If anyone asked her, Sansa would have been unable to say precisely what it was that alerted her to his presence. All she knew was that she had been watching Jon train with Tormund, their swords clashing together as their feet moved confidently across the snow, when something made the hairs on the back of her neck bristle with awareness. Her body tensed; after everything she had seen and encountered, the feeling of being watched unnerved her. Her hand dropped to the scabbard at her waist where she kept her dagger. Jon had given it her to defend herself in case Ramsay decided to storm Castle Black. They had yet to hear anything about his reaction to her escape, but she knew that he must be furious; it would not be long until he grew impatient and set out after her. Its presence was reassuring, even though she doubted it would do her much good. She had never been in a fight before, whereas Ramsay and his men had strength and years of experience to their name.

We would know if he were here, she reminded herself. He could not have marched his army all this way without attracting our notice – let alone breached the castle's walls.

Not that that meant there was no danger. Sansa knew enough about the kind of men who typically joined the Night's Watch to not want to be alone with any of their number. Slowly, so as not to give herself away, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and turned to face the threat, hoping that she looked as if she had just grown bored with the display.

She looked up and her eyes widened. Letting her hand drop away from the hilt of the dagger, she let out a soft, "Oh," that was more breath than sound. Looming before her, almost as tall as she was and twice as wide, was a hulking creature with vivid red eyes and a thick coat of fur that was as white as the snow that fell around them.

Ghost.

He was the most beautiful thing Sansa had seen in a long time. A sense of peace and reverence washed over her, cleansing her, as she stared at the direwolf. For years, she had longed to return to her family and their beloved Winterfell. When she finally had, it had been to find her loved ones scattered to the winds and their home in the hands of a traitor. Reuniting with Jon had been amazing, reminding her that she was no longer alone… but laying eyes on the animal that had given them their House sigil was something else entirely. She could feel her blood stirring within her. She had always intended to reclaim their ancestral lands and set to work rebuilding their fallen House, sending word out far and wide so that her younger siblings, if they still lived, would know that it was safe to return. But now, it wasn't just desire; it felt like duty.

Family, duty, honour.

They would not be the last generation to call themselves Stark.

For the first time in many moons, the smile that spread across her face was genuine and without the faintest hint of sorrow.

But then the illusion cracked, and the edges frayed, and the despair came rushing back in once more.

Lady, she thought as her eyes welled with tears. If only they had never gone south. Lady had been so young when Father killed her; she had never had the chance to grow this big, nor would she ever.

Sansa had tried not to think about her childhood protector. In King's Landing, where words were knives and emotions were poison, she had learned to push the memories to a little corner of her mind so that she could focus on surviving, on saying the right things with no trace of sadness or anger in her voice. But now, faced with what Lady might have become, she could not contain her shame and regret any longer. One tear fell, and then another and another. She reached a hand up to wipe away the fluid, not wanting anyone to see her weakness.

Something soft nuzzled into her shoulder, breaking her from her reverie. She was surprised to find that Ghost had approached her and was pushing his muzzle against her. Without thinking, she turned to the silent direwolf, burying her face into his neck as her fingers gripped his thick fur. He smelled of freshly fallen snow and other wild things - of freedom. She breathed him in and closed her eyes and let herself and her tears be lost into his warmth.

"Sansa?" someone called from behind her – Jon. She smiled into Ghost's neck. It still amazed her sometimes to hear her brother's voice when she wasn't expecting it. It was one thing to hear it when she was looking directly at him; it was another thing entirely when she was doing something mundane at the time.

Kissing the direwolf's neck, she stepped back and, wiping the remainder of her tears away, turned to face her brother. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the fight, but he looked bright-eyed and unharmed. "I'm fine," she said, noticing the concern in his eyes. "I just… I forgot."

Sansa wanted to explain, but she did not know how. What had she forgotten? What had she remembered? She couldn't say. It was too big and too small and too precious and too trivial for that. Fortunately, she didn't have to. Jon nodded and gave her a sad smile, and she realised that he understood.

She started forward, and Jon and Ghost quickly fell into step beside her. There was still a war to be won and a home to reclaim, but she did not want to spoil the sense of kinship and camaraderie that hung about them with another argument. It would keep until the morrow.