[ Robert, the name he had been made to endure like an unabating cloud over all that was meant to be rushing gold. Robert, who, worse than being king, was the proclaimed father of her children. It was Robert that Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen would think to mourn as a father, the painted hero of their history. They didn't have the years or the wisdom yet to resent the man for what he was; of course they would be twice as anguished by the loss of a father rather than the loss of an uncle. It doesn't matter yet that he hasn't been truly lost, or that their children don't know that. It only matters that he knows it to be true, that if he has not already been forgotten, replaced with another dashing, heroic sword, he will be soon enough.
The thorns in her voice are evidence of this, that their children would not be troubled to spare their uncle a second thought. The pang that attends this realization is abrupt and without mercy, and he furrows his brow against it, giving himself instead to the utterly ineffectual curling of the weights. For all he had ever wished to be - a knight, the only knight worthy of lifting a sword - he would never be what so many other men took for granted.
He musters no response, waits instead for his bitterness to recede, or better yet, to be sundered by the burning of his muscles. It's hopeless, just as the surge of adrenaline and ire is hopeless, and he scoffs through his sulking. ]
It seems to me we owe them a debt, seeing as how we misplaced their noble father. [ The loss of Ned Stark as a hostage was a foolish blow, and he is surprised that he has not yet been made to pay for this insult. A hair off his head would be the least of it. But if the wolves choose mercy over justice, that is their own fault. This does not staunch his wound. ]
They'll certainly come out of this richer if they sell me, but Northerners are rather renowned for their vengeful palates. They'll think themselves clever enough to win their fretful princess back, and off me in the say day. At least you won't have to console the children over breakfast.
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The thorns in her voice are evidence of this, that their children would not be troubled to spare their uncle a second thought. The pang that attends this realization is abrupt and without mercy, and he furrows his brow against it, giving himself instead to the utterly ineffectual curling of the weights. For all he had ever wished to be - a knight, the only knight worthy of lifting a sword - he would never be what so many other men took for granted.
He musters no response, waits instead for his bitterness to recede, or better yet, to be sundered by the burning of his muscles. It's hopeless, just as the surge of adrenaline and ire is hopeless, and he scoffs through his sulking. ]
It seems to me we owe them a debt, seeing as how we misplaced their noble father. [ The loss of Ned Stark as a hostage was a foolish blow, and he is surprised that he has not yet been made to pay for this insult. A hair off his head would be the least of it. But if the wolves choose mercy over justice, that is their own fault. This does not staunch his wound. ]
They'll certainly come out of this richer if they sell me, but Northerners are rather renowned for their vengeful palates. They'll think themselves clever enough to win their fretful princess back, and off me in the say day. At least you won't have to console the children over breakfast.