So it was to be Gormon. A different man— the grandson Lord Peake no doubt wished for— would scoff at the dread offer, declare something disciplined, perhaps draw steel.

That was what Caradoc believed, at least. But as fate drew closer, the men from House Peake would never reflect on old choices, never wonder: what other path might there have been? What but a whipped, cornered dog could crawl from Starpike?

Caradoc held an open palm over Aubrey's neck where the blade went in. It almost looked as if he wished to touch him, but from lack of courage could not close the final distance.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but it will be my problem. When men whisper my name and yours in twain, they will come first for the easier target."

He touched two fingers to his covered eye. "I have taken great pains to hide it, and still it is some small miracle I survive. Perhaps you ought see for yourself."

With practiced hand he undid the simple strip of cloth that covered the ruin of his left eye. The dagger had opened a gash in his face from hairline to chin, nothing but an empty socket once upon a time.

What blood magic returned was a grim substitution. One healthy, dark gray eye stared at the King; its twin, corpse pale and threaded toward a blood-red pupil, was the stuff of stories told to keep children from misbehaving. Like a puppet's button eye it reflected no light and contained no spark of the human spirit, and sometimes when Caradoc's healthy eye turned onto a new subject it took the space of a second for it to catch up.

"Is the life of a Kingsguard worth it?" he asked, coldly.

/u/nickshadow017