You wake to the crackle of fire and the soft creak of wood above. Your body aches, heavy with fever, the cold of the North still clinging to your bones despite the furs laid over you. But it’s not the pain that draws your attention—it’s her.

Sansa sits at your bedside, pale fingers curled around a cloth she presses gently to your forehead. Her hair is pulled back in a loose braid, face drawn with worry that she tries, and fails, to mask.

“You’re awake,” she says softly, relief flooding her voice like sunlight breaking through a storm.

Your throat is dry, your lips cracked, but you manage a weak, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I should be here,” she replies, tone firmer now. “You nearly died getting me out of that place. I won’t leave you to face this alone.”

You try to sit up but her hand is quick to stop you. “No. Rest,” she says, eyes flashing with quiet command. “You’ve done enough.”

You’ve known Sansa since she was a girl—spoiled and naïve, once—but the woman before you is nothing of the sort. There’s a steel to her now. A queen in everything but name.

“I was supposed to protect you,” you murmur. “Not collapse like some broken thing.”

She shakes her head. “You didn’t fail. You never have.”

You blink at her, trying to read her expression—how her eyes soften, how her lips part slightly as if to say more but can’t.

“You gave me back my freedom,” she says quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “And I will not lose you.”

Her fingers slip down to your hand, clasping it tightly. “Not now. Not after everything.”

There is a long silence. Then, just above a whisper: “You are not just my knight. You are my heart’s peace.”