Truth be told, her methods these days would be different, too, and perhaps she has learned to nod at empty words and take them for what they are while swallowing her fury. Yet then, she had been a child, and there had been little else where she could have directed her confused, grief-fuelled rage, and the septon might not have been the first to offer hollow, comforting words, and gods be damned, he was not the last – but he was there in that wrong moment.

"Then you must have deserved yours too." He must be the most humble person she has ever met, and in some ways, it absolutely overwhelms her. She can cope just well with men who believe they have accomplished feats of world-wide relevance when they turned on their computers in the mid-morning to make some vaguely ill-informed investment choice. She does not know how to cope with a man who wins military honours and acts as if his friend's promotion was the weightier deal.

The war, for her, has been something that happened to other people, far away. It had only breathed coldly down her neck once, when her brother had decided to join the military, but there had been no more than basic training before the Incident that saw him discharged, and then she didn't have to fear that distant war again. Some of the men who fell were men she vaguely knew, more in passing than anything else – Boromir, for one. The old Stark and his eldest son. Rhaegar Targaryen, of course, but knowing had been quite the relative term there, too. And now there is Faramir, who returned whole enough, and commended. "I am glad you came back."

Perhaps she does simply mean the café.