Chapter Sixteen: Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken
The wound was shallow, a flesh wound, truly. Not hard enough to hurt, but deep enough to penetrate the skin, the blood running scarlet. Sansa stared, transfixed. She had stabbed him. Oh gods, she had stabbed him, causing him injury.
Good. The thought came suddenly, unbidden and dangerous. Good. Let him bleed! Let him bleed! Let rivers of blood seep and percolate until he hemorrhaged, until there was nothing left save meat and bone.
And even then, that dark and sinister voice whispered, it would not be enough, not even a tenth of the suffering he had visited on her. This man stalked her, kidnapped her, tore her home asunder and sent her off-kilter, oscillating. And yet none of the aforementioned horrors equated to the tumult of emotions he was now forcing her to feel. It did not matter what he did to her now, if he killed her and left her corpse to rot, suspended over the Wall, she could never forgive him turning her emotions against her, for manipulating her feelings until they were twisted, malformed and corrupted...wrong.
She had wanted him, wanted him with every fiber of her being until there was nothing left. She had been fighting this, this dark temptation. Since that night he had bared his soul to her, raw, cracked, and splintered, she felt something within her snap. May the gods damn him to the deepest pit of the seven hells for this, this coming undone and unraveling.
There it was again, this unbridled rage. Sansa felt it crackle and surge within her, blistering and white-hot. She felt drugged, lethargic. Damn you damn you damn you!
Jon looked up at her, wild-eyed and staring, as if at any moment, she would grow fangs and a tail, like some sort of demon. It would not be at all unfathomable, he supposed. Here, within the tight enclosure of the hut, she looked the every essence of a spearwife. She had the look: wide, feral eyes, untethered rage, the rising and falling of her chest.
She was a merging of beautiful and terrifying. And Jon had not wanted anything more. He took in a shuddering breath, the wound now a dull ache, a wolf bite. The she-wolf's warning.
"I should not have done that," he rasped, hands raised in appeasement, extended. It was an honorable gesture, Sansa assumed, but a false one. His grey eyes were placid, soft and convinced, a contrast between desire and restraint. "Forgive me."
Forgive me. Forgive me. How often, Sansa wondered, fleetingly, had men begged for absolution? To be forgiven of transgressions that they alone were culpable? The entreaty sounded akin to a curse, loud and cacophonous, suspended into the air of nothingness.
Forgive me...Forgive me…
Never! She wanted to rail out, to scream for the top of her lungs until it echoed, reverberating throughout the realm. Never never never!
Never will I forgive you for ripping me from my home. Never will I forgive you for tearing my family apart. Worse yet, never will I forgive you for this chaos and madness that you alone have inflicted upon me. For making me want you as I have not wanted any man.
"You will never do that again, am I clear?" The words were succinct, final and cold. Had she not have spoken them, fallen from someone else's mouth, Sansa would have shivered. They were like poison falling from her lips, lips still warmed and heated from his taste.
She had needed this, this self-preservation and assiduity. If not, then she cold easily see herself careening, free-falling into him with nothing to tether her or pull her back. He had drugged her again, she was sure of it.
Bastard.
Jon swallowed tightly then. His once placid grey eyes an emerging tempest. Had it been anyone else, he would have laughed, relishing the prospect of a challenge. Alas, it was not anyone else. It was the wolf-maid, the embodiment of glimmering hope and bright-eyed wanting. All that he both loved and feared facing him now. What's more, he had promised.
What is honor compared to a woman's love?
" I do not know much of honor, She-Wolf, but I will not kiss you again until you have asked me to." Jon meant it, too, for he was tired. Exhausted from this constant yielding to her her, this succumbing. She was a masterful tactician, he mused. Her only misfortune being of the wrong sex. She had a warrior's resolve, and had she been born a man, she would have been invincible.
She had already stolen the one thing he had sworn he would never part with, and had done it effortlessly. Gods, but how had she done it, burrowed so deeply within him that she became like an extension? There must be some witch in you, She-Wolf. You have bewitched me completely.
Sansa lowered the sword then, her eyes glacial and snooty. "And that, I never will."
Jon eyed her silently, for there was nothing left to say. At nine and ten, Jon was already a warrior, his skills matching that of the Lion of Lannister, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He knew strategy, he knew battles, he knew warfare. More importantly, he knew how to read people, how to decipher between truth and lies, as did Mance.
Yet, watching Sansa now, taking her in, he was in a quagmire. Careening down a high slope and unable to gain traction. He could not read her, could not tether understanding to her, and it left him both frustrated and intrigued, simultaneously.
Jon felt angry then, helpless. He wanted to shake her, dismayed that already he never tired of touching her. He knew it was wrong, but he wanted Sansa to react, to convey some emotion to his kiss. To want him as much as he wanted her.
Oh, but gods you are a hateful woman!
Sansa dropped the sword and took a step back, chin lifted, giving nothing away. Only her eyes seemed to speak, a strange yet fascinating mix of sapphire blue and indigo dusk. They were bluer than paradise, those eyes. And they were focused on Jon-his lips-searching.
Jon's heart jumped from his chest, exalted. She had wanted him back, he was sure of it! He made a hasty retreat, before he he allowed himself another mistake. Perhaps it would do well if she stayed somewhere else, in Muirgayn's hut, maybe. That way, she would be protected and the temptation quelled. Out of sight, out of mind. For now, atleast.
Besides, Muirgayn was Tormund's woman, she was tough and stalwart. More than that, she was loyal, never asking or questioning. She would be a much needed friend ally to Sansa, all things considering.
As Jon left, he was unaware of a set of eyes following him, resting on the large hut where the she wolf remained. They were the eyes of the betrayed and damned, hostile and angry, calculating. A plan suddenly taking form. It mattered not if the White Wolf was in love with Kneeler Bitch, Ygritte decided. Let him have his sport.
She would be gone by way of Rowena and Bridget. She would be exterminated, her pretty face smashed into shreds of pulp and nothingness. Yes, Ygritte mused. She would have great fun in skinning the Red Wolf. And only then, would Jon return to her, repentant and contrite.
And Ygritte will be ready, arms extended, heart opened, welcoming him. She would finally bait and trap her rogue wolf.