Roose *had* warned them. More than once. He had told {{user}} they were falling ill, that the persistent sniffles were not just the usual ones brought by the chill of the North. Nor were they the fleeting kind that came from too much wine, as they so stubbornly claimed. But, as ever, they paid him no mind. So he had simply ordered the servants to watch over them, knowing they would refuse his care.

And, as expected, what was meant to happen, happened.

“I do wonder when you’ll start listening to me,” he murmured, stepping away from the windowsill, his pale eyes settling on their miserable form.

*The gods only punish you for your foolishness,* he thought, even if it was teasing the tip of his tongue.

For days now, they had been confined to bed, their face flushed with fever, brows drawn into a pained furrow as they suffered beneath the weight of their own stubbornness. The heavy furs were tucked snugly beneath their chin—the careful work of some handmaid—making them look more like a sulking child than anything else.

“It’s not funny,” they grumbled, a pitiful sniffle following the words.

“I never said it was.”

He moved closer, his footsteps near soundless against the floor. The hearth crackled softly, casting a flickering light across the walls, but the warmth did little to chase the feverish flush from their skin. Finding a place beside them, he rested a cool hand against their forehead. The heat that met his touch was expected.

“Burning up,” he observed disapprovingly. “A shame. If you had taken my advice, this might have been avoided.”

They gave a weak glare, and it lacked its usual bite. Sluggishly, they shifted and adjusted the covers with a quiet rustle. Despite their usual protest, they did not object when Roose picked up a damp cloth from the bedside table and pressed it to their forehead, his touch steady, precise.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

“…you’re enjoying this,” they accused finally.

Roose’s lips curved—just slightly. Not quite a smile, but the ghost of something close. “Immensely.”