"Oh, don't get sulky now," she hissed, her Dornish drawl a bit more pronounced than usual. She was tired, despite the intriguing possibilities. "And stop being rude, it's unbecoming. Not to mention irritating."
A bit more loudly, she made a soft sympathetic noise and knelt beside him. "But look at your poor hands! Oh, of course you shall have a maester. I can't think what they were on about..." She touched him, keeping her body between him and the guards so they'd not see what she held- a lock pick. Usually it was part of her barette, but she'd decided he warranted a loss of the trinket. She let it drop by his hand as she set about ripping the hem of her dress. "And your arm. That must clearly be set immediately... Give it here." She held out her hand, this time waiting for him to offer the requested appendage. "Hurry," she whispered. Jonath was leaving soon and she didn't trust the goldcloaks as far as she could throw them. "You can glower and be suspicious later. If we aren't both dead."
Her heart was racing and she knew her hands were shaking with the rush of whatever might happen next. He could kill her. That was a possbility. She looked at Monterys, met his eyes. If he did, it would be a quicker end than the Starks would grant. It didn't matter. This was something. This was not alone, not in the black nothing, not sinking into the despair or crying. No time to think. Quiet would bend her, the black would break her, and in the end she'd bow before them. Better death then.