Falling Like || Jon Snow

09| 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔢𝔫

craster's keep, north of the wall

— EVERYONE WAS STARTLED AWAKE SUDDENLY AS THE DOOR TO THE HOUSE WAS SLAMMED OPEN. The night was still dark, the cold still biting down to the bone. Then Craster tossed Jon Snow to his floor, blood dripping from his lips, nose, and a cut on his head that looked like it would start bruising any minute. There was another on his cheek too, though it didn't look as bad.

"Out! All of you!" Craster snapped. "The Bastard's been meddling where he shouldn't!" He delivered a sharp kick to Jon's side before stalking towards Mormont. Longclaw in hand. His eyes blazed with anger. "I want you and your men gone. And you will make this right."

Jeor's eyes tore through the room briefly before landing on a pair of brown eyes glimmering in the firelight from just outside the door, the rest of her features wrapped in shadow. Her eyes were sombre with a glimmer of... was that fear? She nodded slowly – a single nod – telling her grandfather that his steward had indeed seen things he shouldn't have. "Wait outside." His voice was rough with restrained anger.

"Lord Commander-"

"Now!" he never shouted.

Jon heaved a breath before turning and leaving, back into the night. He only got a few steps away from the house before another hand grabbed his arm. He flinched away, but relaxed slightly when he saw it was Nymeria. "Come on." She murmured, hauling him off towards Koda and her saddlebags. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"You're not worried about the Lord Commander being angry at you too?" he huffed. "Helping me?"

Her eyes were clouded with a seriousness that was strange for her, but her lip still twitched softly as she sat him down on a crate near her horse, inspecting his face. "You just ask him how many times he's managed to stay angry with me." She reached into a saddlebag resting on the ground and pulled out two flasks and three clean rags. She dampened the first rag with water from one of the flasks and began to clean the blood from his face.

He reached for it. "I can."

Nymeria slapped his hand away. "Shut up. I know what I'm doing." Indeed she did, her touch so featherlight and meticulous, and he found himself wanting to ask her how a ranger knew about healing, but decided that for now it was safer not to. He winced slightly as she dabbed gently at the open cuts on his face for a moment. "I doubt those will get infected up here in this cold, but we should still be safe..." she spoke so quietly, he wasn't sure if she was speaking to him or herself. His eyes remained on her face – on the way her eyes betrayed her calculated thinking, on the crease of focus between her brows, and the concerned downturning of her lips – as she took a second rag and poured a bit of water from the second flask onto it. Only, when she touched it to his wounds, he realised it wasn't water. He flinched away with a hiss, earning himself a look that seemed to say, really? "Don't be a child. Hold still."

He scowled at her, but shifted back towards her to allow her to touch the cloth to his face again, wincing as she did. "What is that?"

An amused expression crossed her face. "Pumpkin juice."

"Funny."

"Aren't I just?" She continued dabbing away for another second before disposing the second rag on top of the first one. "It's alcohol. It'll help to clean and seal the wound." Just then, she turned at the sound of boots crunching in snow to find her grandfather approaching, looking quite unhappy.

"Lord Commander." Jon moved to stand, but Nymeria grabbed his arm, keeping him down.

"Oh no you don't. You'll make your head worse. Idiot."