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The frozen wetness of the North has long since seeped through Sansa's cloak and infiltrated her bones. It has numbed her to the point that she is no longer aware of her pain and fear, of the bruises on her body and the fearsome enemies at her back. Every step through the wilderness is a silent struggle, but still she carries on. Sansa did not come this far only to die. She will make it home. There is no other choice.
One day, after weeks of suffering, Sansa finally staggers through the gates of Winterfell, throws herself into Jon's arms for the first time since they were children, and cries.
Even as her skin begins to thaw, she does not quite believe that she is safe. She is still dreadfully afraid that her body is still trapped in a living nightmare somewhere while her mind alone traipses through this dreamscape, that at any moment she might open her eyes and find herself returned to the cruel clutches of the Boltons.
But minutes continue to pass, snow continues to fall, and Sansa does not wake.
However, she is still in a daze when Jon escorts her inside and takes his temporary leave of her, murmuring something about the kitchens.
Other people step in to help her undress once she has been deposited in an empty bedchamber with a warm fire blazing in the hearth. Their faces and voices seem passingly familiar as they peel layers of sodden, freezing fabric from Sansa's skin, but she no longer recalls their names. It feels as though she has lived a hundred lives and died a thousand deaths since she was last in Winterfell. She is a ghost who has suddenly and forcefully been thrust back into the world of the living, but a generation too late to make the transition entirely seamless. She is out of step, out of touch, outside of herself.
It is only later, when she has been wrapped in a pile of warm first and bowl of stew has been placed into her hands, that Sansa begins to again feel grounded. The first spoonful burns her tongue at first, so unused as she is to heat and food of any sort, nonetheless something as hearty as this. To most people here, this is wartime fare, far from the simple luxuries of peacetime, but to Sansa, it is a feast. It is real. It is filling. It is more than she could wish for.
By the time Jon comes to see her, returned from his errand to join her at the hearth, some semblance of life has returned to Sansa's eyes, a dazzling ray of sunlight caught in the shifting seas of her gaze. Color lingers on her cheeks. Fondness lurks in the gentle set of her mouth.
"I never thought I'd see you again." Joy and sadness twine together as she speaks, weaving in and out of the words like a strand of silk threaded through an embroidery needle. "I still do not quite believe I am home. I fear that I left a part of myself behind, and I worry that it might call me back at any moment."
Jon sighs as he sinks deeper into the chair beside her. Passingly, he casts an eye towards the bowl in her hands, as if to make sure that she has actually eaten.
"It may be scant comfort," he says, "But if this is not real, then you and I have both been played for fools."
Sansa smiles, eyes sliding down towards her lap. "It is more comfort than anyone has thought to offer me in some time."
Jon's eyes fix on the fire. His brow furrows as its orange light flickers affectionately across his stern features, still so like their father's. "We do not live in a kind world."
"No. We do not."
A moment of silence hangs heavy between them before Jon seems to suddenly remember something. Straightening, he roots around in his pockets before pulling out a small parcel wrapped in paper.
"It is not much," he says as he passes it to Sansa, "But I know that they were your favorite."
Excitement, newly freed from the glacial ice in which it has so long been locked, flutters in Sansa's stomach as she places her bowl aside and accepts the gift. The edges of the paper furl beneath her slightly trembling fingers as she seeks out its contents.
There, in the palm of her hand, is a small lemon cake.
"We are low on sugar, but --"
Jon does not have a chance to finish crafting his apology before Sansa stands, crosses the space between them, and wraps him in a crushing hug.
"Thank you."
Jon's posture softens. "You're welcome, Sansa."
Later, with a full belly and the fresh memory of citrus and sugar on her tongue, Sansa thinks that the cold, lingering sense of being stuck in a nightmare has finally fled from her body.
She is warm. She is loved. She is safe at last.