Jorjayna.

The smell of the concoction had Jorjayna screw her face up the moment it reached her nostrils. She had experienced it once before, when only a young girl, but had been spared from tasting it when Maester Luwin had entered her chambers and told Old Nan that such traditional remedies would do little but make a child weep at the taste. 

But they did not have a Maester now, and if it was all that was being offered, Jorjayna would gladly see if it could help her gather her strength up. “Don’t want hair on my chest,” Jorjayna murmured, her voice croaky as she pushed herself into a better position in which to take a drink. Listening to the advice, Jorjayna nodded, before pinching her nose as told and opening her mouth. As the vile broth went down her throat, Jorjayna squirmed with a deep frown, and began coughing violently once her airway was clear. Still, she managed to keep it down. “I think I feel worse,” she complained.

          If Old Nan’s remedy didn’t bring back memories of her childhood, nothing would. There was something about the smell that made her picture the hearth of her childhood bedroom vividly, Old Nan stooped over a fire, the way her voice sounded and the crackle of the embers. There had been many days when Lyanna had wished she’d forget all of it, every detail, to take away the pain. But she remembered everything. 

          “I know, sweetling. It will get better.” It was possible her niece would take exception to a term of endearment, but the word had already left her mouth. No taking it back now. “Just try to rest and think of something good.” Old Nan always told her stories to keep her mind off of things. It was a way to focus on something other than the heaviness in one’s chest, the heat filling up her head. Lyanne touched fingers to Jorjayna’s forehead at the thought. Too soon for any change. “Did your father ever tell you about the time he had to rescue me from a tree?”