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Summary
"Drink, you impotent wretch!" A chilling hiss at his ear as Daeron was forced mouth-first into the bleeding gash.
Sanguis vitae. Life blood. Life force. The fairest fragrance. Ser Duncan smelt of mead and campfire smoke. Daeron breathed in deep, but still did nothing to satiate the thirst and break his fast, just laying there, refusing to yield under his brother's ministrations.What broke his resolve, at last, were the hushed vowels lilting into the half-light.
"'Tis all good. If I am to die – it might as well be by your hand."