Sansa's brows rose. "Your father was a baker?" She smiled, even though she wondered if he would be friends with Arya, if she would have been so shallow the way she had with Mikah, the butcher's boy who Joffrey had killed. "And what Games? I mean, what sort of games would have you painting yourself?" She asked her questions just as he asked his, and she flushed at her interruption, looking down at her hands for a moment. "I can draw, but I do not like to. The same can be said for playing the mandolin. I like to embroider, and I suppose I can passably sing." She shrugged a shoulder, in a universal sort of dismissal, for she was not used to talking about her own skills.