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got ficlet: what fire joins
what fire joins
Sigorn/Alys | gen | ~800 words
For an anon at Tumblr, who prompted Sigorn/Alys, anything all. Originally posted at my Tumblr.
--
"Let him be scared of me," she tells Jon Snow, her eyes narrowed and her hair snapping in the wind like a banner. Her voice stays steady, as frozen as the Northern air, but her hands tremble slightly as she holds her maiden cloak closed against the thick, swirling snows. It's heavy and black, hastily sewn with a sunburst in white fur, and it smells strongly of men and a hard day's work, of leather and woodsmoke and sweat.
She knows the vows meant to be said before a heart tree, learned them first when her father bade her to catch Robb Stark's interest, and again when he promised Daryn Hornwood her hand, but the red woman's words as strange to her -- as strange as the wildling man standing silently beside her, as the idea of fleeing one wedding only to be hurried headlong into another. The ditch fire is a roaring wall of heat before her, a sharp contrast to the icy wind whipping at her back, and Melisandre's voice writhes around the falling snow, growing fevered and bright as she charges them to come to her and be as one. She raises her hands and the fire follows, the flames twisting up toward her fingers, and Alys gathers her skirts to her knees in one hand, the cold air needling through her stockings as she jumps and hopes she doesn't burn.
"Wife," Sigorn says carefully, his mouth curling around the word, and Alys suddenly remembers that they speak the Old Tongue in the high passes, that few of Sigorn's men know the Common Tongue at all. She supposes he should scare her, this man she has not truly met; he is far larger than her, a head and a half taller and built like a blacksmith across the shoulders and chest, and he has a wildling's face, scarred and snowburnt under a beard that grizzles past his chin, but if his eyes are fierce they are kind as well, and his hands are surprisingly gentle as he fastens the House Thenn cloak around her shoulders.
"Two went into the flames. One emerges. What fire joins, none may put asunder."
Sigorn's armor glints darkly in the firelight, the bronze scales burnished into something close to orange, and he casts a long shadow across the courtyard, a thing that wavers as it stretches past the men scurrying toward the dining hall. He catches her hand again, his blunt fingers made clumsy by the cold and his thick leather gloves. Husband, she thinks, testing the word in her mind the same way he'd tested wife on his tongue; she is a woman wed now, and it doesn't frighten her nearly as much as it should.
Till his blood is boiling. She smiles at him, and brushes the melting snowflakes from his beard.
Sigorn/Alys | gen | ~800 words
For an anon at Tumblr, who prompted Sigorn/Alys, anything all. Originally posted at my Tumblr.
--
"Let him be scared of me," she tells Jon Snow, her eyes narrowed and her hair snapping in the wind like a banner. Her voice stays steady, as frozen as the Northern air, but her hands tremble slightly as she holds her maiden cloak closed against the thick, swirling snows. It's heavy and black, hastily sewn with a sunburst in white fur, and it smells strongly of men and a hard day's work, of leather and woodsmoke and sweat.
She knows the vows meant to be said before a heart tree, learned them first when her father bade her to catch Robb Stark's interest, and again when he promised Daryn Hornwood her hand, but the red woman's words as strange to her -- as strange as the wildling man standing silently beside her, as the idea of fleeing one wedding only to be hurried headlong into another. The ditch fire is a roaring wall of heat before her, a sharp contrast to the icy wind whipping at her back, and Melisandre's voice writhes around the falling snow, growing fevered and bright as she charges them to come to her and be as one. She raises her hands and the fire follows, the flames twisting up toward her fingers, and Alys gathers her skirts to her knees in one hand, the cold air needling through her stockings as she jumps and hopes she doesn't burn.
"Wife," Sigorn says carefully, his mouth curling around the word, and Alys suddenly remembers that they speak the Old Tongue in the high passes, that few of Sigorn's men know the Common Tongue at all. She supposes he should scare her, this man she has not truly met; he is far larger than her, a head and a half taller and built like a blacksmith across the shoulders and chest, and he has a wildling's face, scarred and snowburnt under a beard that grizzles past his chin, but if his eyes are fierce they are kind as well, and his hands are surprisingly gentle as he fastens the House Thenn cloak around her shoulders.
"Two went into the flames. One emerges. What fire joins, none may put asunder."
Sigorn's armor glints darkly in the firelight, the bronze scales burnished into something close to orange, and he casts a long shadow across the courtyard, a thing that wavers as it stretches past the men scurrying toward the dining hall. He catches her hand again, his blunt fingers made clumsy by the cold and his thick leather gloves. Husband, she thinks, testing the word in her mind the same way he'd tested wife on his tongue; she is a woman wed now, and it doesn't frighten her nearly as much as it should.
Till his blood is boiling. She smiles at him, and brushes the melting snowflakes from his beard.