Lock-picking, as far as Ygritte's concerned, has always seemed a fantastic skill that simply didn't offer many chances to practice in the North. Not much use for locks, there, though Tormund had once set them all to learning on some he'd taken off the crows, to prepare for invasion (and, she privately thinks, to keep some of the boys from buggering everything that moved).

So she's been enjoying the variety and difficulty of locks here-- and though a good hunting knife is harder to carry here, she's got some nice little shivs and a delightful pocketknife. She sets about using these on the door. distracted as she is.

Not that she can complain about the distraction. Steve's hard against the curve of her ass and her breath hitches a little bit to feel it, to feel his hands curling around her hips. "Fuck," she says, a bit roughly, "if I don't hurry, I'm not going to care what this place can do to me for having you in this fucking hallway."

Fortunately, the lock gives and she's got the door open and them inside, where she's quick to lock the door again, and then turn to lean against it. Her eyes rake over him, dark pupil swallowing the blue, her lips parted, her breathing shallow. "Come here," she says, beyond any coyness or pretense, taking a step toward him.