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Chapter ??

JON

He shifted around the body pressed against him, curling tighter around her waist. He could smell the dust and sweat at the base of her neck, where his lips rested. Home. He stretched a paw, and gave a start when five fingers flexed in response. His eyes snapped open to a head full of dark copper hair. Ygritte, he thought blearily. Visions of disembodied arrows sailed through his head. They ought to mean something to him, he was sure.

Ygritte slept deeply next to him. His eye swept over her body. He had never seen her in wool, only furs. Jon lowered himself to breathe in her scent once more. He could smell the dirt and grime upon her skin from hard travel, but the smell of furs was faint. No matter, he would soon hear from her the journey she had made to Castle Black. Taking one last deep breath, he made to stand. He was comforted by the scent of someone familiar.

He was startled once again to find long slender limbs beneath him, pushing himself up. He stumbled to the door to find a cold tray of food waiting for the pair of them. He ate without tasting.

After what he had done to that man upon waking, they had left him in this room with the least amount of contact possible. Jon wondered idly if the man would ever regain the use of his arm after what Jon had wrought him.

My watch is over.

He had seen hide nor hair of the Lady Melisandre since he had been ripped from Ghost. Oh, how he would like to see her, to crush her neck between his fangs, to laugh in her face, to beg her for an explanation. To tell her just what it was like in the realm of the gods. How her precious fire lord was no more than a red suggestion amongst the shifting, massless things that had shared their time with him.

He can still feel them, in the corners of his vision, at the edges of his breath. They watched now, even as he stumbled around in search of his breakfast. They had watched then, through his wolf eyes.

As he straightened from eating, he heard the shifting of fabric and turned to see Ygritte waking up. He watched in the weak light as she sat up, reddish hair falling over her back, limbs elongating and torso stretching past what he knew to be right. He stumbled a step back. Melisandre? But as the woman turned her face towards him, it was not the face of Melisandre, nor of Ygritte, but a lovely face, which he could not place for all that it was familiar.

The lady rose, and made her way to him. She slowly reached out, lightly grazing his face. Her hands were softer than he remembered Ygritte hand’s, and cooler than Melisandre’s. Her eyes were a deep blue, and her hair was darker than Ygritte's upon second look. He stood stock still, mind churning. Surely he would remember a face as lovely as this. He tried to remember how to remember but all that stared back at him were those deep blue eyes.

“What have they done to us, Jon? We’re all that’s left. My lady mother and our father, Robb, Bran and Rickon. They’re all gone, Jon. And Arya, too.”

“Arya?”

The lady slowly gave a nod.

It all rushed back to him at once; the note, breaking his vows, the pain as the blade sunk into his belly. The letter. I want my bride back.

Arya.

He spun on his feet and was at the door in a second. The door shook and rattled as he clawed at it, the taste of blood in his mouth and red in his vision. Arya. He was aware of howling, and yelling, and the sound of a woman’s warbling voice. The door gave no inch, though he pounded and kicked with all his might. Threw himself at it over and over. Arya. After long minutes he heard shouting from the other side, and calls for ‘My lady!’ in panicked voices.

“All is well, I am alright! Pray, do not open the door!” Lady called.

He spun on her, snarling and biting. Her eyes were big as moons as he seethed in her face. Arya—his sister. I want my bride, I want my bride, I want my bride. He had to find her. Must find her. Damn this cage! And this woman. Who was she to know what had happened to Arya? Why was she even in here. Was this some cruel jape by his former brothers? He was a vow breaker thrice over, and here a red hair maid. Would they see him add to his list of sins? She was no shield maiden, and he could make quick work of her. Sink his fangs into her—no, he could use his hands. He had hands. One was stretching towards her now.

A moment’s hesitation, and she asked, “where is Ghost?”

“ I am Ghost”

I am a wolf. I am a beast.

“No you’re Jon.” She said softly. “And I haven’t seen Ghost. Is he…”

But he was a wolf. He could smell the fresh winter air, and felt the crunch of snow beneath his paws, his muzzle to the ground, ears pricking up at the snap of a branch. The scent of prey filling his nostrils. He spotted a hare, white as the snow sparkling around it, and he was off, chasing, pouncing, clamping down on it’s neck, soft fur on his tongue, hot blood flowing into his mouth, down his throat. The Lady exhaled quietly, and suddenly he was back in the room, the smell of the old rushes, dust, stale urine, and the sweet scent of a woman invaded his nostrils.

He had been a wolf. He wished he still was in this moment.

The Lady walked slowly over to his cot, and sunk down atop the furs, watching him. He began pacing the room, ears flat against his head, his hackles up. The memories of what had come before accosted him, so jumbled and confusing, he could not account for any of them. More, he could not recall why he had been pounding at the door. He was forgetting something. The heat of his blood turning cold and sticky against his clothes, running with a pack of wolves, their paws thundering on the ground, auburn hair in the falling snow. The smell of honeyed chicken mixed with the taste of ash, Tully blue eyes scorned him from on high as he lost himself in hair kissed by fire, her hands combing through grey fur as she sang to herself. A princess in a tower. Stick them with the pointy end. And over and over again; the feeling of cold metal slipping between his skin. Tears.