[ This is what love looks like, fierce as a storm and gentle as a breeze, a constant lodged in both their hearts. The queen listens, watching the play of emotions across his face. It occurs to her that he must not notice how his professional demeanor falls away like snow in coming spring when he speaks of Noctis, of the love that had shared before she came along. It strikes a bitter chord in her, but Octavia has enough presence of mind to understand that what she does with this bitterness, this love that would forever be out of her reach -- that is the only thing that matters. ]

I have done wonders, that's true.

[ It does no one any favours to assume humility; Octavia has never been skewed that way. She is gentle only because she wishes to be, not because it is expected of her. She sets down her glass and rises, stepping towards him. It's easy to reach down, to curl her fingers, elegant and soft and long, over his chin, lifting his face up to hers. He is a very beautiful man, even more so when he speaks of the king. How she must be the interloper in this affair, which is the height of irony, all things considered.

She softens, a flicker of sadness in her eyes. ] I see why he only has eyes for you. [ And how he has no space in his heart for any other. ] Fair is what we make of it. Nothing's ever fair.