“Ate a lot at work,” came clingy bairn’s excuse. Near to scrubbing red-rimmed eyes and tugging papa’s coat tails, Jon appeared reluctant as a sleepy child to accept change; go to sleep and miss in those hours of rest the world as it continued ticking. No sodding thanks, mate! Not when garden lounge offered swadling safehaven, wrapped in boyfriend’s arms and pacified by the thump thump thump of a heart that beat only for him. A time and place where they belonged wholly to one another and not Renly Baratheon.
Robb had hit that nail rather squarely. Single swing of framing hammer driving sixteen-penny straight through stubborn two-by, Jon clung ever tighter, nestling button nose into the heat of Robb’s neck.
He knew his better half was being prudent by prompting their inevitable shift inside. Grooming habits alone were often a lengthy process for lads shoving elbow to hip at the sink. Grinning and making faces at one another in the mirror through thick lathered shave cream because however old they grew, they’d remain boys at heart, playfully joyful at the simplest touch or wink; the mundane, everyday activities shared between them precious as all the monumental, golden ticket attractions evitably sprinkled through a lifetime.
Verging on the ritualist bathtime would be truncated, Jon understood, allotting opportunity to complete Renly’s laundry list of instructions. And Loras’ addendum... fucking twenty extra minutes early. Is it really that bloody difficult to properly kneel?
Light bulb’s chain suddenly got pulled somewhere in the darkest basement of Jon’s mind. Amidst the dusty air caught by incandescent yellow beam, he found himself sussing through a file of inherited memories accidentally pulled from storage. Bottom drawer, left filing cabinet, unlatched and ignored through the ages.
It was day four, locked in a box five by five by five, too low to stand and too narrow to lay down. Not that a man wished to spend the long, windy night huddled against the ice cell’s jagged floor. As it turned out, being inside the Wall was no more comforting than being atop it. Perhaps even slightly less bearable than the infamous sky cells of the Eyrie. At least the Mountains of the Moon offered an escape should madness win out, but not for the unfortunate imprisoned by the Night’s Watch for their cells had thick, rusted iron bars set deep into the ice. A man met his end in those cells, staring past floor to ceiling gates which separated him from the freedom of choosing suicide.
“You will die in here, Lord Snow,” and Jon, with four hands on his shoulders shoving cramped legs knees first into the ice, believed.
A violent shiver ran from toes to top of inky black head as the brief vision faded, but not before leaving its lasting imprint. Like footfalls in snow, forever marring pristine design.
“Cold,” came another lame excuse for surely Robb had felt the spasm. Not that I could properly explain these bouts of deja vu if I tried. “Shower or bath?”