One night, when the chill pervades the solar despite the roaring fire, you sit at your fathers knee as he pores over maps and documents so extensive that you wonder how he can possibly concentrate. Your book of history is heavy in your grasp as you sit, back resting against polished wood with only the whisper of a turning page to interrupt him. It is a silent thing, this, and yours alone; for Father does not entertain fools gladly. Jaime and Cersei do not care to sit in his presence for long, but you, you find his silent company to be soothing.
"Your studies," Father says. "How do they progress?" His hand pats the top of your head, all too brief, and you warm at the subtle affection that he rarely exhibits.
"They go... well," you admit, and as you tilt your head back to rest against his thigh you take stock of his expression; always so cold and detached and yet, you know the glimmer in his eyes well. He is your father, of course you do. It speaks of many things, that little twinkle, and you shall ever try to emulate it; though he does it best.
"Faramir," and you blink, having become lost in thought, as you are wont to do. His tone is sharp and admonishing, accompanied by a short rap to the nose. You are but a boy of eight, your mind wanders often. "A Lion does not daydream."
"A Lion has claws."
Father hums. "Yes, and that."
"A Lion studies hard and does his best - and always pays his debts." You recite, and though father does not smile you still feel his approval deep down in your gut.
He turns back to his work, as do you.