The mention of kicking septons does, for a moment, bring a less apologetic, more amused smile to his face. It is not, of course, something he would ever have done, or even considered - least of all as a child, when he did not have the courage or the certainty that adulthood has brought in certain matters - but it is oddly charming to think of, and he cannot help but sympathise. She is right: platitudes do little. When he was little, they only grieved him more. Now he is a man, he can see how they are meant, and be touched by them, but still, they do not bring back what is lost.

"There was a ceremony I had to attend." He is not embarrassed by it, precisely. It is only that it seems... unimportant, in the light of everything. He did not ask for a medal or a commendation, and it will no more bring back what has been lost than platitudes will, for it is only another form of the same. It had been in some ways pleasant, to see old comrades; in other ways, it had been a painful reminder of those who were not there. And it had felt, above all, too late. It might have had value, if his father had been there. If his father were not ashes scattered in the wind, a thousand miles away. "Military honours. A commendation in my name, and my lieutenant's promotion to my old post." He does smile at that, sipping his coffee. "I will say that he very much deserved it."