Until the Seven Hells Freeze Over

Chapter 2- Fever

When you were little, barely 8 years old, you caught the Pox. The Maester who examined you was sure it would take your life if your temperature didn't go down, and go down quickly. Your little body thrashed and writhed day and night, first pulling your covers tightly around you, then throwing them onto the floor when your skin felt boiling to the touch.

You weren't the only child in Winterfell affected; it had gotten Jon Snow too. Your mother, Irena, spoke with Lady Catelyn Stark daily, updating one another on the both of you and praying to the Gods to keep you both alive. And miraculously, to the surprise of the Maesters, their prayers were answered. Your temperature went down, as did his. You'd never been seriously ill since.

Until now.

You woke up at a slow, creeping pace, as though your heart were fighting to beat while enmeshed in sludge; your lungs ached and protested with each inhale. Opening your eyes seemed like a Herculean task, one that you weren't prepared to undertake. So you lay there motionless as sweat pooled on your brow.

I should've taken my chances and went South, was the first thought that entered your mind. It was the damned cold that did this to me.

Your mind was so muddled that it took several minutes of lying there before you remembered where you were. You remembered reaching Castle Black, you remembered Jon Snow opening the doors, looking at you in shock. Then...nothing.

You wondered how much time had passed since then. Wondered if Timothy had found you.

Timothy.

The fear of him was what enabled you to finally open your eyes.

You were in a dark room with a single bed, illuminated by golden, waning candles. Your bed faced a door, and on the other side of the room was a Maester's workstation, filled with jars and vials of different tinctures and tonics and herbs. The candlelight reflected off the vials, causing the contents inside to glow shades of red, honey-yellow, and emerald.

Lost in a feverish haze, you focused on the colors of the vials, taking note of the size and shape of each one to calm your mind, when the door opened.

Every muscle in your body tensed as you braced yourself for the sight of Timothy.

Thankfully, two people entered the room, and he was not among them.

It was an Ancient Maester who, in your estimation, had to be at least 100 years old, with Jon Snow trailing close behind him. Both of their expressions turned to surprise when they saw that you were awake.

"Oh, thank the Gods," Jon said as he rushed over and knelt by your bedside, looking intently into your eyes. He reached for a cloth sitting in a basin of water on the side table by your bed and wrung it out before placing it gently on your brow. The cool water felt like a balm against your flushed skin, and only then did you realize how hot you were. It was a strange sensation, feeling so warm while your body was also shivering.

"If I may, Snow," said the Maester, who stood behind Jon, anxious to examine you. Jon's eyes didn't leave yours, his brow furrowed in concern as he carefully brushed a strand of hair away from your face. You wanted to beg him not to leave your side, as he was the only familiar face you'd seen in days, but you were too exhausted and overcome with fever to speak.

"Snow," the Maester repeated, his soft, elderly voice firmer this time. Jon grimaced and stood, taking a couple steps back but, to your great relief, remained in the room.

The Maester removed the cloth from your brow, returning it to the basin, and felt your forehead with the backs of his long, weathered fingers. His touch was gentle, but you still flinched, a reaction that made Jon's grimace deepen.