Moonspear take charge of your life

The dark intonations, the disheveled disdain, the biting words; Andraste could manage, entire.

But when the queen simpered and teased, and spoke in that gentle, laughing, female language of life and love ... Hydra's supplication promptly diminished whatever makeshift nest of aristocracy sat on the silver's tongue. Hearthfire melted the unweildly guise of Diasporan austerity that she  (none!)  could never hope match. Heart fluttered into the halls of waxen throat, irregular; Andraste turned a scarred cheek to the lady of the spire with lamblike aversion.
"W-well—"  she most certainly could, could she not? She could roam the fracturing earths, be nearer to he ... and those Diasporans who remained in contempt. To be under the sovereign of strangers, no matter their word of sheilding; or to be under the sovereign of the General whose own visions lie with upholding the ironstar's. To offer her would-be atheneum to those she had yet to entirely trust, as they her; or, to offer her workings to the only male who might find her favorable of such pack-partnership. The same one who was meant to be with his people as General — but had roamed all this way.
That very same male had kissed her, held her; revealed the glimmering soul-fragments that she would not presume to think had been whispered to many else.

Would it be so selfish, after all?
To wonder with all these thoughts at the Weald? To gather those who might follow her, and then?— if?— 

"Y-yes,"  was the bashful stumble of the word; thin ears aquiver  (every segment of her figure aquiver!)  in the moonchased ruff. Any endeavor to meet the queen's eye was a challenge in itself; how to regain whatever dignity she once had?  "Yes, I will consider. Carefully,"  the queen; the General,  "and I will alert you of my decision,"  who she must also now talk to. Or throttle.

Nevermind that her heart already had decided, without her say!—
and her mind was half inclined to drown her in the bathing waters.

Matters settled  (for now)  the stricken thus excuses herself from Lyra's lair; a needy, needling impishness flickering at her lips as she seeks to evade her reachings once more.