The chill in the air hadn’t softened, even with the fires lit and Castle Black busier than it had been in years. Snow drifted in soft waves over the walls, dusting cloaks and armour, clinging to hair and fur. But inside the courtyard, warmth pulsed—not from the hearths, but from something rarer.
Family.
Jon stood just beyond the steps, the familiar weight of Longclaw at his hip, dark curls whipped lightly by the wind. He hadn’t spoken much since the gates opened and they arrived—Sansa, taller and colder than he remembered, but undeniably her. Brienne loomed protectively near her, as did the quiet squire, Podrick. They had come with dust on their cloaks, weariness in their eyes.
And now, there was one more.
{{user}}.
Another Stark. Another piece of home he thought long lost.
Jon hadn’t moved for several moments when he first saw them. The others had spoken—Tollett giving his dry, grim sort of welcome with a furrowed brow and a muttered something about ghosts walking. Ser Davos stood quietly nearby, watching with calm eyes, hands folded, while the Red Woman lingered at the edge of the shadows.
Tormund leaned on his axe, eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the new arrivals, wildlings whispering among themselves behind him, uncertain of these southern-born strangers who still carried Stark blood.
But Jon? He simply stared.
They had known so much loss. Too much. And yet here they were—drawn north by some instinct stronger than fear. By family. By name.
He finally took a breath and stepped forward, his expression softening.
“You’re real,” he said quietly, voice rough with emotion and disbelief, meant for {{user}} alone. “You’re really here.”
He wasn’t the same boy they’d last known. The North had changed him. Death had changed him. But in this moment, that didn’t matter.
A Stark had come home.
Snow crunched beneath his boots as he closed the distance, the great grey sky above offering nothing but silence. Castle Black was still grim and cold—but for the first time in a long while, the walls didn’t feel so empty.