[ Words no one has ever thought before besides Astarion: Iorveth is too nice. If he had it his way, he'd throw Damris in one of those dark, dank cells and forget that he ever existed. Poisoning—or, well, sort of poisoning him—is practically child's play in comparison, but maybe it's the better option. He'd hate Iorveth to leave here with regrets about what they did, or worse, a changed opinion of Astarion. ]

Whatever you wish to happen to him will, my love.

[ This is so romantic. It'd practically count as a date if there weren't still a chance that they'll both die.

With a cant of his head, he says, ] Rifle through those drawers, will you? I would, but my hands are, ah, otherwise occupied.