fic: FLAMMABLE
FLAMMABLE
ASOIAF; ygritte (ygritte/tormund); NO SPOILERS PAST ASOS/S3. pg-13.
fire is a blessing and a curse.
“Well, the hottest fires burn out quickest.” - GEORGE RR MARTIN, A STORM OF SWORDS.
Ygritte is blessed by the fire.
Ygritte doesn’t believe in gods, old or new.
Ygritte never had time for devils, neither.
He is her commander. She calls him the Ginger Giant to his face and he gruffs.
“Call me Tormund.” He says, slumping down on the bench opposite her and scowling. His hand reaches up and his fingers twist in the coarse hair of his beard.
She smirks, takes a slug of ale, “I’m a free woman. I’ll call you what I want.”
The first day of her training, she ties her red hair high up on her head.
“Let it down,” he says. “It is blessed,” he says.
“It gets in my eyes,” she replies. Her chin rises to level with his gaze - he stands a head of so above her, so that the sun gets into her eyes instead. He catches her hand when she raises it for shade and it wraps almost twice around her wrist. “I can’t fight with my hair in my eyes, however blessed it may be.” She says, calmly.
He sits beside her by the fire, that evening. Heat rises, her father told her once, so she stills tall. If she squints, Tormund reminds her of him, all furs and bright orange beard that sparkled in the firelight. “There are rules here,” he, Tormund, begins. “The gods have kissed us.”
She shrugs. “I don’t believe in the gods.”
“You ought, girl.”
Her eyes flick to his. “Don’t call me girl.”
And now, he smirks, “I’m a free man. I’ll call you what I fucking want.”
They keep the watch, late into the evening and then the morning. “What are we watching for?” She asks, as the sun finally creeps back over the horizon and her comrades lie sleeping around the embers of the nights light.
“The black and the white,” comes the coarse response. When she looks at him, his eyes are tired eyes. “Fire is a blessing and a curse.”
“You always talk in riddle and rhyme?”
She sees his weary smile break in the dawning light, his gaze staying set on the horizon. “Keeping you awake, ain’t it?”
She grins now, coy. “I s’pose.”
He only mutters to himself and kicks the others awake. “You’d best be prepared, Ygritte.”
It is the first time he calls her by her name.
He calls her by it again, not long later, shouts it as a Crowe lunges for her long hair, flying free in the wind.
After the fight they are two men down and she glowers at him across the cave they find shelter in. A steady beat of water falls between them. Drop. Drop.
Drop. “Tie it up.” He says.
Again, they sit by the fire. They are back now, in Mance Rayder’s court. Home, they call it, though neither of them has any. The beer in her hands is close to freezing, and she shivers beneath her furs. “They say winter’s coming.”
He scoffs, “Winter’s here. It’s been here all along.”
“I mean south,” she says, “beyond The Wall. You hear them talking. Hear it on the wind.”
He’s amused, but she’s piqued his interest. “Do you now?” He swigs at his drink. It spills down his furs, and he glares at her when she giggles. “I haven’t heard this.”
“Perhaps you don’t listen hard enough.” She offers, and he laughs. It’s hearty, half a hiccup that fills the night around him with misty beer-soaked breath.
“If I’m blessed,” she says, an hour or so later if the stars are worth believing, “then so are you.”
His eyes are glazed, now, and she doesn’t doubt that hers are too. “Aye,” he says, pulls his furs tighter. Mance eyes the pair from the shadows. “I am blessed. You don’t see me bad-mouthing the gods, do you?”
“I don’t,” she concedes. “But I don’t see you believing in them a great deal, neither.”
He guffaws, “Oh I believe in them alright, lass. I am blessed by them and so are you.”
“I’m not,” comes her shoot-back. “We’re not. Not by the gods. Not by the fucking fire.” She stands, “We’re just fucking ginger.”
His smile shows teeth. “Now who’s talking in riddles and rhymes?”
“Fuck you.”
“If it pleases you.”
Her furs have slipped and his smile widens. “It does not.”
The next morning, she wears her hair loose.
“I told you to tie that up,” he says.
“And you told me I was blessed.” She replies. Her smile is tinged with spite. “You trust in the gods, aye?”
And his head bends, “Aye.”
He calls her to his quarters, and she comes. The sun only just sets, two glasses standing full on the table and a goose for two. “I’ve eaten.”
“Eat again.” And then he says the word he saves only for special occasions, “Ygritte.”
“If it pleases you,” she say, carefully letting her hair fall over her eyes.
His eyes snap to hers in response. “It does please me.” He says, bluntly, and Ygritte almost laughs, lets the furs slide off her shoulders as they shake.
“Ygritte is blessed by the fire,” he breathes into her throat.
“And Tormund believes in the gods,” she mouths against his ear.
The devil? Aye, he’ll come, but well after these two.
end.
ASOIAF; ygritte (ygritte/tormund); NO SPOILERS PAST ASOS/S3. pg-13.
fire is a blessing and a curse.
“Well, the hottest fires burn out quickest.” - GEORGE RR MARTIN, A STORM OF SWORDS.
Ygritte is blessed by the fire.
Ygritte doesn’t believe in gods, old or new.
Ygritte never had time for devils, neither.
He is her commander. She calls him the Ginger Giant to his face and he gruffs.
“Call me Tormund.” He says, slumping down on the bench opposite her and scowling. His hand reaches up and his fingers twist in the coarse hair of his beard.
She smirks, takes a slug of ale, “I’m a free woman. I’ll call you what I want.”
The first day of her training, she ties her red hair high up on her head.
“Let it down,” he says. “It is blessed,” he says.
“It gets in my eyes,” she replies. Her chin rises to level with his gaze - he stands a head of so above her, so that the sun gets into her eyes instead. He catches her hand when she raises it for shade and it wraps almost twice around her wrist. “I can’t fight with my hair in my eyes, however blessed it may be.” She says, calmly.
He sits beside her by the fire, that evening. Heat rises, her father told her once, so she stills tall. If she squints, Tormund reminds her of him, all furs and bright orange beard that sparkled in the firelight. “There are rules here,” he, Tormund, begins. “The gods have kissed us.”
She shrugs. “I don’t believe in the gods.”
“You ought, girl.”
Her eyes flick to his. “Don’t call me girl.”
And now, he smirks, “I’m a free man. I’ll call you what I fucking want.”
They keep the watch, late into the evening and then the morning. “What are we watching for?” She asks, as the sun finally creeps back over the horizon and her comrades lie sleeping around the embers of the nights light.
“The black and the white,” comes the coarse response. When she looks at him, his eyes are tired eyes. “Fire is a blessing and a curse.”
“You always talk in riddle and rhyme?”
She sees his weary smile break in the dawning light, his gaze staying set on the horizon. “Keeping you awake, ain’t it?”
She grins now, coy. “I s’pose.”
He only mutters to himself and kicks the others awake. “You’d best be prepared, Ygritte.”
It is the first time he calls her by her name.
He calls her by it again, not long later, shouts it as a Crowe lunges for her long hair, flying free in the wind.
After the fight they are two men down and she glowers at him across the cave they find shelter in. A steady beat of water falls between them. Drop. Drop.
Drop. “Tie it up.” He says.
Again, they sit by the fire. They are back now, in Mance Rayder’s court. Home, they call it, though neither of them has any. The beer in her hands is close to freezing, and she shivers beneath her furs. “They say winter’s coming.”
He scoffs, “Winter’s here. It’s been here all along.”
“I mean south,” she says, “beyond The Wall. You hear them talking. Hear it on the wind.”
He’s amused, but she’s piqued his interest. “Do you now?” He swigs at his drink. It spills down his furs, and he glares at her when she giggles. “I haven’t heard this.”
“Perhaps you don’t listen hard enough.” She offers, and he laughs. It’s hearty, half a hiccup that fills the night around him with misty beer-soaked breath.
“If I’m blessed,” she says, an hour or so later if the stars are worth believing, “then so are you.”
His eyes are glazed, now, and she doesn’t doubt that hers are too. “Aye,” he says, pulls his furs tighter. Mance eyes the pair from the shadows. “I am blessed. You don’t see me bad-mouthing the gods, do you?”
“I don’t,” she concedes. “But I don’t see you believing in them a great deal, neither.”
He guffaws, “Oh I believe in them alright, lass. I am blessed by them and so are you.”
“I’m not,” comes her shoot-back. “We’re not. Not by the gods. Not by the fucking fire.” She stands, “We’re just fucking ginger.”
His smile shows teeth. “Now who’s talking in riddles and rhymes?”
“Fuck you.”
“If it pleases you.”
Her furs have slipped and his smile widens. “It does not.”
The next morning, she wears her hair loose.
“I told you to tie that up,” he says.
“And you told me I was blessed.” She replies. Her smile is tinged with spite. “You trust in the gods, aye?”
And his head bends, “Aye.”
He calls her to his quarters, and she comes. The sun only just sets, two glasses standing full on the table and a goose for two. “I’ve eaten.”
“Eat again.” And then he says the word he saves only for special occasions, “Ygritte.”
“If it pleases you,” she say, carefully letting her hair fall over her eyes.
His eyes snap to hers in response. “It does please me.” He says, bluntly, and Ygritte almost laughs, lets the furs slide off her shoulders as they shake.
“Ygritte is blessed by the fire,” he breathes into her throat.
“And Tormund believes in the gods,” she mouths against his ear.
The devil? Aye, he’ll come, but well after these two.
end.