"You wouldn't," he says, with certainty that's far easier to apply to a friend than to oneself. Myr's a good, careful, responsible sort, he tells himself, willfully forgetting the way Myr had initially suggested sparring with live steel on their second meeting. The fond characterization still holds. Myr seems like the sort of person who is good at looking after everyone and everything but himself.

The nuglet's origins send an unwelcome and reflexive thrill of anger through his gut again, and on any other occasion, he might launch into a teeth-gritted explanation of precisely why Darton neither deserves his title nor should be trusted with any living creature in Thedas, but he doesn't have the energy for it now. Not when he can't avoid the direct question he was hoping somehow to sidestep. He's not going to lie to Myr, who only wants to help, and who deserves better than some bullshit excuse Simon's concocted on the spot so that he doesn't have to talk. Reluctantly, he comes inside, setting the coconut on the corner of the desk with a faint but audible thunk.

"Ser Coupe," he mutters, his tone nearly as dark and viciously sneering as it would be if he were talking about Darton after all. It's a far cry from the glow and warmth that's suffused all his previous mentions of Wren, to Myr or anyone else.