OSHA
Emanating a profound warmth, the innermost pools surrounding the Heart Tree were not the subject of the Spearwife's devotion. Instead she sought solitude at the numerous outer pools dotting the Godswood, distant from the grasping clutches of the hot spring. She was a wildling born and bred, weaned on the tips of icicles, so the cold suited her better than any. It was here she was at ease with the Gods. Her Gods.
Osha deposited herself on the Godswood's northern edge as if to keep The Wall, and all that it barred out, in reach. As her ankles were still shackled with iron, she wore nought but a brown shift: it slipped off with ease. Osha glanced down, scanning her own figure. The bruises and scars that once tarnished her frame were a virtually distant memory. Since Osha's first days working the kitchens of Winterfell, her dark hair had grown to rest neatly at the shoulders and her breasts had filled out into being. A woman grown, yet still imposing and tough to onlookers. Caressing down over her pale belly, she worked her fingers through a sizeable shaggy and knotted mane. It was an involuntary habit she had repeatedly tried to shake; she often contemplating shaving her mound bare but instead relished the masculinity it provided.
With the proverbial itch successfully scratched, she tiptoed to the water's edge and lunged forward, diving headfirst into the abyss. Breaking through a surface peppered with sodden leaves, the abrupt chill was invigorating and it soaked every pore. The gloom was pitch black and silent. Further and further she groped. Deeper and deeper. It felt like she had been plunging for hours. Then contact: Osha punched the bottom, mushy and squelchy. She swiftly twisted and kicked off the bed with all her might. Wriggling upwards with the grace and tied legs of a merling, she had little air left in her lungs. Light streamed above, the Old God's gleaming down.
Osha emerged, with an almighty splash, gulping greatly for air. Something was different; there was an additional presence. Quickly blinked water out her eyes, she shifted, rotating while treading water. A young crippled boy sat gawking back at her, wolf by his side.
"What are you doing?" Brandon Stark asked. Osha waded over and lifted herself up the bank, exposing her bare torso. The tip of her sodden bush was visibly poking its way out of the water.
"I wanted to touch the bottom," she grinned. The cripple was transfixed. "What are you staring at, boy? Never seen a woman before?"
"I have so" he quickly countered, turning the slightest shade of pink. Thunderous commotion ended Bran's discomfort as a monster of a man came sauntering through the undergrowth, happily muttering to himself.
"He must have heard our voices," Bran said. "Hodor, you forgot your clothes."
"Hodor," Hodor agreed. He was dripping wet from the neck down, steaming in the chill air. Between his legs, his manhood swung long and heavy. It was Osha's turn to gape.
It was many years ago when Osha was first introduced to the notion of giants. Her brother was a man common to make jovial of their existence, so much so that he was wagered to find and slaughter one of the beasties. He wasn't gone long but, since it would be stupendous to slaver back a whole giant, he instead brought home a sole trophy to prove his worth: the giant's breasts. Each the size of a small child in diameter, free folk from far flung regions would journey the land to lay eyes upon this legend. The situation had prompted a root to grow inside Osha's wicked maiden mind: if female giants have bosoms as large as cart wheels, what behemoth would a male giant carry between his legs? Finally, after all these years of yearning, this half giant had unintentionally answered the long-awaited childhood query. And the result was breath taking.
Hodor's cock was nigh on chafing against the forest floor as he lumbered, despite his stature pitting him a head taller than Osha. Stallions would surely bow their heads in shame of this colossal entity. This did, on the other hand, explain why Hodor permanently wore a long length, baggy tunic as no other clothing would constrain him.
Abruptly concluding her stare, Osha darted her eyes downwards in the attempt to neglect naked Hodor's significance from her mind for now. However, doing so only accentuated the fact that Hodor's mighty manhood was as large in length and girth as her own leg. She felt moisture cumulate from her already damp sex and hurriedly swung her one-piece cloth over her head.
"Go back and bring your clothes, Hodor," Bran said. "Go dress."
"Hodor." He walked back the way he had come, ducking under a low-hanging tree limb, miniscule when likened to the limb between his legs, swinging its goodbye.