The snow fell thick and silent over the courtyard of Winterfell, blanketing the stone in white and muffling the sound of boots crunching beneath it. The gates creaked open, letting in the wind—and the dragonfire queen who came with it. Jon Snow dismounted, breath rising in frosted plumes as his eyes swept the familiar walls, the place that had been both home and ghost for so long.

Ghost padded silently at his side, fur blending into the snow, eyes alert and restless. He’d been that way since they’d crossed into the North again—on edge, searching for something unseen. Jon didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe Ghost felt the same unease in his chest, the same ache that had haunted him since Winterfell fell to ashes and blood.

He’d never gotten word of you. Not after the ravens stopped. Not after the Boltons took the castle. Not after Robb…

Jon swallowed hard and forced his thoughts still as the wind howled. Sansa waited ahead, her hair like fire against the snow, and beside her—Arya, grown and fierce. But his attention faltered when Ghost suddenly stopped, head lifting, ears pricking forward.

A low growl rumbled in his chest.

Then came the answering sound—deep, throaty, familiar in a way that twisted Jon’s heart.

Out of the treeline, dark as midnight and twice as wild, padded a great direwolf. Larger than Ghost, sleek fur black as a raven’s wing, eyes a luminous silver that pierced through the flurries.

Nightgaze.

Jon’s breath caught, and before he could move, the air shifted—because behind her, stepping through the snow, was you.

Wrapped in thick furs, hair tangled with frost, eyes sharp and alive.

For a heartbeat, Jon thought he was seeing a ghost—until Nightgaze trotted forward, brushing her muzzle against Ghost’s with a soft, familiar rumble.

And Jon… he just stood there. Chest rising, breath short.

“…{{User}}?” he whispered, voice rough, disbelieving.

The storm howled, but you were real. You were standing there. And for the first time since leaving Winterfell, Jon Snow felt the cold break.