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When Sansa reaches Castle Black, she was unsure of what she would find. She knew what she hoped to find—rather, she knew who she wanted to find.
Jon.
It would be so sweet to see him once again.
When she reached Castle Black, the gates were open and there were shouts and screams. It reminded her of the bread riot, only it was not the smallfolk who tore at flesh and howled at the injustice of it all.
No.
It was not a person at all.
A great white direwolf snapped his jaws around the neck of a man, blood staining his ivory maw crimson. There were others who were already ripped and torn.
She remembered a smaller direwolf once ripping the hand of a bastard prince to protect her other half.
Jon.
Where was Jon?
Sansa dismounted her horse, Brienne and Podrick behind her.
“My lady—”
Sansa ignored her sword shield and stepped forward. “Ghost,” she said, her voice curling around the word as though she were saying home. “Ghost.”
The direwolf released his latest victim from his maw. His red eyes focused on Sansa with such intensity that she should have been afraid, but she was not.
Jon. Where was Jon?
It would be so sweet to see him once again.
There was something wrong with Ghost’s eyes. There was a greyish tone to them. They seemed wild. They seemed otherworldly. They seemed human.
“Ghost,” her voice grew bolder. “Ghost, to me.”
The large direwolf stalked towards her.
Would Lady have grown to be so big or would she have been smaller. Ghost was almost as tall as Sansa. He growled at her slightly. Growled at her closeness. She lifted her hood and let it fall, red hair cascaded down her shoulders like water or blood—Sansa knew not which she preferred.
Ghost ceased his growling and blinked at her slowly. He touched his nose to her cheek and breathed her in. Sansa wondered if he could smell the wolf in her or did he smell only lions, mockingbirds, or falcons. Whatever he scented caused him to whimper slightly. He nuzzled Sansa’s cheek and neck with his maw, smearing the blood along her ivory skin.
Sansa brought up a shaking hand and combed her fingers through his snowy white fur. He pressed his face closer to hers, as though merely touching her were not enough. As only being one with her would heal whatever savagery echoed in the beast’s heart.
“Where is Jon, Ghost?” She whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Where is he?” Tears began to slide down her cheeks.
What if she were too late? What if she were the last again. Jon has been her last hope—the last thing that tied her to this world? The only reason she had not found freedom through the Moon Door. What if the sullen boy who had once played her Aemon Dragonknight were no more? The boy who had asked her shyly how to talk to girls? The boy who had not thought all her dreams worthless? The boy she had tried to be for so long? The boy whose strength she had hoped to do justice?
“Where is he?”
She felt something shift within the direwolf in her arms. Ghost pulled himself away from her, but nudged his wet nose to her cheek. His pink tongue darted out and dragged across her cheek, wiping her tears away.
What was she to do?
“Sansa.”
It was barely a whisper on the wind, but she heard it. She looked up and saw him.
“Jon,” she whispered back.
He looked like Father and yet he did not. Even so, he looked like home.
The man who was not a stranger and yet was made his way down the steps towards her. He was clothed in only his dark pants. His chest was bare of all save the deep wounds across his chest.
“You’re hurt,” she cried, rushing towards him.
He stumbled on the last step and Sansa steadied him, wrapping her arms about him, pressing her ear to his chest, finding his heartbeat. She gasped for breath, only realizing them that she had been holding it. He wrapped her up in his arms and held her close.
“Jon…”
He tensed at the name, but held her close. Jon mimicked his wolf’s initial actions, rubbing his coarse beard along her cheek and neck. A tingle ran up her spine and she whimpered as he held her closer. It was not enough.
“Sansa,” he murmured, his voice like the wind, his breath hot against her skin. “Sansa…”
She nuzzled him back, letting herself sink into his embrace.
“I am not a Stark,” he whispered, his voice broken and rough but oh so Northern.
“You are to me.” Her lips pressed against his neck and she could feel the pounding of his heart. “You are to me.”
“Sansa…”
She felt him droop the ground, his knees weak. Sansa let herself sink alongside him. She pulled her grey cloak around him, warming him with her body and breath.
“You are to me.”