In the glow of the full moon, he rises. The wolf bedside her growls and howls, his red eyes as bright as her rubies, and Melisandre clutches her hands together in prayer.
Her Lord has listened to her.
She looks at him, from the scar above his eye to the scars down below. When he opens his eyes, Melisandre swears on her R'hllor that she sees the hint of purple in grey, but it is gone as quickly as it has come, and Jon Snow blinks, looks down and lets out a moan of agony.
"I want my bride back," he whispers.
Melisandre stops, and she realizes how wrong she was. His eyes are not lighter; they are a dark and raging grey. It makes her step back. It makes her worry.
"My Lord," she says, and he turns abruptly to her.
"My Lord Snow," she repeats, with a voice as soft as satin. "R'hllor has brought you back from death. You must praise Him. He has granted you life."
But he looks nowhere near grateful. Melisandre notices he's shaking, and she has an urge to hold his hands by her own to stop him from being so restless.
"How long has it been?" His voice is weak. He looks as if he hasn't slept in years, even if in truth he has just risen from a long slumber.
"Almost a moon, My Lord."
He sighs.
"And where are the others?"
Melisandre frowns.
They betrayed you. They stabbed you in the back like cowards, and yet you ask of them.
"They are outside, My Lord. Your brothers."
"I do not speak of my brothers, witch." And for the first time, she hears his voice as cruel. When he looks up, his face is that of a different man.
"The Wildings. I need the Wildings. I need to go to Winterfell. Where is Mance? What has he done of my sister? I need my sister. Where is she?"
Melisandre sighs in relief. She smiles at him, and Jon looks enraged.
He will be pleased.
"Your sister is here, My Lord. She has been here for almost a fortnight now."
His breath catches, and he looks at her disbelievingly, but with hope.
"You're lying."
"I would not dare, Jon Snow," she confesses. His eyes glaze over for a moment before his head hangs down again.
"Arya," he breathes. It sounds like a prayer to the Gods, like he has finally found air after swimming endlessly in deep waters.
"Shall her bring her to-"
"Yes," he interrupts her. Melisandre smiles again, this time a whole wider. It will do her good to get in his good graces. She told him of her vision, and now to watch his beloved sister in flesh and blood will make him believe in her R'hllor. Believe in her.
She walks out a nod.
The Lord Snow's sister isn't what she expects her to be. She is a girl of little enthusiasm, a quiet little lamb instead of the ferocious wolf her dearest half-brother describes her as. She has not half the fierceness Melisandre has seen in Alys Karstark, nor does she see much of the North in her.
When she tells the girl of the Lord Commander's awakening, she sees her shiver. Fear flashes in her eyes as she walks beside her. She is silent the entire way, and when Melisandre opens the door to his room, Arya Stark flinches.
"My Lord," she announces, and sees that he has dressed himself in black, and is standing with his back to them, looking out the window.
"I have brought your sister."
Jon Snow doesn't turn around instantly. She sees his shoulders slump, and his hands fist and unfist.
He's nervous.
"Little sister," he says, passionately, almost too passionately for it to pass off as an endearment for family. He turns.
Melisandre sees the unbridled longing in his eyes, but in a flash, it passes, and he narrows his eyes in anger.
"Who is this?" He spits.
"It's your sister," she says. "Arya Stark."
In a fast motion, Jon Snow moves from his side of the room to theirs, and his fist encircles her neck in a tight grasp.
"You mean to trick me, witch?"
Melisandre struggles to breathe, and claws at his hand.
"Lord Jon, please!" The girl beside her begs.
Melisandre knows. This is not Arya Stark. This is not his sister.
"Lord Jon!" The imposter pleads again, all the while he has his grip tight on her neck. "Please do nothurt her. She did not know. Lord Jon. Jon! It's me, don't you remember? The steward's daughter. I was friends with Sansa. I'm Jeyne. Jeyne."
Jon loses his grip, and Melisandre drops to her knees, sucking in air. Her throat feels raw, and she sees black spots in her vision.
"Please forgive me!" The girl beside her cries. Melisandre curses herself. She should have known that someone as meek cannot be the daughter of Stark.
"Jeyne Poole," Jon Snow says, his voice thick with distaste. "Why are you here? I have nothing to do with you. I wanted my sister. Not you."
The girl's sobs turn more intense.
"They thought I was her. Lord Tywin sent me to Ramsay as your sister. I have her hair and her look, so they thought me a good enough replacement. I was the one who married Ramsay. I do not know where Arya is. She isn't here. I don't know where she is."
Jon Snow looks uncertain, and lets out a breath.
"His bride," he whispers. "You were his bride."
"Yes," the girl says, and chokes on her voice. Melisandre looks up and sees that her tears have stained her cheeks.
"What has he done to you?"
The girl looks at him in shock. Her lips tremble.
"Everything there is to be done," she whispers, and lowers her head. Melisandre rises to her feet, and when she catches his eyes, there is no remorse in them.
"And when he did those things to you," he asks, his eyes back on the shaking girl. "Did he say her name?"
Melisandre has never thought Jon Snow to be cruel, but now she does. The girl is shaking violently, and her sobs are wrecking her body. Even if she has lied to her for days, she cannot help but feel pity for the poor child. She has been hurt in another's name, and been treated like an animal. Melisandre, for the first time, notices the scars on her neck, which are now uncovered. Her hair, which always covers those marks, is falling in a mess around her little face. The girl is pretty, she realizes, and wonders if the real Arya Stark is too.
The girl does not answer his question, and when he repeats it for the second time, his voice is softer than before. Jeyne looks up and nods. The man's fist clenches again, so hard his knuckles lose blood.
Jon Snow is silent, his eyes closing.
Two Arya Starks, and both not real the one.
She wonders if he'll ever trust her visions again, even if she has brought him back from death.
Does he regret coming back, now that he has no sister to save?
What if his heart- as he so fondly called her- is already long dead and gone?
"I want him dead," he finally speaks. "I want his tongue that he took her name with. I want it slit.
Melisandre questions, not for the first time, the form of love Jon Snow has for his half-sister. A sister he has not seen in years, and might not ever see again. A sister who drove a man as honorable as him to break vows he made before his Gods.
And suddenly, the word sister starts to change its meaning.
"I want her back," he mumbles, not to anyone but to himself, knowing it might never happen.
He whispers her name again and again, and a smile places itself on Melisandre's lips.
"I want..." He stops. The room is deathly silent, except for the muffled sobs of the girl. Jon Snow looks at his hands. Burned, she notices.
"You'll have your sister," she lies. He looks at her in disbelief and hatred.
"You'll have your bride, Jon Snow."
His mouth forms a thin line. She sees rage in his eyes, and fear and something else. She barely stops herself from smiling again, cruelly.
Oh, Lord Snow, she thinks, seems that you're just as mad as the rest of us.