Hades/Persephone ASoIaF!AU
The walls of Winterfell were warm and strong, but all Persephone felt was cold. She was a Tyrell of Highgarden, after all - a rose come to bloom under the nourishment of sunshine and green, everywhere, green. In spite of the family words (growing strong), she was hardly one of the blue winter roses whose stubborn roots persisted through the unforgiving glaze. She was not meant for heavy fur mantles or bathwater heated enough to burn. Her southron sensibilities were nothing to the people around her, faces tough and eyes hard despite the undeniable kindness bestowed her. There was no room for delicacy here - winter was always coming, but what did she know of winter?
Even the man beside her - her husband now - was an entirely foreign entity. Persephone had never given much thought to marriage, but when she had, she'd thought of a tall, laughing man with dancing green eyes and warm hands. Lord Stark was none of these things, save tall, and his startlingly blue eyes had swept over her once, twice, without betraying the slightest hint of interest. He'd seemed almost bored as he swept his cloak over her shoulders, his touch lingering only long enough to stroke her cheek. His hands had been cold - cold enough that for an unforgiving moment she wondered if Lord Hades loved his ice so much that he bathed in it.
His cool detachment remained even as they feasted. The merriment around Persephone seemed empty and hollow. Her ideal husband would be stealing kisses in between mouthfuls of honeyed wine, his hand occasionally brushing the small of her back in reassurance. Hades did none of these things, his attention fully on the men to his left, exchanging mechanical words on matters like harvest and politics and warfare. Though there were song and dance and drink, Persephone could not shake the feeling that all these people (there were flashes of Bolton pink and red, the Reed crocodile, the nine frogs of Marsh, even the blinding Lannister red) were convened not for a wedding but for a diplomatic treaty.
At least until the cries of To bed! To bed! rose over the chorus of 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair'. She swallowed her fear as the drunken guests pulled her out of her chair, hands grabbing at her clothes as she went. The white cloak upon which the direwolf was proudly emblazoned was first to go, her pathetically flimsy chemise the last. But, if asked later, Persephone could scarce recall who'd stripped her of which or what bawdy jokes they'd whispered in her ear. The moments flew by faster than she could follow, and before she knew it she and her lord husband (who'd suffered similar treatment at the hands of the women) were naked before each other in the bridal suite.
Persephone caught sight of herself in a mirror from across the room and knew at once the red on her cheeks was too thick to be owed to just the cold. Unable to contain the physical manifestation of her embarrassment any other way, she looked down, locking her hands together nervously. Her thick black hair, which was her inheritance from her Baratheon mother, fell over her eyes. Her husband had some Baratheon in him too, she recalled. Through his maternal great grandfather, though that man had been from a lesser branch than Persephone herself. Did that make this incest? Even as distantly related as she and Hades were...
She was not given time to ponder the question any further as cold fingers swept her hair from her face with more gentleness than she'd realized Hades was capable of. She looked up to face him. For all her trepidation, Persephone could not deny that her husband was a handsome man. A well-formed man. The treacherous thought gave more color to her skin. To her surprise, Hades let loose a low laugh then pressed a kiss to her temple.
His hands were cold, but his mouth was warm. And that was enough to make Persephone swallow her girlish fears, surrendering at last to the enigmatic allure of winter.