for Jon Snow.

Today had not been a good day.

Physical therapy that morning had left Jon sore and irritable, but nonetheless he had told Susan there was no need to take Rickon to Summerfell for an afternoon with Arya while she went to her appointment with Doctor Keller. If he could not handle his own son for two hours with two direwolves and a house full of toys to assist him, then he was in worse shape than he'd thought.

The afternoon had gotten off to a fair start-- they ate lunch together on a blanket on the floor with the direwolves sprawled nearby, and followed the meal by constructing a castle out of blocks. Jon had begun to think it was going to go off well. Of course, that had been before Rickon had followed Ghost outside and come back inside wearing one of their bedsheets-- clean not so long ago, and left hung to dry on the line, now wrapped around a cheerfully muddy toddler and covered in dirt. "Oh gods," Jon murmured, trying not to show much dismay on his face. He struggled to his feet and grabbed for his crutches, hobbling outside with Shadow at his heels.

It's so much worse than I imagined, he thought, staring numbly at the wreck of a day's worth of Susan's time spent washing. Half the sheets had been pulled down and lay in the dirt, and several of Jon's shirts and Susan's dresses were half pulled off as well. The clothes might still be clean, but the problem lay in Jon's inability to bend down and pick everything back up again before the mud seeped through.

"Gods damn it to the seven hells," he swore, and as Ghost trotted sheepishly toward him he glared down at the direwolf. "Why didn't you stop him?" Ghost sat back on his haunches and glared up at Jon with a look of distinct indignation. Objectively, he knew Rickon was too big for the wolves to drag around by the back of his diaper the way he'd once been; but now, with Susan due home soon and a muddy mess where clean laundry had once been, he was hard pressed to remember such particulars.

Jon came back to consciousness feeling two things; dull throbbing pain, and an infuriating itch. That the two feelings were located in the same part of his body did not occur to his bleary mind, and so he absently shifted his hand to scratch the itch.

He instantly regretted it. The pain as he touched his left leg was unbearable, it blossomed into agony that jolted him immediately and fully awake, and he flew upright, hunching into himself as he gasped for breath. "Oh gods," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut, his hands fisting in the sheets as he tried to calm his breathing. When he felt his heart rate begin to slow, he slowly opened his eyes and looked around him.

He was in the clinic. He didn't remember much after Robb, Alain and Bert had begun to move him; he supposed he'd passed out. They'd gotten him back to the compound, then, which was good. And, looking down at the end of the bed, he saw he still had two feet, which was more of a relief than Jon really cared to admit.

He heard movement in the next room and looked up as a young woman came through the door with a chart in her hand. "Hello," he said, or tried to; his throat was dry, and he reached for the glass of water beside the bed.

Full night had fallen over the island some hours ago, and Jon had passed into a fevered state of half-wakefulness. When he was aware enough to think at all, he was grateful for it; his leg had begun to go numb, and he was too afraid to look at it anymore.

Ghost had crawled closer so Jon's whole arm was pillowed against his body, feeling the soft rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. At least one of them was doing well, he thought dimly. His head was throbbing again, and he was dizzy from thirst and hunger. It looked likely to rain tonight; the moon was clouded over and the air was wet. He would try to stay awake through it; a faint smile crossed his face at the thought of lying back with his mouth open to catch the rain. After the rain stopped he would try to drag himself out of the shadow of these rocks, and toward a more open spot.

Between the slight fever and the fact that he had been alone for more than an entire day out here, it was understandable that at first he didn't hear the voices. It was lucky, then, that Ghost did; his brother was calling, and Ghost picked up his head, immediately struggling to get to his feet despite his broken leg. Jon felt him move and stirred, confused, reaching for the direwolf's ruff with both hands. "No, stop," he muttered, "what is it?"

Then he heard Robb's voice, the sweetest thing he'd ever heard in his life, and collapsed back onto the ground weak with relief. He drew a great breath and shouted, "Over here! Robb, I'm here!" His vision swam and he wondered if he was still dreaming; a raindrop fell into his eye and he blinked, everything blurring as Grey Wind's face loomed over his.

It would not be exaggerating to say Jon had seen and done much in a relatively short span of years. He'd seen the Wall (and been over it, too), climbed a sheer cliff face with nothing but the moon to guide him, fought Others and dinosaurs-- but never had he done this, sat by the bed of someone he loved, while they slept for days and did not wake.

Susan had been asleep for nearly three days. He knew what was happening, from what he'd been told of the times he and his family had awoken to find themselves elsewhere. Knowing she would wake did not make the waiting easier; if anything, it was harder, knowing she was somewhere he could not follow and could not find.

Rickon didn't understand. Jon supposed it was lucky he didn't understand anything was wrong; he was fussy at times that Mother did not wake when he wanted her, but it meant he had Father all to himself, and that was never bad.

Now it was twilight, less than an hour til full night. Rickon slept peacefully on the bed beside Susan, while Jon sat in a chair beside the bed; a book lay facedown on his knee and he watched them carefully, leaning his chin on his hand. He was restless; he'd slept the night before in his armchair with Rickon on his chest, a few hours at best. He knew he would not rest well until Susan was awake again.

As if in answer to his thoughts, all of a sudden she stirred, and Jon started forward, the book dropping to the floor as he reached for her hand. "Thank the gods," he murmured softly. "You're awake."

It was only spring; by rights it should not have been so horribly hot and sticky out. Apart from the heat wave in December, Jon could not remember the weather having been so unbearable since it was still summer, and prayed fervently that this was not foreshadowing another week of interminable sweltering. By the time they'd finished lunch, Jon and Susan were both desperate to cool off, and could tell Rickon was feeling the same way. "We need a swim," Jon said decisively, pulling Susan's bathing suit out of a drawer and tossing it onto the bed. "The stream near the heart tree-- there are some shallows, we could just... sit in there with him," he suggested, laughing at how silly it sounded, but no less serious for it. "If I don't put at least half of me in water I'm in danger of passing out," he told her, grinning. "Let us make haste."

After seeing firsthand how much work Alain had ahead of him in taming his horse, Jon had offered to bring Cornix over to New Gilead for some socializing-- which, to tell the truth, Cornix could use some of himself. He was bred to be a war horse, and was only truly used to the company of Jaqen, merely tolerating the presence of Lorica, Jīng liàng and Benjen (and that could scarcely even be said for the latter, who still bared his teeth and threatened aggression whenever Cornix got too close).

It was early afternoon when Jon rode over, a clear day with few clouds. As he drew closer to New Gilead he heard galloping hooves, and sure enough as he dismounted he saw the honey-colored mare running circles around the pen. The other horse-- Glue Boy, Jon remembered the name with a smile-- was standing placidly beneath a tree outside the pen, barely twitching an eye towards the visitors as Jon dismounted. Alain was sitting beneath a tree nearby, and Jon went toward him. "She's at it again, I see," he said, giving a nod in greeting.