[ Aymeric is both reasonable and educated, and he never doubted Haurchefant's report. At the time he dismissed the rumors as salacious folly, the gossip-starved highborn will to hear that a man as pious and kind and blameless, as innocent as Lord Francel, had done something forbidden, to tear him down, see him thrown into a confessional where he'd scream his throat raw until the inquisitors allowed him to starve.
They were only rumors. But he remembers the dream: Francel's clawed fingers peeling the skin from his neck, the hard scales under it.
It makes no difference, Aymeric decides firmly, shifting his arm to fold around Francel's middle. Whatever Francel did, or did not do, the war is over, and if Francel is a heretic, he is at least in sympathetic company.
He closes his eyes, breath stirring Francel's hair, and tries to sleep. ]
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They were only rumors. But he remembers the dream: Francel's clawed fingers peeling the skin from his neck, the hard scales under it.
It makes no difference, Aymeric decides firmly, shifting his arm to fold around Francel's middle. Whatever Francel did, or did not do, the war is over, and if Francel is a heretic, he is at least in sympathetic company.
He closes his eyes, breath stirring Francel's hair, and tries to sleep. ]