He looks tired, and that isn't new. He usually exists somewhere on the spectrum of exhaustion, depending on how much needs to be done and how many cups of coffee he's had recently. They've all been busy, been involved in fights for their lives over the last few days.

But a close study might note how frayed he feels: lines of his face worn deeper, eyes haunted not far below the surface. Not unlike how he'd looked upon returning from the war front at Tantervale and Starkhaven. Weariness from borne pain, rather than simple insomnia. His own hands are in dark gloves despite the sunlight, long sleeves and trousers in the plain style that he favors. They betray nothing about possible injury, but he'd been honest with her earlier; he moves easily, clearly physically unharmed.

Here's a fact: James Holden gives great hugs.

His arms come around Margaery without hesitation, hands resting against the wool across her back as he draws her close. Even the breeze sheeting across the nearby waves can't trespass on their bubble of warmth. He holds her steadily, patiently; there's a clear, quiet message that he'll only let go when she's ready.