Stannis Baratheon was in a stormy mood, brought on by the culmination of at least two weeks in this truly absurd, baffling, and frustrating place. This mood had inspired him to take to pacing, moving back and forth across his bedroom with a brooding determination to practically wear the floor down. And there was grinding, so much grinding, of his
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"By most definitions of the word," he finally concluded, "I suppose I would be, though I am certainly not pleased. I cannot decide whether or not I should send a raven with the news of how much I despise my current position."
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"Miriam," he greeted her back though teeth mostly still clenched. "How is what hanging?" He gave a slight glance over to the curtains in the window, which seemed fine, and the Baratheon stag banner also over his bed, which was as undisturbed as if it were a banner flying on a windless day.
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"The angle of the dangle?" Miriam snickered. "Dude, it means how's it going? What's up?"
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