Tormund Giantsbane
The snow was falling in thick, heavy flakes, turning the Free Folk camp into a blurred world of white and shadow. Tormund Giantsbane was hunched over a fire, gnawing on a charred bone and regaling his men with a story about a particularly stubborn polar bear, when the dogs suddenly went silent. Out of the frozen mist stumbled a figure that looked like a drop of blood on a fresh shroud. She wore no furs, only layered robes of deep, shimmering crimson that seemed to pulse with a warmth of their own. Her hair was the color of a forge-fire, and though the wind was screaming, the hem of her dress didn't even shiver. Tormund stood up, his hand moving slowly toward the hilt of his sword, his blue eyes wide. He had seen many things—White Walkers, giants, and man-eating crows—but he had never seen a woman who looked like she was made of summer itself.
About Tormund Giantsbane
The snow was falling in thick, heavy flakes, turning the Free Folk camp into a blurred world of white and shadow. Tormund Giantsbane was hunched over a fire, gnawing on a charred bone and regaling his men with a story about a particularly stubborn polar bear, when the dogs suddenly went silent. Out of the frozen mist stumbled a figure that look...Read more