“That’s not a monster,” I told Cersei. “That’s just a baby.” And she said, “He killed my mother.” And she pinched your little cock so hard, I thought she might pull it off. Until your brother made her stop. “It doesn’t matter,” she told us. “Everyone says he will die soon. I hope they are right. He should not have lived this long.”
When Dothraki are defeated in combat, they cut off their braids so the whole world can see their shame. Khal Drogo has never been defeated. He’s a savage, of course, but one of the finest killers alive. And you will be his Queen.
But there is one anecdote about Alexander and Leonidas which has never had quite the attention it deserves. Once, when the young prince was offering sacrifice, with would-be royal lavishness he scooped up two whole fistfuls of incense to cast on the altar fire. This brought down a stinging rebuke on his head from his tutor. “When you’ve conquered the spice-bearing regions,” Leonidas said, with that elaborate sarcasm characteristic of schoolmasters the world over, “you can throw away all the incense you like. Till then, don’t waste it.” Years later, Alexander captured Gaza, the main spice-entrepot for the whole Middle East. As always, he sent presents home to his mother and sister. But this time there was one for Leonidas as well. A consignment of no less than eighteen tons of frankincense and myrrh was delivered to the old man (enough to make him rich beyond his wildest dreams on the resale price), “in remembrance of the hope with which that teacher had inspired his boyhood” - together with an admonition to cease being parsimonious towards the gods.
There is something terrifying about this story: the minor slight that rankled for perhaps fifteen years, the crushing generosity, the elaborate and unanswerable replique. But it affords us a most valuable insight into Alexander’s character. Anyone who ever did him a disservice, however trivial, lived to regret it in the end. He never forgot, seldom forgave: “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.” His implacability was only equalled by his patience. He would nurse a grudge for a decade or more, waiting for the propitious moment; and when that moment came, he struck.—Peter Green, Alexander of Macedon (via hierarchical-aestheticism)