Chapter Twenty: Poison

A deep hunger settled within his gut as he watched her. It seized him, the force of it constricting the air from him. She had been Muirgayne and Tormund in their hut, sharing an alcove with their two young daughters. Both of them swore to watch over Sansa, to be his eyes whenever he was not present.

Jon chuckled darkly. It was hilarious, this irony. He had sent her away from his tent-from him-so that he could protect her, to quell this lust that had run rampant within his extremities, and yet, he could never be fully rid of her. She haunted his thoughts, an ever present shadow. He looked down at the hunting knife, the blade, though dull, glinting in the firelight.

As Mance Rayder's heir and prince, Jon presided over the hunting, he and twelve of the best huntsmen were commissioned with bringing meat to the village. It was menial work, monotonous and dull, but Jon had not minded it. His duty was foremost to his people, now and always. Mance had always expounded on a leader's duties, expatiating on the heavy burden of caring for another.

When Jon had been younger, selfish and wild, he could not comprehend this. His wants and desires had been paramount, immediate, and instantly gratified; as a Wildling, refusals and withholdings were unknown and foreign to him. If he desired it, he would take it. Such was the Wildling way. Mance would oft shake his head, bewildered and dismayed, at his son's short-sightedness and apathy, praying to the deities above that one day Jon would comprehend the salience of service and charity.

Surveying the camp, taking in the laughter and camaraderie, Jon now understood. One could never be a leader, have the unwavering fealty of his people, if he could not first serve. It was a difficult lesson, aye, but an important one. And Jon had learned.

Out of the periphery of his vision, Jon sensed movement. He tensed, turning his head quickly, bracing himself. It was rare that he was truly at ease, even now within the enclosure of his camp and among his own people. The night was dark and full of terrors and safety was both an illusion and phantasm.

Turning his head fully, Jon's breath was all but lost as he took her in. Sansa. She was following Muirgayne, her head held high, gaze unwavering. She had changed clothes since their last encounter, shedding her noblewoman's finery for simple furs. Yet, in spite of the simplicity of her new garments, Sansa had managed to wear them with such pride, akin to a chest laden with treasure.

Her deep auburn hair was unbound and wild, resting at her waist. The campfire highlighting its undertones, an array of molten copper and rich chestnut. A living flame. She was a living flame.

And Jon was set ablaze and singeing.

He quickly diverted his eyes, his britches tightening. He was not alone in his admiration of her, Jon noticed. It seemed as though every man within the camp turned their heads to look their fill of her, their collective gazes hot and appraising. Even Mance appeared momentarily awed.

A black cloud began to enshroud around Jon then. He felt murderous, dangerous and primitive. He clenched the hunting knife tightly, briefly envisioning plucking the eyes from each man who dared to gawk on her with such liberties, his father included. Immediately, Jon felt contrite, rueful almost.

It was wrong, this jealousy, for he had no right. No right in this claiming of her, and yet, he could not help quell this desire and fervent yearning. He was going mad, his sanity tethered but by only a single loose thread. Remember your vow, Snow.

His father's voice penetrated his reverie, a slight beam of clarity contrast to the inky blackness of instability. That's right. He had vowed not to touch her until she asked, until she initiated the contact. He had every intention of honoring his promise and preserve what little honor remained of him, but gods! Why did she have to make it so fucking difficult?

Jon shifted in his seat, trying to alleviate the ache between his legs. He could not count the times he had taken himself in hand, envisioning her above him. The tent redolent with lavender and peony. His She-Wolf's scent. Mayhap he could visit the lake after dinner...Aye, the coolness would help bring back some of his lost rationality and control. If only for a moment, at least.

Jon looked up again, dismayed by his need to see her, to glimpse upon her once more. She was sitting in front of the campfire, sandwiched between Muirgayne and Tormund. She had smiled at one of their daughters, her smile honey-sweet and beautiful. Jon's breath hitched upon the splendidness of the sight, instantly wishing he were the recipient of her sweet smiles and laughter.

She was beautiful, Jon amended. Even now, a captive among vipers, she was still so damned beautiful. Looking at her now, Sansa looked the epitome of a queen-a Wolf Queen-both resplendent and terrifying simultaneously. Jon looked up, glancing just beyond.

Ygritte was staring at him, her gaze hostile and cold. Jon sighed in resignation. It was inevitable, his dealing with her, and yet it was a task he was loathe to do . Once upon a time, Jon had loved Ygritte, and did still. She had been good to him and he would cherish their memories fondly. Yet, she was his past, now reduced to that of a distant recollection.

She was not for him, her jealousy and possessiveness of him a loud, resounding cacophony. She did not love him, not really. Rather, she loved the illusion of what he could offer her. Mace was right, as he oft was. He knew what Ygritte was and had warned Jon at length of her poison, and Jon had not listened. At first.

It had all changed when Jon had happened upon Ygritte and Muirgayne in the midst of a heated exchange. Ygritte had been incensed, within the throes of wild accusations and jealous paroxysms, her blue eye transfixed and glacial. She had accused Muirgayne of being unfaithful to Tormund, that their eldest daughter was some other wildling man's bastard.

"You fucking whore! You are nothing save a filthy, dirty whore!" Muirgayne, already temperamental, lunged at her, eyes flashing. Had it been any other time, Jon would not have cared, for he knew Muirgayne and knew that no woman was a match for her, Ygritte included. Yet Muirgayne was pregnant, almost five moons gone. As formidable as Muirgayne's anger, Ygritte could be cruel, vicious, and Jon knew she would have no compunction injuring an unborn babe. He had to to stop this.

Jon began to separate the women, keeping both at arm's length of the other. Muirgayne, trembling in her fury and tearful; Ygritte exultant and superior. Later that night, Ygritte divulged that sshe had know all along that Muirgayne had been faithful and devout to Tormund, but had wanted to cause dissention within their union, covetous and resentful of their marriage and bond.

Although a Wildling woman was autonomous in her choosing of a husband, fidelity was paramount. Should she be suspected of infidelity from her people, she would be killed-the restoration of her husband's shredded honor. All it took was but a word, a whisper. Jon was numb, disbelieving. Surely Ygritte could see the folly and danger of her duplicity.

"Do you not realize that your lies could have killed her? Killed her babe?" Ygritte shrugged, apathetic and triumphant. It was then at that moment that Jon realized the extent of her depravity and callousness. He had to break with her, there was no other alternative.

It had been a year since their final encounter, Jon had been forceful and insistent, Ygritte, disbelieving and adamant.

"I am your woman, Jon Snow. You cannot ever betray me. You are of me, and I , of you."

She had been a nuisance, at best. Bothersome and worrying. Mance had wanted her exiled, to be sent far away, emphatic that she was an ill-omen to all within his camp. Jon had refused the sentence, believing it too stringent, too severe. Yet, after seeing her strike out at Sansa, seeing that unbridled rage and madness, Jon knew that something had to be done. This could not stand.

Sighing once more, Jon stood up, his appetite lost. He was stone now. Immoveable and resolute. The sooner he placed distance between them, the better he would feel. He loved Ygritte, aye, but he would kill her should she threaten Sansa again. That was a promise.

"You have left me." The accusation hung in the air, suspended and lingering. Jon closed his eyes, suddenly tired. He swallowed tightly, his throat heavy. He had not wanted a confrontation, only a clean break and understanding. He should have known that Ygritte would seek the most difficult route. So be it, then.

"Stay away from Sansa, Ygritte. This will be your final warning. There will not be another." Ygritte reeled as though Jon had struck her, his words near felling her. This was not her Jon. This was something different. Alien and unknown.

"Do you love her?" She asked finally, hysterical. She would not lose him. She would not. Not to this fucking wolf-bitch. This Kneeling cunt. She would never be worthy of him. Never would she love him like she could. Like only Ygritte could. Never!

Jon was silent, resolute. His hesitancy giving Ygritte a faint moment of hope. Surely he was mistaken. Surely he-

And then there was a nod, imperceptible at first, and then steady, certain.

"Aye, I do."

At that moment, Ygritte died. Surely, a million swords to the belly would never equal to the searing pain of her heart. "And what of me, then?"

Jon startled, his eyes softening, apologetic and contrite.

"Goodbye, Ygritte." And with that, Jon turned, retreating to the Wildling camp. To her. Ygritte remained back, her thoughts a sudden quagmire, the finality of it all bowling her over with its intensity and magnitude.

"Goodbye, Ygritte…"

No. No! There were no goodbyes between them, not yet. Jon was hers. And she was his. The She-Wolf had to die, had to be vanquished. It was the only way. Ygritte was more than certain of this now.

In her fury and hysteria, Ygritte had not noticed how tightly she had gripped the arrow tip, the blood wetting her palm. Yet she was numb, she could feel nothing anymore.