Robert Baratheon (294 AC)

He took another swig of the ale. In truth, it had long been less about the the drink itself, and more for drowning it all out, to dulling the pain. He ached and mourned, even as his eyes were ever north. He wasn't blind, no matter what they thought, no matter what he acted like. He wasn't stupid, even if he did his best to ignore it all in a haze of drink. If he was sober, he would have to acknowledge it, to act on it. If he remained in this twilight gloom of an alcohol fueled haze, he did not have to open his eyes.

Originally, he had just wanted to give her time, time to heal, to recover, to not force himself on her given what had happened, given that... he took another swig as he did not think of 'Jon Snow.' That old spike of hate, jealousy and longing in his heart. He wanted to reach out, to head north, to wrap Lyanna in his arms and never let go, to acknowledge her child (she had no children) as his kin and to have things be as they should have been.

Before Tywin sank his claws and teeth into him. Before he and Jon saddled him with that CUNT of a wife instead of the one he should have been with. He had tried you know? Maybe not as well as he could have, but he had tried in those early days. While she had golden hair... there was a part of her that was like his northern she-wolf. At least, he had thought there had been. And yet, all he had gotten was scorn and nagging, screaming and abuse for trying to meet her halfway, his heart still being pulled northward and wracked by grief.

Which brought him to another reason he was drinking. It was the squid again. His favorite one. The one that called his father a cunt and sailed off, that rescued Elia and her children. He did not hate the squid for that, and was even thankful behind the fumes. No, for all that he would have had Aegon take the black or a measters vows and Rhaenys into the sisters or married to Renly (they were his cousins after all, even if he HATES their father), he did not want them dead. In his hands for hostages sure, but not dead.

No, the squid had done the impossible, again and sailed into the doom and back out as pretty as you please and with Brightroar. Which, said squid did not keep for himself, no, in a move that annoyed his wife to screams of fury and tickled every funny bone he had... the squid gave it to little Aegon. Oh, how Tywin must be seething and raging, that the blade of his house was in the hands of the mad fucks grandson. And Maron would have known exactly what he was doing.

He wondered, as he chugged a keg of beer, would the old lion kneel over to a creative enough insult? He would have to do something nice for the squid if he did.

Myrcella Baratheon

Father was... well, father. More to the point, father smelled funny and stumbled about before giving her a wooden knife. She was not entirely sure what to do with it, and father's words were like him, swaying and stumbling as he spoke of squids. Was that why she had the knife? Did it have something to do with squids? She would have to ask mother in the morning, or maybe uncle Jamie? The four year old nodded.

Yes, Uncle Jamie was a kingsguard. So he would know lots about knives and what her father, the king, may be thinking. Still, as she turned over and went back to sleep, a smile on her face, it was nice when father patted her head. A shame it only happened when he smelled funny and talked silly.

Tywin Lannister

In truth, while many thought that he hated easily or freely, he did not. No, hate was an investment of mental and emotional energy that could distract one from what needed to be done with only a few things meriting actual hate. More to the point, to hate someone was to give them power over you, even if in a small fashion. Hate was a weakness that he rarely indulged in. There were only three individuals in the last twenty years that he could say to honestly and truly hate, and the first of those was dead.

He could not directly remove the second one he hates, for the simple fact that Tyrion was his son. The killer of his wife was his blood, and she had extracted a promise from him as she lay dying to let the deformed monster live. And so his second hate was something ground in his face, a rancid and stinking mass that itched and burned. But something that he had to endure, for her sake. His last hate was something new, and yet it burned. Oh, how it burned.

For years, he had been seeking a replacement for Brightroar, to gain another symbol of prestige and glory for the house. It was told in tales of the one thing that the lion could not buy for all the gold in his rock. It was a slight that he had to accept. Like the fact that his revenge had been stolen from him. Which had been part of the reason he had wished to scour the Iron Islands, for he could not reach into Dorne. Yet, it had been something he could have accepted, even if he would have had to retaliate.

No, as the accursed Greyjoy slighted house Lannister and himself in particular... Tywin closed his eyes and clenched his hands. He had managed to brave the Doom, normally a feat that would have earned a grudging nod, as that was a deed worthy of respect. What is more, he had recovered Brightroar. And promptly gifted it to a Targaryen prince. He snarled, as he imagined Aerys's grandson touching the blade that rightfully belonged to House Lannister. Pictured him wielding it, each swing tarnishing and corrupting his legacy!

It was a poison, as he wrote the messages. While the Faceless Men refused to take out a contract on the damn squid, there were others of great skill and repute. If all else failed? His mind turned to the great vaults under the Rock. Ten times the weight of Maron Greyjoy in gold sounded like a reasonable starting point.

Doran Nymeros Martell

He sipped on the sweet chilled lemon juice as the children played. To be sure, they were playing with a Valyrian steel blade, but so long as they did not remove the binding along its handle, whatever enchantment Maron laid on it would prevent any actual injury. And looking at the weapon in question caused his lips to quirk again. There was no love lost between them and the Old Lion, given how he had not given up trying to have his sweet sister and her children killed. Something that as an elder brother and uncle he politely disagreed with.

But, as he relaxed, it was good to see the children being children. Even, as his eyes went briefly across their guests, the Northern ones. Truth be told, he did not blame young Jon or his mother for the circumstances of his birth, as Doran's good brother was a man grown and with children and responsibilities already. That and taking a noble paramour in such a way? Such was not done for obvious reasons. Still, between the Starks and Maron... things were interesting as they grew closer together through the bonds of children wanting to know more of each other.

The trade did not hurt either. But as always, he closed his eyes and schemed to the laughter of children. As it was, they likely would not need to do anything to topple the stag on his nephew's throne. The man drank ale and beer as others drank water, the times he was sober able to be counted on a single hand. And yet, amusingly enough for his reputation before all this? He only bedded a whore once or twice a year.

All seemingly looking very much like Lyanna. It was a sad thing if with a touch of romance... and a great deal of irony that a woman extolled for her beauty was found second best. Truth be told... it was fitting that it was the untamed beauty of the wild places and things that would have captured that warriors heart, and not the cold and lifeless gleam of gold and jewels. One of the few good things he would say of the man truthfully.

Alas, as with Laenor Velaryon before him, no matter how strong he was, it mattered little given he had no trueborn children. And so, all they needed to do, was wait.