Disclaimer: Bethany Canton is an imagined character in this narrative. Here, she replaces Jeyne Poole as Sansa's close friend. Also, this chapter speeds up two days. Here, Jon, Sansa, Tormund, and the two other wildlings successfully made it over the wall. I will have a separate chapter that will made into a short narrative that will explain their trek. Stay tuned!

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 embroidering 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, Bethany 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 descended upon. 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: piercing 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-the grey-eyed wildling 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 cocked 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!"