Fucking balls o' blood, never in his forsaken life has he ever seen a woman quite like that.
Broad. Strong. She wouldn't bend easy, would give as good as she gets for true.
Tormund drinks from his ale, leans forward over the table. He almost says something, almost -- his watching her makes her stiffen.
Those hips would be good to birth babes. Tall, strong ones with his flaming hair or her pale blonde.
She'd want for nothing, he thinks then, he hasn't got much except his fists to fight with, his teeth, but she, oi, she wouldn't need his help none. They could match each other. Keep warm when winter comes and piss off the top of the wall, slay a wight to save their lives and then sing when spring thaws the ground.
No one's spoken up since the scroll from the Bolton bastard came, but this lass, oh, this lass, she could knock out all his teeth and he'd worship her thighs still. She was the stuff of pagan gods and old lore, by the old gods, if he'd met a woman like this years ago --
"Oi," he says, clearing his throat, swallowing his mutton. She doesn't look at him since he's staring, but pretty Jon Snow, such a coward, his eyes narrow in warning while his pretty sister perks up in interest. "Lass."
"Ser," the Knight -- she must be -- says stiffly. Southern manners no doubt.
He grins at her. "Ya ever hear the story about the bear?"
And that rage in her ice blue eyes, he's frightened for his cock but intrigued nonetheless.
She reaches for her fork but the boy next to her seizes it first.