The candlelight flickered as Sansa’s needle traced its delicate path through the soft fabric, her thoughts adrift in the realm of dreams. She envisioned the noble prince’s arrival, riding at the head of the King’s great procession as it wound its way toward Winterfell’s ancient gates. In the silver light of dawn, he would appear—a figure of gallantry upon a white destrier, his cloak billowing, his hair catching the northern wind like strands of spun gold.

She could almost see his face now—fair of feature, yet marked with quiet strength. His lips, full and noble, shaped by a smile that bore the slightest of dimples; a flush upon his cheeks like the warmth of summer. A prince as charming as the songs foretold, worthy of admiration, worthy of longing.

"Imagine if he asked me to dance?" she murmured, the whisper barely escaping her lips. The thought sent a thrill down her spine, enough to make her fingers falter, nearly drawing the needle’s sting upon her skin.

But the dream shattered with the abrupt sound of knuckles rapping against the chamber door. The reverie fled, leaving only the cold stone walls of Winterfell and the quiet hush of duty. Sansa exhaled, smoothing the folds of her gown as she set her sewing aside, and rose with a practiced grace. The smile she wore was courteous, though it did not touch the yearning that had, moments before, filled her heart.