Sansa sees a man wearing furs — true and proper furs, the kind that northerners would have thrown around their shoulders, or perhaps the wildlings — and her first thought is, finally. Someone she might know, someone who might know what the name Stark or Winterfell would mean. But as she approaches the man, she finds little differences in his manner of dress and appearance that are foreign to her.

The shaved sides of his head. The mail sewn into his jerkin, the interlocking patterns unusual to her trained eye. She thinks she sees runes pressed into the leather, but they are not Northern ones, nothing she's seen in her ancestral crypts or the structures surrounding the godswood.

No, Sansa thinks regretfully, this man is not her people. But perhaps they have some common ground. She approaches without Lady, bringing with her a pitcher of some sweet drink.

"May I pour for you, my lord?" Easier, always, to call others a lord or lady. If they mind, they often take the time to correct Sansa, saving her the effort of having to ask.