Chapter Twenty-Six: Retrospection

"Do you love my son?"Mance's question was a simple one, honest and bereft of all duplicity and guile. Yet, in spite of the simplicity of the inquiry, there was a steady hollowing within the pit of Sansa's stomach. At that moment, she was not standing at the center of Mance Rayder's hut, facing the staid and pensive King-Beyond-the-Wall, but instead submerged within the frigid, glacial depths of the North Sea.

She felt frozen, pegged. Rooted to the spot, akin to a convict facing execution, or a hare staring down the jaws of a ravenous, solitary wolf. Sansa opened her mouth, the lie ready upon her lips. If she lied, she could gain further control of her heart and harden it fully, once more assume the guise of a that cold, stoic Ice Queen.

Lie! Lie, damn you! You have already told so many lies, what's one more, surely? Yet, all mendacity Sansa had ready died as soon as she met Mance's steady gaze. While Jon's eyes were piercing, able to stop a man with a single, deliberate glance, Mance's eyes were terrifying. Darker than obsidian, they were bottomless; able to pierce both bone and marrow once they leveled and held. Yet despite their illimitability, they were not cruel or empty, not like Ramsay's icy depths or Ygritte's hollowed pools. No, instead they were the eyes of an arbitrator, wise and omniscient. Automatically, Sansa remembered Old Nan and her unflinching stare.

She tried again, this time ready. Sansa raised her chin, her own blue gaze both cool and leveled. She could do this. She could match wits with the Wildling king. She could match wits with any man.

"No." There, she had said it. The utterance was simple, a single-syllabled admission, and yet it felt as though her heart had shredded. Nothing. There was nothing, only a hollowed, tattered muscle that continued to bleed and bleed and bleed.

Mance had wanted to see her, the news of the wolf maid slaying the formidable Lord of Bones had spread throughout the camp. The whispers were hushed, yet laced with admiration and reverence. As a practical and pragmatic man, Mance was solicitous in believing such proclamations. Nay, it was impossible that such a meek, timid slip of a girl could fell such a brute. More than likely, Rattleshirt met his demise (greatly deserved and long overdue, if one were to ask Mance.) through some sort of folly or imbecility. Perhaps he had partaken in too much mead and had goaded Tormund into a row. There had been no love lost between the red-haired wild man and the bellicose Lord of Bones. Many a time, Giantsbane had vowed to gut him, mayhap he had finally delivered on his promise…

Yet, Mance had inspected the body and assessed the damage. Only one seized with unharnessed rage could inflict so much debasement. Mayhap he had been wrong. Mayhap the docile and timid she-wolf had some fight within her somewhere, lurking just beneath the pretty wrapping and exterior.

Mance nodded, an imperceptible gesture of concession, yet his eyes remained measured and remained impassive, conveying nothing. It was unnerving, for Sansa was almost certain he was disassembling her piece by piece, like an old tunic slowly becoming unravelled at the seams. "'Tis a pity, then. You have made him happy, the happiest he has been since…" He need not finish the statement, for Sansa already knew.

Since his mother.

Jon had spoken of his mother only the once, after he had made love to her that fated night. There was a pooling between her thighs as Sansa recalled the way he touched her as he loved her so tenderly, so sweetly. Before, she had never thought it possible a wildling could be gentle, let alone considerate in his reciprocity. Yet Jon had been attentive, careful. His touches light and but a whisper of fingertips, reverent and worshipful as they ghosted over her skin. Sansa doubted Ramsay could ever be so gentle or deliberate.

"I am certain I am just a novelty to him, your Grace." Sansa replied, succinctly, her cheeks aflame. She need not be embarrassed, she was a woman grown after all. Yet, there was something embedded within the wily King's obsidian gaze that unnerved her, coupled with the small smirl that graced the corner of his mouth.

He knows…

"Hmmm. Yes, but my son is in love with you. What think you on that?" It was a loaded question and Mance knew it. Had he lived south of The Wall, he would have made a formidable lord somewhere. No doubt, he would have fared exceedingly well at the Southrone courts within the Red Keep.

Sansa chose not to respond. It would not serve to match wits with the wildling monarch. Another time, perhaps. Or not.

"I know my son. I have spent nine and ten years assessing his moods; more than enough time to know what makes him happy. Suppose you love my son, just queer speculation. Are you prepared to face the consequences for this affection and fancy? For this love? My son is a bit like you in a way-a lover of songs. He told me that the day he first looked upon you, you were on horseback, singing of Aemon the Dragonknight and his love for Queen Naerys."

Sansa stilled, her breath almost forfeit. She remembered that day vividly. All the best and finest dressmakers had come to Winterfell to fit her for her wedding gown-a horrendous tent of silk, ivory Myrish lace and gold embroidery. Sansa wanted something simpler, less ostentatious, reflecting her love of the North and of her lineage. Yet Ramsay had insisted. He always insisted.

For two solid, agonizing hours, Sansa played the demure , subservient lady to perfection: tranquil, meek and unassuming in her passivity and obeisance. Yet all the while, she was livid, her insides in revolt. Her fingers itched, desiring to rent the monstrous confection into shreds. It was naught save a leash, a restraint meant to tether her to him permanently. Did he not know that wolves ran free, belonged to no man?

The time seemed interminable, yet at last-blessedly-they had gone, Lord Bolton and his bastard. Sansa felt something shift, an oppressive, stifling weight. She was free if only for a moment. She did not have to endure Ramsay's lecherous stares and misplaced hands-she would have a lifetime of that.

As soon as they had left, Sansa quickly changed, not wanting to suffer another second under the mountainous fabric or ensnared within its deceptive beauty. She saddled her mare then and raced for the wolfswood, Robb, Jory, and two trusted guards in tow. Perhaps it was undignified and unladylike. Perhaps she was acting like a hellion racing through the forests, but at that moment, she had not cared; she just wanted away, as far away from this lunacy as her mare could take her.

It was Robb who had begged for a song, wanting to hear his sweet baby sister's mellifluous voice once more. She had been blessed with the gift of song, Sansa had. The gods had seen to it. Before Ramsay, before the betrothal, she was like a nightingale, a song ready upon her lips. Now...now the songs had been silenced and stifled. Another of Ramsay Bolton's doings.

And so Sansa sang. She sang of the famed dragonknight, of his unmatched valor. She sang of the pious and fair Queen Naerys and of her loveless marriage to Aegon the Unworthy. She sang of their ill-fated love that doomed them all, of what could never be. And her heart broke, shattered at the unfairness of it all.

It had been her favorite when she was but a girl, when true love was real, open, and raw. It made her hope, and yearn. And burn with an all-consuming inferno. Queen Naerys and Aemon. Jonquil and Florian. Life was not a song, Sansa knew that firsthand. Ramsay Bolton had all but ensured it. There were no Jonquils or Florians; no honorable Aemons or Naeryses. Yet there, within the seclusion and sanctuary of the wolfswood, Sansa sang. Clear, lilting and dulcet. Rising high into the heavens, for only the gods to hear.

Mance had been speaking to her then and Sansa blinked to regain focus. Her thoughts were riotous and dissonant, her heart a cacophony within the confines of her chest. Mance had to all but incline his head a mere fraction to hear it. She swallowed slowly and willed the rebellious tendon to still, her face both impassive and concealed.

As painful as this was, such self-preservation and assiduity were necessary. The Seven-Pointed Star denounced lying, stating that such duplicity and deception were one of the most egregious of sins. The ones found with its poison upon their lips were cast down, condemned to the deepest level of the Seven Hells. We all are liars here. All of us.

"You are aware that your kin, Benjen Stark, is on a mission to retrieve you, are you not? Along with your betrothed, a hundred men march North of The Wall."

The ice Sansa had so meticulously erected began to slowly percolate and thaw. Benjen. Benjen Stark was coming-accompanied by Ramsay. Oh gods. No doubt Ramsay would kill every single man, woman, and babe if he thought they were a barrier to her. And Jon...Jon was capable of anything; she had bore witness to his unbridled fury firsthand.

It was unfathomable to think he would allow her to walk away from him. Not now. Not after…

"My son will fight for you, you know this. He is in love with you and it will kill him, one way or another. I-." Mance blinked and looked away, suddenly upended. There it was, the unravelling, the coming undone. Here, right before her eyes, the King-Beyond-the-Wall was falling apart at the seams. Sansa would not have thought it possible.

He swallowed thickly and exhaled. All vulnerability had now faded and the once insuperable wall of stoicism resumed. It had been but a moment-a mere second -yet the ripples were everlasting, casting its shadows.

"I am a proud man, Lady Stark. But even the proudest of men will become beggars at the behest of their children. Suppose you have some affection for Jon, somewhere within the depths of your heart. I beg you-hurt him to love him. Hurt him to save him. Only by breaking his heart can you offer salvation."

Sansa remained mute, her tongue suddenly numb and thickened. He made it sound so simple, as though it were the logical explanation in the world. Yet, how could he know?

"You say you know your son, your Grace, that you know him better than any man. Then you should know that he cannot be deterred or shaken. Perhaps you are right, perhaps he has developed an affection for me. Then what? You think he will just relinquish me and let me go?"

Sansa was desperate, nearly hysterical. It was perhaps the closest she had come to losing all equanimity and control. She was tired, so damned exhausted.

"You are a Stark of Winterfell. The blood of the Wolf-Maid, Allyria the Fair, and the First Men run through your veins. They were survivors, who did what needed to be done to survive and live. Had we lived in another world, another time where we had control of our lives, I would have welcomed you into my arms as a daughter, for not only does my son love you, but my people as well. Alas, that is not our reality. Save him, Sansa. Save him from himself."

Jon had been gentle and thorough as he made love to her that night. His kisses were ardent, yet sweet. Light, like snowflakes caressing her skin in a gentle lover's embrace. His thrusts were slow and deliberate, completing her. Sansa tried to detach herself from him, remove herself from the myriad of emotions that only he could invoke within her. However, she had been powerless to resist him as she had been the very first time he loved her.

She felt the familiar tightening low within the depths of her belly, a delicious clenching sensation. She was close, her walls enclosing around his length. Jon moaned and reached down between them, to where they were joined, his fingers searching. Suddenly, Sansa was engulfed within a haze of light and color, its intensity and vibrancy overcoming her. She convulsed, shattered and boneless, succumbing to tide and pull of him.

Later, as he slept on, Sansa quickly dressed and fled the hut. She had given him Essence of Nightshade, as it grew in abundance in the wild, mixing three drops of it into hs mead. Although Muirgayne had assured her that the drug was fast-acting, taking effect quickly, Sansa had to flee. The longer she remained, the more precarious her predicament.

She reached her silvered mare, her one sole familiarity since the abduction, and untehtered the reins. The mare gave a soft nicker in greeting and nudged Sansa's hand gently. "Hush, my beauty. Soon, we will fly, like a bird taking wing."

The map had said that it would tale about three weeks to reach Castle Black, another of Muirgayne's gifts. She had enough provisions and there was a river that flowed from the camp. All she had to do was follow it.

"Go east, towards the rising sun. Do not stop riding until you reach home."

Sansa embraced Muirgayne, willing herself not to cry. She had been good to her, she and Tormund both, and she would miss them terribly, but she had to leave, had to get away. She would die if she remained, more importantly, she would be sentencing thousands of innocents to their demise should she stay.

As she galloped across the moors, Sansa heard the lone, solitary cry of a wolf, its mournful howl reaching its crescendo before tapering off in the night. A moment later, another wolf's cry carried over the plain, high and keening. This one however, was lighter, not as deep as its mate's, haunting.

Sansa wanted to turn around, to return to the camp. To return to Jon Snow's arms, yet she knew she could not. A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. This time, she allowed the heartbreak. She could not look back, no matter how much she wished otherwise. She could only look forward-to home. To Winterfell.

"If I look back, I am lost."