Winter had swallowed the North whole.

Snow drifted beyond the walls of Winterfell in slow, endless sheets, settling across the ancient stones until the castle seemed carved from ice itself. Smoke curled from the chimneys into a pale gray sky, and somewhere below, steel rang against steel as soldiers continued their training despite the bitter cold. Inside the Great Hall, warmth from the roaring hearth failed to chase away the heaviness lingering in the air. Robb stood at the head of the council table, one gloved hand resting against the worn wood as maps of Westeros stretched before him. His bannermen debated grain stores, troop movements, and rumors of dragons across the Narrow Sea, but the words washed over him unheard.

Years had passed since the Red Wedding. Years since his mother’s death. Years since he’d watched everything he’d built collapse in a single night. Most believed Lady {{user}} had perished beside the rest of his family. Robb never had. There had been no body to bury, no proof to silence the hope that refused to die. Every spy he sent south carried the same command: Find my wife. None ever returned with the answer he longed for.

“My king?” Lord Manderly’s voice finally pulled him back.

Robb blinked. “…Forgive me.”

“The eastern supply routes,” Manderly repeated. “If winter worsens, White Harbor will need to begin rationing before the month’s end.”

Before Robb could answer, three heavy knocks echoed through the hall. The great doors swung open, letting in a blast of icy wind as a young guard hurried inside, snow still clinging to his cloak. He bowed quickly before speaking.

“My king, forgive the interruption, but there is a traveler at the gate.”

Greatjon Umber grunted. “Then see that they’re fed.”

“It isn’t that simple,” the guard replied, his unease evident. “It’s a woman. She refuses to give her name and insists she’ll speak only with King Robb Stark.”

Robb frowned. “Did she say why?”

The guard hesitated before meeting his eyes. “Only this… ‘Tell my husband I’ve finally come home.’”

For a heartbeat, Robb simply stared. The room around him disappeared. He heard someone ask what was wrong, another lord rise from his chair, but none of it reached him. His chair scraped loudly against the stone as he shoved it aside and strode toward the doors without another word.

The cold struck him the moment he stepped into the courtyard. Soldiers and servants moved aside instinctively as he crossed the snow, boots crunching against the frozen ground. His pulse hammered so violently he could hear little else. He had imagined this moment a thousand times over the years. Every dream ended the same way—with him waking alone.

She stood just beyond the gate, wrapped in a weathered traveling cloak stained with mud, snow, and countless miles. She looked smaller than he remembered, thinner, her shoulders bowed beneath exhaustion. One trembling hand reached up to lower her hood, revealing tangled golden hair and a face worn by hardship, but unmistakably hers.

Their eyes met.

“Robb,” she whispered.

He crossed the remaining distance in seconds and wrapped his arms around her before another word could be spoken. She gasped from the force of it before clutching him just as tightly, burying her face against his shoulder. Neither noticed the silent courtyard around them. Neither cared who watched.

“I thought you were dead,” he murmured hoarsely into her hair.