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Fuck.
Jon's been saying that in his head for the last hour. Might've muttered it once or twice under his breath, too, though it's hard to tell since the inside of his skull feels like a yard of wet wool (heavy, tangled, and about as useful as tits on a breastplate).
Any man who stands in a smoke-stinking hut north of the Wall, arguing with his own shadow about asking another man for a favor like this, has already ridden past mad. The rest is just details.
Jon has a favor to ask. It's nothing. For Tormund. The problem is that Jon's not entirely sure it is nothing for Jon.
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