Shattered legs may heal in time, but some betrayals fester and poison the soul.
Littlefinger came calling an hour after the Grand Maester had left, clad in a plum-colored doublet with a mockingbird embroidered on the breast in black thread, and a striped cloak of black and white. "I cannot visit long, my lord," he announced. "Lady Tanda expects me to lunch with her. No doubt she will roast me a fatted calf.If it's near as fatted as her daughter, I'm like to rupture and die. And how is your leg?"
Inflamed and painful, with an itch that is driving me mad.
Littlefinger lifted an eyebrow. "In future, try not to let any horses fall on it. I would urge you to heal quickly. The realm grows restive. Varys has heard ominous whispers from the west. Freeriders and sellswords have been flocking to Casterly Rock, and not for the thin pleasure of Lord Tywin's conversation."
Is there word of the king? Ned demanded. "Just how long does Robert intend to hunt?"
"Given his preferences, I believe he'd stay in the forest until you and the queen both die of old age, Lord Petyr replied with a faint smile. "Lacking that, I imagine he'll return as soon as he's killed something. They found the white hart, it seems... or rather, what remained of it. Some wolves found it first, and left His Grace scarcely more than a hoof and a horn.