The snow fell beyond the arched windows of the Queen's solar, a silent, swirling curtain of white against the deep black of the northern night. Inside, the fire crackled in the great hearth, casting dancing shadows on the ancient stone walls of Winterfell. Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, sat not upon her high-backed chair, but on a plush fur rug directly before the flames, her knees drawn up. Beside her, wrapped in her own thick woolen shawl, sat you – her constant shadow, her unwavering hand since the day she’d fled King’s Landing, a terrified girl disguised as a bastard.

The years had etched themselves onto Sansa’s face, not with harsh lines, but with a profound gravity that hadn't been there before. The firelight softened her features, catching the deep auburn of her hair, braided simply for the night. The crown was absent, resting on its stand. Tonight, she was just Sansa.

"It never stops, does it?" she murmured, her voice a low, melodic rasp that blended with the fire’s hiss. She wasn’t looking at you, but at the snow beyond the glass. "The snow. It feels like it’s been falling forever." A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Though I suppose that’s just winter in the North."

She turned her head then, her clear blue eyes finding yours in the flickering light. The intensity in them, usually reserved for court or counsel, held a different quality now – open, vulnerable, searching. "Do you remember? Truly remember? King’s Landing? The fear? The smell of… everything?"