“I think you’re going to tell me because if you know a single damned thing about me; you know that nothing is more important to me than my family. And anyone that hurts my family pays for it. And I know that there is a grieving husband back in Windhelm who would like nothing more than to have … a little chat with you. Tell me where she is and I’ll let you walk away. Or I’ll let Ralof beat it out of you. I have no qualms either way.”
Her bow arm didn’t even falter, she kept her arm steady, ready to release it if he made a move, “I’ve plenty of reason to hurt you. You may not be the one hurting her yourself, but you handed her over. Your own daughter. What must have come undone inside that head of yours to think that this is in any way justified? Your own child, your flesh and blood, and you’re letting her be tortured.”
She adjusted her aim a little higher, “Call me Rowie again and I’ll take your eye.”
“If you take an eye, see to it that it’s the right one.” Lucas tapped his right cheekbone, looking at Rowena. “Alyina nearly took it out six years ago.” With a nonchalant shrug, he said, with a quick roll of his eyes, “I’d like to see him try to get near me. I’d gut him before he’d get the chance to talk.”
Confidant, Lucas held out a hand to lower the arrow down. He didn’t want to be killed, nor did he want the piss to be beat out of him. He was keeping his lips sealed.
“And I claim her not to be my daughter; oh no. She left my kinsmanship when she became a filthy rebel. No way for a ‘proper Nord’ to behave, ah no. So, yes, she may be my ‘flesh and blood’,” mimicking Rowena on those last words. “But I don’t claim her as it.”
“Rowie.”
