Bael sinks to his knees in the dank, dark crypt, holding the woman's waist between powerful hands. "Come with me." It is a selfish thing to ask of her. This kneeler woman with eyes of steel and sharp grins and dreams, dreams underneath her too-serious face. "We can live together, free. Beyond the wall." Her small, lithe form trembles at the half-promise. He can see the longing in her face. So close, he is so close.

He glides his hands along her naked hips, the joy of her body calling to him again. She allows him to pull her atop, legs parting to make way for him. Her head is buried in his neck, her breathing coming short. "I will teach you the ways of the free men." She is wound up around him, warm and sweet and if pleasure could kill, Bael wouldn't mind so long as it comes by her hands. Nay, he thinks, he would die for this woman, but he would rather live for – with – her. "Be mine."

"I am yours," she whispers against his skin, her voice a soft caress. His seed runs along the inside of her thigh and onto his own. "By the old gods, I am yours." Her mouth seeks his hungrily. And again she begs with her body to be fashioned into something of his own making. "But I am a Stark also. I belong to Winterfell as well."

That he has to share her with the walls and ambitions of her father, Bael smarts at it and the anger swells and this time it is the ground against her back and not his hands. This time his hips punish her unwillingness and his mouth plunders and ravages. However much she belongs to him, she doesn't and he wants her so much he thinks he might burst, filled as he is with need. He thought that one taste of her would quell his desire. But once he's taken her, droplets of blood falling onto the ground, he only grows to crave her more. "What do I have to do for you to follow me beyond the wall?"

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.

.

"If it is a daughter, I shall join you," she tells him, lying onto him, her once tiny waist slightly expanded. "If it is a son, I must stay and see him the proper lord when my father dies. "

Bael prays for a daughter. He prays they only have daughters, in fact. Daughters with her hair, eyes, sharp smiles and too-serious faces. How can he bear to let her go now, after he's known the feel of her against him when they sleep? How can he let her go without tearing his heart to shreds? Gods forgive him, but he would sling her over his shoulders and see her out of this place with her consent or without. And yet the thought of such fine eyes laying blame on him makes a sharp pain in his chest.

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She gives him a son in the end. Proud mother, the she-wolf cradles the babe to her breast watching the infant suckle. "A boy, a lord for my home."

And just like that understanding dawns upon Bael. He loves her, he loves her so much, yet she loves her home. She would do anything for her home. "Why did you come with me here?" Gods damn it. Angered again, he stands up and moves away from her.

That very night he leaves, swearing to himself that he will never come back. The harsh wind cuts his cheeks, just like her tears had when she begged him to stay awhile longer. "I do love you. Come back to me." Never. Bael promises her in his grief. "Never again will I let you fool me, woman. "

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Five years past, Bael finds himself again in her presence. She is the Lady of Winterfell, acting as regent to her son. Bael does not want to hear about the child or see him. If he looks upon the boy's face, he will love him and this man desperately wants to cling to his bitterness and his pain. So he takes his woman roughly and seals her mouth close with kisses unnumbered.

But as luck would have it, he wakes in the middle of the night to the creaking of the door and a pair of wide eyes looking upon the stranger in the house. His son looks like his mother as far as eyes and mouth go, but the rest of him is Bael. His heart squeezes in his chest and he makes a sign for the child to be quiet. The boy climbs into the bed and under the covers.

"Are you my father?"

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They fight upon snow and ice, father and son clash swords. Bael loses on purpose, of course. He can't bring himself to plunge the sword into the chest of this kneeler. It's those eyes and that face that has grown too-serious.

The boy, though, has no compunction about bringing down his sword. Bael smiles sadly. This is his seed and blood, this is what was born out of his love for her. All this for her. "Do it!" And he feels the pain of it briefly.

In his mind he can see her smile and her eyes light up, and wistfully he wonders what could have been had it been a girl that was born to them.