…hello guys! first of all, massive apologies for leaving you hanging so long (just like George RR Martin did to all of us.. *side eyes*). I've been pretty busy with schoolwork, and I can't promise I'll update quickly, but I won't abandon you. And thank you guys, so so much, for reading this story and reviewing! You're amazing. All of you.

Anyway, I'm not super happy with this chapter : / It's a little weird and confusing and short, because I wrote it over a few months. I sincerely apologize because it's mildly terrible. If y'all have any ideas/comments/thoughts, review and I will worship you eternally.

Thanks, sorry, hope-you-like-this-even-though-it's-kinda-awful,

xoxo

-S

The king was coming. Jon- that is, Samwell- learned it at dinner. It was all anyone spoke of, as his group had been spotted on the King's Road. A messenger had even been sent ahead, to inform Lord Stark that they would be arriving the next day.

Jon excused himself as soon as possible. Master Luwin was trying to interrogate him, and wasn't being overly subtle, and besides, he had a lot to think about. Everything was happening too fast. What was he supposed to do- did Melisandre want him to stop Lord Stark going south? Did she want him to warn the Night's Watch, instead? How could he do either? It wasn't as though he trusted Melisandre, or as though he could ask. She was probably dead, or had no memory of him.

There was the matter of his family, also. He had tried to prepare himself for this, after he realized the situation. He told himself that this wasn't really his family, that his family was dead, that he would need to be cold and unattached, if he wanted to survive.

And then Theon had come in to the library, laughing and making his jokes, and all he had felt was pure rage. He had been stupid, impossibly stupid, in springing at Theon.

It wasn't as if he didn't have cause. Theon had betrayed them all, wrecked Winterfell, led to the deaths of Bran and Rickon. But there had been something strange about how he felt, in those moments before Robb came in. The anger he felt- it wasn't his own, really. It was almost like it was someone else's. When Jon was angry, he was ice: unyielding, furious, brutal and bitter. Reckless, sometimes. But never so filled with rage, never so wild and vengeful and destructive. Jon was ice, but what he had felt in the library, that was fire.

He had intended to kill Theon, of that he was sure. Despite all the terrible consequences that would inevitably follow, he had looked Theon in the eyes, the knife at his throat, and had felt a savage joy rise in him. It is beginning, he had thought, though forgotten it later. But then Arya had let out a sharp cry, and Jon realized suddenly that Theon, had been his brother, too. He remembered growing up together, the two outcast boys at Winterfell, the unwanted son and the hostage, laughing and fighting and learning, and he hesitated. The strange, wild anger began to ebb.

Perhaps he would have killed him anyway, even without being pushed on by the fire inside of him. He had every right to. But his head was aching, and his thoughts were murky, and in an instant Robb had come into the room. The fire disappeared entirely, replaced by the ache in his chest he thought he had gotten rid of. Instinctively, he dropped his sword and turned, and saw his brother.

He had said something stupid then, calling Robb by a title he did not have, and then he was fumbling around with explanations, trying frantically to explain why he was behaving like a madman. Then, by some miracle, he fell into a sort of conversation- a banter like of old, when they were three boys, none dead or lost or traitors.

It was pleasant, Jon observed from the small part of his mind that was actually focused on the conversation. The rest of him was somewhere else, thinking about impossibilities and ghosts, and something very important that he couldn't quite remember.

OoOoO

Melisandre was riding North. She despised it. She felt as though she were running away from the sun.

But duty called. Away she must ride, or see all her plans crumble to dust.

She had been watching Jon Snow carefully, as he was an important player. He seemed to not remember much, and everything had been going well. His identity was hidden- how she was not sure- and he had been trying to find out something, but that was all she knew, until he encountered Theon Greyjoy.

She had been watching, then, despite the strange hour. She had felt the upsurge of anger, but it was not enough for her purposes, so she let him taste the Red God's wrath: he flew at the traitor, and Melisandre smiled. In a moment, Theon Greyjoy would be dead, and Balon Greyjoy's rebellion would never begin. The Starks would turn against Jon, and cast him out, at which point Melisandre would call him to King's Landing, and stop the war before it began. All was under control.

But then he had hesitated, just long enough to make Melisandre realize what was happening, and then it was too late, and she had lost her hold on him. His mind was blurred, but it would be back to normal in a moment, and all her carefully laid plans had gone awry because a foolish boy was being cowardly. Or merciful, depending on your perspective, but Melisandre wasn't the forgiving sort.

And now, damn him, he was growing suspicious. If the guard showed him the dagger, they might even discover its powers. Then the inhabitants of Winterfell would stop, and wonder why they had been so welcoming to the stranger who had come- why they trusted him so innately. There would, perhaps, be questions, and then answers. Things might go in a direction no-one expected. Sorcery would certainly be found, sorcery of the darkest kind- the kind that manipulated the mind into thinking things that weren't true, and manipulated the heart into loving things that weren't right.

But not all was lost. King Robert was still heading to Winterfell and history was still progressing in its natural order. Melisandre could save it all, if she could interfere at convenient moments. Convincing Stannis hadn't been difficult, the man was naturally bloodthirsty. Convincing Robert would be easier, he hated the Targaryens. But for that, she had to be at Winterfell.

OoOoO

Arya was bored. Very, very bored. She was not at all interested in the royal family. They had been at Winterfell for four miserable days, and nothing had happened. The princess and youngest prince were dull, the older one was mean, the queen superior. Arya rather liked the king, but it wasn't as though she could talk to him.

Her mother, apparently, thought it was Arya's duty as a gracious hostess (Sansa had snorted discourteously at that) to interact with the princess, as they were close in age, and so Arya was stuck sitting primly drinking tea while Sansa chattered with Jeyne Poole and Princess Myrcella stared vacantly.

Arya only looked glumly into her tea cup. She would be here for another half hour at least: Jeyne and Sansa would never stop chattering, and her mother wouldn't let her leave until the princess did, and courtesy forbid the princess leave during conversations.

Myrcella shivered, and Arya stared at her.

"Is it always this cold?" asked Myrcella.

"Yes," said Arya rudely. She was feeling defensive of Winterfell, especially since she might have to leave it soon anyway. At her sister's glance, however, she thought better:

"I mean, sometimes, Your Highness. Do you mind the cold?"

"Oh, it's dreadful, don't you think?" Myrcella gave a small, nervous laugh.

Arya was spared from answering when Sansa interrupted with a gasp.

"Gracious!" she said. "What is going on outside?"

A great clamor had arose. Arya, ignoring Sansa's huff, ran to the window. Men, bearing the bright Baratheon banner were dismounting from horses, being assisted by some of Winterfell's men. They were a force of some twenty men, led by a tall, stern man and a woman dressed very impractically in a flowing red gown.

OoOoO

Eddard Stark accompanied the king out to meet his brother.

Stannis had been shouting orders to his shivering men, and barely glanced up when the most powerful man in Westeros approached him.

"Stannis," said Robert, bewildered but welcoming. "What has brought you here?"

"You didn't get my message, then," said Stannis. He glanced up at the towers in front of him with distaste.

"No," said Robert simply.

Stannis let out a long sigh. "Robert- I bring bad news,"

"Get on with it, then,"

Stannis bent a single knee, and all his men around him did the same. A hush fell over the yard.

"My king," said Stannis. "The time has come for you to take up the sword again,"

Behind Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, Eddard Stark raised an eyebrow.

Stannis, serious, unemotional Stannis, looked the king in the eye with something akin to fear.

"Dragons," he said. "Dragons have returned to Westeros,"