Tristan grimaces, but he's said his piece and more, and the fight leaves with his anger. The emotional expenditure here is bleeding into his physical exhaustion, and he has been overly-thorough in his job of patrolling and scouting for their travelling party. For every mile Constance has ridden, he has ridden three. Blessedly Mort had taken up Tristan's share of setting up camp as he made the perimeter, or else the poor boy couldn't keep on his feet right now.

He thinks about all the luxuries a room affords. A hot bath. A feather-stuffed mattress, if he's exceptionally lucky. A breakfast of eggs-over-easy and cured meats, if his stomach has a say in his dreams. It does, and it rumbles in his ear; when's the last time he's had ice wine? It would be in season, wouldn't it? And posset! Stars above keep his hand, the things he wouldn't do for posset by an open fire. 

What the Lady Sauvage has given Tristan is a gift beyond measure: She has given him a deadline for duty, a near moment he must be ready for. That means there must be no training too exhausting, no exercise so strenuous as to fatigue him or risk serious injury. He must conserve and build his strength until that near moment, and be as sharp and as well-rested as it is possible for him to be. 

The Lady Sauvage has given him a fortnight's holiday to make merry.