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Consciousness returns to me slowly, my body awash in agony. Memories surface in fragments- the man, the fight, him stabbing me through the hand, blood everywhere on myself and the floor before all went black. A low groan escapes my lips as pain drags me fully awake.
At the sound, servants swarm, exclamations of dismay fill the air. "My lady! She wakes at last!" Hands clutch at me, proffering vials of Milk of the Poppy which I weakly turn away. Too muddled was my mind for heavy droughts.
I try to rise, only to fall back with a cry against piled pillows. Through heavy lids I see him then- Aemond watching gravely from a shadowed corner. Meeting my questioning gaze, he moves forward, dismissing the servants with an authoritative murmur.
"Leave us. The lady requires rest, not your clucking." They withdraw reluctantly, still tittering like hens. Silence falls as Aemond pulls close a chair, eyeing my battered form clinically. "You gaze us a scare. Can you sit?"
I nod, his calm demeanor bringing clarity. Gritting my teeth, I push upright, sweat beading my ashen brow. "I...my hand. It bleeds still. Hurts like the devil."
Gently, Aemond unbinds the soiled bandage to reveal a ghastly gash straight through the middle of my palm. The sight turns even my iron stomach and his, but his touch remains tender as feather-light inspection. "Come, we need to tend it properly."
I lean on his offered arm, legs unsteady. With care, Aemond guides me towards the bath and what I hoped was some relief from my torment. Each step agony lacing through my battered body, but pride keeps weak cries contained.
Reaching the lavish bathing chamber at last, Aemond eases me onto a cushioned bench. I sit hunched, complexion pale as new snow yet lips bloodless as I look at myself in the mirror. Sweat beads my brow in pearls.
"Remain still," he murmurs, fetching basin and supplies. I give a tight nod, fisting my skirts in anguish. Returning, Aemond dampens a cloth in rose-scented water, wringing it gently before dabbing my face. I flinch away instinctively, a ghost of protest dying in my throat. Exhaustion and pain has wearied fight from my bones. Letting slip my pride's iron reins, I allow this unlikely tenderness, his ministering bringing dull relief. One my face is cleansed, Aemond turns his attention to my mangled hand. Gash edges are inflamed, pocked with debris. "This will hurt," he warns gruffly, uncorking skin of antiseptic soap berry oil. I brace myself, jaw setting in a hard line.
With careful strokes Aemond works away dried blood and filth, ignoring how my flesh jumps and quivers. Each pass brings hot agony lancing up my arm but I refuse to shed a tear, meeting his studious gaze with resolute silence. The wound is laid bare at last, an ugly rent slicing palm. Aemond cleans and inspects thoroughly before selecting needle and silk thread, prepped in alcohol flame. "I must close this now. Bite down if you wish."
I give a curt nod, eyes never leaving his face. Strong needle pulls taught skin together in precise, economical stitches, my lone show of pain a whitening of knuckles where fingers grasped the bench edge in vice. At long last the weaving is done, wound dressed and bound with clean linen. Only then did I realize I'd been holding my breath, lungs aching for release. And too, I discover tears tracking silently down my face, betraying the excruciating ordeal just faced.
