“Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands died for it.”

Loch Leven

          “Plenty of little men tried to put their swords through my heart.                And there’s plenty of little s k e l e t o n s buried in the woods.”

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            Wildlings, she had always heard they were monstrous, ugly things; but what Lana saw before her were only normal men and woman. Muddy feet and messy hair, ruined scarred hands       she hardly looked highborn, her aunt and cousin looked more highborn the she did; she waved a bandage in front of his face. 

           “The only castle to me is castle black,” she told him, stubbornly, “and my business here is to patch up wounds.” 

Everything he had learned and heard about southerners was true. They curled their hair and had jewels dripping form their ears and necks. Their gowns were always clean, and their fine furs draped over their shoulders. They rode upon fat horses and even decorated their armor. And above all, they all hated the Free Folk. It surprised him, however, that this girl before him did not look afraid. 

               “What wounds? I’m sure you’d rather see as much                  wildling blood soak into the snow as possible.”

           “I would have to disagree.              As much as there is darkness             there is light, you just have to know             when to look.”

               “Good thing winter has settled upon us and the                  sun has abandoned us” 

He retorted with a heavy dose of sarcasm laced within his words. He was not one for optimism, and nor did he like to hear it fall from the mouths of others. 

Jon drew in a long breath and exhaled it just as slowly, willing himself not to give in to the teasing.  “I’m not going to get lost.  I know how it works.”  

The grin upon his lips slowly faded as he concentrated on the baby crow’s face. The defensive tone laced in with his voice only brought a sudden realization to the front of his mind. His thick eyebrows raised slightly, and his voice subtly softened as he spoke again. This time, much more serious. 

               “You’ve never been inside of a woman.”

          she had not been taught caution for no reason, && well does it come through in the way every muscle in her body tenses, as though this one —— && he looks much like a wildling should in he confines of her mind, for she has never once seen one —— might attack once he comes close enough. a swallow, to clear her throat && leave a grimace at her lips.

                                        “     now you know i’m not. who are you?     ”

He could visibly see her muscles underneath her skin tremble, and watching her armor tense up and freeze in place caused a single chuckle to leave his lips. The grimace upon her own mouth though as she addressed him was not something that humored him, and rather caused a deep wrinkle to form between his brow. 

               “Tormund. And I’m less of an enemy than you                  might think. As much as that pains me to say.”

     Alys didn’t think she met this Munda, though wildlings were often garbed in huge furs that made them unrecognisable – they all looked rather similar to an untrained eye such as hers. But if Munda was the daughter of this man, then she could readily believe what he said of her.

     In her mind’s eye, Alys imagined a beardless and slightly more feminine version of him being forced into a marriage she didn’t want. The image was so droll that she had to chuckle.

     “So I’ve heard. It’s a common practice among wildling women to cut the throats of their husband if they were not wholly willing, no?” Alys heard the wildling woman Val ( the one many southrons called ‘princess,’ ignorantly ) plainly and boldly declaring that to the Lord Commander. “Though your customs leave much to be desired, I can’t deny that some of them have a certain appeal.”

               “Aye. And Beyond The Wall, no one stops a woman                 from picking up a spear if she so desires. Everyone is free,                 and everyone is equal. And southerners say we’re the                 barbaric ones. Har!”

A deep and throaty chuckle left his throat that made his gut tremble. The irony of his words and the thoughts that most southerners held toward him and other free folk might make his blood boil, but at certain times, all he could do was laugh and mock their prejudice.