It would be so easy to cry under the spray of the water. Tears would mix with water, washed and banished before they could ever give her away. To cry takes effort, though, and she's beyond exhausted. Tension is soothed away from her muscles the longer she stands. He soothes away most of it, by merely existing.

"Oh," her voice wobbles, and that leaves her feeling far sadder than she might normally be. So much they've both experienced... but to lose one's direwolf. One's childhood companion. The thought of losing Viserion is difficult enough to fathom. "Bolton is dead."

He kisses her sweetly, the sort that wishes he did linger. She wants to chase after his mouth to kiss him again, because she'd wanted to kiss him so terribly with that mask on.

She reaches for the soap, determined to at least scrub the worst of the dirt and blood away. She starts on him, his beard and cheeks, down his neck, swiping her palms, fingers pressing into hard muscle. She doesn't touch him to seduce, but to clean and relax. She's got that much more in her.

"I kept thinking about you in the cell. How I had to get back to you."