Chapter Twenty-Eight: Wanting

The forest was still, tranquil and silent. The silver peal of the moon casting a luminescent and serene glow about the woods. The Old Gods were here this night, their magic strong-ubiquitous and potent. It was foolish to traverse through the moors at night alone, Jon knew, and yet he was not afraid.

Ghost had left his side and ran ahead of him. Although silent as the shadows, a veritable phantom through the trees, the beast was agitated, anxious. Jon knew the wolf's moods well, for he was but an extension of himself. He could sense every change and transition. The wolf's steps were urgent, swift in his immediacy and need.

Now. We must hurry now. Faster.

Jon hastened his steps, running now. Something was amiss. Ghost's movements were deft, quickly dipping and vanishing among the trees and brush, disquieted. Jon called out to the albino direwolf, once, twice, thrice. This was peculiar. Although one could never tame a wild thing, for as long as Jon had known the creature, he had never acted so out of turn.

A few moments later, Jon caught sight of the large direwolf as it entered into the forest thicket. Jon drew closer, his arm extended and stretched, his breath labored; suspended. Another moment passed and then, emerging out of the clearing, both terrifying and resplendent, was the phantom red wolf.

The wolf was beautiful, ethereal and divine in its appearance as it stood watching him, its golden eyes both patient and serene. Ghost reemerged then, standing at the specter-wolf's side. Jon called out to him, fearful despite Ghost's larger stature, yet the beast remained rooted to the red wolf's side.

Ghost whined, a high and keening sound, frantic and insistent. What is it, boy? What are you trying to tell me, Jon wondered. And then, Jon knew.

But a moment later, a pup emerged from the thicket, small and frail, its fur a dark timber-grey. Jon stood transfixed as he watched the wolf pack before him. Suddenly, Ghost reared his massive head back and emitted a howl, powerful and lamenting as it reverberated throughout the forest. Soon, the red wolf joined in, joining her mate in their wolf song. It was both haunting and beautiful, tragic and yet hopeful simultaneously. It was a song of resilience, of new beginnings. Of hope.

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives…

And there, in the midst of the forest woods, Jon listened, his heart both bursting and full.

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Two days. It had been two days since she had vanished into the night. As if she had never been. Gone. She was gone. The words feeling akin to a thousand knife wounds to his chest, to his heart. The finality of it leaving a festering, gaping chasm so wide and insuperable that Jon felt as though he were percolating. He hurt. Ah gods! How he hurt, a deep, throbbing ache…

And then he raged. And raged. And raged.

He had heard the lone, solitary cry of the wolf that night and reached out to hold her, to take solace in her warmth...only to realize he was alone in his hut. Jon was unconcerned, however; the she-wolf was oft restless and valued her solitude. Besides, she could hold her own, as Rattleshirt ascertained first handedly. The beginnings of a wicked smile tickled at Jon's lips as he began to dress.

This was all but a game, a sweet, tantalizing game of intrigue that she wanted to partake in. And Jon was willing and eager, wanting to luxuriate and indulge in Sansa's sweetness. Ever since that night with Rattleshirt, he felt a deep, insatiable hunger that could not be abated, but only continued to exacerbate and deepen. He could not get enough of her, could not quench this unabated need of her.

Was this how Bael the Bard felt with his own she-wolf all those eons past? Was such a love possible, all-encompassing and raw with its potency?

Jon finished dressing and made his way to the lake. He closed his eyes, envisioning her. Auburn hair wet and slick against luminous pearl, eyes of indigo dusk managing both innocence and daring; a siren's smile upon her lips. She looked so beautiful that night, a manifestation of all of Jon's bright, glittering hopes and secret dreams. And Jon held on tightly, feverishing; fearful that at any moment, she would vanquish and all his yearnings would disintegrate before him into millions of tiny shards of color and light.

And yet she had…

Jon's heart throbbed anew, so piercing an ache he was rendered breathless. At that moment, Jon felt like a butterfly bereft of his wings-torn, shredded and discarded. She was not at the lake. Nor at the weirwood tree. Jon frowned at that, feeling as though his insides had turned into ash. He ran back to the hut, frantic.

"Sansa!" Yet there was no reply, save only the desperate echo of his voice as it reverberated through the midnight sky. Jon felt numb, empty and hollow as he made his way woodenly to the hut. He did not need to go to where Sansa's mare had been tied, for he knew it would not be there. Jon's knees buckled as the finality and realization hit him anew.

Oh gods…

Jon eyed the discarded cup in the corner of the hut and sniffed. Although faint, there was no mistaking the sickly-sweet smell. Nightshade. Jon trembled in both horror and revulsion.

Nightshade was a sedative use to quiet the senses. Mance had been given doses of it in his ale after the death of Lyanna. One drop to calm the frayed nerves, three drops to lull into a deep, weightless sleep. Ten drops, even diluted into a cup of wine, summoning death.

It was the gentlest of toxins, Jon knew. As dangerous as it was efficacious. The perfect drug to use in an escape.

Jon trembled in anger. And realization. Only two women in the village held knowledge of the herbs and flora that grew about the camp. Ygritte had gone, absconding into the night. As irrational as she was, Jon knew that she would never risk recapture simply for retribution. That only left another-Murigayne.

Jon roared, hurling the cup against the far wall. He began to pace, the desire to destroy the hut coursing through him, burning in its fervor. He felt caged, restless. He felt the epitome of the Northern Fool. A damned, Northern Fool.

How in the seven hells had it come to this?

He had been the one to lay the traps, to look for all duplicity and subterfuge. At one time, he could have easily rooted out any signs of deception. Now, it felt as though he had been played at his own game. Gods, but the betrayal stung and singed. Had she planned this all along? Biding her time until she was able to rid herself of him?

Jon thought back to their last encounter-of her soft moans and chirps, her hungry kisses that she lavished upon him and would set his blood aflame. She had initiated their lovemaking that time, two nights ago. She had been forceful in her ministrations, much to Jon's glee and elation. Since the death of Rattleshirt, it had been Jon to initiate their couplings thereafter and not the other way around. Though Sansa initiated the first contact, she had been hesitant, timid. However, the she-wolf was eager and willing, so sweetly willing in reciprocating and luxuriating in his caresses and touches.

Yet she would always hold back, always restrain herself from loving him fully and completely. She was still every bit the docile and proper lady, no doubt she had been thoroughly inculcated in the rules of propriety and chasity, not in the wild abandon that was the Free Folk way. Jon knew that he would have to remedy that.

His britches clenched at a memory, temporary stilling the inferno within him.

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She was trembling in his arms, a butterfly newly emerging from its chrysalis. Jon kissed her ardently, calming her nerves and providing succor simultaneously. Despite what they had just done, what they had shared and discovered with one another, she would not look at him, intentionally shielding herself behind a curtain of molten flame. "Do not hide from me."

Cupping her chin gently Jon forced her to meet her gaze. "My mother once told me of a woman from the faraway land of Lyse who could get any man to fall in love with her, over a thousand proposals from suitors all vying for her hand." He traced her lips gently with his fingertips searching, the act eliciting an unbidden moan from her. Sansa blushed and ducked her head in his chest. Jon smiled gently, continuing his silent inventory and perusal of her.

"'Twas said that she was so beautiful that she could finish a man simply by staring into his eyes." He cupped a breast lightly, grazing the nipple with thumb. Sansa trembled. She was no lady, but wanton-she had to be. Only a slattern could enjoy the pleasures that such a man could visit upon her body. A proper lady would never allow herself to be so willing, or liberated.

Curious now, she looked up, intrigued. "Only but a single glance? Is that all it took to make a man love her?" Could she ever be that bold? That brave?

Sansa looked down at Jon's naked chest and began to lightly trace a nonsensical pattern over him, taking him all in and memorizing him-every scar, every blemish, every freckle. He was a beautiful man, Jon Snow. Not a golden knight from her storybooks or Old Nan's bedside tales, but a dark knight. A dark prince from a dark, faraway land. Beautiful, dark, and mysterious. Formidable.

Jon cupped her face within his hands and raised her chin again, daring her to look at him. To understand. "Love comes in at the eyes, She-Wolf. Always."

He kissed her again, slowly. And then, a new dance began. Their coupling was fierce, frantic almost in its urgency. Akin to two wolves mating, claiming and reclaiming each other. Yet this time, all timidity and diffidence left Sansa, for she had been the alpha-dominant, assertive and wild. She had been the one in control and Jon had freely relinquished it, acquiescing and succumbing to her freely.

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It had been a good memory, a sweet one. One of the few many that they shared. In the two weeks she had been with him, Sansa Stark had managed to capture the one thing that he had sworn he would never part with. And then had left it shredded and tattered in the muck.

The rage began to reemerge, swift and sudden. Black and terrible in its ferocity and fervor.

He was a fool. A damned fool. The wolf-bitch had played her game and had played it well, using her one bargaining chip to barter with. And he had gladly partaken in it. Jon chuckled darkly, mirthlessly. Wolves had both cunning and patience to outwait any foe, all they needed to do was bide their time.

The red wolf had made sport of him and had waited patiently until she could out-maneuver him. And he fell for it. Every. Single. Time.

He felt another jolting ache, harder and more searing. Mayhap it was best if he were to just let her go, let her return to her people and completely eradicate her from his mind. Strive to mend the pieces of his fragmented and shredded heart. And yet, Jon knew he could not, for he was in too deep. She was part of him, and he was part of her. Two halves of the same whole.

"...It will be your love for a woman-a kneeler-that you will be remembered for. She is your past, your present and your future. For every lifetime you have lived, she has walked by your side, always. She is your destiny, and if you are not careful, your destruction as well."

The pain was searing, excruciating, almost taking him under with its intensity. Jon began to set about the hut, gathering needed supplies. His heart was now stone, a dull and heavy thing. The transformation immediate and complete.

He would find her, yes. He would find her again-wherever it was she may be. He would never stop looking. He would find the lying she-wolf who had so callously ripped his heart out of his chest and demand the needed answers from her. And then what? That black-breathed homonculous would ask, eagerly.

...And then, he would die. Finally ridding himself of the unending ache and searing pain that continued to tear his heart asunder...