Winterfell’s great hall buzzed with low voices, the murmur of banners and armor and pride. But Sansa sat still at the head table, posture straight, fingers resting lightly against a goblet she hadn’t yet touched.

You approached, cloak dusted with snow, boots silent on the stone floor. She noticed your presence long before you reached her — not through sound, but intuition. Sansa always felt the room before seeing it.

“Back from the courtyard?” she asked softly, not looking up yet, lips curved in the faintest hint of knowing.

“It’s quieter out there,” you answered. “Easier to think.”

Now she raised her eyes to you — blue, clear, thoughtful.

Sansa tilted her head just slightly, studying your expression the way only she could — gentle, but precise enough to make you feel seen without being exposed.