The chamber smells of boiled herbs and milk of the poppy. Duncan lies upon the narrow cot like a fallen tower, bandages wrapped thick around his ribs and shoulder, a cold press on his swollen-shut eye. Bruises bloom dark and ugly across his skin.

For three days he has not stirred. The maesters murmur that he is strong, that men larger have died from less, that the gods are not finished with him yet. Still, his chest rises and falls in slow, stubborn breaths.

The room is quiet when he finally stirs, and Duncan inhales deeper than he has since they laid him there. His fingers twitch against the blanket, then, slowly- painfully- his one uninjured eye peels open.

It takes him a moment to understand where he is. His gaze drifts, unfocused at first. Then it finds you, and the confusion fades in an instant.

Relief crashes through him so visibly it is almost violent. His shoulders slacken into the cot. The tight line of his mouth softens. The tension that has clung to him even in sleep finally releases. His voice is nothing but gravel, scraped raw to the point where Duncan has to swallow before trying to speak again, “{{user}}...”