"I've been feeling a bit wicked."  She set down her tea.  "You know, nothing malicious or with an intent to harm, just something devious along the lines of 'all's fair in love and war.'"

"And which would this be?"

"Pardon?"

"Is this love?  Or war?"

"Little bit of both really."  She adjusted herself on the cushioned seat.  "It's for reasons of love that I go to war."

"I once wrote a story about a battle."  She leaned in close, as it was seldom she divulged her great writings that no one had yet to see.  "It was the tale of a warrior queen, impregnated in the aftermath of battle, and getting ready for her first mission after the birth of her son."

"Does this have anything to do with what I've been talking about?"

"Just wait.  Listen.  See if you can draw comparisons."

She heaved a giant sigh, resigning herself to hear out a story that was in no way applicable, but that she'd have to nod to gratefully out of respect.

"Back to my story..."  She attempted to put on a storyteller's false bravado, but the skill was lost on her.  "She consulted an oracle before leaving on this seemingly easy, diplomatic mission, and the gods instructed her to breastfeed her son as often as possible in the fortnight before leaving and to releave herself regularly into leather pouches that could be packed in the snow.  They also told her to pack twice the food rations she'd usually take along."  She sipped her tea.  "This was a harsh, winter journey."

"Mmm-hmmm" she replied, as patiently as possible.

"So our heroine assumes the gods are mocking her, that as a mother she has no place in political maneuverings, and angry with them, she plans to disregard their advice."

"And then somehow comes to ruin because of it, right?"

"No, not at all.  Because despite any misgivings she may have about their advice and how useless it would be, she has read her myths and legends and knows that the advice of the gods shoudl never be taken lightly.  So off they travel to a large manor/castle/kingdom maybe a few weeks away and as they near, they find the villagers to be starving.  The women so malnourished that they cannot breastfeed their own babes; the men unable to feed their families because the same duke/lord/whatever they were planning to consult/pacify/unite with comes and demands the fruits of their labors in abundance."

"So naturally our heroine surrenders her breast, some milk, the extra food and then has this particularly village and maybe one more on the way to join her.  Am I right?"

"This times you are.  I think.  I never really write the story, just sort of thought about it."

"And again, I'm not exactly sure how I see this fitting my situation."

"There are many kinds of battles, many forms of ammunition.  Sometimes the most benign and ludicrous items in your arsenal are the most effective."

"I'll consider that."

"Oh yes, and always trust the gods' intuition."