And Sansa -- conditioned to be perspicacious in the presence of someone else's anger -- could sense that he was upset. She hardly needed to be sensitive to do so. He wore it in every line and seemed to spit it into every word. Or he had, until this moment, where either she'd grown accustomed to his harshness or else he'd allowed it to be diluted.

Her head turned. She looked at Nymeria. At least the wolf brought no judgement. By cause-and-effect she'd once gotten that protector lost as well, the same night she'd lost her own wolf. But Nymeria was not cruel. Wild, perhaps. But not cruel.

"South is good. His Grace, King Thranduil, suggested we ought to go south. Even if we never make the Station, it seems as good a plan as any. And if you think it is as well..." She trailed off. Even she was beginning to hear how grating her constant agreement was becoming. "Is it hot in all that metal?"

Perhaps concern would serve her better.