Tyrith's steps were slow. The day had been one of the longest of his life. Princess Aenyris slaughtered in her locked chamber, Princess Elia... the gods only knew what had happened there- the Dornish nobles had gone bloody-minded insane and getting sense out of one of them was like trying to get a straight answer from Haine, and rather more dangerous. Daryon Uller was locked in his rooms and held by his brothers, or so Tyrith had been told by a squire who'd been present when the other Ullers had dragged Daryon away from the throne room.
Then there was the matter of the skin... and the liver and heart in his son's rooms. He had the sickening feeling he knew where that skin had come from but he'd avoided talking to Polonius because he rather preferred not knowing for certain just yet.
And now he was going to tell the Prince of Dragonstone that his cousin- the only other Targaryen- was dead. Brutally murdered... Tyrith paused outside his room for a long moment to pray to the Father that Jaehaerys' temper would not carry him too far from reason.
He closed the door behind himself and faced the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. He bowed. "Forgive me, for I must bear ill tidings to you this day..."