"Increasingly of late, he has thought he would like to see her glad because of him, not in spite of him. He has hope that it will happen in time, that the things that lie between them will one day cease to matter so, and they will give one another a reason to be glad."
Nothing explicit, just loads of tooth-rotting fluff and the occasional vague reference to sexytimes.
(So, does anyone else ever do that thing where you finally force yourself to stop overthinking and second-guessing the story you’re working on and just post it already…
…and then you post it, and as it’s posting, you sit there, screaming at your computer, “NO! NO! STOP! ABORT! ABORT!” while your family looks on in complete bewilderment and more than a little concern? But then it’s already up so you figure you might as well just leave it? Sigh…I’m hopeless.)
Since today is apparently Ned/Cat day on my blog I would like to bring up some agonizing linguistic parallels I noticed between Ned’s last chapter and Cat’s
When he thought of his daughters, he would have wept gladly, but the tears would not come. Even now, he was a Stark of Winterfell, and his grief and his rage froze hard inside him.
He did not know which was more painful, the waking or the sleeping. When he slept, he dreamed: dark disturbing dreams of blood and broken promises. When he woke, there was nothing to do but think, and his waking thoughts were worse than nightmares. The thought of Cat was as painful as a bed of nettles. He wondered where she was, what she was doing. He wondered whether he would ever see her again.
Ned Stark reached out his hand to grasp the flowery crown, but beneath the pale blue petals the thorns lay hidden. He felt them clawing at his skin, sharp and cruel, saw the slow trickle of blood run down his fingers, and woke, trembling, in the dark.
Promise me, Ned, his sister had whispered from her bed of blood. She had loved the scent of winter roses.
“Gods save me,” Ned wept. “I am going mad.”
and now for Catelyn
She had lived too long, and Ned was waiting.
Robb had broken his word, but Catelyn kept hers.
It hurts so much, she thought. Our children, Ned, all our sweet babes. Rickon, Bran, Arya, Sansa, Robb … Robb … please, Ned, please, make it stop, make it stop hurting … the white tears and the red ones ran together until her face was torn and tattered, the face that Ned had loved. Catelyn Stark raised her hands and watched the blood run down her long fingers, over her wrists, beneath the sleeves of her gown. Slow red worms crawled along her arms and under her clothes. It tickles. That made her laugh until she screamed. "Mad," someone said, "she’s lost her wits,"
I wish I could elaborate on this, but honestly I’m crying too hard just thinking about it.