Wounded
The pain is so cold it burns , but Visenya can’t speak, can’t move. Her awareness creeps in and out, only to fade again when she begins to focus on her side. Once or twice she opens her eyes, but she can’t focus on the moving shapes before her. The burning cold is so intense that she hardly feels the snow melting through her armor, or hands pulling her. It only occurs to her that it might be an Other dragging her across the snow when she dimly hears Ghost roar in pain.
Visenya forces her eyes open with strength that she doesn’t possess. Looking down at her wound is a mistake, and Visenya would be sick if she had the energy. The spear looks as though it has been fashioned from ice, and it smoulders with cold where it meets her flesh through the armor.
She forces her right hand to Dark Sister, pulls it from the pommel with a jerky movement. She’s not meant to pull it out this way, and it nearly falls from her hands, but she’s too scared to try and move her left arm, which is dragging below her body, burning with cold.
The only sound Visenya can hear is her heavy, labored breathing, the snow beneath her as she’s dragged through it. The battle is still waging about her, she’s almost sure of it, even though the pain clouds her vision and her hearing. She can feel the heat of burning fires on her face, and if the battle was over, if the battle was lost , wouldn’t the fire be out?
Dimly, Visenya realizes her teeth are chattering, her muscles locked. Let me be strong , she prays. Her mother’s gods are here, beyond the wall. She hopes they can hear her. Give me strength.
Whoever’s dragging her doesn’t let go when Visenya hauls herself up to grab at their wrist, Dark Sister tucked tightly between her wounded arm and chest plate. The wrist is thin, too thin to be that of a living man of woman, flesh stripped away. She must have fallen where near the tree line, where the wights had been. Gods, if Ghost is hurt…
One thing at a time, Visenya , she tells herself, teeth clenched. She can’t see well, and the spear tip is ripping a cold hole in her side, but she can damn well fight the way Ser Jaime taught her--one handed if she must. She lets go of the thing’s wrist, grabs at Dark Sister, and slashes wildly above her head.
The wight snarls, but Visenya is free, and struggling to her feet. Gods, her side . She nearly doubles over with the pain, and icy smoke still pours from it. The spear tip has been broken, so only a part of it sticks out from Visenya’s shoulder, but the frost is all down the side of her armor.
Her left arm twitches at her side, but the pain is too much. She can’t raise it.
Her vision blurs, but Visenya can see where she is, now. The battle wages at her back, and she’s nearly at the treeline. There aren’t many wights around her, they’re nearly all in the fray, but there’s a shape moving towards Visenya, icy blue and white. She knows, even without seeing, that it’s the White Walker that speared her down. Coming to finish her? To turn her into a mindless wight? Visenya doesn’t want to find out.
Her feet are heavy as lead, but she forces them apart, into fighting stance. Against her side, her left arm is a dead weight, but Visenya can’t think, can’t focus on that pain, that cold . She can’t feel her lips anymore, knows they must be blue.
“Come on, you bastard,” she grits out. “Come on!”
The damn thing doesn’t speed up, but gets closer slowly. Dark Sister is light enough that Visenya doesn’t need to hold it with both hands, and she steadies herself. Her head is spinning and her side burns .
“Visenya!” She hears her name being called dimly over the blood roaring in her ears. Robb? She has to warn him, there’s an Other before her. “Visenya!”
The blur before her eyes is just out of reach, and she can see the sword in sharp focus, ice blue and radiating cold. She has to kill it. She has to kill it before it kills Robb, or before it takes her.
Ghost screeches, a wounded sound above her, but too far. For a moment she’s in his eyes, frantically searching for herself through the pain, wings beating unevenly to try and stay in the air through the pain. And then Visenya nearly doubles over, gasping, nearly dropping her sword to clutch at her side. It hurts , and if she had the breath she might have screamed. Instead she whimpers, and raises her arm just in time to block its first swing.
The Other comes into focus now, and Visenya reels away from it, stumbling to catch her balance. Behind her, Visenya hears a crash, and a shattering noise, Robb grunting as he swings Ice, clearing the wights at her back. “Visenya!” He shouts breathlessly. “Visenya, I’m nearly there!”
Nearly isn’t enough time. The Other swings again, and Visenya ducks clumsily, just enough time to get out of the sword’s way before it bites into her. There’s an opening, but she misses it, too slow with this blasted spear tip in her. The thing presses forward again, and once again, she stumbles, her feet dragging, her arm raised just in time to block.
She has to press the offensive. Her strengths lie in the attack. She knows that, but getting her frozen body and her locked muscles to obey proves difficult.
Dark Sister was made smaller, meant for a woman’s hand. The reach is shorter than the other sword, but it is also lighter and more easily maneuvered. Visenya waits for the Other to press in closer before dropping her weight, leaving herself open and vulnerable, and stabbing up .
It shatters.
Robb catches her just before she falls.
She’s still cold the next time she comes to, but she can feel the brazier burning hot against her face and the furs piled high above her, so heavy that she couldn’t toss them off without effort. She stirs.
“Is she waking?” Daenerys’s soft voice sounds rough, as though she’s been crying. A hand brushes Visenya’s forehead gently.
“It’s possible,” Robb’s voice replies, just as soft, just as rough. “Maester Aemon said the sleeping draught would be wearing off soon.”
There’s a long pause before Daenerys whispers, “Do you think she’ll scream more when she awakens? I’ve never heard something so terrible.”
“I hope not,” Robb says, stroking Visenya’s hair. She wants to stretch into the movement, but her bones feel heavy, too heavy to move.
"If I’d only seen that spear,” Daenerys says, voice soft as a sigh. There’s a soft intake of breath, and Visenya realizes her aunt is crying.
“I should have found her faster,” Robb insists. “I saw where she fell, I should have gotten there before the Others could drag her away.”
“What were they going to do with her? Turn her into one of--” Daenerys cannot finish, her voice caught in a sob. She must be shaking , Visenya thinks dimly, and wishes Robb would go and comfort Dany, shake her from her melancholy. As if he could hear Visenya’s plea, Robb presses his lips to her forehead before walking away. When his footsteps stop, Daenerys’s cries are muffled, probably into his doublet.
“If watching her is too much,” she hears Robb say, “I can ask the maester to come back in instead. Perhaps give you milk of the poppy or dreamwine, to help you sleep.”
“No,” Dany insists. “Aemon needs his rest. I’m fine, I swear it. It’s been days, I barely feel the pain anymore.”
“Are you sure?” Robb asks, his voice gentler than Visenya has ever heard it.
There’s no answer from Daenerys. But Visenya hears it--the soft sound of a kiss, the rustling of cloth. Then another short kiss, and another. If she were awake, or more aware, Visenya’s face would be aflame.
“Princess,” Robb says, finally. “We shouldn’t--”
Dany must have pulled him to her again, because they don’t speak for a time.
Visenya groans, feels her face heating with embarrassment. Gods, her cousin and her aunt .
Immediately, Robb is at her side. “I think she’s waking up,” he says unnecessarily, clearing his throat. “Visenya?” He touches her cheek. “Can you hear me?”
Wetting her lips, Visenya tries to speak. Her throat is dry, but she manages a few words. “Get...a...chamber...of your own,” she coughs. Robb sputters, and behind him, Daenerys lets out a startled laugh.
“Visenya,” she sobs, and is by her side in an instant. Visenya tries to open her eyes, sees Daenerys through fogged eyes. “Gods, Visenya, you’re alright.”
“What...happened?” She croaks, while Robb runs from the room to fetch Aemon.
“You fell,” Daenerys says through her tears. “Shh, don’t try to speak. We’re not to excite you.”
“Where’s Rhaenys?” Visenya asks, closing her eyes again, fighting nausea. “Aegon?”
“Called to a war meeting,” Daenerys says, with some hesitation. “Your cousin and I volunteered to watch you while everyone was busy. Uncle Aemon said you’d be waking any moment.”
A knot in Visenya’s chest loosens. They’re safe. The Others didn’t win yet.
And then the panic rises in her chest. “My arm,” she says, trying to prop herself up. “My side, there was a spear--”
“Visenya,” Dany tries. “You have to lay down, Maester Aemon is coming--"
“And Ghost, is Ghost alright?” She struggles against Daenerys’s hands. “Dany, please .”
“Ghost is alive,” Dany assures her reluctantly. “The spear pierced his wing and then your shoulder, and dug down into your ribcage, but it went cleanly through his wing. He’s able to fly, but not evenly. Maester Aemon and his Tarly steward have been searching the books for remedies, but they’ve patched his wing to the best of their ability.”
Visenya’s face turns cold, and she turns to look at her left side. There are thick bandages obscuring her view.
“My arm,” she whimpers. “What’s happened to my arm?”
Dany places a hand under Visenya’s chin, makes her look away. “Aemon will explain,” she says softly. “Please calm yourself, Visenya, you’re starting to worry me.”
She realizes that her breath is coming in through wheezes, that her vision is blurring.
There’s a crash at the door, and Visenya hears Aegon and Rhaenys protesting loudly that they be let in before they force their way in. Aegon falls to her right side, Rhaenys breathless right behind him.
“Visenya,” her sister cries, her eyes full of tears.
Visenya can’t catch her breath, still gasping at air that won’t go down her throat. “What happened to my arm?” She asks wildly, black spots creeping through her vision, but the words barely come out.
“What’s wrong with her?” Aegon demands, pulling out her right hand and gripping it. He presses a swift, desperate kiss to her wrist. “Aemon, Sam, what’s wrong?”
“You all need to leave ,” Samwell Tarly says, more forcefully than Visenya has ever heard the quiet boy. “Lord Robb, show the Prince and Princesses out so the maester and I can work.”
Aegon struggles against Robb’s hand on his shoulder, but lets go of Visenya when Rhaenys pulls him up. “We’ll be right outside,” Rhaenys tells her.
Uncle Aemon sits besides Visenya his blind eyes shut as his fingers find the pulse at her throat. “She’s too excited,” he says, matter of fact. “Visenya, my dear, you must try to calm yourself before you faint.”
She can’t , her gasps only come faster when she tries. Her arm, what’s happened to her arm? Why won’t they tell her?
Robb strides back into the room. “Her dragon is getting agitated,” he says, glancing at the window. “The men will be getting nervous.”
“Visenya,” she hears, and suddenly, the bed dips on her left side. It is Ser Jaime, and his hand finds her chin. “Shh, Visenya. You’re safe, you’re alive. You saved Daenerys from that spear. That’s what matters here.”
He wipes away her tears slowly, giving her time to breathe. Visenya calms down little by little, eyes closing against his palm. It takes some time, but her breath evens out. She’s exhausted, though it seems like she’s been asleep for days and days.
“What happened to my arm?” She whispers, sounding like a small, scared child. “Ser Jaime, I can’t feel it.”
“It might be best to wait before we tell her,” she hears Samwell Tarly murmur, but Visenya’s searching eyes stay on Ser Jaime’s.
“We don’t know yet,” her knight tells her, wiping away a stray tear that’s collected on her temple. “That spear doesn’t seem to have hurt you or torn through your muscle too badly--it was thin, Ghost’s wing slowed it down, and your armor protected you from the most damage. But it was some sort of ice…” Ser Jaime hesitates. “Your arm should heal, princess. But the ice seems to have traveled to your veins.”
“What does that mean?” Visenya asks, her right hand rising to feel the edges of the bandages.
“We’re not sure,” Uncle Aemon supplies. “Samwell here tells me the veins in your arm have started turning black, and it has become cold to the touch.”
“Can you try to move your arm, Visenya?” Samwell Tarly asks. Ser Jaime helps her sit up and move the heavy furs down to her waist, freeing her left arm. She can see, through parts of the bandaging on her side, black. Visenya’s head spins.
With enormous difficulty, Visenya lifts her left arm off the bed and into her lap.
“She moved it,” Sam tells Aemon. “Can you try again, Princess?”
Visenya nods, sweat breaking out on her forehead. Slowly, she makes a fist. It’s easier, once she starts moving.
Suddenly, Visenya shudders, and her breath comes out through hissed teeth.
“Are you cold?” Uncle Aemon asks, concern lacing his voice.
“Yes,” Visenya mutters. “Freezing.”