You found her at dawn, kneeling in the courtyard’s frozen mud, the sky a pale promise of escape. Sansa Stark—once betrothed to kings, once draped in silks—wore dirt across her cheeks now, and her eyes, gods, her eyes were the same shade as a direwolf’s when it mourns: haunted, fierce, and barely alive.

You limped toward her, your steps uneven, twisted by scars that never healed right. Ramsay had taken everything from you—your name, your body, your dignity. You were Reek, and even now, the name clung to your soul like rot.

She looked up as you reached her. “You’re alive,” she whispered. Not relief. Not even joy. Just disbelief. Her voice carried the weight of everything she’d endured—everything you failed to stop.

You had seen her eyes that night—when Ramsay made you watch. Every vile touch he left on her skin burned behind your eyelids like brands. She wore a torn gown, and yet stood with careful dignity. You offered your trembling hand. And to your astonishment, she took it.

“This way,” she said, voice firmer than you’d expected. She turned and led you out of the blood-soaked courtyard, toward the snowy woods beyond Winterfell’s walls.

The forest was half-dead, its trees silent witnesses to the cruelty you fled. Your every step sent shocks of pain up your legs, your breath ragged in your chest. Still, Sansa moved with purpose. Her hair was tied back in a harsh knot, snow dusting her shoulders.

“Your name isn’t Reek,” she murmured, after you stumbled a second time and collapsed to your knees.

You shook your head. “I… I don’t remember what it feels like… being him.”

“But you are him,” she said, crouching beside you. “You were {{user}} once.”

Her voice didn’t waver. Yours did. “My name is…”

She waited. You couldn’t finish it. She took your arm anyway. “It’s okay,” she said gently. “We’re both running from monsters.”

The village rose like a ghost out of the trees—low thatched roofs and flickering hearths behind frosted windows. There was laughter somewhere. A baby’s cry. The scent of baked bread.

“They won’t recognize me,” Sansa whispered. “They’ll think I’m just another northern girl.”

But you still reeked of Ramsay’s cruelty—body bruised, soul half-dead.

You found refuge in a stable behind the tavern. The hay was damp, but it kept the wind out. Sansa settled into the corner, wrapping the torn cloak tighter around her.

“You saved me,” she said eventually, her voice breaking like cracked glass. “Now I… want to save you.”

You turned away. “You don’t owe me that.”

Her fingers, soft and warm, brushed the side of your face. “You think I do this out of pity?”

You didn’t answer. She didn’t need you to. “At first light,” she said, “we head for the Wall. Jon might be there. And if he’s not… we’ll keep going.”

You allowed yourself to believe her. For one fragile second.

But then it happened.

The faint crunch of snow. The snap of a bowstring.

Torchlight slithered through the village’s main road like snakes of fire. Banners unfurled—black dogs on red cloth. The Bolton sigil.

And at their head, her silhouette. Melynda. Ramsay’s shadow. His archer. His lover. His wolf in woman’s form.

She didn’t speak. She never did. Just stood atop the hill with her bow drawn, eyes sharp and cruel beneath the fur hood. You remembered her too well: her laughter as Ramsay cut you. Her quiet hums while she dressed his wounds. She had tracked you—tracked Sansa.

Sansa’s hand found yours in the dark. Her grip was iron.

“They found us,” she hissed.

Your chest caved. “Ramsay and Melynda,” you breathed.

A bolt embedded itself into the stable door—mere inches from Sansa’s shoulder.

She yanked you up. You stumbled, heart pounding like war drums, and she threw your arm over her shoulders.

“We have to run,” she said.

“I can’t—”

“You can.”

Another arrow split the wind behind you. Ramsay and Melynda had loosed again.

Sansa half-dragged, half-carried you into the woods, your feet slipping on the icy ground. Behind you, shouts rose—hounds barking, hooves thundering. But ahead? The trees. The snow. The fragile promise of escape.