“This has ceased to amuse me, Jean! Give me back my gods-damned wine!” “Gods-damned, it is. And I’m afraid that if you want it, you’re going to have to climb out your window.” Locke took a step back and stared at the makeshift wall, dumbfounded. “Jean, you can’t be serious.” “I’ve never been more serious.” “Go to hell. Go to hell! I can’t climb out a bloody window. My wrist—” “You fought the Gray King with one arm nearly cut off. You climbed out a window five hundred feet up in Raven’s Reach. And here you are, three stories off the ground, helpless as a kitten in a grease barrel. Crybaby.
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