
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11422518.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage, Rape/
      Non-Con
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Sansa_Stark, Catelyn_Stark/Ned_Stark, Jon_Snow/Ygritte_(past)
  Character:
      Jon_Snow, Sansa_Stark, Tormund_Giantsbane, Ramsay_Bolton, Ygritte_
      (ASoIaF), Ghost_(ASoIaF), Lady_(ASoIaF), Ned_Stark, Catelyn_Tully_Stark,
      Robb_Stark, Arya_Stark, Lysa_Tully_Arryn, Brynden_Tully, Mance_Rayder,
      Original_Characters, Roose_Bolton, Benjen_Stark, Rattleshirt_(ASoIaF),
      Orell_(ASoIaF)
  Additional Tags:
      Jon_and_Sansa_Are_Not_Related, Jon_Snow_is_a_Wildling_Prince, Kidnapping,
      Sexual_Tension, Sexual_Content, Arranged_Marriage, Sansa_is_a_Fighter,
      Supportive_Tormund, trigger_warning, Attempted_Rape/Non-Con, Ramsay_is
      his_own_warning, Obsession, Stalking, Somewhat_Dark_Jon_Snow, Possessive
      Behavior, flaying, Jealous_Ygritte, Possible_Stockholm_Syndrome, wife
      stealing, Wildlings_-_Freeform, Mance_Rayder_is_King_of_the_Wildlings,
      True_Love, I_love_this_ship_and_I_cannot_lie!, Dany_who?, slow_burn_but
      they_both_want_it!, Angst, possible_happy_ending, I_have_not_yet_decided,
      things_will_pick_up, possibly_dark!_Sansa, Aged-Up_Character(s), Blood
      and_Violence, Extremely_Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-06 Updated: 2018-03-17 Chapters: 30/? Words: 50393
****** The White Wolf's Prey ******
by GypsyMoon88
Summary
     He had been watching her. For the past three moons now he had been
     silently watching her, a shadow and whisper within the vast gods wood
     trees of the immense castle. Silent, tucked and hidden beneath the
     trunk of the mighty heart tree. Ever vigilant. Ever observant. Always
     watching with his intense grey eyes...
Notes
     In this alternative universe, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are not
     related. Jon Snow is the son of Mance Rayder and is a Wildling
     prince. Although he is a relatively genuine character, he displays
     his darker and obsessive nature throughout the narrative, especially
     when involving Sansa.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** A Plan in Motion *****
   He had been watching her. For the past three moons now he had been silently
watching her, a shadow and whisper within the vast gods-wood trees of the
immense castle. Silent, tucked, and hidden beneath the trunk of the mighty
heart tree. Ever vigilant. Ever observant. Always watching with his intense
grey eyes... The vibrant redness of the leaves giving him both sanctuary and
respite. Red like her hair...He had always fancied the color red. In a world
full of grays, blacks, and lifelessness, red was salvation, a promise of new
beginnings.She was promise itself with her vibrant cascade of fire and curls,
eyes of crystalline sky, and a smile honey-sweet.
   His people had always revered the scarlet hue, say that it is the color of
the lucky ones. Even more, its wearer to have been personally touched by the
gods, to have been "kissed by fire." Although he had never been particularly
religious, he believed and adhered to the signs and superstitions. As a
wildling and son of the wily King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder, Jon Snow could
not help but listen with an attentive ear. Savage, yes, but he was no fool.
   At ten and two, Jon Snow's name was already legend. At ten and nine, the
stories traveled far and wide throughout the realm. From the cannibalistic
Thenns of the lush Frostfang Valley, who retell and divulge the stories over
roasting fires of human meat, to the hedonistic Dornes of the southern summer
kingdoms, lost within the throes of passion and orgasmic bliss on immense beds
of silk and color. Always spoken in whispers and hushed tones. Out of fear or
reverence, who knew?  Perhaps it was one in the same. The results never
changed.
  Jon Snow, Mance Rayder's heir. The White Wolf of the North. The Ghost in the
Darkness. The Devil's Son. It was all warranted, one supposed. The legends and
the myths. Was it not oft said that one mystifies  what is unknown and feared?
As a wildling prince, he was both on all accounts.  The wildlings were renown
for their fierceness, that much was true. Stories of their ferocity was both a
point of contention and yielded begrudging respect.
   A ghost of a smile briefly flashed across his face and then, just as
suddenly, it was gone. As descendants of The First Men, the wildlings would
never be passive kneelers, weak and ineffectual. Not if Jon had the final say.
No, the wildlings fought back. Already, at ten and nine, Jon knew war and
warfare.  Ninety-eight times he and fellow clansmen raided fellow wildling
tribes and northern lords' keeps, he at the head of these raiding parties at
the behest of his father. Everyone a success and victory, further cementing his
invincibility and notoriety.
   It was so simple, the pillaging and raiding. He scouted the villages and
keeps, routing out all weaknesses; acclimating and familiarizing himself to all
the hidden passageways and unused corridors. Always keeping to the shadows,
always silent. Jon was grateful to Tormund Giantsbane, his second-in-command.
While Jon was sullen and severe, with his long northern face and piercing grey
eyes (the eyes of a wolf, they would say) Tormund was loud, boisterous and
pugnacious. Always ready for a fight, never mind the reason or offense. They
had been like brothers since time immemorial--the Wolf and the Wild Man. Their
friendship forever cemented by blood, sweat, and tears. Two halves of a
whole...
  A twig snapped nearby, faint but telling. Tormund. A moment later, the large
wildling was by Jon's side--always by his side. One of the few constants in an
ever-changing world. Jon smiled fully then, a treasure to behold. It seemed
like every woman in the village--young and old--would hold their breaths in
anticipation for one of his smiles, especially if directed towards them. A
loud, collective sigh escaping their lips, girlish giggles quickly ensuing. He
was a pretty man, that Jon Snow.
  Almost toodamned pretty. With his midnight curls, full lips, and teeth of
gleaming ivory, his face was a contradiction: both classic and cold. Many a
time, Tormund would jape about his comeliness, snickering over fermented goat's
milk (a drink of choice Jon loathed, the pungent odor nauseating his stomach)
that had he been born a girl, he would have been stolen many times over. Jon
would not reply, he hardly ever did one Tormund got into his moods. He would
only stare off into the distance, grey searching, but focusing on nothing. The
flickering of the flames turning his eyes an unnatural light. The wolf's gaze..
  As prince of the wildings and a man fully grown, it was expectant that he
take a woman soon. By the tie he reached a full score in age, to be exact. Only
six moon's turns from now. That was hardly a conundrum, taking a woman. The
village was in no demand of them. And they all made no secret that they wanted
him. When they offered, Jon readily supped, taking only what they provided and
being ever considerate with their emotions.  He knew how to be clear, though.
His intentions were never mistaken or lost in translation. Although his body
and bed were both warm and willing--ever ready to be sated and satisfied--his
heart was his own.
  It was not that Jon was an overly proud man, believing that no woman was
worthy of being his wife, it was only that there was no woman he felt a
connection to. No woman that shared his equally wild heart and spirited nature.
Until now...
   "Everyone in the castle is asleep," Tormund whispered quietly. His glacial
blue eyes watching his prince and friend like a sentinel. Jon nodded in
response, his grey eyes once again focusing on nothing, his thoughts churning.
A plan slowly manifesting out of obscurity. It had been completely accidental.
He had not meant for any of this to happen. Had not meant to fall in love...
   He had taken a small group of men from his village on a hunting party.
Although game was plentiful north of the Wall, somethinghad driven Jon away
from his mother's ancestral lands and into the land of the Wolves--the Starks.
After three days of successful hunting, Jon and his party were to return to the
village when he had gotten separated from the rest of the men. Knowing how to
survive on his own since youth, Jon was not worried. He had an abundance of
meat to keep him fed and it was still the summer months. Winter had not yet
come.
  He was both confident and prepared, for Mance had taught him well on the
usefulness of survival and stealth. As a wildling, darkness was your one true
companion. You rested during the day and moved in the cover of darkness. Never
stay still.Jon lived by this teaching. It had served him well, taught him how
to survive. He knew what to do. And he was ready.
Until he saw her...until his equilibrium had been knocked completely off
kilter.
   He had heard the voices first. They were close, perhaps no more than a few
feet away. Knowing the odds were not in his favor, Jon hid behind a cove of
trees, crouching and waiting. An unsheathed blade by his side, should the
occasion arise. As they slowly emerged from the forest, Jon counted four of
them. Four kneelers on horseback. Jon silently cursed to himself and sheathed
the blade. A wildling could successfully fend against four soldiers (it has
been done before), but no wildling was ever successful against those mounted
beasts. In earlier wildling history, complete villages had been decimated by
soldiers on horseback. No wildling stood a chance. So Jon waited, silently
hidden away behind the dense underbrush and tree limbs. He had been wrong,
though. They weren't soldiers at all, only passing lordlings on an afternoon
stroll. Also, they were not all men, Jon was quick to observe. There was a
woman among their midst.
  She had been singing quietly to herself, periodically her traveling
companions would join in, their voices a harmonious unit. Yet, it was hervoice
that gave Jon pause and held in rapt attention. His breath hitched slightly,
his body unknowingly straining towards the dulcet sounds. Seven hells...
  Soft and honey-sweet, Jon had never heard the like. Sure, there had been
songs. The men (and some women) would often congregate around various campfires
and exchange bawdy tales of wife-stealing and bead sport. Jon never joined in,
though. He would just observe in that quiet, attentive way he was prone to.
   However, there was something otherworldly beautiful about her voice. Almost
familiar...and Jon wanted to be completely consumed by it. Whatever itwas that
captured and enthralled him.  At that precise moment, he felt like he was
drowning, slowly suffocating by the wind and tide, and yet he wanted no
resuscitation or salvation.  At that moment, all he knew was her.
   As the quartet slowly passed by Jon's hidden alcove, the young woman (a
girl,Jon immediately corrected himself. She was a girl of middle teenage years)
slowly raised her head and Jon was a man lost. He had seen beautiful women
before back in the wildling village. There had been Rowena that time two years
past, with her wheat-gold hair and emerald eyes, and then Ygritte, who although
was no beauty, more than compensated for her plainness with her devotion and
ferocity. There had been countless others throughout the years, each one
bestowing a fond memory. Yet here, now, after viewing the material beauty
before him, they were all left wanting.
   "The hour wanes, Sansa." Her companion gently reprimanded. "We need to
return to the keep." He was tall with dark auburn locks and light azure eyes.
He was handsome, Jon begrudgingly conceded, his lip curled slightly. Who was
this whelp?Jon wondered, as the party disappeared into the gods wood. Was he
her husband? Her intended? A lover, perhaps? An uncomfortable clenching settled
in his gut. That would make matters more complicated...
 A small laugh erupted from the beauty beside him and Jon's heart constricted.
Gods.
  " And here I thought my brother was my champion, willing to protect me form
the oncoming night and its terrors." They rode the remainder of the way in
relative silence, past the gate and into the keep. All unassuming and none the
wiser. As Jon slowly raised to his feet, he continued to stare after them. He
could not breathe. Could not think. "Sansa..."Had he really said her name
aloud? It was like warm honey on his tongue. Sansa.
    Later that night, Jon met up with his hunting party. Yet, only Tormund knew
something was amiss. Of course he would. Nothing ever escaped his notice. There
were bound to be questions.
   So from across a kindling fire, while the rest of his companions slept on,
Jon retold everything--of Sansa, of this unexpected and deep yearning to seized
and overwhelmed him, of his desire to steal the she-wolf from her lair and
claim her as his own. Once finished, Tormund remained silent, watchful and
contemplating. Finally, a loud bark of laughter erupted from him, slicing
through the silent tranquility of the warm summer night.
  "I'll be damned," he chuckled, shaking his head in complete disbelief and
wonder. "The White Wolf is in love. With a kneeler, to boot."  Jon took a
moment, absorbing his friend's words. Loyal Tormund, whose insight and wisdom
was oft frightening with its validity.
  "Are you with me?" Jon asked quietly, stark grey eyes meeting twinkling blue.
This was it, the moment of truth. Jon knew what Tormund would be risking. And
if they were caught...
  "You know I am," came the quiet reply, all mirth and humor gone, quickly
fading with the night. Jon released a tense, tired breath of air that he did
not know he had been holding. No more words were spoken, for there was nothing
left to say. That had been three moons ago. Three moons of watching, waiting
and hoping. Three moons of wanting and burning...
   "That's good. Make sure everyone is prepared. We move at twilight." Tormund
nodded and returned to the forest, leaving Jon once again alone with his
thoughts.
   "Sansa," he whispered into the waning night air. His thoughts once again
returning to the flame-haired siren that haunted his dreams and consumed his
thoughts. How was it possible to fall in love so completely, so irrevocably at
just a single glance? A passing moment? Was this what that early wildling king
of long ago felt when he gazed upon his lady bride before he stole her?
   Once more facing the window of her solar, Jon waited. His heart swelling
with hope and love. A ghost of a smile once again grazing his lips.
  
***** Contemplation and Fateful Meetings *****
Chapter Summary
     Her Lady Mother had oft said that a lady's duty was to her house.
     "Duty and honor," Mother would recite the Tully words over roaring
     fires, while gentle hands oiled and braided her hair. "A lady must
     always remain loyal, first to her lord husband, then to her children,
     and finally to her house. Always." The brush stilled and a gentle
     hand turned her chin to face her, sapphire blue meeting turquoise.
     "Do you understand, sweetling?"
Chapter Notes
     Here, we will explore the backstory of Sansa Stark and her family, as
     well as her inner turmoils and conflicts. Also, it is here that our
     favorite White Wolf meets his lady love. Strap in, ladies and gents!
     It. Gets. Real.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                Chapter Two: Contemplation and Fateful Meetings
 
   She hated him. Oh gods, how she loathed and despised him. Each step of her
mare causing her stomach to clench uncomfortably, the bile slowly rising in her
throat. She bit back a sob. Stop it, Sansa. She scolded, clenching her jaw in
ire, trying to maintain some semblance of control. If only outwardly, at
least. Wolves do not cry. 
  Yet, here in the quiet tranquility of the gods wood, she felt all composure
and dignity slip and ebb away. She was no fool. A beauty, yes, but never the
fool. She had heard the whispers, the stories. Always spoken in hushed tones
and behind the security of closed doors. She had seen the fear that the Bolton
name invoked. No one would dare call himself a Northerner without hearing of
the Flayed Man...and trembling with abject horror.
  Lord Father wanted an alliance and a union between the two ancient houses.
After thousands of years of death and warfare, Father wanted an end to the
feuding and a lasting peace. Of course, what better way to ensure the North's
stability than through marriage? Being both beautiful and the eldest daughter
of Ned Stark, Warden of the North, she was the ideal bargaining chip.
  She should be content, she supposed. Their political union was sure to bring
about a lasting truce throughout the realm. Should war ever erupt and the
Northern lords were called upon, with their joined houses and banner men,
victory would all but be ensured. If nothing else, Sansa would take pride in
that small bit of comfort. Her sacrifice for the greater good..
  Her lady mother oft said that a lady's duty was to her house. "Duty and
honor," Mother would recite the Tully words over roaring fires, while gentle
hands oiled and braided her hair. "A lady must always remain loyal, first to
her lord husband, and then to her children, and finally, to her house. Always."
The brush stilled, a soft hand turning her chin to face her, sapphire blue
meeting turquoise. "Do you understand, sweetling?"
  Yes, Sansa understood. All too well. She understood what marriage to Roose
Bolton's newly legitimized son would mean for her house and the North. She
understood perfectly. When her father summoned her to his solar and informed
her of his intentions, Sansa remained impassive, giving nothing away. It was
only in the solitude of her rooms that the mask of indifference gave way and
the tears came--quickly and freely.
  She wanted to die. Gods, how she wanted to die. To walk into the gods wood
pond and never resurface, only letting the peaceful lull of the water take her
whole. Was Father's loyalty to the North so unwavering and steadfast that he
merely saw her as an expendable pawn in an ever changing game? He was a good
man, Lord Father. An honorable man, one of the many reasons Catelyn had fallen
for him.
  Surely--surely--he was mistaken. He was not so stupid as to have turned a
deaf ear to the stories of that monstrosity in human flesh that was Ramsay
Bolton. Sansa was not without allies, though. He staunchest supporters being in
the form of her elder brother, Robb, and her younger sister, Arya. Robb, with
his pretty auburn locks so like her own, and ever gentle spirit. As soon as he
heard the news, an unwavering anger consumed him and he vowed to speak to
Father and beg him to change his mind, to reconsider. Her brother's devotion to
his sister so unwavering that he had even offered to relinquish his title as
heir and future lord of Winterfell if it meant his sister's happiness and
safety. 
   Sansa smiled at that, albeit briefly. Arya, her fierce and wild wolf, had
threatened to gut Ramsay at the first opportunity. Whispering, in the quiet
darkness of the night in their shared rooms, that all Sansa had to do is "speak
a word," and the problem would be dealt with. A sharp, deadly gleam in her eye,
Needle, sharpened and glinting at her hip. Once the engagement had been
announced, the news had spread far and wide, reaching even her aunt Lysa Arryn
in the Vale and her great-uncle, the nefarious Blackfish, in the Riverlands. 
  Aunt Lysa had been outraged, cursing her good brother for his stupidity and
offering Sansa sanctuary in the Vale. "How dare you do this to your daughter,
Catelyn?" Lysa seethed and raged, shaking in righteous indignation and
heartbreak. "May the gods damn you for eternity for condemning your daughter--
your flesh and blood--to this death!"

   The Blackfish, Ser Brynden Tully, only shook his head in disbelief,
unwilling to believe that his beloved niece (his favorite as he had oft
boasted) would so willingly acquiesce to this absurdity and madness. Surely
Catelyn had more sense than this? Sansa was a beauty, a rebirth of Tully, with
her deep autumn hair and sapphire eyes. The Rose of Winterfell, travelling
bards called her, praising her incomparable beauty and spirited nature. Old he
was, yes, but Brynden was not deaf as to not have heard the songs. His great-
niece was in no short supply of suitors and admirers alike. Even the Baratheon
king had sent ravens, voicing his interest in the Stark girl for his son, the
young golden stag...No, this could not be. The Blackfish understood none of
this. 
  Ned remained quiet. Shamed. He never wanted any of this for his beloved
daughter. He remembered the day she was born, that glorious spring morning
sixteen years ago. The bells had tolled from sunrise until dusk for a week,
sharing in his exultation. He loved Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon, yes, without
question, but it was Sansa who held his heart. 
  The moment the engagement had been announced and the ink dried, Ned fell ill
and would often retreat to the gods wood to devote himself to prayer, seeking
both absolution and clarity.
   I am sorry, sweet girl, for my broken promises. I am sorry that I am unable
to keep you safe. I am sorry that I failed you. Forgive me. Forgive me. Oh
gods! forgive me, please. If there was another way--
   The wedding was in a moon's time from now, on a midsummer's day. Soon, Sansa
Stark would be Lady Bolton, and would forever be the reluctant and unwilling
wife of that madman. He was handsome, Sansa decided, upon their first
encounter. Not long ago, when she had been a stupid girl with stupid dreams,
she would have thought herself in love with such a man. Handsome with his curly
brown hair and warrior's body.
  Yet, it was his eyes that had given her pause. Of pale ice and equally cold,
they were the eyes of a monster and bespoke of unimaginable cruelty. And when
he had kissed her hand upon their initial meeting, her demons screamed with
revulsion and horror. This was wrong, this incongruous pairing. This was so
damned wrong...
   A twig snapped in silence, jarring Sansa from her thoughts. A respite she
greatly welcomed and accepted. Her mare snickered a warning, but it was too
late an all in vain. Quickly looking up, she was met with the sight of two
large men--wildlings, she deduced, from their strange garb and unshorn hair. A
nobleman would have known better. 
   The largest, a giant of a man with flaming red hair, stood in front of her,
blocking her path. His companion, slightly shorter with dark ebony curls and
piercing grey eyes, flanked her rear, effectively caging her.  "Are you lost,
milady?" The grey-eyed wildling asked, his voice a low rumble. Had it been
under different circumstances, Sansa would have thought his voice pleasant.
   Yet, before she could utter a reply, Sansa felt a strange sensation overtake
her person and soon, she was quickly succumbing into oblivion. The wildling's
steel-grey eyes the last image she saw before the darkness overtook her...
  
Chapter End Notes
     When writing this chapter, I combined George R. Martin's
     characterization of Ramsay Bolton with the show's version. Although
     the book's characterization of Ramsay is rather ugly in both physical
     appearance and behavior, Iwan Rheon is rather pleasing to the eye!
     Thank you SO very much for the feedback! You have no idea how happy
     it makes my heart. Please continue with the comments, both good or
     bad. I want to hear from you!
     Also, anyone here want to slap some sense into Ned and Catelyn Stark?
     Anyone? Kinda funny that "Batshit Crazy" Lysa Arryn is the one
     showing sense.
***** An Unspoken Prayer, An Unknown Revelation *****
Chapter Summary
     Jon never believed in the stories or the old crone's prophecy, and
     had reduced both to mere superstitious phantasms and the incoherent
     rantings of a diseased and unwell mind. And yet...And yet...Taking
     her all in, inhaling her sweetness, memorizing her softness--a stark
     contrast to his callousness and scars--Jon wondered. Perhaps this
     woman, this goddess who was the living embodiment and incarnation of
     The Maiden herself, was his salvation, his answer to a long-ago
     unspoken prayer whispered in the purple darkness of midnight.
Chapter Notes
     I am truly blown away by everyone's responses! You have gladdened my
     heart, truly. A thousand times, thank you! In this chapter, we get a
     brief glimpse of Jon's point of view after the abduction. Also, we
     (briefly) discover as to why his obsession with Sansa is so strong.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                                 Chapter_Three
  She was soft and pliant in his arms and smelled of lavender and peony.
Looking at her now--the soft luminescence of her skin, the flaming cascade of
fire and curls that was her hair--Jon felt something within him shatter and
break. Suddenly, he felt terrified, lost. Gods...
  She was a witch, an enchantress, she had to be. Sent by the gods to drive him
mad for some unforgivable or blasphemous transgression, one of the countless
many he had committed in his short lifetime. No woman confused, beguiled, and
left him trembling simultaneously. 
  Once, long ago, it seemed, when Jon was a young lad of five, he chased
dragonflies through the surrounding woods. The Free-Folk revered them, called
them magical. Messengers from the Old Gods, the elders would say. Father had
told him once that if was ever lucky to capture one of these elusive
 creatures, the gods would answer an unspoken prayer. 
  A few years later, when Jon was eleven, he ventured to the hut of the Wise
Woman, Old Magda, located on the outskirts of the wildling village. An ancient
crone with matted hair and wrinkled skin that reminded Jon of curdled milk, she
was renown throughout the village for her gift of divination and fortune
telling. Father had forbade Jon from seeing her, claiming that she was mad and
an ill-omen, but Jon was curious. Besides, he had been sent on a dare and he
was never one to refuse a challenge...
  Her hut was a curiosity: turtle shells of various sizes lined the walls,
rainbow-colored glass decorated the windows and door-frame. Near the back of
the hut, sat a large chest laden with herbs and dried plants. A fire blazed and
roared in the hearth, a curious aroma emitted through the flames, smelling both
sickly-sweet and heady. He heard her before she saw her,  chanting in an
ancient tongue that had been lost to his people thousands of years before. Her
eyes were closed, blinded by old age, and yet seeing so much. 
  "I oft wondered when you would come to see me, White Wolf." The witch
crooned, not once moving from her designated spot by the fire. Jon blinked. She
had not been there a moment ago, he was sure of it. 
  "You know who I am?" He queried, slowly inching closer to the sorceress. He
could run, flee through the opened door and never look back. If asked by the
others what happened, he could simply say that she had not been present. No one
would be the wiser...
   "Aye. And what you seek. I have seen you in the flames, Wolf. I know your
story. Yet your destiny is not what you think. No doubt, you will be a fierce
leader and your name will be feared and whispered throughout the realm. The
Northern lords will sing songs around the hearths over your many victories."
  Jon drew nearer, excited. He wanted more, wanted to know more. His breath
hitched in anticipation. Yes.
  "Yet, it will be your love for a woman--a kneeler--that you will be
remembered for. She is your past, your present and your future. For every
lifetime you have lived, she has walked by your side, always.  She is your
destiny, and if you are not careful, your destruction as well."
  That had been long ago, eons ago, really. Jon never believed the stories or
the old crone's prophecy, and had reduced both to mere superstitious phantasms
and the incoherent rantings of a diseased and unwell mind. And yet...
  And yet...
   Taking her all in, inhaling her sweetness, memorizing her softness--a stark
contrast to his callousness and scars--Jon wondered. Perhaps this woman, this
goddess who was the living embodiment and incarnation of The Maiden herself,
was his salvation, his answer to a long-ago unspoken prayer whispered in the
purple darkness of midnight. And oh! How Jon's heart constricted and pulsated,
filled to the brim and near bursting in exultation. Mother, Maiden, Crone and
Stranger...
  "Gods be good, but she is a pretty one, Snow!" Tormund quipped from his
mount, an appreciative grin spreading across his face as he glanced at Sansa's
prone form.  Jon tightened his grip on Sansa and fought back a flash of anger
and jealousy. A growling wolf with sharpened fangs...
  Tormund is a friend, Jon reminded himself, hating the guilt that spread, like
poison, through his body. Tormund is loyal. He is not a rival. He would not
dare...
  "Aye," Jon whispered, more to himself than anything. Unwilling to believe
that this was real--that she--was real. He lifted a trembling hand to her
cheek, admiring her softness and beauty. "And she is mine."
   Just as I am her's...
 
Chapter End Notes
     In this story, as promised, we are going to see a different aspect of
     Jon Snow's personality. At times, he will be very intense and
     obsessive. He is, overall, the same, upstanding Jon Snow from both
     the books and show that we love (and drool over), but as the story
     progresses, he is going to be battling his infatuation with Sansa
     Stark, and his fervent need to possess her. The struggle is real,
     y'all!
     Please, please, please continue with the comments and feedback! I
     want to hear from you!
***** Too Little, Too Late *****
Chapter Summary
     Roose Bolton eyed his son carefully, critically. His breath held in
     anticipation as he searched for some sign, some hidden clue, that all
     appearances of calm equanimity and control that was before him now
     would suddenly transform into a paroxysm of ranting, raving and
     chaos. Careful now...Careful...One always had to tread carefully--
     cautiously--when speaking with Ramsay. One false move is all it took.
Chapter Notes
     Disclaimer: This chapter gives a brief,yet poignant interlude into
     the complex, dynamic relationship between Roose and Ramsay Bolton.
     Everyone who has either read George R. Martin's books or have watched
     the HBO series is aware of Ramsay's conception and birth. In this
     chapter, there are depictions of rape and sexual assault. May the
     reader be advised.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
                      Chapter_Four:_Too_Little,_Too_Late
  Roose Bolton eyed his son carefully, critically. His breath held in
anticipation as he searched for some sign, some hidden clue, that all
appearances of calm equanimity and control that was before him now would
suddenly transform into a paroxysm of ranting, raving and chaos. Careful
now...Careful...One always had to tread carefully-cautiously-when speaking to
Ramsay. One false or thoughtless move was all it took-.
  There was a tic in his jaw, faint but evident. Oh Gods...his bastard was
angry. Roose glanced down at his hands-scarred and calloused, so unlike a true
lord's hands-and visibly flinched. To the outside observer, they were
innocuous. A testament of the bastard's hardship in a cold, unforgiving world.
Yet, Roose knew better. Those hands, with their spider fingers and paled skin
untouched and unacquainted with the summer sun, were the hands of a monster. A
demon wrapped tightly in meat, sinew and bone.
  Roose was not stupid, for he knew what fellow lords and servants alike were
saying about his bastard. His flesh and blood. A mad dog, a wild animal. They
would whisper surreptitiously among themselves. Never to his face, of course
not, no. But always in hushed, terrified tones, always out of reach and into
the air of nothingness and obscurity.
  Roose had just returned from Winterfell after receiving a raven from Ned
earlier that morn. Not wanting to believe the news, he procured his fastest
horse posthaste. Gone...Sansa Stark had gone. Vanished into oblivion three days
prior while riding her mare near the Wolfswood Forest. And with her, all of
their carefully constructed plans.
  In some strange show of solidarity, Roose was secretly glad Sansa had gone,
fled her sham of an engagement and untethered herself from a madman's grasps.
Yet, standing here now, taking his son in--the tic in his jaw, the clenching
and unfurling of his fist, the shallow breathing, the quietness--all Roose
could do at that moment was damn Sansa Stark to the deepest pit of the seven
hells for her stupidity. When he had first heard the news, he had initially
dismissed it all as gossip, idle and nonsensical chatter of bored and lack-
witted servants. However, when he had received the raven while breaking his
fast, glimpsing at the yellow parchment and the seal of the ferocious direwolf,
the official seal of the North, he knew something was wrong. And here he was
now, trying desperately to appease the seething, savage beast that was his son.
 Son...Gods, the word felt like nettles on his tongue. He never wanted him, the
bastard. When the boy's mother arrived at the Dreadfort with the young boy in
tow, Roose had been ever quick to send them off, supplying the woman--the
miller's wife--with a large sow, a hundred gold dragons, and a foul-smelling
servant, all in the attempt to shut her up and conceal his crime.
  He had returned from a hunting trip when he had first spotted her. Millicent.
After so many years of denial suppression, Roose was finally able to concede
what he had done. To admit his transgression which had long come back to
haunt...
  She was a pretty little thing, with her burnt chestnut hair and womanly
curves. Alone on her lands-a small squat of ground consisting of a river and a
few sparse trees and the wheat mill. She had been alone, washing laundry near
the small stream behind the stone cottage. Her husband away in the
village...Roose's britches tightened at the thought. Such beauty left alone,
just ripe for the plucking...
  She tried to fight him, further spurring his excitement and ire, his body a
panting heap of exertion and lust. She had then fainted, due to an accumulation
of shock and pain, enabling Roose to finish quickly. He thrust into her once,
twice, three times before he spilled into her, his hot seed seeping and
pulsing. He felt boneless then, weak, as he shuddered and convulsed.
  Looking down at her now, her split lip, her bloodied and bruised form, her
shredded peasant garb, she was hardly worth the rape, Roose decided. After
cleaning himself up, concealing the deed as best as he could, Roose left,
leaving Millicent's broken and bruised body where she had fallen without so
much as a backward's glance. It was calloused, Roose acknowledged, and cruel.
No woman--peasant or highborn--deserved that type of mistreatment.
  Yet, she was a peasant, a lowly miller's wife, and he was a lord of an
ancient and powerful house, second only to the Starks. Who in the seven hells
was she to deny him? She was fortunate that he did not kill her for her
insolence!
Roose was angry now, indignant, yet justified.
  All she had to do was stay hidden. Stay away. And then the bitch had to fall
pregnant...When she had first come to him, her condition revealed and slightly
straining against her threadbare home-spun, Roose had been hysterical and
ordered her to be beaten so severely that he was certain it would induce a
miscarriage. He had hoped so, anyway. Night after night, he was a mad man,
fervently praying to the gods (both old and new) that she had lost the babe.
That he would be forever untethered by an unwanted bastard.
  However, his prayer had fallen on deaf ears and remained unanswered. When his
son, Domeric, had learned that he had a brother (half, always half) and had
wished to seek him out, Roose had been incensed and forbade the relationship.
Domeric was his heir, his one joy in an otherwise bleak existence laden with
shit and mire. He was an erudite man, Domeric, a lover of books and horses,
unmarred by the curse of the Bolton name and its horrors. Roose wanted to
protect him, to keep him unblemished from the one blight that threatened to
level and shatter his house's foundations to the very ground.
  And then Domeric had fallen ill and died under mysterious circumstances early
one morning. Maester Wolkan asserted that it was an illness that claimed him,
one of the enumerable passing maladies that had plagued the North that winter.
But Roose knew better, evil hands were at work. Ever since Millicent brought
the bastard back to the Dreadfort, an ill-omen settled over the castle,
saturating it with both unease and trepidation.
  The boy, the bastard, was a demon. A living reminder of Roose's misdeeds and
failed atonement. Although small and sickly, his gauntness made all the more
evident by his ill-fitting clothing and pallid skin, every alarm bell rung riot
in Roose's head as he gazed at the boy, more specifically, his eyes.
  They were not the eyes of a human, no, not in the least. Unblinking, colder
than Northern ice and devoid of all emotion and warmth, they were the eyes of a
madman, a rabid and feral dog. Roose involuntarily shuddered, a reaction he was
in the habit of doing whenever the bastard drew near. Steady. Steady now...
  Roose tried to love him. Gods only knew how he tried to love Ramsay-to show
him some form of kindness and compassion that had been deprived from him since
childhood. Perhaps if Roose loved him hard enough, encouraged him more, spoken
more softly to him, then maybe the gods would forgive him for his transgression
and penance could be made. It had been said that if one showed kindness to a
feral animal, then it could be tamed. He had already lost Domeric, surely he
had paid enough. The gods were not that cruel, were they?
  Standing here now, looking at his son and gauging his reaction, Roose had
been wrong. Very wrong. There it was again, that tic in Ramsay's jaw. A
tightening of his fist. He knew the signs well. The Mad Dog was becoming
unhinged.
  "Ramsay-"Roose began, slowly raising his hands in appeasement.
  "Where. Had she. Gone?" Came the reply, colder than any Northern wind. Roose
shuddered again, suddenly terrified. No. No. No...
  "They do not know. She went out for an evening stroll on her mare and did not
return. They say that she had been abducted. Some hunters had found wildling
tracks in the woods. They suspect that they took her." Roose gulped as Ramsay
turned to face him fully then. "'Bride-stealing,' they call it."
  A moment passed. Then two. The silence between them seemed interminable.
Roose waited, tensed. Oh...!
  Then, just as suddenly, the bastard left the room, not once looking back.
Roose let out a tired breath, his eyes slowly closing and opening. Dread
sinking, like a stone, in his belly and settling there. This was just the calm
before the storm. He knew his bastard, he knew his moods--as unpredictable and
capricious as the Summer Sea. He was not done.
  The next morning, as Roose was preparing for a morning stroll, one of the few
luxuries afforded to him that truly calmed his nerves, he was greeted with the
ghastly sight of the decapitated and flayed remains of the stable lad, Wilsun.
 Damn you, Sansa Sark, Roose Bolton swore vehemently, fighting off both shock
and nausea at the grizzly sight before him now. May the gods damn you for
unleashing this hell on us all. And may they damn me, too, for allowing it to
endure.
Chapter End Notes
     *Breathes in. Breathes out.* For any of you who were offended or
     upset, I am truly sorry. I struggled with writing this chapter for
     both obvious and personal reasons. Anything exploring Roose and
     Ramsay in this narrative is bound to be dark and uncomfortable.
     Thoughts? Comments? I want to hear from you!
***** Even Roses Have Thorns *****
Chapter Summary
     Once, when Sansa turned four, her father gifted her with a small wood
     thrush for her nameday. It was a beautiful bird, small and delicate,
     that would sing so sweetly every morn as the sun ascended over the
     trees of the gods wood. Sansa adored her present and would oft spend
     hours on end alone in her solar trying to imitate its dulcet tunes.
     It was a beautiful gift, her family concurred. A perfect gift for a
     perfect little lady.
Chapter Notes
     The long-awaited chapter in where Sleeping Beauty wakes up and comes
     face-to-face with our favorite abductor. Remember in the tags where I
     said that Sansa was a fighter and no doormat? The she-wolf's fangs
     come out and Jon doesn't quite know what to do with himself! Round 1
     let's go!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                     Chapter_Five:_Even_Roses_Have_Thorns
 
   Once, when Sansa turned four,, her father gifted her with a small wood
thrush for her nameday. It was a beautiful bird, small and exquisite, that
would sing so sweetly every morn as the sun ascended over the trees of the gods
wood. Sansa adored her present and would oft spend hours on end alone in her
solar trying to imitate its dulcet and sweet tunes. It was a beautiful gift,
her family concurred. "A perfect gift for a perfect little lady."
   Sansa beamed at that, reveling in their adulation and praise. When she had
been the young, naive girl full of summer dreams and fairy tales, that was all
she wanted. At night, tucked beneath the warmth and safety of wolf pelts and
vair, Sansa dreamed of gallant knights and white horses, while beautiful ladies
wore pretty dresses of silk and color. To be a true noble lady in a faraway
kingdom somewhere...
   Theon, her Lord Father's ward, had once japed that Sansa would make the
perfect bride her lord husband, whomever he may be. That she was good at
sitting still and singing pretty songs on command. "Little Bird," Theon would
call her, mockingly bowing and prostrating himself whenever she was in view.
"Will you sing me a song, Little Bird? I so love hearing your sweet songs."
   Robb rewarded him with a broken nose after that, for making his sweet sister
cry. That night, as the rest of her family slept on, Sansa tip-toed over to the
thrush, perched silently within its ornate and gilded cage and opened the door,
releasing it into the night sky.
  Now you are free, Sansa thought, watching the thrush disappear among the
stars. Now you are free to sing your songs or keep them to yourself. Whatever
you choose.
   The following morn, when her Lady Mother came into her solar to wake her,
Sansa told her of the deed. Catelyn scolded her then, calling her daughter
thoughtless, however there was a small note of pride hidden within the
admonishment. At times, Sansa deeply missed her small wood thrush. Sitting atop
its perch, beautiful and exquisite, singing so sweetly to the coming dawn...
   Sansa raised her head, slowly and carefully, willing the throbbing ache to
cease. A dull, steady staccato. She blinked once, twice, willing her body into
compliance. Seven hells. Had...Had she been drugged? And with what exactly?
   "The red she-wolf awakens." Sansa frowned in confusion. The voice was too
deep to be Robb's or Theon's, theirs just recently breaking and no longer on
the cusp of adolescence. Nor did it belong to any of her father's men. Growing
up in Winterfell, supping with them, memorizing their facing, knowing their
moods, they were like family. She knew and loved each one dearly.
   This one, however, this stranger's voice, was both alien and familiar.
Unlike Ramsay's, with his harsh tones and cruel laugh, causing Sansa to tremble
with dread and unease, this voice was dark and deep, invoking an involuntary
shudder to run through her. Suddenly, she felt warm and feverish, heady. Gods
be damned, they had drugged her again. She was sure of it. Any moment now,
Sansa would wake up and be back at Winterfell, sparring with Robb, Theon and
Arya. Catelyn looking on in disapproval and distaste, her lips pursed and
tight, arguing that gentle, true-born ladies did not act so recklessly,
   "Even roses have thorns," Robb argued, his breath ragged with both exertion
and fatigue, his face beaming with pride. Sansa had been practicing and soon,
she would eclipse even him in both precision and technique. He could not wait
for the day.
  "Aye," Sansa concurred, never once losing her focus. The first rule of sword
play: study your opponent and anticipate his next move like a chess game. Robb
taught her well. "And she-wolves have fangs."
And soon, her captives would know just how deadly and razor sharp they were
once bared...
  Lifting her head up fully then, both embarrassed and enraged, Sansa prepared
herself for confrontation. Although a lady, she had the temper of a harpy.
Theon had not been able to walk properly for a whole sen-night after he peeked
at her changing in her solar that one time two years past.  However, all words
died on her lips as she came face to face with the storm-grey eyes of her
abductor.
   "Wildling," Sansa whispered to herself, as if saying it aloud would somehow
make it less possible. Less real. She was dreaming again, she had to be.
  On nights she lay abed sick with fever, Old Nan would tell her stories of
wildlings. They had been both her's and Arya's favorite, then. Wide-eyed and
enranced, Sansa would sit for hours on end listening with rapt fascination and
curiosity to the tales.  The Starks were descendants of the First Men, a fact
that instilled a sense of unwavering pride within her. To be kin--however
distant--to the strong and resilient people of beyond the Wall.
   She had heard of Mance Rayder, the elusive and cunning King-Beyond-The-Wall,
a man who had given the Northern lords pause. He had been theirs, once. A
volunteer and commander of the Night's Watch before he had gone rogue. He knew
the North's ways, its lands. However, it was his son, Jon Snow, the White Wolf
of the North, that caused the realm to shudder and quake. 
   The wildling she had been riding with clenched his jaw and narrowed his
eyes. He was angry. For what she had said? Sansa was not certain. Good...She
wanted him angry. Perhaps if she made him angry enough--just enough--he would
become careless and make a mistake, therefore allowing her to escape. Taking
him in now, his narrowed eyes and clenched jaw, he reminded Sansa of an animal.
A wolf. A savage, growling beast...
   But she was not afraid of him. Gods help her, but she was not afraid of him
and would be damned if she allowed him to intimidate her now. Storm-grey eyes
or not.
   "I believe the correct term is Free-Folk. There is nothing 'wild' or
'primitive' about us. You southroners envious of us because we are a free
people and are able to do what you Kneelers wish you could."
   Seven. Fucking. Hells. The wildling savage was trying to educate her on
ethics and propriety. Sansa wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Under
any other circumstance, she would have laughed. Loudly. Well then...If he
wanted to engage in a battle of wits with her, then Sansa was ready. Never let
it be said that she was not a quick study. And Gods only knew she needed a
release right about now.
   "Look around you, Wildling. This is all Northern lands. There is no
Southrone kingdom here."  Sansa knew she was pushing her luck with her
provocation, but she did not care. He opened this floodgate, he now must close
it. Please be angry, Sansa silently prayed. Please, Gods, let him become angry
and make a mistake. If he made a mistake, if he became stupid, she could try to
escape. The wildlings were oft known for their stupidity.
   To Sansa's surprise and shock, he did neither. Instead, he only smirked at
her, his top lip quirking in...what was it? Admiration? Humor? Sansa did not
know, nor did she like it. She wanted no part of this savage--this barbarian's-
-admiration. She would rather drink from the chamber pots first. 
   "Anyone living south of the Wall is a southroner, Kneeler." He answered
quietly, slowly. His grey eyes glinted in wry humor. It was as if he were
speaking with a dull-witted child. The other wildling, a giant of a man with
vibrant red hair, let out a loud bark of laughter. 
  Sansa felt angry then. Humiliated that a wildling had caused her to lose all
equanimity and control. She was actually shaking in her fury and indignation.
At that precise moment, Sansa wished for Needle, her sister's sword that had
been gifted to her by Robb for her tenth nameday. She could have easily run the
wildling through to the hilt and then calmly watch him bleed out. Smiling all
while doing it.
   "What are you thinking, She-Wolf?" The grey-eyed wildling whispered. His
nose was in her hair, his warm breath on her neck. Too close. He was too close
and Sansa did not like it. At all. She wanted him to hate her, to erect a wall
so large and insuperable that he would be unable to breach it. 
  Sansa turned to fully face him then, indigo sky meeting storm-grey. Two
snarling wolves facing off. He still wore that smirk, that damned insufferable
smirk that she wanted to slap off his face. "Of killing you."
   Strangely, the wildling did not respond, only continued to stare at her with
those unnerving wolf-eyes. Gone was his smirk, however, but in its place, a
full-fledged smile. "What's stopping you then, She-Wolf?" 
   She-Wolf. He was taunting her, knowing that it was only a matter of time
before she snapped. When she had been younger, Lord Father would call her that,
while gently stroking her hair, his eyes full of the love and tenderness that
was set aside for only Catelyn, Arya, and her.
   "My fierce little she-wolf..."
   Now, the endearment only rained down  Sansa's disgust and spurned her anger.
She stared at him then, full of righteous indignation and fury. "Someday, one
day very soon, I'm going to put a sword through your eye and clear out the back
of your skull. That's a promise, Wildling."
   The wildling let out a quiet chuckle in response. His grey eyes glinting in
merriment and challenge.
Chapter End Notes
     Nothing says, "I love you," than threatening to stab the love of your
     life through the eye, right? Before anyone says anything, yes, I
     incorporated both The Hound's lines in Season 2 (?) and Arya's threat
     in Season 3 of the show here in the narrative. I was hoping it would
     help develop the plot and also highlight Sansa's no-holds-barred,
     bad-assness. Please read and review. Your comments give me SO much
     life!
***** Requiems and Absolutions *****
Chapter Summary
     Ned sat alone in his solar, feeling like a requiem. His tongue lay
     heavy in his mouth, as though thickened and numbed with Dornish wine.
     Gone. The finality of the word hit him like a tempest, nearly bowing
     him over with its weight and magnitude.
Chapter Notes
     In celebration of the Season 7 premier, here is chapter 6! I
     struggled with this chapter, trying to further encapsulate Ed's
     internal conflicts...as well as more of Ramsay's depravity!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                      Chapter_6:_Requiems_and_Absolutions
                                        
            Ned Stark sat alone in his solar, feeling like a requiem. His
tongue lay heavy in his mouth, as though thickened and numbed with Dornish
wine. Gone. The finality of the word hit him like a tempest, nearly bowing him
over with its weight and magnitude.
            Oh gods. Sansa Stark had…gone. The bile began to rise within his
throat—hot and acidic—and he quickly willed it down. He could not break, not
now. Yet, it was all he could do to not buckle and collapse. He hurt. Gods, how
he hurt, a sharp, resounding throb that threatened to tear his heart asunder.
            A wail shattered through the hall, animalistic almost, in its pain.
High and keening, cutting through the thickened silence. Ned shut his eyes
tightly to the sound of it, his heart breaking anew. Catelyn.  Since the
abduction, she had been confined to their bed, a torrent of tears and
convulsions.
            She had refused all food and drink, as untouched trays littered the
outside of the closed chamber door, and Maester Luwin feared for her health,
administering small doses of Night Shade from the apothecary to induce sleep.
Ned furled his hand over the armrest as if to keep himself buoyant and tethered
to reality.
            Four days…It had been four days since the abduction and he still
felt as though he were asleep, ensnared within a dark, never-ending incubus.
Wake. He needed to wake now. If he could only wake, then everything would be as
it was. Sansa would be in her solar, sewing in her embroidery circle, japing
with Arya and Robb, smiling as sweetly as the dawn…
            Locke, a Bolton bannerman and Roose’s best tracker, said it was the
work of wildlings, that no kidnapping had been so complete or well-executed.
“Just like a ghost,” the small ferreted man announced, his black, beady eyes
glistening in sordid glee and anticipation.  His hand slowly caressing his
hunter’s knife, his strokes both slow and deliberate. Ned immediately disliked
the look of him.
Like some salivating dog tempted with a leg of mutton.
            Roose had assured him that he was the finest hunter in all the
North and did exceptional work, but that did little to pacify and ease his
comfort. Ned was loathed to think of the past workthat he had done in the
Boltons' employ. Monsters, monsters all of them…
            They had been in the Wolfswood two days prior. All of them—the two
most powerful houses in the North—and already dissention arose. Roose had been
incensed, his blood lust near insatiable, wanting to execute the forester and
his family ( a young wife and a nursing  babe) for their incompetence.
            “I fear you have gone soft, Lord Stark.” Roose’s eyes were cold,
flat chips of ice, simmering with an undercurrent of rage. Controlled, but
bubbling just beneath the surface.  “This man was your forester, clearly
benefitting from your mercy and elevated position. Your daughter is missing
because he was careless and an example needs to be made.”
            The forester, Merric, was knelt on forest floor, a trembling,
blubbering fit of apologies and excuses. “Mercy, m’lords! Mercy! I did not see
‘em! M-m-mercy! I did not see ‘em, I swear. M-m-m-must’ve hid in the dark…”
            His wife was standing just beyond, at the entrance of the cottage,
clutching the babe at her breast as though it were a shield, her bottom lip
quivering. Ned turned away then, barely hearing the pleas, his thoughts
suddenly in a quagmire. How did it all come to this? This—whatever it was—was
sheer madness.
            “Leave him,” he said finally, returning to his horse. He suddenly
felt tired, defeated. The search party had returned with very few leads and
only more unanswered questions. “The man knows nothing and will be of no help
to us.”
            All that his men gathered was that a group of wildlings had
traversed the Wall and briefly settled in the forest. There had been a small
band of them—five, at the most—and they were all able to go undetected so far
south. No other clue had been left. No clothing, no weapons. Nothing. Only a
few dispersed tracks.
            “This is Mance Rayder’s work,” Robb stated from his mount, a hard
gleam in his eye. Ever since Sansa’s kidnapping, he had become angry. Harder.
No longer a carefree lord of seven and ten, but now a man full grown and
fashioned from the tragedy that has befallen him. On all of them.
            “No,” Ned interjected, turning around to face them all. Roose’s
lips were tightly pursed, a look of righteous anger upon his mien at being
undermined. His bastard silently fuming upon his black destrier. All throughout
the interrogation, he remained quiet, eerily so, lost in contemplation and
thought. One hand held tightly onto the reigns of his charger, the other to the
scabbard of his sword.
            As Ned silently watched him then, appraising the Bolton heir, a
tightening seized his gut, sudden and constricting. He was Sansa’s betrothed,
an agreement borne out of dire necessity and preservation, and yet he could
summon no sympathy for the man. He turned his head, feeling shamed.
            He was angry, angry at feeling such animosity and resentment
towards a man who had not chosen his bastard status, or to be the unwanted son
of a cold, unfeeling man like Roose. Yet, angry that it had all come down to
this. He had heard the stories of the Bastard of Bolton, as had all of the
North. A monster and a madman who relished in the peeling of human flesh.
…And Ned had given his beloved daughter to him as though with little thought or
consequence… 
When Catelyn had heard of the engagement, she ranted and raved at him, a storm
of tears and accusations. Her eyes wide and transfixed.
“How in the seven hells could you give our daughter away to that animal, Ned?
How?”
            In retrospect, Ned had believed that he had taken the right course
of action, striving to repair a splintered and fractured North, badly weakened
by its self-imposed civil war. Yet standing there, now, he had realized he had
greatly errored. A mistake he would willingly rectify once Sansa returned.
            If, that sly and treacherous voice would whisper. If she returns,
you mean.
            Ramsay was like a broken bone, one that had not fully mended
correctly and continued to hinder and impair the body. There was no salvaging
or healing it; it just continued to grow crooked, distorted, and wrong. He did
not deserve Sansa to take to wife. He would never be deserving of her.
“It was not Mance Rayeder. He’s too cunning and cautious to venture south of
the Wall on a whim.     Everything he has done has been deliberate and planned.
This was the work of his son, Jon Snow.”  
            Everyone turned to look at him then, Ramsay included, his grip on
his sword hilt tightening. It seemed almost instinctual, this visceral
reaction, one based off loathing and fear. Even the Mad Dog trembled and
kowtowed to the White Wolf…
            Ned ordered his bannermen to disperse and reconvene on the morrow,
at first light. As his men began their journey to their keeps, a loud squall
reverberated throughout the air, a woman’s howl quickly ensuing. Ned turned to
look back, and his blood nearly congealed at the sight awaiting him…
            The forester lay writhing on the floor, a large pool of blood
coalescing near the stump that was once his hand. Ramsay standing over the man,
panting, sword drawn, a feral smile of pure exultation fully displayed upon his
lips…
               
 
                                        
Chapter End Notes
     Please read and review. Your comments give me so much life.
***** Revelations and Claimings *****
Chapter Summary
     Despite the seclusion of her chambers, Lysa looked around discreetly,
     ensuring there were no hidden ears. Privacy was a luxury that eluded
     even the most privileged of noble women. "Has your Lady Mother told
     you of the power that lies between your legs? Tears aren't our only
     weapon. What we possess is sweeter and more potent than the finest
     Dornish wine. Let your Lord Husband--or any man--have just a taste--
     and he will become yours."
Chapter Notes
     We have more Jon/Sansa interaction! Yay! After watching Episode 1 and
     reading the spoilers, I think it is greatly needed. Please read and
     review! Your opinions--good, bad, or indifferent--determine whether
     or not I continue.
     Also, I borrowed/paraphrased the scene where Sansa is interacting
     with Cersei after becoming a woman and when Stannis sacks the
     capital. Instead of Cersei giving Sansa advice, I replaced it with
     Lysa. In this narrative, Lysa is not jealous or envious of Sansa, but
     is a confidante, and ally to her. Oh, and I also borrowed a line from
     Arya's speech in the opening scene in this narrative because it was
     so badass and fit into Sansa's more assertive personality.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Chapter Seven: Revelations and Claimings
The ropes were loose. A realization that caused her both pause and elation.
They were at the edge of the Umber lands, bordering the lesser-known Mountain
clan, the Knotts. Just fifteen leagues south of the Wall and ten leagues from
Castle Black. Sansa knew the territory well—the Umbers and Knotts were Stark
bannermen and liege lords who had sworn fealty to her Lord Father.
Just last year, she and her younger brother, Bran, had travelled with Ned to
celebrate the Great Jon's nameday. When permitted to leave from his duties, her
Uncle Benjen would regale her family with stories of the northern mountain
clans and his choses life of austerity.
"It is the end of the world, truly." Benjen would commence, looking so much
like Father with his severe, blue-grey eyes and long, Northern face. His hands,
although strong and heavily scarred, were always gentle when they encircled her
waist when he danced with her and Arya at feasts. "There is nothing but snow
for days on end. A man can easily disappear and never be found."
Everyone reveled in his visits, as few and far between they were. Even Mother
had oft questioned Father as to why Benjen took vows of self-imposed celibacy
than take some noble lady to wife.
"But he is so handsome!" Catelyn would gush, her face matching the scarlet of
her hair, the result of Ned's latest teasing. "Surely, he would have made a
fine husband for some noble lady somewhere…"
Sansa felt a tear slip, and she angrily shook her head, willing the rest at
bay. Crying never did anyone any good. Besides, only little girls cried and she
was no longer a little girl.
Three years ago, when Sansa had turned three and ten, she visited her Aunt Lysa
in the Vale when her flower came into bloom and she bled for the first time.
Horrified, she tried to extricate the stain from the sheet with a knife lying
nearby. Unsuccessful in her attempts, she resolved to flipping the mattress
over and was nearly successful in her subterfuge when her aunt's maidservant
entered her guest chambers.
Sansa, disgusted and ashamed of her sinful body, had pleaded with the young
girl, Emyline, to not divulge her secret to her aunt, but all entreaties fell
on deaf ears and she was summoned to her solar within the hour.
"You are flowered now, my lovely," Lysa began, offering Sansa a lemon cake from
a nearby tray. It was only on special occasions her Lady Mother permitted the
saccharine dessert, so Sansa ate with relish, slowly savoring the lemon's tang
upon her tongue. "Do you know what that means"
Sansa knew. All too well. She knew what the crimson blemish, stark against the
snow-white sheets, entailed and she shuddered. She was marked now, permanently
tethered to an unknown, faceless entity that would be her Lord Husband.
"That I am now fit to bear children," she began quietly, the lemon cake
suddenly feeling like gruel within her mouth. She swallowed slowly.
"Yes, my lovely," Lysa replied, smiling gently. "Truly an exciting time to be a
woman. To carry a child within your body that is yours alone to love and
protect." Despite the seclusion of her chambers, Lysa looked around discreetly,
ensuring there were no hidden ears about. Privacy was a luxury that eluded the
most privileged of ladies.
"Has your Lady Mother told you of the power that lies between a woman's legs?
Tears aren't our only weapon. What we possess is sweeter and more potent than
the finest Dornish wine. Let your Lord Husband—or any man—have but single
taste, and he will become yours."
Sansa blanched at that, her cheeks suddenly aflame at the gauche conversation.
Of course Mother never told her this! Mother was a proper lady, delicate and
chaste, she would never behave so…so wantonly, like a common slattern.
After her father had informed her of her impending marriage to Ramsay, Sansa
began to loathe her body; loathe the curves and twin peaks that suddenly sprung
up upon her person. She could still feel Ramsay's heated gaze linger after
their initial meeting. His pale eyes freely and unashamedly rove and appraise
her form, as if she were some unattainable prize that only he could claim. As
soon as she returned home to Winterfell, she scrubbed her body raw, desperate
to extricate the revulsion and loathing that seeped into her soul and clung to
her skin like mud. Never! she vowed. Never! Never! Never!
And now, here she was: liberated from one monster, yet prisoner to another. Oh,
how the gods loved to play their little ironies! However, Lysa was wrong. Tears
and seduction weren't a woman's only weapon. They also had their wits and were
able to solve any dilemma presented to them.
Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe…
They had stopped to rest in a small, wooded area. It was dark now, the Hour of
the Wolf, if Tormund, the giant wildling, was to be believed. There were also
no stars in the sky. Sansa paused at that. Only a fool would try to escape
within the abysmal darkness of night, but when would another opportunity
present itself?
She could hide—the woods offered endless sanctuary—she could hide during the
day and rest and travel at dusk, where there was just enoughlight. It was not a
perfect plan, Sansa conceded, but it was the best she had. There were streams
that provided fresh water and bushes that stored berries that provided
substantial nourishment. (Arya had taught her which ones were edible and which
ones brought death.) Besides, these were Umber lands, a House forever loyal to
her father. The Great Jon would help her if asked, give her quarter.
The wildlings forgot to bind her legs, a small mercy she was not going to
analyze or question. Perhaps, when there were multiple leagues distancing
herself from them, she could think on it. But now…Now she had to escape.
They were all asleep, Sansa could make out their prone forms around the dying
fire. After a meagre dinner of rabbit (the grey-eyed wildling had offered her
part of his, but Sansa refused, only glaring angrily at him and offering her
backside), they talked quietly amongst themselves before sleep claimed them.
Throughout the meal, Sansa could feel the grey-eyed wildling's gaze on her.
Although she had obstinately refused to look at him, once, when adjusting
herself at the foot of the tree, her eyes met his and a battle of wills quickly
ensued.
He looked away first, clearly annoyed, and Sansa reveled in the small victory.
It was childish, she supposed, but at the moment, she did not care. Soon, she
would be away from here and would never have to look at him again, no matter
how unsettling and captivating his gaze may be. Focus, now. She had to focus.
Closing her eyes, Sansa took a deep breath and channeled her thoughts. She
could not afford to error—not now—not when escape was nigh. After a few more
twists and deep tugs, the ropes gave way, and Sansa's heart lurched.
Quickly looking up, she glanced around at her surroundings. They were all
asleep, still. Tormund, sprawled on his back, snoring loudly into the night
sky, the other two laying on their sides, facing the dying fire. The grey-eyed
wildling was propped against a large boulder, opposite Tormund. All
unsuspecting. All unassuming.
Sansa got to her feet then, her heart throbbing within the vicinity of her
ears. She felt heavy, wooden, but willed herself to move. Go! Go now, you
stupid girl! Go before you have nothing left!
She was surprised that stealth came so easily to her; Arya had always
complained during games, that she made too much noise when hiding, easily
giving away her position. One step…Then two…Soon, she found herself within a
small cluster of woods.
A breath of relief escaped her then, faint and shallow. This was good. She only
needed to keep moving and she would be just fine. She just. Needed to. Keep
moving.
Sansa had barely turned around when she suddenly found herself on the forest
floor, all breath leaving her. No. No. No…
The grey-eyed wildling was stood over her, his face all but obscured from the
consuming darkness, his winter-grey eyes glittering with barely concealed rage.
"Where are you going, She-Wolf?" His voice was soft, quiet, and yet nonetheless
deadly. It spread like a winter gale through her body, settling in her core,
and she trembled.
"You think me so stupid that I would not know how to secure your binds? I knew
you were trying to escape. I watched you, waiting. There is no place you can
hide that I will not find you."
Sansa felt angry then, livid. Before she was aware of herself, aware of her
actions and the weight of the consequence it would bring, she launched herself
at him, a barrage of slaps, punches, and curses. A growling and angry she-wolf
at last…
She did not care that he was stronger, that her two hands fit into his one. She
did not care that he could very easily kill her and leave her corpse for the
crows to feast. She just wanted to hurt him! To humiliate him! To maim him! To
make him feel somesmall measurement akin to the loss and helplessness she felt
currently.
He deftly caught her punches, pivoting her around and securing her arms behind
her back. His face was in her hair again, and suddenly, she felt overwhelmed by
him—his scent, his presence, his essence, his strength. Gods, why was he
affecting her so? Why was she so conscious of him?
Angry, defeated and sodamned tired, Sansa could only cry. And cry, she did.
Painful, gut-wrenching sobs. She cried for her mother, for her father, for
Robb, for Arya, for Bran, and for baby Rickon, as well.
She cried for her lost dreams, her shattered hopes, and for her unspoken
prayers. She mourned for it all. Finally, after a moment, her tears abated. She
was a wolf once more.
The wildling continued to hold her, though not as tightly as before. His lips
remained in her hair, murmuring quiet words of comfort and mollification. He
walked her back to the campsite, steering her back to the foot of the tree. And
Sansa acquiesced, too tired—to exhausted—to fight back.
After securing the binds to her wrists (and feet), the grey-eyed wildling
continued to linger over her, his storm colored eyes silently perusing her.
Gone was the anger and disgust, and in its place was something else entirely.
Something foreign and unrecognizable.
Gods, he pities me now.
"I had a home!" Sansa bit out, angry and ashamed she had shown her enemy
weakness. She was no Stark. Wolves never cried. "I had a family that loved me.
I did not ask for you to take me away. I never asked for any of this!"
They grey-eyed wildling blinked in surprise and then quickly stood up, giving
Sansa his back. He stopped suddenly, yet refused to face her, only looking at
the night sky that continued to engulf and surround them.
"You did ask, Sansa. I heardyou ask. I heard your prayers." A moment passed.
And then…
"I know because I prayed for you, too."
Chapter End Notes
     *Sigh* What wouldn't a lady do to hear the love of her life say that
     to her? Question is, what does Sansa do with this piece of
     information? Where do Jon and Sansa go from now? Is there even a
     *place* to go to?
***** Stalemates and Impasses *****
Chapter Summary
     He had told her the truth last night. Exposed those small fissures
     and cracks of vulnerability until there was nothing left but an
     unbound river of desperation and anxiety. Last night, beneath the
     cosmos and heavens, where only the gods were present and listening,
     Sansa Stark saw him. The real Jon Snow. Nothing else was left of him,
     nothing so sacrosanct or primal.
Chapter Notes
     Remember when I said that there was a little bit of Dark Jon Snow in
     this narrative? Well, he briefly makes an appearance here. I am
     absolutely blown away by your responses. A million times, thank you!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                      Chapter_8:_Stalemates_and_Impasses
She had tried to escape. The thought made Jon’s stomach clench uncomfortably
and jaw tic in ire. Last night, the red-haired, she-wolf tried to escape—to
leave him—and return home. Under different circumstances, Jon assumed, he would
have been quite amused at the failed attempt. No hostage had ever escaped the
White Wolf’s clutches once he set his sights on you. It was akin to a hare
absconding an eagle’s talons. A fate his captives long resigned themselves to.
Yet, Sansa’s escape made something within him snap, shatter and splinter into
hot embers. He burned. Gods, how he burned and raged like an inferno.
He had made sure the ropes were deliberately loosened and her feet remained
untethered, a request that made Tormund curse and shake his head incredulously.
Perhaps Jon was foolish in his decision. Perhaps it was cruel to bait her thus,
to offer a minute glimmer of hope and security only to  snatch it away from her
just as quickly. There was no sport in hunting, Father would reprimand. And it
was no secret she was unhappy with her predicament and wanted liberation.
Yet, he wanted to test her, test her strength of will. She was beautiful, yes,
but was she really as fierce and unyielding as the beast on her father’s
sigil?  The answer was unequivocal and resounding. Yes.Jon’s britches tightened
involuntarily, a small smile gracing his lips. Something akin to admiration
settling in his belly.
Gods, but she was magnificent in her rage. Her eyes, a tranquil sky, turned
into an indigo storm whenever she looked at him. With such hate and derision.
And scorn.
The smile left Jon’s face and the admiration that once took root and swell
began to deflate and sink like a stone into the bottom of the North Sea. As a
wildling, Jon was well-acquainted with Southrone contempt. The looks of disdain
etched on the faces of the sanctimonious Southrone Kneelers and lords whenever
their keeps and villages were razed and their property seized.
The way delicate noble women’s lips would curl and eyes turn cold as they gazed
upon him in silent inventory. Jon was not stupid—he knew what they saw whenever
they looked at him. It was the same even amongst his own people.
They judged him. Deemed him a monster—an animal. Unfit to breathe the very same
air as they. A beast unworthy to live among the good and righteous civilized
population south of the Wall. They condemned him, he and his people. Sansa
Stark, the Warden of the North’s daughter, the living embodiment of privilege
and pedigree, judged himwith her frigid hauteur and glacial stares.
A savage, that’s what she called him last night after he caught her. After he
bared his heart and soul to her. After his revelation.
“You are nothing but a savage…”
He was angry now. A wild, crackling tempest. His grey eyes narrowed and
blackened, his fists clenched and palpitating. Tormund noticed the drastic
transition within his prince, perceived his dangerous mood, and gave him wide
berth. It was never wise to provoke and bait a seething wolf, especially within
its own lair.
The woods were his domain, his home. It was best that the red-haired Kneeler
remembered that. Surely, she was not so stupid as to not know what he could do
to her should she continue to anger and provoke him further.
She was a woman, a Kneeler, at that. Here, in the woods, away from villages,
keeps, and fat, titled lords, she was nothing—a possession to be stolen and
reclaimed over and over. Albeit, a very beautiful possession, but a possession
nonetheless.
He could take her if he wanted. The thought had crossed his mind repeatedly
since the abduction. Tormund had asked repeatedly why he had not pursued the
notion. Here, under the morning sun and among prying eyes, he could claim her
body—so ripe and firm—and sate the unquenchable desire that festered and burned
unabated for so long. And no one would deign to stop him or question him.
He was the son of Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, the White Wolf of the
North. He took what he wanted. And what he wanted was her. Gods, but he was
starvingfor her.
She was asleep, propped against the foot of the tree, her breathing shallow and
steady. Her hair, a scarlet curtain, shielding part of her face. She was pale,
the mark of fatigue forming beneath her eyes. Yet, despite the paleness, she
was still beautiful. Undeniably so.
Jon’s heart constricted at that, soothing the raging beast that had run riot
within him. Last night, she had splintered. Crying, convulsing, and shattering
within the encircle of his arms. While sorrow and tears had never previously
affected him, seeing her so broken, even momentarily, had torn him asunder,
leaving a chasm so wide and gaping that he wondered if he would ever again be
complete.
When had he changed? Become this calloused, unfeeling monster that reveled in
suffering? Before Sansa, Jon would have placed blame on the Southroners. It was
their fault his people were reduced to starvation, living on the fringes of the
realm. It was their fault he was reduced to pillaging and plundering, like
scavengers, to survive. It was their fault he was forced to this existence, a
damnation and curse he would never subject anyone to, nemeses included.
Yet now…
Now…
Jon was not so sure and the uncertainty bowed him over, shattering him anew.
Gods.How did she do it? How was this flame-haired warrior able to reawaken and
resurrect something that was once thought long-dead and buried?
He had told her the truth last night. Exposed those small fissures and cracks
of vulnerability until there was nothing left but an unbound river of
desperation and anxiety. Last night, beneath the cosmos and heavens, where only
the gods were present and listening, Sansa Stark saw him.The real Jon Snow.
Nothing else was left of him, nothing so sacrosanct or primal.
He had prayed for her, small, feverish prayers spoken in the purple twilight of
nights beneath the glittering stars. He had prayed for salvation and sanctuary,
for completion. And he found it in her. She was the sun to his moon; his other
half. A realization that caused both euphoria and great sorrow.
He wanted her, aye. He would always want her, until the sun rises in the west
and sets in the east. Until the roaring seas became dry and the mountains blew
in the wind like leaves. Jon’s desire for the red she-wolf would remain
unquenchable.
Yet, he would not dishonor her or take what was never his to give. He may be a
savage, but he was no monster. He would earn her, protect her. From others and
himself, if need be. It was the very least he could do. And perhaps make her
see him in a new light.
She held all the cards in her hand and was his to command. And should she
reciprocate his sentiments—ifshe reciprocated any of them—it would be on her
terms. He would never force her.  And Jon would wait, silently and quietly. He
would wait forever.
Chapter End Notes
     So...Sansa, what's your move? You hold all the cards in your hands.
     And thank the gods, that Jon did not go through with his previous
     thoughts. He is no Ramsay, so rest assured.
***** A Diseased Mind, An Untethered Soul *****
Chapter Notes
     Ramsay Bolton has staked his claim.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                                 Chapter_Nine
     The screams penetrated the darkened chamber, and Ramsay closed his eyes in
ecstasy, relishing the sound. The bellows began to quieten in volume, its
inhabitant slowly losing consciousness. Only an occasional whimper breaking the
silence.
     That would be remedied,  he vowed, his pale, lifeless eyes glinting
avidly. Soon, the oubliette would be a cacophony of terror, agony and hysteria.
Soon, the smell of blood, gore, and decomposition would permeate every orifice,
and Ramsay relished at the promise.
     It was like sex, the taking of a life. It gave him a euphoria and bliss
that left everything else wanting. Here, beneath the Dreadfort, within the
shadows and quiet stillness of obscurity, he was The Stranger. The God of
Death.
     He smirked at that, the corner of his lips lifting ever so slightly. His
joy was fleeting, though. His eyes soon returned to their resting stoicism. He
was becoming bored, now. There was no sport in an unconscious victim. The hunt
was no longer exciting.
     The forester ‘s  (Merric, that was his name. Ramsay remembered all of his
victims’ names.) head lulled to the side, revealing a missing eye and lacerated
face, a bloody labyrinth of red, puckered skin and tissue.  He was tied to the
crucifix, a crudely fashioned “X,” the binds tearing into his flesh. The stump
that was once his left hand unbound, exposed, and raw.
     Perfect...the fun was about to commence.
     The thin flaying knife twitched within his hand and he gripped the
serrated blade tightly to control its tremor. A sharp pain lit  through his
body, jarring his consciousness. Ramsay glanced down briefly, acknowledging the
crimson liquid that wet his palm. It was no consequence or matter, really. All
men were made of meat, sinew and bone.
     Merric had sworn that he had not been aware of the wildlings hiding within
the Wolfswood, and the damned fool of a Warden and his cunt son believed him.
Ramsay’s lips curled at that, mercy was reserved only for the weak and
gullible.  And Ramsay was neither.
     “Now, let’s start again. The sooner you tell the truth, the sooner I will
let you go. I swear it, by the Old Gods and New.” This was his favorite part,
the interrogation. Here, he could pretend, bestow a false mien of friendship
and congeniality, along with the sweet promise of freedom, only to then rip it
all away. Crushing all hope in its wake and watching the condemned crumble into
pieces of nothingness and ash.
Oh! how he loved that part.
To be able to give life and then take it away--he was truly  a god. The only
answer the forrester was able to give were small whimpers and incoherent
blubbering.
“P-p-please, milord! I know nothing, I s-s-swear.” Another dead end. Another
false lead.
Walking over to an open barrel of salt, Ramsay took a handful of it and began
grinding it into the bloodied stump of  Merric’s hand. The howls that followed
soon after were deafening. Ragged, torn, and broken. Soon...it would all be
over soon.
Once, when Ramsay was five, he flayed a small kitten that had belonged to the
chamberlain’s daughter, Madylin. Small, midnight black in color with jade eyes,
the kitten was a beauty, a gift from Domeric for her eighth nameday. The only
gift she received ever. Bolton servants were inconsequential, a rule Roose had
made certain and frequently executed.
Although the kitten was innocent, so trusting and gentle in nature and air, it
was the fact that Madylin loved it that spurred Ramsay’s ire. The look of pure
joy and infinite elation that made his jaw tic and his finger thrum in
anticipation. No one was allowed such  bliss, especially not in a world laden
 knee-deep in shit and mire. Someone had to teach her, show her that such a
luxury was fleeting and a phantasm. And Ramsay was ever-willing to be her tutor
and jumped at the prospect.
The howls were high and keening, every time a layer of fur and skin was lifted
and peeled, they would intensify; become sharper in its pleas for mercy and
respite. It was  such a sweet, delicious melody to his ears. Soon (all too soon
for Ramsay’s liking), the  kitten’s wails quieted, and in its place was a
formless, shapeless, quivering mass of tissue. Ramsay stared at the spectacle--
now a grotesque lump of tendons, veins, and thew--in queer fascination and
intrigue. The trembling then ceased and the lump soon cooled and stiffened.
Father was right, Ramsay mused, all the while staring transfixed and awed. A
naked man has few secret; a flayed man has none.
“You disappoint me, Merric,” Ramsay whispered, bending low to his ear. “I
thought you wanted to go home. Return to that beautiful wife of yours who warms
your bed and that son you are so proud of. Perhaps, I could bring them here.
Bring them to the Dreadfort as a favor to you. Would you like that?”
Merric let out a sound then, not quite human in tone and sound and leaning
towards that of an animal. A wounded and dying animal whose time was  quickly
coming to an end…
“Please. Please, milord. Mercy, I beg of you. M-my family, they are innocent.
Please.”
Ramsay backhanded him, then. The force of it causing the forester’s head to
snap back and ricochet off the wooden cross. He was losing patience now. The
Mad Dog was becoming untethered.
“WHERE IS SHE, MERRIC?! WHERE IS SANSA?!?” There it was now. The frothing,
rabid beast that was Ramsay Bolton. He had Merric’s face in a vise, his hands
on opposite sides of his neck, effectively stifling any further sounds of
protest.
It did not matter, anyway. Merric was served his death warrant the moment he
set foot in the Dreadfort chambers. There was  no way Ramsay could let him go
now. Not that he would ever concede to do so, anyway. Promises be damned.
Sansa was  his.  He had chosen her the moment the engagement had been announced
and the introduction given. He had bed warmers aplenty; whores that he fucked
and fucked constantly, yet with very little gratification or pleasure. It was
unfulfilling and menial.
There had been Violet, with her beautiful blonde hair and lovely complexion.
Those had been fun times, Ramsay acknowledged, but then she had to ruin it and
become pregnant. She was killed soon after. It would not do, sullying the
Bolton name with another fatherless bastard.
Then, there was Tansy, or  “Tansy Fly,” she was called, with her dimpled smiles
and saccharin laughter. She had been a good girl--willing and dutiful--but  too
damned    sweet. Too good. Such unassuming kindness was more liability than
virtue. Better he the one  to put her down than someone else. Ramsay had done
her a kindness, truly.
Finally, there was Myranda. His favorite bitch. He enjoyed her, enjoyed her
enthusiasm, her vigor and willingness to watch and partake. Once, there had
been a time where Ramsay had weighed the prospect of taking her to wife. Of
course, she had been riding his cock to oblivion when the promise had been
struck, her hands wrapped tightly around his neck, her screams of ecstasy and
pleasure piercing the sky. She was a good fuck, that Myranda.
For awhile, marriage to Myranda had had its possibilities. Yet, all of that
faded into obscurity and nothingness the moment the engagement had been
announced and Ramsay caught a glimpse of his betrothed.  Gods…
She had been a vision, all  polite smiles and demure pleasantries. She had hair
of fire; a stark contrast to the creamy cast of her skin. Her eyes were
caerulean and Ramsay felt as though he had been doused with ice water.
 Everything before her ceased to exist, and nothing after her was of any
consequence or mattered.
Myranda had been incensed. A jealous, raving fit of curses and paroxysms.  “You
said you would marry me!” she accused, her cold, green eyes etched in betrayal
and humiliation.
She had quickly gotten over her jealousy, though. She had no other recourse.
Besides, the hard backhand to the face and grab at her throat had effectively
put an end to the matter. She was lucky that night; Ramsay had allowed her  to
walk away relatively unscathed. He  was feeling generous. Any other time, she
would have been fed to his hounds.
Sansa was his, now and forever more. And nothing was to take that from him. Not
the gods. Not the Starks. And most certainly  not  the wildling savages or
their damned White Wolf.
Ramsay’s jaw clenched again. A tic starting to form. A foaming and salivating
Mad Dog was again emerging from the shadows.
They were all obstacles--to be knocked down and demolished. Ramsay looked back
at Merric, now a half-dead, whimpering heap.  Another obstacle to be
immediately dealt with.
One quick slash and the man was dead, his throat an opened, bubbling gash.
Ramsay smiled at that, his pale, lifeless eyes feral and animated. So much
blood…
His britches actually  tightened  at the sight. Once, his lord father deemed
him a lunatic, a demon spawned from the deepest pit of the seven hells. And
Ramsay wholeheartedly agreed. Only a fool would try to restrain and tether a
Mad Dog, as the White Wolf would soon learn.
He could not wait.
Picking up the thin flaying knife once more,  Ramsay inserted the tip of the
blade into Merric’s smallest finger and lifted. The skin neatly giving way.
Just like peeling an apple,  he thought jovially.
Now, the fun reallybegan...
Chapter End Notes
     As a HUGE animal lover, the flaying of the kitten was the most
     difficult to write. Also, it looks like our favorite White Wolf has
     some SERIOUS competition. The White Wolf vs The Mad Dog. Placing bets
     now!
     On a serious note, thank you everyone for your responses. To say that
     I'm overwhelmed by your love of this narrative is an understatement.
     You guys truly give me life.
***** Unwanted Concessions, Unexpected Enemies *****
Chapter Summary
     “Strange people, Wildlings,” Old Nan would commence. She had been her
     father’s nurse when he was but a suckling babe at Winterfell.
     Although four score in age, her mind was sharp; just as keen as her
     eyes. A curious mix--not quite hazel, but more of a warm amber--they
     were able to pierce through bone and marrow and penetrate the very
     soul.
      
     “Not like you or I--civilized people--but free. Freer than the birds
     in the air. There’s is a land without restriction where they adhere
     to no one save themselves.”
Chapter Notes
     It is with my shame and regret that I have spoiled you. Two chapters
     within a week--a true record. This chapter transpires two days after
     Sansa's failed escape. Here, they have successfully made it over the
     Wall undetected and are now officially in Wildling territory. I have
     written a separate, "lost chapter" that explores their trek over the
     Wall and other details. That will be a short narrative that should
     come about in the near future. Stay tuned! Also, Bethany Canton is an
     imaginary character I conjured up in my mind. Here, she replaces
     Jeyne Poole as Sansa's close, childhood friend.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
             Chapter 10: Unwanted Concessions, Unexpected Enemies
 
The wildling camp was nothing Sansa expected. Of course, she had naught to base
said expectations on save the stories Old Nan told at bedside, and fantasies
culminated from feverish, untethered dreams and youthful imaginations. Fanciful
mechanisms laden with naivete and ignorance.
“Strange people, Wildlings,” Old Nan would commence. She had been her father’s
nurse when he was but a suckling babe at Winterfell. Although four score in
age, her mind was sharp; just as keen as her eyes. A curious mix--not quite
hazel, but more of a warm amber--they were able to pierce through bone and
marrow and penetrate the very soul.
They were captivating, those eyes. Always focused and set to determined
purpose. Eyes of an arbiter, Robb asserted once. If the gods were real, Sansa
supposed, they would be in possession of such a steady and unwavering gaze.
“Not like you or I--civilized people--but free. Freer than the birds in the
air. There’s is a land without restriction where they adhere to no one save
themselves.”
Sansa could remember nights where she would sit in rapt attention, envious that
such liberation was not only possible, but that some people were in possession
of it.  
“It’s not fair,” she would whisper into the cool sanctuary of her pillow in the
still darkness of the night.  “I wish it were me, too.”
Now, all Sansa could do was chuckle, mirthlessly and shake her head at the
irony. Yes, she was liberated, but at what cost? At what expense? Such
questions were bereft of answers.
The camp was large, spacious, and vast. Men, old and young alike were outside,
completing menial tasks. Some, from what Sansa could see, were forging weapons
out of rusted steel, hoping that such attention would somehow restore the
discarded metal to its former glory. Others were roasting meat--their day’s
largess--on an open spit. The heady smell of deer and other game wafted through
the air, causing Sansa’s stomach to clench in hunger.
The women were all congregated together, an aggregation of laughter and
affability, sewing and repairing torn clothing. It reminded Sansa of home, of
Winterfell. Automatically, Sansa was transported to her sewing circle with her
Lady Mother, of hours spent gossipping with Bethany Canton, of the lesser
Canton House, on fashions of the South, and potential suitors and eligible
husbands.
Not at all pretty with her prominent teeth (“Bethany Rabbit-Teeth,” Arya would
snicker behind cupped hands. Sansa would often pinch her and tell her to shut
up.) and elephantine nose, she had her sights set on the young Lord Cerwyn. The
same lordling who would haunt Sansa’s steps, like a second shadow, and beg for
her favor. Sansa would always decline.
A lump began to form at the base of her throat and Sansa swallowed it down.
Such a long time ago,  she thought ruefully. When things were simple.
As the horses slowly approached, the laughter began to dissipate and quieten.
Soon, within a span of seconds, they were surrounded.  A sea of curious,
unblinking faces and hostile stares. Sansa stared back, a defiant lift to her
chin. All transparency and intrigue melted away then, and the cold mask of
indifference and frigid hauteur returned.
Remember who you are,  Sansa affirmed.  You are a Stark of Winterfell and a
wolf. Wolves show no fear in the face of their enemies. Try as they might, they
cannot break you.
They grey-eyed wildling was the first to dismount, followed by Tormund and the
others; leaving Sansa last. Since her failed escape two nights previous, she
had been securely bound and under constant supervision, the exceptions being
when she had to relieve herself and bathe. She had promised not to flee again,
and for some inexplicable reason, the grey-eyed wildling believed her and
granted her this respite.  Sansa was thankful for the victory and spared
humiliation. They had already taken her freedom, she would be damned if they
stripped  her dignity from her, too.  She would fight.  And let the
consequences fall where they may.
Tormund (she finally learned his name) had argued against it, but was
immediately silenced with one sharp look. Sansa shivered at the recollection of
it: piecing and feral, they were the eyes of an animal, an agitated and deadly
beast about to pounce. The wolf’s gaze once more…
Tormund automatically retreated, hands raised in quick surrender. It was then
Sansa’s earlier suspicions were confirmed--he was their leader and they all
followed him. It was no wonder, that. Just by looking at him--the proud gait,
the unwavering, determined gaze, the brooding intensity--it was easy to see why
the men respected him, it was almost reverent.
Such a pity,  Sansa conceded, albeit reluctantly. He was handsome, and wielded
such command with great ease and fluidity.  He would have made a formidable
soldier. Seven hells, had he been born into a respected House and with the
proper education and conditioning, he would have made a strong nobleman. A fine
Warden.
He would-- no!
Sansa shook her head quickly, effectively quelling all previous thoughts. The
mind truly was a treacherous thing.  Stop this. Stop this madness now!
The man was a monster, Sansa reminded herself. He stalked her, kidnapped her,
and had her bound like an animal. He did not deserve her admiration. The only
thing he deserved from her was a sword though the eye!
Bastard.
Somewhat mollified then, Sansa began to dismount, blatantly ignoring the grey-
eyed wildling’s proffered hand. She was not helpless. She did not need
assistance--especially from  him.   She did not want him touching her. Ever.
The wildling lifted one eyebrow at her, his lip again quirking in wry humor and
amusement. Sansa glared at him, her bound hands twitching. She could not wait
for the day she slapped that smirk right off his face.  Soon,  she silently
vowed.   Very soon.
Then, too soon, too fast, before Sansa could even blink or react, a hand shot
out from the crowd, the calloused palm connecting with her cheek. The sting of
the impact causing her head to jolt to the side. She blinked in surprise.   The
hell…?
“You fucking, Kneeling whore!”
Chapter End Notes
     So...Sansa has come face-to-face (or should I say, face-to-palm?)
     with Ygritte. Did you REALLY think that she would just arrive at the
     camp and there would be no drama? Gotta love a good catfight now and
     then. Keeps things lively!
***** Scorned, Forsaken, and Damned *****
Chapter Summary
     She had told him she loved him, already exposed and vulnerable, she
     dared to open herself up further, delicate and fragile, like a newly
     formed butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. Jon smiled at her then,
     and Ygritte’s heart fluttered, the wings of hope beating and slowly
     ascending from the abyss.
         Please, it would whisper fervently. Please...
Chapter Notes
     In this chapter, we will explore Ygritte's thoughts, her anguish, her
     inner conflicts when seeing Sansa with Jon for the first time, and
     her willingness to do whatever must to keep him by her side, no
     matter the extremes.
     Also, thank you so much for your responses. I am truly overwhelmed.
     Alas, as the new school year approaches, I will be unable to update
     as frequently as I had during the summer months. This will probably
     be my last chapter until I can get into a routine.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                 Chapter_Eleven:_Scorned,_Forsaken,_and_Damned
 
   She had missed him. Oh gods, but she had missed him fiercely.  She had
missed his intensity, his broodiness, his severity. She missed his smiles, rare
as they were, when bestowed upon her. It was not often he smiled, but whenever
he did, it felt as though the world fell away and ceased to exist.
   For me,Ygritte thought wistfully. All for me.
   Most importantly, Ygritte missed his hands. Although only nine and ten, Jon
had the hands of a man full grown. Large, strong, and calloused, on those long-
ago nights he frequented her hut, those hands had proven gentle and attentive,
steady. He was the White Wolf of the North, as vicious and unforgiving as the
beast he was named after. Yet, with the encroaching of night, he was generous
and careful.
    His touches were light and honey-sweet when he loved her. And loved her, he
did. Frequently and thoroughly, bringing her to sobbing completion over and
over again. Once, when she was five and ten and he, just a year older, they
made love in an isolated cave, located on some unknown plain.
   The name had been inconsequential, long lost within the dark recesses of her
mind, but the memories--a sweet, and all-consuming poison--continued to linger,
a balm to soothe the festering, burning agony that continued to plague her at
nights. She had told him she loved him, already exposed and vulnerable, she
dared to open herself up further, delicate and fragile, like a newly formed
butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. Jon smiled at her then, and Ygritte's
heart fluttered, the wings of hope beating and slowly ascending from the abyss.
      Please,  it would whisper fervently.  Please.
   He did not repeat the words or respond to her declaration, only cupped her
cheek in those warm hands of his, and bought her face down to his, kissing her
into sweet oblivion. His taste quieting the roaring dissent and unease within
her. It was almost enough to make her forget. There, within the encircle of his
arms, away from Mance Rayder's disapproving stares and the cruel taunts from
other Wildling women, who at one time shared his bed, she could luxuriate in
Jon Snow. Yes, given enough time, Ygritte could almost find herself content.
   Almost.
    Her heart dropped at the realization, the once fluttering bird of hope now
heavy and lying dormant like lead. He never said the words back to her, only
leaving them suspended in the air of nothingness and oblivion. It hurt. It hurt
deeply.
   It had been almost three years since their tryst in the cave, since he had
last loved her. She had tried to pretend that the slight had not affected her,
had not torn her heart asunder into nothing but blood and ash, but it was a
lie. Nothing but a damned, fucking lie.
    She blamed his father, Ygritte did. Mance had always seen her as unworthy,
undeserving of his son. Less than. She was loathed to be in his presence,
loathed how his eyes, so sharp and unforgiving, reduced her to that of an
insect. Naught but a nuisance that could only be tolerated, if not squashed.
  "That girl will lead you to ruin if you do not have care!"
   Gods, but Ygritte hated him!  Hated him with a passion of a thousand burning
suns. And she made sure Mance was aware of her sentiments. At every
opportunity.
    At nights, sated and exhausted from  Jon's latest visits, she would laugh
quietly to herself, relishing in the thought that she had defied the King-
Beyond-the-Wall and laid with his son, his great pride. Whenever Mance was in
earshot, Ygritte made sure to speak loudly of their clandestine encounters. The
more lewd and vulgar, the better. In those rare and few times that Jon would
acknowledge her, show her a small measurement of devotion, she made sure to be
as effusive with her affections as possible.
  With every stolen kiss, every forbidden caress, every wet thrust of his hips
that lit her body aflame, Jon slowly became part of her. He had marked her,
claimed her. She was his woman. Only his.
 "You are mine and I am yours," she whispered one night, arms and legs
intertwined, a foggy haze of dreams and expectations. "If we die, we die. But
first, we will live."
   Ygritte held onto that promise, buried it deep within her veins. Even when
he discarded their vows so cavalierly, she held onto the whispered words, for
it served as her resurrection. Those many nights he failed to come to her,
failed to breathe life once more within body, she died in agony and despair.
Their words, their memories, the only tether and preservation keeping her
afloat.
   Ygritte was not stupid; she knew that she was no beauty. Not even the most
accomplished and fanciful of imaginations could deem her thus. Slight, petite,
and lightly freckled with copper tresses, her features leaned more towards
plain than anything. Passable, as the elders would oft say.
   It was due to her plainness that she was often overlooked and left wanting
in comparison to the statuesque Rowena, with her honey-gold hair and emerald
eyes, and ample Bridget, whose dark beauty and lush curves had rendered many a
man mute. They were beautiful, both of them, the most desired in all the
village. For a while, Jon had courted them, but it was always innocent and
fleeting.
   "Just sewing his wild oats,"they would all laugh, shrugging.
     Yet for Ygritte, seeing Jon--herJon---with one of them was like nettles on
her tongue. She oft wondered if running herself through with a dulled knife
would bring more relief. She hated them--those pretty girls. Oh gods, how she
hated them.
She could never win against a pretty face, they were her competition, her
rivals. So she mocked them, belittled them. Masking her jealousy behind a
façade of indifference and contempt. At every opportunity presented, Ygritte
would berate Rowena and Bridget, berate their beauty and grace, to the point of
unrelenting ruthlessness.
When at last the insults had ceased its comfort, ceased its mollification,
Ygritte took the game one step further: she eliminated them. The eradication of
a rival a euphoric and welcomed catharsis.
Bridget had been the first to meet such an unfortunate demise, poor thing. A
pity, really. She had left her stew unattended--an assortment of wild turnips,
cabbage, leeks, and carrots--when she took sick and fell ill. Black Iris and
mandrake root grew in abundance in the forest and was overlooked to the
untrained eye. Once completely dissolved into the clear broth, it became
tasteless and odorless; and if consumed in high dosage, death would be imminent
and agonizing. Excruciatingly so.
Bridget had been all but recognizable once the poison set in and The Stranger
finally seized her. Her once prized beauty reduced to naught save decomposition
and waste. Such a pity, indeed.
Then Rowena, the rival Ygritte despised the most. Despite her cherubic looks
and statuesque height, Rowena was a formidable huntress, a source of pride
among many in the village. There were very few who equaled her skill with a
bow...
Yet for all of Rowena's dexterity and talent, she could not match Ygritte's
stealth and alacrity. All it took was a well-placed arrow in the back of the
neck and the yellow-haired bitch was vanquished. All in one felled swoop. The
tears had come freely, thanks to the crushed wild onion and salt rubbed into
her eyes; the lies dripped smooth like honey from her venomous lips.
("It had all been but a terrible mistake, a hunting accident gone awry! Oh
gods! If only she had not moved so quickly!")
Such duplicity was easy, for no one dared to question her--not even Mance,
whose seeming omniscience was often unnerving when proven right. Both Rowena's
and Bridget's deaths had been reduced to a horrible mistake, one of the many
unfortunate events that had plagued the village that year. This was the North,
where life and death ran hand in hand with the other. For a wildling, theirs
was an arduous existence.
Besides, Ygritte was loyal to her people, steadfast. She would never think to
do something so inconceivable knowing the ramifications. No, surely not.
Yet, when gazing at her new rival--with her luminescent skin, crystalline eyes,
and autumn hair, more vivid and crimson than weirwood leaves--that
uncomfortable and familiar sensation began to once again ascend and choke her
with its intensity. Yet this time, it was stronger, more potent, and dangerous.
It crackled and surged, frightening even her with its fury. Something was
different, Ygritte could sense it within the depths of her bones.
Not only was the girl beautiful--eclipsing even Rowena and Bridget--but she was
not like the rest of them, a cut diamond amongst blackened coal. A Kneeler.
Even worse, the look of unconcealed, naked reverence displayed on Jon's face
when he gazed upon her. He was gawking on her as though he had never seen the
like, as though he dared not to blink should she disappear into shards of light
and color.
Ygritte tightly swallowed the acidic bile that began to rise within her throat.
Not once, she quickly realized, during their affair had Jon ever gazed on her
like that. So openly and unashamedly.
Besotted fool, you have damned us both!
Before she was fully cognizant of her actions, Ygritte began to move forward,
pushing and clawing her way to the front. This could not be, not again. Jon
could not do this to her again. And yet he had, only this time it was worse.
The pain excruciating and searing.
A white-hot rage began to blind her, permeate her consciousness until nothing
was left save primal, animalistic instinct and reaction. Ygritte could not
remember lifting her hand, nor could she remember striking out. All she could
remember in her disorientation and hysteria was the sound--like a whip cracking
through the charged air--and the sudden stinging of her palm.
And Jon Snow's deadly and incensed gaze as it leveled on her...
 
Chapter End Notes
     If it's not Ramsay, than it's Ygritte. What can I say? I have a
     propensity for writing batshit crazy characters! Lol...
***** Lies, Truth, and Duplicity *****
Chapter Summary
     He knew battles, he knew warfare. Eighty-five times he has led
     charges against Southrone Kneelers pretending to play soldier, and
     each one a resounding victory. Throughout each charge, each raid,
     never once had he felt one ounce--one figment--of rage or unbridled
     wrath. Through it all, he had prided himself in maintaining his
     equanimity, for it was all just a duty; an obligation that needed to
     be fulfilled. A mission to be executed.
Chapter Notes
     Happy Weekend, Lovelies! Since this will quite literally be my LAST
     *tear* weekend of freedom, I wanted to celebrate with a new chapter.
     As Petyr Baelish so famously said in Season 4, "We're all liars
     here." Lol...
     Unlike previous chapters, where it only focused on a single entity's
     POV, here, it will focus on *BOTH* Jon and Sansa's point of views and
     feelings.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                   Chapter Twelve: Lies, Truth and Duplicity
 
   In the nine and ten years of his existence, Jon Snow had only felt angry
twice. The first, when he was a young lad of seven and witnessed his mother
breathe her last. A victim of the winter coughing sickness, one of  its several
casualties  that year, it had been particularly devastating for the Wildling
villages north of the Wall.  The contagion was sudden, swift in its claiming.
One moment, Lyanna had been there--with him--beautiful, smiling and exultant;
the next, her body was lying on a funeral pyre, pale, exanimate, and stiff. A
candle snuffed of its flame.
   The second, was a few years later, when Jon was ten, and Father struck him
for the first time. The backhand was hard and severe, the force of it felled 
him instantly. Immediately, Mance felt contrite, shamed. His black eyes
repentant  and pleading. He was profuse with his apologies, vowing to never
raise a hand to him again, but Jon was hearing none of it.
   Although but a young child, Jon already possessed the temper of a man, his
fists curling at the sides, his eyes narrowed and staring. A wolf-pup already
baring his fangs. He fled Mance's hut then, before he disgraced himself
further. Fleeing to the woods where he stayed for a fortnight, until he was
forcefully brought back from his self-imposed exile. Mance, haggard and
disheveled, was immediately jubilant at the return of his son, and Jon felt a
stab of remorse and apologized for his selfishness. Immediately, the tension
was lifted and the incident forgotten.
 Yes, it was rare that Jon Snow felt anger--that raw, blistering, white-hot
intensity that pervaded one's mind and clouded his judgement. Anger made people
stupid, changed grown men into untried boys--weak and careless. And Jon was
none of these.
   He knew battles, he knew warfare. Eighty-five times he has led charges
against Southrone Kneelers pretending to play soldier, and each one a
resounding victory. Throughout each charge, each raid, never once had he felt
one ounce--one figment--of rage or unbridled wrath. Through it all, he had
prided himself in maintaining his equanimity, for it was all just a duty; an
obligation that needed to be fulfilled. A mission to be executed.
   But now...
   Nothing prepared him for the searing, white-hot acerbity that charged him
now. It was electric, surging and pulsing with its intensity as it traversed
his extremities. At that second, Jon felt dangerous, murderous. Ygritte was
playing a deadly game that she could never afford to lose.
   He was unprepared for the first slap, the sound permeating the air, causing
a tense, sickly silence to saturate the atmosphere. Sansa cried out, partly in
shock, partly in outrage. Her blue eyes narrowed, her fist clenching. Even
bound with rope, the red she-wolf was impressive, silently fuming. The fangs
were coming out.
Unperturbed, Ygritte reared her hand back again, ready to strike...
...only to be caught in mid-air...
  Jon Snow had to be careful, for this was Ygritte. The same Ygritte he had
once thought he loved, and to some degree, did love still. But she touched
Sansa--dared to touch what was  his-- and he could never let that stand.
Careful. Careful now.
   Ygritte tried to retract her hand, suddenly terrified. She had seen anger,
she had seen rage, but never this. Jon looked crazed, wild. His tranquil grey
eyes were a tempest. In that instant, he could very well have killed her and
would not have had a second thought.
  " You are never to raise your hand to my wife again. Am I understood?" His
voice was succinct, tight. Already a deep baritone, it dropped an octave lower,
causing the crowd to take a step back in caution. Ygritte tried again to jerk
her arm back, but Jon held on, his grip tightening, the pressure starting to
hurt.
"You...you took a Kneeler to wife?" Ygritte gasped, her eyes widening in
disbelief and horror. The crowd let out a collective murmur of incredulity. One
Wildling woman spat the ground.
  Jon remained resolute. Unbowed and unapologetic. A veritable stonewall. Never
would he be sorry for choosing Sansa, even if she would not have him. Never
would he be ashamed for loving her--he would do it a million times over if it
meant just a second in her presence. She was worth it all and much more.
  It did not matter if she never chose him. If she never reciprocated the
longing and lust he held for her. Right now, at this moment, she was here--with
him--and nothing could take it all away. Absolutely nothing.
 Jon's eyes turned black, his gaze burning with barely restrained wrath, as he
continued to hold Ygritte's wrist, still suspended in mid-air. How simple, he
thought darkly, it would be to end this. To snap her throat and put an end to
all of this foolishness. It would only take but a moment.
  Steady , that quiet voice countered.  Do not dishonor yourself here.
"Aye. She is mine, and you would do well to remember that. There will notbe a
next time."
  The threat was unmistakable as it lingered through the air. Although directed
at Ygritte, it was all-inclusive. No one was safe. Jon Snow was not a liar, and
all knew the hell that would be paid if they dared to touch the red-haired
Kneeler...their White Wolf's chosen mate.
  With one final, deliberate squeeze, Jon Snow released Ygritte's wrist and
stepped forward, gently pulling Sansa along. Tormund and the two other
wildlings followed close by, making up the rear. The silence now engulfed them,
following in their wake.
  Sansa's thoughts were in a quagmire. She could not determine where one began
and another ended. It all seemed to be one long, continuous blur. Did he just
say what she thought he had?
' Wife... She is mine.'   Sansa shook her head in incredulity.  No!  If she did
not want to marry Ramsay, then what would make the wildling think she would
willingly consent to him?
  Anger began to set in then. Hot and uncontrollable. How dare he reduce her to
naught but chattel? In that moment, Sansa felt like a piece of mutton; fit to
only to tease and tantalize. Was this all men saw in her? First her Lord
Father, then her betrothed, and now  him ?
  Seven fucking hells.
Too consumed with her tumultuous thoughts, Sansa failed to realize that the
grey-eyed wildling had led her to a large hut in the center of the village.
Pulling back the animal skins, the wildling set her down on a nearby stool and
began to unbind her ropes. Not once had he looked at her, his storm-grey eyes
instead focused on the task at hand.
With the knots finally unbound, he abruptly stood and made his way towards the
entrance once more.
"You called me your wife!" Sansa blurted out, incredulous. Immediately, she
wanted to yank out her tongue from the confines of her mouth. Until she could
gather a better understanding of this man, it was best to conserve her
inquiries.
  Always play your hand well...
   Jon inclined his head in her direction, just only but a mere fraction. His
heart constricting within the confines of his chest. Oh, but if only she would
forget, forget he made such false claims! Only then, he could better preserve
his splintering heart.
"Aye, I did." He was content to walk away, to leave it at that, but Sansa was
insistent. His she-wolf wanted more. If only she were his.
" Why? Why did you lie?"
   Jon closed his eyes tightly and sighed, his heart fracturing anew.  Please.
Please cease to go any further. I cannot bear anymore.
"To protect you, Sansa. If the men knew you were unclaimed, they would have
tried to have stolen you. By telling them you're my wife, they will  leave you
in peace."
   It was only a half-truth, but a truth all the same. It would have to
suffice. Jon could not bear to tell her the real reason for the deception. He
could not bear more of her scorn and ridicule.
  If he told her it was only for her protection, then she would be more
inclined to stay. Therefore allowing Jon more time to pretend--pretend that she
was his, and that she was here of her own accord and free will. Pretend that
she loved and wanted him, too. Just as he desperately loved and wanted her.
And with that, Jon closed the hut's flap and made his way to Mance.
Chapter End Notes
     So Jon is going to tell Daddy Mance of his new "possession." How do
     you think it will go? Also, do you *HONESTLY* think Ygritte is going
     to take the not so subtle hint?
***** Kill the Boy *****
Chapter Summary
       He had never believed in love. He had prided himself on being too
     smart, too wizened. Too jaded. After living among his former brothers
     in the Night Watch, and witnessing the horrors beyond The Wall that
     would have rendered any normal man to the brink of insanity, Mance
     Rayder would have readily dismissed love and its notion to that of a
     phantasm. A product equated to that of mermaids and dragons.
Chapter Notes
     Oh, how I missed you! Since it's the weekend, and I have just a
     little bit of a breather, I wanted to post this chapter. Also, this
     is my form of therapy from the train wreck that is Jonaerys. In this
     chapter, Mance reminisces on his lost love, Lyanna, and makes a
     startling discovery about his son, Jon. Also, in this universe,
     Lyanna is a common Northern name that is given to both common and
     noble-born girls alike. The Lyanna in this narrative is NOT related
     to the Lyanna Stark of the book and show cannon.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
 
                        Chapter_Thirteen: Kill the Boy
 
     Mance Rayder eyed his son critically, carefully. Perusing his form and
trying to find...what, exactly? Some sort of malady or malaise that suddenly
struck and seized him into succumbing to this lunacy and madness. Looking at
him now, there was nothing of note that marked a drastic change.
   Except, mayhap this...
   Gaging his now, assessing him further, the man standing before him was still
Jon Snow. His son. The pride of the Free-Folk and the White Wolf of the North.
Mance Rayder knew his son and was well pleased.
  Although sharing his midnight hair (Jon's more luxuriant and tending to curl,
possessing a natural luster), and long Northern face laden with travail and
severity, the White Wolf before him was Lyanna's son completely. He had her
look--large, winter-grey eyes, full lip, and quiet introspection.
   So much like Lyanna...
   The realization caused Mance's heart to lurch and throat to constrict. It
had been two and ten years since her untimely passing and the wound never
ceased in its hurt. Some days, there was naught but a dull, dry throb, yet
other times, the wound would reopen, raw and festering. This pain was cyclical,
never seeming to end.
   Mance was the King of the Wildlings, the sovereign King-Beyond-the-Wall,
revered by the Southrone nobles and Free-Folk alike. For years, he had worn the
distinguished mantle with pride, for it became akin to a second skin. He was
King (the Southrone lords sneered at the self-imposed title. King of what? they
would oft  inquire. Of shit and snow?) and his duty was foremost to his people
and the uniting of the dissenting clans. Yet, all of that ceased to exist once
Mance met Lyanna's eyes.
  He had never believed in love. He had prided himself on being too smart, too
wizened. Too jaded. After living among his former brothers in the Night Watch,
and witnessing the horrors beyond The Wall that would have rendered any normal
man to the brink of insanity, Mance Rayder would have readily dismissed love
and its notion to that of a phantasm. A product equated to that of mermaids and
dragons.
    Fanciful stories reserved for old nursemaids and the superstitious. And
yet...All of his previous skepticism melted away into nothingness once he met
Lyanna. Beautiful Lyanna. HisLyanna.
  Although only six and ten, Lyanna possessed more grace, more spirit, and more
courage than the fiercest of his warriors. She was both sweet, yet unyielding.
Gentle, yet unbreakable. Innocent, yet sage. So hauntingly beautiful, but
sweetly unaware.
   She was everything that he had not realized he had wanted and more, even
still. A winter rose blooming among death and decay. She was his fire and oh,
how Mance burned and incinerated!
...And then one winter's morning, the coldest in memory, that all-consuming
fire had forever extinguished.
Mance railed at the gods. Cursing them, damning them into the deepest pit of
the Seven Hells for taking his Lyanna away from him. She had been his reason--
his purpose--for living. When succumbing to the deepest, darkest parts of
himself had been  so  easy, so simple, she had been his tether and salvation.
She had breathed life into him again and again, saving him so many times over.
And yet he had been unable to save her in the truest hour of need; unable to
tether her back to Earth. To him.
Mance shook his head, the grief pulling him under yet again. Oh, how the gods
loved to play their little ironies. He had wanted to join her, to wherever her
soul ascended. To never be parted from her again. He had prayed for it
fervently. Yet, the gods in their unrelenting cruelty ceased to honor his
entreaty.
He did not understand it then, the unfairness and cruelty. Yet now, looking at
his son, his and Lyanna's creation, Mance was grateful for this second chance
at redemption and atonement. Lyanna had once more breathed life back into him
and had given him purpose. Jon Snow was his purpose. Lyanna's boy.
And Mance could see the phantom of Lyanna in his son now. The once extinguished
flame now but a spark and flicker. Faint and dim but there, present. Aye, he
was truly grateful.
Yet, looking at Jon now, he could see Lyanna's stubbornness shining clear
through. The firm tightness of his lip, his unwavering gaze. His wolf-son was
unapologetic. He was always irrational, that Jon Snow. Lyanna oft japed that he
had inherited that trait from him. Always quick to act, yet slow to speak.
Mance had oft feared that his son's temerity would come at a price. Now, he was
almost all but certain. Gods, but what had he done?
 "I am not sorry for taking her. I will never be sorry for that."
Mance knew when Jon was lying. For nine and ten years, he had ample practice in
deciphering lies and deception. There was no duplicity in him now. Only raw,
blistering truth.
A moment passed. Then two. The silence interminable.
  "The girl is beautiful, I will give  you that. Far more beautiful than any I
have seen. But she is a Kneeler. Worse, a Stark. How long do you think it will
be before her people come for her? You know they will."
Jon Snow swallowed tightly then. He was angry now. An all too familiar trait.
It seemed as though he stayed angry. His growling, snarling wolf-son. A man
full grown, but still very much a boy in many ways.
  "No Southrone Kneeler has breached the Wall in over a thousand years. She is
mi--ours. She is ours."
The slip was slight, unnoticeable almost, but Mance caught it instantly.  She
is mine... Gods be damned but his son was in love. Not the innocent flirtation
and dalliances that he had experienced with Rowena and Bridget all those
summers past, or that silly, near-obsession he had shared with Ygritte. No,
this was different, substantial. If pressed further, Jon would deny it, argue
that he wanted her only for her pretty face and warm body and naught else.
But Mance knew better. This possessiveness...this claiming...was the act of a
man in love. It was the same fire and consumption that he held (and still
possessed) for his Lyanna.
He realized then that he was fighting a losing battle, Mance was. He knew that
it was pointless and all for naught. There was no retreat for them now. Only
acquiescence and yielding.
Mance turned his back to his son then, effectively dismissing him. His mind was
in a quandary. In one hand, he was proud of Jon, for his unwavering stance. In
that moment, he was truly his son.
Yet, he also wanted to rant and rail at him and for his stupidity, for visiting
this danger to his people. Gods, what fools these mortals be for all in the
name of love! This was his son in truth, and therein lied the problem, the
danger. The gods were a cruel and fickle lot. What if Jon was not meant to keep
her? Then what?
How would he survive it?
Jon lingered for a moment, wanting to say more, but unable to. As he turned to
leave the hut, he was once again stopped by Mance's words.
  " A thousand years ago, a wildling king stole a Kneeler away from her home to
take to wife. Thousands of men died on both sides to reclaim her. Is she worth
it, this she-wolf?"
Jon weighed the answer carefully, meticulously. His answer was both steady and
unwavering, his winter-grey eyes resolute.
  "Yes."
Mance nodded, smiling briefly. "Good."
Jon left the tent, stunned. It was rare that Mance complemented him. Although
both father and son loved and respected each other tremendously, theirs was not
a relationship based on flowery sentiments and poetic words. It was not the
wildling way.
Mance watched his son walk away, a prowling wolf then. The transformation was
immediate and mesmerizing, for in his wake was no longer Lyanna's boy--
temperamental and pugnacious. No, there was no boy before him now. The boy was
dead, and in its place was a man full grown. A White Wolf.
Chapter End Notes
     Glad to see that "Daddy Mance" has given his stamp of approval. Now,
     what's next? Please read and review! I want to hear from you all!
***** Truth or Dare *****
Chapter Summary
     “You must be brave, sweet girl. Not only are you a Stark but you are
     a wolf-maiden. Wolves are brave. The tiger and lion may be more
     powerful, but the wolf will never be contained.”
     Robb was right, he always was. Brave, sweet Robb, her protector and
     savior, who knew no fear or intimidation.
     For you, Robb. Sansa averred. I will be brave for you. Always.
Chapter Notes
     "Let's play Truth or Dare, or maybe dare, because nobody knows how to
     tell the truth anymore." Here, Sansa finally realizes who the grey-
     eyed wildling is and a battle of wills ensue and neither Jon or Sansa
     know how to stop it or give in. Question is, do they even want to?
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                        Chapter_Fourteen: Truth or Dare
The grey-eyed wildling was Jon Snow. Mance Rayder's Wolf. The realization
caused Sansa to quake, a sharp current running through her extremities. She
felt as though she had been run through to the hilt, all breath escaping her.
No...it could not be. Could not be possible. And yet, it was. The stark reality
screaming right back at her, as if daring her to refute it. Taunting her, even.
She was incensed, worse yet, humiliated. She loathed this feeling-of being
deceived. Of having the wool pulled over her eyes. Wolves were supposed to be
perceptive, keen. Yet, at that very moment, Sansa felt no more wolf than a
balding sheep.
Stupid...you stupid, stupid girl!
The reprimand stung, bitter and astringent like wormwood. She had always been
discerning, possessing an unnatural ability to see what was around her, even
what was hidden. To accumulate and fit the pieces together akin to a puzzle. It
was both a gift and an affliction. Hers alone to bear.
Sometimes, she wished she could be that clear-eyed, unassuming girl in the
songs she had favored so much as a young girl. When magic was real and the
world was sparks of color and its people were good, decent, and virtuous. Her
Lady Mother once told her that husbands wanted wives who were sweet and
innocuous.
"A good and dutiful wife is to never question her Lord Husband. She is under
his protection, his guidance. Wherever he leads, she follows unfailingly..."
She and Arya scoffed at that notion, for they knew better. Had seen too much.
Such blatant transparency would get you killed in this world full of ugliness
and apathy. They were daughters of the North, both of them, and even they were
not afforded the luxury of pretense.
She should have known better, paid more attention to who he was; how others
responded to him. They revered him, it was worshipful, almost. She had known
that the grey-eyed wildling (Jon. His name was Jon. Jon Snow.) was some sort of
leader for the wildling clans had many within their own faction. Yet, she had
not realized that the man she had interacted with was the Prince of the
Wildlings.
Another jolt of trepidation and fear ran through her anew, and Sansa could not
quell the unwanted tremor. She had heard of him, of the cunning and elusive
White Wolf. Old Nan refused to speak of him, but the servants' tongues ran
free. She had heard the stories, of his indomitable spirit and incomparable
prowess that haunted the North.
Worse still, was the worry and vexation he caused her Lord Father. Ned Stark
was a renowned military man and soldier. Songs had travelled far and wide
across the realms celebrating his enumerable victories. He hated it, fervently
asserted that the acclaim was for another man-for another time.
Despite the protests, Sansa knew her father's reputation. He was a killer, her
gentle and noble father. They all were-Father, Uncle Benjen, and Robb. Soon,
sweet Bran and little Rickon would become inaugurated into the fold.
And yet, despite it all, they all came up short and were left wanting compared
to Jon Snow. Unable to finally muzzle and tether the raging and snarling wild
Wolf of the North. Multiple times they had tried, Lord Father and his banner
men. And each time, they had fallen short. He had slipped through even their
best laid snares. Like a phantom, a mist.
Oh gods...
He had a warrior's hut, an assortment of swords, knives, and arrows. It was
both beautiful and primitive. Just like him.
She as a lamb to his wolf-his prey. Sitting here, in his large, strange hut
that smelled of musk and pine, she was as good as dead. And that was exactly
what would happen if she did not fight, if she simply succumbed and acquiesced
to the wind and tide. She could see herself being pulled under. Perhaps, mayhap
her death would not be so literal, so absolute.
But even she knew that there were other ways to die, none any less agonizing.
She knew of the wildling practice of wife stealing. To take a woman that met a
Wildling man's fancy and simply...vanish into obscurity beyond the Wall. A
thousand years ago, the Wildling king, Bael the Bard, stole a noblewoman from
her home to take to wife. Legend said it was Brandon Stark's virgin daughter,
Allyria. Another stolen wolf-maiden.
Allyria the Fair, they called her, with her crimson hair and twilight eyes. A
distant relative and kin to her blood. Sansa's breath stilled and her blood ran
cold and congealed. The parallels were unmistakable, only a fool would dismiss
what was so glaringly evident.
Whenever Lady Catelyn became annoyed with her daughter's perception and
intrinsic inquisitiveness, Sansa would find an ally in her Aunt Lyssa, who
would oft encourage her niece's natural intuition.
"Pay attention to everything, Sweetling. Everything you are now seeing has
already happened before."
He had meant to keep her, to continue a practice as barbaric as it was savage.
To condemn her to a fate worse than death. A fate he assumed she would readily
accept.
"No." The answer tore through the silence like a loosed arrow. A No.She would
not accept this. She would not become another Allyria or countless others,
tragic victims who merely accepted their fate and subsequently warranted the
deaths of thousands of innocents.
She was neither helpless or passive. She was a wolf and wolves fought back.
When news of hers and Ramsay's engagement was first announced, Robb had been
one of the first to comfort her, to offer some small, minute glimmer of hope.
"You must be brave, sweet girl. Not only are you a Stark but you are a wolf-
maiden. Wolves are brave. The tiger and lion may be more powerful, but the wolf
will never be contained."
Robb was right, he always was. Brave, sweet Robb, her protector and savior, who
knew no fear or intimidation.
For you, Robb. Sansa averred. I will be brave for you. Always.
Set to new purpose, Sansa began to look around the hut with renewed interest.
She was in search of...what, exactly? What did this Wolf have that would be of
use to her?
Almost immediately, her eyes landed on a sword. It was a fine piece, too
immaculate for a wildling: an ornate, white wolf-head pommel with garnet
encrusted eyes. It was beautiful...and... Valyrian.It was rare to see Valyrian
steel so far North; such luxury had thought to have gone extinct as with the
demise of that ancient and accursed city. She could quite literally count on
one hand how many Valyrian steel blades she had seen in her lifetime, excluding
her Lord Father's.
Sansa extended her hand to touch it, surprised at its weightlessness. She had
seen swords before, naturally. Ice, the ancient sword of Lord Father and the
emblem of her House, with its long and heavy blade and polished shoulder; to
Needle, Arya's gift, with its thin blade and crude carvings. Sansa knew swords
like she knew the back of her hand-she had practiced with them, knew the way
they fit, their shape; their make.
Yet despite her acclimation and expertise, she had never seen a sword such as
this. It was...perfect.
Had she had not been so engrossed in the wildling's sword, she would have
sensed him, sensed his nearness and presence. She had ample time to practice
since her abduction. Despite his stealth and stillness, a veritable phantom
through the woods, it was his scent that gave him away. Every. Single. Time.
Pine and musk with a hint of bergamot
Suddenly, the hut was now engulfed with him. He was here. With her. And she had
no course of escape.
Sansa swallowed tightly, her mouth suddenly ashen and dry. Quickly gathering
her skirts, she stood to her feet, facing him. Whatever was to happen now-
whether she was to forfeit her life or face some unimagined assault-she wanted
to face it directly. She was no craven and refused to die a coward's death
begging and pleading for mercy. It was the very least she could do. Besides,
when had the gods ever shown her an ounce of mercy in her lifetime?
I will be brave...
Yet, when facing him, the White Wolf of the North, she saw no malice or anger.
No hostility or cruelty. Nothing save reserved curiosity.
He stood aloft, near the closed entrance of the hut. His arms were folded and
his storm-grey eyes watched her with calm fascination. She felt no fear from
him, despite his nearness and watchful vigilance. If he wanted to have harmed
her, he would have done so. Gods knew he had ample opportunity.
Sansa raised the sword then, pointing it at him. Testing both him and his
resolve.
Stupid...you stupid, stupid girl!
"You won't harm me," she whispered, dismayed and inwardly cursing the
ineffectiveness of her voice.
I will be brave...
Jon took a step towards her. Then two. Stopping until he was standing directly
in front of her, the sword the only barrier between them. He lifted a hand,
slow and deliberate, as if not to startle her; as if to not break whatever this
was that was happening between them now.
I will be brave...
The hand lowered and softly cupped her cheek. The contrast was startling-his
hard callouses against the velvety smoothness. Sansa continued to stare at him,
caerulean to storm-grey.
What is it that you do?
"No, Little Wolf, I won't."
Chapter End Notes
     Fast Fact: I am typing this literally as a hurricane (tropical storm,
     whatever you want to call it) pummels my window and dumps ten inches
     of rain on my street!
***** The Red Wolf *****
Chapter Summary
     His people often bespoke of the legend of the phantom Red Wolf.
     Whispered in hushed, excited tones, they told of how it haunted the
     moors and forests beyond the Wall. A guardian and protector for the
     wandering and lost. To see it, would be lucky; to capture it , would
     be unheard of. Its owner elevated to that of a god.
Chapter Notes
     Hurricane Harvey hit and it looks like my school district will be out
     until after the Labor Day holiday. So, instead of ruminating on the
     madness and chaos that is happening in my hometown, I choose to
     write.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Chapter Fifteen:The Red Wolf
It was not often that Jon dreamed. At night, alone in the quiet solitude of his
hut, his sleep was dreamless and fitful, often disrupted in torn intervals. His
father, bereft and mourning the passing of his beloved Lyanna, warned against
the perils of dreaming, claimed that it was pointless and wasteful. That
dreams-even the most ludicrous and fanciful-led to naught save disillusion and
disappointment.
"It is not ours to dream, to escape. All dreams lead to pain. The one constant
this fucking world will never exhaust of."
When Jon was younger, his was full of warrior dreams-of death and glory. A
wildling was not a wildling lest he saturated his blade with the blood of his
enemies. And Jon's sword ran wet with the crimson liquid, a testament to his
training and apathy. At night, on the eve of raids or significant battles,
while the rest of the village would drink, often to excess, or pair off
somewhere for one last dalliance, Jon would abstain.
While the rest of the wildlings fucked and drank, apathetic to the oncoming
dawn and the uncertainty it would bring, Jon remained a sentinel; watchful,
clear-eyed and sober. If he were to fall, to meet the Stranger on some unknown
field, he wanted to be lucid. When he reached his sixth and tenth nameday, the
day he finally became a man, Jon met the Thenn leader, Styr, at open combat.
More giant than man-comprised of muscle, sinew, and meat-the colossus looked
upon Jon as if her were a nuisance, a fly to be squashed beneath his booted
feet. The fight had been fast and intense. Tormund, restless and pacing by the
sidelines, gripped the handle of his battle axe tightly, a swarm of curses
falling from his lips. Mance had been there, too. Thin-lipped, pale and
solicitous, watching with his solemn, coal-black eyes as his Wolf faced the
Giant.
This was not just any battle-for territory, acclaim, and weapons. No, it was
more than that, transcended far beyond man's pride and vanity. This was for
survival and existence. Everything before that was secondary and
inconsequential.
This battle was between the most skilled fighters, the victor would decide all-
whether the defeated clan would continue to exist or become extinguished, a
literal feast for the crows. They were nearly evenly matched, despite the vast
size difference, the Thenn and the Wolf. Jon was swift, using his alacrity to
his advantage. Yet, all it took to enervate him was a handful of dirt to the
face, coupled with a hard blow to the jaw. And just like that, he was down,
disconcerted and bewildered.
His jaw throbbed and smartened, making him see stars. Tormund had been crazed,
a paroxysm of curses and shouts, willing his friend out of entropy. Mance
closed his eyes tightly, unwilling to witness his son's imminent decapitation.
All the while, Jon heard none of it.
Lying there, prone and immobile, Jon slowly watched the Thenn's large axe
lower. Much to his dismay, part of him wished for the release, to be far
removed from his current existence . All he had to do was lie still for another
moment and it would all be over. Soon, now. But just another moment...
...Yet, in that final second, Jon felt his sword raise up-either out of its own
volition or fear, he did not know-and pierce the goliath through the throat;
his sword, wet and crimson, glinting through the other side. It was in that
glorious instant that Jon Snow became legend. The White Wolf immortalized.
Later that night, after downing a cup of spiced ale, Jon did dream, the first
time in years. Yet this time, his dreams were not frantic, fraught with death,
uncertainty, and battle. It was instead of a forest, silent and tranquil. He
had been walking an isolated path alone, for Ghost had run ahead, abandoning
him.
Entering a small clearing, Jon abruptly stopped. There, just ahead, standing in
front of a vivid weirwood tree, was a wolf. It was beautiful, almost ethereal
in its appearance. Silver, yet with a russet undercoat and tail. A red wolf.
Although larger than any other wolf seen, it was smaller than Ghost, and a
female judging by its form and litheness.
As Jon approached, carefully with one arm extended, the wolf raised its head,
slowly assessing him as if determining whether he was friend or foe. Jon
stopped then, unable to breathe for all air had been constricted from him. His
people often bespoke of the legend of the phantom Red Wolf. Whispered in
hushed, excited tones, they told of how it haunted the moors and forests beyond
the Wall. A guardian and protector for the wandering and lost. To see it, would
be lucky; to capture it , would be unheard of. Its owner elevated to that of a
god.
Jon was but a mere foot from it now, almost touching. Then, before he could
blink, the specter wolf disappeared, vanishing among the scarlet weirwood
leaves. Jon raged, angry and hysterical that he would never see it again. That
all magic had been forever vanquished from the world.
Until now. Until Sansa.
He wanted to kiss her. It was all he had wanted to do since the abduction.
Since he had first glimpsed upon her all those moons past. He tried to quell
it, to quiet this raging inferno that erupted and consumed him to the brink of
insanity.
Aye, he tried in earnest to stave off this desire and wanting. He would lie,
pretend that she was ugly; that she was a glacial ice princess, too cold, too
frigid, and too distant to be reached. And yet, despite his fervent attempts,
Jon felt like a man drowned insane. He had promised himself-promised her-that
he would not dishonor her. That if she were to have him, the choice would lay
solely with her.
But seeing her like this now, a growling, entrapped wolf, it was all he could
do not to damn them both to the deepest pit of the seven hells. We are all
liars here...
"Killing is a hard thing to do well. Are you sure you're up to the task?"
She still had the sword pointed at him, just at his heart. Gods help him, but
he would willingly run himself through to the hilt if it meant he could have
but a taste of her. To drink endlessly from her mouth as if she were honeyed
mead. Only but a taste to sate the yearning that ran riot through his
extremities.
Yet, he dared not; dared not heed the siren's song. Jon wanted her, aye, he
burned for her. But he was not a stupid man. She was angry, and at that moment,
she could very well kill him. Gods knew she had every right to.
Do it. Put me out of my misery. Save us both from this feverish madness. Save
me.
Sansa remained resolute, impassive. Her eyes turned glacial and apathetic. An
ice princess once more.
"What makes you think that I couldn't? I could kill you where you stand and not
shed a single tear."
Jon did not doubt it. She looked positively feral. But he still wanted her,
despite it all. He wanted all of her-now and forever. Gods, but what was
wrongwith him?
Ignoring every bell that ran riot in his head, Jon took another step forward,
goading her. Testing her now. He was playing a dangerous game here, as they
both were. It was a deadly dance of wills that none seemed able to yield to.
There could be no victor, and yet neither wanted to raise that white flag of
surrender.
What will you do now, Little Wolf?
Against his better judgement, Jon stepped nearer still. Until his lips were but
a breath away from hers. He knew he should not, that he was risking his honor,
but at that moment, he could not allow himself to care. Gods, but she was
beautiful.
So
Very
Beautiful.
Lowering his head but just a fraction of the way, he kissed her, drinking
deeply from her mouth like a man starved. He could apologize, promise that it
would never happen again, that he would stay far away, but it would be a lie.
He would not be able to stay away even if he wanted to. He was in too deep.
He moaned, deepening the kiss, his hands frantic and searching. She tasted like
candied plums and honeyed dreams. Of purple twilight and golden dawn. Of magic
and the spectacular. And Jon was drowning, finally acquiescing to the wind and
tide, and yet, he wanted no salvation or respite. She was here. He was here.
And the world was theirs for the claiming.
Jon was hysterical, lost in a foggy haze of bliss. All but forgetting
reality...
...Until a sharp, searing pain caused him to free fall back to Earth.
Gasping, Jon looked down at his tunic, his eyes widening at the sight of blood
quickly coalescing just at his shoulder blade.
Chapter End Notes
     Seriously? Did you *REALLY* think that Sansa was just going to fall
     into his arms and forget everything? And yes, Jon...you are a stupid
     man! Lol...
     Please read and review. I promise I will step my game back up with
     this fic. Right now, I feel a little off-kilter.
***** Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken *****
Chapter Summary
     "I should not have done that," he rasped, hands raised in
     appeasement, extended. It was an honorable gesture, Sansa assumed,
     but a false one. His grey eyes were placid, soft and convinced, a
     contrast between desire and restraint. "Forgive me."
     Forgive me. Forgive me. How often, Sansa wondered, fleetingly, had
     men begged for absolution? To be forgiven of transgressions that they
     alone were culpable? The entreaty sounded akin to a curse, loud and
     cacophonous, suspended into the air of nothingness.
Chapter Notes
     A game of cat and mouse ensues. Here, we get the pov's of BOTH Jon
     and Sansa...also a little bit of Ygritte! Happy Labor Day, everyone,
     for those who participate.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Chapter Sixteen: Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken
The wound was shallow, a flesh wound, truly. Not hard enough to hurt, but deep
enough to penetrate the skin, the blood running scarlet. Sansa stared,
transfixed. She had stabbed him. Oh gods, she had stabbed him, causing him
injury.
Good. The thought came suddenly, unbidden and dangerous. Good. Let him bleed!
Let him bleed! Let rivers of blood seep and percolate until he hemorrhaged,
until there was nothing left save meat and bone.
And even then,that dark and sinister voice whispered, it would not be enough,
not even a tenth of the suffering he had visited on her.This man stalked her,
kidnapped her, tore her home asunder and sent her off-kilter, oscillating. And
yet none of the aforementioned horrors equated to the tumult of emotions he was
now forcing her to feel. It did not matter what he did to her now, if he killed
her and left her corpse to rot, suspended over the Wall, she could never
forgive him turning her emotions against her, for manipulating her feelings
until they were twisted, malformed and corrupted...wrong.
She had wanted him, wanted him with every fiber of her being until there was
nothing left. She had been fighting this, this dark temptation. Since that
night he had bared his soul to her, raw, cracked, and splintered, she felt
something within her snap. May the gods damn him to the deepest pit of the
seven hells for this, this coming undone and unraveling.
There it was again, this unbridled rage. Sansa felt it crackle and surge within
her, blistering and white-hot. She felt drugged, lethargic. Damn you damn you
damn you!
Jon looked up at her, wild-eyed and staring, as if at any moment, she would
grow fangs and a tail, like some sort of demon. It would not be at all
unfathomable, he supposed. Here, within the tight enclosure of the hut, she
looked the every essence of a spear wife. She had the look: wide, feral eyes,
untethered rage, the rising and falling of her chest.
She was a merging of beautiful and terrifying. And Jon had not wanted anything
more. He took in a shuddering breath, the wound now a dull ache, a wolf bite.
The She Wolf's warning.
"I should not have done that," he rasped, hands raised in appeasement,
extended. It was an honorable gesture, Sansa assumed, but a false one. His grey
eyes were placid, soft and convinced, a contrast between desire and restraint.
"Forgive me."
Forgive me. Forgive me.How often, Sansa wondered, fleetingly, had men begged
for absolution? To be forgiven of transgressions that they alone were culpable?
The entreaty sounded akin to a curse, loud and cacophonous, suspended into the
air of nothingness.
Forgive me...Forgive me...¦
Never! she wanted to rail out, to scream for the top of her lungs until it
echoed, reverberating throughout the realm. Never! Never!  Never!
Never will I forgive you for ripping me from my home. Never will I forgive you
for tearing my family apart. Worse yet, never will I forgive you for this chaos
and madness that you alone have inflicted upon me. For making me want you as I
have not wanted any man.
"You will never do that again, do you understand?" The words were succinct,
final and cold. Had she not have spoken them, fallen from someone else's mouth,
Sansa would have shivered. They were like poison falling from her lips, lips
still warmed and heated from his taste.
She had needed this, this self-preservation and assiduity. If not, then she
cold easily see herself careening, free-falling into him with nothing to tether
her or pull her back. He had drugged her again, she was sure of it.
Bastard.
Jon swallowed tightly then. His once placid grey eyes an emerging tempest. Had
it been anyone else, he would have laughed, relishing the prospect of a
challenge. Alas, it was not anyone else. It was the wolf maid, the embodiment
of glimmering hope and bright-eyed wanting. All that he both loved and feared
facing him now. What's more, he had promised.
What is honor compared to a woman's love?
" I do not know much of honor, She Wolf, but I will not kiss you again until
you have asked me to." Jon meant it, too, for he was tired. Exhausted from this
constant yielding to her, this succumbing. She was a masterful tactician, he
mused. Her only misfortune being of the wrong sex. She had a warrior's resolve,
and had she been born a man, she would have been invincible.
She had already stolen the one thing he had sworn he would never part with, and
had done it effortlessly. Gods, but how had she done it, burrowed so deeply
within him that she became like an extension? There must be some witch in you,
She Wolf. You have bewitched me completely.
Sansa lowered the sword then, her eyes glacial and snooty. "And that, I never
will."
Jon eyed her silently, for there was nothing left to say. At nine and ten, Jon
was already a warrior, his skills matching that of the Lion of Lannister, Lord
Commander of the Kingsguard. He knew strategy, he knew battles, he knew
warfare. More importantly, he knew how to read people, how to decipher between
truth and lies, as did Mance.
Yet, watching Sansa now, taking her in, he was in a quagmire. Careening down a
high slope and unable to gain traction. He could not read her, could not tether
understanding to her, and it left him both frustrated and intrigued,
simultaneously.
Jon felt angry then, helpless. He wanted to shake her, dismayed that already he
never tired of touching her. He knew it was wrong, but he wanted Sansa to
react, to convey some emotion to his kiss. To want him as much as he wanted
her.
Oh, but gods you are a hateful woman!
Sansa dropped the sword and took a step back, chin lifted, giving nothing away.
Only her eyes seemed to speak, a strange yet fascinating mix of sapphire blue
and indigo dusk. They were bluer than paradise, those eyes. And they were
focused on Jon-his lips-searching.
Jon's heart jumped from his chest, exalted. She had wanted him back, he was
sure of it! He made a hasty retreat, before he  allowed himself another
mistake. Perhaps it would do well if she stayed somewhere else, in Muirgayn's
hut, maybe. That way, she would be protected and the temptation quelled. Out of
sight, out of mind. For now, at least.
Besides, Muirgayn was Tormund's woman, she was tough and stalwart. More than
that, she was loyal, never asking or questioning. She would be a much needed
friend ally to Sansa, all things considering.
As Jon left, he was unaware of a set of eyes following him, resting on the
large hut where the She Wolf remained. They were the eyes of the betrayed and
damned, hostile and angry, calculating. A plan suddenly taking form. It
mattered not if the White Wolf was in love with Kneeler Bitch, Ygritte decided.
Let him have his sport.
She would be gone by way of Rowena and Bridget. She would be exterminated, her
pretty face smashed into shreds of pulp and nothingness. Yes, Ygritte mused.
She would have great fun in skinning the Red Wolf. And only then, would Jon
return to her, repentant and contrite.
And Ygritte will be ready, arms extended, heart opened, welcoming him. She
would finally bait and trap her rogue wolf.
Chapter End Notes
     So...Sansa's is conflicted, trapped between the two powerful emotions
     that are love and hate. Jon is fearful of the enormity of his
     feelings. And Crazy Ygritte is on a mission to reclaim her lost love.
     You guys didn't believe me, but I told you! Nobody writes crazy
     better than I!
***** Whispered Prayers *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa was not so helpless as to only rely on the temporary. Beauty
     was good, yes, but intelligence was better. She knew how to
     disassemble, to scheme. Lysa taught her well. She knew how to play
     the game almost better than any man. Yet this...this was different.
     Jon Snow was different.
     Could she do it? Could she seduce this untamed Wolf and make him
     hers, manipulate him just enough, bestow just enough affection that
     he would be hers to command? It is cruel to play games, that
     temperate, quiet voice asserted. It was her mother's voice, reminding
     her of a lady's courtesies and what was proper and expectant.
Chapter Notes
     Sansa begins to scheme...
     I truly apologize for the hiatus! School's back in session after
     Harvey and we are all trying to adapt to what is now the New Normal.
     Again, my apologies.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Sansa noticed the scarlet weirwood immediately upon her arrival to the Wildling
camp. It was not a difficult task, truly. The rufescent leaves a glaring
contrast against the brilliant cyan sky. It was summer, had been for the past
five years, and yet a hint-a small, minute trace-of winter surrounded them all
with its iridescent leaves and solemn face of an unknown, omniscient winter
god.
It was a blessing, that proud and beautiful tree. Providing temporary comfort
and respite from all the unravelling and undoing that had so suddenly been
visited upon her. It reminded Sansa of home, of Winterfell. More than that,
much more than that, it reminded her of Father.
When Sansa had been but a young girl during those rare and far-between days the
summer sun visited the North, its golden rays magic against the cold winter
snow, she would hide within the godswood, secretly watching her Lord Father.
Seated and tucked behind an alcove of scarlet leaves, Ned Stark would be at
repose, sharpening his great sword. It was here, Sansa observed, secreted and
hidden away behind the sanctuary of the crimson foliage, that Lord Father found
reprieve, a guest among the pantheon of the ancient forest gods.
Gone was his furrowed brow, laden with travail and grim severity-the Northman's
ipseities-and in its place, a man of middle years, handsome still, despite no
longer in his first youth. Here, alone within the secret company of the Old
Gods of the forests, Father was free, a mortal man comprised of meat, sinew and
bone. Untethered and unburdened by nonsensical politics and the endless
pressures of the realm. Unconcerned by the Bolton's and the ongoing civil war
that threatened to splinter and tear The North asunder.
Here, he was but a man, a lone wolf at rest. And Sansa loved him best like
this. A living, tangible deity among ugliness and sin. The taste of salt met
her lips, tangy yet sweet, simultaneously. The tears began to fall faster, and
this time, Sansa did not will them away, only allowing the mask to fall and the
fissures and cracks to show, opened and raw. There was nothing left of her now,
only a festering, gaping hole that once held her heart. She had not cried since
her foiled escape a sennight past. She had been angry at herself then, for
showing weakness to the enemy.
But now...
Now...
Alone within this strange hut, with its weapons and with her treacherous and
tumultuous thoughts, Sansa allowed her heart to break. 'Oh Father...will I ever
see you again? Do you think me a ghost now, haunting the crypts and silent
tombs of Winterfell?'
She heard footsteps outside the hut. Her heart stopped. He had come back, she
was sure of it. Soon, he would enter through those animal skinned flaps and
seek his vengeance-whatever that may be. Sansa knew he wanted her, only a fool
would be so blind to see what was so glaringly obvious. The rising and falling
of his chest, as though he were a man parched and she, the last bag of water
skins. The darkening of his eyes, feral and predatory; the fusing of his mouth
as he claimed hers aching, hot and searching.
Aye, he wanted her. The deadly and formidable White Wolf wanted her. And for
that, Sansa did not know what to do with that bit of information or how to
feel.
Perhaps,that deep and sinister voice answered, you could exploit this. Tame
this rabid wolf and make him yours. The difficult part is half done, the boy is
already half mad with lust.
Sans knew she was beautiful, a fact that caused her Lord Father and elder
brother much grief and concern. Although she tried not to dwell on it, she was
not blind to the many passing glances gifted to her by the male servants of
Winterfell, old and young alike. Twice now her brother Robb had to break
Theon's nose for his bold, staring eyes and roving hands, too intimate and far
too friendly at dances.
Sansa knew lust, judging by the hot glances and lingering stares Ramsay had
given her upon their initial meeting after their engagement had been
precogitated. She had been four and ten and he, five years older, and even
then, she wanted to die, to vault herself from the highest ramparts and careen
to the cobbled streets below. Mayhap then, she would be free.
'You will be a great beauty, Sweetling.'Closing her eyes now, Sansa could hear
her Lady Mother's endearments. 'All flowers bloom when they are planted, but
yours will be the most beautiful of all.'
Sansa was not so helpless as to only rely on the temporary. Beauty was good,
yes, but intelligence was better. She knew how to disassemble, to scheme. Lysa
taught her well. She knew how to play the game almost better than any man. Yet
this...this was different. Jon Snow was different.
Could she do it? Could she seduce this untamed Wolf and make him hers,
manipulate him just enough, bestow just enough affection that he would be hers
to command? It is cruel to play games,that temperate, quiet voice asserted. It
was her mother's voice, reminding her of a lady's courtesies and what was
proper and expectant.
Well Mother, you have not been kidnapped by a Wildling savage and spirited
thousands of leagues from home,Sansa countered. She was angry now, indignant.
Women were always expected to remain courteous and kind, while men could
readily bend the rules to befit their desires and needs.
'All men are the same, Sweetling.' Aunt Lysa affirmed. It had been the night
Sansa had received her moon's blood for the first time. Scared and embarrassed,
Lysa attempted to mollify her niece by braiding her hair. The scarlet curtain a
cascade of fire and curls. She was a sweet sight, Lysa's niece. Sitting here,
Lysa wished that she were her daughter instead of Catelyn's. Such a pity.
'They all want to be touched, to be loved. It does not matter if he's a lowly
stable boy or Aegon the Conqueror.'
Embarrassment subsiding, Sansa sat in rapt attention to her aunt's teachings.
She had heard the whispers her Lady Mother spewed about her youngest sister. A
whore, that's what she had called her when she thought she was alone within the
solitude of her chambers with only her lord husband for company. A Black Widow.
A wild, unrestrained entity with too much liberty and power left alone to rule
The Vale. She was a thing to be pitied, to be reviled, and yet all Sansa felt
was admiration.
'How do I get a man to fall in love with me?" Sansa heard herself asking,
suddenly emboldened. At three and ten, before Ramsay Bolton and other monsters
of his ilk, she had dreams of golden, fair-haired knights and chivalrous lords.
Of beautiful Jonquil and her Florian. True love was oft a phantasm among
arranged marriages. The best a lord and lady could hope for was that a
friendship and camaraderie would be established. What her Lord Father and Lady
Mother shared was a rare thing, a diamond amongst endless fields of charcoal
and anthracite. Sansa was not so foolish and naïve to expect the same good
fortune, but here, within Aunt Lysa's halls, she could dream.
Lysa stopped her braid, an intricate and beautiful design, and smiled
knowingly. Her cornflower blue eyes glistening mischievously. 'Seduction is in
itself an art. To make a man love you, you must make him believe that despite
all you have given him, there is still more to conquer. All men thrill at the
chase, the mystery. Offer him but just a taste, and he will want more, never
sated.'
Enoldened now, Sansa began to plan, to assimilate. She would do it. She would
get this Wolf Prince to love her, endear herself to his people and when the
time was right, she would escape.
So you will become a whore, then? His whore?There it was again, that voice. Her
mother's voice, condemning her, damning her.
Mayhap it was wrong, this subterfuge and deception. Mayhap it was ill work to
manipulate and exploit one's affections, but yet what choice did she have? Once
the Wildling took her from her home, he left her with no other alternatives.
She owed him nothing. She would give him nothing.
"I am sorry, Mother." Sansa whispered into the still night air. "I am sorry
that I am no longer the daughter you raised. I am sorry, Father. I am sorry
that I have failed you. Forgive me, please, for what I must do."
Wolves cannot survive on their own, her Lord Father once told her, many moon's
turns ago. They need the pack to survive.
The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
"I will survive, Father," Sansa affirmed. "I will do whatever I must to
survive."
And she would. She must.
Chapter End Notes
     Let the games begin!
***** Between Dreams and Clarity *****
Chapter Summary
     He wanted to forget, Jon wanted to forget all of it—Magda, her
     damnable prophesy, the history—and yet no matter how hard he tried to
     repress it, there it was again: bright , iridescent, and gleaming.
     Aye, he was going mad, she was causing it, this unravelling and
     lunacy. Sansa Stark was to blame. For all of it.
Chapter Notes
     Brooding Jon...I apologize if this chapter is all over the place. In
     this chapter, Jon is all over the place--between blaming Sansa for
     his lust, ruminating over his fate, his jealousies, and harboring
     secret dreams of a family.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                 Chapter_Eighteen: Between Dreams and Clarity
 
    He was trembling. Of rage or lust, he was not certain. What did it matter,
truly? Were they not one in the same emotion? Positioned and situated on the
same side of the spectrum?
He took the coward's way, turning and fleeing. A Wildling faced his enemy,
never retreated or disengaged. Yet, here he was, the fearsome and odious Jon
Snow, shrinking back, hiding and regrouping. And all for what? A woman. A
Kneeler.
She's not just any woman, is she? That malevolent and pernicious voice would
whisper. Jon sighed, closing his eyes tightly, trying to stymie the unwanted
intrusion. He hated that voice, that dark and attritive whisper. It haunted
him, like a second shadow. One that he could never shake off.
    He wanted to laugh at the absurdity. Had it been any other, Jon would have
laughed. Yet, it was not another. It was him—the jape was on him, and it roared
in its hilarity, taunting him ruthlessly with its merriment.
Jon pressed his lips tightly together; her taste still lingering. She was so
sweet, so very sweet. Jon doubted that even the finest Arbor Gold wine, the few
flagons pilfered so far North, would taste as fine as she.
   What is it you are doing to me, Little Wolf? What in the Seven Hells are you
doing to me?
  Perhaps he was going mad, finally succumbing to this lunacy that overtook Old
Magda. Jon chuckled darkly. He knew he was going to die, had long ago accepted
his fate. In an existence as harsh and unforgiving as his, death was the only
inevitable outcome. He often thought on it, ruminating on the various possible
outcomes and circumstances. It was only fair, he supposed.
   As a harbinger for death who had silenced so many—the guilty and innocent
alike—it was only right for the scales to be balanced and measured. With death
comes life. Jon had always envisioned that he would die on the battlefield,
like his grandsire, Isaar The Terrible. He was a legend among the Free-Folk, a
war-god nearly invincible in battle, a queer and strange catalepsy overtaking
him each and every time.
   The Southrone lords feared him—rightfully so—for he was a man of unspeakable
barbarity and terror, his pathological cruelty even shocking his own people
into quiet submission and subservience. Of all the Wildling raids on The North
and the Seven Kingdoms, his was the closest to victory. Yet, it was a bolt to
the eye, gifted by Lord Rickard Stark, to forever silence Isaar's ambitions.
Reduced to nothing save another page and footnote in someone else's history
book.
  "She is your past, your present, and your future…"
   Jon could still hear her, Old Magda's voice, and the prophecy she had spoken
so very long ago. "She is your destiny, and if you are not careful, your
destruction as well…"
   Jon shook his head, swearing silently to the heavens. The witch was right,
even now, eons later, after countless raids, battles, and skirmishes, the witch
was right. Sansa Stark was part of him, their lives ensnared and forever
entangled and intertwined. Bael the Bard, a long -ago great wildling king, had
kidnapped Brandon Stark's daughter, Allyria The Fair, another fire-haired
beauty, according to travelling minstrels, and distant kin to the red-haired
Wolf Maid. Their child unknowingly killing his sire in open combat. Jon's
grandsire being felled by Sansa's...
   He wanted to forget, Jon wanted to forget all of it—Magda, her damnable
prophesy, the history—and yet no matter how hard he tried to repress it, there
it was again: bright , iridescent, and gleaming. Aye, he was going mad, she was
causing it, this unravelling and lunacy. Sansa Stark was to blame. For all of
it.
   Jon absently reached for his shoulder, gingerly fingering the wound—the wolf
bite—she had gifted him. The bleeding had ceased, thanks in part to the
poultice Muirgayne had made. The noxious smelling concoction staving off all
possible infection as well, only leaving a dry ache in its place.
  "Lucky, you are," Muirgayne's hazel eyes glinted merrily with barely
concealed humor as Jon recounted how he came about the wound. "An inch lower
and she would have pierced your heart."
Tormund howled with laughter, his face matching the crimson of his hair. "Never
would I have thought a Kneeler would have bested you, Snow! Looks like your
Lady-Wolf has fangs!"
   Jon glared at both of them, unamused. As much as he loved and admired
Tormund and was grateful to whichever gods or force that brought them to each
other, he was envious. Of him and Muirgayne. Of what they both shared with one
another.
  They had been together for years, five to be exact. Already, they were the
parents of two small daughters and another on the way, judging by the slight
roundness of Muirgayne's belly. The news came as a surprise for Tormund. After
multiple miscarriages and false pregnancies, he had been afraid to hope.
Unprepared for yet another heartache.
  "It will be a boy, this time," Muirgayne decreed. She had claimed that the
gods had visited her in a dream in the form of a bear cub, Tormund's totem.
Only men were allowed to pass on their father's tokens. Tormund sat in the
background, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. He oft learned to ignore her
portents, their two daughters a testament to her errors. He never voiced his
skepticisms, though. Gods alone knew the hell that would be paid if he ever
dared such disrespect outwardly. Muirgayne would have his balls for breakfast.
Although small in stature, she was a fearsome sight when angered, a truly
awesome sight at that.
   Jon was grateful to Muirgayne, she kept Tormund honest. Before, Tormund was
shiftless—directionless—like a ship without oars, tossed to and fro by every
tempest and gale. While Jon enjoyed his women, he was always careful, judicious
in his choosing of them. Tormund had no reservations. Any woman would do,
anywhere.
   Aye, Jon was grateful to the diminutive, yet fierce spear-wife for salvaging
his friend, preventing his imminent self-destruction. But he was also jealous,
his face burning with shame at the realization. It was easy for them to jape,
to laugh. Theirs was a relationship forged in camaraderie and trust. Looking at
them now, they looked like a single entity; where one ended, the other began.
    Jon turned away, angry. It was not right, this jealousy, raging with its
ferocity, but Jon felt its sharpness keenly. Felt the sting of its bite. Would
it be so terrible to dream? To want? To hope so fervently and ardently that he
physically ached?
    The night just before the abduction, Jon had a dream.
    He was in a strange room, a fire blazing in the nearby hearth. He was
dressed not as a wildling, but instead as a lord. Gone were the strange, heavy
furs and in its place, a finely woven tunic, embellished in a sumptuous
brocade, and jerkin. Although it was all strange, it was what Jon held in his
arms that caused his breath to leave him…
    It was a babe, rosy cheeked and cherubic. His hair was of ebony, his eyes
closed, framed by dark, sooted eyelashes. He was asleep in Jon's arms, a
peaceful repose. His breath milk-sweet and even. At that moment, Jon felt
something alien overtake him. His heart both breaking and full simultaneously.
It was foreign, this feeling, this unexpected fullness. So very alien. And yet,
Jon did not want to lose it.
A woman entered the room then. Her face obscured, but yet somehow—someway—Jon
knew her. She was speaking, her voice low and muted, causing Jon to smile and
gently kiss her forehead tenderly. The dream faded with the family smiling down
on the babe, slumbering on in his father's arms.
   It was such a sweet dream, a beautiful and welcomed one. When Jon awoke, he
was surprised to discover his eyes were wet with unshed tears. For the first
time in his life, Jon felt a sense of calm tranquility wash over him anew. It
was the same strange peacefulness that he felt whenever Sansa was near. He
never wanted to wake from her.
   The wound gave another throb, and Jon touched it gently, Muirgayne's words
coming back to him.
  "An inch lower and she would have pierced your heart..."
   Too late, Muirgayne. Jon chuckled darkly, the sound reverberating through
the stillness. She already has.
Chapter End Notes
     FAST FACT: Isaar The Terrible is a fictional character of my own
     creation. He is loosely based off the historical Viking, Ivar The
     Boneless, who, according to history, would actually go into
     cataleptic "trances" whenever he stepped foot on the battlefield. He
     was a man of unspeakable cruelty and employed psychological terror on
     his enemies. According to GGR Martin, the Wildlings are based on an
     amalgam of both the Scandinavian Vikings of the European Dark Ages
     and the indigenous people of North America and Canada. I hope I have
     done his character justice.
***** The Past is Written, the Ink is Dried *****
Chapter Summary
     Muirgayne started, eyes widened slightly in shock. “I think you have
     it the other way around, She-Wolf. The past is already written and
     the ink is dried. Your stories are aligned with one another’s. Jon
     chose you, aye, but the gods willed it. Jon only listened.”
Chapter Notes
     As Sansa schemes, she meets a new face and seeks answers...Can't get
     anymore vague than that! Also, I have taken some license and
     liberties with the original plot in order to suit the alternative
     universe of this narrative. In this world, I have replaced Lyanna
     Stark with a character of my own creation, Elaynna. In this story,
     Elaynna was betrothed to Robert Baratheon, a true love match, but on
     the eve of her wedding, she was kidnapped, raped and murdered by
     Rheagar Targaryen who had been spurned by Elaynna’s rejecting of him.
     The Lyanna of the original series and show cannon, in this narrative,
     was instead a Wildling woman and lover of Mance Rayder.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
 
Chapter Nineteen: The Past is Written, the Ink is Dried


“So you’re the Kneeler who tamed the White Wolf.”
It was not Jon Snow at the entrance of the tent. The realization gave Sansa
brief pause, a sigh of relief escaping her. She felt...what, exactly? Euphoric?
Elated? Disappointed?
No, she would not allow herself to dwell on the latter. She could not allow her
already treacherous and duplicitous mind to take her to that dark and abysmal
dwelling. If she lingered there for too long, she would then be forced to
confront and face some hard truths. Truths Sansa was neither brave enough or
willing to confront just yet, possibly never if she had her say.
In a world where truth and lies were often blurred and hardly discerned, what
the fuck was truth anyway? For the longest time, Sansa had been made to believe
that one should always tell the truth, that transparency was always a sign of
good faith. The Starks were renown for their honor and probity. Ned had claimed
that integrity was worth more than a chest of gold, land and titles combined.
Yet, it was that same fucking honor that had gotten both her Uncle Brandon and
her grandsire Rickard Stark killed in King’s Landing once upon a time, all
those many years ago. It was that same fucking honor that caused thousands of
Stark bannermen to rally South to the aid of their liege lord and die at the
hands of the Mad King and his wild fyre. It was honor (or lack thereof) that
caused her aunt, Elaynna, to be kidnapped and murdered on the eve of her
wedding day to Robert Baratheon, the unwilling and unwanted victim of a silver-
haired Dragon Prince’s lust and objectification.
Honor. Sansa sneered at the word. Honor was what got you raped. Or immolated at
the amusement of a crazed and untethered monarch. Or strangled to death within
the darkened, forgotten oubliettes of The Red Keep.  It was such a seemingly
innocuous word, truly, but an ill-omen to all who strived to live by it.
And Sansa had done being defined by it. She had done being dutiful, being sweet
and unassuming. She had done being Lord and Lady Stark’s prized daughter. She
had done with all of it. None of it would ever serve her here, in this
forgotten wasteland of tundra and ice.
Squaring her shoulders, Sansa turned around to face the stranger fully. She was
angry now, and it would be good to hit somebody. And let the consequences fall
where they may; she was already damned. Yet, the stranger facing her was
neither Jon Snow or that russet-haired Wildling who had slapped her earlier.
Sansa’s cheek throbbed at the memory. She was unconcerned, however. She would
pay the bitch back tenfold. She just had to bide her time and wait. Waiting was
all a part of the game and Sansa had an infinite amount of patience.
Instead, it was a petite, Wildling woman a few years older than she, with
waist-length, ebony hair. If Sansa’s memory served correctly, this was
Muirgayne, Tormund’s woman. She was attractive, Sansa conceded, her almond eyes
striking against the heart-shaped contours of her face. Although her skin was
of pale milk, it held but a  slight touch of warm honey, a curiosity
considering the infrequency of the summer sun.  However, it was not her
features that set Sansa aback, no, for she was no stranger to beautiful women.
It was instead the smile upon her countenance that caused her to stare.
It was warm and friendly, this stranger’s smile. Welcoming, almost, if not for
the slight hesitancy in her body language, as if she were waiting for Sansa to
grow fangs and attack. The only looks Sansa had received upon her arrival to
the Wildling camp were open, hostile stares and cold derision. Wildling or no,
such friendliness and reciprocity was a much-needed welcome in this viper’s
nest.
Sansa had always prided herself on being a good actress, at pretending. Such
pretense and conviction served her well since her betrothal and suffering
Ramsay’s presence. Yet, it was tedious work, this continuous charade. Sansa had
grown weary of wearing so many masks: the glacial and frigid ice queen, the
apathetic hostage, the scared and victimized daughter. Despite all of this,
these games she was forced to play, the subterfuge and deception, Sansa needed
 an ally, a pawn at the very least. Someone to help her alleviate the weight of
this nightmare and help her navigate through this world until she could do so
on her own.
Upon seeing the open gesture of reciprocity and welcome upon this stranger’s--
this Wildling woman’s--countenance, something within Sansa began to soften, ebb
and erode away, at least towards her. She was sanctuary, an oasis within a vast
and arid desert, and Sansa was grateful. So damned grateful.
A moment passed, the Wildling woman waited, expectant. Her smile--warm and
welcoming--started to slowly cool and falter. Sansa could not risk alienation,
not now. She was loath to admit her need of her.
“P-Pardon?”
The smile immediately returned, as did the warmth, spreading like the Southrone
sun across the Narrow Sea.  Good...Good...Make them like you. Become passive
and unassuming.
The Dragon had its fire; the Kraken had its oceans. The Lion had its pride.
Yet, it was the Wolf who had its cunning. And Sansa had cunning, beneath all
assumed artifice and passivity, it lurked. Waiting. Ready.
When Sansa was two and ten, her brothers Robb and Bran, along with Theon, went
out riding through the godswood. It had been Bran’s fifth nameday and he had
been gifted a destrier--a present from Lady Barbrey Dustin. It was a beautiful
horse, blue roan and high spirited. Lady Catelyn had had her reservations, of
course. Not only was the gifted stallion too extravagant and exorbitant for a
 young lordling of five, but there was most certainly an ulterior motive in the
faux courtesy.
Lady Barbrey was a capricious woman, the elapse of years had made her harder,
embittered. She had resented Catelyn for her betrothal to Brandon Stark, a
marriage that Cat never truly desired or pushed. While Brandon was handsome,
roguish with his brunette hair and slate-colored eyes, he was pugnacious and
temperamental.  Many attested his bellicosity to his “wolf’s blood” that ran
wild within him.
He was a pretty man, Cat conceded, reluctantly. A pretty man with all the
pretty words and courtesies that caused half of the realm’s women to swoon.
Yet, despite his multiple and incessant promises (pretty, yet empty promises),
Cat knew he could never be faithful to just her alone. Catelyn was a Tully,
aye, she knew the words--etched and engraved upon her heart like chiseled
stone--but she wanted fidelity above all else. The one thing Brandon Stark,
with all his capricious moods and  dark beauty, could never afford to give her.
She had heard the rumor of her betrothed and Lady Barbrey Dustin, of how they
had been lovers driven apart by an unwanted, impending marriage and forced
alliance. While her father assured her the rumors were false, the
manifestations of  a covetous and spurned paramour, Lady Catelyn was no fool.
 No, it was best to keep Lady Barbrey at bay, preferably as far away as
possible. A snake was still a snake no matter how less potent the venom.
As Bran and Robb returned from their excursion, they were set upon by a trio of
Wildlings hidden within the thicket. Robb and Theon had make quick work of the
two men, one of which held a rough, obsidian blade to young Bran’s throat. A
woman had been captured among the fray, Osha. Sansa had been afraid of her
then. Terrified of this strange, wild entity with her small, suspicious eyes
and unrestrained tongue.
She was no lady, that wall all but certain, but yet despite Osha’s
unconventionalism and candor, she became one of Sansa’s most trusted friends.
Sansa loved Osha and missed her terribly.
This woman--Muirgayne--reminded her of her friend, possessed the same warmth
and vibrancy and Sansa could not help but be drawn to it. She almost felt bad
for what she had to do, for the duplicity was forced to assume. It could not be
helped, now.
“You are the one the speak of.  The red She-Wolf. You are the one who the
elders speak of, who tamed the wild Wolf of the North.”
Sansa sat there, immobile, for she was bereft of words. Was this how they saw
her? As some sort of tamer, conquering savage beasts with naught save apathy
and cool disdain? Was it truly  that  easy?
“I did not know such a man like that could be tamed.” Sansa could not help but
be intrigued now. Initially, she had planned to give this woman a wide berth,
guilty  of becoming too attached. Now, she realized the folly in her plan. She
could use her in further cementing and ingratiating herself within the wildling
camp. This woman could help her, be her eyes and ears and help her curry favor
among those who mattered.
It should not be so difficult. Already, Muirgayne looked upon her with
something akin to reverence and worshipful awe. Sansa could use this.
“You are a Stark, are you not? Little wonder Jon is so taken with you. Wolves
draw to their own. So many women have tried to win his heart and he has refused
them all.”
Sansa thought back to the red-haired Wildling woman who had assaulted her,
remembering the hatred and loathing that radiated off her. Sansa knew jealousy,
she knew envy. Yet this transcended far beyond any petty emotion she could
think of. What this woman felt for her at that instant was dangerous and
unbridled. Had Sansa been any other woman--a lesser woman--she would have been
afraid.
Fortunately for her, she was not a lesser woman. She had seen the worst and had
survived. There was nothing anyone else could do to her now.
“Why did he take me, Muirgayne? Why did Jon choose me?” Sansa had not meant the
desperation, had not meant to allow anyone to let on, but yet she was curious.
Muirgayne started, eyes widened slightly in shock. She hand never told this
Kneeler her name, she was certain of it. “I think you have it the other way
around, She-Wolf. The past is already written and the ink is dried. Your
stories are aligned with one another’s. Jon chose you, aye, but the gods willed
it.  Jon only listened.”
Chapter End Notes
     So Muirgayne seems to be quite the perceptive one, huh?
***** Poison *****
Chapter Summary
     "You have left me." The accusation hung in the air, suspended and
     lingering. Jon closed his eyes, suddenly tired. He swallowed tightly,
     his throat heavy. He had not wanted a confrontation, only a clean
     break and understanding. He should have known that Ygritte would seek
     the most difficult route. So be it, then.
     "Stay away from Sansa, Ygritte. This will be your final warning.
     There will not be another." Ygritte reeled as though Jon had struck
     her, his words near felling her. This was not her Jon. This was
     something different. Alien and unknown.
     "Do you love her?" She asked finally, hysterical and frantic. She
     would not lose him. She would not. Not to this fucking wolf-bitch.
     This Kneeling cunt. She would never be worthy of him. Never would she
     love him like she could. Like only Ygritte could. Never!
     Jon was silent, resolute. His hesitancy giving Ygritte a faint moment
     of hope. Surely he was mistaken. Surely he-
     And then there was a nod, imperceptible at first, and then steady,
     certain.
     "Aye, I do."
Chapter Notes
     Jon makes a long-overdue realization, and tries to seek finality and
     close the door to one longstanding chapter within his life.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Chapter Twenty: Poison
A deep hunger settled within his gut as he watched her. It seized him, the
force of it constricting the air from him. She had been staying with Muirgayne
and Tormund in their hut, sharing an alcove with their two young daughters.
Both of them swore to watch over Sansa, to be his eyes whenever he was not
present.
Jon chuckled darkly. It was hilarious, this irony. He had sent her away from
his tent-from him-so that he could protect her, to quell this lust that had run
rampant within his extremities, and yet, he could never be fully rid of her.
She haunted his thoughts, an ever present shadow. He looked down at the hunting
knife, the blade, though dull, glinting in the firelight.
As Mance Rayder's heir and prince, Jon presided over the hunting, he and twelve
of the best huntsmen were commissioned with bringing meat to the village. It
was menial work, monotonous and dull, but Jon had not minded it. His duty was
foremost to his people, now and always. Mance had always expounded on a
leader's duties, expatiating on the heavy burden of caring for another.
When Jon had been younger, selfish and wild, he could not comprehend this. His
wants and desires had been paramount, immediate, and instantly gratified; as a
Wildling, refusals and withholdings were unknown and foreign to him. If he
desired it, he would take it. Such was the Wildling way. Mance would oft shake
his head, bewildered and dismayed, at his son's short-sightedness and apathy,
praying to the deities above that one day Jon would comprehend the salience of
service and charity.
Surveying the camp, taking in the laughter and camaraderie, Jon now understood.
One could never be a leader, have the unwavering fealty of his people, if he
could not first serve. It was a difficult lesson, aye, but an important one.
And Jon had learned.
Out of the periphery of his vision, Jon sensed movement. He tensed, turning his
head quickly, bracing himself. It was rare that he was truly at ease, even now
within the enclosure of his camp and among his own people. The night was dark
and full of terrors and safety was both an illusion and phantasm.
Turning his head fully, Jon's breath was all but lost as he took her in. Sansa.
She was following Muirgayne, her head held high, gaze unwavering. She had
changed clothes since their last encounter, shedding her noblewoman's finery
for simple furs. Yet, in spite of the simplicity of her new garments, Sansa had
managed to wear them with such pride, akin to a chest laden with treasure.
Her deep auburn hair was unbound and wild, resting at her waist. The campfire
highlighting its undertones, an array of molten copper and rich chestnut. A
living flame. She was a living flame.
And Jon was set ablaze and singeing.
He quickly diverted his eyes, his britches tightening. He was not alone in his
admiration of her, Jon noticed. It seemed as though every man within the camp
turned their heads to look their fill of her, their collective gazes hot and
appraising. Even Mance appeared momentarily awed.
A black cloud began to enshroud around Jon then. He felt murderous, dangerous
and primitive. He clenched the hunting knife tightly, briefly envisioning
plucking the eyes from each man who dared to gawk on her with such liberties,
his father included. Immediately, Jon felt contrite, rueful almost.
It was wrong, this jealousy, for he had no right. No right in this claiming of
her, and yet, he could not help quell this desire and fervent yearning. He was
going mad, his sanity tethered but by only a single loose thread. Remember your
vow, Snow.
His father's voice penetrated his reverie, a slight beam of clarity contrast to
the inky blackness of instability. That's right. He had vowed not to touch her
until she asked, until she initiated the contact. He had every intention of
honoring his promise and preserve what little honor remained of him, but gods!
Why did she have to make it sofucking difficult?
Jon shifted in his seat, trying to alleviate the ache between his legs. He
could not count the times he had taken himself in hand, envisioning her above
him. The tent redolent with lavender and peony. His She-Wolf's scent. Mayhap he
could visit the lake after dinner...Aye, the coolness would help bring back
some of his lost rationality and control. If only for a moment, at least.
Jon looked up again, dismayed by his need to see her, to glimpse upon her once
more. She was sitting in front of the campfire, sandwiched between Muirgayne
and Tormund. She had smiled at one of their daughters, her smile honey-sweet
and beautiful. Jon's breath hitched upon the splendidness of the sight,
instantly wishing he were the recipient of her sweet smiles and laughter.
She was beautiful, Jon amended. Even now, a captive among vipers, she was still
so damned beautiful. Looking at her now, Sansa looked the epitome of a queen-
a Wolf Queen-both resplendent and terrifying simultaneously. Jon looked up,
glancing just beyond.
Ygritte was staring at him, her gaze hostile and cold. Jon sighed in
resignation. It was inevitable, his dealing with her, and yet it was a task he
was loathe to do . Once upon a time, Jon had loved Ygritte, and did still. She
had been good to him and he would cherish their memories fondly. Yet, she was
his past, now reduced to that of a distant recollection.
She was not for him, her jealousy and possessiveness of him a loud, resounding
cacophony. She did not love him, not really. Rather, she loved the illusion of
what he could offer her. Mace was right, as he oft was. He knew what Ygritte
was and had warned Jon at length of her poison, and Jon had not listened. At
first.
It had all changed when Jon had happened upon Ygritte and Muirgayne in the
midst of a heated exchange. Ygritte had been incensed, within the throes of
wild accusations and jealous paroxysms, her blue eye transfixed and glacial.
She had accused Muirgayne of being unfaithful to Tormund, that their eldest
daughter was some other wildling man's bastard.
"You fucking whore! You are nothing save a filthy, dirty whore!" Muirgayne,
already temperamental, lunged at her, eyes flashing. Had it been any other
time, Jon would not have cared, for he knew Muirgayne and knew that no woman
was a match for her, Ygritte included. Yet Muirgayne was pregnant, almost five
moons gone. As formidable as Muirgayne's anger, Ygritte could be cruel,
vicious, and Jon knew she would have no compunction injuring an unborn babe. He
had to to stop this.
Jon began to separate the women, keeping both at arm's length of the other.
Muirgayne, trembling in her fury and tearful; Ygritte exultant and superior.
Later that night, Ygritte divulged that sshe had know all along that Muirgayne
had been faithful and devout to Tormund, but had wanted to cause dissention
within their union, covetous and resentful of their marriage and bond.
Although a Wildling woman was autonomous in her choosing of a husband, fidelity
was paramount. Should she be suspected of infidelity from her people, she would
be killed-the restoration of her husband's shredded honor. All it took was but
a word, a whisper. Jon was numb, disbelieving. Surely Ygritte could see the
folly and danger of her duplicity.
"Do you not realize that your lies could have killed her? Killed her babe?"
Ygritte shrugged, apathetic and triumphant. It was then at that moment that Jon
realized the extent of her depravity and callousness. He had to break with her,
there was no other alternative.
It had been a year since their final encounter, Jon had been forceful and
insistent, Ygritte, disbelieving and adamant.
"I am your woman, Jon Snow. You cannot ever betray me. You are of me, and I ,
of you."
She had been a nuisance, at best. Bothersome and worrying. Mance had wanted her
exiled, to be sent far away, emphatic that she was an ill-omen to all within
his camp. Jon had refused the sentence, believing it too stringent, too severe.
Yet, after seeing her strike out at Sansa, seeing that unbridled rage and
madness, Jon knew that something had to be done. This could not stand.
Sighing once more, Jon stood up, his appetite lost. He was stone now.
Immoveable and resolute. The sooner he placed distance between them, the better
he would feel. He loved Ygritte, aye, but he would kill her should she threaten
Sansa again. That was a promise.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"You have left me." The accusation hung in the air, suspended and lingering.
Jon closed his eyes, suddenly tired. He swallowed tightly, his throat heavy. He
had not wanted a confrontation, only a clean break and understanding. He should
have known that Ygritte would seek the most difficult route. So be it, then.
"Stay away from Sansa, Ygritte. This will be your final warning. There will not
be another." Ygritte reeled as though Jon had struck her, his words near
felling her. This was not her Jon. This was something different. Alien and
unknown.
"Do you love her?" She asked finally, hysterical. She would not lose him. She
would not. Not to this fucking wolf-bitch. This Kneeling cunt. She would never
be worthy of him. Never would she love him like she could. Like only Ygritte
could. Never!
Jon was silent, resolute. His hesitancy giving Ygritte a faint moment of hope.
Surely he was mistaken. Surely he-
And then there was a nod, imperceptible at first, and then steady, certain.
"Aye, I do."
At that moment, Ygritte died. Surely, a million swords to the belly would never
equal to the searing pain of her heart. "And what of me, then?"
Jon startled, his eyes softening, apologetic and contrite.
"Goodbye, Ygritte." And with that, Jon turned, retreating to the Wildling camp.
To her.Ygritte remained back, her thoughts a sudden quagmire, the finality of
it all bowling her over with its intensity and magnitude.
"Goodbye, Ygritte.."
No. No! There were no goodbyes between them, not yet. Jon was hers. And she was
his. The She-Wolf had to die, had to be vanquished. It was the only way.
Ygritte was more than certain of this now.
In her fury and hysteria, Ygritte had not noticed how tightly she had gripped
the arrow tip, the blood wetting her palm. Yet she was numb, she could feel
nothing anymore.


Chapter End Notes
     "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."--William Congreve
***** From Porecelain, to Ivory, to Steel *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa waited, yet beneath her calm equanimity was something sinister,
     dark. In another life, she supposed, she would have cowered and
     yielded, begged. Back when her skin was of the finest porcelain. Now,
     all that remained of her was steel. She was steel.
     It was Sansa's turn to step forward, causing the other woman to
     retreat a few steps, blinking in surprise. Something had changed.
     Ygritte was suddenly fearful.
     "You think your idle threats can scare me? Make me tremble? I am
     Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I am the Wolf's daughter, and you cannot
     frighten me."
Chapter Notes
     Sansa continues to scheme and plot...and comes face-to-face with an
     unwanted visitor.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Chapter Twenty-One: From Porcelain, to Ivory, to Steel
He had been gone for a long time, almost an hour. He and the red-haired
Wildling woman. Sansa continued to incline her head towards the forest, attune
and listening. She had not wanted to do it; she had told herself that she had
not cared one dry fuck where he had gone, if he had fallen off a ravine
somewhere (she didn't, truly), but even she knew such denial could not be
upheld for so long. Try as she might, she could not quell this curiosity.
She had worn her hair loose and unbound, remembering how Jon's eyes darkened
and ignited whenever he allowed his eyes to feast on her. Even in her
unconscious state after the abduction, Sansa remembered the sensation of his
hands upon her hair. It was a strange thing...She had never imagined one with
such large and calloused hands capable of gentleness.
The proffered furs were not such a tedious or difficult task, as she had worn
men's clothing before as she sparred with Rob and Arya back home. Although the
epitome of a lady, Sansa was not so far removed that she would forgo
convenience for luxury. Besides, it was for a purpose, all of it.
"He had been watching you, She-Wolf." Muirgayne observed quietly, all the while
watching the campfire flames flicker and dance. Sansa blinked, startled. When
had she returned? The last time Muirgayne had spoken with her, it was to inform
her that she was to tuck her youngest in for the night. Little Kiva barely
keeping her eyes open during the festivities, her dark curls resting and tucked
upon Tormund's shoulder.
Sansa turned, facing Muirgayne fully. Throughout the feast, Sansa noticed
something different. Jon looked tortured, conflicted. Tormund had always japed
on Jon's moroseness and intensity. Yet this night...He seemed persecuted. Was
it because of her? Sansa dared to hope.
"Truly? It seemed the hunting knife held more interest than I." Sansa stopped
then, refusing to divulge more. Muirgayne was sharp, keen. In the day that
Sansa had met her, she had already proven to not suffer fools. Sansa could not
risk letting her in on her plans of seduction and escape. No, better to play
the distressed lady, helpless and passive, than allow her or anyone else to let
on. Besides, this was Sansa's game to play and these were her chess pieces to
manipulate and move; she was far from helpless.
"You did not see what I saw, Lady Wolf. He was looking on you how a dog eyes a
bone. 'Tis strange, he's never looked on a woman the way he looks at you, with
such longing. Not even with Ygritte."
Sansa trembled, the involuntary jolt surging down her spine. Although she was
aware of the Wildling's lusts, it was a curious thing to hear its confirmation
from someone else's lips-someone who knew Jon and was something akin to a
friend. Good. A small, secret smile threatened to break through and Sansa
fought to carefully school her features. Not now, she could not break now.
"Your Wolf Prince is not in love with me. I am but a novelty to him. He's just
upset because I refuse his attentions." That so much was true. Sansa believed
that had she not been withholding her affections from him and had given herself
freely-like he wanted and desired-she would have already been discarded, like
scraps to the furnace.
She refused. In order to get what she wanted, Sansa had to play her hand
carefully. So far, she held the winning cards. Let him look,that secretive
voice whispered deliciously. Let him like what he sees.
"Tell me about Ygritte, Muirgayne." Although Sansa did not recall Jon's heated,
furtive gaze, she did remember Ygritte's eyes-cold, calculating, and burning.
While Ramsay's eyes were maniacal and apathetic, Ygritte's were cruel and
empty, like frozen, glacial lakes. Throughout the duration of the feast, they
had narrowed and pinned Sansa down, as though she were some loathsome,
abhorrent pestilence she wanted to rid the world of. Sansa stared back,
unintimidated.
Since when were wolves afraid of balding sheep?
Muirgayne spat the ground, a hard gleam in her eye. "Rabid cunt. You best keep
away from that one. She traverses the evil road. She is a jealous, frothing mad
bitch. Any woman that comes within a league of Jon Snow is made her enemy."
Sansa stilled, listening in rapt fascination. Aunt Lysa had once told her to
pay close attention, that everything that is seen has already been visited once
before. She had been here before-this was Ramsay Bolton all over again.
Last year, when Sansa had been five and ten,and the wedding preparations had
been underway, she and her elder brother, Rob, had visited the Dreadfort,
accompanied by their Lord Father, to visit Roose and his newly legitimized son.
"Bastard." Rob sneered the word underneath his breath, out of their father's
hearing. The word was vile, base. An unwanted demarcation and blight against a
person's nature.
Sansa loathed the word, believed the castigation unfair and permanent. Yet upon
her initial meeting with the Bolton lordling, no adjective could better
describe the monster hidden behind his innocent smiles and saccharine
courtesies. It was a stable boy that revealed the depravity lurking beneath.
The young man's sole transgression was to let his eyes linger a tad too long on
Sansa's form as she dismounted from her mare. Sansa had dismissed the slight,
bestowing the stable lad-Luc-with a small smile of gratitude as he helped her
off her beast.
Yet, Ramsay singled in on Luc, like a seizing, virulent dog, and backhanded the
defenseless servant so severely it had broken his nose, the crimson river
freely flowing from the orifice. Sansa had been horrified, outraged; Ned angry
yet silent. Roose, apathetic and indifferent. Father had inquired on the lad
soon after, the very least he could do. He had been dismayed to learn that Luc
had disappeared into the night soon after the unfortunate incident, his
putrefied and disarticulated remains spread about the forested floor.
Roose had asserted it had been an accident, the unfortunate result of a hunting
accident gone awry; that he had been drunk and fallen off his horse and the
beasts of the forest had ravished him. Yet Sansa knew the truth. He had died
because of jealousy. Because of misconstrued actions. Envy truly was the death
of allâ€¦
"You forget that I had been kidnapped from my home and taken against my will to
the ends of the earth. I have no family, no soldiers to fight for me, and yet
here I stand. I am not one to scare easily."
Muirgayne chuckled at Sansa's side. "You have spirit, She-Wolf. I will give you
that. More courage than most. A wolf's courage. All the same, take heed and
stay out of her way."
Sansa inclined her head in faint acknowledgement, barely listening. It was
obvious that the woman-Ygritte-fancied Jon, and he had loved her at one time.
Perhaps the sentiments lingered still. Sansa frowned. What did that mean for
her? For her plans? She could readily play the whore if it meant yielding the
desired results. Yet, her plans held no room for a jilted and spurned lover. Oh
well...just another adjustment and recalculation. The game was wrought with
them, a true tactician knew how to manipulate and navigate through them.
Besides, Sansa relished at the challenge. She looked on at the flames silently,
Muirgayne's warning now a distant, fading memory.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
"You're the Wolf-Bitch they have been harping about, aren't you?" Sansa tensed,
her shoulders stiffening. She had been praying in front of the weirwood tree,
seeking solace and clarity. Though gods only knew why she prayed anymore, it
was not as though they had inclined their ears to her entreaties before. Still,
she had wanted a reprieve and Jon had given her leave.
Sansa stood, facing the woman, Ygritte. Muirgayne had warned her to take heed
of this stranger, that she was no friend of hers and wished her ill. Yet,
looking on her now, sizing up her person, Sansa felt no fear, no intimidation.
Nothing.
"My name is Sansa." It was such a simple declaration, a mere stating of her
name, and yet, looking on Ygritte now, it seemed to unlock a hidden fissure of
control and equanimity. She was growing steadily untethered.
"You think he will ever love a Kneeling cunt like you? I know your kind, you
Southrone bitches are all the same-taking what is not yours." Sansa stared,
patient. It would not do to interrupt.
Let it out, Wildling. Go ahead and place your frustrations on me.
"You forget that I did not have a choice. I did not ask for your precious Wolf
to kidnap me from my home. He did that all on his own." Sansa tried not to let
her anger consume her, but she could not help it. How long was she to be blamed
and made culpable for a crime she had not committed? For each passing second,
the anger within her surged and crackled, bubbling at the surface.
Ygritte stepped closer, then. Her cold eyes raking over Sansa in derision. If
one could die by a mere glance, Sansa would have perished a thousand times over
from the intensity and weight of her stare. Still, she refused to fold. She
raised her chin in defiance.
You are a wolf...now and always.
"He may have kidnapped you, aye, but you want him. You dream about it-him
inside you, spilling inside your tight, wet hole. Aye, you want him, but he's
not yours to have. He is mine, now and forever. I have killed cunts like you
who thought they could have him, stronger and braver than you could ever be.
What makes you think I could not kill you now and bury your body somewhere
where only the crows could find you?"
Sansa waited, yet beneath her calm equanimity was something sinister, dark. In
another life, she supposed, she would have cowered and yielded, begged. Back
when her skin was of the finest porcelain. Now, all that remained of her was
steel. She was steel.
It was Sansa's turn to step forward, causing the other woman to retreat a few
steps, blinking in surprise. Something had changed. Ygritte was suddenly
fearful. When had the Wolf-Bitch grew fangs?
Sansa was upon her, now. Already tall, made all the more formidable by the cold
glint in her eyes. If she had dared step closer, Ygritte could have sworn to
have heard growling.
"You think your idle threats can scare me? Make me tremble? I am Sansa Stark of
Winterfell. I am the Wolf's daughter, and you cannot frighten me."
Chapter End Notes
     *Mic Drop!* You all wanted it, so I delivered. Rest assured, it won't
     be the end between these two!
***** A Thawing *****
Chapter Summary
     She was sitting at the foot of the weirwood tree, her head bent in
     deference, the summer sun’s rays streaming through the forest canopy,
     the scarlet of both the leaves and her hair forming a ring of fire
     around her. She looked ethereal and otherworldly, the Maiden
     incarnate.
     Jon took a step forward, but abruptly stopped. He was like the tide
     being pulled by the moon. He could not understand this, this yielding
     and acquiescing to her. She was like a drug, and he was losing all
     inhibitions....
     ...In that instantaneous moment, Jon felt something shift. Although
     the burning lust and unrestrained yearning remained (it would always
     remain as far as he was concerned), there was, more importantly, a
     thawing that began to softly trickle and percolate. Like ice in a
     Dornish summer. There now was respect and reverence.
     As if sensing his presence, Sansa turned around to face him, a
     defiant lilt to her chin. Jon stared back, silent and watchful, the
     transformation before him stupefying. My queen...My Wolf Queen….
Chapter Notes
     Jon overhears an important exchange and a thawing begins to form from
     both sides. Also, in this chapter, we see Dark!Jon emerge.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                        Chapter Twenty-Two :  A Thawing
 
Achilles: You’re still my enemy in the morning.
King Priam:  And you’re still my enemy tonight. But even enemies can show
respect.
( Troy , 2004)
______________________________________________________________________________
“There have been whispers, I fear.” Jon inclined his head towards Mance,
attentive and listening. Of course there would be whispers. Despite the vast
reclusiveness of the North, even the King-Beyond-The-Wall was not without his
sparrows, the eyes and ears of his frozen kingdom.
“Orell has told me that First Ranger Benjen Stark is leading the search along
with fifty of Bolton’s best men, a hundred total. No doubt trying to reclaim
the lost wolf.” Mance’s coal black eyes watched his son, patient and waiting,
gaging his reaction. He was like a sentinel, always holding vigilance, waiting
for the first sign of dissent.
As expected, Jon remained stoic and impassive, disclosing nothing. The only
sign of cognizance was the shifting of his wolf-grey eyes as he watched the
flames flicker and dance before him. Mance was not fooled, however. His son was
thinking, a plan starting to form within the recesses of his mind.
Even before the abduction of the Wolf Maid, there had been long standing enmity
between the Free Folk and the men of the Night’s Watch. Benjen Stark had been a
formidable enemy that was responsible for the execution and slaughter of many
within village. Kin to the she-wolf or no, Jon would have satisfaction.
A moment passed between them, the silence interminable. Only the crackling and
roaring of the flames could be heard. “Where had they been spotted?”
Even as Jon spoke, his eyes still lingered over the fire, casting an eerie
glow. It was as if the fires contained a secret that only he felt privy to and
could decipher. What was it he had seen within the smoke and embers? A vision?
An oracle?
Nay, Mance doubted it. The gods did not impart their mysteries so liberally.
No, Mance knew his son. His thoughts were preoccupied with his great prize, the
red wolf. She was a sweet song, Mance conceded. Such a pretty, sweety dream.
But Mance knew all too well the harsh and bitter sting of waking. His wolf son
was living in a fantasy that he could not escape from.
And then what? What would be left of Jon after he plummeted back to earth? To
reality? Mance shuddered at the terrible prospect.  
“Orell said just south of Eagle Pass, near Midnight Canyon.” Jon shifted yet
remained silent, his thoughts careening and dark. They were close--too close.
Mayhap seven hundred leagues from the camp.
Benjen Stark was relentless, a trait that yielded begrudging respect from Jon
and Mance alike. Set to determined purpose, he was a hound on the scent--
nothing would deter him. The other man, Bolton…
Jon knew very little of the Flayed Man and his men, save that he had a bastard
son who was prone to cruelty and bouts of mania. A mad dog, that was his
epithet. Jon smirked. It mattered not. His father once told him big men fell
just as quickly as little ones. Together, however, they presented a problem.
They would arrive within a moon’s turn, the summer season speeding up the
journey. He was running out of time.
Abruptly standing, Jon left his father’s hut  and made his way to the center of
the camp. He needed to speak with Orell. The warg and shapeshifter was his
father’s favorite spy, able to enter the minds of animals and see through their
eyes, his favorite, his golden eagle, Aeris. He was useful, Jon conceded, his
gifts allowing him to see what others could not.
Shifty and suspicious, he was but a mere slip of a man, Orell, with dirtied
yellowed hair and mismatched eyes of blue and green. Jon never liked the
ferreted man and more than once prayed for the opportunity to run him through
and rid the village of his presence. He had been a lover of Ygritte’s once,
long before Jon.
Resentful, jealous and antagonistic, Orell made no secret of his antipathy and
dislike of Jon. The contention amplified due to Jon being the son of Mance
Rayder, Orell’s idol and hero. Even after Jon’s breaking with Ygritte, Orell
continued his little games, sowing seeds of division wherever he could.
Yes, Jon would relish in killing the weasel-faced man. There were  so  many
possible ways...
But first, he needed answers.
Jon found Orell sitting atop a boulder near a small clearing, just on the
outskirts of the village and right before the entrance of the forest. He had
been speaking with Rattleshirt, another fellow wildling leader and war chief.
Jon halted, his stomach clenching. He had not missed the way the bull-faced
man’s eyes glistened and alighted on Sansa during last night’s feast, or the
way they had followed after her as she made her way to to forest. Earlier that
morn, she had asked Jon for leave to visit the weirwood tree and he had granted
her supplication. Now, he could not quell the trepidation that ran riot inside
of him. She had been gone for too long.
“Mance said that your eagle spotted both Night Watchmen and Bolton bannermen
near Eagle Pass. Is that true?”
Orell smirked, sharing a passing glance to Rattleshirt who chuckled quietly at
his side. The colossus glancing just past the thicket of trees, towards the
weirwood. Suddenly, that old, familiar dark cloud began to form around Jon and
he tried to will it down.  Not now...not now.  He could not lose his control
now.
“Aye. They’re coming for that kneeler bitch, trying to play hero and rescue
her. A fine woman, she is. What say you give her to me? By the time I get
through with her, I’d have her spilling from every one of her tight little
holes.”
It was meant as a jape, the Lord of Bones’ bulging eyes brilliant with mirth,
his bellowing laugh a cacophonous echo through the morning stillness. Tormund
stiffened by Jon’s side, his blue eyes blazing, all the while watching his
prince, reading him. No one knew his friend’s moods better than he.
And right now, Jon was feeling dangerous, judging by the darkening of his eyes
and the stiff set of his jaw. Don’t.  Don’t.
It happened too quick-- all too quick. Like a wolf seizing its prey, Jon’s arm
shot out, faster than a loosed arrow, and enclosed around Rattleshirt’s
 bulbous neck. The once riotous laughter now reduced to epileptic wheezing and
sputtering.
“Jon--” Tormund began, yet knowing such dissuasion was futile. It was not often
Jon entertained provocation, always maintaining rigid ataraxia and cool
detachment, but Rattleshirt struck a nerve and continued to burrow deeper and
further down. The wolf was quickly emerging and unable to become tethered. The
look on Jon’s face was feral, his winter grey eyes now a tempestuous storm.
“My father values your prowess on the battlefield, Rattleshirt, but I am  not
 him and you test me now. You touch what is mine and I will kill you myself.”
The threat lingered, saturating the air. All was quiet, save the continuous
gasping and wheezing from Rattleshirt, his throat still enclosed within Jon’s
grasp. Even Orell was dumbstruck and cowed. Rattleshirt’s face was slowly
turning blue, his meaty hands clawing desperately at Jon’s hand. Yet Jon did
not relinquish his grip, only tightened further.
Gods, he means to kill him!  Tormund thought wildly. Right here, right now, Jon
was going to kill this man. The once thickened cord of self-possession quickly
unraveling before his very eyes. No man was worth this dishonor.
“Jon, you need to release him. Release him now.  JON !” A beat passed, then
two. Tormund wondering if Jon had even heard his entreaty and plea.
Finally, after what seemed like eons…
A gasp of air, the Lord of Bones coughing and gagging, his hands clasping at
his throat, the color starting to slowly return. Tormund sighed in relief,
nearly collapsing and buckling at the weight and enormity of it all. At this
moment, he had almost lost his friend. Not to a sword or arrow, no, but to
anger and unbridled madness.
The red haze continued to linger and permeate Jon’s mind, his eyes near black
and abysmal, but the control had been returned, if only in small increments.
All it took was another misstep and foolish error and the black cloud would
return, thunderous and terrifying.  Rattleshirt was teetering on the edge and
taking Jon with him.
“First and only warning, Rattleshirt. There will not be another. Now, get the
fuck out of my sight.”
He did not need telling twice. Had Tormund not been so tense and bewildered, he
would have shared a laugh at the larger man’s expense. Now, he only felt
concern and slight fear. What the fuck had changed?
Orell forgotten, Jon left Tormund’s side and made his way directly to the
forest. To Sansa. He needed to see her, to look upon her, if only at a
distance. He would not rationalize the reasons why, mayhap when he was within
the silent enclosure and quietude of his hut. But right now…
Right now, he needed to see her and quell this unbridled rage that was pulsing
through him. If only but for a moment at least. She was sitting at the foot of
the weirwood tree, her head bent in deference, the summer sun’s rays streaming
through the forest canopy, the scarlet of both the leaves and her hair forming
a ring of fire around her. She looked ethereal and otherworldly, the Maiden
incarnate.
Jon took a step forward, but abruptly stopped. He was like the tide being
pulled by the moon. He could not understand this, this yielding and acquiescing
to her. She was like a drug, and he was losing all inhibitions.
“You’re the Wolf-Bitch they have been harping about, aren’t you?” The voice
rang out, penetrating the quiet serenity. Ygritte. Jon stiffened, moving
swiftly towards them. He had warned Ygritte to stay away, to stay far away from
Sansa, knowing the consequences that would befall upon her should she
contravene.
And yet, here she was--provoking and vexatious. Jon cursed silently, he should
have known Ygritte would never settle for the path of least resistance. Yet, it
was all too late now. The black cloud began to once again reemerge and
manifest.
“I have killed cunts like you who thought they could have him, stronger and
braver than you could ever be. What makes you think I could not kill you now
and bury your body somewhere only the crows could find you?” There was a
rushing that filled Jon’s ears at the admission. Oh, gods no...Rowena and
Bridgette.  No no no no no!
Jon moved forward, his hand on the blade of his hunting knife. If this bitch
did anything to hurt Sansa, Jon did not know what he might do. Only that he
would not be held responsible for his actions. The red haze began to encircle
once more.
Her voice stopped him, hard and unwavering. In the rare and far between moments
that Jon had heard Sansa speak, Jon was entranced by the honeyed
mellifluousness of her voice, wishing she would speak more, laugh more, instead
of the angry silence she would oft give him whenever it were but the two of
them. However, this time, instead of sweetness and operatic words, there was an
anger and strength. Steel. She was now steel.
“You think your idle words can scare me? Make me tremble? I am Sansa Stark of
Winterfell. I am the Wolf’s daughter, and you cannot frighten me.”
Ygritte, Jon noted, was nonplussed, cowed. Her lifeless and dull eyes flashing
in momentary fear and recognition. She fled the woods then, hastily retreating
to the wildling camp. She would not remain there. If Jon had his way, she would
be dead--preferably by his hand.
There was a stiffening of her spine, her back rigid and proud. Even in her
anger and wrath, Jon noted, Sansa was still beautiful. Coldly beautiful and
proud. No longer this timid, scared little dove of fairy tales and songs.
In that instantaneous moment, Jon felt something shift. Although the burning
lust and unrestrained yearning remained (it would always remain as far as he
was concerned), there was, more importantly, a thawing that began to softly
trickle and percolate. Like ice in a Dornish summer. There now was respect and
reverence.
As if sensing his presence, Sansa turned around to face him, a defiant lilt to
her chin. Jon stared back, silent and watchful, the transformation before him
stupefying.  My queen...My Wolf Queen….
Chapter End Notes
     What is it that they say? Enemies make the best lovers? Now that
     Thanksgiving Break is upon us (hallelujah!), expect more frequent
     updates.
***** Siren *****
Chapter Summary
     “I have to have her with me. I need to protect her, Tormund--at all
     costs. If she is under my protection, surely no one would be so
     foolish as to harm her.” It was a good lie, one Jon could easily
     believe if he allowed himself the luxury.
     Instead of feeling insulted at the implication, Tormund only quirked
     an eyebrow and smirked knowingly. He sobered just as quickly,
     remembering the day’s events and their encounter with Rattleshirt.
     “Have care, Snow. Anyone with eyes can see she is your weakness. A
     jewel like her? How long d’you think it will be before another cunt
     tries to pluck her away from you?”
     Jon stiffened, his jaw setting. His threat to the Lord of Bones was
     not an idle one; he had meant what he’d said. He would kill anyone
     who tried to take her away from him. Yet, it transcended far beyond
     mere objectification and possession. Jon remembered his dream--of the
     warmth--and trembled. And hoped. Hope was a foolish thing to have in
     this world full of ugliness and sin, and yet it proved difficult to
     kill
Chapter Notes
     After dancing around each other, Jon and Sansa spend some time
     together, and sexual tension ensues!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                          Chapter_Twenty-Three:_Siren
 
Ygritte had vanished. The revelation sending ripples of disbelief and slight
trepidation throughout the wildling camp. Secreted away in the night, like a
mist or specter haunting the moors. All that remained in her wake were a set of
footprints and two dead guards who held vigil over the abandoned hut that once
served as her asylum, their throats slit nigh to the bone, nearly decapitated.
Mance had been livid upon the revelation of Ygritte and her crimes and ordered
for her immediate confinement, to which she would be tried in accordance to
wildling law and praxis. If she were condemned (as of now, all they had were
Sansa’s and Jon’s testimonies and no witnesses), she would pay with her life,
as was the wildling way. Blood demanded blood and only a life could satisfy
death--the balance weighed and measured.
Jon had volunteered to carry out the execution, believing himself solely
responsible for the deaths of Rowena and Bridgette. Mance tried to object,
asserting that one could never decipher an untethered and diseased mind, yet
Jon had been resolute and immoveable. It was only fair, by Ygritte’s death, Jon
could acquire absolution and atonement for his transgressions and stupidity.
Mayhap if he had listened, then all of this could have been avoided, the deaths
never happening.
The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword.  Those had been her Lord
Father’s words, Sansa thought achingly, the clenching within her belly
intensifying. She had been gone almost a fortnight and the throes and anguish
did not cease but only intensified. Those were her father’s words, yet Jon had
been the embodiment and manifestation of  it.
Looking at him now, taking him in, the parallels between the two men were
unmistakeable: the same grim severity, the deep furrowed brow laden with
travail. Sansa knew the look well. Resignation. Identical to what Ned often
bore upon an execution.
While Mance had been pleased, mollified by his son’s fortitude  and quick
severing of all past memories, Jon’s silver eyes belied something else
entirely. Contention. He was reluctant in his mission--take a life--bt he knew
he must.
Yet this was different, for Ygritte was not a deserter of the Nightswatch or a
reprobate criminal, no. She had been his lover. It was difficult to discard
lingering sentiments. Sansa understood this, but for  some  unknown reason, it
still stung, nonetheless. Sansa did not dare explore the reasons why, but she
could at least empathize.
Besides, she needed to be sweet now. If she were sweet and unassuming, Jon
would trust her, expose more and more of his cracks to her until she could
escape. It was all but a dance.
Yet, Ygritte had gone and nobody knew where. There would be no execution, not
yet anyway.
“How long must I stay within your hut?’’ Sansa asked without preamble and
immediately winced. She had been ensconced within Jon’s hut immediately
following Ygritte’s absconding.  Tormund had offered to escort her back to
Muirgayne, but Jon had declined, remembering Rattleshirt’s lecherous gazes and
Ygritte’s threats. He had argued that until the whole debacle was over, she
would again remain with him.
“I have to have her with me. I need to protect her, Tormund--at all costs. If
she is under my protection, surely no one would be so foolish as to harm her.”
 It was a good lie, one Jon could easily believe if he allowed himself the
luxury.
Instead of feeling insulted at the implication, Tormund only quirked an eyebrow
and smirked knowingly. He sobered just as quickly, remembering the day’s events
and their encounter with Rattleshirt. “Have care, Snow. Anyone with eyes can
see she is your weakness. A jewel like her? How long d’you think it will be
before another cunt tries to pluck her away from you?”
Jon  stiffened, his jaw setting. His threat to the Lord of Bones was not an
idle one; he had meant what he’d said. He would kill anyone who tried to take
her away from him. Yet, it transcended far beyond mere objectification and
possession. Jon remembered his dream--of the warmth--and trembled. And hoped.
Hope was a foolish thing to have in this world full of ugliness and sin, and
yet it proved difficult to kill.
“Until I say so, She-Wolf. Are you bored of me, already?” He was smirking
again, that insufferable grin that she loathed so much to look upon. Sansa
clenched her jaw, a sharp and acidic reply immediately upon her lips, yet with
Herculean effort, stamped it down. It would not due to lose control now, after
all her carefully constructed planning.  Gentle. Gentle now.
“I am your prisoner and with nowhere to go.” Sansa replied demurely, eyes
lowered in false docility.  Not too much,  she scolded. Barbarian Jon Snow may
be, but he was not stupid. This was a man renown throughout the realm for his
ingenuity and agency, the ability to dissemble any snare. Too much false
saccharinity and she was sure to arouse suspicion.
“Forgive me.” Sansa swallowed thickly.  Gods.  How far must she sink? “It’s
only that I do not like being confined like an animal. At least withTormund and
Muirgayne, I was allowed a little bit of freedom.”
Jon remained silent, contemplating. It was easy to see how she could become
restless. The wildlings were a free and independent people who valued their
liberty. Theirs was not a life built on walls and confinement.
Jon rose abruptly and walked towards the hut’s entrance.  He’s leaving again!
Sansa thought dejectedly, hopes deflating. She was not so certain she could
endure another moment of silence without going mad.
“Are you coming, She-Wolf?” Jon asked, inclining his head towards her. Sansa
followed behind, hesitant. He could very well be leading  her to her death, out
of sight from the rest of the village, like a lamb to slaughter.  Sansa did not
have it in her to care any longer. Besides, if he had meant to kill her, gods
knew he had ample opportunity to do so.
Instead, the sinfully-sweet smell of  oleander and Mary rose wafted through the
summer air. Sansa stopped, inhaling the fragrance, the air redolent with it.
Jon waited, watching her with a peculiar expression upon her face.
They travelled a few more paces until they reached the lake. The summer sun had
just dipped, meeting the earth, bathing the waters with a dusty rose glow. The
water was cool and temperate, bringing instantaneous joy to Sansa’s feet.  She
was wearing a long tunic, overlarge and stretched, its hem reaching well past
her knees.  In another life, perhaps, Sansa  would have been concerned with
propriety and modesty, of what was proper and virtuous. But now, all that
mattered was the coolness of the water and her newly given freedom. She lifted
the hem and waded in, exhilarated.
She remembered summers like this with her brothers and Theon, carefree days
swimming in the hot springs. Robb and Theon  would make sport of diving off
rocks, trying to see who made the biggest splash. Arya, ever the explorer,
would dare Sansa to swim to the deepest ends, the loser having to relinquish
their desserts for two moons (Sansa would always lose, save that one time. A
fluke, Arya called it.). Sweet Bran, careful and solicitous, staying close to
the water’s edge; Baby Rickon, much too young and too small, chortling and
gurgling with glee as he looked on  his siblings at play.
Oh, how she missed those sweet, long-ago days!   There was a loud splash at her
right and Sansa opened her eyes, laughing at the sight of Jon’s direwolf,
Ghost, swimming towards her. The great beast more pup than formidable
protector, his tongue lolling in his elation. Sansa laughed at the sight and
playfully splashed some water in his direction. The albino wolf growled
playfully and proceeded to shake the excess water from its mane, drenching
Sansa further.
She could not retaliate without lifting her tunic further, so she hitched it
up, and began kicking water at him, her endless legs shimmering in the evening
sky. Ghost retreated to the lake’s shore and Sansa bounded after him, her
laughter a melodic cacophony. Jon moved to quiet her, afraid that the noise and
laughter would invite a curious onlooker to investigate. It would not due to
see their Wolf Prince all out of sorts and undone.
Sansa looked up just in time to see Jon approaching, and too ensnared in the
spirit of the game, brought her foot out of the water and laughingly sent a
shower of water droplets in his direction. Jon immediately stopped, her
unconcealed joy immediately seizing him.  She looked the very image of a
mermaid, with her luminescent skin and autumn hair.  A water siren rising from
her aqueous lair, to entice some unsuspecting mainer with her silvered voice
and honey-sweet smile. He was at a loss, suspended between wanting to partake
of the game, and continuing to gawk on her. This was the first time she had
ever looked upon him without any trace of fear or hatred. Here, beneath the
endless summer stars and the fullness of the moon, she looked pure and happy,
like the young girl she was of middle teenage years than some hostage trussed
and fearful of her life being forfeit. Radiant.
Soon, all too soon, it was time to return back to the camp. Jon exited the hut
to allow Sansa to exchange her saturated tunic for a dry one made of wool. For
as long as he lived, Jon would never forget this night, never forget the look
of unconcealed glee upon the she-wolf’s face as she frolicked and splashed
about the lake, relishing in her merriment and innocence. Nor, to his secret
shame, would he forget the vision she had gifted him with the moonlight
highlighting every dip and soft curve of her body, or how the sodden tunic
clung  so alluringly to her breasts, and the ample convex of her hips.
      ___________________________________________________________________
                                        
Sansa was euphoric as she returned to Jon’s hut, the warm summer’s breeze
lifting her spirits. For the first time since her captivity, she felt free. For
that one glorious hour, she was no longer a hostage, an ensnared fledgling dove
among vultures and crows, but a sprite, a wood nymph, and any other spectacular
and divine creature. A goddess, even.
Humming a long-forgotten tune, she began to change out of her wet tunic,
reaching for the proffered one laying on a nearby chest. It was soft and warm,
smelling distinctly of musk and pine and bergamot. Of Jon.
A strange excitement rose up within her and Sansa could not help but relish in
it. Aye, it was but a mere tunic, yet it belonged to him--to Jon. She was now
inadvertently connected to him, a part of him.  She heard a faint rustle of
movement at the front of the hut and turned around to investigate, thinking it
were Ghost, silent as the shadows, slipping inside. 
All smiles left her lips as Sansa turned around fully, her blood nearly
congealing at the sight awaiting her. There, at the  entrance of the hut,
effectively blocking her one means of escape, stood Rattleshirt, his eyes
gleaming lecherously as they raked over her, a feral smile upon his lips.
Chapter End Notes
     I know...I'm evil. My students tell me this all the time! Lol...Also,
     just because Ygritte has vanished, do not think for ONE second that
     she is gone for good. Just like a nightmare has a habit of revisiting
     its victims, so will Ygritte.
***** Fangs *****
Chapter Summary
     Once, Robb had told her about a land in Essos, where both the narrow
     and Shivering Sea meet, Braavos. In Braavos, she had heard that the
     people lived by a specific creed. "Valar Morghulis," Robb repeated,
     the words awkward and halting on his tongue. "All men must die."
     It had been a long day, a particularly taxing lesson. Robb had not
     gone easy on her. Aye, all men must die, Sansa concurred, wiping the
     sweat from her brow, her face dirtied by grime. "But I am no man."
Chapter Notes
     In lieu of the conclusion of Thanksgiving Break (*tear*) and my
     birthday, I wanted to drop this little nugget. With the exception of
     the initial chapter, this is perhaps, my longest chapter to date. For
     those who have complained that the chapters were too short, I hear
     ya! This is for you! In this chapter, we are given flashbacks of
     Sansa's training in Winterfell, past teachings, and the conclusion of
     her encounter with Rattleshirt. Also, it is here where both Jon and
     Sansa arrive at a very crucial turning point in their relationship
     where there is no return.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                          Chapter_Twenty-Four : Fangs
 
  She remembered the early morning she would sneak off from her embroidery
lessons to watch Robb and her Lord Father spar in the courtyard. She remembered
their dexterity, their grace; the sounds of metal clashing against one another
as they battled for supremacy and dominance. While Robb was zealous and eager,
his movement akin to a wolf on the chase of its prey, Ned was matchless and
fluid, as if the sword were but an extension of his arm.
" The steel must be part of you, sweetling. You are but one sword, that is
all." That was a lesson. Her first lesson in swordplay.
  Sansa had been ten the first time she held a sword in her hand. Catelyn had
been appalled, outraged that her eldest daughter and prize wanted to partake in
something so barbaric and primitive. "A lady does not fight!" she would
reprimand, her lips pursed and tight, blue eyes dilated in disbelief and
horror. Sansa scoffed and rolled her eyes, Ned quirked a smile--a brief one--
before Cat turned her annoyed gaze his direction. He was in for it now. Hw
would have to speak with the merchants and have some fabrics ordered. He had
heard that a new shipment of Myrish lace had come in from the Free Cities. Cat
would look absolutely splendid in dark green....
   Ned had initially been against his daughters learning, believing that such
things were not done in the North. He had been adamant in his refusals, immune
to their pretty pleadings and tears. Yet, theirs was a difficult world, an
arduous life where they hurt little girls with no hesitation or qualm. Soon--
much too soon--they would have to leave the warmth and sanctuary of Winterfell
and encounter bigger monsters than the grumpkins and snarks of childhood
nightmares.
" The world is a dangerous place, Cat. The girls must learn." Catelyn was
angry, sure, but eventually relented. And soon, the lessons ensued.
" Keep your eye on the angle of my shoulders. They will give clue to my next
move." Her Lord Father would oft remind her during those early morn trainings
with Robb, Arya, and Theon. Although his face was wet with exertion, he was
proud of Sansa. She was like a cat--quick as a shadow and light as a feather.
In this moment, she reminded him so much of Elaynna.
She remembered the first time Theon had challenged her to a duel, scoffing at
her skill and questioning what she had learned. "Your brother and Lord Father
might have gone easy on you, Little Flower, but I will not." Robb had been
livid, threatening Theon with castration should harm befall his baby sister,
yet Sansa had been ready, prepared. Theon had lunged at her, trying to make her
lose focus, but Sansa blocked it easily.
˜Watching is not seeing. Seeing, but true seeing...that is the heart of
swordplay." Sansa remembered those words, ingrained them within her heart. It
was all but a lesson.
Theon was a worthy opponent, reliable, but Sansa had been better. One quick
thrust later and he had been disarmed, a dirtied heap in the muck. He had been
embarrassed, disgusted that a lady--a girl--bested him. Robb was superior,
lauding his sister's skill.
Yet, Sansa had heard none of it, her eyes solely on Theon's face and the
crimson streak that ran from his brow to jaw. Oh gods...She had made him bleed!
The scar was thin, but a hairline in  width; barely noticeable to the passing
stranger. Yet, despite the superficiality of the wound, Theon had bled like a
stuck pig. A small smile graced Sansa's lips as she remembered how much the
ward ranted and raved, for he had always been a vain man. "It's an
improvement," Robb asserted, his blue eyes gleaming at the hilarity.
For a brief moment, Sansa had been appalled at what she had done, for
inflicting harm on another. Ladies are supposed to be docile and meek. Yet, Ned
was hearing none of it. "All men are made of water. If you pierce them, the
water leaks and he will die. That is the frailty of life and the imperfection
of man."
Watching Theon bleed like that caused something within Sansa to shift. It was
in that moment, Sansa realized that she could take a life, make a man bleed.
Once, Robb had told her about a land in Essos, where both the narrow and
Shivering Sea meet, Braavos. In Braavos, she had heard that the people lived by
a specific creed. "Valar Morghulis," Robb repeated, the words awkward and
halting on his tongue. "All men must die."
It had been a long day, a particularly taxing lesson. Robb had not gone easy on
her. Aye, all men must die, Sansa concurred, wiping the sweat from her brow,
her face dirtied by grime. "But I am no man."
        _______________________________________________________________
 
Jon's sword was lying just at her right, resting upon a stool in the corner of
the hut. Sansa eyed it, calculating. She could make for it, the distance was
not that great. Mayhap just five more steps...
Yet, what would be the risk? She was standing in the middle of Jon's hut in
nothing save a tunic. Sansa was not stupid; men only wanted one thing from a
pretty girl. While some men got it using pretty words and false promises,
others, like Rattleshirt, just took it.
He was a large man, larger than even Tormund, but he was quick with the
alacrity and swiftness of a hunter. He could easily overwhelm her, crush her
within his fist like a butterfly. She could scream, he was likely anticipating
it, wanting it, but then what? He would more than likely slit her throat before
Jon arrived.
No, Sansa would  not  scream, nor would she beg. There would be only one person
walking away tonight. And it would not be him.
"I watched you, waiting for you to come back alone. You were so beautiful
tonight. Like a water goddess." Rattleshirt came closer, eyes never leaving
her. He stumbled slightly, but quickly regained his footing. It was then Sansa
realized that the gods had granted her a small bit of mercy--Rattleshirt was
drunk. For as long as she had lived, Sansa never recalled her father deep in
his cups, claiming that too much alcohol dulled the senses.
"Did you fuck him? Give him a taste of your ginger mint? He was always such a
greedy bastard, never thought to share the spoils."
Sansa took a step to the right, to the blade; small steps, not too quick or
sudden. All the while her eyes remained on the leviathan barring the door. "You
will die this night, you know this."
It was not an idle threat, something tossed out of anger and frustration, but a
promise. Sansa meant to kill this man. One way or another.
Never hesitate...hesitation leads to mistakes...
He advanced closer, she could smell the ale on his fetid breath, her stomach
churned. "Come now. If Rattleshirt must die tonight, I will see the White
Wolf's bitch to the afterlife with me." Sansa lunged towards the blade, mere
inches away. Yet it was too late.
With a hiss and a cry, Rattleshirt had grabbed a handful of Sansa's hair,
pivoting her around to the front, his face buried on her neck, inhaling her
scent. "You will remember this night--my body pressed against yours. You
trembling and helpless as I ram my cock into you. You spilling from everyone of
your tight little holes. Most importantly, you will know that it is Rattleshirt
who owns you, that you are mine."
One morning, when Sansa was two and ten, her father had sent for a master
fencer from Braavos up North to instruct both his daughters. Syrio Forel was
the man's name and a former First Sword. Quick and lithe, his fighting was
different from the swordplay up North, his movement fluid like water. Sansa and
Arya had been entranced by him, by his matchless grace and precision. "We
Braavosi don't fear death. We don't fear it because we understand."
Arya scrunched her face, confused. "Understand what?" her grey eyes both
intrigued and annoyed. She was frustrated, just as Sansa had been; they had
teamed up during practice to best him and he had beaten them both. Soundly.
" We understand that unlike you Northerners with your old gods and you
Southroners with your Light of the Seven, there is only one god worth revering-
-the God of Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death: "Not today.""
Quick, much too quick, with a speed and deftness that surprised her, Sansa
again lunged forward to Jon's blade, this time succeeding. Spinning around
swiftly, before the wildling had a chance to react, she lodged the sword into
the brute's neck, burying it to the hilt. Rattleshirt dropped to his knees, his
eyes bulging in disbelief and faint hysteria. The look of the damned, Ser Forel
called it. The last look of the dying before The Stranger seized him.
Kneeling before her now, Sansa looked at the languishing man and
felt...nothing. No sadness, no fear. Only emptiness. Aye, it had been
necessary, for this man tried to rape her and gods know what else. If it had
not been him than someone else. She was a killer--like Father, like Uncle
Benjen, like Robb. She supposed she was now condemned, along with the rest of
them, to the deepest pit of the Seven Hells.
Extracting the knife from the giant's neck, Sansa leaned forward, maintaining
eye contact. He was fading, the light slowly diminishing, and yet he still
looked feral and angry. No doubt damning her to perdition. Yet it was all too
late; she was already there.
"I am far from helpless and I belong to no man."
The wildling spat the ground, his blood thick and crimson, and died. The look
of contempt and hatred still upon his mien.  The dragon may breathe fire,
Sansa thought absently,  and the lion may have brute strength, yet the wolf has
fangs.  There was movement to her left. Jon.
"I killed him." It was not a question, but a statement. A rather stupid one.
Sansa blinked, barely seeing. "I killed that man."
Sansa did not remember her arm being divested of the sword, or Jon holding her
face in his hands. Nor did she remember the trembling of her hands, the blood
coating the fingers; the rufescent liquid bright against the dying fire of the
hut. Everything was a haze, a blur of confusion and disorientation. Someone
must have changed her tunic, for it was different--smelled differently.
All that she remembered in that moment was leaning into Jon's touch, slow and
deliberate, her lips meeting his. He moaned, deepening the kiss, leaning into
her. Sansa pulled back, and Jon let out a growl of frustration, chasing down
her lips. Gods, but he would never tire of her, never tire of this feeling of
completion that she alone invoked.
The She-Wolf was speaking and Jon had to strain to his head to hear. "You
promised you would not kiss me again lest I asked you." Jon blinked, his heart
beginning to splinter in two.  No no no... He had been so damned close.
"Sansa---"
She kissed him again briefly, silencing him. He watched her intently, silently.
His heart a rapid staccato in his ears.
"I am asking you."
 
         ____________________________________________________________
 
She breathed life into him as she leaned over him, a faint whisper against his
lips, her own soft and pliant,  sweet like nectar and summer dreams. Sansa's
kiss was fleeting, a brief interlude, and Jon was bereft, craving more. She was
a drug, more potent than the finest Arbor Gold, and Jon wanted more, more of
her. Always.
  She pulled back slightly, and Jon reached for her, hysterical and fearful,
suddenly incomplete and wanting. She was the embodiment of The Maiden above
him, divine and beautiful, a contrast between bright, blinding hope and
unfulfilled yearning. Jon was at a loss, afraid to look away from her, afraid
that she would disappear, that all of this--this bright hope, this needful
yearning--was but a dream that he would soon wake from. He would never wake
from her again.
A curtain of fire pooled over her shoulders, mesmerizing him. She was divinity
above him, a moon goddess, ethereal colors, crimson hair and eyes of sapphire
seas. Jon's fingers threaded through her auburn locks, returning her back to
him, kissing her deeply. Sansa smiled as she acquiesced to his voiceless
command: a siren's smile, dulcet , honey-sweet and seductive.
Her head dipped down to his once more, tasting him. His breath lost at the feel
of her. She was promise. The uncontained hope, the anticipated exaltation and
fulfillment.
He stroked her, enjoying the contrast--the soft wetness of her core against the
scarred callousness of his fingers. His hands were strong, a man's full grown
and strong, fervent and frantic, craving more of what was offered. Sansa began
to rock her hips, unbidden, wanting to feel him against her, feel more of his
touch.
For the first time, she felt beautiful, wanton, uninhibited. She leaned
forward, her hips continuing its undulating beneath his hands, filling him. She
needed this, his touch, the gentle firmness of his hands against her.
At that moment, Jon felt drugged, as though he were on a euphoric high he could
never come back from. He cupped her sex gently; gasping at her wetness, and
felt a moan slowly build within his throat. Sansa lifted her head slowly and
arched her back, the movement so fluid, so perfect, that Jon was at a loss. Her
skin was of the purest pearl, and she was soft yet lithe, a merging of the
divine and the spectacular.
She lowered herself over him, aching and hot, and stilled, waiting. It was 
strange, this joining and union. Her Lady Mother and Septa had bespoken of the
pain, unbearable and searing, white-hot in its intensity. And yet...
Yet..
"Oh..."
Jon's hands skimmed lower, at the meeting of her thighs. He needed her--her
touch, her essence. He needed to feel her, to touch her. It would never be
enough.
Jon pulled Sansa to him, urgent and frantic, unable to wait any longer. A
fervency and hysteria he had never experienced before spurring him on. Now...He
needed her now.
Sansa kissed him again, silencing his unspoken request. Her taste providing
temporary mollification and respite. No words were needed; they were one.
She pushed forward, sinking down deeply. And it was Jon who gasped, lost. She
was so warm, so sweet. Never had he felt like this before, never had he felt
such completion, such elation.
Sansa began to move, slowly posting up and down on his length, taking him in
with shuddering need. She felt so full, so complete, and yet, she wanted more.
What is it you are doing to me, Savage?
Jon surged forward, kissing her, tasting her deeply. He needed her--needed more
of her skin in his hands, her hair on his fingertips, her taste on his tongue.
More than that, more than this need--this craving--he wanted her heart, to
capture the wild and untamable essence of her.
Sansa leaned down, kissing him again, gasping. She was close..so very close. At
that moment, she felt as though she were standing at a great precipice, that at
any moment, something both terrifying and spectacular was awaiting her. All she
had to do was hold on...
Jon clenched his teeth, lost to the feeling. Lowering his hand, his fingers
touched her nexus, gently stroking. Sansa arched her back, crying out. Her hips
began to undulate, moving faster, harder.
Yes...
Then, just when the sun met the earth, burning and radiant, Sansa cried out,
lost to a blinding haze of light and color. Jon followed immediately after, his
roar of release splintering the calm tranquility of the morning sky.
Chapter End Notes
     All the goodies! We got sex, we got violence, the only thing we're
     missing is Rock n Roll. However to be fair, though, I was listening
     to Bruce Springsteen's "Because the Night" while typing this. Also,
     fast fact: This was the very first time I had EVER written a sex
     scene.
     PS: I know that many will be upset that Jon didn't play the
     conquering hero and rush in to save Sansa, but I wanted Sansa to have
     this victory and show both Jon and the rest of the wildling tribe
     that she doesn't need saving or someone to fight her battles. She is
     a wolf, and wolves can hold their own.
***** Clarity *****
Chapter Summary
     "He rode through the streets of the city,
     down from his hill on high,
     O'er the wynds and the steps and cobbles,
     He rode to a woman's sigh
     For she was his secret treasure,
     She was his shame and bliss.
     And a chain and a keep are nothing,
     compared to a woman's kiss.
     For hands of gold are always cold,
     But a woman's hands are warm."
     --"For Hands of Gold are Always Cold", GRRM, A Clash of Kings
Chapter Notes
     Jon dreams in color, dreams of the future and possibilities; Sansa
     laments on her irrational decision and wars with her heart.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Chapter Twenty-Five: Clarity
 
His world had been dark and grey, dismal and caliginous colors that were once a
reflection of his equally bleak and desolate existence. Life was a cruel and
fickle place, a world overrun with ugliness, insouciance, and dissolution. Just
as in the North, with its coldness and unforgiving terrain, Jon Snow's heart
had been as equally cold and severe.
It was safer this way, this apathy and detachment. Better. The more one loved,
the weaker he became. The sharper the bite when the inevitable happened and
they were ripped from loving embrace. The gods were a cruel and vicious lot,
Mance had once warned him. That is why they were gods. One of Mance's
enumerable lessons.
Jon remembered the night Lyanna had breathed her last. She had been pregnant,
almost five moons gone, when The Stranger took her and his brother within his
grasp. Mance had been bereft, inconsolable. A raving paroxysm of madness, grief
and hysteria.
For two moons, he had been a recluse, shutting himself up in his and Lyanna's
hut, torn between damning the gods to perdition and pleading with them to grant
his reunion with her. He had been absent on the day of her funeral, the elders
deeming it wise to bar him from the lighting of her funeral pyre, fearful he
would do something irrational and stupid to join his beloved to the afterlife.
Lyanna had been Mance's balance, his peace. She had soothed him, calmed the
raging beast that had once ran riot and untethered.
She had been his lover, his wife, his confidant, his counsel. Yet, more than
that-much, much more than that-she had been his equal, the only one who secured
his heart. When she had passed on, she took the flesh and superfluity with her
to the grave, leaving Mance with naught save the discarded offals and remains.
While Mance had lost his wife, Jon had lost his mother. He had been but a young
boy of seven when her life had been forfeit, but he could still remember her.
Her smell of wild dianthus and cinnamon, her smile effervescent and warm like
the Dronish sun. She had been his splash of color contrast to the monochromatic
monotony of reality. When Lyanna had died, Jon became a shell, a hardened and
hollowed out carapace of some once thriving, living thing. He did not dream any
longer, fearful that his dreams would be of her, resplendent and waiting, arms
outstretched and beckoning. His dreams had ended, forever dormant, once she had
gone from the earth, taking all color and vibrancy along with her and leaving
only greys and blacks.
Now, thoughâ€¦
Thanks to the She-Wolf, Jon dared once more to dream in color, of passionate,
and fiery reds and serene and tranquil azures. She was both fire and ice;
burning and all-encompassing, yet cool and temperate simultaneously. Gazing
upon her now, in all her raw and splendid glory, Jon was a man resurrected.
"Gods, just look at you," he rasped, threading his fingers through Sansa's
crimson mane, now damp with perspiration, stilling her. "You are so beautiful.
My red wolf."
Jon reached for her again, half afraid she would disappear before him,
dissipate within a plume of heat and sex before his very eyes, and half in need
of desperate contact-wanting to feel her beneath his fingers-needing to touch
her lest he splinter and fall apart to ashes and cinders. He kissed her slowly,
languidly, savoring her taste upon her tongue, sweeter than Arbor Gold and
honeyed wine. Sweeter than life. She was ambrosia from gods, and Jon was drunk
on her.
Sansa lifted her head, a fluid arc, and arched her back, memorizing him. She
was close, rocking her hips faster, desperate to get closer to him. She looked
glorious riding him, like Visneya Targaryen mounting her dragon, Vhagar. Jon
had never seen anything so alluringly beautiful...
"Come for me, Sansa." Jon whispered, calloused hands cinching the smooth
silkiness of her hips; not enough to hurt, but hard enough  to leave an
indention, a stamp against the luminescence of her skin, evidence that she
would never again be the same. His. She was his.
"Come for me, sweet girl."
Jon raised his hips and began to thrust upwards, meeting her. Sansa mewed, and
lunged forward, meeting his lip, wanting to silence him lest the spell that
existed between them broke, upended. Her eyes were closed and yet she could
feel his gaze upon her, transfixed. Winter grey and dilated, nearly obsidian.
Watching her with something akin to reverence and worshipful awe.
No doubt he would think her a goddess, a divine being not of this realm,
something both magical and alien, beautiful yet foreign. For she was his secret
treasure, his shame and his bliss. Sansa could not bring herself to look at him
for if she did, she would free-fall and careen down that abysmal, never-ending
pit of hatred, shame, and self-loathing. Whore. That is what she was now. A
wanton whore.
She could hear her mother's voice in her head, both righteous and dissenting.
What are you worth now that you have given him your virtue? Who will want you?
You are no better than a common slattern in the brothels of Wintertown.
As a tear trickled down her cheek, Sansa splintered and fell apart, lost to the
feel of Jon's fingers upon her pearl, the golden haze quickly seizing and
enshrouding her within its blinding glory. Jon followed immediately after,
crying out as he reached the precipice. Sansa slumped forward, boneless, her
hair, now saturated with sweat, tucked beneath his chin. .
Jon was euphoric, for it was like all the puzzle pieces fit together now, she
was that one missing piece that Jon had searched relentlessly for and yet had
managed to evade him, just at his fingertips and forever beyond reach. He would
never be without her again. She was now a part of him, an extension. Where he
ended, she now began.
Sansa could feel him playing with her hair and she looked up, watching him
admire the auburn locks, threading them through his fingers. "When I was a boy,
a witch told me that I would fall in love with a kneeler. That she would be
kissed by fire. She also told me that she would be my destiny and my
destruction as well should I not take heed." He kissed her then; it was not a
gentle lover's kiss, but one gripped by urgency and possessiveness.
"Yet, laying here in your arms, all I find is sanctuary and respite. You are my
sanctuary."
Sansa remained quiet and aloof, only listening. She was positioned within a
precarious situation, teetering on the edge. The words were sweet, vaunted
declarations that she would have loved to have whispered to her all those many
years ago when she was that stupid little girl rife with summer songs of golden
knights upon white destriers. Yet, she was no longer that naïve child, but a
woman full grown. She no longer sang any songs and only the silence lingered.
Summer may be here, but all she felt was the cold bareness of winter.
The wildling's words were beautiful, yet Sansa could not allow herself the
distraction. Everything was different now-she was now different. Only virtuous
maids were allowed the possibility of love, to luxuriate in its vast warmth and
phosphorescence. She was no longer that maid, only but a hollowed shell.
She had given herself to him, using her only card to barter with. She knew the
risks and had calculated well. Rattleshirt had been but a pawn, an expendable
pawn that she was well-rid of. Although Sansa had not wanted to kill him, she
had no other alternative, she could at least find comfort in that he would no
longer be allowed to impose his will on someone else.
She now found herself in a new sort of danger, one more terrifying than
Rattleshirt could ever aspire to be. Soon, Jon would tire of her, discard her
like an unwanted toy after all novelty wore off. Sure, Sansa could play the
game and keep up with the charade, but for how long? How long would she be
forced to play marionette and endure this pretense until the hollowed shell she
so carefully and meticulously erected disintegrated and crumbled about her?
She was in love with him, in love with Jon Snow. How did this come about, Sansa
was not certain, but there it was-irrefutable and damning. She was in love with
this wildling savage, but yet it could never be.
If only...The words stung, acrid and sharp like wormwood. If only.
Jon wrapped his arm around her form, securing her to him, seeking both succor
and warmth. Sansa leaned in, allowing his touch, allowing a few more lasting
moments within the encircle of his arms, basking in his warmth. He was her
summer knight, all that she had secretly yearned for. Yet, sadly, it was not
her reality. Soon, she would leave him and all pretense behind. Dreams were a
welcomed escape, yet now it was time to wake . The sun would soon set and night
would be upon her.
Chapter End Notes
     It's been too long and I have gotten a wee bit rusty. My apologies. I
     promise it will get better. In regards to Jon and Sansa? It seems as
     though they are perpetually entangled in this ongoing dance of two
     steps forward, one step back.
***** Retrospection *****
Chapter Summary
     "I am a proud man, Lady Stark. But even the proudest of men will
     become beggars at the behest of their children. Suppose you have some
     affection for Jon, somewhere within the depths of your heart. I beg
     you-hurt him to love him. Hurt him to save him. Only by breaking his
     heart can you offer salvation."
Chapter Notes
     Mance and Sansa have an important conversation and decisions must be
     made... Nothing like a lil' bit of angst to ring in the New Year!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Chapter Twenty-Six: Retrospection
"Do you love my son?"Mance's question was a simple one, honest and bereft of
all duplicity and guile. Yet, in spite of the simplicity of the inquiry, there
was a steady hollowing within the pit of Sansa's stomach. At that moment, she
was not standing at the center of Mance Rayder's hut, facing the staid and
pensive King-Beyond-the-Wall, but instead submerged within the frigid, glacial
depths of the North Sea.
She felt frozen, pegged. Rooted to the spot, akin to a convict facing
execution, or a hare staring down the jaws of a ravenous, solitary wolf. Sansa
opened her mouth, the lie ready upon her lips. If she lied, she could gain
further control of her heart and harden it fully, once more assume the guise of
a that cold, stoic Ice Queen.
Lie! Lie, damn you! You have already told so many lies, what's one more,
surely?Yet, all mendacity Sansa had ready died as soon as she met Mance's
steady gaze. While Jon's eyes were piercing, able to stop a man with a single,
deliberate glance, Mance's eyes were terrifying. Darker than obsidian, they
were bottomless; able to pierce both bone and marrow once they leveled and
held. Yet despite their illimitability, they were not cruel or empty, not like
Ramsay's icy depths or Ygritte's hollowed pools. No, instead they were the eyes
of an arbitrator, wise and omniscient. Automatically, Sansa remembered Old Nan
and her unflinching stare.
She tried again, this time ready. Sansa raised her chin, her own blue gaze both
cool and leveled. She could do this. She could match wits with the Wildling
king. She could match wits with any man.
"No." There, she had said it. The utterance was simple, a single-syllabled
admission, and yet it felt as though her heart had shredded. Nothing. There was
nothing, only a hollowed, tattered muscle that continued to bleed and bleed and
bleed.
Mance had wanted to see her, the news of the wolf maid slaying the formidable
Lord of Bones had spread throughout the camp. The whispers were hushed, yet
laced with admiration and reverence. As a practical and pragmatic man, Mance
was solicitous in believing such proclamations. Nay, it was impossible that
such a meek, timid slip of a girl could fell such a brute. More than likely,
Rattleshirt met his demise (greatly deserved and long overdue, if one were to
ask Mance.) through some sort of folly or imbecility. Perhaps he had partaken
in too much mead and had goaded Tormund into a row. There had been no love lost
between the red-haired wild man and the bellicose Lord of Bones. Many a time,
Giantsbane had vowed to gut him, mayhap he had finally delivered on his
promise...
Yet, Mance had inspected the body and assessed the damage. Only one seized with
unharnessed rage could inflict so much debasement. Mayhap he had been wrong.
Mayhap the docile and timid she-wolf had some fight within her somewhere,
lurking just beneath the pretty wrapping and exterior.
Mance nodded, an imperceptible gesture of concession, yet his eyes remained
measured and remained impassive, conveying nothing. It was unnerving, for Sansa
was almost certain he was disassembling her piece by piece, like an old tunic
slowly becoming unraveled at the seams. "'Tis a pity, then. You have made him
happy, the happiest he has been since..." He need not finish the statement, for
Sansa already knew.
Since his mother.
Jon had spoken of his mother only the once, after he had made love to her that
fated night. There was a pooling between her thighs as Sansa recalled the way
he touched her as he loved her so tenderly, so sweetly. Before, she had never
thought it possible a wildling could be gentle, let alone considerate in his
reciprocity. Yet Jon had been attentive, careful. His touches light and but a
whisper of fingertips, reverent and worshipful as they ghosted over her skin.
Sansa doubted Ramsay could ever be so gentle or deliberate.
"I am certain I am just a novelty to him, your Grace." Sansa replied,
succinctly, her cheeks aflame. She need not be embarrassed, she was a woman
grown after all. Yet, there was somethingembedded within the wily King's
obsidian gaze that unnerved her, coupled with the small smile that graced the
corner of his mouth.
He knows...
"Hmmm. Yes, but my son is in love with you. What think you on that?" It was a
loaded question and Mance knew it. Had he lived south of The Wall, he would
have made a formidable lord somewhere. No doubt, he would have fared
exceedingly well at the Southrone courts within the Red Keep.
Sansa chose not to respond. For what could she say to pacify him? I love him. I
love him not. I love him. I love him not. And so the game continues.
"I know my son. I have spent nine and ten years assessing his moods; more than
enough time to know what makes him happy. Suppose you love my son, just queer
speculation. Are you prepared to face the consequences for this affection and
fancy? For this love? My son is a bit like you in a way-a lover of songs. He
told me that the day he first looked upon you, you were on horseback, singing
of Aemon the Dragon knight and his love for Queen Naerys."
Sansa stilled, her breath almost forfeit. She remembered that day vividly. All
the best and finest dressmakers had come to Winterfell to fit her for her
wedding gown-a horrendous tent of silk, ivory Myrish lace and gold embroidery.
Sansa wanted something simpler, less ostentatious, reflecting her love of the
North and of her lineage. Yet Ramsay had insisted. He always insisted.
For two solid, agonizing hours, Sansa played the demure , subservient lady to
perfection: tranquil, meek and unassuming in her passivity and obeisance. Yet
all the while, she was livid, her insides in revolt. Her fingers itched,
desiring to rent the monstrous confection into shreds. It was naught save a
leash, a restraint meant to tether her to him permanently. Did he not know that
wolves ran free, belonged to no man?
The time seemed interminable, yet at last-blessedly-they had gone, Lord Bolton
and his bastard. Sansa felt something shift, an oppressive, stifling weight.
She was free if only for a moment. She did not have to endure Ramsay's
lecherous stares and misplaced hands-she would have a lifetime of that.
As soon as they had left, Sansa quickly changed, not wanting to suffer another
second under the mountainous fabric or ensnared within its deceptive beauty.
She saddled her mare then and raced for the wolfswood, Robb, Jory, and two
trusted guards in tow. Perhaps it was undignified and unladylike. Perhaps she
was acting like a hellion racing through the forests, but at that moment, she
had not cared; she just wanted away, as far away from this lunacy as her mare
could take her.
It was Robb who had begged for a song, wanting to hear his sweet baby sister's
mellifluous voice once more. She had been blessed with the gift of song, Sansa
had. The gods had seen to it. Before Ramsay, before the betrothal, she was like
a nightingale, a song ready upon her lips. Now...now the songs had been
silenced and stifled. Another of Ramsay Bolton's doings.
And so Sansa sang. She sang of the famed dragon knight, of his unmatched valor.
She sang of the pious and fair Queen Naerys and of her loveless marriage to
Aegon the Unworthy. She sang of their ill-fated love that doomed them all, of
what could never be. And her heart broke, shattered at the unfairness of it
all.
It had been her favorite when she was but a girl, when true love was real,
open, and raw. It made her hope, and yearn. And burn with an all-consuming
inferno. Queen Naerys and Aemon. Jonquil and Florian. Life was not a song,
Sansa knew that firsthand. Ramsay Bolton had all but ensured it. There were no
Jonquils or Florians; no honorable Aemons or Naeryses. Yet there, within the
seclusion and sanctuary of the wolfswood, Sansa sang. Clear, lilting and
dulcet. Rising high into the heavens, for only the gods to hear.
Mance had been speaking to her then and Sansa blinked to regain focus. Her
thoughts were riotous and dissonant, her heart a cacophony within the confines
of her chest. Mance had to all but incline his head a mere fraction to hear it.
She swallowed slowly and willed the rebellious tendon to still, her face both
impassive and concealed.
As painful as this was, such self-preservation and assiduity were necessary.
The Seven-Pointed Star denounced lying, stating that such duplicity and
deception were one of the most egregious of sins. The ones found with its
poison upon their lips were cast down, condemned to the deepest level of the
Seven Hells. We all are liars here. All of us.
"You are aware that your kin, Benjen Stark, is on a mission to retrieve you,
are you not? Along with your betrothed, a hundred men march North of The Wall."
The ice Sansa had so meticulously erected began to slowly percolate and thaw. 
Uncle Benjen. Benjen Stark was coming-accompanied by Ramsay. Oh gods. No doubt
Ramsay would kill every single man, woman, and babe if he thought they were a
barrier to her. And Jon...Jon was capable of anything; she had bore witness to
his unbridled fury firsthand.
It was unfathomable to think he would allow her to walk away from him. Not now.
Not after...
"My son will fight for you, you know this. He is in love with you and it will
kill him, one way or another. I-." Mance blinked and looked away, suddenly
upended. There it was, the unravelling, the coming undone. Here, right before
her eyes, the King-Beyond-the-Wall was falling apart at the seams. Sansa would
not have thought it possible.
He swallowed thickly and exhaled. All vulnerability had now faded and the once
insuperable wall of stoicism resumed. It had been but a moment-a mere second-
yet the ripples were everlasting, casting its shadows.
"I am a proud man, Lady Stark. But even the proudest of men will become beggars
at the behest of their children. Suppose you have some affection for Jon,
somewhere within the depths of your heart. I beg you-hurt him to love him. Hurt
him to save him. Only by breaking his heart can you offer salvation."
Sansa remained mute, her tongue suddenly numb and thickened. He made it sound
so simple, as though it were the logical explanation in the world. Yet, how
could he know?
"You say you know your son, your Grace, that you know him better than any man.
Then you should know that he cannot be deterred or shaken. Perhaps you are
right, perhaps he has developed an affection for me. Then what? You think he
will just relinquish me and let me go?"
Sansa was desperate, nearly hysterical. It was perhaps the closest she had come
to losing all equanimity and control. She was tired, so damned exhausted.
"You are a Stark of Winterfell. The blood of the Wolf-Maid, Allyria the Fair,
and the First Men run through your veins. They were survivors, who did what
needed to be done to survive and live. Had we lived in another world, another
time where we had control of our lives, I would have welcomed you into my arms
as a daughter, for not only does my son love you, but my people as well. Alas,
that is not our reality. Save him, Sansa. Save him from himself."
_________________________________________________________
Jon had been gentle and thorough as he made love to her that night. His kisses
were ardent, yet sweet. Light, like snowflakes caressing her skin in a gentle
lover's embrace. His thrusts were slow and deliberate, completing her. Sansa
tried to detach herself from him, remove herself from the myriad of emotions
that only he could invoke within her. However, she had been powerless to resist
him as she had been the very first time he loved her.
She felt the familiar tightening low within the depths of her belly, a
delicious clenching sensation. She was close, her walls enclosing around his
length. Jon moaned and reached down between them, to where they were joined,
his fingers searching. Suddenly, Sansa was engulfed within a haze of light and
color, its intensity and vibrancy overcoming her. She convulsed, shattered and
boneless, succumbing to tide and pull of him.
Later, as he slept on, Sansa quickly dressed and fled the hut. She had given
him Essence of Nightshade, as it grew in abundance in the wild, mixing three
drops of it into hs mead. Although Muirgayne had assured her that the drug was
fast-acting, taking effect quickly, Sansa had to flee. The longer she remained,
the more precarious her predicament.
She reached her silvered mare, her one sole familiarity since the abduction,
and untehtered the reins. The mare gave a soft nicker in greeting and nudged
Sansa's hand gently. "Hush, my beauty. Soon, we will fly, like a bird taking
wing."
The map had said that it would tale about three weeks to reach Castle Black,
another of Muirgayne's gifts. She had enough provisions and there was a river
that flowed from the camp. All she had to do was follow it.
"Go east, towards the rising sun. Do not stop riding until you reach home."
Sansa embraced Muirgayne, willing herself not to cry. She had been good to her,
she and Tormund both, and she would miss them terribly, but she had to leave,
had to get away. She would die if she remained, more importantly, she would be
sentencing thousands of innocents to their demise should she stay.
As she galloped across the moors, Sansa heard the lone, solitary cry of a wolf,
its mournful howl reaching its crescendo before tapering off in the night. A
moment later, another wolf's cry carried over the plain, high and keening. This
one however, was lighter, not as deep as its mate's, haunting.
Sansa wanted to turn around, to return to the camp. To return to Jon Snow's
arms, yet she knew she could not. A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another.
This time, she allowed the heartbreak. She could not look back, no matter how
much she wished otherwise. She could only look forward-to home. To Winterfell.
"If I look back, I am lost."
Chapter End Notes
     *sighs* These two...
     On a serious note, please, if you have any constructive criticism or
     ideas on how this narrative should go, I am more than open. I have
     hit a snag and I am unsure how I want to conclude this story,
     although I have a ways to go. I have a general idea in my head, but
     it is sometimes difficult to manifest that idea on paper. For those
     who have continued to stick with me--a HUGE thank you!<3 I will never
     find the adequate words or expression to convey my gratitude to you
     all.
***** Demon *****
Chapter Summary
     "I love to hunt, you see. While many may think it cruel, it's all but
     a game to me. A fortnight ago, my hounds and I cornered a lone doe in
     the woods. After I loosed my arrow and felled her, I watched her in
     her final moments. Have you ever seen an animal as it lay dying-look
     deep into their eyes? It is the sweetest thing next to killing. It is
     in that moment, you are the closest thing to divinity, having the
     power of life and death. I oft wondered if that was how my father
     looked that night, knowing that he was to die and that at that
     moment, someone else was God."
Chapter Notes
     I apologize for the wait! I was struggling with this chapter, and
     then we just returned to work from Christmas Break. Here, we find
     Benjen Stark and Ramsay Bolton having a little "get to know you"
     beyond The Wall...and a few other things.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Demon
The man beside him cursed, the oath, although a low mutter, shattering the
imposed silence enshrouding them. First Ranger Benjen Stark scowled, his cobalt
eyes cutting the man to the quick. A warning. The soldier quickly averted his
gaze, a hasty apology upon his lips.
He was a Bolton man, judging by the sigil upon his breast. A boy. Clean shaven,
bright-eyed and eager. Too young, Benjen thought grimly. Too young, too green,
too damned stupid to know better, to understand the perils that awaited them
all beyond the sanctuary and confines of The Wall.
Benjen furrowed his brow, he was angry now. The boy was but a milksop, mayhap
only five and ten years of age-too young to know the warmth of a woman, to
father sons. He would be dead soon, the reality penetrated something deep
within the grizzled ranger, a jolting ache. It was not right. None of it.
Soldiers had no business traversing beyond the realm, North men or no. They
were too soft-callow and untried. Benjen had vehemently argued against this
folly when the young Bolton voiced his demands, but had been so cavalierly
dismissed. The Bolton heir had been emphatic, all warnings and discretion
effectively ignored.
Benjen chanced a glance at the Bolton lordling, his lips curling. This was the
man who was to take Sansa to wife in less than a moon's time. Benjen shook his
head in bewilderment and disbelief. He had only met the lad but a week prior,
and already the aversion was immediate in its fervor.
How the fuck did it all come to this?
The boy was a monster, no more a noble than the rapists, murderers and
reprobates serving in the Night's Watch. Wild, untamable and cruel. There was a
madness and lunacy residing beneath the glacial, distant stare and tremoring
hands. Yet, beyond the mania and instability, there was a deep despotism that
lurked just at the surface.
"My condolences on the sudden passing of your father, Lord Ramsay." The words
were regurgitated and forced, a false courtesy. Although life on The Wall
distanced Benjen from the politics of the realm, he remembered the elder Bolton
well. Mostly, Benjen remembered the paleness of his eyes-like two pale stones-
and the coarse whisper of his voice, although spider-soft, would invoke an
unwanted tremor to all who heard it. Benjen shuddered; and he found himself
almost glad the man was dead.
He knew it was wrong, barbaric, to wish death on another, yet Benjen did not
have it in him to care. Roose Bolton was a treasonous cur, his house alone was
responsible for the chaos that splintered the North into two. Thousands of men
had forfeited their lives for one man's envy and covetousness. Benjen looked
askance at Ramsay, his rage bubbling.
What's worse, his beloved niece was to marry his spawn, all for the sake of
securing a lasting armistice. Although tenuous at best, no doubt the marriage
would still transpire despite the elder Bolton's recent demise. Sansa Stark was
too valuable a prize to relinquish and Ramsay Bolton was not one to lose.
Benjen shuddered again, suddenly wishing his position did not call for such
rigid equanimity and objectivity. The young Bolton nodded his thanks, it was an
imperceptible gesture, barely a decline of his chin, yet he remained silent,
impassive, his winter gaze unblinking as it looked out the horizon. Benjen was
nonplussed, surely the passing of one's own father would yield more of a
visceral reaction? However, gaging the lordling ahead of him- the devoid of
emotion, the complete apathy-Benjen was reminded of that of stone. Even then,
he thought, amazed, stone held more sentiment.
Against his better judgement, Benjen pressed on. "I am sure it must be
difficult, what with Sansa's abduction and your lord father's sudden passing.
Everything seems to be off-kilter."
The dark-haired man made a non-committal grunt of concession, yet remained
stoic.
"My father will be greatly missed, yet he was a fool. It was no secret he had
his share of enemies; it was only a pity he did not see how close they really
were."
Benjen stilled, his breath caught. Was this an admission of guilt? He gripped
the hilt of his sword as he eyed the Bolton heir. Bastard.The word came
suddenly, unbidden.You are nothing but a bastard and there is no honor in you.
A lowly, scurrilous dog. Kinslayer.
"We all have our enemies," Benjen conceded tightly. It would be too easy,
Benjen thought darkly. Too easy to kill this man and be done with it. He would
surely not be missed.
"Aye," Ramsay answered, loftily, a hint of a smirk gracing his lips. "But what
is it that they say? Oh yes: One should always keep his enemies close at all
times, lest he will have a dozen knife wounds at his back."
The ravens came roughly a sennight ago, heralding the news. Roose Bolton had
been found dead on his banquet hall, his skin pallid and ashen, vomit and
spittle congealing about his purpling lips. His eyes, once a pale blue, now
lifeless and still, staring up something just beyond. A goblet of wine had
later been discovered near the corpse, yet all remains of its contents gone.
Ramsay had conveniently vanished when the ghastly discovery had been made. None
were so foolish as to interrogate the Mad Dog, no, for that was sheer madness.
Yet the servants' tongues wagged. A few who had been present during Roose
Bolton's final moments witnessed the row the two men had earlier that morn.
Roose had been incensed, lamenting on the death of Domeric, his true born heir
and denouncing his bastard on his house's travails and ill-fortune.
Ramsay had been contrite, reduced once again to that of the dirtied, gaunt
orphan boy unwanted by the world. He tried to apologize, yet all words of
atonement were lost on his lips when the elder lord, drunk on anger and
inconsolable grief, backhanded him, the blow ricocheting off the cold, stone
walls and knocking Ramsay to the ground. Roose had then ordered the bastard out
of his sight, but not before Ramsay, silent seething and glacial, the blow a
scarlet blemish against his pale cheek, vowed retribution. The words were muted
and indecipherable, none could hear the exchange, yet Roose blanched at them,
his eyes widening and mouth agape. It had been the first time anyone could
remember the Dreadfort lord trembling at his son, for it had always been the
opposite; Roose was the one with the leash, able to control and tether his
corybantic son.
Later that evening, Roose had been ensconced within his solar, reviewing
various scrolls and maps when a servant entered, gifting him with a flagon of
wine, confirming it was from the Dustin House. The Dustin's had at one time
been kin to the Boltons by way of marriage, so there was no cause for concern.
Roose had all but partaken in his first sip when the convulsions came, sudden
and swift, and he was reduced to that of an animal cloying at his throat.
If only he had known, the servants would whisper. If only he had known Ramsay
had been seen conferring with the apothecary, secreting small vials of The
Strangler, then mayhaps Roose would have never accepted the accursed wine. If
only he had known that rabid dogs could never be docile, but could only be
restrained for so long before they succumbed to their inner demons and turned
on their masters. They could never be loyal, not for long durations of time,
anyway. Such conscientiousness was false, as foreign and unfamiliar as love.
Mayhap if he had known, Roose would be alive still...
Benjen glanced at Ramsay, measuring him. The grip of the hilt tightening, his
knuckles white and taut. He had made vows before the weirwood tree, swearing to
safeguard the lives of those within the realm-noble and baseborn alike. Yet how
it would be so easy...Gods, but if only. Benjen's fingers thrummed and itched
in wanting.
The elder Bolton may have been a hard man, callous and unfeeling, yet Ramsay
was a lunatic. A virulent, frothing beast. And Sansa was the sacrificial lamb.
The bells rang riot in Benjen's head, a loud, dissentious cacophony of discord.
"You have questions for me, First Ranger. I see it in your eyes. Think you I
killed my beloved father, eh? That I silenced the fearsome and odious Leech
Lord."
A cruel smile graced Ramsay's lips, dark and twisted. A hint of mania slowly
beginning to emerge from its murky depths.
"I love to hunt, you see. While many may think it cruel, it's all but a game to
me. A fortnight ago, my hounds and I cornered a lone doe in the woods. After I
loosed my arrow and felled her, I watched her in her final moments. Have you
ever seen an animal as it lay dying-look deep into their eyes? It is the
sweetest thing next to killing. It is in that moment, you are the closest thing
to divinity, having the power of life and death. I oft wondered if that was how
my father looked that night, knowing that he was to die and that at that
moment, someone else was God."
There were only a handful of times in First Ranger Benjen Stark's recollection
in where he felt terror-true, abject terror. The kind of terror and hysteria
that both seeped into one's bones and held him within its cloying, talon grasp
and refused to yield. He had felt fear before, yes. There had been that one
time in his first year of being a ranger  in where he and a small patrol of
fellow upstarts-eager, wide-eyed, and foolish, so damned foolish-encountered a
clan of wildlings at the Fist of the First Man.
They had been out resourced, outwitted and outnumbered, five wildlings to their
one patrolman. Only he and another lad, Rodger, survived the ambush, and only
because their newly elected King and turn-cloak, Mance Rayder, had ordered his
men to cease their butchery. Yet not before leaving Benjen with a parting gift-
-a bolt to the leg that rendered him nearly incapacitated and with a permanent
limp.
Mance had almost destroyed Benjen's life that day and had nearly taken away the
one thing that he had cared about. He had felt hatred that night-raw,
blistering, pulsing hatred for Mance Rayder, the wildlings, and those of his
ilk-but not fear. He did not fear death; rangers embraced such grim fatalism
with stalwart defiance. Death was all but a means to an end. Besides, all men
died sooner or later, yet very few ever truly lived.
There had been other times in where Benjen Stark encountered similar fear
during escapades beyond The Wall, yet this...This was the first time in his two
score years of life where he encountered terror in the embodiment of Ramsay
Bolton. No doubt, he truly was The Stranger's Son. The man was a pestilence, a
walking plague that spread hysteria and trepidation to all who were unfortunate
enough to stand in his wake.
Benjen gripped the pommel of his sword, envisioning plunging the cold steel in
the Bolton's back, burying it to the hilt. Aye, it was cravenly and odious to
think on. No doubt such a deed would call for his immediate execution. Benjen
could already feel the noose constricting about his throat, his neck snapping
upon impact, his eyes, two bulging, slate-blue discs, staring out at a vast sea
of nothingness. And yet, he had not it in him to care
Such insouciance was dangerous, Benjen knew, and yet he felt nothing. It would
all be worth it, that dark, homunculus would whisper. What's one more Bolton
compared to the life of your niece? It would be a mercy.
Benjen's fingers itched, anxious and impatient. Soon. It would all be over
soon…
The soft, almost imperceptible sound of leather meeting steel caused Ramsay to
turn his head slightly. The Mad Dog's senses were heightened, Benjen mused. The
two locked eyes and held-pale ice against slate. There was nothing, save the
impregnable silence that saturated the ground, as if all the world was
suspended, holding its breath in anticipation, waiting.
If the Bolton was aware that these moments were possibly his last, he gave
nothing away to convey his unease. He only continue to stare, holding Benjen
captive with his lifeless, blue gaze. Paler than ice and equally as cold, they
reminded Benjen of those of a White Walker. And yet, therein lie the irony: the
White Walkers were all gone, now reduced to that of a fanaticism and myth, the
last documented sighting well over two millennia ago. Yet, despite being a
walking corpse of ice and crystal, there was an intelligence and humanity
within their frozen depths. Ramsay was real, tangible and present, and yet,
when staring into his azure eyes, there was nothing-nothing save depravity and
mania.
The seconds elapsed, melting away into minutes, and time seemed to pause. Then,
Ramsay smiled, a cold, cruel and mirthless twist of his lips. "Do you want to
be a god, Benjen Stark? To seize divinity within your hands? It would only take
but a moment and fortune favors the bold."
As Benjen drew his sword, there was a loud disturbance just ahead, shattering
the tension between the two men.
"Lord Bolton! First Ranger!" Benjen snapped his head at the calling of his
name, sheathing his sword. Harrold and Edwyn were approaching, an urgency
spurring their movements. Something was amiss.
Oh gods.
Hastening his horse forward, Benjen raced towards the commotion, his heart in
his throat. He had to be ready, prepared. Come what may. He had to be ready.
Cat and Ned deserved some respite.
It was a woman, Benjen observed, taking in her gaunt frame and shredded garb.
Her skin, though pale, was dirtied, caked in both grime and blood. Yet, it was
the color of her hair that gave Benjen Stark pause. Red.
Sansa.
While Sansa's hair was more auburn, a rich, molten copper, this woman's hair
was russet. It did not hold the luster and shine of his niece's hair nor its
length. Instead, this stranger's hair was matted, dirtied and dull. A sigh of
relief Benjen had not been aware he had been holding, escaped him. It was not
Sansa. Thank the gods.
"Tis a woman, a wildling." Harrold's eyes perused the strange captive,
watchful. He had seen wildlings aplenty, as had all of Benjen's men. Benjen
noted his man's restlessness and knew it for what it was-unease. It was rare
that a wildling would be alone about the moors, even rarer for a woman. No
doubt, she was sent as a decoy. She was bait for the enemy, a trap sent to lure
them all to their unsuspecting deaths.
If it had been another time, Benjen would have relished at the prospect of
extirpating wildlings, picking them off one by one. Yet, there were more urgent
matters to attend. Sansa was missing and answers were scarce. She-whoever she
was-was their best hope.
Ramsay dismounted and circled the wildling slowly, almost curiously.
Immediately, Benjen was reminded again of a wild dog-an ebullient, frothing
mongrel high off bloodlust. And she was the prey.
The Bolton kneeled slowly before her, gripping handfuls of her dirtied hair in
his fist, forcing her to meet his glacial stare.
"What is your name, wildling?" The girl-a woman, for she looked to be of late
teenage years-remained silent, her eyes watchful and defiant. Ramsay smiled,
tightening his grip about her hair, eliciting a sharp, pained hiss.
"Ygritte." The woman continued to watch the Bolton, silent and perusing. Yet,
there was no fear, no hysteria. Only open curiosity, and daresay, queer
fascination. It was akin to the long-awaited meeting of two shared souls parted
only by distance and time.
"Tell me, Ygritte. Do you like to play games? If you tell me what I want to
know, you will live another day. If you lie to me, I will skin you, piece by
fucking piece."
Ygritte remained silent, continuing to watch Ramsay, assessing for any falsity
or artifice. The minutes passed and Benjen was reminded of a pendulum swinging
back and forth. Truth or dare. Truth or dare. Truth or dare.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the wildling-Ygritte-smiled. "What
do you want to know?"
Chapter End Notes
     Dun-Dun-Duh! *cue in dramatic, cliffhanger music* I felt as though we
     needed to switch perspectives and become reintroduced to Benjen and
     Ramsay. Oh, btw--what do you think Ygritte is going to reveal? Please
     read and review!
***** Wanting *****
Chapter Summary
     "...Your love will kill me
     Your love will kill me
     And you will bear my curse
     As long as my life will be
     Your love will kill me
     Your love will kill me
     And I saw it would be
     When I looked at you
     When you look at me..."
     Daniel Lavoie, "Your Love Will Kill Me"
Chapter Notes
     Jon wakes up and remembers sweet memories of the she-wolf...and
     rages.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                        Chapter Twenty-Eight:  Wanting
 
     The forest was still, tranquil and silent. The silver peale of the moon
casting a luminescent and serene glow about the woods. The Old Gods were here
this night, their magic strong--ubiquitous and potent. It was foolish  to
traverse through the moors at night alone, Jon knew, and yet he was not afraid.
     Ghost had left his side and ran ahead of him. Although silent as the
shadows, a veritable phantom through the trees, the beast was agitated,
anxious. Jon knew the wolf’s moods well, for he was but an extension of
himself. He could sense every change and transition. The wolf’s steps were
urgent, swift in his immediacy and need.
     Now. We must hurry now. Faster.
     Jon hastened his steps, running now. Something was amiss. Ghost’s
movements were deft, quickly dipping and vanishing among the trees and brush,
disquieted. Jon called out to the albino direwolf, once, twice, thrice. This
was peculiar. Although one could never tame a wild thing, for as long as Jon
had known the  creature, he had never acted so out of turn.
     A few moments later, Jon caught sight of the large direwolf as it entered
into the forest thicket. Jon drew closer, his arm extended and stretched, his
breath labored; suspended. Another moment passed and then, emerging out of the
clearing, both terrifying and resplendent, was the phantom red wolf.
     The wolf was beautiful, ethereal and divine in its appearance as it stood
watching him, its golden eyes both patient and serene. Ghost reemerged then,
standing at the specter-wolf’s side. Jon called out to him, fearful despite
Ghost’s larger stature, yet the beast remained rooted to the red wolf’s side.
     Ghost whined, a high and keening sound, frantic and insistent. What is it,
boy? What are you trying to tell me, Jon wondered. And then, Jon knew.
     But a moment later, a pup emerged from the thicket, small and frail, its
fur a dark timber-grey. Jon stood transfixed as he watched the wolf pack before
him. Suddenly, Ghost reared his massive head back and emitted a howl, powerful
and lamenting as it reverberated throughout the forest. Soon,  the red wolf
joined in, joining her mate in their wolf song. It was both haunting and
beautiful, tragic and yet hopeful simultaneously. It was a song of resilience,
of new beginnings. Of hope.
     The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives…
     And there, in the midst of the forest woods, Jon listened, his heart both
bursting and full.
__________________________________
 
     Two days. It had been two days since she had vanished into the night. As
if she had never been.  Gone. She was gone. The words feeling akin to a
thousand knife wounds to his chest, to his heart. The finality of it leaving a
festering, gaping chasm so wide and insuperable that Jon felt as though he were
percolating. He hurt.  Ah gods!  How he hurt, a deep, throbbing ache…
     And then he raged. And raged. And raged.
     He had heard the lone, solitary cry of the wolf that night and reached out
to hold her, to take solace in her warmth...only to realize he was alone in his
hut. Jon was unconcerned, however; the she-wolf was oft restless and valued her
solitude. Besides, she could hold her own, as Rattleshirt ascertained first
handedly. The beginnings of a wicked smile tickled at Jon’s lips as he began to
dress.
     This was all but a game, a sweet, tantalizing game of intrigue that she
wanted to partake in. And Jon was willing and eager, wanting to luxuriate and
indulge in Sansa’s sweetness. Ever since that night with Rattleshirt, he felt a
deep, insatiable hunger that could not be abated, but only continued to
exacerbate and deepen. He could not get enough of her, could not quench this
unabated need of her.
     Was this how Bael the Bard felt with his own she-wolf all those eons past?
Was such a love possible, all-encompassing and raw with its potency?
     Jon finished dressing and made his way to the lake. He closed his eyes,
envisioning her. Auburn hair wet and slick against luminous pearl, eyes of
indigo dusk managing both innocence and daring; a siren’s smile upon her lips.
She looked so beautiful that night, a manifestation of all of Jon’s bright,
glittering hopes and secret dreams. And Jon held on tightly, feverish; fearful
that at any moment, she would vanquish and all his yearnings would disintegrate
before him into millions of tiny shards of color and light.
     And yet she had…
     Jon’s heart throbbed anew, so piercing an ache he was rendered breathless.
At that moment, Jon felt like a butterfly bereft of his wings--torn, shredded
and discarded.  She was not at the lake. Nor at the weirwood tree. Jon frowned
at that, feeling as though his insides had turned into ash. He ran back to the
hut, frantic.
     “Sansa!” Yet there was no reply, save only the desperate echo of his voice
as it reverberated through the midnight sky. Jon felt numb, empty and hollow as
he made his way woodenly to the hut. He did not need to go to where Sansa’s
mare had been tied, for he knew it  would not be there. Jon’s knees buckled as
the finality and realization hit him anew.
     Oh gods…
     Jon eyed the discarded cup in the corner of the hut and sniffed. Although
faint, there was no mistaking the sickly-sweet smell. Nightshade. Jon trembled
in both horror and revulsion.
     Nightshade was a sedative use to quiet the senses. Mance had been given
doses of it in his ale after the death of Lyanna. One drop  to calm the frayed
nerves, three drops to lull into a deep, weightless sleep. Ten drops, even
diluted into a cup of wine, summoning death.
     It was the gentlest of toxins, Jon knew. As dangerous as it was
efficacious. The perfect drug to use in an escape.
     Jon trembled in anger. And realization.  Only two women in the village
held knowledge of the herbs and flora that grew about the camp. Ygritte had
gone, absconding into the night. As irrational as she was, Jon knew that she
would never risk recapture simply for retribution. That only left another--
Murigayne.
     Jon roared, hurling the cup against the far wall. He began to pace, the
desire to destroy the hut coursing through him, burning in its fervor. He felt
caged, restless. He felt the epitome of the Northern Fool. A damned, Northern
Fool.
     How in the seven hells had it come to this?
     He had been the one to lay the traps, to look for all duplicity and
subterfuge. At one time, he could have easily rooted out any signs of
deception. Now, it felt as though he had been played at his own game. Gods, but
the betrayal stung and singed. Had she planned this all along? Biding her time
until she was able to rid herself of him?
     Jon thought back to their last encounter--of her soft moans and chirps,
her hungry kisses that she lavished upon him and would set his blood aflame.
She had initiated their lovemaking that time, two nights ago. She had been
forceful in her ministrations, much to Jon’s glee and elation. Since the death
of Rattleshirt, it had been Jon to initiate their couplings thereafter and not
the other way around. Though Sansa initiated the first contact, she had been
hesitant, timid. However, the she-wolf was eager and willing, so sweetly
willing in reciprocating and luxuriating in his caresses and touches.
     Yet she would always hold back, always restrain herself  from loving him
fully and completely. She was still every bit the docile and proper lady, no
doubt she had been thoroughly inculcated in the rules of propriety and chasity,
not in the wild abandon that was the Free Folk way. Jon knew that he would have
to remedy that.
     His britches clenched at a memory, temporary stilling the inferno within
him.
_______________________________
     She was trembling in his arms, a butterfly newly emerging from its
chrysalis. Jon kissed her ardently, calming her nerves and providing succor
simultaneously. Despite what they had just done, what they had shared and
discovered with one another, she would not look at him, intentionally shielding
herself behind a curtain of molten flame.  “Do not hide from me.”
Cupping her chin gently Jon forced her to meet her gaze. “My mother once told
me of a woman from the faraway land of Lyse who could get any man to fall in
love with her, over a thousand proposals from suitors all vying for her hand.”
He traced her lips gently with his fingertips searching, the act eliciting an
unbidden moan from her. Sansa blushed  and ducked her head in his chest. Jon
smiled gently, continuing his silent inventory and perusal of her.
“‘Twas said that she was so beautiful that she could finish a man simply by
staring into his eyes.” He cupped a breast lightly, grazing the nipple with
thumb. Sansa trembled. She was no lady, but wanton--she had to be. Only a
slattern could enjoy the pleasures that such a man could visit upon her body. A
proper lady would never allow herself to be so willing, or liberated.
Curious now, she looked up, intrigued. “Only but a single glance? Is that all
it took to make a man love her?” Could she ever be that bold? That brave?
Sansa looked down at Jon’s naked chest and began to lightly trace a nonsensical
pattern over him, taking him all in and memorizing him--every scar, every
blemish, every freckle. He was a beautiful man, Jon Snow. Not a golden knight
from her storybooks or Old Nan’s bedside tales, but a dark knight. A dark
prince from a dark, faraway land. Beautiful, dark, and mysterious. Formidable.
Jon cupped her face within his hands and raised her chin again, daring her to
look at him. To understand.  “Love comes in at the eyes, She-Wolf. Always.”
He kissed her again, slowly. And then, a  new dance began. Their coupling was
fierce, frantic almost in its urgency. Akin to two wolves mating, claiming and
reclaiming each other. Yet this time, all timidity and diffidence left Sansa,
for she had been the alpha--dominant, assertive and wild. She had been the one
 in control and Jon had freely relinquished it, acquiescing and succumbing to
her freely.
_______________________________
 
     It had been a good memory, a sweet one. One of the few many that they
shared. In the two weeks she had been with him, Sansa Stark had managed to
capture the one thing that he had sworn he would never part with. And then had
left it shredded and tattered in the muck.
The rage began to reemerge, swift and sudden. Black and terrible in its
ferocity and fervor.
He was a fool. A damned fool. The wolf-bitch had played her game and had played
it well, using her one bargaining chip to  barter with. And he had gladly
partaken in it. Jon chuckled darkly, mirthlessly. Wolves had both cunning and
patience to outwit any foe, all they needed to do was bide their time.
The red wolf had made sport of him and had waited patiently until she could
out-maneuver him. And he fell for it. Every. Single. Time.
He felt another jolting ache, harder and more searing. Mayhap it was best if he
were to just let her go, let her return to her people and completely eradicate
her from his mind. Strive to mend the pieces of his fragmented and shredded
heart. And yet, Jon knew he could not, for he was in too deep. She was part of
him, and he was part of her. Two halves of the same whole.
“...It will be your love for a woman--a kneeler--that you will be remembered
for. She is your past, your present and your future. For every lifetime you
have lived, she has walked by your side, always.  She is your destiny, and if
you are not careful, your destruction as well."
The pain was searing, excruciating, almost taking him under with its intensity.
Jon began to set about the hut, gathering needed supplies. His heart was now
stone, a dull and heavy thing. The transformation immediate and complete.
He would find her, yes. He would find her again--wherever it was she may be. He
would never stop looking. He would find the lying she-wolf who had so callously
ripped his heart out of his chest and demand the needed answers from her. And
then what? that dark, black-breathed homonculous would whisper.
...And then, he would die. Perhaps finally ridding himself of the unending ache
and searing pain that continued to tear his heart asunder...
 
Chapter End Notes
     Dramatic, much? Between two psychopaths and an emo Jon, I don't know
     who's crazier...
***** Monster *****
Chapter Summary
     "There are no heroes...in life, the monsters win."--Sansa Stark, A
     Song of Ice and Fire, GRRM.
     " Sometimes, mortals can be more horrible than monsters."--Rick
     Riordan
Chapter Notes
     A little bit of Ramsay and Ygritte...the rest alone is self
     explanatory. Also, in this chapter, there is graphic depictions of
     sexual violence, bordering dubious consent. Discretion is strongly
     advised.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Monster
She was not Sansa. She did not feel like Sansa-supple and pliant-nor did she
smell like her. Ramsay Bolton was known as the Mad Dog of the North after all.
His senses were honed and sharpened, keen.
From the moment Sansa Stark visited the Dreadfort, Ramsay committed her scent
to memory, imprinted her redolence like a stamp on his brain. She smelt of
magic and the golden dawn, of winter blue roses touched by the first frost and
the sweetest of peonies touched by twilight. Aye, he knew her scent well and
inhaled deeply, both delirious and bereft simultaneously. Ramsay was acclimated
to Sansa as he was to any other possession that was his.
The russet-haired wildling before him now was not his lost wolf (mayhap more
fox than wolf, and even that was a poor substitution.), but she would have to
suffice. Besides, Ramsay had been without a woman in well past a sennight;
Myranda had been more trouble than she was worth, her envy and petulance
irksome and tedious. He smirked coldly.
Such was the pity…
For a time, Ramsay had thoroughly enjoyed the pretty little kennel master's
daughter. She reminded him of his bitches, loyal and stalwart beasts, partaking
in everything he asked with equal depravity and fervor. And yet, therein lie
the problem-she became too familiar, too comfortable. Too emulous. Quickly
forgetting her designated place within the grand scheme of things. He and
Myranda had an understanding; she was naught save a good fuck and nothing more.
Ramsay had thought she had understood their arrangement, accepted it for what
it was. Aye, he had made that stupid promise to her all those years past that
he would marry her-not that he ever intended to fulfill such an obligation. One
would promise the moon if it meant getting fucked. However, all of that began
to quickly disintegrate and dissolve once the betrothal had been brokered
between Lord Stark and his father.
Then, Myranda had become stupid and presumed to question him, to make demands
of him! Initially, Ramsay had been patient (as patient as an ebullient dog
could be), suffering her jealous outbursts and acquiescing to her tantrums. But
then, Myranda had fallen pregnant, just as Violet, and began making demands of
him, her latest ultimatum: either to marry her or watch as he forfeit
everything as she threatened to expose him.
"You will marry me on the morrow, or I will ruin you! I swear it by all the
gods-your House will crumple to the seas!"
That had been her mistake. Her last and final mistake.
Ramsay had given her ample warning of what would happen should she bore him, of
what he was capable of. He was never one to suffer fools and did not make idle
threats. Myranda knew this, and yet, stupidly, thought to restrain and tether
him to her side permanently. As if she could…
It did not matter now, anyway.
His girls had feasted well that night, Myranda's shrieks and please piercing
the hollow silence of the darkened kennels. The smell of gore and blood
permeating the obscure chambers.
"She's good meat. Feed her to the hounds…"
Yet, Ramsay would be remiss if he did not miss her, however. Missed the way she
would fuck him, white hands clutching at his throat as she rode him at a
gallop, her inner walls gripping him like a vise. She was insatiable, wild.
Ramsay lamented he would ever find another bed sport as vigorous-or as good-as
she. Until now.
The wildling was on her hands and knees before him, her hips inclined, parallel
to the ground, face to the mattress-away from him, as was his demand-as he
bucked and raved inside her. She was still dirty and disheveled, as she had not
bathed. Yet another of Ramsay's demands. For why should one waste precious
resources on a fucking wildling?
Besides, the wildling bitch knew her place-dirtied, sullied, and on her hands
and knees before her betters. 'Twas the way of things, the natural order. Never
would she, or those of her, ilk be his equal.
Ramsay grunted and leaned forward, never ceasing in his vicious assault, and
pulled Ygritte's hair, yanking roughly. She mewled loudly, whether in ecstasy
or pain, he did not know. Nor care.
He was incensed.
Ygritte had told him everything last night. Like a great deluge releasing and
spilling forth its secrets, Ygritte had told the truth-of Sansa Stark, of Mance
Rayder, of that fucking whoreson, Jon Snow. The damned White Wolf. Ramsay
clenched his teeth and began fucking roughly into her. Harder. His hands
gripping the matted, russet tresses so tightly, it caused Ygritte's head to
snap back into an arc, a low hiss emanating from her lips, her arm extending
before her, gripping. Her back was a myriad of cuts, scratches and bite marks,
a gruesome canvas of shredded and tattered flesh, testament of his ire and
envy.
Yet in spite of his savagery, Ygritte continued to wail and pant, rutting
harder against him. Instead of horror and revulsion, surfeit at being reduced
to that of a leg of mutton to be masticated and chewed on, Ygritte reveled in
the depravity and viciousness. Ramsay's cruelty a catalyst to her odaxelagnia.
While Jon had been gentle and attentive in his lovemaking, almost hesitant in
his reciprocity; Ramsay was selfish, never giving or kind, but rather
luxuriated in his debasement. A monster. That was what he was. An evil, wicked
thing suckled off the teat of some winged succubus.
Ygritte winced and bit her lip, clenching the sheet before her tightly as
Ramsay's hands sought a nipple, his grip both tight and chafing. His hands were
not the hands of a lover with its innocent touches and tentative strokes, no.
Rather but the hands of a butcher, used to disarticulate and shred instead of
worship and revere. The hands of a monster.
Ramsay thrust into Ygritte once, twice, three times before spilling, roughly
pulling her areola to an uncomfortably taut peak. The friction and callousness
of his touch inflaming her, the stark contrast and juxtaposition of dry skin
against the softness of her breasts causing her to come. The tent redolent with
the smells of sex, blood and submission.
She should feel shamed, abashed at the thought of betraying her home, her
people-Jon. All that Ygritte once loved and swore to protect with her every
fiber. Now, all that she felt was elation and excitement at the prospect of
betrayal-of twisting the dagger in so deeply and watching with cold, distant
apathy as those who doubted her, cursed her, spurned her, bled out and
percolated on the ground below.
" What stands before you, Ygritte, is a monster. Rough-hewn by unfortunate
events and given by necessity."
Aye, Ramsay was a monster. Cruel, vicious, and corybantic. Yet, for the time
being, he washer monster. Just hers. She alone holding the leash.
It mattered not if he wanted another, if she only reminded him of the wolf-
bitch whenever he looked on her. If she was just some unwanted vassal used to
sate his lust and discarded as offals to the furnace.
Nay, none of that mattered to Ygritte. She closed her eyes and smiled as she
felt Ramsay sink against her, his weight both bruising and comforting
simultaneously.
If he is a monster, then I am one, too...
Chapter End Notes
     Question: What's stopping two self-proclaimed monsters from
     unleashing hell and absolute destruction on all within their paths?
     Answer: Absolutely nothing. The shitstorm is coming...
***** The Death of Duty *****
Chapter Summary
     Leave me out with the waste
     This is not what I do.
     It's the wrong kind of place to be thinking of you
     It's the wrong time for somebody new
     It's a small crime and I've got no excuse.
     (Is that alright?)
     To give my gun away when it's loaded?
     (Is that alright?)
     If you don't shoot it how am I supposed to hold it?
     (Is that alright?)
     Is that alright with you?
     "Nine Crimes," by Damien Rice
Chapter Notes
     I can't believe it's been a month since I last updated! Apologies, my
     friends! Thank you for staying with me, for I do not deserve you.
     Here, Jon and Mance come to a realization and decisions are made.
     Also, Jon faces some difficult truths.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                       Chapter_Thirty: The Death of Duty
 
     It was the right choice, he averred. The only choice. Aye, it had been a
difficult decision, Mance conceded, as painful decisions oft were. Yet, it was
necessary and needed to be done. The she-wolf was a danger to his people to his
son.
     “What is this you have you done, Father?”
     A sweet poison, aye, but a poison all the same. A noxious, carcinogenic
that took its time to slowly devour and consume until there was nothing left
save decomposition and rot. And finally, death.  It was all that love was,
anyway. Naught but a harbinger for death. If Lyanna’s demise had taught Mance
naught else, it was this.
     “You betrayed me!”
     The accusations were jagged and aciculated, filling Mance with
simultaneous grief and shame. Aye, aye...Mance nodded his head in slow
concession and finality, akin to an arbitrator giving his ultimate
deliberation. Mayhap it was selfish and inadvertently cruel--to gift his son
with but a touch of the sun’s golden warmth only to snatch it away--yet it had
to be done.
     The she-wolf had to be sent off, to return to her own pack, to her beloved
Kneelers within the safety and confines of their castles and stone keeps. Gods
knew they could provide better sanctuary than Mance ever could. Than Jon ever
could.
     Mance shifted in his stool by the fire as he thought on his son. Since the
discovery, he had become more sullen and morose, taciturn. Although he
fulfilled his duties and obligations to the camp and his people, it was
mirthless and mechanical. Afterwards, Jon would go off in seclusion to his hut
and remain. To do what? Gods above only knew.
     “She was mine! Mine to cherish, mine to protect. You had no right!”
     His son was angry, unforgiving, his wolf’s blood elevated and pulsing.
Yet, it was not fear or timidity Mance felt when facing him, no. It was
commiseration and sorrow. He was leaving camp, Tormund had informed him of that
much.
     No doubt trying to locate and recapture the Wolf Maiden.
     Their relationship had soured as of late, tense like the string of an
archer’s bow. Jon was no fool, and easily deduced that both Tormund and
Muirgayne conspired against him in enabling Sansa’s escape. The betrayal akin
to a thousand resounding blows upon his body.
     Like Mance, Tormund tried to expatiate himself, atone for his sins, yet
Jon was deaf to all entreaties and hardened his heart to all supplications. Not
that it mattered. Jon was an implacable sort, once he got into his moods.
Capricious and mercurial, quick to shift like the changing tide.
     If one were wise, he would stay clear of the wolf-son and give him a wide
berth. Wolves did not fare well when caged. Yet, Mance knew his son, held him
in his arms as a suckling babe, secure and warm; he held no fear of him now
despite his rage.
     “It is easy to hate, to feel that raw, consuming anger pulse and thrum and
seep inside you, until it’s all you have to keep you going. It’s mother’s milk,
warms a man’s belly better than meat ever could. It was the anger and rage I
felt when your mother died, knowing that I had forfeit the most sacred and
precious thing. You share the same look in your eyes       now, the same rage
and darkness.”
     Jon shifted in his seat but remained silent, a shadow within the hut,
angry and surging. Unforgiving.
     “You knew what she was the moment you brought her here, my son. You knew
you were not meant to keep her. It was a beautiful dream, yet sooner or later,
we all must wake.”
     Once, when Jon was two and ten, he fought a young lad in his village,
Moren, he was called. A head  taller than Jon with tousled, mousey hair that
reached his shoulders, he was a cruel lad with cruel habits and proclivities.
His parents had died in a Thenn raid, killed by its Magnar a year before, thus
leaving him an orphan. Mance had taken the boy in, fostering him within his
home; whether out of obligation or guilt, it was unclear.
     The enmity between the two youths was instantaneous and palpable. Jon
easily seeing through Moran’s artifice, his simpering and prostrating, a well-
crafted and believable mask had one not been paying attention. He had nearly
everyone fooled--everyone save Jon, for wolves remembered everything. And
waited.
     Along with maliciousness, Moren was a lusty fellow who enjoyed the company
of the wildling girls within the village, the most recent of his passing fancy
being Muirgayne. Moren had set his sights on the wildling girl many a time and
had let it be known of his not-so-subtle desires of stealing her away--whether
she wished it so or not.
     For a moment, Muirgayne had been successful in staying his hand, rebuffing
his advances. Moren had not minded the dismissal, finding such repudiations
amusing at best, for they never truly meant it. What maid would be stupid
enough to deny him?    
     Soon, however, Moren’s patience began to wane and spread thin. What kind
of game was the bitch playing at, anyway? Couldn’t he see that he had chosen
her? That Murigayne was his? She was taking too long, and Moren was no one’s
fool.
     The discovery was accidental and inadvertent. Jon did not pray or believe
in any god or deity, long abandoning the practice after his mother’s demise,
but he was thankful to whatever force  that led him to Murigayne. He shuddered
tremulously at what could have been.
     Murigayne’s tunic had been shredded, the large tear renting the fabric
into twain, exposing a breast. There was a gash upon her cheek, thin and
rufescent against the pallidity of her skin. Worse--much, much worse--was the
trembling and palpitating of her hands as they tried to hold the garment in
place.
     Even at two and ten, Jon was not a stupid child, willingly blind and naïve
to the ways of the world. Theirs was a harsh existence within an equally cruel
and pitiless world. A world that had no qualms in hurting young women and
predating on the defenseless. Even more, Murigayne was as obstinate as she was
proud, never would she welcome another’s touch other than Tormund’s. What
Murigayne could not disclose with words, Jon could conclude with her shame. He
knew, the damnable truth glaring and irrefutable.
     Jon did not remember propelling himself at Moren, nor did he remember the
barrage of his fists--ceaseless, deft, and heavy-handed--as he pummeled his foe
into oblivion, like a baker kneading bread. He did not recall the blinding rage
that overtook his person, white-hot and acerbic, as the blows continued to
assail. Later, as he had a moment of retrospection, Jon knew he had acted akin
to a beast, besieged within a blind haze of madness and viciousness. He had
become a monster, a demon. Something both otherworldly and depraved.
     When it was all over, Moren was indistinguishable and altered, his face a
tattered pulp of flesh, sinew and broken bone. Jon did not remember being
forcibly lifted from Moren’s prone form, all he could recall were Murigayne’s
tears, glittering and iridescent in the night air. And the rage.
     “You had no right!” he snarled, his grey eyes slitted and obsidian. “You
had no right!”
     Mance blinked, watching his son come apart. The outburst hurt, without
question, but he supposed it was justified and deserved.  Let it out, son. Let
it out if you must, for I am sorry. So damned sorry for your pain.
     “It was the right decision, my son. One of the many painful and difficult
decisions we all must make. She was not part of our world, and you could not be
part of hers, no matter how you would wish it otherwise.”
     Until now, Jon did not look at Mance, instead looking elsewhere, anywhere.
  Fucking coward.   The upbraiding stung, bitter and cloying like wormwood.
Yet, there was no deception, only truth.
     Mance was right, as he always was. He was right about everything. He had
been stupid, foolish. He had no right in abducting the wolf-maid and stealing
her away from her family and those whom she loved.
     But I love her…
     Mance frowned, a deep furrowed crease in his brow. Had his son really
admitted such a transgression? Confessed such guilt? Before now, Jon would not
admit the truth to himself, locking it away in some dark recess somewhere--out
of sight and out of mind. Gods be damned, but the she-wolf had sunken her fangs
in deep…
     “I love her.”
     There. It was out in the open now, no longer festering within the confines
of his heart. Now, it was out in the open, raw and exposed, laying bare at
Mance Rayder’s feet; his to do with it whatever he willed, for Jon cared not.
He was past caring. “I love her.”
     Mance sucked in his breath, feeling like a requiem and striving to tether
himself back to Earth. Nay. Nay, this could not be. He knew his son held an
attraction  for the girl, aye, but love?
     “I had hoped you would show more restraint, more reason, truly I did.
Suppose your claim is true and you do love the Stark girl. Have you any thought
as to what comes next? Her uncle and her betrothed have breached the Wall and
are marching onto our lands like a ravenous  plague. What think you their
response once you declare your love for her?”
     Again, Mance had the higher ground, but Jon refused to fold. Instead, he
did what he had always done whenever he was angry and felt defeated--lashed out
with anything that was sure to invoke pain, like a cornered, tethered wolf. The
keener the bite, the sharper the sting.
    “I am not afraid. I am notlike you--too afraid and cowardly to love again!
After Mother died, you gave up, like some beaten and kicked dog. I am not you.
I will love and I will love hard and with everything within me. More than that,
I will live.”
     Jon got up to abruptly leave then, heading for the tent flap. It was a low
deed, shaming his father with Lyanna’s memory, especially when the wound was
still so raw and  gaping. Immediately, Jon felt contrite and turned around to
apologize, yet Mance was having none of it.
     “You think me so calloused to not know love? That I am so dead inside that
I cannot recall a woman’s tender  embrace? Feel the warmth of her smile upon my
face? I loved your mother, aye. I always will, but I have a duty to my people
and to their safety. Go if you must, for I cannot stop you; only know that
yours is a fool’s errand and you are condemning your people to death.”
     The rebuke stung, but Jon remained silent and sullen. Too many words had
been spoken out in anger this day. He would apologize, he vowed silently. Yes,
once he returned with Sansa, he would make amends and set everything right as
it once was. However, Sansa needed him and he would go to her--wherever she
was. He would find her. “Goodbye, Father.” With that, Jon left, exiting the
hut, not once looking back.
     Mance sighed and closed his eyes tightly, suddenly feeling ragged and
worn, older than his two score and ten years of age. His son was a fool. A
damned and bloody fool. A damned and bloody fool who was  in love.
     ...Just like he had loved Lyanna…
     Mance’s throat constricted as he thought on his wife. Gods, even now,
after an elapse of years, he could still see her right in front of him.
Gleaming, vibrant and more real than Jon or anyone else. He could still see and
remember the color of her eyes, the shape of her nose; the mellifluousness of
her laughter, like tinkling silvered bells.
     His son was wrong, for Mance had loved and loved deeply, just as Jon has.
Yet love was the death of duty and yielded naught save heartache. That was all.
 
Chapter End Notes
     "Be you angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down on your wrath."
     Psalm 37:8
     How ominous is this? Read and review, please!
End Notes
     Any thoughts or comments? I would most definitely love to hear from
     you. I am a die-hard Jon Snow/Sansa Stark shipper and am reliving
     this ship before all hell breaks loose in the upcoming Season 7, if
     certain spoilers *cough boat scenes* are to be believed involving a
     megalomaniac Dragon Queen.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
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