There it is again, that self-depreciation which makes it so difficult to casually enjoy the darkening of his cheeks. It even overshadows the compliment he pays her, for how could he be truly indulging in her light-like beauty if he remains compelled to direct a dry sort of jest at himself in the moment?

"That might lie in the eye of the beholder." She looks at the notebook, now safely back with him, and takes another sip of her coffee as she ponders a response that does not seem too attached, or too eager to attach him to her, at any rate. "I know quite a few men," and she will not name Robert Baratheon, but this is just about the only context she can ever picture herself thinking of him, "who consider themselves so deeply interesting, while never making it an inch beneath the surface."