⟪ The truth in his words is something she inwardly recoils from. It is paramount, for now, to have her enemies believe that she does not hold one wolf girl, but two in her claws, safe and sound and unharmed, but held nonetheless. If they learn that one is missing, slipped through some fool's grasp like a rat from a trap, who is to say what they may do to her twin? Of course, right now, all thoughts on this can be safely cast aside: there is nothing terrible happening to her twin that she is not sharing in herself in this moment. They have been reunited, for better or worse, and if every daughter of House Stark is found mangled in the morning, wolfish vengeance cannot touch them here.

None of this is a concession she is willing to make out loud, but their argument has steered itself down a different, yet familiar path. She rises from her bench – one to match his own though she ignored the weights with diligence – and leans forward, cat-green eyes narrowing. The movement is calculated, inviting his gaze where a brother's should never linger, as if the mere suggestion of her body can rein impending disaster in. Her nails dig deeper into the skin of his forearms. ⟫

They would not have their realm, and I will not see my children robbed of what is theirs by right.

⟪ Divine right, even, if she dwells on it for a little while longer. Is he not the kingslayer? Should this not have been his crown, his rule? By right, it should be passed on to his sons and daughter, and if he himself is not in the picture the way he might wish, then he could at least think of what would be denied to them. ⟫

I trust you with their lives as I trust you with my own. ⟪ She pushes back, meaning to straighten herself. She does not need to utter the but. ⟫ You have been stopped.

⟪ Once, when the Young Wolf captured him. Twice, if she is vicious enough to count their current imprisonment, as if he has the means to defy such magic. As if anyone she could name has that power. ⟫