A conversation takes place as they make camp, a conversation that is the only reason Jon is even willing to remove his leathers, even if he is hesitating with the remaining button. The evidence of the truth he speaks is evident on his form, impossible to hide while his chest is bare. It's a gnarly sight and Jon can barely stand looking at them himself, the horror of his murder surfacing unbidden any time he dares to take a peak at the jagged, protruding marks that did not heal correctly while left open and without stitchings while his corpse lay dormant in Castle Black while Davos sought out the Red Woman, while they waited for her magic to take root.

Back to his ancestor, Jon takes a deep, steading breath and pops the last button free of its loop, shrugging out of his last remaining layer.

He doesn't turn around, just presses his hand to the newest gash in his collection, fixates on a spot in the distance, and dissociates — not because it hurts (it doesn't, pain is not the same in the aftermath of death) but because he's a touch fucked up in an aftermath of something everyone was keen on forgetting.

(He wishes he could forget.)