Sunspear was dusty, it was hot, it was closed and narrow, but it did not stink of piss and sweat and dead rats. It was noisy, it was vulgar, and choking on its own sewage and its poor.
Gods, save this city. Because no one can.
Another headache, under candle of scented wax. He finished the last letter, the last set of commands for the day, sanded and sealed them, before allowing Areo to take them to the rookery (His own rookery, of course. He did not trust the birds that Maester Pycelle kept in the Red Keep).
The windows he kept closed, to keep out the smells of the city below. But that has resulted in his solar quickly growing stuffy and hot. Unable to stand it for much longer, Doran carefully wheeled himself out into the corridor, met with a cool breeze. He thought to visit the Godswood, if only for its solitude, and how it was upwind from Flea Bottom, which meant it was saved from the of the worst smells.
A pair guards fell in behind him and one took the handles of his chair and slowly pushed him down the gallery.
They stepped out into the gardens, and there, the Prince spotted a familiar face, and so he gestured to his guard to slow, “ Retreating to the solitude of the gardens, I see,”