Guilfoyle props the portraits along a wall in Isaac’s own eyeline— one familiar, Guenievre greeting every visitor to the boat since her daughter had decided one of her own nudes might be too confronting, the other ... confronting. Almost not helpful: it is a view from the back, the most recent image of her rendered in oil still predating Skyhold by a matter of months. The scars from the rage demon had been added, but not the wyvern's teeth or the matter of her eye,

but it is at least the correct side of her face that is rendered in mostly-profile, turned just enough toward the viewer as she gazes back over her shoulder with an eye that the woman depicted no longer possesses. For a time it had hung in the library at the de Coucy manor, but it had come down to the boat with her and hadn’t been difficult for Guilfoyle to put hands upon when it seemed needful. He remains, taking up a habitual sentry position, and Gwenaëlle does as she’s bid.

She isn’t half bad at that, but there’s usually more commentary. Her gaze catches on his hand, his mouth; she swallows, sets her resolve, and:

“I’m ready,” when she’s as much that way as she’s going to get.