[Gale leans forward to meet him, his jaw tightening, brow knitting.]

Centuries of it.

[Even monsters like Ketheric Thorm had a god answer him. The image of Astarion enduring year after year of torture at the hands of his master, unable to escape, to control himself, to have any agency, all while the gods ignored him... it makes Gale's stomach turn.]

You must understand why I want that crown so badly, why the very thought of it consumes me. What I could do with it, Astarion!