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The girl wasn’t all that comely, but she had bright fearless eyes and smiled at him. She isn’t afraid of me, Sigorn thought, embarrassed by his own weakness. He’d spent the better part of last night gripped by a vague dread, searching for any reason to cancel this fantastic plan before concluding that there was absolutely none. He couldn’t fail his people; he’d have to accept this bride even if she had three eyes and a fish’s tail. He did his best to smile back, though his face felt stiff with cold and his lips barely moved. They jumped over the red witch’s fire and he wrapped a black cloak on her shoulders like he’d been told to do, and fumbled to fasten it with thick gloves on his hands. Lady Alys was a tall woman, but she had to look up at him, still smiling. Her smile warmed his blood more than the heat of the witch-fire, and on an impulse, he bent down to kiss her. She blinked a little when his lips brushed the ice-cold cheek. Surprised, he thought, and felt like he’d won something.
He didn’t object when she wanted to sneak away in the confusion after Tormund’s arrival. Though he wanted to see him, Tormund Giantsbane was the last man you’d want to witness you getting to bed with your new wife. He had had enough of kneeler customs for one day, and the idea of the bedding was ridiculous, like a grown man and woman couldn’t find their way into a bed on their own. Lady Alys closed the door after them, turning to face him. Did she tremble a little when he unclasped the cloak, let it fall off her shoulders?
She said something about his armor, did he go to bed in it? He supposed she was trying to make a joke, and wished he knew how to answer something clever. Life in the Frostfangs had been harsh, continuous fighting against the ice-river men and lately something much worse. The armor had grown on him like his skin had spouted bronze scales, and he had slept in it more times than he could count. Without it, he felt uncomfortably exposed. Weren’t the kneelers his enemies, too? She might have a knife… no, trying to kill him made no sense. She needed him as much as he needed her. And when he slid his hand around her waist, she bent like a sapling in the wind, coming closer. His lips found hers and she drew a breath like she’d been waiting for this moment.
Underneath her clothes, this Lady Alys was all angles, thin as a dry summer’s squirrel. He could feel the bones under her skin. It had been a long time since either of them last feasted. But it didn’t matter; she was there in his arms, warm and willing, and how long had it been since he’d last lain with a woman? The desire was almost painful, like his whole body down to the bones ached for release, to mark the end of all the defeat and loss and fatigue. He’d dragged himself through the days at Mole’s Town, held up by his duty and the bright painful hate he felt for the kneelers and Lord Snow, looking for any way forward and finding himself thwarted by the same man again and again. And when he was shown a way, it meant bending to the crow’s will, the shame of taking a kneeler bride, wed in the name of their false god. He was angry at himself for wanting her so desperately, already near to losing his control, and in a moment of fury he pushed her knees apart and buried himself into her, claiming this strange woman as his own.
She let out a sharp noise, and Sigorn knew immediately that something was wrong. “It hurts?” he managed to say. She mumbled something and he realized what was the matter. He cursed silently as he fell back on the bedding. Why had he been so stupid? Of course she was untouched, even if she’d seemed so fearless, so eager for his kisses. Thenns paid little heed to marriage, but what did he know of the customs of the kneelers? Had Lord Snow warned him? Probably, but he followed the man’s speech with such difficulty that this was far from the only thing he’d misunderstood. She lay quiet in the darkness, trembling like a wounded little animal. Sigorn willed himself to reach out and stroke her hair. He wanted to say he was sorry, but he couldn’t find the right words, and all the while he was conscious of the lust that still burned in him. After what seemed a very long time, Lady Alys whispered something, half turning towards him.
He tried to be gentler this time, let her do what she wanted, even if controlling himself felt like trying to hold back the current of the Milkwater. She straddled him uneasily at first, but when he pulled her down and kissed her, she melted like frost under his hands. Maybe she wanted to lose herself, too, forget the dead and the cold and the snow piling up outside. He knew what a man might do to please a woman but there was no time. He came with a rush like the breaking of an ice dam in the spring, and all his weariness and sadness was swept away by the flood. He drifted on the current towards sleep, barely mustering the energy to wrap his arm around his lady wife, equally sleepy and warm in his embrace.