Ah. Ah. He can read fear - faint, yes, but fear nevertheless. In spite of himself, it twists something painful in his gut, a strike directly at a very, very old wound. Poor cold little thing. She wouldn't have the faintest notion of it. And even if she did, what would it matter?

"Mmph," he responds directly, giving a stagger in the direction of a tree, and then back again. One of the mountain-prole guards narrows his eyes at By, but By gives a little wave of his hand to demonstrate non-aggression. Their little band crosses paths with a downed branch, and he bends over, scoops it up. Pulls off a few leaves and bounces it experimentally against the frigid snowy ground.

"Not bad," he evaluates archly, and makes a grand show of being absorbed in his new stick, not looking back at her or the coat. "Good thought, hey."