winter is coming [any]

[Belgarath]

Whatever happened to a pretty big thing like her that she could get so many scars? Scars were fitting for a man, for the one that was supposed to protect and enforce. Not so for women, whose skin was supposed to be smooth and supple to the touch, skin that should be begging to be caressed at all times. Skin that should bear only the marks of their man’s teeth in discipline. So either this woman was some sort of bull-headed bitch, or a dyke, or worse - some warrior maid who doesn’t know her place. They had such... uppity ideas. Such illogical notions. 

He’d be happy to show her where she should be.
On her knees before him.

“Dreaming?” he says with derisive snort. “No, darling. I don’t need to dream. I can get them when I want to.” He always calls them darling and pet in that way; that little curl of the tongue, the nuance that says they’re more of a toy to be played with than any sort of little darling. He’s never had a darling. There was Alasia, once. But in the end, she disappeared like all the others. None of them have been worthy, and their children were all evidence of their unworthiness.

He still doesn’t have an heir. And that just irks the big ‘ol mountain to no end.

“I’m Belgarath. What’s your name?” Despite how much it pains him to admit it, she is just a tad bit intriguing.


BELGARATH
No mercy to what we are doing, no thought to what we have done
No need to feel the sorrow, no remorse for the helpless one