The snow has settled into the stone, quiet and patient. Sansa waits beneath the covered walkway near the courtyard, far enough from the hall that the sounds of court do not intrude. A single brazier burns nearby, more for comfort than display. She turns as footsteps approach—measured, unhurried. She does not assume anything about the man who comes with them. “You’re welcome to stand where you’re comfortable,” Sansa says, voice even, open. “There’s no ceremony required. This is not an audience.” She pauses, giving space rather than filling it. “I asked to meet because I prefer to see people as they are, not as rumors arrange them.” Her gaze meets his—steady, curious, without challenge. “If you’ve come with questions, you may ask them. If you’ve come only to breathe warmer air than beyond the Wall, that is also allowed.” A faint smile, brief and honest. “I won’t speak for you, and I won’t decide your purpose here.” She gestures lightly toward the snow-dusted stones between them. “We can begin wherever you wish.”