A Song of Dust and Reincarnation [ASoIaF / RWBY]

[JamJackEvo]

A/N: Thoughts and criticisms are appreciated.

Summary: Yang woke up hurt and confused in a world not her own. In a body not her own. She never believed in reincarnation until it happened to her, and though it should've been a life with a new (if familiar) name and new beginnings, it didn't seem grand. After all, with wights in the forest and a harsh long winter inevitably coming, it's like she just exchanged one death world for another.

But whoever said Summer the Firemaiden shies away from danger?
​

-o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o-

/ — — CHAPTER 1 — — \

A Dragon Reborn

-o- -o- -o- -o- ( I ) -o- -o- -o- -o-​

Her mind was awhirl, finding rational thought difficult to grasp, and the only thing she was certain of was this mantra that kept resounding almost by instinct: Don't anger Father.

Yet it seemed she had. The blow on the side of her head shot a painful throb to her nerves, keeping her on the ground, dazed, defeated. She blinked a couple of times, took slow deep breaths, looked for something to distract her mind from the pain.

Something was happening out of sight, but her focus was still inward. Her vision began to clear after blinking the tears away. A firepit was in view, atop of which was what should be a large pot smelling of stew close to being ready. Instead the pot was overturned, spilling its content to the dirt floor where the puppies and piglets scurried to eat the mess. Next to that was a small table, which memory said to have some bowls and utensils upon its surface, yet right now one particular bowl was on the ground, shattered, and the rest laying haphazardly near it. Again, she could sense something was happening somewhere to her right, something that brought a bout of fear in her stomach. Rational thought soon returned, like a snowstorm passing their home.

Home?

Wait, who was she?

It's… it's Yang. Yang Xiao Long. I remember now.

Summer. Mother gave me that name. I was her light in this cold world.

What is this place?

I don't know this place. I remember heading to Atlas with my team, but…

Home. It's where we live.

Who's we?

My sisters and I. Mother. Father. Mother is—

Wait, what is this? What's going on?!

"I'm sorry! I shan't do it again. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Mother angered Father. She deserves this.

What? Dad would never do that to Mom. No, wait… that's not Mom. That's not Dad either…

Blood in her veins pulsed loudly; she could hear her heart beat, strong and fierce and desperate. The pain from where Father had hit her was pulsing, too, rhythmic, swollen, and excruciating. She tried to move her head to get a better look at what he was doing. Overhead, she could feel several eyes upon her. Silent observers of this beating, of a graying old man hammering fist after fist onto a defenseless crying woman while she, a child of ten years, lay close to them, having failed to stop him.

Why did she try to stop him?

Nobody stops Father. Whenever the drink addled his mind and he felt one of them offended him, it was only right he beat the rebellion off of them. It was only right. It was only—

Except it's not.

How could she be sure? This was all she ever knew. This was her lot in life, and if not for Father, then her brothers would've come out of the dark woods and take them all long ago. He was their shield, and as such deserved this much control over them. He knew better.

She saw Father's back and could feel the rage wafting from it. He loomed over Mother's form, both hands made into fists as he beat her over and over. Blood from her broken nose, blood from her split lip, blood from the wound on her forehead—that was from when Father threw his stone cup at her, when Mother accidentally tripped from trying to avoid a rowdy puppy crossing her way and spilled their dinner.

She deserved it. So did she, herself, for trying to stop this punishment.

This isn't right! He keeps this up, he'll kill her. Stop him!

Somehow, she mustered the strength to sit back up. The ache in her head continued to throb, much louder, much fiercer. Flashing images. A young girl with red hair holding a scythe almost twice as big as her. Another with hair as white as snow. Another with dark hair atop of which were two ears that should belong to wolves not humans (cats, not wolves, CATS). Then there was a mirror and she saw herself—golden hair reaching her waist, red angry eyes, and only one arm.

Her left hand instinctively grasped her right forearm, knowing it should be there yet at the same time believing it should no longer be there. Not after what Adam had done.

But who's Adam?

No one to fear. Not anymore.

Her head throbbed. Her memories were all over the forefront of her mind, like an incessant snowstorm. She remembered her mother being kind and gentle, if a little cynical, but she also remembered another mother who was also kind and gentle and had silver eyes and baked cookies like no other. And she also remembered meeting a third mother (her real mother) who was cold and dismissive, her red eyes showing nothing but discontent and disinterest at her. She remembered having a sister, so many sisters, young and old; yet she also remembered having just one sister, whose power and presence trumped her own, inheriting the same silver eyes as the second mother. She remembered—

No more! No more! Get out of my head!

She wanted to stop thinking and get some rest. But Father was still punishing Mother. It had been too long, too much already, yet he was still there, standing over Mama Willow, who was now showing plenty of bruising and a lot of oozing blood.

She didn't know what came over her. She blamed the other person in her head taking control over her body, grabbing hold of the scalding pot with her bare hands, walking towards Father, and then slamming the pot straight onto his back.

The throbbing got worse. Both head and hands, which smoked from the burns on it. The smell was horrible.

Her ears picked up screaming. Multiple sources, and she was certain her own was one of them. She saw herself picking up the pot again as Father lay on the floor next to Mother. He tried to get up, but he was having trouble doing so. Mother crawled away from him, crying all the while. She lifted the pot over her head, somehow numb from the heat and the nauseating smell of burnt flesh. Father looked over his shoulder, straight at her and the pot above her, and maybe for the very first time in this new life, she witnessed fear in his eyes.

He screamed, the fear overtaking all else, and she took great satisfaction from it before slamming the pot directly onto his head.

He had gone silent, but the screams still came. From above, from Mother, from the dogs and pigs, and most frighteningly, from her own mouth. The headache was at its peak, feeling like someone were shedding her scalp with a knife. She wanted to massage her forehead, but bringing up her hands just made the nauseating smell harder to ignore.

"Mm… ah…" She called out for Mama Willow, or at least tried to. Everything was spinning, and the pain was slowly fading.

She was out by the time her head landed on wet mud, asleep through the aftermath, asleep through the fear and turmoil, only waking when it was time to set changes to what was once known as Craster's Keep.

 

[JamJackEvo]

A Dragon Reborn
-o- -o- -o- -o- ( II ) -o- -o- -o- -o-​

The next time Yang felt conscious of her own thoughts, absent of pain-inducing discrepancies, she was lying in a small, soft bed where the cold seems to nibble at her feet, which had slid out of the thick, woolen blanket atop her. She tried to sit up, but a rush of pain coursed from her head and hands. Hissing, she gently peeled the blanket off her torso and inspected the state of her hands. They throbbed like mad and proved difficult to clench without shooting another pain rush.

Bandaged, bloodied, and still smelling faintly of burnt flesh, she should've known how holding onto a scalding pot with bare flesh was a bad idea.

It's all right, she thought, trying to find the bright side to this. At least I saved Mother.

… Mother?

Yang blinked, briefly looking into her memories, wondering if she was misremembering something, but all that did was trigger a nauseating onslaught of concepts, images, and sounds she'd never experienced before. This time, she hissed louder, putting her hands, palms up, on her forehead. It felt like a dozen needles being pricked through the back of her eyes going outward. She stayed that way for a while, unsure how long, but when she finally lifted the knuckles from her head, she felt warm sweat cooling on her skin.

It was surreal to think that she'd been reincarnated with memories of her past life, but that seemed to be the case, unless she'd been a very imaginative child, living another life in another world after Father hit her in the head, creating very innovative concepts like guns, computers, long-distance communications, and fast modes of transport, while conjuring disturbing ideas of racism, corruption, genocide, and the varied creatures of Grimm.

Not to mention the shattered moon in Remnant. Her eyes moved to the window, where sunlight poured in as if to complement her awakening while opposing her thoughts.

"Summer?"

On instinct—more out of habit than startle—Yang moved her head to the right. A small child peeked up from the top of the loft's ladder, her face scrunched in concern. Blue inquisitive eyes, a face lacking baby fat, and blonde hair tied into a single braid placed over her left shoulder, she reminded Yang so much of how she'd looked at that age. Yang grasped for a name to fit the face as she replied with a raspy "Good morning."

As if that were a secret signal, the girl's eyes widened and shouted below, "Summer is awake!"

Beyond the loft, the main hall burst into chaotic activity, voices speaking over each other, some hurried footsteps, the yelping of puppies, and Kelpie—the little girl—climbed the rest of the way up the ladder to make room for another to ascend. The ladder shook about with each step that Yang worried it'd slide off before the climber reached the platform. Kelpie crouched near her, smiling, blue eyes twinkling, and gave her a brief hug.

"I thought you'd never wake up." Kelpie's knee landed on her hand.

Yang winced but did her best to keep her voice at a whisper when she said, "Ow, ow, ow…!"

"Oh!" Kelpie quickly pulled away, shame-faced, just as another face appeared atop the ladder.

"Oh sunshine…" Summer's mother, a young woman named Willow, climbed the rest of the way, crouched where Kelpie had crouched earlier, and checked the bandages on her head and arms. "How are you feeling?"

Other than feeling like this is some kind of wild fever dream where I'm reborn with the name of my stepmom and my mother here, right in front of me, shares the same name as my teammate's mom… "I feel fine."

Willow frowned. "You don't sound fine to me. Kelly, go down and fetch some water."

Kelpie nodded. "Yes, mother."

As she watched her little sister (who is not Ruby) walk to the ladder, Yang felt a hand on her forehead.

"Your fever broke, at least," Willow said.

Having her face this close, Yang could now clearly see the damage Craster had done. The bruises were dark, the scab on her lips dry, and the swelling under Willow's left eye small, though Yang suspected it wasn't always that way. It had time to heal. The various bruises on her face and arms were already taking on that pus-like yellow at their edges. Anger coursed through her for every bruise she saw, yet she was content with knowing that the monster would never hurt another soul again. Although a part of her worried over the lack of remorse she felt.

How long was I out? Yang wanted to ask, but what came out instead was: "How long have I been asleep?" Almost like on reflex, like a last-second correction.

Willow's face scrunched, and here Yang could see the great resemblance between her and Kelpie. All here in Craster's Keep had considered each other sisters that Yang almost forgot that in this new life she was living, she wasn't the only child Willow conceived. There were ten years worth of memories in her mind now of life in the frigid North—although technically this ten-year-old brain had just "remembered" nineteen years worth of memories of an adventurous but tragic life in a world called Remnant that somehow became the dominant personality now—and barely any time to carefully sift through everything. She'd have to play things by the ear, and currently, thinking over the patricide she'd committed, things were quite uneasy within Craster's Keep. It was certainty not based on facts but gut feeling.

"You've been in bed for four days now."

She knew she needn't ask, but was compelled to anyway. "And what of father?"

"Dead," Willow said, brushing her hair with her hands.

"And the others?" Yang paused, her mind suddenly conjuring tales of tall, looming creatures in the forest with an appetite for flesh and a penchant of raising the dead, and then corrected her question with, "I mean, the rest of us?"

"We're all…" Willow stopped, looked away, took a deep breath. When her eyes met hers again, she said, "We're handling things as best we can. Just know that no one blames you for what happened."

She was away from the Remnant culture she knew, but whether it was in a Grimm-infested world or an Other-infested world, the taboo of patricide was the same. Would she have done the same with her old father, Taiyang? She remembered no remorse ever passing her heart at the time she threw down that pot nor did she feel it ever afterward. What did that make her? She looked down at the sheets, and felt like wrapping herself in them, never to come out. "I murdered father."

"No." Willow grabbed her face, making them look eye-to-eye again, but leaned her face a little so that the worst of the bruising was prominent. "Summer, you saved me. Craster looked ready to kill me if not for you."

Yang understood that, saw firsthand the assault on her, the blood, the screams, the drunken fury, but it did little to take away this feeling of indifference. No remorse for the death, but no elation either, as if the murder was a natural progression of things here. Callous. Cold.

"We'll get through this," Willow said. "Just remember that no one blames you for what happened."

It was a lie, she knew. Summer, the child in her, had wondered so many times why nobody in their family killed Craster long ago. Kill him in his sleep, steal his axe and whack him in the head with it, make him choke, bury his face in the firepit. As much as the child fantasized about ridding evil from this world (and she definitely believed Craster was evil), on an instinctive level she somehow understood why no one dared to defy Father. He had all the cards. He was respected enough by other freefolk to not raid his home. The Night's Watch trusted him and always warned them of keeping their hands to themselves. But most importantly, he helped keep the cold ones away. The cold ones and the sons and brothers they received as tribute.

Willow hugged her, doing her best to avoid touching her bandaged hands. "Everything's going to be fine."

It was a lie, an obvious lie, but for right now Yang didn't care. She hugged this woman back as she put aside everything to focus on this moment… because she doubted mother and daughter would have this time of peace again.


-o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o-


She still had her Aura, funnily enough. She didn't know why she thought being reincarnated meant her Aura would disappear; it was a physical manifestation of her soul after all. But to be fair, she hadn't experienced reincarnation before, so there was no telling which part of her disappeared and which remained. Memories, yes; Aura, now a yes; magic, no.

Remembering more of the events that led up to her death, it was impossible for the mantle of the Spring Maiden would follow her in the next life. It had always been a temporary arrangement, a contract made and upheld in life, and in the moment of her death, the contract became null and the mantle moved to someone else. Her last thought had been Ruby. Yang hoped that had been enough. Hoping was all she could do now, here. The rest of her friends would have to save Remnant without her.

What mattered now was picking up the pieces shattered from that night. The eldest women had been in talks with each other, agreeing and arguing for days since she'd been knocked unconscious. Even when she was awake, none had come to a definitive agreement on what to do. Some of the women wanted to leave Craster's Keep forever, but with no idea on where to go or how to get started (or avoid the sons and brothers in the forest come to get their revenge, a few of the young ones whispered). Other women chose to stay here, try to wash away the bad and start fresh where they've always lived, but were unable to provide a solution for when the crows or other freefolk come to visit. The former would be business as usual, but the latter would be business as hostile takeover.

"We'll take up arms and defend our home," said one of the younger sisters, barely any older than Yang's current body was.

"With what, sticks and stones?" One of the elder sisters replied. If Yang recalled correctly, she was the eldest of the group, having been here to see her daughters and granddaughters become Craster's wife. Ferny. It was hard to gauge how old Ferny really was, given the state of their living, the terror of Father, and life in general. Yang could only guess by appearance, and she looked to be a woman pushing fifty soon. "What good will that do, child?"

The young girl took a step back, feeling overwhelmed from all the eyes set upon her, waiting for a response. When she chanced a look at Yang, something seemed to click in place and she managed to regain a bit of her confidence. "Better to live on my feet than on my knees!"

Ferny scoffed. "You mean die on your feet. Look at us, here, girl." She gestured to the gathered women and children along the firepit, as she herself sat on Craster's spot. "We barely look intimidating enough to scare the dogs. Our weapons consist of nothing more than sharpened sticks and dull iron. They have spears and arrows to spare. Can you live with yourself knowing that everyone here will die should we raise a hand against a more powerful group?"

The girl backed off, eyes to the ground, biting her lip.

"I know it's not the most desired choice," Ferny said to everyone. "It's not even the safest choice, but the candle is burning, and it won't be long before news spread of Craster's death. They'll come, then. But for now, we need to prepare for it. To those who wish to leave, you may do so; I will not fault you for it. To those who wish to stay, harden your hearts for what is to come."

Yang looked at the people around the firepit. Faces, young and old, showing defeat before the battle even started. Many had already made up their minds, Yang knew, and whatever remnant of a family this place had left would shatter when the first groups pack up and leave. The odds of survival were not at all in their favor, but in this world where might meant living, there was little to nothing these women and girls could do against the coming forces that want to claim Craster's Keep as their own.

"I intend to fight."

Several eyes honed in on her, wide and surprised. Yang swallowed the small lump in her throat and stepped forward. Her mother had a grasp on her elbow, but Yang wrung it away. I need to say my piece, she tried to convey to Willow without saying a word. She doubted it went through, because how could it? Yang's personality was more dominant than Summer, ten-year-old child of Craster, and far more forward than Willow would've been used to. Still, Yang had no time to placate, but to antagonize.

"I am not about to sit down and watch our home be taken from us."

Antagonize the defeatist attitude of her sisters.

"I've had enough of it from that monster. I am taking my life into my own hands from here on."

Antagonize the submissive frame of mind ingrained to them by dear ol' Father.

"And if anybody out there has a problem with that, then too bad for them. I'm not backing down without a fight."

Antagonize those who would cause them harm.

Ferny looked at her with narrowed eyes and tight lips. She put her hands on her knees and slowly stood up, never breaking eye contact. "Are you so arrogant after killing Craster that you believe more death will solve all our problems?"

Yang had a witty response ready, but she doubted this household was qualified in detecting the subtle beats of sarcasm. So instead, she said, "We do not kneel. You and mother always say that to us. It's what differentiates us from the crows and the southerners." She looked towards the girl who spoke up first to defend their home. "Gilly has the right idea. I'd rather live on my feet than die on my knees."

Ferny scoffed again. "You've switched—"

"I know what I said," Yang interrupted.

The group whispered amongst themselves, beyond surprised at the abrasiveness she showed. From what she remembered of Summer's years here, it was not so different to how Yang had been at that age, tough, vengeful, and far too expressive with her emotions. This defiance was unprecedented, considering her obedience under Craster before a potshot killed him, but not beyond possibility.

She expected Ferny to get angry, but all she did was smile before saying, "Then you are twice the fool Gilly is."

Yang soon understood. Ferny saw no meaning in continuing this discussion with a child. Yang might have killed Craster, but that was like shutting down a kingdom's defense system because Watts had uploaded his virus into the central servers. She saved them from peril, but she also opened them up to another kind of peril. More so, the elder woman didn't know what Yang knew, how much help she could truly give to her sisters so they no longer have to bow their heads for another man, how much power she held within her soul.

She clenched her fists, just wishing she could punch this doubt away and—

Her eyes widened as she looked down at her hands. Her bandaged hands, clenching and unclenching with full sensation in her nerves… but no pain.

Mother said the burns won't heal for another fortnight. A plan was slowly taking root. I don't know the extent of my Aura in this new body, but it doesn't hurt to try.

"Willow, take Summer to rest," Ferny said, putting the discussion and the meeting to a close. "It's clear the medicine is mucking her brain."

Willow nodded, stepped forward, and soon hurried her feet when Yang started removing her bandages. "What are you doing? Stop that!"

She was midway to her unwrapping when her mother grabbed hold of both arms. "Let me go!"

"Stop it, Summer! Don't remove the bandages."

Willow was being gentle with her grip, fearing she'd hurt her. Yang managed to wiggle out of her grasp and continue unwrapping her bandages till she got the one on her left arm completely removed. "Look!"

Everyone did so. Most didn't understand, but Willow, Kelpie, the older girls, and Ferny, most importantly, saw what was unsaid. Skin, healed and unblemished, on her palm. They had all seen the state of it three days prior, the flesh cooked and the skin completely burned off. Such a devastating injury was impossible to completely heal in a short time. Yet it had healed and left no scars behind.

"You don't doubt my conviction," Yang said, stepping towards the firepit, whose edges was lined with a tiny wall of rocks. She grabbed one nearest her, near the fire, and if not for her Aura insulating most of the heat, she'd be feeling the blisters forming about her palm. Raising her arm up to shoulder level, bits of ash falling through the gaps of her fingers, all saw the smoke coming from the rock, its surface long blackened by fire after fire throughout the years. "But you do doubt my power."

She made sure Ferny was looking straight at her before she clenched hard. Her new body was frail, unused to extreme physical exertion. But if it had garnered the strength to lift that scalding pot and threw it down to deliver the killing blow on their father, then crushing the rock would be simple enough. It took more effort than she was accustomed to, like trying to squeeze metal than stone, all while the sensation felt new and old at the same time. It had been over a year since she lost her right arm, and though it'd been replaced with a well-oiled and -functioning piece of Atlesian tech, it still felt like having control of a limb gone numb. The contours of the rock, the heat pounding on her Aura, the tips of her fingers going pale as she tightened her grip… she could see and feel all this.

With a loud crunch, the stone gave out. Shards fell to the ashes in the firepit. She opened up her palm and showed what was left of the rock, its brownish interior standing out against the rock soot and her ash-stained palm.

"Summer…?"

The whispers got louder, and a new emotion took root in the eyes of the crowd: fear.

"Tens, hundreds, thousands, it doesn't matter to me," Yang said, her voice cutting through the others without the need to shout. Unbidden, she then unwrapped the bandages on her other hand. "I'm making my stand here. Be they crows, freefolk, or the cold ones." With the bandages off, she struck her fist and palm together, the sound thunderous in the silenced hall. I've done this song and dance before. Died doing it, too. But hey, live like every day's the last, right? "I will protect our family."

Questions would need to be answered, defenses would have to be prepared, and a leadership would have to be put in place. These would all come in time, one by one, and if her goal for this family's solidarity was successful, she'd ensure they'd have nothing to fear again.


-o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o-

FERNY


"I will protect our family."

How long ago had she heard those very same words from a man who whispered sweet, plentiful lies into her ear? She was unsure.

If anyone else had said them to her, they would've been scoffed out of the house. Words were just words, in the end, and she'd rather not be fooled twice.

Yet…

There was fire in the young one's eyes. It'd been there when she brought that pot onto that damned Craster's head with a satisfying squelch. It unnerved her then, and it unnerved her now, following the display of strength the little one showed. Ferny once suspected some divine intervention had occurred on that night, that the Old Gods, tired of Craster's conferring with the cold ones, had come into Summer's prone form and sought to end the bastard's countless blasphemy. It seemed too good, too heavy-handed for the Old Gods to have a hand in, so Ferny tossed away the thought as nothing but wishful thinking.

Now…

It felt like Ferny was seeing Summer for the first time. A young one, a month or so away from her eleventh nameday, who had yet to be tainted by the profane incest this so-called family endured throughout the years, who had never been tainted, as her mother was an outsider before Craster took her to wife. Instead, she'd been tainted a different way, the slaying of one's own kin. The price of blood for blood. Yet now Ferny had been made to wonder just whose blood truly runs inside Summer's veins as something akin to fire began to rise from the tips of her shoulder-length hair. Fire that didn't smoke, but its presence was felt regardless, her daughters stepping back, guided by their primal instinct of danger. Ferny hid a gasp when she gazed upon her eyes once more.

Red like blood. Red like weirwood leaves. Red like embers. The fire in her eyes, fully manifested.

Fire… The fire to fight back the cold…

This was a sign, Ferny knew. Still, it was a change to what the Old Gods had always done, which was to be mere witnesses to the acts and deeds of the freefolk. The uncertainty gave her doubt, but the power resonating from Summer was unmistakable. And her enemy was clear.

Ferny began to smile, and within that smile was a feeling she thought she'd never experience again: hope for the future.

"Maybe," she said, moving her eyes along the hall, watching the various expressions of the young and old, "the gods haven't abandoned us after all." She brought her gaze back to Summer, whose name now held more meaning than ever before. "Very well, Summer. I trust you know what we need to do, then?"

Her lopsided grin showed youthful arrogance but with the power to back it up.

 

[JamJackEvo]

A Dragon Reborn
-o- -o- -o- -o- ( III ) -o- -o- -o- -o-​

Six years later…

The gale was mild today, moving downwind so that her mark wouldn't catch her scent. A pair of deer, a doe and a fawn, bringing forth a memory of watching a movie of a similar premise. Though sentimentality wished to stay her hand, she also knew that food was a little scarce this month, more so when she'd heard that the Night's Watch were ranging near their settlement. After their last two visits, she wanted to ensure her sisters wouldn't go rationing their portions for the little ones.

Within her, she summoned the mindset of her old self, how she had experimented with several different weapons before deciding her own fists would be best. She had been an impressive shot, both in guns and archery, and so she brought forth that talent to reality. Her bow was out, arrow nocked, breath steady, targeting the neck. The doe's ears twitched, swerving its head to where she heard the distant noise… and unintentionally dodging her arrow.

She clicked her tongue as she rummaged her quiver for another arrow. The doe's head swerved again, this time towards her hiding spot, and in the next moment bolted away from the clearing. The little one followed swiftly, and both have disappeared into the dense forest before she could line the next shot. She cursed under her breath and debated on chasing after the prey. It'd be spooked, its guard up, making the hunt a lot more difficult, which meant more time needed to bring back meat and she'd been at this for hours now. Her eyes tracked the sky beyond the holes in the canopy of leaves and branches, easily judging it to be closing in on evening. She disliked it, but she'd have to return home empty-handed.

Then her ears picked up a deer's scream in the distance. Right where the earlier doe had fled.

When she came upon the animal's corpse, her little sister Kelpie had her knife sunk inside its neck right next to the arrow. The fawn was nowhere in sight.

"Caught it," Kelpie said, grinning at her.

Yang couldn't help chuckling. "At least you didn't step in any twigs this time."

Kelpie was unusually silent, a blush slowly coming to her cheeks.

Yang rolled her eyes, recalling the deer's swift turn before her own arrow could hit it, a sign its ears caught a sound that spooked it. "Quite the lucky day for you, Kelly."

She pulled the knife and arrow out and handed them over to her sister. Kelpie was three years younger than her, but out of all the young ones who'd tasted what it felt to be free of beatings and hunger, she was the only one dissatisfied. Yang could see in Kelpie's bright blue eyes that she sought for something bigger and grander than what they had now, that there was more to the world than snow and a sea of trees. This was why Yang chose her to hunt with her. The older girls—those who'd stayed anyway—were content with their good fortune, so Kelpie, feeling like the odd girl of the bunch for having a want of more, buried them inside. She reminded Yang so much of her old self, an adrenaline junkie striving for both thrills and adventure, and to see someone have that drive but no outlet, Yang decided to give her one, which was practical for both Kelpie's adventurous spirit and the family.

She smiled widely, even as her little sister bowed her head and stared at the bloodied arrow she held in both hands. "Three years ago," Yang said, "you could barely pull back the bowstring."

Kelpie looked up, frowning. "Huh? What brought this on?"

Yang shrugged. "Just… reminiscing."

"You're sounding like an old lady again, sister."

Yang laughed. With two sets of memories, she did feel more like a woman in her thirties, but as always, she kept that tidbit to herself. Moving back to the dead deer, she grabbed under it with both hands and hoisted it up her shoulder. It was still bleeding, but that mattered little. Getting home before night time, however, mattered a lot more. No one had seen a wight for years now, but just because they were out of sight didn't mean the danger had passed. Besides that, there were dangers in the forest other than the undead.

"Well," Yang said, gesturing to the deer on her shoulder, "can Mother Ferny do this?"

Kelpie rolled her eyes—a habit she learned from Yang. "Always with the muscles…"

As they walked back home, Yang said, "Just saying… this deer was in the middle of bolting out of here. And you shot her through the neck."

"Like I said, luck."

"It's not just luck, Kelly." If Yang could, she would've patted her head, like how she used to do with Ruby. But Kelpie positioned herself to Yang's right, the same side on which she carried their meat for the next few days. "You've got real skill with that bow. Keep honing it and you'll likely shoot a crow mid-flight!"

"That is impossible, sister."

Her eyes swept up to the tree branches, and as per usual, a solitary black bird perched itself there, its gaze more intelligent than all of the flocks she'd seen. In another life, she would've found some solace in them, but now, with zombies and wargs lurking in the woods, she grew to distrust them. This one most of all. Its gaze followed her every step, and it was downright unnerving. "Only if you believe it is!"

The conversation dwindled after that. Their priority now was getting home with the provisions intact. They found the game trail they traveled from and made their way back. Nighttime was fast approaching, and the forest was already acting on it. Night bugs sang their songs, the snow crunched underfoot, and the winds howled across sentinels, oak, and—one that never fails to put a wry smile on her face—ironwood. Halfway through their journey, they walked past a small grove of weirwood trees and at the center stood the tree with the widest trunk, which had been roughly carved to portray a face. Her sisters and mothers called this a heart tree, but Yang saw no heart in its creation. Whenever she looked at it, she could only think of an expression of endless agony, with the way it cried and drooled blood-colored sap from its holes. She once wondered aloud what the sap drooping tasted like and was quickly dissuaded from trying it. Before Craster's death, none were allowed to come here and pray to the heart tree. After… well, Yang had been surprised how religious Mother Ferny had been. Free to worship the Old Gods without fear, if Ferny wasn't busy tending to the chores and problems back home, she'd make the journey here and just pray, always dragging someone to accompany and guard her. Usually Yang. And usually trying to have her join in praying.

Yang hurried her steps. She never got used to the heart tree's crying visage. It reminded her of those who suffered for her—

The blood coming out of her mouth…

Coming out of her red eyes.

The fear in those eyes.

The dark feathers falling around them.

The grip in her hand weakened.

Slackened.

Her eyes slowly closed, never to open again.

The mantle was passed on.

—and she wished not to remember.

They exited the grove, white and red giving way to black and green. The wind picked up. It hit their faces and swayed the branches above, making them groan like old furniture. She chanced a glance upwards, searching for a hole in the canopy so she could gauge how much time they had before complete darkness would come. Everything above was enveloped in branches and evergreen leaves so layered, much less feeling sunlight, she doubted even raindrops would get through it. As it was, they were relying on night vision and complete familiarity in this section of the forest to get themselves home. It wasn't total darkness, but the shadows had overtaken the presence of light that it was difficult to find the scratches and lines she and her sisters had put on the tree barks. Yang was looking at one familiar tree, double-checking if they were still going the right path, that she sensed the danger quickly.

In a show of unfeasible strength, she grabbed the deer on her shoulder with both hands and hurled it to a lurking shadow to their left. The shadow retreated, but it hadn't given up yet. The silhouette and glowing yellow eyes led her to believe it was a shadowcat. They were fast, they were silent, and in recent weeks, they were hungrier than usual.

"Let's go." She put her hand on her dagger's holster, watching and listening to the forest around them.

Kelpie took out her bow, nocked an arrow. "Not without the deer."

This was no time for posturing. Hungry zebra-tigers were an absolute pain to fight. "Kelly…"

"It's just one shadowcat. We can take it."

A second shadowcat pounced behind Kelpie, as if to mock her. They tumbled to the ground, its growls fierce, her screams desperate. Yang pulled out her dagger and shoved the animal off her sister. Kelpie rolled herself away, clutching her left arm and leaving red tracks along the snowy path. The dagger sank into the beast's shoulder, and the shadowcat yelped before swerving its tail right at Yang's head. She blocked it, and it felt like Mercury's unhindered roundhouse, shooting pain through her arm, momentum through her body. Her grip on the dagger came free as she fell down, shoulder first.

She rolled out when the shadowcat went for another pounce, claws barely missing her. Bereaved of any conventional weapon, Yang resorted to the quiver on her back. The arrowheads were small, the shaft brittle, but it would have to do. The shadowcat eyed her with its bright yellow eyes, growling deep as it tried to circle her. Yang breathed deep, exhaled, and hefted her arrow-dagger up to her chest, ready to stab an eye should the black tiger decide to try its luck once more. Her dagger was still on its shoulder, three-quarters embedded into its tough flesh. From her peripheral vision, Kelpie was doing something, and though curiosity and worry wanted to know what it was, Yang's instincts demanded she keep sight of the enemy.

Two girls in a dark forest, stalked by hungry creatures with dangerous glowing eyes. It'd be a lie to say this situation didn't bring forth old memories. This time was different, though. Yang or Kelpie couldn't rely on an Uncle Qrow to come and save them. These weren't Grimm, their hunger more out of desperation than wanton destruction. And above all else, neither she nor Kelpie were defenseless little girls.

Yang came to the tiger first, denying it a chance of another attack. The beast went low as if to pounce. She focused solely on its descent, so it came too late for her to react when the first shadowcat leapt out of the darkness behind the second, claws out, mouth open, eyes filled with hunger, heading right her way. Dodging was impossible. Yang had just time to blink before she felt large claws digging into her fur shirt. Her free arm, covered in Aura, came up to stop its mouth from lunging for her neck. By then, her back reacquainted itself with the snowy ground, and she decided to introduce this cat with her boots, tossing its momentum ever forward and driving its back on a tree trunk. Her stomach felt a chill, but she had no chance to check the damage before the second shadowcat was on her too.

She grabbed its neck as it wildly swished with its claws and tried to wiggle itself out of the hold. This time, Yang remembered the arrow in her hand and she drove it right into the beast's eye, which popped like a balloon. The beast's struggles got wilder, its screams almost deafening. She could push the arrow deeper, but her eyes noticed the dagger still on its shoulder. Yanking it free distracted the shadowcat enough for Yang to roll them over so that she was now atop, left hand still choking it, right hand holding the dagger. With a war cry, Yang plunged the dagger deep into its neck. The beast's scream degraded into gurgles and wheezes, its struggling into sporadic flailing, and in seconds it was still.

Yang stood up, high on adrenalin, covered in blood, and hooked with a need to kill the other. The still-living beast glared as it crouched low, growling. Old instincts began to kick in; she clenched her fists and assumed a boxer's stance. She could feel her Aura blazing inside her. The accumulated kinetic force she both gave and took fed her Semblance with power. The grin came naturally as she gestured for the shadowcat to come at her. It bared its fangs, slowly backing away, and when she was about to give chase, an arrow flew true and pierced the right side of its neck. The beast turned its attention to the archer, eyes glowing with rage and hate, and Yang took this chance to dash forward. It only had time to take one small step back before Yang punched its face once, twice, thrice, and then kicked it back onto the ironwood tree. The bark cracked, almost masking the tiger's bones doing the same.

The shadowcat was still alive, but did not rise back up. All it could muster now were whimpers and heavy breathing. A small cloud of snow began to form around it as it squirmed, paws pushing at anything and everything when death was close at hand. Yang couldn't stomach the sight anymore. She took another arrow from her quiver and ended the beast's suffering.

"Gods, that hurt." Kelpie moved towards Yang, while clutching her bleeding arm.

"Here," Yang said, "let me see it."

Kelpie grit her teeth as Yang ripped the sleeve surrounding the bite wound. And despite the pain, she laughed. "Mother's going to kill you for that."

"Unless you'd rather we amputate your whole arm due to infection…"

"I'll stop. Sorry."

"I'll stitch in a new sleeve myself, if you'd like." She gathered remnants of her dwindling Aura and concentrated it on her hands. "Hmm… doesn't look too deep. How does it feel?"

Her eyes tracked the thread of steam rising from the wound. "Like I'm being burned."

"Pretty normal, then." Her utility belt, though made rough and simple, had the bare essentials for survival out here. A small container filled with homebrewed disinfectant, another with styptic powder, and some sterilized bandages she made out of spare fabrics. She fished these out and applied them on the wound quickly. Kelpie gritted her teeth, but voiced no complaint.

Aura would be a godsend right now. But out of all the people in this land, she was the only one gifted with it, even if it wasn't as strong as it had been in her old life. The best she could do was transfer a negligible amount to kickstart the healing process on overdrive, but wounds do not get repaired without a price. The hunger and fatigue wouldn't come until a few more hours, but Kelpie could now worry less about a wound that could last at least two weeks.

"What were these shadowcats doing all the way here?"

Yang finished up tying the bandages. "Look at their stomachs. What do you see?"

"It's…" She narrowed her eyes. "They're… starving?"

"The deer blood must've smelled divine to them. There hasn't been that much game around here for months at least." Something's spooked them out of here were the words she refused to voice. Maybe she didn't need to; the cause was plain as day. She was thankful that the only glowing eyes she'd seen today were yellow. "Come on," Yang said, as she stood up, "let's get a move on. We're burning daylight."

Kelpie stood up as well, mildly testing her bandaged arm, and unable to hide the winces she made. Despite that, she said, "I'll carry one of the cats."

Yang grabbed her shoulder. "Whoa whoa, not with that arm, you won't."

"They're about the only meat we've gotten for weeks, like you said. That deer won't be enough, not with the Night's Watch visiting the Keep."

Yang stopped her words before they got out of her mouth, then sighed. "Yeah, you're right. I'll carry them."

Kelpie looked from one shadowcat to the other and then to the deer they'd caught earlier. "All of them?"

Yang could only give her little sister a long, tired grin.

 

[GoldenWorld]

So Yang's aura is weaker here. Huh. I guess that would make it somewhat fair considering Yang's feats. Will it ever go back to her original levels?

 

[SpiralRoot]

So... the most important question for me is if Yang will consider if she is able to, unlocking other's aura. Even if the aura she is able to muster now is tiny in comparison to what she had before her reincarnation, both in strength and versatility, it is still a huge leg up compared to other people in Westeros.

 

[JamJackEvo]

A Dragon Reborn
-o- -o- -o- -o- ( IV ) -o- -o- -o- -o-​

Summerkeep.

It was a name suggested to replace Craster's Keep, seeing as dear ol' Father was burned to ashes and said ashes were buried in an unmarked grave outside the perimeter, but not everybody liked it, even if Mother Ferny was the one to propose it. Yang herself liked it least of all. She found it undeserving and embarrassing, despite seeing the humor in naming it like so in a land of ever-winter. In the end, the other elders decided to just call it The Keep.

The Keep came into view the moment Yang and Kelpie exited the Haunted Forest. The perimeter's grounds were surrounded in a palisade, its logs made solely of ironwood, a wall of protection against whatever dangers that lurked beyond the area, alive and dead both. The Keep was built along an incline, so a few logs had to be elevated to leave a gap big enough underfoot to get rid of the runoff that would build and drown the garden there. Looming above all this was the foreboding red comet, casting a bright swollen scar across the night sky.

"The Night's Watch have already arrived," Kelly said, pointing at the black makeshift tents scattered about the front of the gate, several firepits gifting light and shadows to the forest while blowing smoke to the sky.

Yang said nothing as they stepped closer to the gate and felt the eyes of many on her, the meat she hauled on her shoulder, and the two limp carcasses she dragged across the snow and mud with her free hand. She also said nothing as they got to the gate and Fiona, who was on guard duty today atop the wall's battlement, waved at them with a strained smile. Yang hugged the deer tightly, cheek feeling the rough pinpricks of its fur, just so she could free her hand a little to wave back. A group of black brothers were walking out, and they stopped and stared at the sight of her and the haul. The giant white wolf next to them sniffed at the deer, then the shadowcats, but thankfully kept its paws to itself.

The Keep saw a flurry of activity with the arrival of guests. The only thing that came close to this orderly chaos was when a murderous band of freefolk came to take over The Keep a year ago. They were repelled, of course, but not before incurring deaths on both sides.

Little of the main house had changed since it came under new management, so to speak. It was still half-buried to the ground, needing a small climb down and ducking below the main doorway better fitted for a child than an adult. As the Keep welcomed more freefolk who chose peace over conflict when they first came here, the house expanded from the back. What was once a small storeroom for the farming tools, its size no more than a closet, was broken down to become a doorway for a dorm room of sorts which provided beds for the increased population. Part of the dorm room expansion included a dedicated kitchen.

Her mother, Willow, was stirring the large cooking pot when they entered. Yang smiled. Willow returned it, and though the scars she suffered from that beating six years ago marked her face alongside the wrinkles, they did little to mar the radiance in her smile. Then her tired eyes looked down and her whole face transformed, its expressions switching from joy to shock to horror to resignation, in that order.

"What did you do this time, Summer?"

"We're back!" Yang said, dropping the deer on an open table. The shadowcats she left outside, lest she be scolded for dragging mud inside the kitchen. "Got enough here to feed us for the next week or so."

Willow gave her an impatient look.

Sighing, she gazed down at her torso, which donned nothing but a self-made primitive sports bra. Say what you will about medieval underwear, those things can't properly support my growing twins. "We got pounced by a couple of shadowcats. One of them scratched Kelly's arm. Since I didn't want to ruin their fur, I covered them up in my shirt and dragged them back here like that."

"Gave some crows an eyeful," Kelpie said, mimicking the bug-eyed look of that black-haired teen with the bastard sword. "It's like they haven't seen a naked woman before!"

"Nearly naked," Yang corrected. While she had shame, she was still more used to Remnant's level of shame, and her current getup was the norm for her back in her academy days. Really, the leather bra was akin to a tank top whose hem ends above the midriff. Nothing fancy, it covers everything except her abs, and the sex-starved men in black were free to look and just look. Anything more, they'd be seeing stars and eating food through a straw for weeks.

"Come here, Kell," Willow said, moving away from the cooking pot, "let me have a look at that arm."

"It's fine," Kelpie whined. "Summer patched it up."

"Do you think it's fine?" she asked Yang.

"It… could use a more thorough cleaning to prevent infection…"

"In other words," Willow said, looking back at Kelpie, "not fine. Don't give me that look, girl. Would you prefer we cut it off when it's infected? Or maybe the beast that bit you was rabid, would you like to be put down as a maddened monster?"

Kelpie, annoyed, grew defiant. "I've had worse."

"No excuses. Come on, let's go to my room."

Kelpie groaned.

Yang eyed the pot hanging above the blazing fire. "What about dinner?"

"Oh right. Be a dear and keep watch of it before I get back."

Yang would much prefer to wash off the blood on her immediately. She was beginning to stink of gore. But all she said was, "All right."

As though she could read her mind, Willow said, "I'll see if I can ask one of your sisters to take over early. You need to get washed up."

Yang smiled. After the wash, she could use a long nap.

"And once you do that, see to the guests in the hall, no arguments."

Yang groaned.


-o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o-


Guests.

Dear ol' Craster welcomed the Night's Watch with an air of civility few other freefolk offered the crows. What was left of the Craster brood in the Keep thought to keep tradition, with a little coercing from Yang herself. They were prime defenseless territory at that point in time; no need to make enemies or drive away what help they could get due to prejudices. The day of her 'waking' was a little blurry now, but she could still recall things in general, and one such memory was her somehow convincing everyone to stay, reinforce the keep, and prepare for whatever comes their way. And then on the next day, a band of crows had come, seeking Craster but finding just his ashes and bones under an unmarked grave, the soil still fresh and soft from the recent digging. The talks were tense, as the task of negotiation with the crows fell to the eldest widow, Ferny, who was shrewd but overwhelmed from the recent violence. That night, many of her sisters slept with one eye open, afraid that a crow would come for them in their beds, despite the assurances of their leader that they'd be civil.

No incident happened as far as she knew, although it didn't mean her sisters had all gone celibate. Without a certain someone claiming them as their personal property, some of the more adventurous girls—though not in the same kind of adventuring Yang did—got close to crows that stroke their fancy. They often got harsh scolding from the elders, and more than a few close calls with pregnancy, except for five girls who recently gave birth. No crows claimed them as their own.

Yang was still sore with the Night's Watch for that. But on the plus side, she now had four nieces and a nephew to spoil. The eldest, just a month away from her third birthday, was ready to get a name, though Yang had somehow already christened her as Saph and the youngling always responded to it. Orna, the mother, thought it bad luck to give her a name so early, but Yang would not back down. She disliked the "nameless baby" tradition of the freefolk, even if it was done to avoid a strong attachment should the infant not survive past toddlerhood. She was the only one to do so, as everyone else called the children "baby" or "infant" or "whelp" (for Saph specifically, since she preferred the company of puppies than her cousins).

After her wash, she stepped into her little private cove to get changed. The moment she stepped inside, she instantly knew someone had been in here. Neatly folded on her bed was long blue and green dress she rarely wore, if at all.

"Willow…" Yang shook her head and sighed, one hand on her hip. On the one side, it was a little insulting her mother would choose what she wore at her age. On the other side, she was too tired to rebel. She put on the dress, eyeing the intrinsic needlework done on the hems as she slid her arms into the sleeves. There was no mirror to help her judge how she looked, but knowing that this particular dress wasn't form-fitting for a "top-heavy" girl like her, she grabbed a leather belt from her armoire and tied it around her waist. She did what she could with combing her hair, taking care to apply force on the tangles without making her scalp hurt.

What I would give for some shampoo about now.

Appearance-wise overall, she hadn't changed much from her old self. The only thing of note would be the color of her eyes, which were once blue but slowly morphed to lilac as she aged. Her only theory was that it might've been a mutation created by her Aura. She was unsure why it happened, could only guess that it must have something to do with her reincarnation and this world's lack of Aura among others, animals and people alike. She'd tested what her Aura could do throughout the years and surmised it wouldn't withstand even more than one direct blow from an axe. Good for passive healing or reinforcing her fists like invisible gloves, but not much else.

But just earlier, in the forest…

It was small, almost imperceptible, but she knew her Aura was stronger than before. I could be just imagining things. A part of her, though, didn't believe that. She knew her Aura, her limits, and that fight with the shadowcats showed she surpassed those limits. But the questions left unanswered were why and how. What changed?

Suddenly there was a knock from the doorway.

"Summer," Kelpie said, her arm now heavily bandaged and strapped to a sling, "mother asked me to call you."

Yang arched an eyebrow. "Does she need me for something?"

"She wants you to see to the guests."

"Ah."

"Quickly."

"All right."

"Immediately."

Rolling her eyes, she replied, "I get it, Kelly. I'm heading down now." She stood up from her bed, checked her dress one last time, and followed Kelpie to the main hall.

She wouldn't remember about the mystery of her Aura's growth until something came crashing down from the roof and set a man on fire.

 

[Mashadarof402]

This was also posted on SB, but I'm noticing some divergences here and there. Is the story being rewritten?

 

[Tyrell]

Oof. This is going to end in horror... night's watch and the fist of the first men are going to ruin this lil utopia

 

[JamJackEvo]

This was also posted on SB, but I'm noticing some divergences here and there. Is the story being rewritten?

Click to shrink...

Yeah. I hadn't updated anything over at SB because I'm still in the middle of rewriting stuff. I want to finish rewriting all chapters already posted there before updating it all at once and then post a new part.

 

[gadeel]

It does feel like it flows better. And we don't have to suffer Craster at all, which is a plus!

 

[Abhorsen]

Really like this so far. Thanks for writing it.

 

[orchamus]

Nice work so far, really looking forward to seeing what the crows and maybe Wildlings think of YangXD

 

[R1ncewind]

Agreed this is a great start; well written and engaging. Guessinh something will happen with the keep forcing yang to go out and explore the world a bit?

 

[JamJackEvo]

Nice work so far, really looking forward to seeing what the crows and maybe Wildlings think of YangXD

Click to shrink...

I've hinted on it a bit already, but for the Night's Watch, she's either considered an urban legend or a scare tactic concocted by the wildlings. For the freefolk, she's either a gift from the Old Gods (Mother Ferny) or a rallying cry for the freefolk to go through the Wall (people in Rayder's camp), but because she refuses the notion of the latter, she's still equal parts respected (out of fear) and resented (for being a coward) with the folks outside the Keep. In other words, they are aware of her strength, but some still hate her for being passive and actually being civil with the Night's Watch.

Agreed this is a great start; well written and engaging. Guessinh something will happen with the keep forcing yang to go out and explore the world a bit?

Click to shrink...

Hmm, maybe, maybe not. You never know. But anyway, thank you for the praise.

Next update will be up after a bit of revision.

 

[Unseelie]

I like it so far, but I do wonder why you decided to make Yang the Spring Maiden, just to take away her powers instantly. Anything else you changed about RWBY canon?

 

[JamJackEvo]

I like it so far, but I do wonder why you decided to make Yang the Spring Maiden, just to take away her powers instantly. Anything else you changed about RWBY canon?

Click to shrink...

A few here and there for a probable future of RWBY. Remember, she died at 19 years old, so an additional year of events when compared to current canon timeline. One particular event is of course Raven sacrificing herself to save Yang and passing on to her the power of the Spring Maiden.

Yang being touched by magic and eventually losing it (at the moment of her death, as is the rule with the Maiden powers) is important when she gets reincarnated in a world where magic has been lost for over a century and a half but slowly regaining it.

 

[JamJackEvo]

A/N: Jon Snow gets center stage today. Thoughts and criticisms are appreciated.

/ — — CHAPTER 2 — — \

Stonefall

-o- -o- -o- -o- ( I ) -o- -o- -o- -o-
​

JON

The wildling keep was formidable from afar. Closer inspection proved to exceed expectations as the palisade was actually built from cut ironwood, a wood even experienced lumber-cutters found difficult to chop. It was one of the first things they taught recruits at Castle Black, to distinguish the trees and make sure to avoid cutting ironwood unless you were ready to chop the night away, and even then, ironwood—as if staying true to the metal part of its name—did not burn easily. Yet here, the Keep was surrounded by a wall of ironwood, the tops scraped to conic points.

"The Firemaiden helped build the palisade, I heard," Olin Hill said as they led their horses to the keep's entrance. "Chopped the logs, carried the logs, embedded the logs"—he gestured his chin towards the top of the palisade—"scraped the logs to a fine point."

"Who is this Firemaiden?" Jon found himself asking. He rarely talked with Olin Hill, finding him a true cutthroat amongst the black brothers, one who saw death with glee rather than somberness. His manner of speech seemed odd as well, stressing his words in odd places sometimes and smiling afterwards, as if there was a joke only he was privy to.

"A tall tale told across the territory," Hill said, giggling. "A legend amongst ladies of the wild."

"She's one of Craster's daughters," Grenn said, guiding his own horse to have it side by side with Jon's. "The one who killed him."

"You've heard of Craster, haven't you, Lord Snow?" Hill asked.

"Yes." Jon eyed the encampment. No flags adorned the small battlements set at the corners of the would-be fort, just archers watching their approach through the V-shaped gaps of the palisade top, and most likely readying their bows, out of sight, should they deem their arrival as hostile. "A wildling bastard who raped his daughters so he can have more daughters to rape."

"Good riddance to him." Grenn spat on the ground.

"However," Olin Hill said, "have you heard of how he had his head hollowed?"

That manner of speech again. Jon liked to return to silence now as they were nearing the Keep's gate, but curiosity won him over. He asked Olin Hill the question.

"Well, the girl would be no more than ten years old when she killed him. Bashed his head in with a big cauldron."

"Is that all?" Grenn asked. "Certainly there is more to it?"

"Other than a small child lifting a pot that big and then splattering the skull of a grown man with it?" Olin Hill smiled again. "Fire forms from the fringes of that female."

Grenn blinked. Jon did as well.

"It's why she's known as the Firemaiden," Hill said. "Ever since that day, whenever she goes to battle, it's like the fire in her heart burst forth to her hair. It was aflame, all right, but she never gets burned. And the moment you saw those flames is the moment you saw your death, I've heard."

Grenn scoffed. "What rubbish."

"Perhaps," Hill said, before casting his gaze towards the Keep. "But the wildlings feared taking this place for a reason. With wights in these parts, does the thought of a lady kissed with the power of fire seem so farfetched?"

Jon stayed silent, contemplating, until a black brother went to their group and told Jon the Lord Commander was calling for him. He thanked the messenger, bade his farewells to the two, and kicked his horse to a canter. His direwolf, Ghost, briskly followed.

Lord Mormont was at the head of the group permitted to enter the Keep. He saw Jon's approach and gestured to follow him inside along with the rest. It didn't seem like the Keep was built on uneven ground, but that was from the outsider's perspective. The main house—the biggest one in the Keep—was set atop a small hill, its thatched roof billowing three separate smoke columns like the spikes of a trident. Below the hill was a small garden, where three women and one man were harvesting fresh crops and hoeing an empty space, respectively. Other houses were situated about the Keep, although these were more like shanties than proper houses, standing on four wooden walls, a cloth-flap for a door, and a small makeshift chimney blowing smoke at the center of each conic roof. Not unlike the houses he'd seen from the abandoned villages they'd passed on the way here. There was a pen for pigs, a pen for sheep, and even a tiny pen for dogs that barked at them as they passed, but immediately quieted when Ghost came close to them. Children played about on one side, well away from the brothers' trek to the main house, and for a moment their faces morphed to his siblings, smiling, giggling, running about with little to no care about etiquette or decorum or that he was a bastard amongst a brood of wellborns.

Even now I'm unable to forget their goodbyes.

Jon cut off that thought. He'd made his decision, offered his vows. He was a brother of the Night's Watch, no more, no less.

They arrived at the main house. The Old Bear dismounted from his horse, and Jon Snow followed. A young woman opened the entrance door, looked at their company, and then pointed towards a small spot not far from the main house's entrance. "Tether the horses there and come in." When her gaze went towards Ghost, she added almost nonchalantly, "The wolf stays outside. If it causes any trouble, it dies."

"Edd!" Lord Mormont said, and Dolorous Edd got to work on the horses, while the rest of the brothers entered the house.

Jon neared Ghost and rubbed the back of his neck. "Stay," he said, looking his direwolf in the eyes, "and don't cause trouble, all right?"

A tiny whine, that was all he heard from him, but it was enough. He gave Ghost a few more pats before walking inside the main hall. What hit him first was the warmth. A large, wide fire burned at the center of the room, a wild almost live thing grasping towards the spit set up above it. The hall they entered was long and wide, its walls crowded with tables holding an assortment of items. From rolled up leather to fur coats, boots to gloves, blankets to cloaks, they all lay on the tables neatly and cleanly. The firepit itself was crowded by a stack of benches on all sides except for one, where a large chair took up the spot, and sitting upon it was an old woman who could be no one but the renowned Mother Ferny, eldest and leader of the Craster brood.

"I'd apologize for the mess," she said, watching each brother enter, "we were in the middle of doing upkeep on the clothing, but seeing as you lot have come here unannounced… I won't."

Jeor Mormont started with an amicable approach. "We're grateful for you accepting to see us, Mother Ferny."

The woman snorted. Her hand, wrinkled but strong, waved towards the benches. "Take your seats, crows."

Everyone complied after Lord Mormont's nod, settling in and feeling the warmth of the fire. Somewhere in the house, though faint, a captivating scent of cooked meat and heavy seasonings reached his nose. Overhead, he espied a few small heads watching them from the loft, their eyes inquisitive but wary. One such child met his eyes, and she quickly hid in the shadows.

His ears picked up soft footsteps coming from behind. A woman, middle-aged, walked into the room carrying a tray filled with two mugs and a plate of bread. She set it down on the small table to Mother Ferny's right, avoiding eye contact with anyone there.

As she was leaving, Mother Ferny said, "Willow, have you seen Summer around?"

"She's out hunting," the woman, Willow, replied. "She'll come back by sundown."

"When she does, tell her I need her here."

Willow blinked, took a fleeting glance at the assembled company of rangers sitting on their benches, and then said, "I will."

Mother Ferny watched her leave, and the moment Willow was out of sight, she turned her attention to the plate and gestured the Lord Commander towards it.

Lord Mormont nodded and grabbed a mug and a piece of bread. Mother Ferny did the same. With guest rights invoked, much of the brothers relaxed, and this puzzled Jon. He'd known these people for almost two years now; they were men hardened by duty, toughened by the cold, made stronger by several ordeals. To witness they'd been on edge for some time had him worrying what was to fear with these wildlings. More than that, what made them so afraid to desire a protection under guest rights?

"The young ones tell me you've over a hundred crows outside our gates," she said. "What's the occasion, Lord Commander?"

Lord Mormont's answer was swift. "The King-Beyond-The-Wall. Mance Rayder."

Mother Ferny raised an eyebrow. "You've amassed all your forces for a king of the freefolk. Do you believe me a daft old hag, Lord Mormont?" She leaned back on her chair, clasped her hands together, rested them on her stomach. "The Night's Watch have always been a passive bunch, preferring to defend the Wall rather than take the fighting to us."

"There have been instances in the past, when the Lord Commander gathered a great ranging to defeat the wildlings."

Everyone's eyes were on Jon now. Even the Old Bear, and the look in them was a familiar aura of disapproval. Jon did his best to keep calm and clenched his fists under his cloak.

"Your squire, Lord Commander?" Mother Ferny asked. When Lord Mormont nodded, she said to Jon, "Tell me, squire, you remember the previous rangings of old; do you also happen to remember the Lord Commanders' motivations for their ranging?"

"I... No, I don't," he said, feeling his lips going dry.

"Men are simple folks." Her piercing dark blue eyes looked about the room in a slow, steady sweep. "Driven by their baser instincts, more often than not. It's the same then as it is now." Her eyes then honed in on Lord Mormont. Something made you come out of your Wall, and I doubt it's mostly because of Rayder."

Lord Mormont's lips pursed, as if his tongue were ready to speak if not for his mouth staying shut.

"Trouble brews outside," she said, her gaze moving to the blazing fire. "Less game, quieter nights, and recently that red comet in the sky. The gods speak yet we find it difficult to understand their words."

"We've heard that wights roam the forest," Lord Mormont after a while.

The smile Mother Ferny had was one of triumph. "Aye, they do. You needn't worry much about your men if you're intending to stay awhile. We've handled the wrath of the cold ones for years now."

"Their wrath, my lady?"

"Craster worshiped the cold ones. And when he died, we all renounced them. They took offense to that, but they haven't acted heavily upon it yet. Just small groups of walking corpses in need of extermination."

"You mean to say you've encountered the Others?" Jon asked.

Again, Lord Mormont leveled him with a glare and along with it was a closed fist he knew would never meet his person, but the fact that Lord Mormont was tempted to hit Jon made his anger quite apparent.

"No," Mother Ferny said, before taking another sip from her mug. "Just the occasional wight every few months. Fire works wonders to the cold, I hear."

Despite himself, Jon held onto his burned hand like how he had done that night in the Lord Commander's quarters, holding on to the burning drapes to fling at Othor, his eyes shining blue, his breath cold, his heart given up on beating for days.

He remained silent now as their conversation wound down to negotiating their stay within the Keep. The wildlings had expanded the house to accommodate the increased population, but the expansion never accounted for hundreds of brothers of the Night's Watch in the middle of a great ranging.

"Two dozen of you can stay in the Keep," Mother Ferny said. "No more than that. We're already preparing some food in the kitchen if you're satisfied with 'wildling food.'"

"We thank you for the hospitality," Lord Mormont said, "and we brought with us our own rations, so we won't impose much on you feeding us. In the meantime, I'd like to discuss about Mance Rayder."

"Ah, so it's the king's turn, huh? Very well, if you can offer me a map, I can point to where they have settled on this past year."

"Jon," the Old Bear said to him, and needn't say more.

Jon stood up at once. He knew this was punishment for speaking out like that… or at least a way to get him out before he said anything else in the conversation. "I will go find Tarly."

As he stepped out of the hall and back into the biting cold of the outside, the sun had disappeared into the horizon but the last of its rays still remained, a smudge of orange against a darkened sky where the early stars and the moon had already come out. And in its usual spot in that great expanse of stars was the comet, Mormont's Torch, far more prominent with the waning light and still casting a huge red scar upon the sky. Ghost quietly came to his side. The wildling children stared, fascinated, at the direwolf, while the older ones were wary, their presence seeming about as jumpy as the horses when near Ghost. While he knew his animal friend could take care of himself and be discreet, Jon was thankful for Grenn and Hill being there and keeping an eye on him.

"I hope Ghost hasn't caused trouble," Jon said to them, while scratching Ghost's ears.

"Other than spooking the womenfolk," Grenn said, and left it at that.

"You have my thanks. Now come," he replied, walking towards the gate, "before we spook them more."

Hill giggled. "As you wish, Lord Snow."

"Where you off to, Jon?" Grenn asked.

"The Commander needs a map drawn. I'm off to find Sam."

"We made camp not too far. We'll walk with you part of the way."

Near the gates, that was where he saw her. A woman his age, with long blonde hair that cascaded all the way to her waist. Jon let his gaze fall upon her face, capturing her features to memory—the purple eyes—and then, to his utter shame, his gaze trickled down to her torso, whose only covering for decency was a leather sleeveless shirt that did its best to show as much stomach and clavicle as it could. Muscles were commonplace for men, but this was the first time he'd seen such pronounced contours on a woman. The closer she got, the more contours he spotted; some glistened from the low light and the animal blood dripping down her abs. She passed them all without a second glance, unlike her younger companion, who looked over her shoulder at him, giving a little smile.

"Best not make eye contact with the girls here," Grenn said.

Jon looked away from the blonde-haired wildlings and blinked at Grenn. "Huh?"

"Oh, what's this?" Hill said, wearing a checkered grin. "Is Lord Snow smitten with the Firemaiden?"

"No," he retorted. Then his words fully registered. "That was the Firemaiden?"

"Beautiful, she is, yes, Lord Snow," Hill said, ignoring his words, "but she's not the Firemaiden for nothing. Boys break when basking in beauty that burns."

She was beautiful, yes. Strong, too, seeing the burdens she carried. He would admit these things to himself, but never to Olin Hill or anyone else, lest his patience be tested from experienced brothers who'd tease and tease and give pointers on how to please a lady.

She's strong… but is she really gifted with fire magic?

"Let's just go."

They continued their walk outside the gates. Here, the brothers of the Night's Watch started setting their makeshift camps. Some made tents made of leather mantles either donated by some southern lord or nicked from one of the houses in the abandoned villages they'd come across. Others were content with their fur cloaks. Jon heard Ghost slip into the forest to look for his dinner. The smell of deer's blood must've reminded him of his hunger.

"Do you feel it, Lord Snow?" Hill asked, smiling with his crooked teeth. "The forest is brimming with ghosts. I wonder if your own little Ghost will happen to dig up some infant bones in his search for food. Wouldn't that be beautiful?"

Jon said nothing, stone-faced and moving forward without pause.

Olin Hill had been charged with several murders in King's Landing. Where a knife in the back or a slit of the throat would be quiet and efficient, Hill preferred drawn-out, complicated kills. That was why he got caught with his fifth victim; her screams attracted the attention of the local garrison. He asked to take the black as soon as he'd been arrested, and now he was here, admiring the gruesome murders of an awful man.

Many of the black brothers in this ranging were former criminals like Hill, forced to choose between death or defense of the Wall until they die naturally or otherwise. Years ago, Jon would've thought becoming a sworn brother of the Night's Watch like his Uncle Benjen would be the highest honor he could attain in his life. Now, though… with black brothers like Hill around…

"I wouldn't call that beautiful," Grenn said, grimacing, "but thank you for the nightmares. Now if you'll excuse us, our camp's over here. Say hello to Samwell for me, Jon."

Jon nodded to Grenn and ignored Hill. How those two became almost amicable partners was a mystery he'd rather keep as such. Up ahead, he could see Samwell tending to his horses and the messenger crows. He made his way to him.

As Jon approached his friend, the agitated cries of the crows got louder. Sam stood at their side, one hand on the rein of his packhorse, the other scratching his head.

"Did a fox spook them?" Jon called out.

Sam yelped, whirled around. "Oh! Hello, Jon. No. No foxes as far as I know. They just got restless all of a sudden."

He chanced a look at the black birds. "They seem desperate to fly out of their cages."

"It's not normal." Sam sighed, his breath shaky. "But I wish it were. I don't want to think about what's got them so spooked."

Jon thought back on the several wildling villages they'd passed on the way here, each one deserted, each one looking as if the inhabitants left in haste, whether it'd been from coercion or fear, none knew. His burned hand throbbed underneath his glove, and he felt the urge to grab some snow on the ground and squeeze it.

"Well," he said, using his good hand to grasp Longclaw's direwolf pommel, "whatever threat comes our way, we'll fight it."

"Oh I don't doubt that." Sam gazed into the haunted forest as the messenger crows continued rattling about their cages. "But are we prepared to face them at all?"

Wanting to change the topic, Jon said, "The Lord Commander asks that you—"

But before he could finish, the horses around them looked to have been infected with the crows' fears, shaking their heads, loudly snorting, stomping their forelegs, all but ready to bolt should emotion overcome their broken state.

Sam grabbed the reins of his main horse and the baggage horse next to him, the cages hanging beside their saddles rattled on and on and dropped black feathers along with avian excrement on the snow. Jon quickly went for the other baggage horse, startling it in his advance. He got hold of the reins, gritting his teeth when putting too much force on his burned hand, and did what he could to calm the animal down.

"Jon, the sky!"

Jon looked up in time to see something bright red shoot past their heads and crashing no more than twenty feet from where they stood. The snow it hit was knee-deep and its entry was not gentle, and Jon revisited a memory of when he, eight namedays and frustrated, threw a stone straight into the river when he failed to make them skip. The horses' agitation returned, but he and Sam kept their wits and their grips until they'd been calmed once more.

"What was that, Sam?"

"It… kind of looked like the comet."

Night had completely creeped into the sky, so there was no mistaking the comet splashing red against its dark blue canvas. It might have been just a trick of his eyes, but it looked as if the comet had gotten bigger, more widespread.

"Whatever it is," Jon said, lowering his gaze to search around them, "could there have been more?"

"It looks to be just the one," Sam said. The other rangers had seen it, too, and the ones closest to the crater had gathered near it but dared not go further than fifteen feet. "Else half of them would be too busy looking at the others."

"Could it really have been from the comet?" Jon asked.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. I've heard of stars falling, but never a comet. And one that still looks as if it's on fire."

Buried in several inches of snow, the flying object cast a bright red glow upon the mass of white as steam rose out of the hole. The black brothers continued their murmurs, talks of signs, the sky falling, the angered gods, babble after babble of what could've caused this. The agitation in the animals had found new victims to torment, and Jon wished it didn't. A part of him also wondered why he wasn't as fazed as the others, that whatever fears he'd housed during the object's descent had somehow dissipated like the steam soaring with the wind, and its place was an odd sense of longing, a call Jon had trouble ignoring.

"Jon?"

He stepped forward.

"Jon, wait!"

He did not.

This is foolishness. It certainly was, but something in the crater called for him, like a mother beckoning for her son to come home. No, it's not. He imagined a moth flying across a dark room in order to reach a candle.

The closer he got, the more certain he was that the glow was pulsing, as if the snow itself had grown a beating heart. His own heart was beating wildly inside his chest.

The closer he got, the more real he felt the heat against his exposed skin, as if he were nearing that old fireplace in Winterfell where Julya and he swapped made-up stories to pass the night away. He remembered how the flames danced over the hearth, how when lulls between their storytelling had them watch the chaotic waves of the fire's tips and listen to the snaps and burning of the wood.

A moth to flame. Am I to be burned again? If so, what was the harm? He'd been burned before.

He clenched his hands into fists, and though the pain from the burns was great enough to make his eyes water, his feet continued moving forward.

A faint, shimmering hum entered his hearing as he knelt next to the hole, peering into it. Already it felt like sitting next to a small fire. He shoveled the snow away, widening the hole, and when a sudden brightness had him closing his eyes shut, he plunged his hand downwards until he felt something warm and solid. His first thought was rock, his second thought blazing coal, but if it were the latter, even the best leather glove couldn't contain the immense heat. This was merely warm, like dipping into bath water left to cool for a while.

Jon remembered the drapes in the Lord Commander's solar again, the dead Othor who'd gotten close to choking him to death, getting saved by Ghost, and the timely arrival of Lord Commander Mormont who'd come to investigate the noise. The lamp's fire was small, but the oil and flammable drapes were suitable food for its unending hunger for growth. He had grasped that fiery cloth in his hand, numb from the burgeoning burns, and tossed it at the corpse, hoping he'd burn.

The brightness from earlier had dimmed a while after he'd plucked the item from its snowy tomb, and though the warmth was bearable, comforting, he could feel untapped power culminating within it, like a kettle on the verge of whistling. It was a large, red gem, its texture more stone than jewel, its shape more dagger than orb. It could've been a ruby ore, but he never once heard of ruby burning bright as if it contained fire within.

It may very well house fire, he thought, grasping it with both hands, mesmerized. Its shine is more fire than blood. His mind once more wandered back to simpler times in the past. In Winterfell. Home. The fireplace. Stories. Family. Honor. Duty.

Regret.

Jon shook his head and stood up. Sam was next to him, peering at the glowing stone.

"I've never seen anything like it," he said, somehow eager to touch it but too afraid to do so. "How… how does it feel?"

"Warm," Jon answered, giving the stone a squeeze, and for some reason, his burned hand no longer objected to the act. His eyes drifted to the comet above and wondered if it really had dropped a part of itself near them.

 

[R1ncewind]

No idea what just fell to the warth.

 

[Mashadarof402]

Fire Dust looks like. And now Jon is going to do something with it that sets someone on fire.

 

[yinko]

Fire Dust looks like. And now Jon is going to do something with it that sets someone on fire.

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Yeah, but I was kind of hoping it would be something radioactive, that would have been hillarious. Ice zombies vs fallout zombies vs Yang.

 

[JamJackEvo]

Yeah, but I was kind of hoping it would be something radioactive, that would have been hillarious. Ice zombies vs fallout zombies vs Yang.

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Yang: Seriously, what is with this world and zombies?!

Random Guy: Firemaiden, terrible news! Essos is being overrun with a plague originating from insects that come from Valyria. It's said the victims quickly die and then come back to life as—

Yang: Fuck this shit, I'm out! I'm tired of fucking zombies!

 

[ZFighter18]

Aww, I was hoping it was a dragon egg.

Still kewl tho

 

[NaanContributor]

I think I preferred your previous version of Hill's story about Yang killing Craster, there was more weight to it, especially in regards to her interactions with fire.

"A wildling bastard who raped his daughters so he can have more daughters to rape."

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Even though Craster undoubtedly was a bastard both literally and metaphorically, I really don't see Jon of all people defaulting to that particular insult.

Here's some grammar corrections:

Spoiler

He rarely talked with Olin Hill, finding him a true cutthroat amongst the black brothers, one who saw death with glee rather than somberness.

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With wights in these parts, does the thought of a lady kissed with the power of fire seem so farfetched?"

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As he stepped out of the hall and back into the biting cold of the outside, the sun had disappeared into the horizon but the last of its rays still remained, a smudge of orange against a darkened sky where the early stars and the moon had already come out.

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Jon let his gaze fall upon her face, capturing her features to memory, the purple eyes, and then, to his utter shame, trickling down to her torso, whose only covering for decency was a leather sleeveless shirt that did its best to show as much stomach and clavicle as it could.

Click to shrink...

Some raised tents made of leather mantles either donated by some southern lord or nicked from one of the houses in the abandoned villages they'd come across.

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I wonder if your own little Ghost will happen to dig up some infant bones in his search for food.

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Jon thought back on the several wildling villages they'd passed on the way here, each one deserted, each one looking as if the inhabitants left in haste, whether it'd been from coercion or fear, none knew.

Click to shrink...

Sam grabbed the reins of his main horse and the baggage horse next to him, the cages hanging beside their saddles rattled on and on and dropped black feathers along with avian excrement on the snow.

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It certainly was, but something in the crater called for him, like a mother beckoning for her son to come home.

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[JamJackEvo]

I think I preferred your previous version of Hill's story about Yang killing Craster, there was more weight to it, especially in regards to her interactions with fire.

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It felt wrong to me some hours after I first posted it on SB, actually. On the one hand, I wanted her "myth" to be known by the Night's Watch, but Hill got so much vivid details of that night that his story felt artificial to me, like it was more of a first-hand account than a second- or third- or fourth-hand account. No embellishments*, no changes in the story. I could go back to it, but I feel showing her relation with fire has more weight than mere telling.

*The initial draft of the aftermath had Yang heal her wounds immediately after passing out thanks to Aura, which is why Hill said she didn't suffer any burns, even though she actually did. I changed that in the rewrite, because it is an inconsistency with the weaker form of Aura she has in Westeros.

Even though Craster undoubtedly was a bastard both literally and metaphorically, I really don't see Jon of all people defaulting to that particular insult.

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Yeah, you have a point. I wanted him to embrace Tyrion's philosophy a little more yet still feel insecure about the status of his birth, but this sentence improperly conveys the complexity of his thought process and his history with the word. Thank you for pointing this out.

Here's some grammar corrections

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Oh, and thank you for this, too. I very much appreciate it.

 

[ATP]

Ruby come as crystal? it would be creepy.
Would other girls come,too? If so,Weiss should become Other,and Blake - children of the forest.