Snippet #1490946

The moment most of the water was pushed out of his lungs, Lionel returned to consciousness with a start, hoarsely gulping in air. He awoke to the worst pain he'd ever felt. The saltwater that had seeped into his open wounds burned like wildfire, hurling him into throes of agony that almost made him wish he hadn't survived the fall. His entire body ached from the impact, his skin red and sore where he had hit the water. But his eye was the worst. Colors exploded in his brain, red and black where once before there had been sight. The scope of his world had been cut in half, and there was no getting it back. He didn't have to reach upwards to know that his head was a bloody mess; the vision in his intact eye was clouded by rivulets of blood, he could taste it on his lips.

"...I jest, you'd make a shoddy poor job of being a Priest, no offence meant." He could faintly hear Leliana's familiar voice overhead, and he focused on it so as to avoid losing consciousness to the pain again. So we've been rescued... But by who…? He reached upwards to wipe the blood out of his left eye, and Leliana's face above him was thrown into sharp focus. She was alive, unhurt from the looks of it. For some reason, he had never felt so relieved.

"Screw the Drowned God. I need more air." Acting completely on impulse, he pulled her head back down and kissed her. It tasted like blood, his blood, but he couldn't really care. "Your chemise is transparent, by the way," he heard himself saying. "But by all means, keep it on."

The color was coming back to his face; Lionel no longer looked like a drowned corpse. Using his good arm, he propped himself up to a sitting position, cradling his bloody arm in the crook of his elbow. He had never enjoyed feeling vulnerable, and lying down on the deck of the ship while being forced to look up at everyone was more humiliation than he could stand. The poultices had washed away in the ocean, and the gashes in his arm were opening up again. Even Lionel knew that the seawater would only make the infection worse. Hopefully, there was a good healer amongst their rescuers. He didn't want to emerge from this fiasco as a one-eyed, one-armed cripple.

He leaned against the side of the ship, unable to stand up for the moment. Rain was pouring freely from the skies, which had erupted into nothing short of a thunderstorm. It was cold, but at least it served to wash the blood and saltwater away. His fingers brushed against the cool, metallic hilt of Night and he clenched the sword tightly, glad that he hadn't lost it. Without his sword, Lionel would be worse than a one-eyed, one-armed outlaw. He was more of a sword arm with a man attached than a man with a sword; if he couldn't fight, then he'd be nothing.

The cold, bleak skies matched how he was feeling inside. For a long time, he was silent, staring up at the pouring skies while the Firestorm made her way out of Blackwater Bay. Whoever had pulled them out of the water was clearly not interested in returning them to the Red Keep, but Lionel didn't care too much about his fate at the moment. His claim to the throne was lost, thanks to the past follies of his father and that witch he'd called a mother for seventeen years. Granted, it was not a position he'd ever wanted, but it had made him who he was. His life had revolved around it. Everything he did, everything he sacrificed, everything he became…it was all because he would someday sit atop the Iron Throne. He had viewed it as a burden, had always wanted to escape from it. And in a way, he had. He'd finally obtained the freedom he'd been longing for.

So why did he feel so empty?

He could hear the sailors around him discussing the recent turn of events, and it was clear that they held little love for him, however much they enjoyed the company of Leliana. "Kinslayer", they were calling him now. Kinslayer and other worse things.

It had been a brash action, Lionel had to admit, but it didn't make him the monster they were claiming him to be. Morgana had acted first, ordering the guards to seize him. Everything Lionel did was out of self-defense; he hadn't gone on a killing rampage, he'd only harmed as many as were necessary to get out of the keep. He had only wanted to escape with his life- his and Leliana's. But now, apparently, there was a bloody royal sentence on his head.

And that was why he hated politics.

No- that wasn't entirely true. Lionel loved politics- when he held all the cards. But he'd had no idea that Morgana had a trump like that up her sleeve- if he did, he would have acted with more caution in dealing with the Greyhardts.

But despite all that, he'd wanted a war. And now he had one…although when he was planning things, he had assumed he would have all of House Damian's force to back him. The present situation changed things a little, to say the least. But even if he had lost all of his pieces, he refused to stop playing the game.

I'll take back the Iron Throne myself, he decided. Even if he didn't want to rule, it was better than leaving his father on the throne- or worse, the Winslers. And if Lionel took King's Landing, he could choose whoever he liked to rule the Seven Kingdoms. Not that he had someone in mind, but that was a bridge to be crossed later.

"We'll go to Highgarden," he said suddenly, turning to Leliana and Ser Quincel. The Tyrells were one of the oldest families in the Seven Kingdoms, and Lord Jon Tyrell had had more than one disagreement in the past. House Damian held an uneasy alliance with the Tyrells, at the very best. "Jon Tyrell 's always preferred me over my father, and his daughter Gynna's besotted with me. He might not lend us his entire fleet, but I doubt he'll refuse us shelter. We can restock there and figure out what we're going to do next."