Sandor

He was used to walking into whore houses. People might not have thought it, what with his sour demeanor and general hatred of… everything… but he did have needs. But he was also not someone that was going to have women flock to him and beg him to take their virtues. There were no buxom serving girls in the Red Keep who whispered hints of carnal pleasure to him. Gave him longing looks as he sat eating a meal, purposely bending so he could see their rumps or get a better peak at their cleavage. No… none of that for Sandor. He knew that with his horribly scarred face women were horrified and disgusted. Didn't matter that the lads with the pretty faces didn't know how to actually use their peckers, or that the rough but handsome warriors tended to have a thousand diseases. Sandor knew how to make women squeal in pleasure and for all his self loathing he had always kept himself clean and healthy; wasn't any harder than dealing with his face. None of that mattered to them.

So it was to the whores he went to.

And even they, despite the coin he paid them, still looked at him with revulsion when they didn't think he noticed their stares. How they would quickly close their eyes when he laid on top of them, desperate to focus on his body and not upon his face. Even the few he made repeat visits to never could must up the courage to stare at him.

But as he entered the truly massive Blue Oyster, which wasn't so much a whore house as a whore castle due to its great size, he found himself in the strange situation of having the whores flock to him like birds descending on a pile of sweet corn.

"Lord Clegane," a dusky skinned woman said as she approached, offering him a goblet filled with wine. "Welcome. How might we serve you?"

"Or service you?" another whore asked, drifting past him.

"We do so love to serve," a third stated from where she sat, opening her legs wide to show off that she was wearing nothing under her dress.

"In so many ways," another called out from the stairs.

"On our knees."

"On our backs."

"And in so many different positions."

Sandor was beginning to feel rather flustered.

"Oh leave him alone my pets," Sansa said from the second balcony, leaning down over the rail so he could see her better. She was wearing an open robe and nothing else, her pale breasts resting on the wooden barrier as she smiled at him. "They are interested in you, my knight. I've talked you up so very much… spoken of how kind you are. How strong. How skilled with a… sword." The way she lingered on that final word made it more than clear what she meant by that. Flashing a sharp smile she added, "Oh, and they see you for what you truly are."

It took a moment for Sandor to figure out what she meant and when he did he reached up and touched his face, conforming that the glamour she had placed on it was removed. The scars he was forced to wear had once more become nothing but a memory, leaving only smooth skin. Ever since she'd healed him he hadn't actually felt the pain in his face that had been a constant companion since his childhood so it didn't bother him to have the scars remain there through whatever magic she had returned with but not having them there for all else to see was a nice relief.

Still…

"Oh don't look at me like that!" Sansa protested with a flirty smile. "They can be trusted. I saved each and every one of them… they worship me as their mother, their teacher, and their goddess. Sometimes all three." She turned and motioned for him to follow. "Come along, we have much to discuss. Amelya, Tomora, you will join us."

Sandor watched as the whores began to drift away, returning to caring for the Blue Oyster. It was unusually empty, with no patrons sitting down below, making chit chat with the whores and playing silly games. There were men who liked that sort of thing, who came to whorehouses not merely to bury their cocks into soft bodies but who wanted an 'experience'. It was a waste of money in Sandor's opinion but people tended to be stupid. No one was doing that when he'd arrived but he supposed that with everything going on in the city at the moment there would be times where no men were interested in the pleasures of the flesh.

'Fuck, maybe they all just need some time to recover,' he thought to himself as he mounted the stairs, glancing once more time down below at the whores that mingled about like sharks hoping for someone to throw bait into the waters. Only the two that Sansa had called for, Amelya and Tomora, followed him. Both were utterly pale, with nearly white skin, which made their brown and black locks stand out all the more. Their eyes and lips had been done up in dark blue paints, to add a bit of otherworldliness to them, but their dresses were the standard garb of ladies of their profession in King's Landing… if a bit more expensive. Fine thin silken things that didn't hide their bodies but rather teased them, letting all know just what they could fully experience if they just had the right amount of coin.

They moved up the first flight of stairs and then the second and Sandor heard grunts and cries that told him that there were clients there. Or perhaps the tales that young stupid lads told themselves of how whores would fuck each other for free when there was no man around were true.

'Every woman the moment she is alone will fuck another lady but no man would ever fuck another man even if he were desperate.' Sandor snorted mentally at the stupidity of that; for many men it didn't matter what a person looked like if they were desperate. He'd heard tale more than once, though it always came with worrying glances, of his brother getting impatient that he hadn't been brought a woman and thus grabbing a squire or the like and fucking them til they died of the pain of him rearranging their organs.

Finally he was shown to the Lord's Suite, where the richest of men would be able to spend a week having every one of their desires catered to while their gold dwindled away. It was a truly massive room, taking up nearly a third of the floor, with a large bed that could fit 10 nubile bodies quite easily, a long banquet table, multiple seats for those that wished to fuck in new and interesting ways, and even a sunken in area filled with pillows. There was a large tub off to one side and a large balcony with high wall so that one could get blown by a whore in the sun without anyone seeing the lasses. And all about were the busts and trinkets and little baubles that the rich loved to surround themselves with in order to make themselves feel more special.

Sitting at a table on a chair that was more of a throne was Sansa, one leg crossed over the other as she nibbled on some fruit, stabbing grapes with her finger nails and bringing them to her dark lips. She gestured at a chair near her own and he sat down, rolling his neck to work out the kinks. At once the two whores that Sansa had demanded come with them were behind him, removing his cloak and bits of armor with nimble fingers.

"You look… better than when I last saw you," he stated at last, being careful with his words. People might have found it funny to see him cautious and worried about such a slip of a thing but he had seen Sansa tear several grown men apart with her bare hands. She was a monster in the form of a young woman and he would never forget that.

"I'll admit the… sudden death… of Lord Tywin caused some issues for me," she said.

That was putting it lightly. The morning that the news had broken Sandor had found Sansa ranting and raving, destroying their shared quarters before she'd begun snapping at the servants to pack her things and prepare for her departure. She had understood that with him dead her only true champion in the Red Keep was long gone. The Queen and her meek little boy wouldn't allow her to remain once they learned that Lord Tywin had been keeping her in the privacy of his rooms. It was well known what the man had done to his father's mistress the moment he had become the Lord of the Rock and Sansa had no desire to repeat that. She had left in a flurry while everyone else had gone to hear Tommen's proclamations, telling Sandor he was to remain until she called for him.

And remain he had until that day, when a soft-stepping servant had brought him a small note stating where he was to go and he shouldn't be tardy.

"But I have settled quite well," she said with a smirk, pouring them each a glass of wine. She passed one to Sandor and he wasn't surprised at all that it was so cold that it had begun to steam; that was her favorite after all, and he knew that she liked to keep the chilled drink available at all times.

"You have taken over a whorehouse," he stated, looking about. While plenty would have made a joke about her becoming a whore Sandor knew to do that would be to court death. Sansa did not take such insults lightly, after all.

"I suppose there are many that would see that as a step down from where I was only a month ago," she commented. She trailed her finger along the table, following the wood grain pattern. "I disagree. Here at least those I mingle with are honest about being whores." Sandor raised an eyebrow at that and she chuckled softly. "Come now, you must have thought the same yourself many times. The gathered men and women of the Red Keep… they are all whores. The servants sell their bodies but rather than sex it is hard work for far too little pay. The higher born… the sell their honesty, their interiority, their self worth to whoever will purchase it for a bit of power."

"True," Sandor said with a simple nod.

"And besides… I haven't taken over a whorehouse." She sipped her wine. "I've taken all of them."

"All of them?" he asked confused.

"Well, not all in Westeros," she replied, her tone full of mirth. "But all of the ones in King's Landing."

Sandor just stared at her in shock and Sansa giggled, pressing her hand to her lips.

"Oh my knight," she said, reaching over and patting his hand, "it is so wonderful to be able to surprise you!" She took a moment to calm herself before continuing. "It seems Littlefinger was far more cunning than any gave him credit for. It was known that he owned quite a few whorehouses in Westeros but his hold was far greater than we could have imagined. Using different false names and third parties he had managed to gain control of every brothel in King's Landing. The few that stood against him found themselves ground into dust thanks to accidents, Gold Cloak raids, and disasters. A pox here. A fire there. If he could not claim it then he would see it destroyed. And thus he gained control of it all."

She paused.

"And then he killed Joffrey and all those lovely buildings and the ladies that called them home found themselves in desperate need of a patron. And seeing as no one knew of those deals…"

Sandor knew exactly why no one knew the truth of the brothels' ownership and it was the minx that was sitting across from him.

"So you are the high whore of King's Landing," he said before he could stop himself.

But Sansa merely smiled. "But of course! Everyone has their spies. Varys and his little birds. Cersei and her dear servants. The Queen of Thorns and her pretty little flowers. And I have my whores. Baelish knew their worth; a man is never at his weakest than when he's caught in the warm embrace of a woman. When he finds her breasts pressed against his face or her quim wrapped around his cock… well, his tongue becomes loose and secrets are revealed." The two whores that had been lingering around him suddenly moved to begin rubbing his chest and his arms, Sandor stiffening in more than one way at their actions. "There is no secret now that I will not eventually learn of. Men are weak creatures and I will get them to spill all their secrets along with their seed. And the right bastard born at the right moment? It is something Baelish never considered but now I see as being able to earn me quite the profit." Sansa gestured at the room they were sitting in. "Varys is the spider? I now sit in the center of the greatest web in all of Westeros.

"But I did not call you here to brag, my knight. No… you are more important than that. So please tell me of the Red Keep and what things are whispered there now that I am gone."

Sandor worked his jaw for a moment before he waved off the whores, the two pale beauties moving away from him. "The royal babe has named the Bastard as his Hand and regent."

"Yes, I am aware," Sansa said breezily. "Already the wealthy are wondering if they can turn that to their advantage. There are a few that loathe him already and want him dead but far more desire him to become their ally. They wonder what gifts they can give him or distractions they might send his way. The Tyrells are thinking of asking him to come to High Garden… oh, they will claim it is for Tommen, of course. Winter is coming-" and for some odd reason her smile grew sharp for just a moment, "-and soon it will be impossible to travel. The seas will grow fierce with winter storms and the Kignsroad will be buried so deeply that even you would be lost amongst the powder. They are thinking that it would be nice to bring the court to the new Queen's home, to show off the might of the Reach. It will be to honor the King… but he is but a boy and will be distracted with childish things.

"The Hand though? That is a different matter. They will take him on grand hunts to slay massive beasts. Allow him to tour the wineries. Perhaps take him to Oldtown so he might visit the Citadel or travel the harbor in their great ships."

"Heh," Sandor huffed, "they might as well take him to the Starry Sept and fully alienate the bastard." Sansa looked at him and he scoffed. "You know your bastard brother; he isn't one to be taken in by such things." Honestly Sandor didn't mind the new Hand at all. He was steady to the point and didn't believe in the pompous games of the rest of the highborn.

"And how do you know this?" Sansa asked.

"Because he summoned me to meet with him," Sandor commented.

"And what do you think of our new Hand?"

Sandor shot her a level stare. "He's not worth bothering with unless there is no other choice."

"And what makes you believe that to be the case?" She leaned in and whispered playfully, "Is he a threat?"

"His wife is," Sandor said candidly. "That woman… a killer knows a killer. And she is a killer. She tries to hide it but she is."

What he didn't mention was that Natasha Stark reminded him very much of Sansa.

"I suppose that is true," she said as she rose. "There are those already plotting Jon Stark's death. I think they will fail. He is too protected." She looked over her shoulder at him as she padded about the room, her dainty little feet making not a sound. "Is he still asking about me?"

"He is." The bastard had been quiet about it, making sure to only whisper in the right ears, but word still got around that he was seeking out information concerning his sister. That he wasn't as sure as everyone else that she truly was dead. That he knew that the Lannisters had claimed she was alive and that he wanted to meet the woman that Joffrey had brought with him to the Small council and proclaimed Sansa Stark. Sandor had done his usual thing of growling at the bastard and telling him to piss off when he had come walking by but Jon Stark hadn't been fazed by him at all.

"I grew up around my father's ladywife who said goodbye to me by telling me I should have been throwing from a tall tower and had my spine shattered."

That had been the bastard's response and Sandor had to admit that Catelyn Fucking Stark's warm embraces would make a man harder to faze.

"Well, he won't find me now," she stated, pausing at the large bed. "After all… could he really claim that I was his dear sister?"

Sandor didn't bother to answer; they both knew the response. Sansa had radically changed since she'd awoken after her death and not just how she had aged from child to woman. She had grown even taller since he'd first encountered her, shooting up to nearly 6 feet tall though shy of that by an inch. He knew that the Queen had been rather annoyed that Sansa was taller than her now… and that she had developed far fuller breasts and a rounded ass that made her a threat to the title of most beautiful woman in Westeros. But there were other changes too. Sansa had been a pale thing already but after her death it was as if the sun was afraid to touch her skin. Her flesh had become as white as milk, which made the blue makeup she used on her lips and eyes and cheeks stand out all the more. Her hair had become a weak blond when she had ended up with spending time with Lord Tywin and in the month that he'd last seen her it had only continued to lighten, now almost white in color. But not an old maid… but an… other worldly sort of color.

"I don't look like Sansa Stark anymore, do I my knight?" She beckoned him to rise and Sandor did so, moving towards her. "Nothing like that foolish little girl." He took one step and then another towards her and as he did his paces grew shorter as he watched her slowly stretch. When she dropped her arms she had grown another few inches, now well past 6 foot 2. "In fact… one might think I am someone completely different." She dropped her robe, revealing her naked body fully to him, before oozing onto the bed. She raised a single pale foot, the deep blue of her nails gleaming in the light of the sun as she began to stroke his crotch. Sandor shook his head, swearing that once more she was growing, leg stretching out to bridge the gap. Every breath made her breasts swell and her curves grow, hair lengthening.

Or… had she always been like that? People didn't just suddenly grow. Yes… that was it. She had always been like that.

He shook his head, feeling dizzy and strange, like he'd been dunked in a barrel of ale and told to drink his way out.

"My snowflakes… the sun annoys me."

Amelya and Tomora flittered past him, moving to the balcony doors and shutting them, leaving the room in shadows. But they weren't done, choosing to also pull heavy currents over the doors and then the windows, leaving them in darkness lit only by a few candles. Candles the two began to snuff out.

"Come Sandor," she said as she rose up again, standing nose to nose with him, nails easily shredding his clothing. "Your queen hungers."

He found himself falling on top of her, not bothered at all by how very cold her quim was or how the only light in the room came from her piercing blue eyes.

~MC~MC~MC~

Robb

Outside a fall storm was raging hard, lashing at the sides of the large barn. The winds made the timbers shake and the pounding of the rain upon the wood planks that made up the structure made Robb remember the charge he had led against the Kingslayer and his forces during the Battle of the Whispering Woods. But the barn had been made well, crafted by hands that understood what winter could bring. Double walled with straw stuffed into it to keep the cold out and sealed sludge that was transported in from the Neck; if ever there were a people that knew how to deal with dampness it was House Reed and their friendship with Ned's father had meant that any barn built during his reign as Warden of the North was protected just as they boats were.

They weren't that far from Winterfell, perhaps at most an hour or two's ride by horseback. For Robb and Venom it had only taken them 30 minutes to arrive here, swinging from trees and running far faster than any horse. It had allowed them plenty of time to crouch in the high rafters, blending in with the shadows. The last of the water had fallen from their black flesh and they were now merely tense and ready.

'You are sure we are at the right place?' Venom asked.

'Of course I am. You were with me when we heard that farmer mention it.'

'But nothing has happened yet!' Venom complained. 'We could have killed plenty of thieves and rapists by now!'

Robb mentally scoffed. 'You were the one complaining about the cold rain. We get to relax and be dry.' Venom didn't respond, pouting that their prey was taking so long.

Robb had heard about the scheme purely by accident. He had been sent by his father to supervise one of the grain delivers, giving a silver stag to the farmers in addition to their normal pay to thank them for their hard work. The coins had come from Lannister purses; Robb didn't know if it was silver he personally had taken from Jaime Lannister but he always liked to assume it was. His father had been quick to strip the dead and the captured of their gear and make arrangements for it to be sold to Essos if it couldn't be put to use by the North. There were many merchants in Pentos that were walking about with Lion Cloaks, Robb had to imagine, bragging about how they had been taken from this foolish Westerosi lord or that. As the North no longer saw themselves as part of Westeros they didn't care in the slightest about the insults. Words were wind, after all.

One of the farmers had mentioned that he was surprised that one of the castle guards wasn't there, as they had had several long chats recently and he'd thought the man would want to hear more. He'd said that the lad was interested in becoming a farmer, wanting a quiet life of solitude, and he'd been ready to tell him more about how to prepare the fields. The only thing he'd been able to discuss was where the grains were kept, mentioning the very barn Robb was now in. It was one of the main Great Barns that Winterfell kept to feed the people; currently it was empty but when Winter came it would be filled to bursting with guards stationed there to protect it.

Robb hadn't bought the old man's story for a second. He didn't think the farmer was lying… but young men didn't suddenly decide to go off and live all by themselves toiling away farming. Not in the North. There was something else going on and he'd confirmed that when he'd discovered one guard, Morbin, had claimed to have come down with food poisoning… but wasn't in his room. In fact no one had seen him. That had caused Robb's hackles to rise and Venom had agreed that the man was up to something so it had been decided to head to the barn and see just what he might be doing.

If only Venom would stop getting all anxious-

A side door suddenly opened and Robb narrowed his eyes as a figure came in with a lantern. He had no need for light thanks to Venom giving him the ability to see in near perfect darkness so the light was like the sun breaking through the clouds. He couldn't help but stare. But rather than Morbin it was a young woman, drenched despite the cloak she was wearing. She shivered as she looked about, hanging her lantern on a hook before moving to shut and barricade the door behind her.

She was a slip of a thing and not overly beautiful though Robb was willing to give her the fact that she wasn't able to make herself up like highborn girls were. She had to make do with just brushing her hair, which admittedly was her most striking feature. It was golden in color, reminding him a bit of the Lannisters, but there were some Northerners who had more Westerland features thanks to a brief migration of them after the Dance of the Dragons when a Summer Flu had sprung up in the Westerlands and it had been believed that the cooler climates of the North would help keep the disease at bay. She wore a simple purple dress, good in quality but focused on keeping one warm and not flattering their looks. Even with it being drenched and clinging to her body it didn't show off her curves like many probably desired.

'She is from Winterfell,' Venom informed him.

'You're sure?'

'I recognize her scent. She is one of the chamber maids.'

Robb's eyes narrowed at that. 'They aren't supposed to leave Winterfell without an escort. Its too dangerous.'

'You were right… this is going to be interesting!' Venom declared as they watched the chamber maid move to light a few more lamps before hurrying over to a cellar door. She looked about one more time before she pulled it open, the hatch letting out a screech that made Robb wince and Venom hiss in pain. But it was done in a second and they were able to focus once more on the woman as she reached down… only for a pale white hand to suddenly dart out of the shadow-filled cellar and grasp her arm.

Robb nearly lunged but caught himself when he saw that the girl wasn't screaming in fright. No, she merely pulled and from the cellar came… well, it had the form of a man but could never be confused with one. Pale white skin was stretched over a thin form, like leather pulled too tauntly. Ebony hair threaded with blue strands. A twisted nose that arced upward with too large of nostrils. Thin lips that barely covered his razor sharp teeth.

He had encountered many strange things. Become something otherworldly himself. And yet even with all that he had no problem labeling the being before him as a monster.

"Martine," the creature said in a gasping voice, as if he had to force each word past him teeth. "Were you followed?"

"No my love," she said quickly. "I saw to my duties and hurried here. The storm actually helped… none would dare follow me in this weather."

"After tonight you will never have to worry about such things again."

"Followers? Duties? Or storms?"

The creature chuckled at that. "I can not stop the latter but the other two? Oh yes. No longer will you need to look over your shoulder again. I must merely finish the preparations."

"Tell me of it again, Morbin. Tell me of what you have done!" Martine pleaded as he bent down and retrieved a satchel from the cellar. When he rose she wrapped herself around his body, rubbing her head against his chest.

'That is Morbin?'

'Or what he has become. We have had many strange people wandering about Winterfell but I think we would remember something like THAT!' The derision could be heard clearly in Venom's thoughts.

Morbin shook his head, flashing a dark smile as he moved to a table. Martine leapt onto it, sitting there swinging her legs while the soldier set to work removing several different objects from his bag. A bottle with a cork stopper. A clay plate and pastel. A small burlap bag. "It was when I had marched with Robb Stark to face the Lannisters. I was wounded in battle and dragged myself to a small unkempt graveyard. There I found a tomb, far too grand for such a place, and seeking shelter to try and see to my wounds I discovered a secret passageway that had once been locked but had been opened due to age eating away at the door. Within I found ashes and vile things but also the journal. It spoke of the secret society that had lived in Westeros since the time of the First Men. Creatures made by worshipers of the Others who sought to replace their lost masters." He paused. "The vampires."

Martine cooed at that while Robb set his jaw.

'What are vampires?' Venom asked as Morbin continued to wax on poetically about how his wound had bled in a chamber that had been meant for blood.

'Abominations,' Robb mentally hissed. 'Legend states that when the Others were defeated at the Battle of the Dawn some of their human allies, the traitors of the living, used dark magic to try and turn themselves into the Others themselves. They failed though… where the Others hated life and desired only the death of all things the vampires need the living. They feed on blood, draining it from their victims in order to continue on. They also had the ability to turn other humans into vampires like themselves, everything they were twisted so that they became just like their killers. Old Nan told us stories of villages during month long snowstorms that found themselves under siege by just a few vampires, where the smallfolk were used as little more than cattle'

He narrowed their eyes.

'He dies.'

"They were the last of their kind," Morbin said mournfully. "Wiped out by the 'Daywalker' to the last man. The tomb I found had been their final stronghold but they were dying, tainted by poisoned blood. But the journal spoke of how they might rise up again!"

'Yes!' Venom cheered. 'I wonder what he'll taste like…'

'I hope bad,' Robb said. 'Because he will be the last of his kind we ever taste!'

Martine cooed at that. "And it worked, my love… it worked. You are a vampire." She threw back her head, running her fingers through her hair. "And soon… so shall I."

"Yes my love," Morbin told her. "With what you have managed to steal away from Winterfell I can complete the ritual tonight. You will be transformed just as I was. You will become an immortal, the queen to my king, and we will begin at last to carve out our kingdom in the North. No more slaving away for the foolish Starks. They will be made to serve us."

"I want to kill Lady Stark myself," Martine said, snapping her head back down and staring at her lover with intense eyes. "I want her to die slowly, in agony. Twisting and twitching as I drain her to nearly the last drop before I allow her to heal all over again!" She leapt off the table and began to dance about madly. "We'll need to kill Prince Robb… he is powerful."

"Perhaps," Morbin told her. "Or… perhaps we can make them serve. This journal speaks of blood slaves, lesser vampires that obey the whims of their masters. With the right potions in his food we could make him our pet." He scowled suddenly. "The rest die. The green skinned creatures, the blue one as well. The raccoon and the tree will burn. Perhaps we will keep that direwolf as an attack dog… if starved long enough her mind will break and she will forget her humanity…"

Robb grabbed onto the beam, claws digging into the wood as he prepared to leap down and kill the vampire. He just needed him to shift a bit more, so he could strike him full on and not give him a chance to fight back.

"We were meant to rule, my love. The two of us." Morbin tipped her chin up to stare into his eyes. "With our new power the order of world will change. No longer will it be the Stark's time. It will be the Vampire's Time. My time. Morbin Ti-"

And that's when Roslin tackled him and bite his head off.

"HE WAS OURS!" Venom roared as Robb leapt from his perch, landing in front of Martine who was screaming and sobbing as she watched Roslin in her Symbiote form cough and hack as she spat out dust.

"You weren't missing much, love!" she complained as she spit more grit from her mouth. "He turned into ashes the moment his head was gone. I need something to wash this down!" With that she walked over to the door and yanked it open, sticking her head outside to catch rainwater in her mouth.

"You… you killed him!" Martine screamed, turning and glaring at Roslin. She pulled a dagger from the folds of her dress and let out a deranged battle cry as she rushed towards the female pair, weapon raised above her head.

Robb casually fired off a tendril, wrapping it around her waist and yanking her back.

"How long were you here?" he asked as Roslin finally came back in, running her hands along her head to remove the water droplets that had gathered on her smooth black skin. The rain made her glisten all the more and he did his best to focus on the here and now even as both he and Venom felt their loins stir at the sight of their lovers.

Roslin shrugged. "For a while."

"You followed us?"

"If anything you followed us," she stated. "We saw this little one stealing from Maester Luwin's stores and decided to find out just what she was up to. We snuck in when she did and waited."

"Please… please let me go!" Martine whimpered. "It… it was him! Morbin! I didn't mean to do anything!" Robb released her and at once the chamber maid was on her knees, hands clasped in front of her as she pleaded. "He forced me to do it! He did!" She looked back at Robb with big wet eyes. "I… I was so scared that he would hurt me but… I never wanted to become like him! Never! You… you two saved me! You did! I'll never forget that!" She began to crawl towards Robb on her hands and knees, head nearly pressed to the ground. "Thank you… thank you. I'll do anything…"

Roslin let out a sigh as she walked over, running a finger along the woman's cheek. "Oh, you poor little thing. You… really think we're that stupid, do you?"

And with that Roslin lashed out, her hand slicing the woman right down the middle, sending out a gusher of blood.

"Pathetic," Roslin snarled before grabbing half of the twitching corpse and opening her mouth wide to take a large bite.

Robb merely stared at her before doing the same.

He knew that his family would have been horrified by it all. Seen it as ghastly and wrong. To murder someone coldly and then consume their flesh. But for Robb and Roslin… they functioned differently now. Saw the world differently. They were the lethal protectors of the North and would do all they could to protect it from the filth.

Swallowing the last bit of the deranged woman Robb ran his tongue over his mouth, gathering the last droplets of blood before turning towards his bride. Roslin though was already in motion, rushing him and tackling him to the ground.

Later they would destroy the journal and remove the last of the evidence.

Later.

For now though?

The barn shook and trembled as they roared out, battling the storm in intensity.