CARPE NOCTEM, jon snow

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀twenty four

twenty-four. bones and all

loc. skirling pass, beyond the wall. 299AC

⠀⠀⠀BLEAK SKIES. FRIGID air. Muted sunlight. If these weren't the foreshadowings of how this hunt would turn out, Carsen didn't know what were.

⠀⠀⠀She knew they were heading—Skirling Pass, where Qhorin Halfhand himself had sighted at least five wildlings. He had said they were operating under the king beyond the wall, once a brother like themselves and now a turncloak, a traitor—he had traded his blacks for pelt and never looked back. Carsen felt the hostility of her brothers or elsewise felt it herself in the hungry looks they gave her, but the one that made her heart ache was Jon.

⠀⠀⠀He walked at the head of the small group, making talk with the Halfhand whilst Ghost slunk overhead, shimmering over the snow-covered rocks. Carsen watched the wolf disinterestedly, her head swimming with a hundred thoughts at once. Her wound was also causing her pain, but she'd been permitted a mere sip of milk-of-the-poppy before departure. It was a risk, as the liquid was known to cloud one's head and fill them with fatigue like a poison, but she felt as tender and raw and alert as she ever had. She felt every press of snow against her slippers, every tug of wind that blew back her hair and every cold ghost that floated on the breeze pressing in on her, sharing their coldness and loneliness with her until she simply wanted to slump down and become one with the snow, unfeeling and frozen.

⠀⠀⠀Some way into their journey, Carsen could stand it no longer. She darted forward, threading through her brothers until she reached Jon, and touched him on the arm.

⠀⠀⠀He stilled for a second, as if he already knew who was behind him before turning to look down at her. His eyes were terrifyingly bleak—Carsen was used to so much emotion in them, rage and laughter and frustration brimming at the surface of each steel iris, but today they were blank as the sky, and his face hard as stone. He almost scared —Carsen became acutely aware of how she scarce came up to his jaw, and how much stronger he was than her, and how he didn't have a gaping hole in his shoulder where flesh should be. She swallowed, stumbling back a few steps.

⠀⠀⠀"Can I talk to you?" she asked quietly. He flinched anyhow, as if her voice were made of shards of glass that pierced him as she spoke. She realised it was the first time he had heard her voice. It seemed rougher than she remembered, not so much silk as sandpaper, but contrasted to the contempt-ridden voices, rough as torn parchment that dripped from granite mouths around her, her tones were practically honeyed wine. Nevertheless, Jon slowed his pace until they walked side by side, but still refused to look at her.

⠀⠀⠀"What's your real name?" he asked abruptly. Carsen stopped for a moment, taken aback. She felt a prickle of annoyance in her belly, but swathed it determinedly. I owe him answers, she reminded herself ruefully. I owe him a lot more than answers.