Disclaimer: Hurricane Harvey hit and it looks like school will be out until after Labor Day. So, in attempts to not ruminate and dwell on the insanity that is happening, I choose to write.

Chapter Fifteen: The Red Wolf

It was not often that Jon dreamed. At night, alone in the quiet solitude of his hut, his sleep was dreamless and fitful, often disrupted in torn intervals. His father, bereft and mourning the passing of his beloved Lyanna, warned against the perils of dreaming, claimed that it was pointless and wasteful. That dreams-even the most ludicrous and fanciful-led to naught save disillusion and disappointment.

"It is not ours to dream, to escape. All dreams lead to pain. The one constant this fucking world will never exhaust of."

When Jon was younger, his was full of warrior dreams-of death and glory. A wildling was not a wildling lest he saturated his blade with the blood of his enemies. And Jon's sword ran wet with the crimson liquid, a testament to his training and apathy. At night, on the eve of raids or significant battles, while the rest of the village would drink, often to excess, or pair off somewhere for one last dalliance, Jon would abstain.

While the rest of the wildlings fucked and drank, apathetic to the oncoming dawn and the uncertainty it would bring, Jon remained a sentinel; watchful, clear-eyed and sober. If he were to fall, to meet the Stranger on some unknown field, he wanted to be lucid. When he reached his sixth and tenth nameday, the day he finally became a man, Jon met the Thenn leader, Styr, at open combat.

More giant than man-comprised of muscle, sinew, and meat-the colossus looked upon Jon as if her were a nuisance, a fly to be squashed beneath his booted feet. The fight had been fast and intense. Tormund, restless and pacing by the sidelines, gripped the handle of his battle axe tightly, a swarm of curses falling from his lips. Mance had been there, too. Thin-lipped, pale and solicitous, watching with his solemn, coal-black eyes as his Wolf faced the Giant.

This was not just any battle-for territory, acclaim, and weapons. No, it was more than that, transcended far beyond man's pride and vanity. This was for survival and existence. Everything before that was secondary and inconsequential.

This battle was between the most skilled fighters, the victor would decide all-whether the defeated clan would continue to exist or become extinguished, a literal feast for the crows. They were nearly evenly matched, despite the size difference, the Thenn and the Wolf. Jon was swift, using his alacrity to his advantage. Yet, all it took to enervate him was a handful of dirt to the face, coupled with a hard blow to the jaw. And just like that, he was down, disconcerted and bewildered.

His jaw throbbed and smartened, making him see stars. Tormund had been crazed, a paroxysm of curses and shouts, willing his friend out of entropy. Mance closed his eyes tightly, unwilling to witness his son's imminent decapitation. All the while, Jon heard none of it.

Lying there, prone and immobile, Jon slowly watched the Thenn's large axe lower. Much to his dismay, part of him wished for the release, to be far removed from his current existence . All he had to do was lie still for another moment and it would all be over. Soon, now. But just another moment...

...Yet, in that final second, Jon felt his sword raise up-either out of its own volition or fear, he did not know-and pierce the goliath through the throat; his sword, wet and crimson, glinting through the other side. It was in that glorious instant that Jon Snow became legend. The White Wolf immortalized.

Later that night, after downing a cup of spiced ale, Jon did dream, the first time in years. Yet this time, his dreams were not frantic, fraught with death, uncertainty, and battle. It was instead of a forest, silent and tranquil. He had been walking an isolated path alone, for Ghost had run ahead, abandoning him.

Entering a small clearing, Jon abruptly stopped. There, just ahead, standing in front of a vivid weirwood tree, was a wolf. It was beautiful, almost ethereal in its appearance. Silver, yet with a russet undercoat and tail. A red wolf. Although larger than any other wolf seen, it was smaller than Ghost, and a female judging by its form and litheness.

As Jon approached, carefully with one arm extended, the wolf raised its head, slowly assessing him as if determining whether he was friend or foe. Jon stopped then, unable to breathe for all air had been constricted from him. His people often bespoke of the legend of the phantom Red Wolf. Whispered in hushed, excited tones, they told of how it haunted the moors and forests beyond the Wall. A guardian and protector for the wandering and lost. To see it, would be lucky; to capture it , would be unheard of. Its owner elevated to that of a god.

Jon was but a mere foot from it now, almost touching. Then, before he could blink, the specter wolf disappeared, vanishing among the scarlet weirwood leaves. Jon raged, angry and hysterical that he would never see it again. That all magic had been forever vanquished from the world.

Until now. Until Sansa.

He wanted to kiss her. It was all he had wanted to do since the abduction. Since he had first glimpsed upon her all those moons past. He tried to quell it, to quiet this raging inferno that erupted and consumed him to the brink of insanity.

Aye, he tried in earnest to stave off this desire and wanting. He would lie, pretend that she was ugly; that she was a glacial ice princess, too cold, too frigid, and too distant to be reached. And yet, despite his fervent attempts, Jon felt like a man drowned insane. He had promised himself-promised her-that he would not dishonor her. That if she were to have him, the choice would lay solely with her.

But seeing her like this now, a growling, entrapped wolf, it was all he could do not to damn them both to the deepest pit of the seven hells. We are all liars here…

"Killing is a hard thing to do well. Are you sure you're up to the task?"

She still had the sword pointed at him, just at his heart. Gods help him, but he would willingly run himself through to the hilt if it meant he could have but a taste of her. To drink endlessly from her mouth as if she were honeyed mead. Only but a taste to sate the yearning that ran riot through his extremities.

Yet, he dared not; dared not heed the siren's song. Jon wanted her, aye, he burned for her. But he was not a stupid man. She was angry, and at that moment, she could very well kill him. Gods knew she had every right to.

Do it. Put me out of my misery. Save us both from this feverish madness. Save me.

Sansa remained resolute, impassive. Her eyes turned glacial and apathetic. An ice princess once more.

"What makes you think that I couldn't? I could kill you where you stand and not shed a single tear."

Jon did not doubt it. She looked positively feral. But he still wanted her, despite it all. He wanted all of her-now and forever. Gods, but what was wrong with him?

Ignoring every bell that ran riot in his head, Jon took another step forward, goading her. Testing her now. He was playing a dangerous game here, as they both were. It was a deadly dance of wills that none seemed able to yield to. There could be no victor, and yet neither wanted to raise that white flag of surrender.

What will you do now, Little Wolf?

Against his better judgement, Jon stepped nearer still. Until his lips were but a breath away from hers. He knew he should not, that he was risking his honor, but at that moment, he could not allow himself to care. Gods, but she was beautiful.

So

Very

Beautiful.

Lowering his head but just a fraction of the way, he kissed her, drinking deeply from her mouth like a man starved. He could apologize, promise that it would never happen again, that he would stay far away, but it would be a lie. He would not be able to stay away even if he wanted to. He was in too deep.

He moaned, deepening the kiss, his hands frantic and searching. She tasted like candied plums and honeyed dreams. Of purple twilight and golden dawn. Of magic and the spectacular. And Jon was drowning, finally acquiescing to the wind and tide, and yet, he wanted no salvation or respite. She was here. He was here. And the world was theirs for the claiming.

Jon was hysterical, lost in a foggy haze of bliss. All but forgetting reality…

...Until a sharp, searing pain caused him to free fall back to Earth….

Gasping, Jon looked down at his tunic, his eyes widening at the sight of blood quickly coalescing just at his shoulder.