Chapter Fourteen: Truth or Dare
The grey-eyed wildling was Jon Snow. Mance Rayder's Wolf. The realization caused Sansa to quake, a sharp current running through her extremities. She felt as though she had been run through to the hilt, all breath escaping her. No...it could not be. Could not be possible. And yet, it was. The stark reality screaming right back at her, as if daring her to refute it. Taunting her, even.
She was incensed, worse yet, humiliated. She loathed this feeling-of being deceived. Of having the wool pulled over her eyes. Wolves were supposed to be perceptive, keen. Yet, at that very moment, Sansa felt no more wolf than a balding sheep.
Stupid...you stupid, stupid girl!
The reprimand stung, bitter and astringent like wormwood. She had always been discerning, possessing an unnatural ability to see what was around her, even what was hidden. To accumulate and fit the pieces together akin to a puzzle. It was both a gift and an affliction. Hers alone to bear.
Sometimes, she wished she could be that clear-eyed, unassuming girl in the songs she had favored so much as a young girl. When magic was real and the world was sparks of color and its people were good, decent, and virtuous. Her Lady Mother once told her that husbands wanted wives who were sweet and innocuous.
"A good and dutiful wife is to never question her Lord Husband. She is under his protection, his guidance. Wherever he leads, she follows unfailingly…"
She and Arya scoffed at that notion, for they knew better. Had seen too much. Such blatant transparency would get you killed in this world full of ugliness and apathy. They were daughters of the North, both of them, and even they were not afforded the luxury of pretense.
She should have known better, paid more attention to who he was; how others responded to him. They revered him, it was worshipful, almost. She had known that the grey-eyed wildling (Jon. His name was Jon. Jon Snow.) was some sort of leader for the wildling clans had many within their own faction. Yet, she had not realized that the man she had interacted with was the Prince of the Wildlings.
Another jolt of trepidation and fear ran through her anew, and Sansa could not quell the unwanted tremor. She had heard of him, of the cunning and elusive White Wolf. Old Nan refused to speak of him, but the servants' tongues ran free. She had heard the stories, of his indomitable spirit and incomparable prowess that haunted the North.
Worse still, was the worry and vexation he caused her Lord Father. Ned Stark was a renowned military man and soldier. Songs had travelled far and wide across the realms celebrating his enumerable victories. He hated it, fervently asserted that the acclaim was for another man-for another time.
Despite the protests, Sansa knew her father's reputation. He was a killer, her gentle and noble father. They all were-Father, Uncle Benjen, and Robb. Soon, sweet Bran and little Rickon would become inaugurated into the fold.
And yet, despite it all, they all came up short and were left wanting compared to Jon Snow. Unable to finally muzzle and tether the raging and snarling wild Wolf of the North. Multiple times they had tried, Lord Father and his bannermen. And each time, they had fallen short. He had slipped through even their best laid snares. Like a phantom, a mist.
Oh gods...
He had a warrior's hut, an assortment of swords, knives, and arrows. It was both beautiful and primitive. Just like him.
She as a lamb to his wolf-his prey. Sitting here, in his large, strange hut that smelled of musk and pine, she was as good as dead. And that was exactly what would happen if she did not fight, if she simply succumbed and acquiesced to the wind and tide. She could see herself being pulled under. Perhaps, mayhap her death would not be so literal, so absolute.
But even she knew that there were other ways to die, none any less agonizing. She knew of the wildling practice of wife stealing. To take a woman that met a Wildling man's fancy and simply...vanish into obscurity beyond the Wall. A thousand years ago, the Wildling king, Bael the Bard, stole a noblewoman from her home to take to wife. Legend said it was Brandon Stark's virgin daughter, Allyria. Another stolen wolf-maiden.
Allyria the Fair, they called her, with her crimson hair and twilight eyes. A distant relative and kin to her blood. Sansa's breath stilled and her blood ran cold and congealed. The parallels were unmistakeable, only a fool would dismiss what was so glaringly evident.
Whenever Lady Catelyn became annoyed with her daughter's perception and intrinsic inquisitiveness, Sansa would find an ally in her Aunt Lyssa, who would oft encourage her niece's natural intuition.
"Pay attention to everything, Sweetling. Everything you are now seeing has already happened before."
He had meant to keep her, to continue a practice as barbaric as it was savage. To condemn her to a fate worse than death. A fate he assumed she would readily accept.
"No." The answer tore through the silence like a loosed arrow. No. She would not accept this. She would not become another Allyria or countless others, tragic victims who merely accepted their fate and subsequently warranted the deaths of thousands of innocents.
She was neither helpless or passive. She was a wolf and wolves fought back. When news of hers and Ramsay's engagement was first announced, Robb had been one of the first to comfort her, to offer some small, minute glimmer of hope.
"You must be brave, sweet girl. Not only are you a Stark but you are a wolf-maiden. Wolves are brave. The tiger and lion may be more powerful, but the wolf will never be contained."
Robb was right, he always was. Brave, sweet Robb, her protector and savior, who knew no fear or intimidation.
For you, Robb. Sansa averred. I will be brave for you. Always.
Set to new purpose, Sansa began to look around the hut with renewed interest. She was in search of...what, exactly? What did this Wolf have that would be of use to her?
Almost immediately, her eyes landed on a sword. It was a fine piece, too immaculate for a wildling: an ornate, white wolf-head pommel with garnet encrusted eyes. It was beautiful...and... Valyrian. She could quite literally count on one hand how many times she had gazed upon Valyrian steel before; such luxury had thought to have gone extinct as with the demise of that ancient and accursed city. Only her Lord Father's blade and a handful of others remained in the North.
Sansa extended her hand to touch it, surprised at its weightlessness. She had seen swords before, naturally. Ice, the ancient sword of Lord Father and the emblem of her House, with its long and heavy blade and polished shoulder; to Needle, Arya's gift, with its thin blade and crude carvings. Sansa knew swords like she knew the back of her hand-she had practiced with them, knew the way they fit, their shape; their make.
Yet despite her acclimation and expertise, she had never seen a sword such as this. It was...perfect.
Had she had not been so engrossed in the wildling's sword, she would have sensed him, sensed his nearness and presence. She had ample time to practice since her abduction. Despite his stealth and stillness, a veritable phantom through the woods, it was his scent that gave him away. Every. Single. Time. Pine and musk with a hint of bergamot
Suddenly, the hut was now engulfed with him. He was here. With her. And she had no course of escape.
Sansa swallowed tightly, her mouth suddenly ashen and dry. Quickly gathering her skirts, she stood to her feet, facing him. Whatever was to happen now-whether she was to forfeit her life or face some unimagined assault-she wanted to face it directly. She was no craven and refused to die a coward's death begging and pleading for mercy. It was the very least she could do. Besides, when had the gods ever shown her an ounce of mercy in her lifetime?
I will be brave….
Yet, when facing him, the White Wolf of the North, she saw no malice or anger. No hostility or cruelty. Nothing save reserved curiosity.
He stood aloft, near the closed entrance of the hut. His arms were folded and his storm-grey eyes watched her with calm fascination. She felt no fear from him, despite his nearness and watchful vigilance. If he wanted to have harmed her, he would have done so. Gods knew he had ample opportunity.
Sansa raised the sword then, pointing it at him. Testing both him and his resolve.
Stupid...you stupid, stupid girl!
"You won't harm me," she whispered, dismayed and inwardly cursing the ineffectiveness of her voice.
I will be brave….
Jon took a step towards her. Then two. Stopping until he was standing directly in front of her, the sword the only barrier between them. He lifted a hand, slow and deliberate, as if not to startle her; as if to not break whatever this was that was happening between them now.
I will be brave….
The hand lowered and softly cupped her cheek. The contrast was startling-his hard callouses against the velvety smoothness. Sansa continued to stare at him, caerulean to storm-grey.
What is it that you do?
"No, Little Wolf, I won't."