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 him with 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 starving for 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—if she 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.