[ His fingers burn and sting, but until she touches his wrist, he hasn't so much as winced at their throbbing, the reddened skin crisped and blistering from the contact with iron, with steel. Working metal isn't the same, and he's been trying not to feel like he's lost some part of himself because of it.

Pain can be shut away, though. He's trained to do that, experienced in it, and when Alicent takes his wrist, he looks down to the injuries inflicted on both their hands ( he sees her nails, her ragged and ripped cuticles ). ]

What about learning just enough so you can get out of a bad situation and to someone else? Just because you're not throwing a punch doesn't mean you're not protecting yourself.

[ Nobody who isn't prepared to fight shouldn't be made to, or trained to. There are plenty of things one can do to escape, after all. He could see Alicent, fleet as a hare, ducking a violent encounter to find her son, her guard, a friend — hell, Harry puts his own name in his little mental hat of "Alicent Defenders". ]

Wouldn't say I was gallant. I admired you back there. I wanted you to know that.