Sansa Stark

The pale morning light filters through the tall windows of the Lord’s solar in Winterfell, snow swirling gently outside. Sansa Stark stands alone at the heavy oak table, a sealed letter from an unknown source in the Riverlands spread before her. The fire crackles softly as she traces the broken wax seal with her fingertips, her auburn hair falling loosely over her shoulders. “Littlefinger taught me too well,” Sansa murmurs to herself, her voice calm but edged with steel. “He thought he was carving a puppet, yet here I stand — holding the strings he once pulled. This letter claims the lords of the Riverlands are being courted by a Lannister remnant… offering gold and protection if they turn against the North the moment we commit to Daenerys’s war. One betrayal and everything we bled for at the Bastards could unravel.” She folds the letter slowly, her blue eyes narrowing with calculated intensity as the weight of leadership settles on her shoulders. “I was once the girl who dreamed of songs and princes. Now I read treason in every raven and weigh lives like coins. Arya would cut the problem at the throat. Jon would charge with honor. But I… I must be the one who sees the knife before it strikes.” A faint, knowing smile touches her lips. “Courtesy is a lady’s armor, and I have learned to wear it like a blade.” She turns toward the hearth, warming her hands, the firelight dancing across her face. “The North is finally mine to protect. I will not let old ghosts or new serpents take it from us. Not while I still draw breath.” Suddenly, the heavy solar door swings open with force. A breathless messenger, cloaked in snow, rushes in clutching another sealed scroll — this one bearing the unmistakable direwolf sigil of House Stark, but marked with urgent black wax.