In the icy cold of the far North, one figure proved of great interest to a good many people on the first night of renewed conflict. Word of the events in the south had yet to reach him, but as he stumbled through the cold and dark with his life's blood flowing from the wound put in him by his lover, he felt more than one set of eyes upon him.
"Ghost," he called through gritted teeth, "To me".
His faithful dire wolf padded silently through the deep banks of snow and fell in beside him. He felt safer with the great, white wolf at his side.
"That's a cute pup you've got there," a man called cheerfully from the darkness, "I thought that was a myth about your northerners laying with dogs to stay warm?"
Despite the obvious humour in the voice, there was menace there too.
"Who's there?" the bastard called back. His hand reached for the sword at his side, but the wound done to him by Ygritte had drained him of his strength.
Ghost growled.
"Nobody of any importance," the voice confessed, "But my employer is important. He's asked me to put a few more holes in you".
The figure emerged from the darkness. Lean and battle hardened, the mercenary had a smirk and a three day growth. In his hands was a hand and a half sword.
Jon Snow braced himself for the coming attack, but a roar to his left startled the both of them. A great, bear of a woman waded through the snow and brought her own sword down towards the mercenary. The wiry figure managed to get his blade up to fend off the attack, but the woman kept coming.
Snow wanted to add his own attacks to the flurry, but the giant of a woman had things well in hand. The mercenary spat in frustration and fled into the night.
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The fiery red-head had come to Dragonreach with hopes of seducing the man, but a chance encounter with that another woman who had been kissed by fire had muddied things in her head.
Her plans to woo the powerful man were soon forgotten, and instead she lunged at him with a knife. Only the intervention and untimely demise of the kind-hearted Onion Knight saved her intended victim.
Davos Seaworth is dead. He was Davos Seaworth, Seven Kingdoms Aligned Onion Knight.
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Elsewhere, seduction was definitely going on as the pretty young prostitute and the regal matriarch of the Tyrell family fell into a bed and became a mess of tangled, sweaty limbs.
As her toes curled a third time, Shae realised that experience most definitely did make up for any frailties the old woman's body might have had.
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Tormund Giantsbane gave a roar of triumph as he pulled his axe from the head of the farmer he'd recently buried it in. All around him, his Wildling raiders were raping and murdering.
Life was good.
"Have a turn at this one!" one of them shouted from his position atop of the farmer's sixteen year old daughter.
Tormund shook his head.
"If I were to give that young thing my prick, she'd be useless to the rest of you!"
They roared with laughter.
"Once you've lain with the lover of giants, the c**ks of mere mortals are as nails tossed into a well".
With those words, he stepped out into the darkness to relieve himself.
He was mid-stream when the knife whipped out of the bushes and whipped off his great, bear pleasing c**k.
With a startled cry, he took out his ax and swung at the boy who had done the cutting, but the coming of men in red put an end to that plan of attack.
Tormund Giantsbane slew five of the Lannister guards before a spear took him in the stomach. He slew two more before another spear found his throat.
And when the guards had left, the Bastard of Bolton stole out of the darkness and did some more stabbing.
soc123_au is dead. He was Tormund Giantsbane, Seven Kingdoms Aligned Wildling Legend.
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Jon Snow's work for the night was not yet done. He came upon the tent in the darkness and decided it was time to take control of his life. The figure inside, a woman, was doubtless a witch.
"Ghost," he urged his wolf, but the beast would not approach the tent.
"Come in out of the cold, Jon Snow," the woman's voice called from the warmth of the tent, "We are not enemies. We both of us serve the Lord of Light".
Snow sheathed his sword. She needn't die this night.
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The mercenary and his crew were about their business. The woman they'd been sent to procure lay unconscious across the back of a horse. So far, none of his men had raped her. He was saving that particular cherry for himself.
As they trudged through the Riverlands, the night grew cold. Far colder than he'd ever felt it in these parts.
A ghastly, white figure came staggering from a nearby copse of trees. A glowing blue blade was in its hand.
It carved a bloody swathe through several of his men before sheer weight of numbers sent it back into the night. He'd lost nine good men and not a one of them had managed to lay a hand on the undead thing.
But they had their quarry and there would always be men who would do killing for some ale and a warm, wet hole to stick their pricks in. He'd find enough men for tomorrow's work.
It is now day. PMs are still going out. With 32 remaining, it is 17 to lynch.
