Bran, my sweetheart, my honey, my pet, sits in my lap. He is curled up against my chest in his slumber. He pulls his thumb to the outside of his cherry-red lips, barely breaching them, and I realize how small he is, how young he is. This is love, right? Is this love right?I stroke one hand through his hair and wrap another arm around him, pulling him closer to me. I suppose his youth is the reason why we have yet to make love, even since we eloped. He will gain an interest in such things eventually... My manhood begins to stiffen at the thought, and he wriggles in my lap as if reading my mind. Mmmm. Bran. My Bran. You naughty boy. The only person who I have ever loved. In appearance and soul, he is perfect. His pale, hairless skin makes me want to weep with adulation. I know, I'm a bit of a creep. What am I doing here? I sigh and slowly move him off of my lap, lowering him flat on the ground. I pull down my trousers and let loose the dragon. I am in awe of it. I am every time. Gods, it's twice the size of his forearm... I begin to pet it. My nightly ritual; it keeps the dragon satisfied and keeps me sane, rational. And I like to think that Bran enjoys it too. So it's positive activity for all three of us. I study the way the moonlight hits his face and resolve to compose a poem about it at a later date.

I wonder what he would look like dressed as a girl. My pace quickens. I should dress him up as a girl. Yeah. A pretty little girl. A clueless seductress in a fashionable dress with a little blue bow in his hair. A veil, all in white, my bride. I envision him across from me, fidgeting and staring towards the ground, all meekly, like a proper lady. I scan the happy faces in the crowd. They all begin shouting my name with enthusiasm. Please, please. I know you all love me. It's a bit irritating actually. They just keep saying it over and over and over again like a bunch of idiots. Still, when I see the shy, subtle smile on my bride's face as we meet eyes, everything else vanishes. She seems to be asking "Am I acceptable?" I don't answer her, for fear that it will go to her pretty little head and she'll start to whore around with other men. I would have to kill her. And maybe myself too. And the men for sure. And probably some others. Who knows. We'll see.

When it is time for the bedding ceremony, I personally rip the dress off of her, as everyone else was taking their time to do so, and I feast my eyes over her lithe figure. Tonight, I ravage you and take you like an animal. I will feel you from the inside. But they aren't carrying her to our room. Odd. I look around and see pleading faces. "Please, Lord Hodor, could we watch?" They manage to communicate this sentiment purely through body language. Her father steps forth and falls to his knees before me. He wraps his arms around my leg and begins to sob. "Please, Lord Hodor, I want to see my little girl become a woman," is clearly what he's trying to communicate, although he's too prideful to say anything but my name. I do not deny them this simple pleasure, and there is much applause as my girl squeals with joy. Tears of pure bliss are present on the faces of everyone in the room. I'll admit, even I'm a little weepy.

I will get a child off of her. If it is a boy, we will call it Hodor. If it is a girl, we will call it Hodor.The food and music was pretty good and the bride is definitely up to my high standards, so I don't want to sound picky, but it's really frustrating that everyone keeps trying to get in on the action, grabbing and pulling at me. As if they were my bride and they were entitled to my attention. No. This is her night. You can get your turn later. Meet me in the stables tomorrow, pretty boy. The ceremony lasts well into the morning. After several hours of polite but desperate entreatment on my bride's part, I allow her to go to the Septa to get her wounds treated around noon. Women are so delicate. So breakable. You could almost kill one by accident, without even noticing. But I suppose that's why they're beautiful. I resolve to compose a poem about this at a later date.

Our marriage is happy, at first, but her eccentricities begin to wear away at me. She always insists that I carry her everywhere, as if she's somehow incapable of walking. She was even sitting on a chair at our wedding. I thought little of it at the time. She probably twisted her ankle while horseback riding. A fine activity for a young lady. Or maybe she was just so nervous she could not stand. How sweet. There's no need to be scared. But don't stop. I kind of like it. But now I see that she's just a lazy slob. If I'm too tired to carry her to the toilet, in the middle of the night after a long day of work, she will simply soil herself. I suppose this is normal for women, but I thought she was different. She was my chosen one. She was supposed to be the light of my life, not leave me in darkness. I suspect that her laziness is strongly related to her infertility. Child-bearing is just too much work for her, it seems. Carrying on my legacy is too much trouble. She acts as if the very idea of giving me a child is absurd. She doesn't even have child-bearing hips or teats. I used to think her slender form attractive, but now it repulses me.

When we make love, she just lies there like a dead fish. It makes me feel inadequate. I tell her this, but I don't think she understands. Why don't you respond to me the way you used to? Don't you still love me? You never say you love me...

We don't communicate at all. It's seemingly impossible. Like we're speaking two different languages. I thought that her screaming nothing but my name on our wedding night was a testament to my prowess, but apparently it's just her favorite word. "Hodor!" "Hodor?" "Hodor..." I bet the neighbors all know my name at this point, and they're probably pissed about all the banging on the walls. They probably think I'm a bad husband. Seven hells, it makes me want to wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze with all the love I have to give until I can't even remember why I'm doing it anymore.

I try to speak to her, but she just gets this blank look in her eyes like she has no idea what I'm trying to say. I'll tell her to do something, she won't do it, and then not only will she not apologize, but she gets all puzzled when she sees that I'm angry with her.

I sometimes wonder if she really is an idiot. Then it would likely be a good thing that she hasn't given me a child. If my child was like this, I would toss it from a cliff and demand another. It would be the merciful thing to do. Still, I love her more than anything. Every night, I stand over her and watch her sleep. Every night I resolve to kill her. Every night I cannot bring myself to do it. But, every night, I get closer and closer to actually executing the deed and my will slowly strengthens. Eventually, I do it. I place one hand around her tiny throat and my fist meets her face just as her eyes spring open and I hear a sickening thud and...

I am spent; my dragon spits its fire onto Bran's beautiful and delicate visage. Some of it gets into his hair. I hope he doesn't notice. Women can be so finicky about hair. But then, something very unexpected and novel happens. Before I can even return my dragon to his dragon-cave, Bran's eyes flutter open. I notice how long his eyelashes are. I'm always noticing new things about him, and this brings a wide, open-mouthed grin to my face. His eyes are fully open now. Even beyond their normal capacity. Looks like a bug. My little bug. So cute.His vision scans up and down my body as he shivers violently. Are you cold?"Hodor! Hodor, Hodor! Hodor, Hodor, Hodor!" he screams as he flips himself over and tries to crawl away, grasping at the dirt. He must be ill.

I pin him down with my body weight and begin to sob. "I'll get you the help you need, I swear it. I'll find a way to cure you, my darling, my wolf-cub." My wolf-cub. I like that one. I'll have to use it more often.

"Hodor, hodor, hodor..." He whimpered and gasped. Although it is heart-wrenching that my lover feels unwell, it also provides a sense of vulnerability that I find to be extremely alluring. I think to myself, isn't that what love is all about? I resolve to compose a poem about this at a later date.