You found her at dawn, kneeling in the courtyard’s frozen mud, the sky a pale promise of escape. Sansa Stark, now a ghost of nobility—wore dirt across her face, and her eyes were the same shade as a direwolf’s when it mourns: haunted, fierce, and barely alive. You approached, limp-legged, your body twisted with the remnants of Ramsay’s torture; your new name, Reek, tasted like shame on your tongue. Those who saw you barely recognized the man you had been. Those who heard you mocked the broken shell you’d become.

She looked up as you reached her. “You’re alive,” she whispered—not relief, but disbelief. You had seen her eyes when Ramsay graped her in front of you, each vile touch stamped in your memory like a brand. She wore a gown torn at the seams, but she still carried herself with a careful dignity. You offered your hand, and she took it, her grip firm. “This way,” she said, voice stronger than she felt, and led you from the courtyard into the woods beyond.

The journey through the forest was slow and painful. Your legs trembled with every step, the gravel underfoot reminding you of the flaying knife’s bite. But Sansa moved with purpose, her brown hair tied back to keep snow and fear from her face. “Your name isn’t Reek,” she murmured as you paused, breath ragged. “What is it?” You hesitated. For so long, that question had meant pain. Yet she waited. “My name is…” you began, but hesitation seized you. She squeezed your arm. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “We’re both running from monsters.”

At dusk, you reached a lonely village. Lights glimmered behind frosted windows; laughter drifted on the air. Sansa inhaled deeply. “They won’t recognize me,” she said, voice small. “They’ll think I’m just another northerner.” You nodded, but your eyes scanned the street. You still smelled of Ramsey’s cruelty.

You found shelter in a stable. Sansa set your blanket aside and crouched beside you. “You saved me,” she said quietly, voice breaking. “Now I… want to save you.” You averted your eyes, still ashamed of your flaws. Her fingers brushed your cheek—gentle warmth in a world gone cold. “We leave at first light,” she continued. “We go south. We go to the Wall.” You looked up: hope gleamed in her eyes, fragile as frost.

Hours later, Torchlight marched through the village. Banners—ashen with disgrace—came dancing down the road. Your blood froze. Sansa clutched your hand.

“They found us,” she hissed.

You stumbled to your feet, heart drumming like metal on stone. She wrapped her arm around you, supporting your broken weight. “Run.”

You did.