Jon

           "Areyouwell,Snow?"LordMormontasked,scowling.

           "Well,"hisravensquawked."Well."

           "Iam,mylord,"Jonlied...loudly,asifthatcouldmakeittrue."Andyou?"

           Mormontfrowned."Adeadmantriedtokillme.HowwellcouldIbe?"Hescratchedunderhischin.Hisshaggygreybeardhadbeensingedinthefire,andhe’dhackeditoff.Thepalestubbleofhisnewwhiskersmadehimlookold,disreputable,andgrumpy."Youdonotlookwell.Howisyourhand?"

           "Healing."Jonflexedhisbandagedfingerstoshowhim.Hehadburnedhimselfmorebadlythanheknewthrowingtheflamingdrapes,andhisrighthandwasswathedinsilkhalfwaytotheelbow.Atthetimehe’dfeltnothing;theagonyhadcomeafter.Hiscrackedredskinoozedfluid,andfearsomebloodblistersrosebetweenhisfingers,bigasroaches."ThemaestersaysI’llhavescars,butotherwisethehandshouldbeasgoodasitwasbefore."

           "Ascarredhandisnothing.OntheWall,you’llbewearingglovesoftenasnot."

           "Asyousay,mylord."ItwasnotthethoughtofscarsthattroubledJon;itwastherestofit.MaesterAemonhadgivenhimmilkofthepoppy,yetevenso,thepainhadbeenhideous.Atfirstithadfeltasifhishandwerestillaflame,burningdayandnight.Onlyplungingitintobasinsofsnowandshavedicegaveanyreliefatall.JonthankedthegodsthatnoonebutGhostsawhimwrithingonhisbed,whimperingfromthepain.Andwhenatlasthedidsleep,hedreamt,andthatwasevenworse.

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