[ she's witnessed enough conflicted emotions to recognize the ones that very, very briefly flit across his face — seen enough on her own face to know how it feels, to want so badly to say one thing, while circumstances force you to say another.

my brother is a traitor, my mother is a traitor, I have nothing to do with them. they deserve to die.

however, what it is that he wants to say, she doesn't know: perhaps he wants to say he can fight and is embarrassed he can't (something supported by the small shrug, the shuffling of his feet, the cast-down eyes), or perhaps he can and for some reason isn't telling her (something supported by... nothing, really, but she won't discount the possibility).

instead of asking, she nods. ]

That's a good start. [ she knows how it feels, wanting to help. ] I'm not really much of a fighter, either. [ she crosses the room over to him, smiling wryly — she knows she looks like the lady she was born to be. ]

Before we go... I'm Sansa Stark. It's a pleasure to meet you, if an unexpected one. [ she holds her hand to him: she's not sure of the customs of his world, whether it's to kiss her hand or to shake it, but she'll take either. ]