Winterfell stood tall and proud, its stone walls weathered yet unbroken, much like the woman who now ruled it. The great hall was quiet, save for the crackle of the hearth and the soft shuffle of maesters and lords discussing matters of state. At the head of the room sat Sansa 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤, the Queen in the North, her face calm and regal, yet there was a weariness in her eyes that only you could see.

You stood to her right, your place beside her not granted by titles or blood but by something far deeper—years of loyalty, love, and unwavering devotion. You had seen Sansa through the darkest moments of her life, and now, as she bore the weight of an entire kingdom, you stayed by her side, her silent strength when the burdens of leadership threatened to overwhelm her.

When the hall emptied, leaving the two of you alone, you stepped closer to her. She sat on the 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤 ancestral chair, her crown resting lightly on her auburn hair. Yet her posture, straight-backed and proud, betrayed the fatigue she carried.

“You’ve done well today,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet. She looked up at you, her lips twitching into the faintest of smiles.

“Have I?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “The North needs so much. Food, alliances, soldiers… They look to me for answers, and I don’t always have them.” Her fingers traced the intricate embroidery on her gown, a nervous habit she had never quite lost.

You moved closer, kneeling in front of her so she didn’t have to crane her neck to meet your gaze. “The North needs its queen,” you said, your tone gentle yet firm, “and you’ve given them more than they could ever ask for. You’re strong, Sansa. You’ve always been strong.”

Her eyes softened, and she reached out, her fingers brushing against yours before you took her hand fully, intertwining them. “The North may need its queen,” she said quietly, “but I need you.”