Chapter Text
It is a curious thing, she thinks, to wake from her dreams.
They are less than visions, yet more than dreams.
She is starving, her head full of wool, her mouth drier than sand, her limbs shaking and too light for her body, but she drags herself up.
She must be ready, because she can feel the war coming. She has seen the Army of the Dead and the Night King astride a dead horse with identical glowing, ice-crystal blue eyes. She has seen the rags of Watchmen on some corpses, the furs of the Wildlings on others. Death itself is riding for the Wall.
In her dreams, she saw Winterfell silhouetted against dragon fire.
Her door eases open as she's just finished fighting her weak, exhausted way into her breeches.
"Where do you think you're going?" She manages a sigh, dropping the boots she'd just been searching for the energy to put on.
"To see my sister."
"Your sister is busy, and I am under orders," Gendry snaps, closing the door and striding across the room towards her. "I will tell her you're awake. You're not to get up until the Maester sees you."
"Says who?" She squints up at him. He looks ten feet tall and it makes her dizzy.
"Says the Queen, who I've taken vows to obey." She groans, covers her eyes as much to make the room stop spinning as to stop seeing him looking so angry.
"I missed your ceremony."
"You did." There's no accusation, but she feels herself flush anyway. She forces her eyes open.
"I'm sorry." He sighs, and goes to one knee before her. His big hands go to the belt she'd barely managed to buckle and start undoing it.
"Not your fault."
"How long was I asleep?"
"Five days."
"Gods." His hand taps her hip and she manages to lift up enough for him to pull her breeches off her, let's him swing her legs back onto the bed and tuck her in with a hand that's almost too gentle for a blacksmith.
"Stay," he orders. "I'll send for the Maester and the Queen. You've missed a bit, so if you stay here - and you do as the Maester tells you - I'll ask the Queen if I can catch you up." She'd tell him to wait, but he goes too quick for her to get more than his name out.
He's back fast, so he can't have gone far to find someone to pass on his message.
"Just waiting for someone to come. Thought you might have made a run for it whilst my back was turned if I went myself, so I sent a guard."
"Would have." He snorts, picking up a jug and a wooden cup.
"I know. Here, water. Can't hurt you, might clear your head a bit." She sips it, finds it icy cold and refreshing. It doesn't do much, but it at least eases the feeling that her mouth's been scrubbed out with steel.
It's the Maester who comes first, in the end. He looks tired, and Arya can't imagine he has anything like any peace and quiet, with sword training going on, an encampment of refugees, a baby, a still-recovering Theon and her to look after. She has to try and find a way to get some kind of control over this - thing. It can't be like this. There's too much to do.
He's still very thorough, tired or not. He condemns her to staying where she is for the rest of today, forbids any training for at least the next half-moon, sets down a diet composed almost entirely of soup, porridge and as many green vegetables as can be found for the next few days and tells her very, very sternly that if she overexerts herself when she's allowed up, he'll tie her to the bed himself. Gendry, the traitorous bastard, promises that he'll see to her personally.
Sansa comes later, after she's had less than half a bowl of porridge and a nap. There's very little preamble.
"I am told there is one among the Wildlings familiar with what this - ability of yours is. I would like it very much if, when they arrive, you would seek them out and learn to control it."
"The Wildlings?"
"They're heading here." Arya furrows her brows as she tries to piece things together. She feels so disjointed, as if she's not quite in one piece.
"I thought - Molestown?"
"They were, but since you have been unwell there have been some developments. If you attempt to leave this bed when I explain them, I will have you tied down and locked in." Seven hells, Sansa doesn't look like she's joking either.
"I give you my word." Perhaps it's more easily given as she's not sure she's physically capable of standing just now, but Sansa doesn't need to know that.
"Some of the Night's Watch were unhappy about the vote that allowed the Wildlings to cross the Wall. They ambushed Jon in his chambers and it is thanks only to Ghost and his Steward, Satin, that Jon survived. He was injured, badly, but the Maester is happy with his progress."
"Jon is here?" Arya cries.
"Yes. Samwell Tarly and Satin fled the Watch and brought him here. He will no doubt be your first visitor as soon as I tell him you're awake, but he's been very ill. His fever only broke yesterday."
"He's going to be alright?"
"We hope so."
Lannister comes by almost as soon as Sansa leaves her. She's not stupid - she's fully aware his task of 'watch the baby' is actually a method of keeping her in her room. She doesn't argue the point. Her head feels heavy and her limbs are weak. She eats what they give her, she sips the water she is provided. She cuddles the baby close and sleeps when he sleeps. She won't tolerate it for long, but for today - oh, for today it is good to have no cares and nowhere to be.
The war marches closer with every passing day, and her visions of it are of the Seven Hells themselves. If it is to come, if she will burn in dragon fire and die screaming with those she loves or turn into a White Walker with burning blue eyes and death in her soul, then she will savour life. She will relish in the warmth and comfort of the furs, she will smell the powder and the milk on her nephew, she will breathe it in and devour it. She will not waste a moment.
She holds Gendry's hand when he comes to her that night to report on what she's missed. He doesn't question her, he grips her hand in return and she hopes it tells him what she cannot find the words for. She hopes it tells him that she'll throw herself on the mercies of dragons or the dead if it means he is living afterwards. He deserves to live a good, long life. He deserves to live into his dotage, to ride a horse into the wind and feel the touch of snow and sun on his lips and skin.
She prays to whatever Gods that might listen that it's allowed.