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Jaime kissed Brienne’s wrist tracing the strange amorphous silhouette that was her soul mark with the tip of his tongue. “You’re mine, wench. This proves it. Just as this,” he lifted up his shirt to reveal a crescent shape marking his flank, “proves that I am yours.”
She tentatively touched the slightly moon-shaped figure in wonder. “Where’s the sun?” she asked.
“You’re my sun. And my moon. My everything. I love you, Brienne.”
“And I love you, Ser Jaime.”
They kissed, fitting years of pent of desire into the space of a few moments. Breaking for air, Brienne gasped, “Oh, it’s such a relief.” She re-examined her soulmark. “I always thought these bits were snakes or mayhap spider’s legs.”
“No! It’s clearly the mane of a proud lion. We must find a sept at once. The gods have been patient with us for long enough.”
She giggled (!), “Who am I to go against the will of the gods?”
“What in the name of Us is going on down there?” The Father asked.
“I told You,” The Crone said, “You made it overly complicated. Those two have far more in common than the matches You lot came up with.”
“I thought she could save him. She likes that, and he always needs help,” The Maiden said.
“And I thought she would provide him with passion,” The Warrior said.
“Crazy isn’t passion,” The Crone snorted.
“Well, are We going to allow it to stand?” The Mother asked.
“I, uh, think We’d better. She’s about to pass from being one of Mine to being one of Yours,” The Maiden replied.
“I approve,” The Smith said. “They are repairing what is broken within each other and forging something quite beautiful.”
“Well said,” agreed The Crone.
“Fine, fine,” said The Father.
“I will tend to the rest,” said The Stranger.
The Mother raised an eyebrow.
“Peacefully,” The Stranger amended.
Theon Greyjoy startled at a shadow moving in the corner of the room and dropped a burning brand onto his wrist. Oddly, when he pulled it away and washed the wound, he found his crescent moon and sunburst soulmark had transformed into something more like a wolf. How strange. He'd have to ask someone clever who understood these things what it might mean.
Lysa Tully winced as she bathed. That stupid mule girl hadn’t set the saddle right and then the beast balked for no reason and she’d taken a terrible tumble. The abrasion on her side went right across her soulmark too. At least now it looked more like the mockingbird she’d always known it to be rather than that silly lion.