He scowls so hard, it's a wonder the server doesn't spontaneously combust. How does he still have his head? Simple — because they won't let him walk through the bloody Nocwich portal with his sword. He does also have some semblance of a peaceful life here, with no real interest in being hunted or jailed, or racking up a new body count for something as stupid as a twat with too much personality.

Or mayhap it's just that he's going soft, after his near-death experience. Might be that.

"Sweetling's a cunt word," he grumbles snarkily; it reminds him of Littlefinger, or Varys. Only type of man to say that to a Lady is one who deserves a swift kick to the balls, if you ask him. "And if you try calling me that, you'll be taking a long fucking walk back to Thorne on an empty stomach. Starting to miss the days when you were too scared to talk to me."

He's not.