Posted on FanFiction: April 28, 2019

A/N: I hadn't written stories for a while, and though a part of me wished I resumed one of my older fics (that one's at the endgame now), fresh ideas kept calling for me, and this is one that called the loudest. Much of the story will be focused on ASOIAF's book continuity since, sanning the Internet being the Internet with spoilers, I haven't watched a single episode of the TV show.

/ — — 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?

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

What is this place?

Home. It's where we live.

Who's we?

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

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

Mother angered Father. She deserves this.

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.

Except he doesn't.

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!

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. 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?

Who am I?

She was… She was Yang Xiao Long.

No, I am Summer.

No, that was her Mother. Super Mom.

But Mother's name is Willow.

Stepmom, but it didn't matter. Real mother was Raven Branwen but she—

Her head throbbed. 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 Willow, who was now showing plenty of bruising and a lot of oozing blood.

Summer didn't know what came over her. She could blame 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 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 healing, only waking when it was time to set changes to what was once known as Craster's Keep.

-o- -o- -o- -o- ( II ) -o- -o- -o- -o-

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.

"At least you didn't step in any twigs this time."

Kelpie was unusually silent.

Yang rolled her eyes, recalling the deer's swift turn before her own arrow could hit it, as if its ear 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."

"I was only ten when you gave me my bow." She patted the weapon, now securely holstered on her shoulder. "You can't blame me for failing to use it properly."

Yang laughed. 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.

"I definitely can't and don't," Yang said. As they walked back home together, she continued, "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."

"Only if you believe it is!" Much like her beliefs of other worlds and reincarnation. She didn't choose to remember her previous life and how it had been cut short, but she made the most out of it, especially after her new home had gone through change after change the past six years since she slammed that metal pot on dear ol' Father's squishy head.

-o- -o- -o- -o- ( III ) -o- -o- -o- -o-

Summerkeep.

It was a name suggested to replace Craster's Keep, seeing as dear ol' Father was laid to rest in an unmarked grave outside the perimeter, but not everybody liked it. Yang herself, 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 elders decided to just call it The Keep.

The Keep came into view the moment Yang and Kelpie exited the Haunted Forest. Log spikes, tall and formidable, jutted out of the perimeter's grounds side-to-side, encircling, a wall of protection against whatever dangers that lurked beyond it, alive and dead both. Looming above all this was the foreboding red comet, casting a bright swollen scar across the night sky.

"The Night's Watch have arrived," Kelly said, pointing at the black 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 and the meat she hauled on her shoulder. 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 did, however, wave back before continuing onward, passing by a group of black brothers who stopped and stared. The giant white wolf next to them sniffed at the deer, 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. The gravestones she gazed at on her way to the kitchen still hurt to this day.

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.

"We're back!" Yang said, dropping the deer on an open table. "Got enough here to feed us for the next week or so."

Willow snorted. "If the brothers don't gorge on it first!"

"Well, we can set again on the morrow and find another deer," Kelpie said, both hands still holding onto her bow.

"I know a girl who wants to shirk her chores when I see one," Willow said, scooping some soup from the pot to a small plate and tasting it. "Dora's out gathering chickens for the feast."

"Dora's out? What about Little Garry?"

"With her mother at the moment. Bundle of nerves, but strong. Real strong." Her eyes had gone a little dark as she took a sip. "Almost done, here." Willow then pointed her ladle towards Kelpie. "Now go see to the chickens, you! I don't trust Dora to handle it alone."

Kelpie knew better than to protest and also knew better than to vocally respond, as her frustration would most likely seep into her words, and Willow was well known to have very good ears. She just gave a nod, handed her bow to Yang, and jogged out of the kitchen towards the chicken coop.

"Anything I can do?" Yang asked, although in truth she preferred to be chore-free so she could wash the gore out of her shoulder and clothes, and then go up to her designated bed and get a much-needed nap.

"Get yourself washed," Willow said, giving hope to Yang's inner plea. "Once you're done, see to the guests."

Yang groaned.

-o- -o- -o- -o- ( IV ) -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 first few days after her 'waking' were blurry now, but she could still recall things in general, and one such memory was her somehow convincing the elder sisters to stay, reinforce the keep, and prepare for whatever comes their way. And then 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 her belief of the black brothers' alleged celibacy was still in doubt when one of her sisters had gotten pregnant and admitted to have laid with no one but a crow.

"Hey," Yang said, after her wash, "is the father among the ones in the hall?"

Gilly looked away, while little Garry continued suckling on her teat. "I haven't come out of this room all day."

Of course you haven't. Gilly was usually busier than most, especially when the Night's Watch come visit. The birth of Garry hadn't diminished that drive, hadn't even redirected it all that much, relegating much of the nursing (outside of feeding) to Dora. That Gilly was here—out of sight, out of mind—while Dora did the chores Gilly often did… well, if Yang could describe this situation in Remnant terms, she'd say her sister's relationship status is set to Complicated.

Yang held some enmity at the father, who never stepped forward to claim the baby was his and whom Gilly continued to defend with silence and refusing to utter his name, but it was at least fortunate that the birth had been easy and both mother and child were in good health. Garry even took after his mother, which was also nice, but it bereaved Yang of a clue to figure out which crow had overdue child support duties.

"Not even gonna take a peek?" she asked, while changing her hunting clothes to something more suited for indoors. Owning several pieces of clothing was still a luxury, but her Remnant-born sensibilities nevertheless bled through her desires, so she kept clothes that wouldn't be handed down to the younger girls and re-stitched some to give her wardrobe variety. And when her collection had accumulated, she had taken some surplus wood and fashioned herself a crude armoire—a fitting name, too, since she stowed her personal weapons and tools in them as well.

"No," Gilly said, her smiled strained. "I think I'll stay here. You know how fussy Garry can be."

On the one side, Yang was worried for her sister, but on the other, she was glad that Gilly was softening up to the name. Freefolks do not name their young until a certain age, but Yang broke that tradition quickly by starting to call the little one Garry. Gilly had never used it before, but in time, the name stuck and everybody else started calling him that.

Sighing, Yang combed a hand through her hair, feeling plenty of resistance around her blonde locks. What I would give for some shampoo around here…

Appearance-wise, 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. It could've been a mutation created by her Aura, whose presence was greatly weakened but it was still there regardless. She was unsure why, 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 a direct blow from an axe. Good for passive healing or reinforcing her fists like invisible gloves, but not much else. If not for said healing, her palms would've been scarred from the second-degree burns after Craster's death. In regards to her Semblance, it was difficult to gauge whether or not she still had it, especially with the state of her Aura. Any kinetic force she'd store would dissipate in proportion to the time it takes for her Aura to recover enough to protect her again. Then again, she hadn't been given many opportunities to dish out a can of whoop-ass on someone. The thrill of a fight always seemed to get her adrenalin pumping and her Aura aflame.

"Well," Yang said, finishing her hair-brushing, "I'm going over to the hall and see to our guests. Anything you want me to relay to a certain crow?"

Gilly sighed, lifted the baby up to her shoulder, and shook her head.

"Suit yourself, then."

Gilly looked at her with a raised eyebrow before shaking her head again. "You and your odd phrases again." Garry burped loudly on her shoulder.

Before exiting the room, she took an accessory from the armoire—a tiny leather belt more suited to tighten wrists than waists—and expertly tied her hair up into a ponytail with it. Here, Gilly really stopped and take a look at the clothes she chose to wear, and knowing that an admonishment was coming, Yang went to the doorway, turned to her sister, grinned, winked, and then closed the door behind her.

Am I really that annoyed I'm not getting that nap?

Her new attire would turn heads and the ponytail would emphasize her bare shoulders on all sides. It would definitely get elder Ferny into a tizzy, but in the presence of the Night's Watch, she'd be too busy to fret about her completely. Well, mother wanted someone to help with the guests and Yang was quite eager to deliver. She needed to establish her presence with them before they could take her seriously. And if she happened to find Garry's papa along the way, then that'd be quite lucky, wouldn't it?

Yep, definitely annoyed.

Already a few of the male freefolk mulling about in the Keep's dorm room stared at her from the corner of their eyes as she made her way to the main hall door.

And as she opened it, feeling the heat on her skin and the heavy smoke in her nostrils, Yang prepared her sardonic smile.

Time to get info.