#lyannas

Back to the castle, they’ve done all they can. Arthur was taken to his room to be laid and nursed in his bed, and Lyanna watched slowly the process, wrapped in fur by the fireplace. She is cold but will be all right with endless cups of hot broth and thick blankets and some warm bandages on her fingers. She will live.

It’s Arthur who plunged through the ice, Arthur who was carried away by the river, who languished alone during only-the-Gods-know how many hours on the snowy banks, in sodden clothes. Too long. Much too long.

His games and bow were found miles downstream in the river, and chill suddenly races down Lyanna’s spine. Cold or guilt? After all, she is the one easily underlining his ‘inability’ to adapt to the northern way-of-life, his 'inability’ to hunt like a proper northern man or to handle a cold night like a true lord of the North would –’Winter is coming’ are our words, and you can not even endure one-- and she is certain his solo hunting-expedition was to prove her something. For once, she would accept to be proven wrong.

When the door of Arthur’s room is closed, and Winterfell’s halls are silent & sleepy, and she’s certain nobody’s coming back for one last look, Lyanna shimmies out of her blankets barefoot, wearing only a shirt no longer damp. The servants built the fire up ungodly hot making her comfortable in just a light shirt; kneeled in front of it, she wills it up even hotter, until it brings her out in a sweat.

Looking over her shoulder, Arthur is shivering, cold and white under his own mountain of blankets, and she trembles at the sight. His skin usually dark gold looks now pale silver. And she blames herself for that.

In silent, the she-wolf stands up, walks to the bed and there, she liftes the fur and carefully slithers in the bed beside him. Kicking away the now useless warming pans, she presses herself up against acres of cool bare skin. Her men had been in such a rush to get him bundled up there had been no time to dress Arthur in so much as a nightshirt; good fortune, Lyanna thinks, because she knows what to do. Human body’s warmth remains the best therapy for hypothermia. Just like the day, years ago, an 8-years old Benjen fall into a frozen lake and Lyanna spent two days in his bed to help him warming up.

Arthur doesn’t react to Lyanna basically wrapping herself around him and partway on top of him. He looks like he’s sleeping, but she remembers she has never seen him asleep. His breath is shallow and slow, eyes always closed, and there are patches of frostbite on his cheeks and nose, his ears and the point of his jaw —but the maester salved them with a balm smelling like corn. Lyanna, with care, wipes it away for they are no more needed, and she starts to exhale slowly hot breaths on the bare, blistered skin underneath.

As she does it, she thinks she wants to make things right. She’ll do all she can to fix this, and she pours all that guilt and fear out through her gestures, feathering the damage with gentle touches. She owes him this.

When Lyanna pulls back after some minutes, the frostbite has turned into a delicate, irritated pink. She pulls up Arthur’s hands and gives them the same treatment, blowing hot air on his fingers and nuzzling the palms and knuckles until they are looking better, if not exactly the same as before. Then the feet, even though it involves burrowing down a little under the blankets to rub his with hers –Arthur is so tall, she cannot even reach his ankles with her tiptoes.

Once it’s done, she wriggles back upright and lays her head on Arthur’s chest, listening to the slow and feeble beating of his heart, which has very little to do with his usual strong and steady one. If she understood correctly all that the maester said, this is going to be the hardest part. ‘The first hours will be the critical ones. But he is a strong man.’ 

She closes her eyes and lets the heat of her small form sink into Arthur’s skin, warming him –but carefully, slowly, very slowly, even moving away from his body every ten minutes. She has witnessed hypothermia before, and knows that too much heat after an intense cold could shock him to death. It is frustration on Lyanna’s nerves to keep the pace down, but she’s already fouled up once today and it nearly cost Arthur’s life.

The logs popping and snapping in the fireplace are filling the silence of his room. Her hands rub his large chest and shoulders and their legs slide together. Lightly, she presses her lips to the cold skin of his neck to feel the fluttering pulse. So weak.

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The morning light filters in through the curtains in the window, filling the room with a soft hue.

It seems to take forever before she’s certain that Arthur is really starting to warm. Forever and a half before Arthur starts to move, barely awake, squirming without any obvious intent. His chapped lips part, but no words came out. He doesn’t open his eyes but feels her presence. “Lya---”

“Shhh…” Lyanna whispers, again, and again, and again. Eventually Arthur calms down, letting himself be soothed like a sick child, and he grabs weakly for Lyanna’s arms to curl into her body and her warmth. She pets his hair instinctively and tugs up the furs, cocooning them; he’s already sweaty, but Arthur needs the heat. And Lyanna is unexpectedly relieved to feel him like this --alive and safe in her arms.

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AO3 link + one moodboard

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note: again, i want to thank @lyannas, who give me the permission to play with her AU and her characters (yes, her characters), and i hope i did justice to them and her story... at least, a little :P