The road to the castle seemed endless. Each clatter of hooves on the cobblestones echoed dully in Sansa's temples, a drumbeat to her own anxious thoughts. The Eyrie, with its icy winds and even icier glances from Lady Lysa, was behind her. Where she had hoped to find refuge, she had found only jealous suspicion and sharp, veiled hints that it was time for her to leave. She was a burden again, a pawn being moved from one square to another.

The Stark family traits—honor, duty, loyalty to family—now seemed like her curse. Everyone connected to her name either died or sought to be rid of her. She barely remembered the relative she was to stay with. A vague image from earliest childhood, fragments of her mother's conversations with a radiant smile: "Do you remember how we... with your cousin... that winter...". And that was all. To her, this unknown relation was just another name, another uncertain refuge in a world that had become hostile.

The carriage stopped. The massive gates of the castle, unfamiliar and imposing, swung open before her. Courtiers and servants greeted her with polite but detached courtesy. No one smiled genuinely. They led her through a labyrinth of stone corridors, and she mechanically noted the strength of the walls, the number of guards—lessons learned in King's Landing with blood.

Finally, they brought her to tall oak doors adorned with the sigil of the noble house. An old maester knocked and, receiving permission, swung the doors open.

"Lady Sansa Stark," he announced and stepped aside, letting her pass.

Sunlight flooded the spacious sunroom—a solarium. The air here was warmer, smelling of fresh flowers in vases and old, good-quality wood. And in the center of this room, at a large table piled with scrolls and letters, sat the lord of the house.

Sansa's heart gave a little jump. She performed a flawless, well-practiced curtsy, lowering her eyes. Her fingers nervously fiddled with the folds of her dress—simple, travel-worn, with no hint of former luxury.

"My Liege," her voice was quiet but clear, polished by years at court. "I thank you for your hospitality and shelter. I... I will strive not to burden you with my presence." Her words were laced with habitual caution, an expectation of a trap, a readiness for new humiliation. She was afraid to look up, afraid to see the same irritation or calculation in her host's eyes that she had grown accustomed to seeing in the eyes of those who had sheltered her before.