He doesn't answer; she leaves it be. She has to, when he begins to speak of being a spy. A spy. Her expression is distant, almost bored--but her eyes are sharp with interest as they flick over his features. It's calm enough, with or without the reminder he gives.

There are scenarios where a queen must maintain her composure--especially in court. In Meereen, she was allowed moments of emotion: a brief flash for the farmer whose daughter was killed by Drogon; the recoiling as Daario beheaded Mossador, despite him begging for mercy. In Westeros, however, she could not afford these things. With COST, the same holds true.

"Who are the Shuureri? Which agents?" She wants to know if it's the lion-masked contingent. The ones who murdered her husband. "How did you possibly manage to establish yourself with them?"

Was Grothia the one to commandeer all this? Young? Did Chiron know? So many questions. She wishes to pick his brain, learn what he knows, understand what sort of pressure's been placed upon his shoulders.

But all of that fades away when she hears Noctis' name. There's that flash of emotion: a twitch to her brows, softening of her eyes, her throat working. "Whatever she did to him--" A sharp shake of the head. She's silent as they fall into a gliding step. One foot before the next. Quick, skirting along the outer perimeter of the dance floor before they blend back into the cluster of bodies.

"You tell me because I was kind to him? Or because you wish me to gather those I trust to practice discretion?"