THE EXILED HAND
Jon Connington had never been so proud of anything in his life as he was of the sight of the Targaryen banners flying above the massive black towers of Storm's End. The prince had kept his promise to raise them once the fighting was done and the fortress made fast, and the three-headed dragon capering above the ancestral seat of House Baratheon felt like the first scrap of justice. He would not, however, have long to savor it. Their time there was intended to be brief, a staging point for the attack on King's Landing, and reinforcements had arrived in the nick of time – three of the truant shiploads of the Golden Company had finally turned up, along with their elephants. Their tale was that they'd gone off course and gotten blown to the Summer Isles, where they'd then availed themselves of all the free-flowing wine and beautiful women conveniently to hand. Mercenaries were in fact rather susceptible to such things, but Connington scorned them no less for it. In his half decade of service in their ranks, still smarting about the tale Varys had spread about him drinking himself to death, he'd lived as celibately as a septon. We have a realm to conquer and a king to crown, and they're off sticking their cocks into the nearest warm hole.
Nonetheless, he could not reprimand them too much, as at least they were here – though he made sure they felt his displeasure good and properly before they were admitted back into the prince's war counsels. As it currently stood, Aegon was planning to lead the first attack north to the capital, while the fleet followed in stages. Chastened by Stannis Baratheon's bad example of sailing his ships bang down Blackwater Bay, sitting ducks for the wildfire-belching catapults on the walls, they did not intend to commit all their number all at once, and had to maximize the effectiveness of their most powerful land weapon: the elephants. Such large beasts were a bloody nuisance in heavy forest, and even more so on the water, but they were impossible for even the finest warhorse to stand against. Once Aegon and his small force had provoked the boy king into fighting outside King's Landing's high walls, the Golden Company would have moved their men (and elephants) up the coast and would be lying in wait just offshore. And as soon as it came to open battle, the Lannisters were done for. They'd dispatched half their remaining fleet north to sort out some trivial provincial dispute in White Harbor, and it had not been seen again.
The general strokes of the plan had been devised by the prince, and Connington had raised no significant objections; it was a remarkably coherent and effective strategy. Additionally, Aegon's crop of letters was beginning to bear fruit: half a dozen western houses had declared for him, along with a few of the riverlords. Edmure Tully was said to have gone unaccountably missing from Casterly Rock, fanning local outrage further, and combined with the Dornish support, Aegon would have backup from all directions. Once King's Landing fell, the rest of the country would topple like dominoes.
Jon Connington could, at last, almost taste it. He had not by any means forgotten that disturbing conversation with the prince back at Griffin's Roost, when Aegon had intimated that Varys and Illyrio were both descended from the illegitimate line of Targaryen pretenders, but he had decided to put it aside for the time. Gods knew that he had no love for the mincing eunuch and his lies, not to mention the bloody cheesemonger and his consistently useless schemes, but whatever game they were playing would soon come to an end. After all, it was true that the Golden Company itself had been founded by a Blackfyre, and they were lugging Aegor Rivers' gold-dipped skull about in their baggage; perhaps the chance to restore a dragon, any dragon, to the Iron Throne outweighed hoary old dynastic rivalries. If Varys had wanted to extinguish the line for good, all he had had to do was to sit back and let Ser Gregor Clegane enter that nursery as it was. Or let one of Robert Baratheon's assassination plots succeed against Viserys and Daenerys. It was far too much coincidence for Connington to swallow that all the hired knives had been so inept.
Soon. It had to be soon, and it would be. The bells tolled ever louder in his head every time he closed his eyes. And behind them all stood the specter of the stone men on the bridge, and his own grey dead hand.
At the moment, Connington was sitting in the capacious lord's solar, poring over a heap of jumbled maps and attempting to make sense of the various annotations Aegon had scribbled on them. The table was accessorized with quills, inkpots, half-fletched arrows, half-finished meals, wooden ships, and a jeweled brooch, which Connington was displeased to see. It belonged to Arianne, and its presence here could only mean that Aegon had been attempting to impress her by showing off the breadth and depth of their plans. The princess was no threat to spill them to the wrong ears, but it was in everyone's interests to prevent the acquaintance from getting much more intimate. Not to mention that another of Arianne's bastard cousins, Elia Sand, had arrived at Storm's End a few days ago with a second train of Dornish, and there was no doubt that she viewed the personage of the prince as an added inducement to the cause.
It is unfair of me to nip his heels too much. He is a young man, and knows little of leisure or luxury or pleasurable company. Yet for that very reason, Connington could not approve of Aegon's liaison with the Dornishwomen, innocent though it may be at the moment. The Golden Company's ease of the flesh in the Summer Isles could have cost them the campaign if they'd stayed much longer, and with at least Elia and likely Arianne as well toying with the prince's affections, a misstep could result in a fiasco similar to Robb Stark's. Additionally, it fueled Connington's old resentment of the Martells, and yet he knew that as the one advising Aegon sternly not to insult Prince Doran and lose their support, there was no room for him to make a mistake either.
Lord Jon sighed and turned to the next map, running a gloved finger up the line of supply that snaked up the gullet of the stormlands, almost to the Wendwater. Once they had the river, they would not need to send any more ships around the dangerous sea cape of Massey's Hook, and that was where the alliance of the Mootons of Maidenpool and the Rygers of Willow Wood, riverlords both, would come in handy. The Mootons and the Rygers had remained loyal to House Targaryen even during Robert's Rebellion, and the current slate of Lannister insults against their liege lord and homeland had been all they needed to flock to Aegon's banner. Apparently Lord William Mooton had just married off his daughter Eleanor to Dickon Tarly, given Lord Randyll many thanks for rebuilding his town after its destruction, and then sent his pledge in secret to Aegon, the moment Tarly had taken his reign of terror south after receiving word of Margaery Tyrell's arrest and imprisonment.
A weak man, Lord Jon thought, marking down the position of the caravans. Which from what he'd heard, was something that had oft been said of Lord Mooton before; he was scorned as cowardly, fat, and feeble. He'd spent much of the war locked in a tower cell and letting his lands burn, so it was understandable that he'd see this as a chance to redeem himself. Connington had hoped for House Darry to join the riverlands contingent as well, as they had been the stoutest royalists alive, but with the fact that they now consisted of bastards, women, and Freys, perhaps it was less of a loss than he thought. And Lancel Lannister had been at least nominal Head of House, making that an end of that.
Yet with so much movement in so many directions, the Iron Throne must know the attack was coming. And they were not without pieces of their own to move, though they grew slimmer every day. The Faith must be thoroughly out of temper with Cersei Lannister's heresies, and as for the Tyrells –
"My lord?"
Connington looked up in annoyance. "I'm busy."
"Not so busy that you can't come down and pay court to our new arrivals."
"New arrivals?"
"Aye. A pair of them. The Bastard of Driftmark and the Knight of Flowers."
That certainly got Connington's attention. "Loras Tyrell is dead."
"Is he? Well, there can't be that many who look that much like him, burned face notwithstanding. They sailed up about an hour ago, must have talked their way past the harbor guards, and Aegon's receiving them right now. With the girls."
Well, and that was just a recipe for disaster.
When Connington flew down the stairs and into the hall, expecting to see Tyrell and Martell already clawing each other's eyes out, he instead was presented with a remarkable scene. The prince, with Arianne and Elia flanking him, was speaking cordially to a silver-haired young man – who, from the side, looked so much like Rhaegar that it stopped Connington's heart. While he was trying to recover, he took note that the second young man, while cloaked and hooded, was in fact wearing the Tyrell rose on his doublet. But the talk of burns. . .
"My lord." Prince Aegon glanced up and smiled. "We have had a massive stroke of good fortune this day. May I present Aurane Waters, the Bastard of Driftmark and former Master of Ships for the Lannister queen, who just announced that the fleet of dromonds she funded for him have now been placed at my personal and express disposal."
"Have they." No matter how much Waters reminded him of Rhaegar, Connington had to feel out this offer carefully. "Why?"
Waters shrugged. "I'm a sellsail, m'lord. The Tyrells paid me more after Cersei took her little tumble."
Aye, you are. There was no room to complain about men whose loyalty was purchased for gold, considering the very name and temperament of the company who formed the chief part of their army, but Connington longed for the day when they would find men who owed allegiance to Aegon alone. "And the Tyrells, family of Tommen Baratheon's little queen and the holder of the Handship, gave you leave to do this?" He glanced pointedly at the second man.
"They have." Ser Loras Tyrell took a step forward and shrugged down his hood. "Lord Connington. As dead men, you and I should have much to discuss."
"Ser Loras." Connington inclined his head. "I was under the impression that boiling oil was considerably more mortal than wine."
"My lord will see that unlike yours, it was not merely rumors." Loras indicated his scarred face bitterly. Shooting a challenging look at the princess and the Sand Snake, he added, "I would prefer to discuss it privately."
Both Arianne and Elia gave him defiant stares right back, but Aegon nodded. "Of course, ser. That is only a courtesy to be expected after you have traveled so far." He gestured to his cousins. "Leave us, if you'd be so kind. I'll sup with you later."
Arianne curtsied and made her exit more or less compliantly, but Elia lingered to give Aegon a kiss that was somewhat more than sisterly before doing likewise. As much as he did not like seeing that, Lord Jon was quite proud of the deft touch Aegon had displayed in handling the long-standing antipathy between Highgarden and Sunspear; to be sure, it was a skill that would serve him in good stead as king. If only we could get the bastard girl to stop prowling about him. The prince will never take a baseborn bride, and she bears his own mother's name. Elia. Always Elia.
"Your Grace," Ser Loras said, when he, Aegon, and Connington were the only ones left in the room. "It is. . . good to see Storm's End again. How on earth did you take it?"
Aegon smiled modestly. "The Golden Company is mostly to thank for that. And you will not have come to hear me prate of my own accomplishments."
Clever, Connington noted. He divulges no word of a key military strategy without it seeming an insult. He was, however, rather chafed that he had not been sent for immediately upon Waters and Ser Loras' arrival, that Aegon had seen perfectly fit to deliberate on the offer and then inform him later, if at all. But I must grow used to it. If he consults me when he is king, it is a privilege, not a right. And I am not likely to live long enough to see much of his reign, besides.
That thought made Lord Jon sad. There were days when he was mostly resigned to his impending demise, and others when he wanted to kick and swear and claw the grey poison from his flesh. So much time that he was losing. So many deeds by Aegon he would not see done. Perhaps it is not so bad, though. Rhaegar awaits me in the afterlife.
Connington shook his head hard, and returned his attention to the parley. He had not missed much. Aegon was offering some inconsequential condolence on Ser Loras' disfigurement, and Ser Loras was mouthing something equally inconsequential in return. But neither of them being known for their patience, they soon got to brass tacks. "You have not come merely to relive fond childhood memories, I imagine?" Aegon asked.
"Indeed not," Ser Loras said tightly. Connington had originally taken the stiffness of his demeanor to result both from his burns and an arrogant, wounded young knight's inherent prickliness, but at this it suddenly dawned on him that Ser Loras was in fact trying very hard not to break down. He had squired here for Renly Baratheon in his youth, and Varys had delighted in including scurrilous court gossip in his quarter-yearly reports from the Red Keep, miserable little cockless voyeur that he was. But this. . .
He loved Renly as I loved Rhaegar, Connington realized abruptly. It made his heart twist painfully in his chest – first in sympathy for a fellow comrade in arms, and secondly in jealousy that Loras at least had had his love, that Renly had by all Varys' accounts most enthusiastically returned it. But that was another thought to put aside.
"No," Ser Loras was saying, composure now restored. "I've come on behalf of my brother Willas, my lady grandmother Olenna, my sister Margaery – and my lord father Mace, of course. Your Grace will surely know that my sister, thrice wed and twice widowed, stands under arrest and likely condemnation by the Faith. Also, that my father has fallen under blame for the Lannisters' ludicrously ill-judged executions of Lord Gawen Westerling and his family, and Lady Roslin Tully. If you uphold the promise you made to us in your letter, to clear Margaery's name and prove to the world that we are blameless in that affair, I am here and now prepared to swear you the fealty of our family, with all the strength of Highgarden and the Reach behind it."
Aegon jerked slightly at the mention of the Westerlings, but he did not give the game away. "Ser Loras, I thank you and House Tyrell alike, which has always been a true and stalwart friend to mine. You have my bond upon my soul that your kinfolk will be exonerated, and our alliance made as strong as it was when our fathers fought together."
"Your Grace speaks well." Ser Loras knelt. "I will ask one other boon."
"Anything."
"Give me leave to visit the grave of King Renly tonight. I buried him here. In a private place he showed me once."
A touchier man might have commented that Renly Baratheon had been a king only if dressing a whore up in a wimple made her a septa, but Aegon Targaryen smiled generously. "I know you loved him well and would never betray his memory. The castle is yours to go where you will, ser."
"I thank you, my lord," Ser Loras said, his voice huskier than usual. Then he bent his head rather quickly, took Aegon's offered hands, and recited the oath of fealty from a vassal to his liege lord.
Aegon, in turn, echoed the lord's part back to him, then raised him to his feet and kissed his burned cheek. "When Tommen Baratheon is dead, the place of Lord Commander in my Kingsguard will firstly be offered to you."
The ghost of a smile flickered across Ser Loras' face. "Tommen is a good boy, despite his blood. I will be grieved if he meets a bad end. As for the Kingsguard, I will accept only if Your Grace does not wed a Martell."
"I will marry Queen Daenerys alone," Aegon assured him, with enough conviction to sound reasonably convincing. "But the Martells are my close kinsmen and staunch allies, and such old rivalries must needs be put aside in my court. The Seven Kingdoms must not be broken apart in war again."
"As Your Grace says." Loras lowered his eyes. "But I am sure you have many cares to attend to, and I would rest a time after my journey."
"As indeed you shall," Aegon agreed. "And I do. I'll speak to you and Waters both more extensively on the morrow. Ser, my lord." With a nod apiece to Loras and Connington, he swept out.
There was silence for a few moments. Then Ser Loras said, "He must look very like him. Rhaegar."
His own throat suddenly rather tight, Connington nodded.
"It must have taken singular devotion to get him out. Also singular skill." Despite the ruined housing of his face, the Tyrell boy's golden eyes were sharp. "Unless I much misremember my maester's history lessons, you had already been exiled and Lord Chelsted burned alive by the time of the Sack of King's Landing, which means that. . . Rossart? would have been King Aerys' Hand. Getting back into a city about to fall to the Lannisters must have been a miraculous feat indeed."
History, Connington thought. That is what I am to him, an old man sprung from the dusty pages of a book. He must have been still in swaddling clothes when Robert and Rhaegar faced off on the Trident. "I. . . did not supervise the prince's rescue personally, ser. I was already abroad, having taken service as a sellsword with the Golden Company."
"Helping to explain why they are here fighting for you now, then. But do they not regard all the Targaryen kings starting with Daeron the Good as usurpers?" Ser Loras shrugged. "Queer choice of occupation for Prince Rhaegar's dearest friend."
Connington bristled. "If I'd ventured back to Westeros, Robert would have shortened me by a head."
"And did, many others," Loras commented. "It was a lean time to be a Targaryen loyalist, which was why my lord father changed allegiances as soon as it was prudent. But then, you had something else to live for. Surely Prince Aegon's bold rescuer hastened him straight from the ruins of the royal nursery and into your arms?"
Connington hesitated. "No. I spent five years with the Golden Company."
Loras cocked one eyebrow. "Meaning you did not even become aware of the prince's survival until a full half decade after the fact? It seems queer, again, that you'd not do something sooner, if you knew."
Be careful, damn you. Ser Loras was clearly prospecting for information, and he'd made a good start at getting it. "No, I did not know of Aegon's survival immediately," Connington was forced to admit. "Not until I received a missive from V – our mutual friends, and was invited to Pentos to inspect him for myself. My questions were answered to my satisfaction, Lady Lemore vouched for his identity, and I agreed to raise the boy as my own in hopes of leading him back to his rightful throne."
"Noble of you," said Loras. "Who's Lady Lemore?"
Connington hesitated again.
"Never mind," said Loras, seeing his expression. "What I meant to say was that she must be a remarkable woman indeed, if after five years these sly friends of yours were able to present a fair-haired little boy out of the blue and have you accept him as Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his Name, Prince Rhaegar's trueborn son and lawful king of Westeros. But then, you wanted to believe it, didn't you?"
Connington's hand strayed toward his sword. "Guard your words. You have sworn your fealty."
"Put up your steel, my lord. I yield." Loras pushed a fall of brown curls out of the unburned half of his face. "Indeed I have, and believe me, it's not a vow I mean to break. But your lad can call himself Florian the Fool if it pleases him. It matters not a mummer's fart to me whether he's a Targaryen, a Blackfyre, or a scullion's bastard. All I care about is what he intends to do as regards the kingdom's enemies."
That confused Lord Jon. "The Lannisters? I assure you, the prince will – "
"Them too," said Loras, "but more than that." He paused, then said, "I had a raven from my brother Garlan just before I left Dragonstone with Lord Aurane. He had. . . certain tidings."
"What sort of tidings?"
"Curious ones. He's leading the defense against the ironborn attacks on the coast, you know. Those Greyjoy sons of whores will kill anything that moves and fuck it afterward, but that was not what concerned my brother. He wrote of strange things supposedly glimpsed in the north, along the Stony Shore and other places where the Crow's Eye's pet monsters have come reaving. If the rumors are to be believed, a different sort of reaver altogether."
A chill ran down Connington's spine. "Old wives' tales."
"Are they? Garlan will be relieved to hear it." Loras' mouth turned up strangely. "He has also seen certain. . . things which defy explanation on the enemy's ships. Fell shapes. Fires without a source. Heard voices. And the most ungodly screaming."
"Fighting does that to a man."
"What, sends them mad?" Loras laughed, low and harsh. "I've not seen such things with my own eyes, admittedly. But Garlan thinks. . ."
"Thinks what?"
Loras was the one to hesitate this time. Then he said, "Garlan thinks, however improbable it sounds, that Euron Crow's Eye has sold his soul to the Others."
Another cold finger touched the back of Connington's neck. "The Others need not concern us, even if they do exist. The Wall has stood eight thousand years, it has another few thousand left. And besides, even if not, they would never come so far south. They are given life by cold and snow. They cannot survive here."
"One would suspect the entire point of it, if Garlan is correct, is that now they do not need to. The Crow's Eye is doing their work for them. So you see, my lord, that is why we need a Targaryen more urgently than ever. But those three rumored dragons – "
"Are in Meereen," Connington said grudgingly. "Another plot by our friends."
"But if Aegon is the rightful heir, it seems strange that they were not given to him."
Remembering the prince's confrontation of Varys over this exact issue, Connington had no immediate answer. "She will come," he insisted, far more certainly than he felt. "She must. And when she does, there will be no shortage of foes to – "
"Burn alive?" Loras suggested. "She'll want to tread lightly with that. But again, I care not. If you leave Stannis to me, you have my blessing to charbroil the rest."
"Lord Stannis will never return from the north."
"You apparently don't know him very well," Loras said, with a twisted smile. "Now, my lord, I'm done vexing you for the nonce. I beg your pardons."
And with that, he went.
Connington stood behind, now the only one, as dusk began to slant through the high vaults. It was nearly time for supper, but he was not very hungry and Aegon would be entertaining the Martell girls throughout, which was certain to deprive him of his appetite further. Ser Loras had doubtless gone to visit Renly's grave, and Connington did hope that he would be left in peace to do so. If Robert had even granted Rhaegar the decency of a final resting place. . . but the whoreson had burned him and cast him to the winds, taken his throne and his inheritance. But not for much longer.
At last, finding himself with no other option, Connington wandered restlessly upstairs, back to his chambers – Storm's End was vast enough that he had only now managed not to get lost while doing so, and they would soon be leaving anyway. He would be glad to go. Even though it had just fallen to an enemy for the first time in its long history, this place was still Baratheon to the bone; Connington had only felt comfortable sleeping in his bed once he had burned the black and gold hangings. Even then, the bells still tolled more deafeningly than ever.
He shut the door and built a fire in the hearth. It hadn't yet snowed this far south, but the air was colder every day, another incentive to complete the invasion of King's Landing before the weather prohibited it. Time was beginning to loom impassably before him.
Lord Jon poured himself a goblet of piss-poor wine, stripped the glove from his stone hand, and gingerly immersed his fingers in it. There was not much hope of slowing the infection now, as the crusted grey-black scales had almost reached the last knuckles, but he would try to keep it functional for the great campaign. He reached for his maps once more, tracing his free hand over the inky black swoops that demarcated forest, river, coast, castle. As soon as they turned it into real gains, not merely scribbles on parchment. . .
His attention wandered as he stared into the flames. He felt so weary. He wished it was done already. Elephants and dragons, stags dancing before the high black walls and leering skulls dipped in gold, skulls with terrible blue eyes, blue and blue, and blood in the snow that was just as red –
"My lord?"
Connington wrenched upright, heart pounding, not realizing that he'd fallen into a waking dream until that moment. He ripped his hand out of the goblet and thrust it under the table just as the door shut behind a bemused-looking Aegon. "I'm sorry," the prince said. "Were you sleeping?"
"No. I mean, yes. Not meaning to." Connington's adrenaline was still roaring in his ears. Gods, that had been close. "What are you doing?"
"Coming to see how you were getting on with our plans." Aegon pulled up a stool. "And hoping to add Aurane Waters' dromonds to our calculations. Either they can support the Golden Company at sea – or they could attack somewhere else."
Connington knew the look in the boy's eye. "Casterly Rock."
"Indeed. I've taken one unbreakable castle, I think I can manage a second," Aegon said, with all an eighteen-year-old lad's blinding arrogance. "And besides, wouldn't it be ironic to send the fleet Cersei Lannister paid for against her family's ancestral home?"
"Aye, it would. But you would not be leading that attack as well, would you?"
"No. I'd still make for King's Landing. But it would cut the Lannisters off from being able to retreat to safety, and likely deliver the rest of the westerners to my cause. Though I can't imagine what keeps them now."
"Some men are bolder than others."
"And some men are the Freys." Aegon shrugged. And then, to Connington's utter horror, the prince picked up the goblet of wine in which his diseased fingers had been soaking, and took an absent-minded sip. Then spat it out at once, pulling a disgusted face. "Eeurgh! You'd better not be drinking that swill!"
"I – " Lord Jon could feel himself starting to panic. "It's – a bad vintage, I know. Something to help me sleep. Though mayhaps I did not need it, as you came in and startled me – on the morrow, you said, speak to Ser Loras and the Bastard of – "
Aegon eyed him curiously, but made no comment on his undignified babbling. Taking the unspoken hint, however, he rose to his feet. "I'll leave you for the night, my lord?"
"Aye, Your Grace." Connington's heart felt as if it was about to rip out of his chest. Gods, no, he doesn't have greyscale, he won't get it, he spat it out straightaway, thank the gods he spat it out. Nonetheless, the instant Aegon had made his departure, he collapsed back into his chair. Gods, what a fool he'd been, a bloody, bloody fool. He'd been hoping just hours earlier to keep his hand useful enough to join the attack on King's Landing, but now it seemed that he should accompany Aurane Waters' fleet to Casterly Rock instead; he would be spared the need to do much fighting on the deck of a dromond. And if so. . . it did not matter. He should have done it long ago. He'd stuff the glove, something. Invent an excuse about an accident. Anything.
For a moment, he wavered. He could ask Haldon Halfmaester to do it. Then he put it aside; he would tell no one, no one must know. Before he could talk himself out of it, before he could make any excuses as to how he could have just cost them everything, Connington drew his dagger, and laid his stone hand flat on the table. He took a deep, shuddering breath. Then he positioned the blade underneath the contaminated fingers and cut, hard.
The pain was instant, intense, and blinding. He'd had to go below the progress of the greyscale in order to remove it entirely, and the nerves were not yet dead here. Blood splashed crimson, bone showed white in the flesh. He was heaving quick, sobbing breaths, but gritted his teeth and cut again.
Connington had to close his eyes for the final part. He wished he could stop his ears to the sound of the knife sawing into the bones, but it was useless. He jerked so hard that his cutting hand almost slipped, crying like a babe; he'd seen grown men brought to their knees by the pain of a shattered finger. He could see static, dimly registered that he was on the verge of blacking out, and heard a horrendous squelch and crack as they finally came off. His vitiated hand pulsed blood.
He had to put his head between his knees, retching, until the waves of agony subsided enough for him to struggle upright, swaddle the maimed limb in linen, and clumsily throw the dead fingers into the fire. Then he washed the stumps until the water in the bowl turned crimson, and braced himself for what had to come next. He knelt by the fire, heated his dagger, then took a whimpering breath and clapped the red-hot iron to the open wound.
This time he did pass out; he was not aware of anything except the agony. In the darkness, he could hear the Mad King laughing. Remember how it had always smelled in the Red Keep back in those days: exactly like this, the stink of burning flesh. Rhaegar, forgive me, forgive me. . . The bells clanged madly. I should have been with you on the Trident, I should have died there, I should have burned the town. . .
But then it all would have smelled like this. Forever.
Groaning, Lord Jon opened his eyes. Tears still trickled down his cheeks, and he could taste vomit in his mouth, but the stumps had sealed a burned black. He would have to tend it vigilantly against infection (what a bloody joke) and someone would notice no matter how cleverly he disguised it in his glove, but at least the pace of the greyscale would slow. He might have bought himself a few more years. And need not fear, for now, what he had so nearly done.
He bandaged his hand properly and dragged himself to bed, but could not sleep, only drift in a fevered doze as it throbbed. Time trickled past. The light turned blue and then grey. Morning was on its way.
Connington sat up, dazed and ill, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head reeled when he took a step; his legs were as weak as water. But his prince needed him. It was almost time.
He dressed, hoping that no one would enquire about his conspicuously corpse-like pallor, and stumbled down the stairs of the drum tower to breakfast. He felt less appetite than ever, but no matter. So close. So close.
When he stepped into the hall, he found Aegon, Arianne, and Elia already there. But for once, they were not sharing in the flirtations and coquetries he found so worrying. Instead, Arianne was holding a letter that had clearly arrived in the night, saying something to Aegon in a low voice. Ser Loras and Aurane Waters were not presently in evidence.
Connington cleared his throat painfully. "My lord."
"You?" Aegon glanced up with a start, then stared. "You look like walking death. What's amiss?"
"I was going to ask the same of you. I – didn't sleep well."
"Clearly." But Aegon was, thankfully, too distracted to further press the issue. "Well. . . if we were in any doubt that this war is started in truth, I think that question was just settled."
"Was it?" Connington cast an eye at the letter. "What is that?"
Arianne Martell herself looked almost as bad as he did, which made no sense – wasn't anything that was good for Aegon good for her? Then the princess put it down as if it contained a snake (which it very well might, knowing her kin) and looked somewhere past him, at the wall beyond his shoulder. In a dead little voice, she said, "It's about Myrcella."