Jon had not seen your face since the day he departed for the wall. The image of your heartbroken, tear-stained face would forever be seared into his mind. He could remember so vividly the way snowflakes clung to your damp lashes, and how your voice quivered as you forgave him. Forgave him for leaving, for abandoning you and the love you shared. Regret coiled in his gut ever since war first broke across the realm. He had heard your name on scarce occasions, small mentions of your life in King’s Landing as you stuck by Sansa’s side. And then, the whispers stopped coming. It all went silent. You became another name lost in the winds of winter, another tortured soul who he hoped - gods help him - found peace wherever you had ended up.

Jon had heard news of Lord Bolton and his bastard son. Everyone in all of Westeros had heard of the massacre at the Red Wedding, the blood that had stained stone and forever altered the history of the North itself. It was not long before word came of Ramsay Bolton’s marriage to Sansa. He wondered, selfishly, if you had ended up elsewhere. His thoughts were consumed with the memories of the old kindlings of love.

Even as Jon had laid cold and bleeding in the snow, the last name on his lips had been a whisper of your name. However, death was not permanent. It seemed the Lord of Light, the old gods, the seven - whatever higher being that was looking down upon him decided that his time on this earth was not yet finished.

Snowflakes fell in flurries, joining the already-thick carpet of snow that covered Castle Black. Though he hung up his blacks, he had remained at the wall, wary of the threat that lay beyond the ice barricade. The wooden floorboards beneath him groaned, as if the very walls of the castle were speaking their woes. The courtyard had grown still.

Jon was not there for no reason.

Longclaw felt heavy on his hip as he watched the small group of newcomers on horseback. One tall woman shrouded in armor, a squire, and… you. Weariness clung to your frame, as though time itself had torn you down. A tattered cloak of Bolton colours was wrapped tightly around your shoulders, one tightly clenched hand grasping the reins as you lead your horse through the wildlings and men of the watch alike.

Jon scarcely had time to think, his heart lodged in his throat. All of this time, all of these months since the news of Ramsay’s wedding - it had been you that he wed, not Sansa. He had always known you were loyal, protective even, but to take on the identity of a Stark girl just to spare her from a horrible fate that you would endure instead was near madness.

He descended the stairs with quick determination, biting back the burning in his eyes. He would not cry, not when his heart felt too large for his chest, as though the very sight of you had sucked the air from his lungs. Jon’s boots hit the snow just as yours did, and you turned to meet his gaze as you passed off the reins to the man who offered to take your horse.

Up close, Jon could see the damage that Ramsay’s cruelty had done. The light in your eyes had dimmed, and your skin was left blemished and gaunt, but in that moment you were the most lovely thing he had seen.

“{{user}},” Jon breathed your name like a prayer. He could form no other words, one single thought echoing in his mind as it had for years. You, you, you.

His footsteps were quickened, and so were yours, as the distance between you grew shorter. Jon wrapped his arms around you in an embrace that felt more like a claim than anything. Despite the hardships of the world, you had found him again, like a moth to a flame. He lifted you slightly, the toes of your boots barely scraping the snow, before he set you down. Warm, calloused hands cradled your face with a tenderness that was almost unbecoming, and Jon planted a kiss to your forehead. It was lingering, reverent.