#unexpectedwhimsy

"I'm not repentant, Hampton. Not for this."

Geoffrey hardly has time for social niceties when he's in London -- even less so on this particular excursion -- but he's well aware of the East End's very own Sad Saint. He can admit that the man has done good for this part of the city, for people who wouldn't have anywhere to turn otherwise. Some of his men have spoken reverently of the night asylum and its overseer, and Geoffrey would be a fool not to recognize a cornerstone of a community where he sees one.

But he'd also be a fool to not have caught on to the less than human nature of some of Hampton's flock. A bleeding heart is a dangerous thing in times such as these. Geoffrey toes at the recently severed head at his feet, the thing's pitted skin and glassy eyes enough to make the hunter's own skin crawl. He doesn't know if the Saint knew this leech personally, or if he just feels responsible for everything that lives and dies around the Docks.

Either way, Geoffrey doesn't feel bad for killing it.

"Apologies Uncle..." The prince swayed slightly on the spot, a chalice hanging loose from nimble fingers. Soft blue eyes roamed the room, confusion settling on his brow. "I... lost my way." Swallowing hard, he lifted the chalice and drained it, staggering back as he tilted his head back to get every last drop. "I shall go..."

If he was honest with himself, he slightly regretted agreeing to host the family at Dragonstone this summer. It was a less pleasant palace than Summerhall, but his father spoke so often of connecting with their heritage, that he felt compelled to allow his brothers and their children stay awhile.

But by the gods, they were a handful. If it were not bad enough listening to Aerys complaining about his library and Rhaegal's rambling, Maekar's sons had been troublesome since birth. Daeron was already a drunk, it seemed, and Aerion bad tempered even for a teenager. At least Aemon was quiet.

Gale chuckled, raising his glass to that. "Oh believe me, I understand." The Rolan he was having a drink with now was nothing like the man they'd met, back at the Grove. Strange, how that worked. How adversity could pull people together, make them better than they were.

"Don't tell me you drank it."

The village is blighted down to the soil, diseased in a way that reminds him too much of a home he'd rather not recall. Everything stinks of it, turning Geoffrey's stomach against so much as camp rations let alone scavenged wine.

He wrinkles his nose at Antoine, though there's still a teasing note to his tone that keeps it from being truly admonishing. They're Wardens, after all. They've all drank worse.

 “Do you think this is all a joke, Lord Baratheon?”

 Baelor was not amused. His sharp gaze turned on Lord Baratheon. He really had no objection to Lord Lyonel, but he would not count him among his favourite lords of the Westeros, and his attitude was moving himself swiftly down the lists.