β β β β β β A SWIFT ROLL OF VIOLET EYES, not the first in the past half an hour since he had been escorted off the training grounds to the maesters, clutching his bloodied side, was his answer to his uncle's concerns, albeit it came accompanied by a small grin tearing through pained grimaces as the maester's thick needle poked through skin again and again for the last of the stitches as his head lifted from where he'd been observing the maester's skilful fingers at work to face gwayne. β i told you, it's nothing. when has someone ever died from nothing? your exaggerations would only serve to embarrass you, uncle. β despite the jests spilling from lips, the mention of his mother caused his grin to falter somewhat, an expression he attempted to conceal by quickly shifting his gaze back to where the maester was handling his wound. though it didn't come without some guilt that promptly followed the notion, he wondered, if for but a brief moment, whether she would even care, or whether it may be more relief than shock to hear of her youngest son's untimely passing on the training grounds of oldtown. he did not want to think of his mother in such a way, did not wish to paint her in his mind as the cruel, uncaring monster he knew she was not, not to him, but he also could not deny the way the lack of recent letters stung. to be fair, he had started it, writing less to king's landing in recent years, oft too occupied with training and lessons and other endeavours, even more now that he was older, had grown into a man and no longer was the boy that once had arrived here, holding onto his uncle and equal parts thrilled and nervous about this new life in a place so far from the home he had known beforehand, now that interests had shifted and the young ladies and men of oldtown caught his eye more frequently, and now that tessarion had grown large enough to be ridden and being on dragonback had quickly become one of daeron's favourite pastimes, though they would not yet cross large distances, would not ride to king's landing to pay a visit to a family who not once in all the years he had been in oldtown had come to see him, not one of them. but, perhaps, a small part of him had wanted to see whether his silence would prompt her to pen more often, to ask what he was doing, how he was faring.
he shoved the thoughts away with a small wince when the maester applied a clear, burning liquid to the fresh stitches and prepared the bandages, sucking a sharp breath into his lungs, before lilac eyes found his uncle again with the next quip on his tongue, sadness returned to the darkest depths of his mind, where it oft lay, not forgotten, but crammed somewhere it could not reach him so easily, β am i allowed back on the training grounds or am i on bedrest for the weeks to come because my uncle still believes i'm at risk of dying? β
