The gates of Winterfell loomed ahead, dust rising from the trampled earth as you approached. Snow clung to your boots, the cold biting at your skin, but it wasn’t the chill that made your heart race—it was the thought of seeing her again. Years had passed. Years, and a war that had left both of you older, wearier, and forever changed.

Sansa stood at the top of the steps, her hair a cascade of auburn against the grey stone. The wind tugged at her cloak, but she stood tall, every inch the Lady of Winterfell. When her eyes met yours, the frost of the North seemed to soften.

You stopped at the bottom of the stairs, unsure for a moment if this was real. Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles—a small thing, but enough to make the weight you’d carried for years ease.

“Welcome home,” she said, her voice steady but warmer than you remembered.

You nodded, unable to find words that could bridge the gap of all that had happened. She descended the steps slowly, her boots crunching against the snow, until she stood before you.

“You’ve changed,” she observed quietly. “But then… so have I.”