Another of those long-fingered hands splays over his heart.

"You were always mine," the voice counters, softer again, like the soft crackle of wood burning. "My crooked, vicious little soldier boy. You were never quite right, were you? Not for what they wanted. Because you had my fire in your wild heart."

He laps at the claw marks at one shoulder, then rests his strange head there.

"Tell me your name, wildling."