The wind howled through Castle Black’s narrow passages, carrying the scent of pine and smoke. The moment your horse clattered over the threshold, heads turned—brothers pausing in their drills, stewards stopping mid-step.

Then you dismounted—fast, decisive—and your dark hair tumbled loose from its braid like spilled ink. That scar on your cheek—the thin silver line cutting across pale skin—hadn’t been there when Jon last saw you.

The snow caught your feet. The boots were not enough, and you had forgotten how cold the north was.

A boy near the stables whispered something to his brother: “That’s her… the Baratheon girl."

Before anyone could approach or announce you properly—a shadow moved fast from the barracks.

Jon.

You knew it before you truly saw him. There was something unmistakable in the way he moved now—harder than before, heavier somehow. Not the uncertain boy who once stood at Winterfell’s edge with his hands shoved awkwardly beneath his furs, watching you from afar like he thought he had no right. This man walked like the world had already tried to kill him once.

The brothers parted instinctively as he crossed the yard.

Black wool whipped behind him in the wind. Snow clung to the dark curls at his temples, and for one terrible heartbeat he only stared. As if he did not trust his own eyes.

You felt your chest tighten.

He looked thinner. Older. There were new lines carved into his face, and something colder lurking beneath the surface of him now, something wolfish and exhausted all at once. The scar beneath his eye was fresh compared to yours. His hands looked rougher. Blood had changed him. Death had changed him.

Neither of you spoke at first.

Ghost appeared at Jon’s side like a specter from the snowstorm itself, red eyes fixed on you. The direwolf was enormous now, larger than any hound, his white fur blending almost seamlessly into the drifts around him.

A few brothers shifted uneasily. The wolf sniffed once— then padded toward you. Your breath caught as Ghost pressed against your side without hesitation, as though he remembered you perfectly.

Jon stopped a few feet away.

Close enough to touch.

Not close enough to breathe. “You came north,” he said quietly.