Chapter Eighteen: Between Dreams and Clarity
He was trembling. Of rage or lust, he was not certain. What did it matter, truly? Were they not one in the same emotion? Positioned and situated on the same side of the spectrum?
He took the coward's way, turning and fleeing. A Wildling faced his enemy, never retreated or disengaged. Yet, here he was, the fearsome and odious Jon Snow, shrinking back, hiding and regrouping. And all for what? A woman. A Kneeler.
She's not just any woman, is she? That malevolent and pernicious voice would whisper. Jon sighed, closing his eyes tightly, trying to stymie the unwanted intrusion. He hated that voice, that dark and attritive whisper. It haunted him, like a second shadow. One that he could never shake off.
He wanted to laugh at the absurdity. Had it been any other, Jon would have laughed. Yet, it was not another. It was him—the jape was on him, and it roared in its hilarity, taunting him ruthlessly with its merriment.
Jon pressed his lips tightly together; her taste still lingering. She was so sweet, so very sweet. Jon doubted that even the finest Arbor Gold wine, the few flagons pilfered so far North, would taste as fine as she.
What is it you are doing to me, Little Wolf? What in the Seven Hells are you doing to me?
Perhaps he was going mad, finally succumbing to this lunacy that overtook Old Magda. Jon chuckled darkly. He knew he was going to die, had long ago accepted his fate. In an existence as harsh and unforgiving as his, death was the only inevitable outcome. He often thought on it, ruminating on the various possible outcomes and circumstances. It was only fair, he supposed.
As a harbinger for death who had silenced so many—the guilty and innocent alike—it was only right for the scales to be balanced and measured. With death comes life. Jon had always envisioned that he would die on the battlefield, like his grandsire, Isaar The Terrible. He was a legend among the Free-Folk, a war-god nearly invincible in battle, a queer and strange catalepsy overtaking him each and every time.
The Southrone lords feared him—rightfully so—for he was a man of unspeakable barbarity and terror, his pathological cruelty even shocking his own people into quiet submission and subservience. Of all the Wildling raids on The North and the Seven Kingdoms, his was the closest to victory. Yet, it was a bolt to the eye, gifted by Lord Rickard Stark, to forever silence Isaar's ambitions. Reduced to nothing save another page and footnote in someone else's history book.
"She is your past, your present, and your future…" Jon could still hear her, Old Magda's voice, and the prophecy she had spoken so very long ago. "She is your destiny, and if you are not careful, your destruction as well…"
Jon shook his head, swearing silently to the heavens. The witch was right, even now, eons later, after countless raids, battles, and skirmishes, the witch was right. Sansa Stark was part of him, their lives ensnared and forever entangled and intertwined.
Bael the Bard, a long -ago great grandsire of Jon's had been a Wildling king who had kidnapped Brandon Stark's daughter, Allyria The Fair, another fire-haired beauty, according to travelling minstrels, and distant kin to the red-haired Wolf Maid. Their child unknowingly killing his sire in open combat. Jon's grandsire being felled by Sansa's.
He wanted to forget, Jon wanted to forget all of it—Magda, her damnable prophesy, the history—and yet no matter how hard he tried to repress it, there it was again: bright , iridescent, and gleaming. Aye, he was going mad, she was causing it, this unravelling and lunacy. Sansa Stark was to blame. For all of it.
Jon absently reached for his shoulder, gingerly fingering the wound—the wolf bite—she had gifted him. The bleeding had ceased, thanks in part to the poultice Muirgayne had made. The noxious smelling concoction staving off all possible infection as well, only leaving a dry ache in its place.
"Lucky, you are," Muirgayne's hazel eyes glinted merrily with barely concealed humor as Jon recounted how he came about the wound. "An inch lower and she would have pierced your heart."
Tormund howled with laughter, his face matching the crimson of his hair. "Never would I have thought a Kneeler would have bested you, Snow! Looks like your Lady-Wolf has fangs!"
Jon glared at both of them, unamused. As much as he loved and admired Tormund and was grateful to whichever gods or force that brought them to each other, he was envious. Of him and Muirgayne. Of what they both shared with one another.
They had been together for years, five to be exact. Already, they were the parents of two small daughters and another on the way, judging by the slight roundness of Muirgayne's belly. The news came as a surprise for Tormund. After multiple miscarriages and false pregnancies, he had been afraid to hope. Unprepared for yet another heartache.
"It will be a boy, this time," Muirgayne decreed. She had claimed that the gods had visited her in a dream in the form of a bear cub, Tormund's totem. Only men were allowed to pass on their father's tokens. Tormund sat in the background, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. He oft learned to ignore her portents, their two daughters a testament to her errors. He never voiced his skepticisms, though. Gods alone knew the hell that would be paid if he ever dared such disrespect outwardly. Muirgayne would have his balls for breakfast. Although small in stature, she was a fearsome sight when angered, a truly awesome sight at that.
Jon was grateful to Muirgayne, she kept Tormund honest. Before, Tormund was shiftless—directionless—like a ship without oars, tossed to and fro by every tempest and gale. While Jon enjoyed his women, he was always careful, judicious in his choosing of them. Tormund had no reservations. Any woman would do, anywhere.
Aye, Jon was grateful to the diminutive, yet fierce spear-wife for salvaging his friend, preventing his imminent self-destruction. But he was also jealous, his face burning with shame at the realization. It was easy for them to jape, to laugh. Theirs was a relationship forged in comradery and trust. Looking at them now, they looked like a single entity; where one ended, the other began.
Jon turned away, angry. It was not right, this jealousy, raging with its ferocity, but Jon felt its sharpness keenly. Felt the sting of its bite. Would it be so terrible to dream? To want? To hope so fervently and ardently that he physically ached?
The night just before the abduction, Jon had a dream.
He was in a strange room, a fire blazing in the nearby hearth. He was dressed not as a wildling, but instead as a lord. Gone were the strange, heavy furs and in its place, a finely woven tunic, embellished in a sumptuous brocade, and jerkin. Although it was all strange, it was what Jon held in his arms that caused his breath to leave him…
It was a babe, rosy cheeked and cherubic. His hair was of ebony, his eyes closed, framed by dark eyelashes. He was asleep in Jon's arms, a peaceful repose. His breath milk-sweet and even. At that moment, Jon felt something alien overtake him. His heart both breaking and full simultaneously. It was foreign, this feeling, this unexpected fullness. So very alien. And yet, Jon did not want to lose it.
A woman entered the room then. Her face obscured, but yet somehow—someway—Jon knew her. She was speaking, her voice low and muted, causing Jon to smile and gently kiss her forehead tenderly. The dream faded with the family smiling down on the babe, slumbering on in his father's arms.
It was such a sweet dream, a beautiful and welcomed one. When Jon awoke, he was surprised to discover his eyes were wet with unshed tears. For the first time in his life, Jon felt a sense of calm tranquility wash over him anew. It was the same strange peacefulness that he felt whenever Sansa was near. He never wanted to wake from her.
The wound gave another throb, and Jon touched it gently, Muirgayne's words coming back to him.
"An inch lower and she would have pierced your heart..."
Too late, Muirgayne. Jon chuckled darkly, the sound reverberating through the stillness. She already has.