Blood seeped from his abdomen. He'd been bleeding for what felt like hours. His fine woven doublet and trousers were nearly black with his dark lifeblood, huge giant stains that flowed more freshly through his fingers as he pressed a feeble hand to the stab wound. He was not sure if he'd reached sobriety again, or if the amount of blood he'd lost was still making him feel lightheaded and as numb as Ashes made him feel whenever he took long pulls from a smoking pipe. Stumbling through narrow alleyways and shoving his way through crowded streets, Lucerys caught a brief glimpse of himself in a window he passed, noticing the faded colors from his face and the heaviness of his eyelids. His mind was unclear and he did not know where he was going, yet it came as no surprise to him that no one moved to help him. He was a foreigner, and the Pentoshi had their own ways of dealing with things. If anything, word had already reached the public about the boundless Westerosi fool who came looking for more powdered opium, speaking a language hardly anyone understood. Flashing too much coin and doubting the amount sold to him, Lucerys was swiftly taught the farce of his methods and, now coinless and without Ashes, he staggered painfully with his gushing stab wound.
His knees were the first to give out, and he remained conscious long enough to feel the hard collision with the marble floor as he finally collapsed to the ground. Lying on his side he caught a fading glimpse of the pairs of feet that came up to him, some bared and some booted, and a faint part of his mind recognized where he was. Brea's. He'd made it back to Brea's home. Closing his eyes, he felt a hard shove at his shoulder as someone rolled him to his back, revealing the wound that continued to seep from his gut and onto the fine polished floors. He heard another woman gasp and another laugh, and he almost feared he would not find help here. In a tongue he recognized but did not understand, someone pushed demands at the other, and for a brief moment he was sure he'd heard Brea's name pass their lips. Yes, get Brea, he'd tried to say, the attempted syllables coming out in nothing more than a painful, raspy sigh. Would he die here, so far from his home? Would Coraly have to return with his box of bones, sailing the Blue Lady herself? Would the Princess have to meet him at his grave instead of the altar?
The Princess. "Rhaenna," he groaned inaudibly, the pain of the stab wound almost gone to him now that he had so little blood to feel it. Feeling cold and pale, Lucerys let his eyes close one more time, barely conscious when Brea at last came to his side. With the help of two other male patrons, they hauled the sorry admiral up from the ground, practically carrying him up the stairs with only a slight groan to signal his cling to life. Head lolled downwards, Lucerys was barely more than a limp corpse when they at last reached Brea's rooms, dumping him rather indiscriminately onto a pillowed lounge. Whether or not she protested the placement was lost to him, for he was certain the room around him was spinning faster than he could count the revolutions. Or was he just floating and spinning himself? He could not tell, but his nerves were on fire and they tingled almost numbly, the loss of blood from his veins leaving him raw and in the shadow of the Stranger. Was he truly going to die here? "Brea," he croaked correctly this time, the word barely more than a whispered ghost on his bluing lips.