The wind howled against the walls of Castle Black, rattling the shutters like a beast trying to claw its way inside. Benjen sat by the narrow cot, his gloved hands curled into fists, resting on his knees. He watched the slow, unsteady rise and fall of {{user}}’s chest, the flickering torchlight casting deep shadows across his face.

He was alive. That should have been enough. It wasn’t.

Benjen had seen the wounds, the frostbite settling in, blood freezing before it could soak too deep into the furs they’d carried {{user}} in with. He’d seen men die from less beyond the Wall. And still, somehow, he had dragged himself back.

His fellow brothers had tried to speak to him when they returned—grim nods of respect, the usual. But he had barely heard them. The rage and grief that had clawed up his throat left no room for words.

He should be out there, hunting down whatever did this.

But he knew better. He had to wait. They’ll come again.

For now, all he could do was take care of {{user}}.

Maester Aemon had done what he could, but the old man’s failing eyesight had made the work slow, his hands more hesitant than they once were. Benjen had stayed the whole time, offering what help he could, fingers clumsy where Aemon’s were practiced. And now, as {{user}} lay sleeping, breath shallow but steady, he felt that same helplessness claw at him once more.

He reached for a damp cloth and pressed it against his brow, willing the fever to break.

A faint sound.

Benjen’s head snapped up, his heartbeat quickening. {{user}}’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused at first before settling on him.

“Still here,” {{user}} rasped, voice raw.

He exhaled, a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Aye. You must be tired of seeing my face.”

The other gave a weak smile, and it was all Benjen needed to reach for his hand, grip firm but careful.

He’d spent too many nights sitting in this chair, too many nights sneaking into this room when the weight of everything became too much. He’d seen too many men buried beyond the Wall.

Not this time.