The girl lay on the bed, her body seeking warmth, like flowers after a frost, yearning for the spring sun. She touched her husband tenderly, deliberately lying closer so that he would no longer have a chance to move away, unless of course he wanted to fall off the bed; her fingers gently touched his fingers, running along the thin phalanges, feeling the sleeve of his linen shirt. Baylor was not a fool, as they liked to call him because of his terribly devoted devotion to the Faith; he saw how the Wife, peering into his face, sought warmth and closeness in it, while he looked at the ceiling of their bed. She quietly whispered his name, trying to attract her husband's attention, whispering again and again. Baelor, Baelor, Baelor.

As soon as she whispered his name for the last time, he visibly tenses up: her knee touches his thigh, and her foot slides softly along his leg, brushing his toes.

«It's late, wife,» — he says quickly, deftly removing his foot from her touch. — «It's time for us to sleep.» — He says the same thing every night, every second, when his wife tried to cuddle up to him. He turns over on his side, covering himself with the blanket up to his shoulders, knowing what his wife's face is like, because he once again denied her what she wanted - if not out of desire, then out of a sense of duty to him, as a wife.»