She laughs, head tipping back from it. It's such a pleasant, low sound - unvarnished. Fitcher leans slightly forward in her chair, lying her hand on the bed rather than touching him (because he is broken all over, and she might poke some bruise otherwise).

"You're not meant to agree with someone when they say something so impolite, Ser," she scolds him, fox grinning. "But I do enjoy it when you humor me."