[He reads at least the hint of Gwen's true sentiment, and he looks away, irritated. You have no idea, he thinks and does not say, you have no actual idea, but of course she doesn't. And he can't tell her, in detail. As much as he actually likes Gwenaëlle Vauquelin, terrible Orlesian lady though she is, he's not going to make plain everything he's come from. She's in the business of writing. He's in the business of no one finding out what they did.

All he can do is sit there, sullenly, staring very hard at a wall. Eventually he brings himself to look around at her again.]

I can tell you why she's here. She sold some bullshit story to the advisers about being a good neighbor. Now she's waiting around for her guards to follow her here. They'll keep some kind of peace, for now, while it suits them.

[And that's straying towards saying too much again, but he feels like he ought to warn her, so, fine:]

Take my word for it. If all she does is refuse to speak to you? You'll be lucky.