Chapter Seventeen: Whispered Prayers

Sansa noticed the scarlet weirwood immediately upon her arrival to the Wildling camp. It was not a difficult task, truly. The rufescent leaves a glaring contrast against the brilliant cyan sky. It was summer, had been for the past five years, and yet a hint-a small, minute trace-of winter surrounded them all with its iridescent leaves and solemn face of an unknown, omniscient winter god.

It was a blessing, that proud and beautiful tree. Providing temporary comfort and respite from all the unravelling and undoing that had so suddenly been visited upon her. It reminded Sansa of home, of Winterfell. More than that, much more than that, it reminded her of Father.

When Sansa had been but a young girl during those rare and far-between days the summer sun visited the North, its golden rays magic against the cold winter snow, she would hide within the godswood, secretly watching her Lord Father. Seated and tucked behind an alcove of scarlet leaves, Ned Stark would be at repose, sharpening his great sword. It was here, Sansa observed, secreted and hidden away behind the sanctuary of the crimson foliage, that Lord Father found reprieve, a guest among the pantheon of the ancient forest gods.

Gone was his furrowed brow, laden with travail and grim severity-the Northman's ipseities-and in its place, a man of middle years, handsome still, despite no longer in his first youth. Here, alone within the secret company of the Old Gods of the forests, Father was free, a mortal man comprised of meat, sinew and bone. Untethered and unburdened by nonsensical politics and the endless pressures of the realm. Unconcerned by the Bolton's and the ongoing civil war that threatened to splinter and tear The North asunder.

Here, he was but a man, a lone wolf at rest. And Sansa loved him best like this. A living, tangible deity among ugliness and sin. The taste of salt met her lips, tangy yet sweet, simultaneously. The tears began to fall faster, and this time, Sansa did not will them away, only allowing the mask to fall and the fissures and cracks to show, opened and raw. There was nothing left of her now, only a festering, gaping hole that once held her heart. She had not cried since her foiled escape a sennight past. She had been angry at herself then, for showing weakness to the enemy.

But now…

Now…

Alone within this strange hut, with its weapons and with her treacherous and tumultuous thoughts, Sansa allowed her heart to break. 'Oh Father...will I ever see you again? Do you think me a ghost now, haunting the crypts and silent tombs of Winterfell?'

She heard footsteps outside the hut. Her heart stopped. He had come back, she was sure of it. Soon, he would enter through those animal skinned flaps and seek his vengeance-whatever that may be. Sansa knew he wanted her, only a fool would be so blind to see what was so glaringly obvious. The rising and falling of his chest, as though he were a man parched and she, the last bag of waterskins. The darkening of his eyes, feral and predatory; the fusing of his mouth as he claimed hers aching, hot and searching.

Aye, he wanted her. The deadly and formidable White Wolf wanted her. And for that, Sansa did not know what to do with that bit of information or how to feel.

Perhaps, that deep and sinister voice answered, you could exploit this. Tame this rabid wolf and make him yours. The difficult part is half done, the boy is already half mad with lust.

Sans knew she was beautiful, a fact that caused her Lord Father and elder brother much grief and concern. Although she tried not to dwell on it, she was not blind to the many passing glances gifted to her by the male servants of Winterfell, old and young alike. Twice now her brother Robb had to break Theon's nose for his bold, staring eyes and roving hands, too intimate and far too friendly at dances.

Sansa knew lust, judging by the hot glances and lingering stares Ramsay had given her upon their initial meeting after their engagement had been precogitated. She had been four and ten and he, five years older, and even then, she wanted to die, to vault herself from the highest ramparts and careen to the cobbled streets below. Mayhap then, she would be free.

'You will be a great beauty, Sweetling.' Closing her eyes now, Sansa could hear her Lady Mother's endearments. 'All flowers bloom when they are planted, but yours will be the most beautiful of all.'

Sansa was not so helpless as to only rely on the temporary. Beauty was good, yes, but intelligence was better. She knew how to disassemble, to scheme. Lysa taught her well. She knew how to play the game almost better than any man. Yet this...this was different. Jon Snow was different.

Could she do it? Could she seduce this untamed Wolf and make him hers, manipulate him just enough, bestow just enough affection that he would be hers to command? It is cruel to play games, that temperate, quiet voice asserted. It was her mother's voice, reminding her of a lady's courtesies and what was proper and expectant.

Well Mother, you have not been kidnapped by a Wildling savage and spirited thousands of leagues from home, Sansa countered. She was angry now, indignant. Women were always expected to remain courteous and kind, while men could readily bend the rules to befit their desires and needs.

'All men are the same, Sweetling.' Aunt Lysa affirmed. It had been the night Sansa had received her moon's blood for the first time. Scared and embarrassed, Lysa attempted to mollify her niece by braiding her hair. The scarlet curtain a cascade of fire and curls. She was a sweet sight, Lysa's niece. Sitting here, Lysa wished that she were her daughter instead of Catelyn's. Such a pity.

'They all want to be touched, to be loved. It does not matter if he's a lowly stable boy or Aegon the Conqueror.'

Embarrassment subsiding, Sansa sat in rapt attention to her aunt's teachings. She had heard the whispers her Lady Mother spewed about her youngest sister. A whore, that's what she had called her when she thought she was alone within the solitude of her chambers with only her lord husband for company. A Black Widow. A wild, unrestrained entity with too much liberty and power left alone to rule The Vale. She was a thing to be pitied, to be reviled, and yet all Sansa felt was admiration.

'How do I get a man to fall in love with me?" Sansa heard herself asking, suddenly emboldened. At three and ten, before Ramsay Bolton and other monsters of his ilk, she had dreams of golden, fair-haired knights and chivalrous lords. Of beautiful Jonquil and her Florian. True love was oft a phantasm among arranged marriages. The best a lord and lady could hope for was that a friendship and camaraderie would be established. What her Lord Father and Lady Mother shared was a rare thing, a diamond amongst endless fields of charcoal and anthracite. Sansa was not so foolish and naive to expect the same good fortune, but here, within Aunt Lysa's halls, she could dream.

Lysa stopped her braid, an intricate and beautiful design, and smiled knowingly. Her cornflower blue eyes glistening mischievously. 'Seduction is in itself an art. To make a man love you, you must make him believe that despite all you have given him, there is still more to conquer. All men thrill at the chase, the mystery. Offer him but just a taste, and he will want more, never sated.'

Enheartened now, Sansa began to plan, to assimilate. She would do it. She would get this Wolf Prince to love her, endear herself to his people and when the time was right, she would escape.

So you will become a whore, then? His whore? There it was again, that voice. Her mother's voice, condemning her, damning her.

Mayhap it was wrong, this subterfuge and deception. Mayhap it was ill work to manipulate and exploit one's affections, but yet what choice did she have? Once the Wildling took her from her home, he left her with no other alternatives. She owed him nothing. She would give him nothing.

"I am sorry, Mother." Sansa whispered into the still night air. "I am sorry that I am no longer the daughter you raised. I am sorry, Father. I am sorry that I have failed you. Forgive me, please, for what I must do."

Wolves cannot survive on their own, her Lord Father once told her, many moon's turns ago. They need the pack to survive.

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

"I will survive, Father," Sansa affirmed. "I will do whatever I must to survive."

And she would. She must.