Minho had grown up on stories about Robert Baratheon. His cousin was made King when Minho was just a child, yet all he can remember wanting back then was to one day become just like Robert. The great Robert Baratheon who defeated the Mad King and slew Prince Rhaegar in single combat and won himself a kingdom with his warhammer. The great Robert who was so loved, by friends and women alike. So many had flocked to his banner, so many had bent the knee and joined his cause, believing in him with their hearts true. Minho had wanted to be as strong, as skilled a warrior, as beloved of others, as powerful.

But Minho was just a plump boy with little to no skills with weaponry. Until the age of thirteen he had struggled with spiced wine and pigeon pies, and clothes always too small to fit him. His skill was emptying the pantry and falling off his horse. ''Huge boy'' they called him.

But a year passed, and he was a different lad. At fourteen Minho was no longer the pie boy, the clumsy squire, the blundering fool. At fourteen Minho looked fit to be a knight, and started fighting like one too. At fourteen he got his first broadsword finally worthy of a name, and it wasn't long before he learned to wield it better than most in all of Shipbreaker's Bay.

These changes had come as a surprise to most, especially his own family. His mother had thought it a passing phase when Minho cut his meals in half and started spending hours practicing with all sorts of weapons in the yard until he came back soaked in sweat and bruised all over. But he was beyond determined, his heart burning as though that strange Lord of Light from Asshai himself had blessed him with his powers. It took a year. A year to start being someone he was meant to be all along.

The Robert Baratheon of whom he was told so much when he was a child did not turn out to be quite the man from the stories, Minho acquired that understanding along with his brand new broadsword. That tends to be the thing with growing up - you see the world more and more clearly until it reveals its ugly side and bares its cruel fangs at you, ready to fight you with all its spite. 

At fifteen, Minho was the spitting image of his cousin - dark, handsome, broad-shouldered, with a smile that could make every maiden in Storm's End swoon. Like Robert, he knew how to enjoy these qualities as well. Life turned sweet - wine, women and battles. He was winning women and tourneys one after another, drinking life to the lees. Oh how he loved it - loved life even when it was unrequited.

Robert may be dead now, and Renly may be dead, but there is hope yet, and he loves life still. He never had much love for his cousin Stannis, but he is the sole remaining leader of their House, and his cause is just, despite all. 

Storm's End is empty, and Shipbreaker's Bay is dull, and Minho wishes he could have gone North with Stannis, to battle and glory. He resents having stayed behind - he cannot stand the official business he has to deal with, it feels like chores. He is meant to be a winner, not someone who sits behind castle walls waiting for the greater to do the dirty work.

Soon. His time would come soon - he has been telling himself that and believing it with every burning bit of his soul. He has never believed in himself more, never anticipated the future more, never wanted to prove himself more. When he looks back, he feels pride at who he has become. 

Soon. Soon the world will witness his fury, and be in awe. He may be the stag, but at heart he is a beast, and the chains are wearing thin and loose.