A queen would not show fear before her lesser, and that was what each and every one of them were: lesser. Scum. Treacherous wretches who had abandoned her six years ago and betrayed her. Treacherous wretches that would again usurp her rightful claim who even now bickered amongst themselves under a veneer of civility above her head. Which of them would come to her now, she wondered? Which of them thought themselves so haughty they could bring her to tears, to get her to beg, to have her swear herself and her changelings to them and their goals in exchange for the potential for freedom?