Happy Shitting

{ au starter for @tormundbearfucker​ }

“Jon said what?” She gaped at him as she stared down the ramp at Tormund. “I thought you were going to East Watch.” Though Sansa supposed that it wouldn’t hurt to have a wildling by her side who was willing to rip out someone’s throat with his teeth when Daenerys supposedly had the Dothraki. “Knowing that I have no choice on whether you get on this boat or not, remind me to send an angry raven prone to pecking to Jon when we get to Dragonstone.”

tormundbearfucker

The night was gathering and the winds were getting colder when Ygritte returned to the fire lit by Orell. Some men and some women were sitting together, not long after dinner. She had already eaten hers, but she wanted to stay with the others by the fire. She wanted to know where they were coming from and why did they join Mance Rayder, because most of them were strangers to her: she only knew a few people of this group. She left them for a few minutes only and coing back she saw a bearded man sitting down the spot she had been sitting earlier. “Hey,” she called out to him, “you’ve taken my seat!”

He was chewing bits of a rabbit, fresh from the fire. They had things to do, for sure, but night time was time to sit by the fire, tell the tales of their lives. There were enough of them that didn’t know each other that the stories were all fresh. He was listening, now that he had a good spot, right at the fire, and a smile lit his face at the telling going on around him. 

Tormund glanced up, rabbit meat between his fingers. “All you have to do is ask me to move over. There’s plenty room, girl,” he said, shifting to the right to give her a space to sit.

@tormundbearfucker continued [ x ] 

The LOYALTY of his men is a gift Jon would never take lightly; not least of all since his own trueborn brother had been stabbed in the heart by those he’d placed his trust in ( long ago when he bore the same title ). No longer could friendship be assumed, or good trust taken for granted. But the FREEFOLK possess a sincerity & honesty that speaks to the Northern King’s core, and deep inside he knows Tormund will never betray him. 

“You know the TRUE NORTH better than any of us,” he comments, grey eyes traveling toward the flickering flames in turn. “Guide us through the hills and forests, and I will listen to what you have to say.” At the red-haired man’s comment about Brienne, he manages a smile; the first in many days. “If we emerge from this, I intend for us to all come out ALIVE.”

“There’s a few Freefolk left who may know it better than I. Might be old though. Too old for this anymore.” This boy-king needed young. Fast. To survive. It wouldn’t be an easy trip when they went. Most would almost surely die. Tormund was ready as he could be for it all. Snow was too, by the looks of things. 

“Well, I do appreciate the good word from him, then. You’re very kind, thank you.” Lasair offered a smile, teasingly tugging a lock of the horse’s mane. She liked Tormund already. Honest, but still kind. Good with horses.

And patient.

“Oh, no…my apologies!” Lasair’s face fell, looking horrified at the thought of offending him. Already, she was doing a piss-poor job of making friends and allies at Winterfell. “Free Folk–I’ll remember, I swear it.” She turned her head in the direction of the Wall, embarrassed. “When the King in the North needs soldiers, I’m certain he’d rather my brother answer the call, than myself. Surely a man would be more welcome in the ranks than I?”

“He’s a good boy...” he said, leaning into the side of the horse. He liked him, chose him. He would let this one be his friend and his mount when things went badly.

Theon bit the bread and chewed slowly. He could taste blood in his mouth, and more, the bitter taste of infection. He had come this far, made it to the Wall in order to keep the girl in Lord Snow’s care. Now that he was here, he knew the only option that remained to him. He had wanted to go home, but she had needed his protection. Now home was barred to him, to attempt it Lord Snow would have his head. Die or take the black.

He swallowed, and winced at the sensation of the food moving down his raw throat. It hurt to breathe here, but the cold had done its work in keeping him lucid for a time. He slowly looked at Tormund, the great bear of a man at his side.

What all is wrong with you?

The question had been posed in so many different ways over the weeks he’d run. What had Ramsay done that he could put words to without risking furthering the damage? He had been skinned, starved, chopped, and used. He had lived among dogs, and been treated at one. He had done things with a man he had never wished to do, but what haunted him more than the rest of it was a simple fact.

Some of it, some of it he had enjoyed. He had loved his captor, and some of that feeling still remained. His fingers twitched.

“Things -” Theon began, but the word caught in his throat for a moment. “He did - many things.”

One hand groped for Tormund’s arm, accepting the help for what it was. He shifted his weight, a small bundle wrapped at the side of a monster in his own right. Theon winced as he got to his feet, but ducked his head until he felt fur against his scarred cheek. Tormund didn’t need to be kind, but he was kindness itself in the moment. Kinder than Jon had been, in any case.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Tormund watched him eat, the motion mechanical and without enjoyment. The food was not much good here, but he could enjoy it at least a little bit. This one was a mess, and Tormund felt pity and fear for him. He looked like he might die soon. Sad. They could use all the warm bodies they could get to fight the wars to come. And this one, obviously, used to be a fighter. Still was since he had not curled up into a hole and died yet.

“Many things... That’s plain t’ see...” he muttered, a growl in his voice. “A monster, isn’t he? The one who did this to you.”

He smiled a lot. Hell, Tormund had probably smiled more times himself since she’d met him than all the others Brienne had seen in Winterfell combined. How did he do it? How did he manage to find pleasure when there was so much else going on, when there was war and pain and death all around them? And why should they always be aimed in her direction? For all he’d complimented her and watched her, Brienne still didn’t get it.

She thought she was beginning to accept it a little better, though. Sometimes she even felt a little warmth coiling in her stomach when he looked at her like that.

Not right now, though. Right now, she needed to focus. Her gaze tracked Tormund’s actions as he selected an ax from the weapons rack. Excellent. It wasn’t often she got to fight against an ax wielder. Brienne managed a small smile of her own for him. She lifted her sword, holding it before her, at the ready. “Come on, then. You’ve seen me fight. My turn to see what you’ve got.”

Everything was terrible in the world. Wars and dead men coming after them. But, he had to find the small pleasures in life, since they could be gone in a blink. So he watched her. He smiled. Tormund laughed often and loud, enjoying what he could while he could. Nothing could last, so why not smile through it. He was going to be smiling on the way to his grave probably.

Tormund wanted to make her feel warm. Wanted to touch her, eventually. One day he’d get the chance, he hoped, to make her smile at him.

“Some of them are alright,” Myriam allowed. “They make a change, but I like Northerners most. Never had someone as Northern as you though,” she smiled, noticing how his eyes lit up slightly when she smacked him. Good, she liked it when she didn’t have to pretend to be some meek shy thing. “I don’t know what kind of girls you’ve been talkin’ to since comin’ down here but I’ll reckon they weren’t whores if they wanted to be covered up.” Myriam certainly didn’t dress modestly. She looked down at her chest. “You think I’m bothered about bein’ modest?” she giggled. 

Myriam snorted at him. “I’m no lady. I don’t need fancy gifts. I love furs, and food is always welcome,” she assured him. She listened to his story, and started to get the meaning of it. “A woman from Bear Island then, not a real bear,” she noted, but she didn’t realise he meant an actual Mormont. “Well then, bear man, if you’re not for payin’ for me, you best go out and get some of those furs or cuts you were talkin’ about,” she grinned, getting off of his lap. 

“None so good as me, either. I can promise it.” He nodded, eyes on her. The girl was fiery, to be sure. Most women he’d met here so far were mealy mouthed and shy. Not the big one. Not this one. “Probably not, no... I think you’re the first I met. Most are... ladies. The Sansa. The little bear girl. That one, when she’s grown, will make men want her. She’s a spitfire. But ladies. Ladies get tiresome.” His own gaze went to her chest and he smirked. “No...”

She found herself less perturbed by the response and instead more amused. What was it her Hand had spoken to her? Something about the dreariness of this place and the allowance of the occasional flight of fancy?

Daenerys turned toward the other, the heels of her boots shifting in the soft earth beneath her feet. “A relief, then, that such any inquiry was not voiced,” she hummed in answer. “It would be tragic to lose such a capable warrior.”

Tormund was happy she was not about to remove his head. Maybe. So long as he kept his mouth shut. A feat he would have to work hard at. Tormund was too often a large mouthed man.