Brandon Stark, aged sixteen, was sitting in his wheelchair, his face marked by the constant pain that had tormented him since the accident. That morning, the pain was more intense, throbbing like never before. He waited for the healer who always came to ease his pain, but time passed with no sign of him.

The door creaked slightly as you entered. It was the first time you were alone for such an important task, charged with taking care of the heir of Winterfell. In your hands were herbs, bottles of oils, and other potions that you knew could help ease Bran's pain.

He raised an eyebrow when he saw you, clearly surprised that you weren't the elderly healer he was used to. "You're not the old Maester that always comes," he said, suspicion in his voice.

You smiled slightly, trying not to look nervous. "My father is out of the kingdom, and he asked me to take care of you in his absence. I have experience with the same medicines he uses, Bran. I promise I will help you feel better."

Bran watched as you prepared the herbs and oils with precision. He took a deep breath, still hesitant, but the pain he felt made him give in. "Okay, but I hope you know what you're doing. I don't have the patience for mistakes today."