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’sremedy 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?”
She felt awful, sick to her stomach. It was nothing that would not pass, of course, but for now she felt well and truly miserable. It was surprising how effective a small gesture like that could be. A blanket was no true cure, but Jorjayna still felt a warmth spread across her at the act. “Thank you, Aunt Lyanna,” she said weakly.
The older woman knew just how quickly a fever could burn through someone, take their strength and leave nothing left. They didn’t make it through all of this just to be done in by sickness, Lyanna wouldn’t have it. She gave her niece’s arm an affectionate squeeze before returning to the fire. Old Nan’s recipe for a cure-all tonic wouldn’t chase the illness away, but it might grant Jorjayna the strength to fight it off herself. It was important to bolster her, even if the brew gave off a suspicious smell– she remembered it tasted even worse. The elder Stark poured it carefully from the small brass cauldron into a clay bowl and brought it to her niece’s bedside.
“Here, drink this.” A pause to blow on it, though the broth would cool quickly away from the fire. “It’s not going to taste like soup, but it’ll put hair on your chest.” A bit of levity was good for the spirit, too. She waited for the younger girl to sit up a bit more so as not to choke. “It’s best to pinch your nose and swallow it down all at once. Trust me.” Lyanna spoke from her own considerable experience. There wasn’t much that would cut the taste.
It had taken her most of the morning to sneak into Jorjayna’s rooms and hide. Luckily the younger Stark daughter had thick curtains to keep her windows from letting the heat out in the night, and Lyanna was able to slip behind them and sit, waiting for her niece to return. It seemed a small eternity that she lay in wait, listening, hoping that the old gods had granted Jorjayna just one more day, that the Boltons wouldn’t sacrifice their only bargaining chip against the true and loyal North. Not even a whole day. Today was all they needed. They would be gone by nightfall. They had to be.
The sound of the door opening stilled Lyanna’s thoughts and she slowed her breathing, eyes focused on fabric, though she couldn’t see through it. There was someone in the room, but it was hard to be sure who. If it was Jorjayna, then there was a chance she wasn’t alone. She had one shot at this, one chance to find her niece and help her to safety. If she failed, they were both doomed. A flayed man held no secrets. She waited, wishing that she knew more about Jorjayna, something that could identify the girl beyond her stationary and gowns. Of course, they could have moved her. Perhaps some other girl was sleeping here now. Or maybe it was a maid come to tidy up. Did the Boltons care to keep a Stark room clean? There was no way to know.
The hidden wolf chanced a look, pulling the curtain slowly, slowly, slowly to one side.
