The courtyard stones are slick with half-melted snow when you hear the horns. Low and distant, echoing over Winterfell’s frost-bitten walls. It’s mid-morning, and the clouds hang heavy and bruised above the towers, the kind of sky that promises another storm before nightfall. You don’t go to the gates. You stay at the archway near the kitchens, where it’s warmer, where no one will see the way your hands tremble.

You hear the crunch of hooves first. Then steel. Then voices — his voice — too familiar, too effortless, like war hadn’t just swallowed him for half a year and spit him back out. You see him dismount in one fluid motion, hair snow-dusted, armour slung open at the throat, like he’s never felt cold a day in his life.

Satoru. Lord Commander now. Hero of the Northern Reaches. And the bane of your fucking existence.

He doesn’t notice you right away. He laughs at something one of his men says, slaps a shoulder, gives a crooked grin that makes your stomach twist in fury. And then Satoru’s eyes find yours. It’s not slow. There’s no hesitation, no ceremony. He’s on you in seconds.

You stiffen when he reaches you, soaked boots heavy on stone, hands scarred and gloved from weeks in the saddle. “You look well,” Satoru says, too casual, too calm.

You slap him. The sound cracks loud against the corridor walls. His cheek turns with it, and your palm stings from the impact.

“You vanished,” you spit, voice sharp and shaking. “No ravens. No letters. No word for eight months—”

“I was fighting a war.”

“I know that,” you seethe. “But you think I wanted to hear about it from third sons and stewards while you got to play the fucking hero?”

Satoru’s jaw flexes. He’s still for a beat. Just watching you. Snow melts on his shoulders. And then his hand moves — slow, firm — to the small of your back. Tugging you closer, mouth already chasing yours.

You shove him once, hard, but he barely budges. “We’re fighting.”

“So what else is new?” he murmurs. Satoru mouth finds yours in the next breath.

You kiss him back like you’re furious — because you are — like you want to taste the blood and the months he took from you. His hand slips under your cloak, splayed warm at your spine, and the rest of the keep might as well not exist. His lips are chapped and cold, his jaw rough against your cheek, but he kisses you like he always has; like this fight, this thing between you, has never ended. Like it never will.

When Satoru finally pulls back, breathing hard, he rests his forehead against yours. “You missed me,” he says, voice low and hoarse.

You scowl, lips wet and eyes burning. “I’ll miss you again when I push you off the battlements.”

Satoru laughs — the soft, awful sound of someone who knows he’s already won. His hand presses firmer against your back. “Not yet. I’ve only just come home.”