CARPE NOCTEM, jon snow

forty three

forty-three. the battle of craster's keep

the haunted forest, beyond the wall. 300AC

CARSEN TIGHTENED HER hold on the reins of the stout grey horse between her legs, frowning.

In truth, she was doing her level best not to think of everything that had happened the last time they had trekked the cold, desolate route to Craster's Keep. The path looked much the same - snowed in on both sides, thick, dark trees enclosing the narrow footpath, dotted with snow. Overhead, the dusk sky was overcast, lending no shadows to the men - and woman - below.

Some half a league further on was the place where she had taken ill - if one could call it that. Even now, when the ice winds whipped her furs to her skin and snow settled, cold and wet in drops down her neck and in her eyes, she could feel the terrible heat that had gripped her, a year or so ago now, feel that unrelenting fever - and after, the bitter cold, worming it's way inside her like a parasite, stiffening her bones to brittle and her breath to frozen mist.

Carsen swallowed, readjusted her grip. Over a year since then, and still, nobody knew the cause, not Maester Aemon nor Clydas, and least of all herself. As their horses trotted on, ever quiet, she felt a dread begin to pool in her stomach, like burning metal strings slowly unwinding, as they grew nearer and nearer. It was odd, she supposed, that she knew the exact place even before they were there, could picture the pattern of the leaves overhead, the grooves in the bark of the black trees, the twists of the pathway. She'd only seen it once, after all - and yet she dreamed it often. The fever and then the fall, always the same - though sometimes the one who ran to her was not Jon, but some faceless woman in red cloaked in shadow, and sometimes she did not wake up at all.

As though he could sense her discomfort, Jon turned to look at her, concern pricking at his tired face.

Carsen blinked her daydream from her eyes and tried to smile, though she feared it looked more like a grimace. In response, Jon slowed his steed's pace, until he and Carsen rode side-by-side, a generous few feet back from the rest of the group.

"Are you alright?" he murmured, so soft she had to struggle to hear his voice over the shrill wind, so soft she knew the words were reserved only for her, not the prying ears of their brothers in black, and she felt a small rush of affection for her bastard boy.

"This road is haunted by bad memories," was what she chose to reply carefully, after a moment of consideration. In truth, the destination scared her as much as the cursed road they travelled upon. Last time, Craster's Keep had been merely a service stop on their way to the Fist of the First Men, but now it was the destination - and, quite possibly, the last destination they would ever arrive at. These men had killed Craster in his own home, vile bastard though he was, and murdered the Lord Commander. They weren't any old stupid pilferers and rapers, drunk off Craster's wine and itching for power. They were dangerous men, deadly as the knife's edge.