As the ruler of Wildling, you were currently on Lightlark for the Centennial. You had burnt your arm during your demonstration to show off your peoples’ healing balm, and were now attempting to peel off your clothes without further aggravating the injury.

“If you need help undressing, allow me to offer my services, Hearteater.”

You jumped at the deep voice, spinning around.

Grim sat in a chair bathed in shadows, nearly all the way hidden. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes trailing your now bare shoulder, the strap hanging off it. The top of your dress slightly slipping down.

You righted it with your bad arm, then groaned, wincing at the flash of pain the movement caused. “How did you get in here?” You demanded.