The Last Stag • Game of Thrones

15.

Chapter Fifteen.
The Stag and the Snow

"Do not pull away, girl. This wound will not heal right without the salve." The Maester held her head with one weak hand, his other hand trembling as he tried to hold the cloth to her face.

"It burns." Renfri hissed. 

"That means it's doing its job." His mouth whistled as he spoke. "Without the salve, you will get an infection that will have to be cut out. It will leave a much uglier scar."

The Maester was the oldest man that Ren had ever met, older even than Grand Maester Pycelle. But he was the only person that she had met at Castle Black so far who had not stared at her for daring to be a woman. The cold of the North whistled through the cracks in the wooden walls, prickling at Renfri's bare skin as she sat with her corset undone, her shirt ripped and slouched, revealing the slope of her collar and the top of her breasts, and the thin scratches that Renfri had received from riding Goji through the brush. 

Begrudgingly, Renfri held still, resisting the urge to pull a face as Maester Aemon lowered the salve-soaked cloth to her wound. The ointment stung against her wound, pulsing with heat. Renfri had long grown past worrying about things such as scars. 

The Maester removed the cloth, setting it shakily down on the table beside him. He felt around for the tweezers, mouth pursed in concentration. Renfri eyed him hesitantly, wondering if it was in her bets interests to allow the blind man to come near her eyes with them. 

The door burst open and Renfri tried not to release a sigh of relief, pulling back from the Maester. She glanced to the door, a nervous look on her face. 

"Maester Aem-" The man looked from the Maester to Renfri, turning red. Renfri pulled her shirt up, concealing her cleavage. 

"I'm sorry." The man had squeaked. He still stared at her, face burning. 

"Sam Tarly?" The Maester turned, his feet shuffling around the floor. "Perhaps you can assist me."

Sam shook his head rapidly, averting his eyes from Renfri, staring at the floor.

"I don't think the lady would-"

"It's fine." Renfri cut in nervously. "He can't see the splinters in my scratches, and I can't pick them out myself. You'd be doing me a favor."

If the Maester took offense to this, he did not show it. He shakily held the tweezers out to Sam, who hesitantly crossed the room and accepted them. 

The Maester moved aside and Sam took his spot. His body unusually stiff, he reached forward with the tweezers, so far away that Renfri doubted that he could see much of anything in the dim illumination of the fire. 

In one quick move, Renfri grabbed Sam by the scruff of his cloak, dragging him towards her quickly until their faces were mere inches apart. She released him, moving her hand to his and adjusting the tweezers right atop her wound.

"You're just picking out the splinters, not saving my life." Renfri grumbled. "Don't make it weird."

"You're the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms." Sam spluttered nervously. "It feels weird."

"I gave up that title. Now I'm just a woman, asking you to pick the splinters from my face so I don't have wood underneath my skin for the rest of my life."

Hesitantly, Sam cupped her chin with his free hand. He reached forward, the tweezers finding the first splinter and pulling out the sliver of wood.