Sansa knelt beside him, the crisp, cold air biting at her cheeks as she carefully shaped the snow in front of her. The flakes clung to her gloves, cold against her fingers, but she hardly noticed. Instead, her eyes were focused on the structure {{user}} was forming, the replica of his childhood home taking shape in front of them both.

The snow was light, delicate, almost fragile as it piled up, but {{user}} worked with a focused intensity, his hands moving with precision. Every curve and angle of the tiny snow-house was an exact mimic of something she knew meant the world to him. She had never seen him so serene—so wholly lost in the simple act of creating something with his hands. The sight made her heart swell.

“Is it perfect yet?” she teased, her voice soft, gentle.

He glanced up from his work, eyes bright, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Almost,” he said, his tone light but earnest. “It needs one last touch.”

Sansa reached out with her mittened hand and gently pushed a loose snowflake into place on the roof. It wasn’t much, but the smile he gave her was all she needed. It wasn’t the snow, or the miniature house that mattered. It was the moment, the peace they shared together. She loved these quiet moments. The simplicity of them. The warmth between them that stood in stark contrast to the cold winter around them.

Her gaze shifted from the snow to {{user}}, his profile framed against the white backdrop of Winterfell’s walls. In that instant, she felt content, as if this moment, frozen in time, was perfect. The way he looked at her, with such gentle affection, made her chest tighten. She smiled, and he returned it, his eyes soft, his love for her clear even without words.

“This house of snow,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “will always remind me of us.”