Chapter Twenty-Three: Siren
Ygritte had vanished. The revelation sending ripples of disbelief and slight trepidation throughout the wildling camp. Secreted away in the night, like a mist or specter haunting the moors. All that remained in her wake were a set of footprints and two dead guards who held vigil over the abandoned hut that once served as her asylum, their throats slit nigh to the bone, nearly decapitated.
Mance had been livid upon the revelation of Ygritte and her crimes and ordered for her immediate confinement, to which she would be tried in accordance to wildling law and praxis. If she were condemned (as of now, all they had were Sansa's and Jon's testimonies and no witnesses), she would pay with her life, as was the wildling way. Blood demanded blood and only a life could satisfy death-the balance weighed and measured.
Jon had volunteered to carry out the execution, believing himself solely responsible for the deaths of Rowena and Bridgette. Mance tried to object, asserting that one could never decipher an untethered and diseased mind, yet Jon had been resolute and immoveable. It was only fair, by Ygritte's death, Jon could acquire absolution and atonement for his transgressions and stupidity. Mayhap if he had listened, then all of this could have been avoided, the deaths never happening.
The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. Those had been her Lord Father's words, Sansa thought achingly, the clenching within her belly intensifying. She had been gone almost a fortnight and the throes and anguish did not cease but only intensified. Those were her father's words, yet Jon had been the embodiment and manifestation of it.
Looking at him now, taking him in, the parallels between the two men were unmistakeable: the same grim severity, the deep furrowed brow laden with travail. Sansa knew the look well. Resignation. Identical to what Ned often bore upon an expectation.
While Mance had been pleased, mollified by his son's fortitude and quick severing of all past memories, Jon's silver eyes belied something else entirely. Contention. He was reluctant in his mission-take a life-bt he knew he must.
Yet this was different, for Ygritte was not a deserter of the Nightswatch or a reprobate criminal, no. She had been his lover. It was difficult to discard lingering sentiments. Sansa understood this, but for some unknown reason, it still stung, nonetheless. Sansa did not dare explore the reasons why, but she could at least empathize.
Besides, she needed to be sweet now. If she were sweet and unassuming, Jon would trust her, expose more and more of his cracks to her until she could escape. It was all but a dance.
"How long must I stay within your hut?'' Sansa asked without preamble and immediately winced. She had been ensconced within Jon's hut immediately following Ygritte's absconding. Tormund had offered to escort her back to Muirgayne, but Jon had declined, remembering Rattleshirt's lecherous gazes and Ygritte's threats. He had argued that until the whole debacle was over, she would again remain with him.
"I have to have her with me. I need to protect her, Tormund-at all costs. If she is under my protection, surely no one would be so foolish as to harm her." It was a good lie, one Jon could easily believe if he allowed himself the luxury.
Instead of feeling insulted at the implication, Tormund only quirked an eyebrow and smirked knowingly. He sobered just as quickly, remembering the day's events and their encounter with Rattleshirt. "Have care, Snow. Anyone with eyes can see she is your weakness. A jewel like her? How long d'you think it will be before another cunt tries to pluck her away from you?"
Jon stiffened, his jaw setting. His threat to the Lord of Bones was not an idle one; he had meant what he'd said. He would kill anyone who tried to take her away from him. Yet, it transcended far beyond mere objectification and possession. Jon remembered his dream-of the warmth-and trembled. And hoped. Hope was a foolish thing to have in this world full of ugliness and sin, and yet it proved difficult to kill.
"Until I say so, She-Wolf. Are you bored of me, already?" He was smirking again, that insufferable grin that she loathed so much to look upon. Sansa clenched her jaw, a sharp and acidic reply immediately upon her lips, yet with Herculean effort, stamped it down. It would not due to lose control now, after all her carefully constructed planning. Gentle. Gentle now.
"I am your prisoner and with nowhere to go." Sansa replied demurely, eyes lowered in false docility. Not too much, she scolded. Barbarian Jon Snow may be, but he was not stupid. This was a man renown throughout the realm for his ingenuity and agency, the ability to dissemble any snare. Too much false saccharinity and she was sure to arouse suspicion.
"Forgive me." Sansa swallowed thickly. Gods. How far must she sink? "It's only that I do not like being confined like an animal. At least Tormund and Muirgayne, I was allowed a little bit of freedom."
Jon remained silent, contemplating. It was easy to see how she could become restless. The wildlings were a free and independent people who valued their liberty. Theirs was not a life built on walls and confinement.
Jon rose abruptly and walked towards the hut's entrance. He's leaving again! Sansa thought dejectedly, hopes deflating. She was not so certain she could endure another moment of silence without going mad.
"Are you coming, She-Wolf?" Jon asked, inclining his head towards her. Sansa followed behind, hesitant. He could very well be leading her to her death, out of sight from the rest of the village, like a lamb to slaughter. Sansa did not have it in her to care any longer. Besides, if he had meant to kill her, gods knew he had ample opportunity to do so.
Instead, the sinfully-sweet smell of oleander and Mary rose wafted through the summer air. Sansa stopped, inhaling the fragrance, the air redolent with it. Jon waited, watching her with a peculiar expression upon her face.
They travelled a few more paces until they reached the lake. The summer sun had just dipped, meeting the earth, bathing the waters with a dusty rose glow. The water was cool and temperate, bringing instantaneous joy to Sansa's feet. She was wearing a long tunic, overlarge and stretched, its hem reaching well past her knees. In another life, perhaps, Sansa would have been concerned with propriety and modesty, of what was proper and virtuous. But now, all that mattered was the coolness of the water and her newly given freedom. She lifted the hem and waded in, exhilarated.
She remembered summers like this with her brothers and Theon, carefree days swimming in the hot springs. Robb and Theon would make sport of diving off rocks, trying to see who made the biggest splash. Arya, ever the explorer, would dare Sansa to swim to the deepest ends, the loser having to relinquish their desserts for two moons (Sansa would always lose, save that one time. A fluke, Arya called it.). Sweet Bran, careful and solicitous, staying close to the water's edge; Baby Rickon, much too young and too small, chortling and gurgling with glee as he looked on his siblings at play.
Oh, how she missed those sweet, long-ago days! There was a loud splash at her right and Sansa opened her eyes, laughing at the sight of Jon's direwolf, Ghost, swimming towards her. The great beast more pup than formidable protector, his tongue lolling in his elation. Sansa laughed at the sight and playfully splashed some water in his direction. The albino wolf growled playfully and proceeded to shake the excess water from its mane, drenching Sansa further.
She could not retaliate without lifting her tunic further, so she hitched it up, and began kicking water at him, her endless legs shimmering in the evening sky. Ghost retreated to the lake's shore and Sansa bounded after him, her laughter a melodic cacophony. Jon moved to quiet her, afraid that the noise and laughter would invite a curious onlooker to investigate. It would not due to see their Wolf Prince all out of sorts and undone.
Sansa looked up just in time to see Jon approaching, and too ensnared in the spirit of the game, brought her foot out of the water and laughingly sent a shower of water droplets in his direction. Jon immediately stopped, her unconcealed joy immediately seizing him. She looked the very image of a mermaid, with her luminescent skin and autumn hair. A water siren rising from her aqueous lair, to entice some unsuspecting mainer with her silvered voice and honey-sweet smile. He was at a loss, suspended between wanting to partake of the game, and continuing to gawk on her. This was the first time she had ever looked upon him without any trace of fear or hatred. Here, beneath the endless summer stars and the fullness of the moon, she looked pure and happy. Radiant.
Soon, all too soon, it was time to return back to the camp. Jon exiting the hut to allow Sansa to exchange her saturated tunic for a dry one made of wool. For as long as he lived, Jon would never forget this night, never forget the look of unconcealed glee upon the she-wolf's face as she frolicked and splashed about the lake, relishing in her merriment and insouciance. Nor, to his secret shame, would he forget the vision she had gifted him with the moonlight highlighting every dip and soft curve of her body, or how the sodden tunic clung so alluringly to her breasts, and the ample convex of her hips.
Sansa was euphoric as she returned to Jon's hut, the warm summer's breeze lifting her spirits. For the first time since her captivity, she felt free. For that one glorious hour, she was no longer a hostage, an ensnared fledgling dove among vultures and crows, but a sprite, a wood nymph, and any other spectacular and divine creature. A goddess, even.
Humming a long-forgotten tune, she began to change out of her wet tunic, reaching for the proffered one laying on a nearby chest. It was soft and warm, smelling distinctly of musk and pine and bergamot. Of Jon.
A strange excitement rose up within her and Sansa could not help but relish in it. Aye, it was but a mere tunic, yet it belonged to him-to Jon. She was now inadvertently connected to him, a part of him. She heard a faint rustle of movement at the front of the hut and turned around to investigate, thinking it were Ghost, silent as the shadows, slipping inside.
All smiles left her lips as Sansa turned around fully, her blood nearly congealing at the sight awaiting her. There, at the entrance of the hut, effectively blocking her one means of escape, stood Rattleshirt, his eyes gleaming lecherously as they raked over her, a feral smile upon his lips.