The snow had changed. I used to think it was just snow—cold, white, endless. But today, it felt like home.

I stood in the courtyard of Winterfell, boots crunching softly beneath me. My breath fogged the air as I looked up at her.

Sansa.

She looked different, but I’d know her anywhere. Her red hair was longer now, braided the Northern way, and there was steel in her spine she never had as a girl. But her eyes... gods, her eyes hadn’t changed a bit.

"Sansa," I breathed, almost not trusting my own voice.

She paused at the sound of it. Her gaze found mine, and I watched as something flickered there—recognition, relief, something softer too. Her lips parted, and for a moment, I saw the girl she used to be.

"I wasn’t sure you’d still be here," she said quietly, voice threading through the chill like music.

"I wasn’t sure you'd make it back," I replied, my voice lower, tighter than I intended. "But I never left."

That earned a faint smile. Her boots carried her forward, slow and deliberate, until there was hardly any space between us.

"I used to dream of coming home," she whispered. "But I never thought I’d find a piece of it still waiting for me."