[He isn’t oblivious to the stabbing; he hasn’t failed to notice her mood. His own is calmer, but only just. He will be more frustrated on the day, he thinks, the day he learns that he’s sailed all the way to Dragonstone only to be clapped in irons or burned alive.

Frustration would be an understatement if he really thought she would burn him alive. But she seems more interested, today, in genuinely bringing him around.

He’s silent for a long moment, chewing his salad with contemplative enthusiasm.]

Noble goals. And you’re not wrong about some of them. I’m not sure anyone who wasn’t a Lannister wept at Lord Tywin’s death. But —

[He pauses, and the corners of his mouth turn down. How to phrase this? It isn’t that he wants to be careful: what he’s about to say seems unlikely to anger her. It’s that he’s not sure how much of it is wise to voice. Why tell her how she can win?

There isn’t any other way, and keeping the kingship he’s had for such a short time for its own sake isn’t his main goal.

Still, he speaks very gently.]

In telling you the reasons why I can’t give you what you want, I have the feeling I’m telling you what you have to do to get it. Fail to help the North, or terrorize them with your dragons, and you’ll never have their hearts or their loyalty. If we —[He pauses and takes rather a larger breath than it would seem that he needs, trying to master the tension that sometimes rises when he thinks of this] — If we lose against the Dead, there will be no smallfolk left. No nobles, no castles, nothing to rule, no negotiations with their king, nothing.

[His words fall off, morose.]

I know how it sounds.