lyanna stark

Big men with calloused hands who touch you like you’re something incredibly special 

Grumpy men who chuckle at your bad jokes 

Calm men who get protective and irrational and then pretend like they didn’t

"You shall find me a fair husband as well, I believe," the Greyjoy responded.  He was unsure if that is what she had expected to hear in return.  It was not false; by all accounts he was far gentler with his women than could be said of other captains, but that was no longer a concern if the young Stark woman was to be his rock wife.  Though he had hardly ever done so in the past, Victarion would no longer issue any threats to her now that her position was to change, for it was not acceptable in the eyes of the Drowned God.  She, too, expressed her understanding that things were to change.  "Anyone who breathes a word of such an idea will be reminded whose rock wife you are."  It was against the Old Way for Ironborn to kill Ironborn, but the lord god beneath the waves would not begrudge a man for blackening the eye of someone who insulted his true wife.

The reaver’s brow rose and fell as his greenlander woman spoke.  Often it annoyed him when those without Iron in their blood confessed their ignorance to his customs, but in this instance he almost found it amusing.  It was only on grounds of infertility or infidelity that he could discard her once the binding ceremony was complete; she would no longer be some bedwarmer to cast aside.  Even if he could, Victarion was hard pressed to think of some precedent that would make him wish to part with her, though her cheeky retorts might rankle at times.  He decided to voice none of this, however, and only stared at her.  Let her think what she will for now.

Victarion may have been considered a giant, a brute. Perhaps those who knew less of him would think he broke bones with those hands, as though he would snap them like twigs, but Lyanna knew this was not the case, and she was reminded with the pass of his thumb over her cheek. She knew his hands could be weapons, knew that Victarion could crush skulls and rend limbs. But he had never raised that hand against her. He had gotten angry, sure. He had yelled and stared, groused and grumbled. But he had never struck her, or even lifted his arm as though that might be his intent.

She closed her eyes and smiled warmly, at the barest lean of his body inward, and at the press of his lips into her dark hair. She relished it for a moment, and stayed there to speak, reluctant to leave his side -- for certain, she knew a captive woman was not meant to behave this way, but she could not help herself. She had, of all things, cultivated a queer sense of affection for this man, a sense of wanting to fix whatever was broken, or at the very least, hold it together.

Her words hung in his head, lingering like the dense fog that was so common in the Lordsport.  More than anything, the reaver felt surprise at them.  She did know, she knew exactly why he had been so reserved to her conditions.  Victarion’s once-hard gaze upon her softened somewhat.  Lyanna was not attempting to rankle him for the sake of wearying him; in fact, she seemed to want his contentment.  It was not something the captain was accustomed to.  Perhaps allowing her to perform some tasks would not be such a breach of the Old Way, he conceded, spurred to believe it even moreso at the threat of what might transpire if she were kept idle.  He knew well what path her words went down when she suffered boredom and he would not tempt it.

If the Lord Captain had not already slid into the banks of acceptance, the tender moment of affection helped guide him in the rest of the way.  I have no luck with wives, a familiar voice in his head called, but as she sank back down into his arms and he gazed in to the she-wolf’s eyes, he was hard-pressed to find any insincerity.  ”Very well,” he sighed thinly, “I’ll take your terms.”  Victarion let his hand slide up her arm and shoulder, until it rested lightly where her jaw met her neck.  ”The fare you cook is… not worse than that of the thralls.”  He looked away, as if he feared the compliment, as bare as it was, might reveal some weakness in him.

She leaned in to kiss him again though this time her lips fell to the corner of his mouth, sweeter and more intimate still. "I fear not for the union, Victarion. If I am to be your wife, I must be strong and without fear. I cannot shy away from what is expected of women of the Rock, even though I was not born among them." She rested her fingertips lightly on his chest plate. "Indeed, I must be twice the woman they are, so that I am not thought simply a pretty doll amid the Lord Captain's treasure."

She brought her gaze back up to his face, to his eyes. "I will not allow you to regret choosing me, Lord Captain. And, if someday you do happen upon an ounce of regret, well.. then perhaps it will be suitable to drop me off at the nearest inhabited island. Unless 'tis customary to kill me, and then we shall have to revisit the topic." She braced herself against him so that she might easier lower herself down, bare feet meeting the wood floor of the cabin.

Indie Ser Brynden Tully

Call me a Lannister, if you really wish to insult me.

[She's amused, and her smile shows it.]