Disclaimer:Has it been that long?! My sincerest apologies. I have no excuse now, for summer is here. More frequent updates on the horizon!

Chapter Thirty-Two: Bound and Imprinted

His dreams were dark and oppressive. Ominous. Although his visions were disjointed and muddled, the suffocating and cloying smell of smell percolated the air, stifling him. In the times Jon had warged into Ghost, his dreams, albeit brief, yielded liberation.

There was a freedom in skin changing, in his visions; a nirvana. For as long as he had known the beast, he had come to rely on the wolf's red gaze, to see what no other could. And what Jon saw, grieved him thoroughly.

The village was gone, demolished-lost within the inferno of fire and ash. Jon willed Ghost closer, knowing yet it was futile. The air reeked of blood and gore, the ground saturated in it; the crimson liquid seeping into the great wolf's paws. Just a little further...A little bit more.

Ghost stopped abruptly, emitting a high, keening wail. Mournful and tremulous. A eulogy. Give me your eyes, boy. Show me your world.

There, straight ahead, in the small clearing, Jon saw the flayed and disarticulated remains of his father, Mance. Another howl reverberated through the air, slicing through the thickened silence. Jon did not know if it came from him or from the large direwolf. Oh Gods!

Jon jolted from his reverie, a shaking, palpitating mass. Stumbling blindly through the woods, he made his way to the trunk of a tree. Dropping to his knees, akin to a supplicant prostate, seeking absolution, the wolf prince did not cry out to the gods, no. Instead, he retched violently, the acidic bile clinging at his throat and lodging itself there.

It was the hour of the owl, the darkness enshrouding him, covering him, masking his weakness and vulnerability. Hiding his shame. Oh Gods! Mance's eyes were gone. The savages had gouged out his eyes, leaving twin, hollowed pools. Not only was his soul gone, for the eyes alone held that sacred atman, releasing it into the empyrean once the body was rendered forfeit, but worse-much, much worse!-the Wildling king was forever damned to meander the spiritual realm blind and helpless.

Jon retched again at the realization, convulsing.

I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It was like a mantra. A prayer in the darkness, broken and forlorn.

I'm sorry, Father. Forgive me. Forgive me, please….

Yet, in spite of the fervency of his entreaties, Jon knew it was futile. The gods were pitiless, apathetic to the affliction of man. This was his transgression, his punishment, for which he would do due penance. When would it ever end, this ongoing ephialtes?

It was his fault-all of it. If only he had listened and heeded his father's admonition. If only he had not been so bullheaded and impetuous. If only-

If only he had been there.

The guilt assailed him anew, heavy, dull and leaded. His father's murder was on his hands, a permanent, rufescent stain. As was the capturing of his people-Tormund, Muirgayne, all of them. Gods alone knew what Ramsay and his dogs were doing to them. He alone was culpable.

What are you to do now, Wolf Prince? A small voice inquired, interrupting Jon's chaotic and riotous thoughts. Jon glanced up from the ground, and looked upon a face, its features cold, hard and staring. An old winter god, its visage etched upon the bark of the weirwood tree. Silent and arbitrary.

I want blood! I want satisfaction! Jon averred, both righteous and indignant, simultaneously.

Yet, to what end? It was that same small voice, temperate and irritating, that brought Jon back to sanity. To what end will you go to seek retribution?

The answer had been easy. As far as I must…

A gust of wind stirred the weirwood leaves, red like fire. A flash of crimson briefly filtered through Jon's thoughts. Eyes of indigo dusk, a hint of lavender and peony. Sansa.

Even her memory damned him.

Where did you go, little wolf?

Jon clenched his fist, his nails cutting into the flesh. His mouth had run arid, dryer than ash. He felt as though he has been torn asunder. Surely, there was no remedy that could ameliorate a dead man's heart.

Once, when he was six, Jon had heard Mance serenade Lyanna with an old Myrish psalm. It was a hymn of love, of the drifting seasons, and one's fleeting devotion. He had scoffed then, disgusted, for such songs were meant for girls. Yet Jon remembered the words, imprinted them upon his memory:

I loved a maid a fair as summer with sunlight in her hair

I loved a maid as red as autumn with sunset in her hair

I loved a maid as white as winter with moonglow in her hair

I loved a maid as spry as springtime with blossoms in her hair.

As the land changes masks, so follow maids and I

Whether balmy hot and soppy wet

Or cutting sweet and dry

Ere my life the good lords fell

I'll prize the memory of

Each and every lass I've held for

A spell-the seasons of my love

Jon had been feckless in his youth, wild and roguish. For he had loved and loved frequently. For a time, at least. He had loved Rowena, statuesque and brazen, with her eyes of jade and sunlit hair. She had been his summer maid, passionate, splendid, and burning. Yet Rowena had been proud, haughty, too consuming and too mercurial in her nature. Demanding much, yet bestowing little. And Jon? Jon was still too much of a green boy-capricious and craven-to acquiesce and give more of himself that what was required or needed. And soon-too soon-their passion waned and thawed, waxing cold as the setting summer sun.

Then, there was Ygritte, his maid of autumn, her hair of burnished copper and rust. He supposed he had loved Ygritte, in his own way. For a time, at least. Like Rowena, she had been wild and fierce, however unlike golden Rowena with her capricious moods that burned both hot and cold, Ygritte felt safe, as though he had known her for ages.

Yet it had all been a lie, but a trick of the eye, or glamour. He had not known her truly, had not seen the deceit the artifice residing and lurking within. She assumed the guise of comfort, but beneath it all masked a serpent's heart with serpent's fangs. An autumn maid with winter's heart…

Then came spring. A flash of fire came again, unbidden, as Jon's thoughts again returned to Sansa. She was born of the springtime, of when life was vibrant and bursting. She had breathed life back into him, life Jon had once thought snuffed out. Before her, before his rebirth, he had been but a carapace, empty and hollow.

He had wanted her at the first. Aye, he had wanted her, desperately. Fervently. With a white-hot passion that rivaled a thousand burning suns. Yet in spite of his desires, he had never anticipated the hold she had on his heart, had imprinted on his skin.

I am yours and you are mine. Then. Now. For always.

Had she known all along? Had this been her plan? To burrow so deeply down that nothing could extract her?

And then she had gone, like the flicker of a candle's flame. Extinguished. And with it, she had taken his heart, leaving him in an eternal winter.

Jon clenched his fist again, turning away from the weirwood tree in anger. The winds had picked up again, stronger in their gusts. Once, his mother had told him that whenever the gods heard an entreaty, the winds would intensify, a testament to their omnipresence.

He had not prayed since Lyanna died, angry and resentful at their apathy. But now...He had nothing to lose, only broken and fractured supplication.

Dropping back onto his knees once more, Jon prayed for absolution, he prayed for atonement, he prayed for the souls of both his father and mother, and for needed strength. Lastly, he prayed for his missing she-wolf, alone and unprotected in the wilds. He would find her again, no matter the distance. She could not escape him; he had told her as much once, long ago beneath the glistening skies.

You cannot escape me, she-wolf, for I am a man bound and imprinted to you. You may flee to the furthest corners of the world, it does not matter. I will run you until you drop!