A/N My first language is not English. I apologize for mistakes on my part.
They still saw her as a young silly girl when Sansa returned to Winterfell for the first time. She noticed it in the way they looked at her, unconvinced and distrusting, in the way they mockingly called her "Lady Stark of Winterfell". But she firmly stood her ground and did not allow herself to let them see her crack as they guided her towards the familiar (yet so different from what she could remember) grounds. When her trembling hands betrayed her she gripped the reins of her horse and clenched her fists so tight she could almost feel her nails breaking through the leather of her gloves.
The first weeks of her return she convided herself to her quarters, trying to convince not only her handmaidens but also herself she was not locking herself away, she was simply tired from the long journey and needed to rest. As she traced the lines of the stone on the walls and clothed herself in fur she mentally prepared for her walls to break down, to feel the stone inside crumble to pieces and cry until there were no tears left. Instead she felt even more numb than before, and when she looked in the mirror she saw a stranger looking back at her, pale complexion and hollow cheeks. After a while she came to the conclusion that maybe her walls would never fall and perhaps she had lost her tears a long time ago, replacing them with an empty spirit. She was no longer the (bastard) daughter, the sister or the lover but she was a lady now. No longer a foolish child believing in fairytales but an older and wiser Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.
As she accepted her duties as the last remaining Stark she made use of the knowledge she gained over the years, reluctantly admitting to herself that Petyr Baelish had been useful in his own way, preparing her for the claim of Winterfell whenever he wasn't too busy putting his tongue inside her. When she had her first successes in managing her land, receiving thanks and respect, she could not sleep for a moon's turn. Bile rose up in her mouth whenever she lay her head down to sleep, knowing she was only a stupid little girl, lying to her own people because her successes should have been contributed to Petyr Baelish. Still the people unknowingly praised her for her abilities to come up with clever and honest solutions to complex problems, calling her the true daughter of her father, proudly smiling at her when she cut of the head of a deserter as if she had done it a millions time before. Thinking to herself she realised she had in a way (in her dreams). So she kept building Winterfell back up, for the sake of her people, replacing every hole with a new stone, and as she did she pushed the dissapointment away, feeling it grow when she felt the stones could not fill the emptiness inside her.
When the time came to defend her land she knew her men wanted and expected her to stand before them, head high and proud, sitting on top of her horse, making their blood boil with her speech and addressing them with duty and honor. Instead she locked herself away again, quitely sitting at her table, leaning into the touch of her handmaid brushing her hair. When she looked at her in the mirror she saw how the young girl could not hide her disapproval and worried brow, noticing the way her hand shook as she held the brush. And for the first time Sansa felt a sting, growing inside like a small flame, warming her cold hands and feet. With a shock she observed the feeling (guilt), how it awakened something inside her, raw and ancient. With startling realisation she stood up, ignoring the cries as she stormed off on her horse.
When she arrived they welcomed her with loud calls, waving their arms, anticipation in their eyes. But as she looked around her, at the soldiers and the tents, smelling the awaiting battle on them, she was at a loss. When their voices died down she knew she had to speak, say something, do something. She knew she could have raised a sword, calling herself one of them, screaming loudly, a warrior of justice. But she couldn't. She was not Arya, she was not her father or mother and she was not her brother Robb. So she dismounted her horse, walked up to the gathering crowd and grabbed the hands of the two nearest men. Her voice quiet and shaking, palms sweating and breath uneven she knew what to do. And as the men around her started singing along to her Mother's Hymn she felt herself finally giving in, accepting the quiet embrace of the singing, echoing in the woods. When she rode back to Winterfell that evening, tears pricking behind her eyes, she could hear the wolves howling their approval in the woods.
In the year that followed Sansa developed the habit of visiting the godswood, the whispering of the leaves and birds comforting her, and at times she could swear she could hear back the echo of her own singing voice (or was it her mother?) in the wind. She had gotten used to Winterfell in her own way. Exploring the hallways as if it was her first time visiting, touching everything she could find and determent to make it her home. And as the first rays of sun touched her face, like the soft caress of her mother, she finally felt a calm wash through her, a wave of peace soothing her soul. She took pride in knowing her people felt for her, took pride in knowing they had accepted her as their own. But pride was not enough to heal her wounds, and at night when she was alone again she still felt an emptiness, numbing her once more as she looked at the bedrest, and when she was tired enough that her eyes fell close on their own accord she swore she saw the glimps of her Lady, her direwolf, resting on top of it.
When autumn came Sansa took her usual stroll towards the godswoods again, a soft breeze stroking her sweaty brow, sending goosebumps down her neck and arms. She had dressed too hot for the season, but every chance she got she stubbornly put on her furs again, and when she looked in the mirror, red hair cascading down on the furs, she believed she felt almost strong. Hearing a strange rustle behind her she quickly swung around, almost losing her balance in the progress. As she stared incoherent at the man in front of her, unable to form a proper sentence, she wondered to herself if he was an image of her mind, much like her own Lady. And so they stood, for a good time, quitely studying each other as the sound of the woods filled the silence. She studied his face, the way his dark hair stuck to the sides with sweat, his brooding eyes, thin lines around the edges. Years had passed both of them and for a split second she thought him to be someone else. He had a trimmed beard, covering the lower part of his face, but he was still strong build and handsome. And when he took three steps and embraced her almost forcefully, crushing her limbs against his own as he desprately buried his fist in her hair, the other around her waist, she could feel his beard tickling the side of her neck. Folding her arms around him she welcomed his embrace, smelling sweat and leather, and something that was him. She felt her own body tremble with emotion as he called out her name for the first time. A hot tear fell down her right cheek. And when he said it again she felt it cutting through her like a knife, piercing her heart, hearing not only his own voice but the voice of her brothers and her sister through his call. When she fell down on her knees he went with her, holding her in his lap, rushing his hands through her hair and murmering soothing words as you would do to calm a child. She cradled his face between her hands and as she looked in his eyes, so much like her fathers, she felt her heart ache as she thought of only one thing.
"Jon."
She was home. (Finally)
A/N First story. First time ever writing a story, really. So it's not great. Sorry if the characters seem strange.
:-)