He is nothing if not an excellent heat-source, large and appallingly masculine as he is; when she shifts, he adjusts, setting an arm behind her (not around, hand flat on the ground) to provide a nook so that more of her is protected from the elements by the shape of his body and the drape of his cloak. It's nothing so fine as the way he speaks suggests he's probably accustomed to, but it's warm and thick and serves its purpose.

"I've spent my share of time in the mountains," he says, wry, remembering. "Perhaps slightly more than my share." And in deserts - not better, really.

After a moment, "At least these mountains lack trolls."