In the nine and ten years of his existence, Jon Snow had only felt angry twice. The first, when he was a young lad of seven and witnessed his mother breathe her last. A victim of the winter coughing sickness, one of its several casualties that year, it had been particularly devastating for the Wildling villages north of the Wall. The contagion was sudden, swift in its claiming. One moment, Lyanna had been there-with him-beautiful, smiling and exultant; the next, her body was lying on a funeral pyre, pale, exanimate, and stiff. A candle snuffed of its flame.

The second, was a few years later, when Jon was ten, and Father struck him for the first time. The backhand was hard and severe, the force of it felled him instantly. Immediately, Mance felt contrite, shamed. His black eyes repentant and pleading. He was profuse with his apologies, vowing to never raise a hand to him again, but Jon was hearing none of it.

Although but a young child, Jon already possessed the temper of a man, his fists curling at the sides, his eyes narrowed and staring. A wolf-pup already baring his fangs. He fled Mance's hut then, before he disgraced himself further. Fleeing to the woods where he stayed for a fortnight, until he was forcefully brought back from his self-imposed exile. Mance, haggard and disheveled, was immediately jubilant at the return of his son, and Jon felt a stab of remorse and apologized for his selfishness. Immediately, the tension was lifted and the incident forgotten.

Yes, it was rare that Jon Snow felt anger-that raw, blistering, white-hot intensity that pervaded one's mind and clouded his judgement. Anger made people stupid, changed grown men into untried boys-weak and careless. And Jon was none of these.

He knew battles, he knew warfare. Eighty-five times he has led charges against Southrone Kneelers pretending to play soldier, and each one a resounding victory. Throughout each charge, each raid, never once had he felt one ounce-one figment-of rage or unbridled wrath. Through it all, he had prided himself in maintaining his equanimity, for it was all just a duty; an obligation that needed to be fulfilled. A mission to be executed.

But now...

Nothing prepared him for the searing, white-hot acerbity that charged him now. It was electric, surging and pulsing with its intensity as it traversed his extremities. At that second, Jon felt dangerous, murderous. Ygritte was playing a deadly game that she could never afford to lose.

He was unprepared for the first slap, the sound permeating the air, causing a tense, sickly silence to saturate the atmosphere. Sansa cried out, partly in shock, partly in outrage. Her blue eyes narrowed, her fist clenching. Even bound with rope, the red she-wolf was impressive, silently fuming. The fangs were coming out.

Unperturbed, Ygritte reared her hand back again, ready to strike…

...only to be caught in mid-air…

Jon Snow had to be careful, for this was Ygritte. The same Ygritte he had once thought he loved, and to some degree, did love still. But she touched Sansa-dared to touch what was his-and he could never let that stand. Careful. Careful now.

Ygritte tried to retract her hand, suddenly terrified. She had seen anger, she had seen rage, but never this. Jon looked crazed, wild. His tranquil grey eyes were a tempest. In that instant, he could very well have killed her and would not have had a second thought.

"You are never to raise your hand to my wife again. Am I understood?" His voice was succinct, tight. Already a deep baritone, it dropped an octave lower, causing the crowd to take a step back in caution. Ygritte tried again to jerk her arm back, but Jon held on, his grip tightening, the pressure starting to hurt.

"You...you took a Kneeler to wife?" Ygritte gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief and horror. The crowd let out a collective murmur of incredulity. One Wildling woman spat the ground.

Jon remained resolute. Unbowed and unapologetic. A veritable stonewall. Never would he be sorry for choosing Sansa, even if she would not have him. Never would he be ashamed for loving her-he would do it a million times over if it meant just a second in her presence. She was worth it all and much more.

It did not matter if she never chose him. If she never reciprocated the longing and lust he held for her. Right now, at this moment, she was here-with him-and nothing could take it all away. Absolutely nothing.

Jon's eyes turned black, his gaze burning with barely restrained wrath, as he continued to hold Ygritte's wrist, still suspended in mid-air. How simple, he thought darkly, it would be to end this. To snap her throat and put an end to all of this foolishness. It would only take but a moment.

Steady, that quiet voice countered. Do not lose control here.

"Aye. She is mine, and you would do well to remember that. There will not be a next time."

The threat was unmistakable as it lingered through the air. Although directed at Ygritte, it was all-inclusive. No one was safe. Jon Snow was not a liar, and all knew the hell that would be paid if they dared to touch the red-haired Kneeler...their White Wolf's chosen mate.

With one final, deliberate squeeze, Jon Snow released Ygritte's wrist and stepped forward, gently pulling Sansa along. Tormund and the two other wildlings followed close by, making up the rear. The silence now engulfed them, following in their wake.

Sansa's thoughts were in a quagmire. She could not determine where one began and another ended. It all seemed to be one long, continuous blur. Did he just say what she thought he had?

'Wife... She is mine.' Sansa shook her head in incredulity. No! If she did not want to marry Ramsay, then what would make the wildling think she would willingly consent to him?

Anger began to set in then. Hot and uncontrollable. How dare he reduce her to naught but chattel? In that moment, Sansa felt like a piece of mutton; fit to only to tease and tantalize. Was this all that men saw in her? First her Lord Father, then her betrothed, and now him?

Seven fucking hells.

Too consumed with her tumultuous thoughts, Sansa failed to realize that the grey-eyed wildling had led her to a large hut in the center of the village. Pulling back the animal skins, the wildling set her down on a nearby stool and began to unbind her ropes. Not once had he looked at her, his storm-grey eyes instead focused on the task at hand.

With the knots finally unbound, he abruptly stood and made his way towards the entrance once more.

"You called me your wife!" Sansa blurted out, incredulous. Immediately, she wanted to yank out her tongue from the confines of her mouth. Until she could gather a better understanding of this man, it was best to conserve her inquiries.

Always play your hand well…

Jon inclined his head in her direction, just only but a mere fraction. His heart constricting within the confines of his chest. Oh, but if only she would forget, forget he made such false claims! Only then, he could better preserve his splintering heart.

"Aye, I did." He was content to walk away, to leave it at that, but Sansa was insistent. His she-wolf wanted more. If only she were his.

"Why? Why did you lie?"

Jon closed his eyes tightly and sighed, his heart fracturing anew. Please. Please cease to go any further. I cannot bear anymore.

"To protect you, Sansa. If the men knew you were unclaimed, they would have tried to have stolen you. By telling them you're my wife, they will leave you in peace."

It was only a half-truth, but a truth all the same. It would have to suffice. Jon could not bear to tell her the real reason for the deception. He could not bear more of her scorn and ridicule.

If he told her it was only for her protection, then she would be more inclined to stay. Therefore allowing Jon more time to pretend-pretend that she was his, and that she was here of her own accord and free will. Pretend that she loved and wanted him, too. Just as he desperately loved and wanted her.

And with that, Jon closed the hut's flap and made his way to Mance.