. It wasn't fair to a man, to interfere with his foreplay. Then again, maybe there was news about the army of the dead. Perhaps they were moving more quickly than they'd all supposed. By the time he was standing in front of the King of the North, Tormund felt a hell of a lot more serious.

“What is it?” he asked. Snow shook his head.

“Not here,” he said, and turned, motioning for Tormund to follow him.

Always so bloody mysterious. Tormund spared a final look for Clegane and Brienne, down there having fun without him. Time was short enough. He hoped it wasn't about to be cut even shorter. He'd known women, many of them. He'd known lovers, and even had children with some of them. She was different. She was forever, and yet forever wouldn't last very long. Clegane, too. He was important somehow. Their fates were entwined now, for whatever remained of their lives. Together, they were three. It meant something eternal. Tormund shook his head and followed Snow into a private chamber to find out what news he had.

“I don't know if you were aware, but Samwell Tarly returned from the Old City a while ago,” Snow said.

Tormund tried to bring him to mind. Ah! The big lad, more going on there than most people realised. He nodded, wondering what it had to do with him.

“Does he know something about the dead? Are they moving?”

“What?” Snow said, then shook his head quickly. “No, it's nothing like that. Bran says they're still in The Gift. As slow as we thought. Hardly a march. More like a shuffle, really.”

“Ah. Yes.” Tormund remembered. “A shuffle. Dragging their feet.” Some of them, literally. He and Snow shared a look that wasn't quite allowed to be fear. Apparently they'd been warned just in time by Bran about the wall, and the evacuation of the wildlings from The Gift had been accomplished with hardly any time at all to spare while Tormund had nearly frozen to death listening to that endless march. Now the old and the young of the wildlings were encamped in the countryside around Winterfell itself. Safe for now, but the dead were still coming. Snow looked down and away first.

“Anyway, he brought something with him, from his father's house. He means to help in the fight, but he says he understands this would be better placed in someone else's hands. Someone who can use it to much better effect.”

Tormund waited, mystified, as Jon Snow walked across the room, opened a large chest and withdrew a sword in a scabbard. He placed it on the table in the centre of the room. “He asked me if I had any ideas who could handle such a thing, and I immediately thought of you.”

Snow stepped back, and Tormund approached, amazed because this wasn't just some mere sword. It was a beautifully made thing. He touched the hilt of it with his fingers, grasped it, withdrew a little of the blade from its sheath, then dropped it as if stung.

“It is the same as yours, and hers,” he observed, recognising the steel.

“It's Valyrian steel,” Snow confirmed. “It's the ancestral sword of House Tarly.”

He was stunned, looked at Snow in disbelief all over again. Just when he thought the crow had no more surprises, here he was again. “And you. You want to give me this? Not any of your new southern friends?”

“You are my friend,” Snow said simply. “Consider it a sign of our loyalty to each other.” He shook his head. “And anyway it's not yours. Only for this. If we live. If we win, it goes back to Samwell.”

Tormund picked it up, this time to properly appreciate it, withdrawing it fully, marvelling over the lightness of the blade. He immediately imagined the damage he could inflict with it. How fast he would be with it. “Of course,” he said, enchanted by the weapon. “I understand.” He slid the blade back into its scabbard. Looked up, unsmiling. “I can kill White Walkers with it?” he questioned suddenly. That seemed like the most important question. Snow nodded.

The scale of this was staggering. That Snow had chosen him to wield it, when he had allies everywhere now. Tormund laid the sword down, and enveloped Snow in a hug. “I thought when you got up from being dead, you couldn't have another surprise for me after that. I keep being wrong about you.” He pulled back, let Snow go. “Thank you.”

“Kill some of them for me,” Snow said.

“I will.” He nodded, picked up the sword, turned to the door, then turned back to look at Snow. He was thinking about the three of them, fighting together both here and soon against the army of the dead. “You know this is going to annoy the dog. When he sees this, he's gonna be in a bad fucking mood for the rest of his life.”

Snow quirked his lips, his eyes twinkling with humour. “So... it won't change anything between you all then.” They both laughed.

“You're going to fight together, the three of you?” Snow asked, much too casually. Tormund grinned.

“Yes. We are. You got a plan for us?”

Jon Snow smiled. “Perhaps. Let me think on it for a while.”

“Well. Don't take too long about it. They still coming, slow. But sure.” Snow nodded, and Tormund left him there.

Tormund walked the short distance back, and halted under the canopy at the top of the steps, looking down, gripping the new sword's scabbard in his right hand. He watched Clegane and Brienne fighting each other. They were a fair match, and they loved each other deeply, even if neither of them realised it. If he was a southerner like the two of them, he'd probably leave them to it. As it was, luckily, he was not, and they both belonged with him. It was a cheerful thought, and yet, something pulled at his mind as the snow fell onto the courtyard below.

Dragging their feet.

And Tormund remembered...

It was sheer luck that he and Beric had been where they were, at that precise moment, on the edge of the portion of the wall that remained standing. It didn't feel lucky at the time. Dragons were frightening enough. Dead dragons? The thing had a screech that made you want to rip your own ears off, and it kept at it as it breathed that blue fire onto the wall again and again. It didn't seem then as if the part he was on would be left standing, not at all.

Everything was vibrating. And when it began to splinter – to break – the sound was loud enough to deafen him for a short while, and perhaps that was merciful. Centuries of layers of ice cracking all together was enough to drive a man insane. As it ruptured, shock waves travelled the full length of the entire wall, shaking it beneath his feet, and all he could think of was the fall, how far down it was. He'd climbed the thing, but that was different. That was under his own steam. If he fell then, that was on him. This was all out of his control, and there was no way to save himself from it.

He saw the wall crumble in near deafened silence, the sheer scale of it raised a feeling of superstitious dread in him, and he looked to Beric, only to see the same pale look of terror reflected on his face. It actually fell into the sea, huge chunks of it making waves hundreds of feet high. For the first time in his life, Tormund felt truly tiny, utterly inconsequential. The wall quivered and seemed to waver, actually swaying like a tree in a strong wind, and a wave of vertigo made him close his eyes against it as he waited for the inevitable fall, and for death. But death didn't come.

When he opened his eyes again, it was over, and the part of the wall he and Beric were on was right at the edge of the break. As he looked down, the wall was still settling, and chunks of ice were constantly falling. One broke away a couple of metres below him, and he stared wildly at it as it fell, only to smash on the sharp spikes of ice below, his heart beating fast. And then he noticed something else down there.

Far below, in the gap where the wall had once stood, the army of the dead were marching past. Well, marching was a charitable word, really. They were walking slowly, one slow step at a time. As his hearing returned, he could hear the sound of their feet. This was no ordinary army. There was no banter, no pushing and shoving, no laughter or shouting. Just an endless step... step... step... and they were loose upon the rest of the world. The army of the dead were going to fucking war! Tormund looked at Beric, who was peering over, staring at exactly the same thing. Beric made to move back from the brink.

“What are you doing?” he hissed. “We'll be noticed.”

The dragon still flew high overhead, watching the army, circling, sometimes closer, sometimes further, but Tormund was certain it or its rider would see if they began to get restless. Beric stopped, frozen, while Tormund's imagination furnished him with a sudden clear vision of part of that army swarming up the side of the wall to them like spiders, and he couldn't help shivering.

“What shall we do?” Beric asked.

Tormund sighed, drew in a breath. It was dark, but the fires here were still lit. “We stay where we are. We stay still. We hope nothing notices us,” he said. There were dead men on this stretch of the wall too. “And we hope the dead don't wake up before morning.”

They didn't speak after that, and all through the night, the dragon wight continued to wheel overhead, screeching. That sound of the dead trudging down below continued for hours, never ceasing. It was cold, and after a couple of hours, it began to snow, piling up and around them. The shivering began early, because they were so still, making his teeth chatter. It settled deep, wracking his body with deep shudders, tickling at his bones. Tormund didn't mind that so much. When the shivering passed and eventually ended – that he minded, because he knew it was the beginning of the end. If he didn't move, he would die. He couldn't move. After that, Tormund began to have to seriously resist the urge to sleep.

Several hours in, with no one to maintain them, the lights began to splutter and fail, going out one by one. “Beric,” he said at last, and received no reply. Tormund wondered if the other man was still alive. It was too cold to stay so still.

Beneath them, still it continued on. Tormund wasn't sure he wanted it to stop, because when it did, he was quite certain the Night King wouldn't leave the dead here behind. They would be found. Or he would be found. If Beric was already gone, perhaps the Knight would kill him. He began to think about edging himself towards to the precipice. The Night King couldn't use his body if he broke it to pieces on the jagged shards of ice far below.

He began to lose consciousness for short periods after that. Morning came, and the snow was heavy on his back, but he felt unnaturally warm. So hard not to sleep. Too hard. Again...

Something was different. He wondered what it was. He hardly blinked this time. The sound of the marching was gone.

The next time he opened his eyes, the grey of early morning had given way to dawn, almost blinding him. But the dragon. The dragon was still here. Or were there two? He only seemed to see in flashes, as if he couldn't quite keep the thread of continuity from one thing to another. He was sure he saw the dead men get up, dropping down from ledges only to stand up again on broken legs, dragging themselves off to war. More recruits for the Night King. He stared down at the ice below, and he had a sudden desperate urge to make himself fall, just like the new soldiers had done. Was he dead? Was he one of them already? Too late to stop it?

Hands took hold of him, and he didn't even have the strength to speak. They placed him atop the dragon, and he stared wildly, only to find himself looking into the blue eyes of Daenerys.

He lost consciousness again. And awoke in Winterfell. Beric was there too, but much worse off. He was being treated for frostbite, while Tormund himself had gotten away with no injuries at all. Just the effects of the cold, and a deeper, more lasting harm: the memories of that long night of waiting and listening to the army of the Night King as it passed by. An army that dragged its feet.

In the present, he shook himself. That was over and done with. There were things to be done here, now. Brienne being one of them. He felt immediately better about everything and made his way back down to the courtyard.

Currently, Clegane had Brienne pulled in tight against his body, blade against her throat. He seemed to be enjoying himself, particularly the way she was struggling, her arse rubbing against him like that. Brienne seemed to understand that too, and she became still.

Clegane smirked. “I was beginning to like that. Why did you stop?” He was definitely enjoying himself, at least until she stamped on his foot and elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“Bloody bitch!” he swore, letting her go. Tormund laughed out loud and joined them, seeing Brienne's eyes almost immediately go to the new sword. He held it out for her to examine, watched her draw it and bite her lip in admiration as her blue eyes lit up in pleasure to behold it. It was a beautiful thing.

“Heartsbane,” she breathed reverently.

“You have got to be kidding!” Clegane said, and Brienne passed the blade to him. He examined it too, swishing it experimentally through the air with a longing expression. Then he passed it back to Tormund.

“Fucking hell,” Clegane muttered, just as annoyed as Tormund had imagined.

“Maybe we can find another one, for you.”

To his surprise, both Brienne and Clegane shook their heads immediately. “Do you know how rare they are?” Clegane asked. “Do you even realise what he's given you?”

Tormund shrugged, studying the blade. He couldn't seem to stop looking at it. “It kills White Walkers. That's what I care about.”

“There are five Valyrian swords in the whole of Westeros that I know of,” Brienne said. “Three of them are here in Winterfell.”

Suddenly, the gravity of what Snow had entrusted him with was fully apparent, and Tormund felt his eyes open wide. “Fuck me,” he said seriously.

“Well, now,” Clegane said, smirking. “Isn't that an interesting suggestion?”

Tormund was too stunned to even respond to the taunt. Five, in the whole of Westeros, and Snow gave it to him?

“You going to stand there staring all day, or you want to play with it?” Clegane asked. Tormund looked up. Clegane really didn't seem as pissed off as he'd thought.

Tormund laid aside the scabbard and smiled slowly. “I want to play,” he said with a nod.

“Good,” Clegane said. “You'll be faster with that thing. You up for a little two-on-one?”

And there it was, in his eyes, that sparkle of mischief again. Brienne must really have got him going while Tormund was gone. He laughed out loud. “Come on then,” he said, raising his new sword, “if you think you can take me.”

They clashed immediately, fast and vicious, and Brienne was in the corner of his eye as he whirled to face her, defending himself from her attack too. The sword was like a dream to wield, and he wasn't used to it yet, but when he was, it would increase his might, enough to kill some of those fuckers for sure.

He enjoyed himself for a while with the two of them, because it was fast, and it was furious, and it seemed as if the quickening of his sword arm quickened his mind. But, inevitably, he lost. Clegane helped him to his feet. “I thought you'd be in a darker mood when I came back with this,” he commented.

Clegane glanced at the sword, sighed, kind of scowled. “I'm sure. I'm still working up to it. Still a bit surprised, to be fair.”

Tormund laughed and clapped him on the back. “Want to grab a break?”

As one, they looked at Brienne, who was standing a little way from them both, staring with a thoughtful look on her face. Almost as if she was thinking about asking them both something. Tormund wondered what it was. He opened his mouth to speak, but Clegane laid a sudden and urgent restraining hand on his arm as Brienne walked towards them. “Shut up you idiot!” he hissed quietly. “Let her come to us.”

She looked at Clegane. “I think I... that is, I,” she said, blushing slightly, then bit her lip. She looked to him then, and the sudden hunger in her eyes was quickly veiled, but he felt something in him soar at the sight of it. “Want to take a break?”

For Tormund, it was turning out to be a fairly good day, all things considered. Clegane though, he looked like a giant had just punched him in the gut. “You okay?” Tormund asked, concerned enough to frown.

Clegane pulled a face. “You know, I've always been able to deal with the bad shit. It's easy after a while. Expect the worst, and you're never disappointed. What kills you is hope. Fucking hope.”

And with that cryptic statement he turned away stalked off, leaving them both standing there. Brienne blushed again and looked slightly guilty. Something deeper was going on here, something only those two knew about. Tormund wondered what it was.

“Well!” Clegane shouted back at them both. “Are you two fucking coming or what?”

They hurried to catch him up. And somehow, it was no surprise they all ended up back at Brienne's room. As soon as the door was closed, it was as though a restriction had been lifted, and they were all over each other. Her most of all. The more confident she became, the wilder she was, the way he'd always known her to be, deep inside. From the moment he'd first seen her.

To be continued...

Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed it :) Hope you will leave me some encouragement, even if only a word or two! Sorry for the length of the chapter, and the absence of adult content, but it's a story too, and there will be these odd bits of plot going on. Review responses will be found here: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/topic/61848-pippychicks-review-replies-tv/
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