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    Summary

    "It takes more than a blow from you to keep me down, brother." His uncle Baelor said and he clapped a hand on his father's shoulder with a gesture of forgiveness and camaraderie, "I admit my head rings like a bell but I am well enough to walk it seems. The Gods are not done with me yet." A man who had taken a mace to the head should be bedridden, blind or drooling and not standing here joking about taking a blow to the head.

    His uncle smiled with his teeth white and straight and for a second, the light caught his eyes in a way that made them look flat like painted glass. The sight of it made Aerion take a step back, just enough to make the floor creak underneath him.

    That is no uncle of mine, Aerion wants to say.

    There's something wrong with his uncle after the Ashford Tourney. Aerion Targaryen knows something is wrong even if the rest of his kin stare at him like he has lost his mind.

    Language:
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