Ygritte

Telling stories is one of those things that a lot of people think that they're good at, but few actually are. Tormund is one of those people.

The whole camp, filled with their intense sexual frustration is surrounding Tormund, as he graphically describes laying with a bear.

"Oh course, I've had a good bit to drink," he chuckles, "Her fangs were sharp but she knew how to use them. And she was nice and soft down below. And, she was no ordinary beast. Many is the man who-"

"I know you never fucked a bear," I interrupt, "You know you never fucked a bear. Right now, I don't want to think about the bear you never fucked. Right now all I want to think about is each one of these arrows finding its way into a crow's heart."

I toss the arrow I was sharpening into the pile. The pile is already at my ankles, but I still grab another unfiled arrow to add. I begin scraping it against my rock more fiercely than I did the last.

Tormund leans forward. "We could be waiting here a while," he points out.

"Good," I reply, not bothering to look up, "The longer we wait, the more arrows I'll have."

I stop and crinkle my nose in anger. "They came up here to our land, and put up a big wall, and said it was theirs.Then they started hunting us down. This time, we're the ones doing the hunting."

"You've got a lot to say about killing," Styr taunts, "Even more words than arrows."

"Back in those villages I killed just as many them as you did. More, I reckon," I retaliate. The wildings of the camp begin to hush and listen in.

Styr smiles. "Yes, but none of them were your crow lover."

My mind flashes back to the last time I saw Jon. The idiot had stopped to wash his face at a brook only a mile from the battle. He told me that he "didn't have a choice" and that "he knew he loved me" and that "I loved him."

I knew every word he spoke was true, so I shot him. Three arrows- one in the leg, one in the chest, and one in the back.

"I probably killed him already."

"So you've said," Styr retorts.

I look around me. The wildings are smirking, doubting. They know that there was no way that I could have accidentally let him live. I'm the best shot in the army. If I had wanted to, I could have had an arrow through his eye in a second.

I snarl. "And if not, the only thing left of him is going to be his fun bits hanging round his neck."

"More words," Styr sneers, looking to the other men for support, "Know what I think you do when you see him? Serve him up a nice juicy slice of ginger minge."

The whole camp roars with laughter. I jump to my feet. I've always been complimented on my rare red hair. My mother used to say I was, "kissed by fire," and with my temperament, I wouldn't disagree.

"You been thinking about that ginger minge," I say as I clench my fists, "Wondering what it tastes like?"

Styr stands up, and I realise what a fool I look like. He bends down to meet my gaze, "Maybe I have."

"Jon Snow is mine," I announce to the camp, "Anyone else tries to kill him, I'll have an arrow for them. And not one of your bald friends is fast enough to stop me."

The men of the Night's Watch are scared. I watch the men on lookout at the southern wall, and listen to the war cries and orders from within the fortress.

When one of them leans on the window ledge, looking out into the wasteland below, I retreat from the rock I was hiding behind. Gravel skitters down the slope as I make my way down to the camp. I slide down in between Tormund and Styr.