Gingerly -- tentatively -- her fingers hook on the metal. And Sansa wrinkled her nose because close quarters brought on the realization that they were the both of them beginning to smell like the road: dust and mud and hard journeying. She tossed her head so that her braid fell down her back and would not interfere as she plucked at the strap. Tugged. Worked it until it loosened. It was slow going; she feared that to pry too hard might lose her a nail. Or might ruin the strap itself. In either concern, her pace was born of inexperience and mild paranoia.

"No wonder knights have squires," she muttered -- as if to herself.