Hello,

Originally, this was posted on my other account – Caught In A Dream. I'm definitely going to finish the stories that I'm further along with on that account then I'm going to switch permanently onto this account. However, I really wanted to make a start with this account and, because I'd only posted the prologue of this story on CIAD, I thought it would be OK to start by switching this.

Just for some background – in Westeros the seasons last for varying lengths of time. At the beginning of this story (just because I'm trying to keep with the timeline of the book series to a point) the year is 292 AL which puts Westeros in the middle of the long summer that began in 288 AL. I've only really added this in here just to explain why what we would call "winter" is referred to as "The Snows".

Anyway, this story is split into two parts – with about a two year gap between the two parts – but both of them will be posted on this story. The way it's looking now, the first part will only be a few chapters long and the second part will make up the real bulk of this story.

Thank you for choosing to read 'The Wildlings' Descendent'. I hope you enjoy it!

The Wildlings' Descendent:
Part I: Prologue

Blow, blow thou Winter wind.
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
- As You Like It by William Shakespeare

Bitter winds whipped her already tangled hair into a messy tumble of black curls and knots, cutting at her skin to turn her cheeks, ears and nose an unsightly red. Raising a hand to shield her dark eyes, she soldiered onwards through the thick layer of snow, tottering occasionally when she happened upon a patch of well-concealed ice.

The Snows had finally hit Silver Peak, and she was determined to enjoy every glorious second of it.

She would never understand how their visitors – the very few they had around that time of year – could sit inside Silver Peak and grumble when there was so much wonderment to be found on a simple walk. Then again, they were not as she was, as her family were. Ravencrests were born of truest Winter – the cold could not harm her when a natural chill clung to her bones.

Glancing back along her path, she spotted her own footprints in the snow and was saddened to realise that they were merely transient – the only proof that someone had ever been foolish enough to traipse up the mountainside alone would be lost to the on-going snowfall.

Then her gaze fell upon her home and she felt happy once more. Silver Peak looked magnificent in the snowfall – an explosion of turrets and fortified walls sculpted to the natural incline of the mountainside. Her family's banners – those very same that they were named for – stood proud even as they were battered by the snowflakes. Her brothers and Father would all be at their windows, she knew, gazing out at the snowstorm with a fascination held since birth. They might even dare to extend a hand out to feel the snowflakes pass through their fingertips but they were all trapped by a sense of familial duty that the early conditions of her childhood had rid her of.

The outline of the town below was also clear through the snow. The town of Silver Peak was small but well thought of – they had a reputation built upon the foundations of familial expertise, the few crops that they could grow were the strongest, their livestock the hardiest and their horses the most enduring. That was why, during the summer, a large market would be set-up and people would travel from all over the North to buy and bargain for the wares of Silver Peak. Walking through the market on such days, those from other towns would often be heard to ask why so many would choose to stay in such a bleak place.

The answer was always the same – loyalty.

For generations, the most prominent families within the keep had been loyal vassals of the House Ravencrest and that would not change with the current Lord Boromir, or his sons, or his grandsons.

Moving quickly, she zeroed in on her destination, a small patch of trees which she and her brothers would often use for shelter on days like this. The cooks were always prepared for such an excursion. It never mattered what day the children of Lord and Lady Ravencrest decided to sneak down to the kitchens, they were always welcomed with a hot drink and meal to prepare them for their journey. Then, before they set off, they would be slipped various goodies – cold-meats and freshly-made breads wrapped to avoid freezing and, on occasion, a sweet-treat or two would be found hidden amongst the rest, treats that would sit on the tongue an age before slowly melting away into the mouth. Her stomach gave a nostalgic growl and, although she was all alone, she blushed in embarrassment.

Ducking beneath the trees, she knocked the heavy dusting of snow unceremoniously from the shoulder of her thick cloak and wrung the molten snow from the ratty knots of her hair. Thankful for the reprieve from the onslaught of snow and ice, she inched towards the edge of the shelter to look out over her family's lands.

"So pretty," she breathed, her voice lost to the screeching winds. There was snow as far as the eye could see, a sheet of purest white covering everything but the small, winding road that had been cleared for their guests that morning. It was little more than a narrow transect of dull colour against the startling clarity of the white.

About a mile from their doors, she finally spotted a slow-moving procession. Lord Stark was visiting and inwardly she knew that she would have to drag herself from her usual morning activities to greet him. It was to be expected after all.

For a moment further, she indulged herself and looked beyond the few worn paths to the nearest ridge. Just to the North-West there was the Gorge, the same one that her ancestors had crossed when they were driven to Westeros from their natural home of the Frostfangs and the Land of Always Winter many generations ago.

Then she turned her attention towards the Gift to the East. When the weather grew milder once more, she knew there would be more Wildlings passing by them. Some might even stop at Silver Peak in the Spring and beg sanctuary on the grounds of some made up shared relation of theirs. The skilled ones were welcomed, the others were told to move on. Her Father had never had any tolerance for uselessness.

With a sigh, she turned on her heel and half-heartedly began to trudge back to her ancestral home. She knew all too well that her Mother's censure awaited her. After all, she had sneaked past the maids and guards to go for a walk when she should have been getting ready to receive company. Her Mother was not a true Ravencrest, the Winter was not to be found in her blood; she would never understand the calling of the snowstorms or the dream of the wild land beyond the Wall. Looking back over her shoulder, the girl smiled.

The southerners could keep their sunshine; Lynette Ravencrest would not give up her Snows for all of Westeros.