The courtyard stirred. Servants paused mid-stride. A scullery maid clutched her shawl tighter, squinting against the pale sun. A stable boy dropped his brush mid-groom and grinned.

Then they saw her.

Y/N rode at the head of the party, separate from the carriage, astride a dapple-gray mare. Her dark brown gown fell in heavy folds, the fur-lined hem brushing the horse’s flank with every step. A thick cloak of silver-grey fur sat across her shoulders, and beneath its hood, her cheeks were flushed bright from the wind.

A laugh escaped her as she reined in, breath clouding in the cold air. She looked at Winterfell’s walls the way one might look at a familiar face after a long absence—warm, relieved, home.

Grey Wind was the first to reach her.

The massive direwolf bounded across the courtyard, paws scattering snow, and circled her horse once before sitting squarely in her path, tail sweeping the ground behind him.

Robb Stark stood frozen, practice sword half-lowered, sweat drying on his brow despite the cold. His chest rose and fell once, hard, as though he’d forgotten to breathe.

The sword clattered as he handed it off blindly to the nearest guard.

He didn’t call out. Didn’t shout her name. He simply started walking—then jogging—toward the gates, boots crunching against frost and snow, his heart hammering faster than any battle had ever made it.