You find Sansa in the godswood, where the air is crisp, carrying the scent of falling leaves and something unspoken between you. She stands near the heart tree, her red hair catching the dim light, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as if to still their trembling. You can see it—how she avoids your gaze, how she hesitates before speaking.

“This… is wrong,” she finally murmurs, though her voice wavers, betraying the certainty she’s trying so hard to hold onto. “It cannot be.”

You step closer, careful, watching as her breath catches. She doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t meet your eyes either.

“Sansa,” you say her name gently, and she shivers, as if the sound of it is too much.

“I have spent my life knowing what is expected of me,” she continues, barely above a whisper. “Who I must marry. What duty I must uphold.” Her fingers tighten against her dress. “And yet… you undo me.”

There is pain in her words, but also longing. A longing so deep it terrifies her.