[it's hot, humid, and crowded. jon vaguely remembers going to sleep in his lodgings on the clock, with arya and his mother in their lofts. this wheelhouse smells strange and muted, and he is manhandled into the street before he can get any real sense of it. there's a warm breeze on his neck and he pats the back of his neck. someone has cropped off most of his hair.]
Seven Hells.
[speaking and standing are more difficult than they should be. he clutches at the wall of the alleyway, stumbling forward.]
Ghost?
[ghost hasn't liked to leave his side lately, but jon's known him to wander off quite a bit. he pushes his mind forward, casting out for ghost's senses, and feels a sudden, searing pain in his chest. he crumples against the wall.]
What--? Mother...
[it's an afterthought, almost a whimper. when did he become so used to having his mother around that he might call for her in pain? there are many people around, but none of them seem to be lyanna stark. he doesn't see arya either, or anyone else he knows. but it's dark, and his head hurts.]
Arya? [more softly this time:] Sansa?
[he stumbles forward, into some kind of...feast, or party. over the roar of the crowd he can hear some kind of melodic yelling. there are pavillions with tables and racks of bottled drinks. despite his better judgement he grabs the nearest bottle and downs it, clutching the table with his free hand. it's ale, although it can't be very good if it needs all these hops to be drinkable. someone yells at him. he understands he's just finished off their drink. he looks up at them, exasperated and disbelieving. it seems like a lot of fuss for a drink from the clock, especially with the state he's in.]
I was thirsty.
[he straightens up and sets the bottle down.]
More ale. Water would be better.
[nothing happens. distantly he remembers sansa telling him about the other worlds. this certainly doesn't seem like the clock. there are too many people, and he doesn't know who in the clock could have kidnapped him and cut his hair. the crowd of men (so many men, in strange garb, closer to the seven kingdoms at times, closer to the clock at others, not really typical for either) starts to move towards him. he tries calling for ghost again and experiences the same searing pain. he sags against the table and tries for shouting.]
Ghost--!
[he looks back up at the small crowd of onlookers, somewhat defeated.]
Has anyone seen a great white wolf?
ii. safehouse
[jon's finally found some darker canvas trousers that fit him, and black boots that are sturdy if thick in the sole. sansa's even managed to find a black shirt for him, though he hadn't asked. it doesn't matter; without longclaw he still feels vulnerable, easy prey. the old bear had told him not to lose it...he sits on a bed and shakes his head in disbelief. it's like being back in the cells at castle black. at least he's not laid up with stab wounds. he rubs his burned hand over his short hair ruefully. there's a scar on his neck that wasn't there before, eerily vertical. it should concern him more than it does. he feels the loss of ghost--and arya, his mother, their other animals, even the clock itself--too keenly to be properly alarmed over his device being in his head now. maybe he's in shock, or maybe he's just exhausted. he's definitely on a face journey about it.]
iii. wandering around the festival
[you're welcome to bump into jon at the festival at any time, he will be looking miserable and drinking beer. at some point he might eat a sausage.]
jon snow | asoiaf (clockbox crau)
[it's hot, humid, and crowded. jon vaguely remembers going to sleep in his lodgings on the clock, with arya and his mother in their lofts. this wheelhouse smells strange and muted, and he is manhandled into the street before he can get any real sense of it. there's a warm breeze on his neck and he pats the back of his neck. someone has cropped off most of his hair.]
Seven Hells.
[speaking and standing are more difficult than they should be. he clutches at the wall of the alleyway, stumbling forward.]
Ghost?
[ghost hasn't liked to leave his side lately, but jon's known him to wander off quite a bit. he pushes his mind forward, casting out for ghost's senses, and feels a sudden, searing pain in his chest. he crumples against the wall.]
What--? Mother...
[it's an afterthought, almost a whimper. when did he become so used to having his mother around that he might call for her in pain? there are many people around, but none of them seem to be lyanna stark. he doesn't see arya either, or anyone else he knows. but it's dark, and his head hurts.]
Arya? [more softly this time:] Sansa?
[he stumbles forward, into some kind of...feast, or party. over the roar of the crowd he can hear some kind of melodic yelling. there are pavillions with tables and racks of bottled drinks. despite his better judgement he grabs the nearest bottle and downs it, clutching the table with his free hand. it's ale, although it can't be very good if it needs all these hops to be drinkable. someone yells at him. he understands he's just finished off their drink. he looks up at them, exasperated and disbelieving. it seems like a lot of fuss for a drink from the clock, especially with the state he's in.]
I was thirsty.
[he straightens up and sets the bottle down.]
More ale. Water would be better.
[nothing happens. distantly he remembers sansa telling him about the other worlds. this certainly doesn't seem like the clock. there are too many people, and he doesn't know who in the clock could have kidnapped him and cut his hair. the crowd of men (so many men, in strange garb, closer to the seven kingdoms at times, closer to the clock at others, not really typical for either) starts to move towards him. he tries calling for ghost again and experiences the same searing pain. he sags against the table and tries for shouting.]
Ghost--!
[he looks back up at the small crowd of onlookers, somewhat defeated.]
Has anyone seen a great white wolf?
ii. safehouse
[jon's finally found some darker canvas trousers that fit him, and black boots that are sturdy if thick in the sole. sansa's even managed to find a black shirt for him, though he hadn't asked. it doesn't matter; without longclaw he still feels vulnerable, easy prey. the old bear had told him not to lose it...he sits on a bed and shakes his head in disbelief. it's like being back in the cells at castle black. at least he's not laid up with stab wounds. he rubs his burned hand over his short hair ruefully. there's a scar on his neck that wasn't there before, eerily vertical. it should concern him more than it does. he feels the loss of ghost--and arya, his mother, their other animals, even the clock itself--too keenly to be properly alarmed over his device being in his head now. maybe he's in shock, or maybe he's just exhausted. he's definitely on a face journey about it.]
iii. wandering around the festival
[you're welcome to bump into jon at the festival at any time, he will be looking miserable and drinking beer. at some point he might eat a sausage.]