[It’s an odd irony – Koby is nobody’s, nobody son, nobody’s to worry about, an orphan from a long line of orphans. But when they turn this most recent corner, and his voice pitches into despair, there’s an instinct driving him to step closer, to seek – something. Comfort, maybe, an embarrassing and shameful sort of urge. This is the sort of situation where he should take charge, should remain confident and calm and be the level-headed one. He’s supposed to be an authority, a soldier, not a frightened child.

Alicent’s voice is soft, soothing, and her hand on his slumped, hunched shoulder prompts him to stand a little taller, lifting his chin and taking in a deep breath.] Maybe. Or maybe this is the illusion, but – either way, one of them isn’t real. [Koby lets out the breath, closes his eyes for a beat, centering himself. Pushing the anxiety, the fear down into a little corner, a box which he shuts and seals away.

When he opens his eyes, it’s with a thoughtful, keen glance at the shred of fabric, immediately putting the pieces together.] Marking our path is smart – how attached are you to your dress? The skirts will slow you down, but we can use them to mark our way out, then you can run if we need to... [A hesitation, then, apologetically:] I can cut it shorter, but – only if you’re okay with that.