Winterfell

11th Moon, 145 AC

[CW: Child suffering, sickness, grief]

Eadhelm

He was there again.

The sickroom was the same as it had been all those years ago. Candles lit the place poorly, leaving long shadows and filling the space with a light that set his stomach turning. It was just Eadhelm and Matilda, standing next to the bed, trying desperately to ignore the sounds of pained breathing. Theomore refused to visit their sister as she died, instead hiding away in the training yard or the Godswood.

Arya had lost all her color, reduced to sweat, shaking, and coughs. The sickness had come so quickly. She had thinned down to a twig and could no longer speak after only a few days. Maybe that was just his memory playing tricks - worsening what had actually happened. The blood in her spit had colored a pile of rags sat neatly in the corner. The maester had tried to help and mother had conducted her rituals and administered her poultices. And still Arya had laid there, slowly fading into nothing.

The moon was gone outside, and the world made pitch black. The Godswood and the Hornwood that surrounded the castle were gone, only their barest outlines visible through the window. There was only the room, only the coughing, the wheezing, only the occasional glance between Eadhelm and Matilda.

The shadows grew longer, the light dimming, and Arya began to cough. The kind of cough that radiated only from the furthest depths of the lungs and smelled like blood and rot. Matilda went for the pitcher of water and poured a glass, trying to lean it towards Arya, who shook with each ratcheting hack. Eadhelm went to his little sister's side and pressed his hands to her shoulders.

Have her drink when she begins to cough the maester's advice rang through Eadhelm's head, repeating endlessly and Arya shook. Matilda pressed the glass to the girl's lips, letting the water pour.

Then she stopped.

Still.

Eadhelm woke and cried.