Chapter Twenty-Two: A Thawing
Achilles: You're still my enemy in the morning.
King Priam: And you're still my enemy tonight. But even enemies can show respect.
(Troy, 2004)
"There have been whispers, I've heard." Jon inclined his head towards Mance, attentive and listening. Of course there would be whispers. Despite the vast reclusiveness of the North, even the King-Beyond-The-Wall was not without his sparrows, the eyes and ears of his frozen kingdom.
"Orell has told me that First Ranger Benjen Stark is leading the search along with fifty of Bolton's best men, a hundred total. No doubt trying to reclaim the lost wolf." Mance's coal black eyes watched his son, patient and waiting, gaging his reaction. He was like a sentinel, always holding vigilance, waiting for the first sign of dissent.
As expected, Jon remained stoic and impassive, disclosing nothing. The only sign of cognizance was the shifting of his wolf-grey eyes as he watched the flames flicker and dance before him. Mance was not fooled, however. His son was thinking, a plan starting to form within the recesses of his mind.
Even before the abduction of the Wolf Maid, there had been long standing enmity between the Free Folk and the men of the Night's Watch. Benjen Stark had been a formidable enemy that was responsible for the execution and slaughter of many within village. Kin to the she-wolf or no, Jon would have satisfaction.
A moment passed between them, the silence interminable. Only the crackling and roaring of the flames could be heard. "Where had they been spotted?"
Even as Jon spoke, his eyes still lingered over the fire, casting an eerie glow. It was as if the fires contained a secret that only he felt privy to and could decipher. What was it he had seen within the smoke and embers? A vision? An oracle?
Nay, Mance doubted it. The gods did not impart their mysteries so liberally. No, Mance knew his son. His thoughts were preoccupied with his great prize, the red wolf. She was a sweet song, Mance conceded. Such a pretty, sweety dream. But Mance knew all too well the harsh and bitter sting of waking. His wolf son was living in a fantasy that he could not escape from.
And then what? What would be left of Jon after he plummeted back to earth? To reality? Mance shuddered at the terrible prospect.
"Orell said just south of Eagle Pass, near Midnight Canyon." Jon shifted yet remained silent, his thoughts careening and dark. They were close-too close. Mayhap seven hundred leagues from the camp.
Benjen Stark was relentless, a trait that yielded begrudging respect from Jon and Mance alike. Set to determined purpose, he was a hound on the scent-nothing would deter him. The other man, Bolton…
Jon knew very little of the Flayed Man and his men, save that he had a bastard son who was prone to cruelty and bouts of mania. A mad dog, that was his epithet. Jon smirked. It mattered not. His father once told him big men fell just as quickly as little ones. Together, however, they presented a problem. They would arrive within a moon's turn, the summer season speeding up the journey. He was running out of time.
Abruptly standing, Jon left his father's hut and made his way to the center of the camp. He needed to speak with Orell. The warg and shapeshifter was his father's favorite spy, able to enter the minds of animals and see through their eyes, his favorite, his golden eagle, Aeris. He was useful, Jon conceded, his gifts allowing him to see what others could not.
Shifty and suspicious, he was but a mere slip of a man, Orell, with dirtied yellowed hair and mismatched eyes of blue and green. Jon never liked the ferreted man and more than once prayed for the opportunity to run him through and rid the village of his presence. He had been a lover of Ygritte's once, long before Jon.
Resentful, jealous and antagonistic, Orell made no secret of his antipathy and dislike of Jon. The contention amplified due to Jon being the son of Mance Rayder, Orell's idol and hero. Even after Jon's breaking with Ygritte, Orell continued his little games, sowing seeds of division wherever he could.
Yes, Jon would relish in killing the weasel-faced man. There were so many possible ways...
But first, he needed answers.
Jon found Orell sitting atop a boulder near a small clearing, just on the outskirts of the village and right before the entrance of the forest. He had been speaking with Rattleshirt, another fellow wildling leader and war chief. Jon halted, his stomach clenching. He had not missed the way the bull-faced man's eyes glistened and alighted on Sansa during last night's feast, or the way they had followed after her as she made her way to to forest. Earlier that morn, she had asked Jon for leave to visit the weirwood tree and he had granted her supplication. Now, he could not quell the trepidation that ran riot inside of him. She had been gone for too long.
"Mance said that your eagle spotted both Night Watchmen and Bolton bannermen near Eagle Pass. Is that true?"
Orell smirked, sharing a passing glance to Rattleshirt who chuckled quietly at his side. The colossus glancing just past the thicket of trees, towards the weirwood. Suddenly, that old, familiar dark cloud began to form around Jon and he tried to will it down. Not now...not now. He could not lose his control now.
"Aye. They're coming for that kneeler bitch, trying to play hero and rescue her. A fine woman, she is. What say you give her to me? By the time I get through with her, I'd have her spilling from every one of her tight little holes."
It was meant as a jape, the Lord of Bones' bulging eyes brilliant with mirth, his bellowing laugh a cacophonous echo through the morning stillness. Tormund stiffened by Jon's side, his blue eyes blazing, all the while watching his prince, reading him. No one knew his friend's moods better than he.
And right now, Jon was feeling dangerous, judging by the darkening of his eyes and the stiff set of his jaw. Don't. Don't.
It happened too quick- all too quick. Like a wolf seizing its prey, Jon's arm shot out, faster than a loosed arrow, and enclosed around Rattleshirt's bulbous neck. The once riotous laughter now reduced to epileptic wheezing and sputtering.
"Jon-" Tormund began, yet knowing such dissuasion was futile. It was not often Jon entertained provocation, always maintaining rigid ataraxia and cool detachment, but Rattleshirt struck a nerve and continued to burrow deeper and further down. The wolf was quickly emerging and unable to become tethered. The look on Jon's face was feral, his winter grey eyes now a tempestuous storm.
"My father values your prowess on the battlefield, Rattleshirt, but I am not him and you test me now. You touch what is mine and I will kill you myself."
The threat lingered, saturating the air. All was quiet, save the continuous gasping and wheezing from Rattleshirt, his throat still enclosed within Jon's grasp. Even Orell was dumbstruck and cowed. Rattleshirt's face was slowly turning blue, his meaty hands clawing desperately at Jon's hand. Yet Jon did not relinquish his grip, only tightened further.
Gods, he means to kill him! Tormund thought wildly. Right here, right now, Jon was going to kill this man. The once thickened cord of self-possession quickly unraveling before his very eyes. No man was worth this dishonor.
"Jon, you need to release him. Release him now. JON!" A beat passed, then two. Tormund wondering if Jon had even heard his entreaty and plea.
Finally, after what seemed like eons…
A gasp of air, the Lord of Bones coughing and gagging, his hands clasping at his throat, the color starting to slowly return. Tormund sighed in relief, nearly collapsing and buckling at the weight and enormity of it all. At this moment, he had almost lost his friend. Not to a sword or arrow, no, but to anger and unbridled madness.
The red haze continued to linger and permeate Jon's mind, his eyes near black and abysmal, but the control had been returned, if only in small increments. All it took was another misstep and foolish error and the black cloud would return, thunderous and terrifying. Rattleshirt was teetering on the edge and taking Jon with him.
"First and only warning, Rattleshirt. There will not be another. Now, get the fuck out of my sight."
He did not need telling twice. Had Tormund not been so tense and bewildered, he would have shared a laugh at the larger man's expense. Now, he only felt concern and slight fear. What the fuck had changed?
Orell forgotten, Jon left Tormund's side and made his way directly to the forest. To Sansa. He needed to see her, to look upon her, if only at a distance. He would not rationalize the reasons why, mayhap when he was within the silent enclosure and quietude of his hut. But right now…
Right now, he needed to see her and quell this unbridled rage that was pulsing through him. If only but for a moment at least. She was sitting at the foot of the weirwood tree, her head bent in deference, the summer sun's rays streaming through the forest canopy, the scarlet of both the leaves and her hair forming a ring of fire around her. She looked ethereal and otherworldly, the Maiden incarnate.
Jon took a step forward, but abruptly stopped. He was like the tide being pulled by the moon. He could not understand this, this yielding and acquiescing to her. She was like a drug, and he was losing all inhibitions.
"You're the Wolf-Bitch they have been harping about, aren't you?" The voice rang out, penetrating the quiet serenity. Ygritte. Jon stiffened, moving swiftly towards them. He had warned Ygritte to stay away, to stay far away from Sansa, knowing the consequences that would befall upon her should she contravene.
And yet, here she was-provoking and vexatious. Jon cursed silently, he should have known Ygritte would never settle for the path of least resistance. Yet, it was all too late now. The black cloud began to once again reemerge and manifest.
"I have killed cunts like you who thought they could have him, stronger and braver than you could ever be. What makes you think I could not kill you now and bury your body somewhere only the crows could find you?" There was a rushing that filled Jon's ears at the admission. Oh, gods no...Rowena and Bridgette. No no no no no!
Jon moved forward, his hand on the blade of his hunting knife. If this bitch did anything to hurt Sansa, Jon did not know what he might do. Only that he would not be held responsible for his actions. The red haze began to encircle once more.
Her voice stopped him, hard and unwavering. In the rare and far between moments that Jon had heard Sansa speak, Jon was entranced by the honeyed mellifluousness of her voice, wishing she would speak more, laugh more, instead of the angry silence she would oft give him whenever it were but the two of them. However, this time, instead of sweetness and operatic words, there was an anger and strength. Steel. She was now steel.
"You think your idle words can scare me? Make me tremble? I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I am the Wolf's daughter, and you cannot frighten me."
Ygritte, Jon noted, was nonplussed, cowed. Her lifeless and dull eyes flashing in momentary fear and recognition. She fled the woods then, hastily retreating to the wildling camp. She would not remain there. If Jon had his way, she would be dead-preferably by his hand.
There was a stiffening of her spine, her back rigid and proud. Even in her anger and wrath, Jon noted, Sansa was still beautiful. Coldly beautiful and proud. No longer this timid, scared little dove of fairy tales and songs.
In that instantaneous moment, Jon felt something shift. Although the burning lust and unrestrained yearning remained (it would always remain as far as he was concerned), there was, more importantly, a thawing that began to softly trickle and percolate. Like ice in a Dornish summer. There now was respect and reverence.
As if sensing his presence, Sansa turned around to face him, a defiant lilt to her chin. Jon stared back, silent and watchful, the transformation before him stupefying. My queen...My Wolf Queen….