She can smile at that, at a memory of not a reality.

"I used to sing for hours, when I was younger. My mother said that I might not be a beauty, and have as much wisdom as you can buy with a rock, but my voice could make the flowers weep."

She chuckles at that, the cluck of her mother's tongue that she could hear now, the way she could look the world up and down and make hardened warriors weep just from being forced to endure her scrutiny.

"My mother was not a particularly forgiving individual, as you can tell, so it was high praise from her."