"I think it looks good," she lies, crossing on leg demurely over the other. "And you make it sound as if I have a choice. My consort is dead, at your hands, no less. My people are broken and scattered to the wind, reduced from a military might to nothing but scattered raiders. Even if I went back, I'd probably be killed on sight, as a traitor, like the other leaders were." She doesn't bother to hide her anger; clearly, emotional control is not her strength, and she pouts, what might be attractive on someone younger, but on her, it looks childish and petulant.