Jamie blamed Robert for all this.

If it wasn't for that fat oaf, he wouldn't be trudging across the snow and cobblestones, his bruised chest making it harder and harder to breathe and bear the weight of the northern lord sagging off his shoulder while searching for help. Winterfell was still in a panic and people were still running about; some crying, some shouting, some injured, and some trying to organize the chaos. Those eerie red fires had all gone out, thank the gods, but Jamie kept his eyes peeled for anyone in orange robes. Thankfully, he saw none. Where in the seven hells was Robert? Where in the seven hells was anyone from the royal party? Why hadn't anyone sent reinforcements? They had brought scores of armed men with them!

Finally, he came upon a trio of men in Stark livery that were shouting at one another. Jamie yelled out, "You three!" And the northerners all turned to see him hauling Vayon Pool their way and gawked. With a grunt, Jamie unshouldered his burden and handed the lord off to the men. The lord's face was covered in splotchy red burns, fragments of cooled metal had melted into his flesh, and his left eye had been burned shut by a stray bit of molten slag.

"He needs a maester, now!" Jamie barked and then asked, "Where's the King?"

"I-I do not know, ser!" One of them responded shakily.

Jamie scowled and looked around the courtyard that was filled with panicking people. He had not spied a body, and it wasn't like Robert was hard to miss-

"Jamie!"

Jamie turned around and spotted his little brother running towards him as fast as his legs could carry.

"Tyrion!" He called back and rushed to meet him.

Tyrion came to a panting stop in front of him, "J-Jamie-" He panted out, his hands on his knees, "W-what the hells is happening?!" He demanded of the carnage surrounding them.

"Did you run all the way here?" Jamie asked incredulously and looked around for any sign of Tyrion's guards. Not a single man in Lannister livery was seen, and Jamie's scowl threatened to become a snarl at the thought that the men he'd assigned to guard his brother had abandoned him.

Tyrion peered at him owlishly, taking in his battered and scorched appearance, and gaped at him, "What happened to you?"

"Not now, brother!" Jamie somehow managed to say with a straight face as he took Tyrion by the arm, spun him around, and pushed him towards the closest exit out of this frozen nightmare, "We need horses!" He hissed.

"Brother, what happened!"

"We need to leave!" Jamie hissed as they passed the walls encasing the smoking godswood, "Right now!"

Two things happened in that moment.

First was the dark blur speeding out of the godswood that collapsed in a heap a stone's throw away from them. Jamie instinctually put himself in front of Tyrion when he saw that it was both Lord Stark and that…thing picking themselves off the ground.

The second was that the ground began to shake.

It seemed like all of Winterfell was shaking! Snow shook from rooftops and people lost their footing. Tyrion wobbled in place and Jamie nearly fell flat on his ass, his eyes wide as the godswood's walls began to shift and even sag and some places. Great cracks and fissures appeared along parts of the stonework as their foundation was suddenly shifted. Then the roar shook the air, and all eyes turned to see a massive shape rise up from within the smoking godswood. It took a moment for Jamie to realize what he was looking at, but when the wings unfurled, clear as glass and large enough to cover half of Winterfell, his heart caught in his throat and his mind screeched to a stop.

The weak sunlight glinted off the pale turquoise of the creature's icy body as it stretched its gigantic wings and long, spiny neck. Solid blue eyes that shone like the purest of gems snapped open, and narrow jaws parted to unleash another deep, sonorous roar that sent shockwaves through Jamie's body and had his ears ringing. The dragon was so massive that the walls surrounding it only came up to its waist!

For a moment, everyone stared at the impossible sight.

Then the wings spread wider, catching the light in odd ways as they did, and the dragon hopped into the air.

The wings beat once, twice, and the dragon was airborne.

That's when the screaming started. People began running for cover as the ice dragon glided overhead, sending gusts of chilly air and thick snowflakes down upon the castle's inhabitants. Jamie instinctively moved to shield Tyrion, but the dragon passed overhead without a single glance to the puny humans beneath it and flew off into the distance. Another long moment passed where everyone in Winterfell stood in slack-jawed awe and terror as they watched it disappear over the walls and off into the sky.

XXX

When the tremors of Urrax's resurrection caught up with Jon, he stumbled and took his father with him. Eddard had fell on all fours while Jon landed onto his side. The Night Prince let out another groan and rolled onto his back to look down at the remnants of his tunic and the angry red burn marring his pale flesh. Confused, he poked the edges of the injury and hissed as fiery agony spread from the touch. The pain vanished as abruptly as it came. The magic of the Others, no, the magic of Skroth swirled under his skin and caressed the wound, soothing the burn and dulling the pain until he felt nothing. Jon watched as his inflamed skin faded and cooled before his very eyes until the burn was nothing but a waxy scar in the shape of a handprint.

Yet another scar to add to the collection. Jon closed his eyes. Was it a bad thing that he was growing used to nearly dying?

He remembered trying to escape R'hllor's fire, only to have his mind trapped by the Night King. No light, no sound, no smell, or taste; only frigid cold and blackness. Then, crimson fire had seared his world. The sensation like someone stabbed a red-hot knife into his still beating heart followed, but and then came something worse. It had felt like a hand had grasped hold of everything that was him, everything that was Jon Snow, and tried to crush it. Then he had returned to the world of the living, screaming in agony because his father saved him. He did not know what would have happened if R'hllor had succeeded. Hells, he didn't want to know, but if the Red God had triumphed…well, nothing good would have come of it. His mind was still intact, still his, and that is what mattered most.

What was more, was that he could feel the Other's magic back under his control, or should he say, the magic of Skroth. It was his now, in the way it had been when he'd fought the Night King within that strange dreamscape of Urrax's mind. He'd taken it for himself, stole it away from the Night King and made it his own.

From beside him, Eddard shifted to look at him.

"Jon?" The lord of Winterfell called.

"I'm here." Jon rasped as he shifted to sit up. He felt Eddard's hand on his shoulder and looked up into the eyes of the man who raised him.

"You're alive…" Jon heard him whisper.

Jon exhaled tiredly and placed his hand on Eddard's, "I am." He said solemnly. His eyes flicked over Eddard's shoulder and narrowed at the crowd that had begun to gather around them. Guardsmen approached then, shoving servants out of the way with spears aimed at Jon's face.

"My Lord! My Lord, get away from that thing!" One of them shouted in a shaky voice. Fat Tom, Jon realized. The man's jowls were quivering with fear as he and the rest of the guards closed in. Their eyes were locked on Jon and all of them, especially the smallfolk, looked absolutely terrified.

"Stop!" Eddard bellowed at them. Everyone flinched at the lord's command.

"Milord-"

"Stop! He means me no harm!" Eddard's gloves tightened around Ice and used the greatsword to help push himself to his feet. He rose tall and strong, and his gray eyes swept over the crowd, hard and unyielding as winter itself, "There has been enough bloodshed today! Let there be no more!"

"But-"

"Enough!" Lord Stark barked.

Jon rose silently to his feet behind Eddard, and everyone backed away at he did…all except two.

The brothers Lannister, Jamie with a newly acquired sword and Tyrion standing by his side, both watching Jon warily. Jamie stepped in front of his brother, blocking him from sight with sword held ready, and Jon found his gaze locked with the emerald green of the knight's. Now that his mind was not fogged by the rage of battle nor influenced by the Night King, Jon could properly take in just how…young they were. Tyrion's face was unscarred, Jamie had two hands, and neither sported beards. They were clean-shaven, faces youthful and unravaged by grief, time, and war. Tyrion was dressed in the red and gold of House Lannister while Jamie was clad in the Kingsguard's gold and white. They looked so different from the friends and allies Jon remembered.

"Still alive, Lord Stark?" Jamie called, still not taking his eyes off Jon.

"Ser Jamie." Eddard responded, "Lord Vayon? Is he-"

"Alive. Handed him off to some of your men." Jamie answered. His eyes still never left Jon, but they narrowed considerably when he asked, "Stark, where is the King?"

Utter silence reigned over the mass gathering at the question.

Ned stiffened at the words and looked at the ground, his face struggling to remain stoic before hardening into resolve, and in that moment, Jon knew he was going to declare the truth, that he had murdered his King, his best friend, in front of all of Winterfell.

Jon's eyes widened and his fists clenched. No, no, no, no! If his father did this, it would be war all over again! The moment Jamie and Tyrion got the chance, they'd get word to Kings Landing and their accursed father, and who knows what that wretch Cersei was up to. Joffrey would demand Eddard's head, and what was worse, he'd be justified for doing so. Tywin would back his grandson and demand reparations from the North. Hells, Stannis and Renly would most likely move to avenge their brother rather than revolt. None of the other Kingdoms would assist the North! As for Lord Stark, Jon knew that his father would let himself be carted off and executed to prevent war, but Robb nor Lady Stark would allow that. It would be war all over again with the North at a supreme disadvantage.

All of that flashed through his mind and Jon felt his lips curl into a snarl. That could not happen. That will not happen! Not again! He'd been given a second chance to fix the past, and while his goal was still to finally defeat the Others, he would still going to protect House Stark!

"Dead!" Jon snapped out before Eddard could say anything. Gasps of astonishment filled the air and all attention turned to him. Jon stepped forward, heedless of the panicked look his father shot him, and looked right into Jamie's eyes before declaring, "I killed him."

The stunned silence that followed lasted for about four seconds before exclamations of shock, horror, and fear filled the air. The people looked at him with terror burning in their eyes and hearts alike, and Jon bore it all.

Let them fear him, he thought darkly.

Let their focus be on him instead of his father.

Let them spread word of the monster that had killed the king; a king who had nearly killed Lord Stark in front of all of Winterfell.

"You…you killed the king?" Asked Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf stepped out from behind his brother's legs to stare at Jon in a mix of utter confusion and sheer incredulity. Jamie's grip tightened on his sword when Jon's stare turned to him.

"I did." Jon said with what he hoped was an uncaring shrug. He would never lose himself to the Others hatred of life again, but he did allow the cold apathy of their nature to influence his words. It made it easier for him to lie through his teeth. Well, not entirely lie; all of this was his fault in a way.

If war broke out and the North bled again, it would just tip the scales in the Others favor. Last time, he froze on the Wall while his home and family suffered, but this time, he would bring winter itself unto their enemies! He would guard the Starks from the rest of the Kingdoms and damn anyonewho tried to stop him! He needed to be more, however. This was his fault, and he had to start taking responsibility for his actions. Threats existed on all sides that only he could see. The Others, the Red God and his Priests, and now the rest of Westeros once word of what happened got out!

"And…" Tyrion continued in an admirably level voice, "Who are you?"

The thought made Jon pause.

Who indeed?

He wasn't the Bastard of Winterfell anymore, Jon doubted he could ever be that again. He didn't dare introduce himself as Aegon Targaryen, either. That way lay madness. For a moment, he debated introducing himself as the Night Prince, but cast aside that thought as quickly as it came. Acknowledging that title held worse implications than declaring himself the rightful heir to the throne. Jon's brow furrowed as he thought hard and fast. If he was going to protect his family, he had to make the rest of the Seven Kingdoms pause at the thought of attacking the North. He had power, now, and he intended to use it. He may be one man, but the White Walkers had been feared for a reason. He needed an identity, a title, or a name that would distinguish himself from the Starks, from the Realms of Men, even. The comparison made him ill, but he needed to become what the dragons were to the Targaryens; weapons of war, monsters of destruction, and creatures to be feared. He would portray himself as something that was nigh untamable, something that could not be controlled. Most importantly, he had to be seen separate from House Stark.

His mind suddenly flashed back to what Miranda had shouted at him while holding Bran at knifepoint. The moniker had made no sense to him, but why not? It was rather fitting, in a way.

"Call me Coldhands." Jon declared in a low voice, ignoring the look he felt more than saw his father give him.

Jamie stared at him in incomprehension, and Jon forced himself to sneer at his shocked expression, "Well Kingsguard? I killed the king. Aren't you going to take me prisoner?" He rasped out and lifted his hands in surrender, "I won't fight." He added.

His uncle looked at him, seemingly lost for a moment, and Jon feared that he would still blurt out the truth. It was a mixture of relief and unease that filled Jon when Eddard spoke out in a hard voice that carried, "Take him to the dungeons."

After a moment of pause, the good guardsmen of Winterfell obeyed; their weapons held in shaking hands as they approached him slowly and cautiously with the look of men walking towards a sleeping dragon. They surrounded him in a circle of spears, but none dared touch him as they began to escort him away.

All except one.

Jamie Lannister walked forward then, his sword in hand and eyes locked on Jon's.

"Wait." Jamie told the men, who stopped as the Kingslayer approached. Jamie's eyes swept up and down Jon's form, searching and confused. After a moment, Jamie slowly lifted the sword up and poked the tip against Jon's cheek. The steel froze and broke apart inch by inch as Jamie pressed it into his flesh, and the knight stared from the sword to Jon in a wide-eyed mix of horror and fascination.

"What in the Seven Hells are you?" Jamie swore under his breath.

Jon did not respond and turned to keep walking. His 'escorts' stumbled to keep him surrounded. Their spearheads wobbled in their shaking hands, and Jon shook his head as he damn near led the men to the dungeons. The crowd of servants and smallfolk scattered like rats as he approached, their hearts blazing with fear. Jon ignored their stares and looked north to where Urrax was flying. He had questions, and Bloodraven was going to answer all of them.

XXX

Asha had been the first to see it.

One minute, the horizon was empty, just the sea and sky stretching off into infinity. Then, she blinked, and the sails were there. Everyone on the Iron Islands knew those sails, and if what she heard was true, half the known world knew them, as well.

The Silence was sailing straight towards Pyke.

She'd watched this from a point high up on the castle, having just been told to prepare the Black Wind for a journey to the other islands to check in with the rebuilding of the Iron Fleet. Of course, she ran back to alert her father, and of course he rallied men to intercept her uncle. Everyone knew Euron had been banished with the price of death for his return. For him to come sailing so brazenly into port was beyond the madness he was infamous for. Asha of course joined her father and their men who rushed out with axes ready for blood. The Silence, to their surprise, skipped port entirely and beached herself on the rocky shores directly below the castle.

Asha, her father, her uncles Victarion and Damphair, and their men stomped across the sand towards the red and black ship that shifted from side to side with each wave crashing upon the shore. To their confusion the ship was empty. Not a single one of Euron's mutes or mongrels, or Euron himself could be seen aboard.

"EURON! COME OUT!" Victarion yelled, his face twisted in anger. All knew the history between Victarion and Euron, how Euron raped or seduced (depending on who you asked) Victarion's salt-wife and was banished soon after Victarion beat the woman to death.

For a moment, there was nothing but cold wind blowing salty air off the sea, then all of a sudden, Euron's grinning face was looking down at them from over the prow of The Silence.

Asha hadn't seen her uncle in years, but he was a hard man to forget. He looked the same, from his hair, to his well-trimmed beard, but something was wrong. His eyepatch was covering his right eye, rather than his left, and his black eye glinted with something that made her skin crawl.

Euron's grin widened upon seeing them, and he held out his arms wide as if to embrace them all, "Brothers!" He called, "So good to see you again! Praise unto the Drowned God!"

"I thought you'd be rotting under some foreign sea by now, brother." Her father snarled, "Have you come home just to die?"

"Oh, my brothers, you do not understand!" Euron declared and began to cackle and laugh like a wizened old salt-wife. The sight was so out of character that all looked amongst themselves in confusion. Suddenly, the wind turned foul and brought a stench of old, wet rot, low-tide, deep-sea brine, and decay that had all their faces twisting in disgust. Abruptly, Euron leapt over the rails and landed in the surf with a splash. Everyone flinched, and Euron rose, dripping with seawater and arms spreading wide again.

"I come bearing gifts! Gifts for House Greyjoy! Gifts for the Iron Islands! Gifts for all Ironborn! Gifts from the Drowned God!"

"Gifts!? You dare mock our god upon our very shores?" Damphair spat.

"I dare all, brother, but I mock nothing!" Euron laughed, "I bring word from our god to go forth upon a Great Reaving! All of Westeros will be ours! Gather the ships! Gather the men! Gather the-"

"I am Lord of the Iron Islands!" Her father bellowed, "You give no commands here! You are nothing but an exile!"

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong! Asha knew it in her gut, smelled it on the stench of blood and stink, and saw it in the madness of Euron's black eye and his smile that suddenly seemed to have far too many teeth.

"Oh brother, you are not the lord of the Iron Islands…he is!" Euron purred and pointed a single finger out to sea. All followed his finger, and all saw the great longship erupt from the ocean like a breaching whale. The pale hull was covered in barnacles, the tattered grey sails billowed in the wind, and the stink that came from that boat made their eyes water. Euron turned back to them, and in a single move, ripped away his eyepatch so everyone could see his right eye. Where once was a blue, smiling eye was now blood red with everything else black as pitch.

"I COME BEARING GLAD TIDINGS MY BROTHERS!" He yelled as they all stepped back, "I COME WITH A MESSAGE FROM OUR GOD! REAVE, RAPE, PILLAGE, AND BURN! SAIL TO WESTEROS AND TAKE LANNISPORT! HIGHGARDEN! THE ARBOR! OLDTOWN! THE RIVERLANDS AND THE REACH, THE KINGSWOOD AND THE RAINWOOD, DORNE AND THE MARCHES, THE MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON AND THE VALE OF ARRYN, TARTH AND THE STEPSTONES! WINTERFELL AND THE NORTH! TAKE IT ALL! TAKE ALL OF WESTEROS!"

The waters surged around Euron's feet as tall, scaly things emerged from the frothing sea. Clutched in their webbed hands were crude weapons of rock, driftwood, and rusty swords, spears, and axes. Out at sea, that great, grey ship drew closer and closer, and Asha saw a pale, yellow light flickering from somewhere upon her deck.

"HAIL TO THE DROWNED GOD!" Euron continued to scream as more and more fishmen came from the water to surround them. Tears of blood were suddenly leaking out of his red eye, and something dark and squirming, like a mass of seaworms, writhed underneath his skin, "HAIL TO THE GREY KING!"

On the short side, but I finally got my muse back!