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 bast 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, though…

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 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 naive 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.