You want a Wesrerling to wed a bastard? No more than I want Jov to marry the son of some scheming turn-cloak bitch. Maester Caleotte shifted his weight from foot to foot. West of the Honeywine, the Guildhalls lined the bank like a row of palaces. He is judging me, as he judged those others.
J had no choice, he told himself. My own father raised the same objections when I chose a life of service, the old man said. that had been worse than Lord Chelsted's screaming. Victarion shrugged.
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