Chapter Five

Disclaimer: So sorry! For some reason, my computer has been uncooperative. Here's hoping three times is truly the charm!

Once, when Sansa turned five 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 often 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 young 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 gossiped over lemon cakes, wearing pretty gowns of silk and color. To be a true lady in some faraway kingdom...

Theon, Lord Father's ward, had once japed that Sansa would make the perfect bride for her lord husband, whomever he may be. That she was good at sitting still and singing prettily on command. "Little Bird," Theon would call her, mockingly bowing and prostrating himself whenever she was in view. "Will you sing me a pretty 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 share your songs or keep them to yourself, whatever it is you choose.

The following morn, when her Lady Mother came to her solar to wake her, Sansa told her of the deed. Catelyn scolded her then, called her daughter thoughtless, however, there was a small hint of pride embedded in the admonishment. At times, Sansa deeply missed her small wood thrush. Sitting atop its perch, beautiful and delicate, singing so sweetly as it greeted 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, perplexed. The voice was too deep to be Robb's or Theon's, their's 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 faces, knowing their moods, they were all 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 trepidation, 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 certain 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. He was breathing heavily with both exertion and fatigue, his face beaming in pride. Sansa had been practicing. Soon, she would eclipse even him in both precision and technique. He could not wait for that day.

"Aye," Sansa concurred, never once losing her focus. The first rule of swordplay: Study your opponent carefully and always anticipate his next move. Like a chess game. Robb taught her well. "And she-wolves have fangs."

And soon, her capturers, 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 the word 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 the wildlings. They had been both hers and Arya's favorite then. Wide-eyed and entranced, Sansa would sit hours on end listening with rapt fascination and curiosity to the tales. Everyone knew that the Starks were descendants of the First Men, a fact that instilled an unwavering sense of pride within her. To be kin-however distant-to the strong, resilient people 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 their's, 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. Please be angry, Sansa silently prayed. Please, Gods, let him get angry and become careless.

However, taking him in now, his narrowed eyes and tightened jaw, he reminded Sansa of an animal. A wolf. A savage, growling beast...Yet 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 Southerners are just envious of us because we are free and are able to do what you 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 are no Southern kingdoms here." Sansa knew she was playing a dangerous game with her provocation, but she did not care. He opened this floodgate, then he must close it. Please, Gods...please make a mistake and become stupid. Please lose control...The wildlings were oft known for their stupidity at the slightest hint of provocation. It was all she needed.

Instead, he did neither, 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 southerner, Kneeler." He answered quietly, slowly, as if he were talking to a dull-witted child. His steel-grey eyes glinting in wry humor. 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 made her lose all equanimity and composure. She was actually shaking in her fury and indignation. At that moment, all Sansa wished for was Needle, her sister's sword that had been gifted to her by Robb on 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 ti.

"What are you thinking, She-Wolf?" The grey-eyed wildling whispered. His nose was in her hair, his breath warm 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, indigo sky meeting winter-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, and in its place, a full-fledged smile. "What's stopping you then, She-Wolf?"

She-Wolf...He was taunting her, knowing that at any moment now, she would snap. When she was younger, her father would call her that while gently stroking her hair, his eyes full of love and tenderness, set aside only for Catelyn, Arya, and herself.

"My fierce little she-wolf..."

Now, the endearment only rained down digust and spurred Sansa's anger. She stared at him fully then, full of both 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."

The wildling let out a quiet chuckle in response. His grey eyes glinting in merriment and challenge.