"You cannot brush or tidy you hair in a shield." At least, Sansa assumed men did indeed brush their hair -- even those who wore it short. But she couldn't be certain. And so her voice wavered a note or three, fearing he might laugh at her. She quickly added: "Or pin your cloak! Or shave. I know you don't keep servants and I can't imagine..."

She trailed free. Sansa did not so often let herself lose the point of a sentence. Generally, she plotted the careful course of her meaning before she opened her mouth. But now it was all a mess, because he'd praised her and she in turn had meandered her way clumsily through a half-dozen comments on things she barely understood. Who was she to talk about his whiskers? It wasn't as though he sheared them often--

She sat up a little straighter, thus freeing her elbow. Thus retreating back into her own prim perimeter of personal space. "My apologies. I shouldn't have said any of it. The mirrors are yours to use as you see fit. Of course they are."