It's made too small, Your Grace, it won't go.
Your mother was a dumb whore with a fat arse, did you know that? Look at this idiot—one ball and no brains; he can't even put a man's armour on him properly!
You're too fat for your armour.
Fat? Fat is it? Is that how you speak to your king?
[Robert, Ned, and Lancel laugh. Robert turns to Lancel.]
Oh, it's funny, is it?
No, Your Grace.
No? You don't like the Hand's joke?
You're torturing the poor boy.
You heard the Hand, the king's too fat for his armour—go find the breastplate-stretcher, NOW!
[Lancel leaves hurriedly; Ned and Robert laugh.]
The breastplate-stretcher?
How long before he figures it out?
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