He tastes like blood, wine, and lyrium.  His mouth is metallic and bitter and dry, it is an acquired taste no one has ever had the chance to get used to before now.  He tastes of pain and suffering, of hardship and of endurance, of a strength she had never seen in anyone but herself before him.  He is her favorite flavor, and she wants him to be her last meal.
He feels like silk lain over granite, soft when he touches her but hard and rigid and tense when she lays her hands on him.  His fingers are rough from callouses borne of gripping blades and shedding blood, of clawing his way out of the captivity that he had been in for as long as he could remember.  But when he touches her his fingers are new, inexperienced, clumsy in their way and he holds her gingerly as though she would break and slip through his fingers.  She is a pleasure he has never allowed himself to indulge in, and she feels his heart in his chest beat the same as any free man’s.  He feels right.
He is hard to look at, but not because he is unattractive.  He looks like and radiates suffering, distance, a biting and unavoidable cold, covered in harsh spikes but with skin marked with soft lines, and the contrast can put strain on the eye.  Her eyes adjust to his light and his darkness simultaneously, a mutation she must have been born with only now showing any function just to be able to look at him without wincing.  To her, he looks like safety, of power, of a home she knows will finally stay constant.
He smells like blood, both his and not.  He smells of rain and of pine needles.  He smells like his wine and like the lyrium that covers his body.  He smells of ashes and of autumn, of sweat that could only come from running his entire life.  His scent is like a creature alive, only to be tamed by the right person, otherwise overwhelming and devouring and hard to stomach.  Those who cannot master it are driven away, but she can, and she stays.  She breathes him in as if he were simply oxygen, and she does it easily and without a second thought, because he is something she can inhale without ruining her lungs.
He sounds like old songs, slightly off key because no one knows quite how to play the ancient instruments anymore, no one can quite remember how to pluck the strings.  In battle he sounds like the wind rolling through a field, quiet and barely there, never reaching crescendo like the orchestra around him.  His tempo is constant, controlled, and his sound is not for every audience.  But she listens to him closer than any other, she hears the deeper meanings in the lyrics of his songs and they are strong enough to move her to tears.  She dances to his rhythm and her movements match his beat perfectly, practiced and wonderfully choreographed with a dedication none have had the determination to reach.
He dances with her, and she tastes of honey and of wit, of a form of laughter that comes naturally; she feels like feathers and soft blankets with sharp edges only encountered if one is not careful; she is beautiful and she glows with an aura of magic he would only ever appreciate on her; she smells of lightning and of security, of freedom; and she sounds like the final piece to his symphony, taking his in a new direction of hope and happiness he never expected, and he learns to play so that he may hear her song.  She overwhelms his senses, he overwhelms hers, but they adjust for each other, as they have become their new favorite songs.