Well, this is different. First, off, I'd like to say a huge, huge thank-you to all of you who have read my fic As The Stars Look Down. As of right now, that particular story has had over 1000 views, which is the most I've ever had. Sex sells, apparently ;)
Anyway, back to this. I thought I'd explore the POV of a minor, seldom-mentioned character, just for a change of pace. As very little is really known about Lynesse, I can't be certain whether I'm in character or not, but I did my best.

There are times, rare though they are, when Lynesse can almost believe she is happy. Even in this cold, hostile, forbidding land, there are moments which bring a smile to her face. Her husband is a good man, true and sincere in his affections, though too solemn for her taste, prone to fits of sullen, brooding silence. He does love her, even she cannot find a way to deny that. Even though he seldom gives voice to his feelings, she can see it clear as day in his eyes whenever he so much as glances at her. That look was there they day they met at that tourney in Lannisport, and it has not left him since.

But she does not love him in return.

The marriage was swift. Too swift, in truth. No time for second thoughts. No, they only plague her now, now she is irretrievably tied to him and his family, his land and its harsh, unforgiving ways.

She tries. Oh, she does. Tries to smile for him, knowing how it hurts him when she is unhappy.

And she does not want to hurt him. He does not deserve to be hurt.

That is the reason she tries to ply herself with when she's buying the moon tea. It sounds better, somehow. Less selfish.

It started as a mere suspicion, a shadow glimpsed upon the wall. An intuition of the kind unique to the fairer sex. Something, where once before there was nothing at all. Lynesse held her tongue, though. It did not seem fair to raise his hopes, when she was uncertain herself.
Then her moon's blood did not come, and all uncertainty was erased completely.

She just prays that it is not too late. Jorah is eager for her to bear him a child, noticeably so. There's an ache still present in her loins and back, a raised patch of inflamed skin on her jaw where his beard scratches. Rubbing it absently with a fingertip, she catches herself wishing in vain – and not for the first time – for a softer, gentler man. And, thinking of his kisses, her thoughts begin to drift wombwards again, and dread begins to coil in her stomach like an iron chain.

Her feelings do not stem from a reluctance to be a mother, though the thought of childbirth and all the attendant indignities and pains is not one that particularly appeals to her.

It is the fact that they would be his babes.
His flesh and blood.
Another rope binding them together.

But he loves her. Jorah loves her.
And she does not want to hurt him. He does not deserve to be hurt.

So, in the privacy of their room, alone while he hunts in the snow, Lynesse raises a steaming cup to her lips, and tries to pretend that the sudden shock of bitterness on her tongue does not taste of the sweetest relief.

As usual, feedback would be greatly appreciated, and also probably necessary, as I seem to be making an inordinate amount of typos lately. I combed through as thoroughly as I could, but if you spot a stray one, please let me know. Otherwise, just tell me what you thought. Bye for now!