On her wedding day, she wore a veil of lace so delicate, it looked like frost had set in her hair. Her handmaidens crooned and cooed but none could melt the icy resolve on her face. Ashe was doing what she had to do to keep this land safe. Her gown was white and blue, with flaring skirts and three petticoats. They placed a cowl of white fox fur around her shoulders and she was beautiful and glowing. None would dare to call her warm. All the jewels and furs in the world could not make Ashe a loving, blushing bride.
Tryndamere took her hand in his as she placed a crown on his head and pressed a disgusting kiss to her lips afterwards. Ashe resigned herself to this day and all the days to come.
From then on, her days settle into an uneasy pattern. She wakes, someone combs her hair, and she breaks her morning fast at Tryndamere's right hand. He asks her about her rest, a stupid question that she never deigns with an answer. He never gives up. Ashe wonders if she must resign herself to this too. After that, she takes to castle walls and walks until some unfortunate maid must come and summon her back. If her gaze lingers a little longer on the horizon, no one mentions it. And if her thoughts stray to a different type of freedom, one that does not involve crowns or wars or titles or responsibilities, then Ashe does not acknowledge it.
Through noon and up until supper, they sit on their twin thrones and listen to all the problems of the Freljord. Farmers, soldiers, nobles, they all gather in her hall, their hall, for a chance to speak. Everyday it is the same chant. They call for arms, they call for war, for battle, for blood. None seem to notice the slight flinch of Ashe's indifferent frown. No one catches the glint of hard, cold anger in her blue, blue eyes. No one except Tryndamere who covers her hand and clasps it as if to comfort her. She almost kills him right then and there for the indignity of it. But she does not. Because this marriage is all that keeps the gentle balance of peace. And Ashe thinks, she would resign herself to anything for peace.
Later, she will regret not killing Tryndamere because the council will decide to go to war with the Winter's Claw. Though they do not share chambers, she can think of twenty different ways to end the barbarian's miserable life. She thinks, that maybe if she'd did a little less resigning and a little more killing, then they wouldn't be here discussing the proposed annihilation of another tribe. Not any tribe, she remembers. Try as she might, Ashe cannot resign herself to the idea of her arrow in Sejunai's throat. She knows that she will do it. She always does what must be done. But that does not make it any easier. Ashe thinks on this for days, until she cannot even sleep.
This is how Tryndamere finds her, on the sixth day, when her eyes are tired and her fighting spirit dead. She cannot even bring herself to hate him when he sits beside her. He does not clasp her hand, a sign that maybe he has learned the ways of his frigid wife. He sits. He waits. And, perhaps most importantly, he listens.
"She was like my sister," she confesses in a whisper so low that only he could hear.
Tryndamere gave her hand a squeeze, as if to offer comfort. "And she is still your sister," he promised.
And Ashe felt the ice in her heart give way, and she believed. Peace was not a dream.
