[ Iorveth blinks up at Astarion as if he doesn't understand the question, until he reminds himself that so much of what he thinks about exists in his own head and nowhere else.

After a brief pause, again: ] The matter of you conquering the sun.

[ Because yes, he's been thinking about it. Gears preternaturally turning― scheming, as Astarion'd put it. A survival instinct that extends to the important things and people in his periphery, a paranoid jitter. Sure, Astarion can live without the sun if he has to, but the sun would make him happier. ]

She's well-connected. If she can't help directly, she's likely to know someone who could.

[ A cabal of ambitious sorceresses comes to mind; Iorveth wrinkles his nose. ] Call it getting ahead of myself, if you wish.