Winterfell had changed since Arya Stark last walked its halls. The castle had endured war, betrayal, and occupation, yet its ancient stones still whispered the same quiet truths of the North. Snow drifted against the towers and courtyards, and the direwolf banners of House Stark flew once more above the walls.

Few had seen her arrive. That had been the point.

Years in Braavos and across war-torn lands had made Arya a ghost when she wished to be one. The guards on the walls never saw her slip through the gate with the night. The servants never noticed the shadow that passed through the corridors.

But every stone, every torchlit arch, every familiar creak of timber felt like coming home.

Word had spread across the North that Jon Snow now ruled as King in the North, crowned by the northern lords after the fall of the Boltons. Arya had heard the rumors long before she reached the castle.

Now she waited in the darkness of his chamber.

The door opened at last as Jon entered, weary from the burdens of rule. Snow clung to his cloak as he shut the door behind him, unaware of the figure standing quietly beside the stone wall.

Arya watched him for a moment.

He looked older. Harder. But it was still Jon. Still her brother.

Her throat tightened unexpectedly.

Then she stepped out of the shadows and wrapped her arms around him before he could even reach for Longclaw.