Will has shoved himself up to one elbow, like Bran. There's a tightness around his eyes, like a suppressed wince, but his quick glances at Bran and Merriman are nearly normal.

"I'm all right. Or I will be."

He lifts a hand to shove back his hair -- moving, like all of them, rather more carefully than usual -- and then sets it on the ground again so he can use both hands to push himself up to a sitting position. It, again, is a much more careful process than usual, but he manages.

And then he looks up at the One's Champion, and for a moment even the throbbing headache fades in the quick blaze of delight that makes him grin up at the figure with the joy of boy and Old One both. The Champion's radiance is dimmed enough that the white-gold glow isn't painful now; only bright, and clear as starlight.

"Thank you," he says, and it comes out in the Old Speech.