⟪ This would never be forgotten, but the shame of it could be erased by the heads of wolves on spikes. Even the old lion of the Rock had lost some time ago, yet he had found a punishing way to cleanse himself of the taint, and the song written of his victory still brings a moment's fear to his enemies. Her twin would be just as victorious, there is no other way. Robb Stark would die on his knees the self-same way his father had. ⟫
They are very much still having it, dear brother.
⟪ Even now that she can easily envision his victory, she cannot forget the bitter moment of loss. Worse, she cannot unshed the tears, cannot make another suffer the same sleepless nights. What has been done to him, what could have been done to him, may well be worse – but she has never been one not to lament her own suffering first and foremost, especially now that she can embrace him whole and living at the same time. She suspects it hurts worse if she ignores his knightly offer to slay her enemies, to bleed them for her bath and to kiss her in defiance of their laws. Not that she does not find the thought an indulgent one to lament, or that this is not precisely all that she would wish – not that she has, in fact, any doubt that he could defeat the vast lot of them in time.
All the same, she watches him close at his exercise, her hands folded neatly as though it is a choice, and not something forced upon her by her iron shackles. ⟫
You won your first melee at Joffrey's age. ⟪ And Joffrey, at least, knows how to thirst for blood, even if she might have to admit that he is no match for his father, were they of an age. Tommen's fate rests at another intersection: she loves him, spoils him, and still, finds displeasure when his joy of reading triumphs over his practice with his wooden sword. ⟫
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They are very much still having it, dear brother.
⟪ Even now that she can easily envision his victory, she cannot forget the bitter moment of loss. Worse, she cannot unshed the tears, cannot make another suffer the same sleepless nights. What has been done to him, what could have been done to him, may well be worse – but she has never been one not to lament her own suffering first and foremost, especially now that she can embrace him whole and living at the same time. She suspects it hurts worse if she ignores his knightly offer to slay her enemies, to bleed them for her bath and to kiss her in defiance of their laws. Not that she does not find the thought an indulgent one to lament, or that this is not precisely all that she would wish – not that she has, in fact, any doubt that he could defeat the vast lot of them in time.
All the same, she watches him close at his exercise, her hands folded neatly as though it is a choice, and not something forced upon her by her iron shackles. ⟫
You won your first melee at Joffrey's age. ⟪ And Joffrey, at least, knows how to thirst for blood, even if she might have to admit that he is no match for his father, were they of an age. Tommen's fate rests at another intersection: she loves him, spoils him, and still, finds displeasure when his joy of reading triumphs over his practice with his wooden sword. ⟫