Are you well, Snow?" Lord Mormont asked, scowling.
Well, his raven squawked. "Well."
I am, my lord, Jon lied... loudly, as if that could make it true. "And you?"
Mormont frowned. "A dead man tried to kill me. How well could I be?" He scratched under his chin. His shaggy grey beard had been singed in the fire, and he'd hacked it off. The pale stubble of his new whiskers made him look old, disreputable, and grumpy. "You do not look well. How is your hand?"
Healing. Jon flexed his bandaged fingers to show him. He had burned himself more badly than he knew throwing the flaming drapes, and his right hand was swathed in silk halfway to the elbow. At the time he'd felt nothing; the agony had come after. His cracked red skin oozed fluid, and fearsome blood blisters rose between his fingers, big as roaches. "The maester says I'll have scars, but otherwise the hand should be as good as it was before."
A scarred hand is nothing. On the Wall, you'll be wearing gloves often as not.
As you say, my lord. It was not the thought of scars that troubled Jon; it was the rest of it.