SWEET MEMORY [alysanne]

[attr=class,sausage]the kingsguard

Does not flee.

[attr=class,breakfast]A fortnight after Dragonstone.

Before the attack on Dragonstone, Ser Corlye had been a cheerful man. Chivalry on his banner and never without the favour of a lady, they had called him the Knight of Hearts.

But apparently, all of that had changed.

He had only returned recently, having escorted Rhaegar's wife and his children to their home of Dorne. Truly they no longer trusted in the safety of the Crownlands.

A grimmer face than the cheerfulness that had ruled before, the knight's helm was hiding the transition that had taken place. But standing before a Princess, it was only right to act most chivalrous.

When the golden helmet was lifted from his head, Corlye Corbay's visage faced Alysanne Targaryen. It was gaunt and haunted, as if the terror of that night had not left him. Where there had been two, a single eye looked back. It was darkened to the point of blackness. The bursted blood vessels in his remaining eye were not red. They were dark as well. A black substance had seemingly befallen him, painting through his pale skin like a thin spider web.

They had called the captain of the Iron Fleet Saltblade for a reason, for the man wielded weapons thick with black oil that contained powdered iron. It entered the blood, leaving a burning pain. And a disfigured mask of terror.

Luckily parts of his face were still bandaged. That spared the Princess the view. His other eye was entirely covered, leading one to wonder - if he willingly displayed the ruined eye in his left socket, what cruel fate had befallen the leather-covered right eyeball?

Perhaps no one should see that.

And yet, he stood, unwavering. The three dragons of her house's sigil on his chestplate, the white cloak of the kingsguard flowing with every movement. By his side, the ruby-hearted Lady Forlorn.

The Maesters reasoned that his voice would never sound the same again - never sound as it had sounded before - a cruel rasp from the grave. The legacy of the blade that had narrowly missed the vital part of his throat. 

The Kingsguard does not flee. But he had not fled. He had died. And didn't he just look the part?

Her brother's family was in Dorne. And what was left of him had returned to the tower of the White Swords. She must have heard by now, the demise of her blood.