A Song of Fire & Snow (GOT)(Jon Snow)

Chapter 33: Jon Snow

~Winds of Winter~

The gates of Wintertown loomed large as the combined forces of the North and Daenerys Targaryen's army trudged through the snow-laden streets. The sky hung low and gray, a reflection of the unspoken tension in the air. The people of the North had gathered along the road, their faces a mixture of apprehension and thinly veiled suspicion as they watched the Queen of Dragons march through their town. Daenerys, perched atop her white stallion, tried to maintain a regal composure, but Jon Snow could see the flicker of discomfort in her violet eyes.

Jon rode beside her, the weight of their previous night's encounter sitting heavily between them. The awkwardness had been palpable all day, their conversations stilted and cautious, as if they were both trying to navigate the thin ice beneath their feet without shattering it. He hadn't spoken to her since he left her tent that night, leaving her in tears. Now, he found himself glancing at her, unsure of how to act, unsure of what to say.

Seven Hells, what a mess, Jon thought, his jaw clenching as he looked ahead. He could feel the eyes of Wintertown's people on them—on Daenerys, specifically—and it wasn't the warm welcome she might have expected.

"The Northerners don't trust easily," Jon said quietly, his voice barely carrying over the steady crunch of snow underfoot. He kept his gaze forward, not wanting to see the hurt on her face that was surely there. "They've lived through enough to make them wary of outsiders. It's not personal."

Daenerys gave a small, tight nod, though her eyes remained fixed ahead, cold as the winter air. "I suppose I'll have to win them over."

Jon wanted to say something to reassure her, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he focused on the approaching gates of Winterfell. His home. It had been too long since he'd returned to these halls, too long since he'd seen Sansa's face or felt the familiarity of these walls around him.

Beside them, Alarys Martell rode in silence, her dark eyes scanning their surroundings. Her presence was a quiet comfort to Jon, even though he hadn't had a chance to speak with her alone since their last night together. Her calm, steady demeanor had kept him grounded in the tumult of emotions swirling inside him, and he longed for a moment to talk with her—to explain everything that had happened with Daenerys, to make sense of it all.

Behind them, Oberyn rode with Ser Davos, Tyrion, and the rest of their forces. The march from White Harbor to Winterfell had been long, but the real test lay ahead. The Night King was coming, and Jon could feel the weight of that impending doom pressing down on him like a physical burden.

As they approached Winterfell's towering gates, Jon's heart quickened. The familiar sight of the ancient castle filled him with a sense of both dread and longing. He had left Winterfell as a bastard, unsure of his place in the world. 

The gates groaned open, and Jon and Daenerys rode through, flanked by their combined forces. The people of Winterfell watched from the walls, their expressions unreadable, though Jon could feel the tension in the air. He caught sight of Sansa standing at the entrance, her sharp blue eyes locked on Daenerys.

Jon dismounted first, his boots crunching in the snow as he approached his sister. Sansa's face remained impassive, her posture regal, as if she were the true queen of Winterfell. For a moment, she looked past Jon, her eyes flickering over Daenerys before returning to him.

"Welcome home," Sansa said, her voice measured.

Jon stepped forward, pulling her into a hug. Despite everything, the sight of his sister brought a warmth to his heart that he hadn't realized he needed. "It's good to be home," he murmured against her hair.

Sansa pulled back, her eyes lingering on him for a moment before shifting to Daenerys. "Queen Daenerys," she said, her tone respectful but cool. "Welcome to Winterfell."