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"Your highness."

"Lord Thom." A beat. "Any word from your sister?"

A shrug. "No. We scarcely talk, your highness. Eight years spent apart has obliterated whatever closeness we once shared, and that wasn't much."

"A pity."

"Surely you know she is in the desert, if you wish to go find her."

"I might."

Another shrug. "As you wish."

A pause.

"Oh, your highness?"

"Yes?"

"If you ever hurt her, I will put you down like a rabid dog."

Shocked silence.

"Excuse me?"

"I will turn the dead out of their graves."

Jon knows Thom means it. That is the problem.