Until the Seven Hells Freeze Over

Chapter 3- The Truth

No one has ever tended to a patient as steadfastly as Jon tended to you.

He changed your ice packs as soon as they melted. Wrapped his arm carefully around your shoulders as you sat up to take small, careful sips of water. Held your hand as violent, wet coughs roused you from an unsettled sleep.

He even helped you change out of your sweat-drenched clothes and into fresh sleeping garments every day. He handled you so carefully, like you were made of glass. Even though you were barely conscious during this, you knew that he inevitably saw the bruises, the scars left behind from what had happened with Timothy, but he said nothing about it. You expected to be embarrassed but you just...weren't. His kindness towards you made shame impossible.

For those first couple of days, you didn't speak much at all; the malaise was simply too strong. So, during the times you were awake, day or night, Jon did all the talking. He told you about his life you saw him last, when he left Winterfell to join the Night's Watch. He told you about his friends, mainly Samwell Tarly. He told you about his journeys beyond the Wall. He told you that Stannis Baratheon was at Castle Black at this very moment, intending to march South and overtake the Seven Kingdoms.

What about the battle? The battle that happened here, that the Maester mentioned? That was the only question you mustered up your strength to ask. You could often hear the distant moans of the injured men in the main infirmary, down the hall from you.

At that, Jon's eyes darkened; his voice grew solemn and so, so weary.

"A band of Wildlings attacked," he said. "A thousand of them were killed, a thousand more were captured. Their leader, Mance Rayder, is being held prisoner. Stannis is deciding what to do with him."

You wanted to ask more about it, whether any of his friends were among the injured or dead, but you could see the agony on his face at the mere mention of the battle, so you didn't pry.

On the third day of your convalescence, you felt well enough to eat more than the sips of broth that had previously been sustaining you. Maester Aemon was extremely pleased at this. Apparently, getting your appetite back was a sure sign that the fever was breaking.

"It's thanks to your care, Snow," the Maester had said. "I couldn't have done better myself."

Jon brought you a tray of chicken, boiled potatoes, and carrots. He set the tray on your bedside table while carefully helping you sit up. When you thanked him, your voice came out stronger than it had been since you arrived.

Jon sat beside you while you ate, unable to hide his relief that you were finally getting better.

"You have more color in your cheeks," he remarked, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

For some reason, that smile made your cheeks redden even further, and you looked down at your plate, clearing your throat.

"Because of you," you replied softly. "I can't tell you how grateful I am."

He waved a hand dismissively. "You don't have to. I'm glad I was able to look after you. It's felt recently like I can't protect anyone so...at least I didn't fail you."

You detected the sadness in his voice as he said this, but again you chose not to pry. It wouldn't be right, especially when you hadn't even told him why you were here in the first place.

"I can tell you what happened now," you said. He leaned forward, his expression soft, and nodded. You coughed and took a swig of water. "About three months ago, I got engaged to Timothy Stillwell."

"Timothy Stillwell...the farmer's son?"

You nodded. The Stillwells had one of the largest farms in the North, their land vast and rich in both terrain and wildlife. They were one of the main exporters of grain, meat, and produce in the North, procuring a substantial amount of wealth for the family. It was as comfortable a life for a commoner as was possible in Westeros.