The vision comes strong and true, moreso than any of his most recent ones.

It's quick, but he's certain of what he sees; vivid red hair cascading down the back of a snow white gown trimmed in fur and dark, unruly hair pulled back in a signature bun, a pair of hands clasped together beneath the weirwood tree. When he comes back to the world of the living, he's smiling. "You know," Bran says in his off-hand sort of way, catching the attention of his Hand just sitting across the way from him. Ser Davos Seaworth leans in, inclining his head. After a year as Hand to the King, the old man has begun to understand the young King- in fact, he's begun to grow fond of the aloofness in the boy. "I think Jon Snow has been punished long enough." Davos blinks but doesn't respond and Bran is amused by his surprise. "I shall have the proper papers drawn up and we shall see to it before the day is over."

"Yes, your grace," Davos nods, surprised by the King's sudden decision. He's happy to hear such a thing, though, for he had thought it been an undeserving punishment. It was true, Davos had thought he'd serve another King with the Stark blood running through his veins and he'd always felt quite bitter over the fate of Jon Snow. But something told him, as it always did, to trust his new, young King.

"I think my sister, the Queen in the North, will be happy to receive him, don't you?" Bran's normally stoic voice has a tint of mirth that makes Davos raise his gaze once again from the documents before him. Davos doesn't argue- he knew without a doubt that the young queen Sansa Stark would indeed be delighted at the prospect of having Jon at her side again. From the moment he had seen the two together, Davos had thought something was going on between them, though propriety had always kept him from asking. But, he'd seen the way they'd looked at one another, had heard how they spoke of each other... It was clear that they felt things no true brother and sister should have felt. And then in the end... They were siblings at all. Had things gone differently, Davos would not have been surprised to see them wed, now that they were able. "Write to her and ensure it's arranged." Bran's voice brings him back and Davos nods, knowing that there was more to this than his King was letting on. But, as always, he was certain things would work out the way they were meant to.

[ x x x ]

"Pardoned?"

Jon doesn't dare believe it, despite the royal decree in his hands. He doesn't dare believe it, even with a handwritten note from Bran himself. "It's about time." Tormund intones, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "Never should have been punished in the first place," he's muttering as he walks past him, gesturing for the man in the King's livery to follow him, so he might take him to warm up and get some food for himself.

Once alone, Jon sinks into the nearest chair, rereading the words on the scroll for what had to be the tenth time.

Jon,

It is as it says, you are pardoned for your crimes against the crown. A year at the wall seems sufficient enough time for you to have thought over your actions. It's time you return to where you belong... Home. I have sent word ahead to Sansa, she will be expecting you.

Perhaps we will see each other soon.

Bran

His heart skips a beat again as his eyes focus on her name, written there on the scroll. "Sansa..." He says her name softly, though he's thougt it dozens. She's never far from his mind, in truth, and every letter she writes is more than he deserves. A smile tugs on his lips as he tucks the parchment into his jerkin, a hand reaching up to run through his wild hair, left untamed these last several months.

Though part of him isn't so sure he deserves this pardon nor to stand before her, but the other part of him wants to jump for joy. He's missed her more than he can express and his other family too, Arya too is on his mind often, though she writes far less than Sansa, he still expects a letter twice in a month. And so he gives himself only a few more minutes of worrying before he rises from his chair and reaches for the old saddle bag collecting dust beneath his bed. There's nothing left for him to think about- he's returning home, he's returning to her.

[ x x x ]

She's in her solar when she hears the guard's cry in the courtyard, calling to arms as a rider approached the gates. A tremor of fear and excitement roll through her and she steadies herself on the chair she's just risen up from. There is a quick knock on her door and it's Brienne who's standing there, her smile quick and easy as she catches sight of her young queen's face. "He's here, your grace," Brienne says when she's had her bow, though Sansa insists she needn't do it when they're alone. "Shall I call the Lords?" Though she knew the proper thing to do would be see Jon before her small court of Northern lords, but at once she felt the familiar pang of selfishness when it came to Jon. No, she would see him privately, he was family after all.

"Send him to me. Here." Sansa says without another moment of hesitation and Brienne nods without judgment. In truth, if Sansa was happy, then so was Brienne. There was little else in the world that Brienne cared for, save for her queen. Though some might talk about the relationship the two surely had, it mattered not to Brienne. If Jon Snow made her happy, then Brienne would not speak ill of him- even if he did seem a bit too brooding for her radiant mistress. Besides... She knew the young queen was lonely. Though happy in her position and home, Brienne knew that she missed her family dearly. Here in Winterfell, there was no one she confided in, save for herself. There was no one else for her siblings had all gone off to their own corners of the world.

Brienne bows again (and can't help but to smile to herself when Sansa makes a face at the gesture) and backs out of the room, knowing very well that things would change from this moment on.

In her rooms, Sansa paces back and forth, fretting over every possible thing she could; was her hair a mess? Why had she chosen to wear this old gown today, of all days? What would Jon think of her now? Would he look at her as he had once done? Knock, knock, knock. It's his knock, slow and steady, and when she calls "come in" her heart is beating faster than she's ever felt it. He opens the door and steps over the threshold, coming to stand at the center of the room, his dark eyes finding hers.

He can't believe how beautiful she is.

For several long moments (or perhaps even lifetimes) he stands there, taking in the sight of her standing behind her desk. Her red hair is longer than he remembers, twisted back into an array of elaborate braids at the back of her head. Her gown is black and it fits her well, hugging her frame in the most delicious of ways. Those sapphire eyes are filling with tears and her mouth trembles as she softly speaks his name. Jon can feel every breath catching in his throat, his lungs crippled, his heart racing; how is it that she can undo him with even just a glance? His hand twitches and he realizes there's nothing else he wants to do but feel her skin against his. She comes around the front of her table and she's just there, just out of reach if he were to put out an arm. "Sansa..." Her name is a whisper on his lips and it's then that she's rushing for him. Jon opens his arms and catches her, the momentum of his embrace sweeping her off her feet.

"You're here..." Her whispered words ghost against his skin and Jon feels a chil race his spine.

"I am," he whispers back, voice gruff as he tries to control the emotions rushing through him. He draws back to hold her at arms length, to stare into those beautiful eyes and know despite it all, she still looked at him as if he'd hung the moon in the sky. In truth, he'd done that and more, if it were for her. "I'm home," he clarifies before swiping a thumb across her cheek, wiping away all traces of her tears. She smiles and then sinks against him, clinging to him as if he is all that anchors her to this world. Jon buries his face into her neck and breathes her in, her scent as familiar to him as ever. Home was not Winterfell, home was holding her in his arms. Home was her.