In a second her breath was gone. It was as if time had been suspended while the noise around her diminished and everything else dimmed. She was here. Winterfell. She had dreamt of home for so long. Saw it in the snow at the Eyrie. Tasted home when she ate meals and instantly remembered the meals that used to be prepared for Winterfell's numerous feasts.

So many emotions pulsed through her. The overwhelming need to weep, to scream, to laugh, to run around Winterfell's grounds and reconnect herself with the home of her childhood where her family had thrived. The memories crashed over her in overpowering waves. And in the background of those memories, she could hear her family's laughter.

She was home. But it wasn't really home. Not anymore. Winterfell looked like a shadow that failed to hold a flame to its former glory. The fury that overcame her at the ruin that had become of her once proud and thriving ancestral home nearly brought her to her knees. It was a rage that she could not quell.

Petyr sensed her mood as he exited the carriage and came to her. "It's okay, sweetling. All good things will come in due time. This is the first step towards taking back what is yours."

Sansa closed her eyes as his words washed over her. He was right. It wouldn't do to leave a poor first impression with the Boltons and risk dooming her plans before they were implemented. She inhaled and exhaled, then repeated the process again for good measure. When she opened her eyes, her Alayne mask was firmly in place. Alayne who couldn't possibly be emotionally affected by Winterfell, for she had never laid eyes on this place before.

Alayne coolly took in the view as she and her father were led into the courtyard of Winterfell. The courtyard was bustling with activity as people went about their daily work. The castle was in the process of renovations which it was quite in need of. In the center of the yard, the Bolton lord, his family, and their household had lined up to greet their guests as was tradition. Alayne was led to Lord Bolton who stepped forward with a dispassionate air.

"Lady Sansa, welcome," was his simple greeting. His indifferent gaze coolly took her in while seeming to dare her to reject his hospitality.

For a moment, Sansa rose to the silent challenge and screamed within her to be let out so that she could claw at her brother's murderer. The betrayer of her lady mother. But Alayne forced her back under the wall erected by calculated logic and tireless planning. Sansa's emotions could not be allowed to get in the way. Alayne allowed a serene smile to cross her face. "Lord Bolton," she greeted, dipping into a curtsy.

"May I introduce my son? Ramsay Bolton," he finished as he stepped aside to allow the two to make their acquaintance.

Alayne's gaze landed on the quiet dark haired guy that stepped forward, a shy smile on his face.

"It's an honor to meet you, my lady." He laid a soft kiss to the back of her hand.

Alayne gave a nod, and as he straightened, his eyes met hers.

The chill that hit her was unexpected. There wasn't any visible threat in his eyes, but there was something hiding within their depths that alerted her and gave her pause. Perhaps it was madness that glinted so wildly out at her, but she couldn't be sure. Whatever it was, she must discuss it with her father.

Alayne kept her composure until they made it inside the castle. Once they stepped inside, she couldn't hold Sansa back. The trembling took over her body as Sansa rose to the surface, her emotions unchecked.

Sansa could have wept as she stepped inside that stone castle. It was almost as if the years had melted away and she was a child of 13 living safely at Winterfell. If she ran up to her old bedchamber would it still be the same? Would the ghosts of her slaughtered family haunt the halls? Would she catch a whisper of Bran and Rickon laughing and Baby Rickon scampering out of sight on ghostly little legs? She almost wished it.

She followed the maid servant to the chamber that had been assigned to her. How odd, she thought, that I am being assigned a bedchamber in my own home. Sansa looked around the familiar room. It wasn't one that had been occupied by any of her family back in the olden days. And perhaps that was best. Maybe the memories would hurt less. But how much they already hurt. To be here in a home that wasn't really home. To be the only one trying to keep alive the memory of a once proud house that was now dead. The remains scattered in the wind.

"I'll bring you a bowl of hot water," she heard, as her mind returned to the present. "You must want to wash."

"Thank you," Sansa dutifully replied, finally turning her attention to the old lady that had accompanied her to the chamber.

The old lady looked around cautiously, before lowering her voice to a whisper. "Welcome home, Lady Stark. The North Remembers."

At once Sansa was comforted. I am a Stark, she reminded herself. I will be strong like Robb.

After her bath, Sansa was dressed in a new baby blue gown that played up her dazzling Tully blue eyes. Her auburn hair was brushed until it shone and seemed to come alive, glowing as vibrantly as a red hot flame. Her cheeks were pinched until a pretty blooming red surfaced in them. Courtesy was a lady's armor and she looked every bit the lady. She was ready to face the Boltons.

Sansa was escorted down to the Great Hall, the guest of honor to a feast that had been thrown in honor of her impending marriage to the younger Bolton. Her eyes searched out Petyr and relief washed over her when she caught sight of him. He gave a nod that signified his support and she took a deep breath. She was the picture of a well bred highborn lady as she sang the pretty songs from her childhood. Greeting lords and ladies, executing a delicate curtsy when needed, laughing softly, and putting everybody at ease. Everyone was enchanted by her except the two Boltons whose eyes never seemed to leave her.

Roose remained seated with an impassive expression. It didn't make any difference to him if she was aware that his attention was honed in on her or not.

Sansa wasn't sure if he approved or disapproved of the way she had carried herself throughout the feast. But she knew that she had been on her best behavior so he shouldn't have cause for complaint.

Ramsay on the other hand seemed to sulk. The more everyone was drawn to her, the darker his mood grew. But one wouldn't be able to tell by looking at his face alone, for he kept his expression pleasing. But the evidence of his mood was found in the dark storm swirling in his icy blue stare.

When the feast was finally over, Sansa made time to have private words with Petyr away from the other guests.

"You did so well, sweetling," he complimented, laying a quick kiss to her lips. "You won everybody over like I knew you would. You have made it clear to the Boltons how imperative your presence is in order to have the North on their side."

Sansa was pleased. "I was frightened at first," she admitted.

"But you did it. And that is all that matters. Now comes the tougher part. Wooing the Bolton boy. Ramsay. You must wrap him around your fingers just like you did with the Northern lords and ladies."

Sansa hesitated. "I saw something in his eyes that worried me," she broached.

"It is very smart of you to be worried," Petry confirmed. "Ramsay is more than he appears. But this is just more fuel for you to use to take back your home. I will continue to seek him out and converse with him, but it is vital that you charm him. Stroke his ego and get him to open up about himself. Use whatever that you learn to your advantage."

Sansa nodded. "I will."

That night as she slept under the furs in her bedchamber in Winterfell, she dreamt of the old days. She dreamt of her real home in which Father, Mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon, and Arya were alive and well. Even Jon Snow her bastard brother. Even him. He was family too. She dreamt of innocence. Days spent playing snowball fights with Arya and the boys. Whispering and giggling with Jeyne Poole. Sewing to her heart's content under the approving gaze of Septa Mordane. And when Sansa awoke, it was with the taste of promise in the air. A promise to reclaim all that was lost. A promise to restore Winterfell to its former glory.