Gregor awoke after the sun had risen, which was unusual for him. He had always been an early riser, never one to need excessive amounts of sleep. He lay still for a moment, realizing his new bride was there, breat hing softly a gainst his c h es t, curled under his arm. She had come back to him, to sleep in his bed. This was something that had never happened before, that one of his wives would come to him of her own accord. He remembered little of his first two wives, however he had some memory of his wedding nights. Elinor was the first wife, he thought, or was it Aly s ? He often confused them. Whatever her name had been, she’d shaken so hard her teeth had chattered. Her crying was high pitched, and it had made his head had hurt something awful. He’d hit her until she quieted, flipped her onto her stomach, spit on her dry cunt and fucked her pitilessly. Afterward he’d tossed her still form over his shoulder and tossed her into her own bed. He’d thought she might be dead, but it...
Of all the people she didn't want to see, Ser Arys Dayne topped the list. Tall, handsome, charming, most people would find Lady Melicent 's aversion to Ser Arys difficult to understand. The Dornishman had come to Karhold at the age of fourteen as squire to Melly's uncle Ser Robert Karstark. He was a third son to Ser Edric Dayne, and was prone to long speeches about the valor and glory of his uncle, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He also enjoyed boasting about Dayne's greatsword, Dawn, which was said to be forged from the heart of a falling star. He also told endless tales of Prince Oberyn Martell, the infamous Red Viper of Dorne. With his poisoned blades and bastards scattered all over Dorne, Melicent thought the Red Viper's lascivious exploits to be unimpressive and his questionable tactics made him seem dishounourable. Arys, however, seemed to idolize the Dornish Prince. Arys was five years older than Melicent , and developed a fascination wit...
They returned to the Hall of the Hundred Hearths, Gregor walking beside her, arm around her possessively, resting his big hand at the curve of her hip. He would protect her. She was still shaking, and what she would have liked, was to lean into him, to let him bear all of the weight of Arys Dayne's execution, yet she walked beside him, head held high, refusing to show her new husband how weak she really was. She must be weak, she knew. A brave girl would not have been sorry to see the Dornishman meet his demise, she thought, but Melicent felt sick, chilled... the image of Arys on the saltire, his entrails spilling from his gut, the sound of that sickening blow... his screams... repeated over and over in her mind. It wasn't that she wanted him to live, not really. But watching... seeing ... she'd never wanted that. Was there more to it than that? She didn't rightly know. Arys's death, the violence of it, scared her. Her Lord Husband's pleasure at the completion...