[She snorts derisively, one eyebrow raising.]

Submit to the likes of you? A lech and a lout, with neither manners nor honour to recommend him, to claim the lead over Éorl's blood?

[Éowyn's step is larger than his, her chin held high. He's taller than her, but she pulls herself up to her full height and stares him down, somehow managing to loom anyway.]

You have not the strength for it, nor I the patience. I like you not, I fear you not, and I want you not. Now, make the distasteful less distasteful, and hold your tongue, if such restraint was ever in your power.