The cell was damp, thick with the smell of stone and dead air and something considerably less pleasant besides that coae out of people, and yet from the boy himself lingered, impossibly, the faint sweet scent of tangerine, as though he'd carried a piece of some sunlit garden in with him purely by accident.
The face that memory had begun to blur at the edges of that rainy and muddy day came sharp into view now, firelight from the torch bathing it warm and gold.
He'd grown some since Vilon had last laid eyes on him, taller in the shoulder he was happy to see, though still carrying that same slight, coltish build of a boy not yet finished growing into whatever man he was destined to become.
His nose sat elegant and straight upon his face,different from his father's by the look of it, the one Vilon had seen carved proud into the King's profile just yesterday from the stands had a slight slump on its bridge, as if it had been broken. His chin, by contrast, held firm and strong.
