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 just had to be. Sent by the gods to drive him mad for some unforgivable and blasphemous transgression, one of the countless many he had committed in his short lifetime. No other woman had confused, beguiled, and left him trembling simultaneously.

Once, long ago it seemed, when Jon was a young boy of five, he had chased dragonflies through the surrounding woods. The wildlings revered them, called them magical. Messengers from the Old Gods, the elders would say. Father had told him once that if he was ever lucky enough to capture one of these elusive creatures, the gods would answer an unspoken prayer of his.

A few years later, when Jon was ten and one, he ventured to the hut of the Wise Woman, Old Magda, who lived 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. Jon heard her before he saw her, chanting in an ancient tongue long since lost to his people. Her eyes were closed, blinded by both time and old age, and yet seeing so much.

"I oft wondered when you would come visit 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 certain of it.

"You know who I am?" He queried, inching slowly towards the sorceress. Half afraid, but intrigued as well. He could always run, should the occasion warrant it. 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 know of his cowardice. No one would be none 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 strong and respected leader and your name will be feared and whispered throughout the realm. The Northern lords will sing songs around their hearths of your many victories."

Jon drew even nearer, excited. He wanted more, wanted to know more. His breath hitched in anticipation. Yes...

"However, 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 seer's prophesy, and had merely 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 calloused 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 unanswered prayer whispered under the purple darkness of the midnight sky. And oh! How Jon's heart constricted and pulsated, filled to the brim and near bursting. Mother, Maiden, Cone 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 sudden stab of jealousy and anger. 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. Still unwilling to believe that this was real-that she-was real. He lifted a trembling hand to her cheek, admiring both her soft warmth and her beauty. "And she is mine."

Just as I am hers...