The halls of Winterfell are quiet, the soft glow of torches casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. You make your way through the castle, your steps echoing softly as you head towards the barracks. It’s late, and most of the castle’s inhabitants are already asleep, but something has been nagging at you all evening.

As you approach Podrick’s quarters, you notice the door is slightly ajar. Pushing it open gently, you step inside, your eyes adjusting to the dim light of a single candle burning on the table. The room is modest, with a small bed, a wooden chair, and a chest for his belongings. And there, lying on the bed, is Podrick Payne.

He’s curled up under a thin blanket, his usually cheerful face pale and drawn. A sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead, and his breathing is shallow and labored. It’s clear he’s not well, and your heart aches at the sight of him looking so vulnerable.

“Pod?” you call softly, stepping closer to his bedside. His eyes flutter open at the sound of your voice, and he looks at you with a mixture of surprise and relief.

“Oh, it’s you,” he murmurs, his voice weak and raspy. “Didn’t expect anyone to come by… I'm.. I'm sorry I cannot welcome you properly I....”

You kneel beside him, placing a hand on his forehead to check for a fever. The heat radiating from his skin confirms your suspicions—he’s burning up.

“You’re sick, Pod,” you say gently, concern lacing your words. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

Podrick tries to sit up, but the effort leaves him dizzy and he sinks back onto the pillow with a groan. “Didn’t want to be a bother,” he mumbles, his eyes closing as a shiver runs through him.