Disclaimer: The only thing that belongs to my is my OC and the plot. All other characters, concepts, and locations belong to the wonderful George R.R. Martin.
I woke to the sound of screaming.
It was the sort of terrible, broken screaming that rips your voice to pieces and leaves you hoarse for days, unless you've got hot milk and honey to drink. I sat upright, my eyes wide open with fear. The door slammed open, and I jumped, rolling off my bed to crouch next to it.
"Alara!" Mother's frantic voice echoed through the room, "Alara, child, wake, come quickly!"
"Mother?" I called in a trembling voice, standing up from beside the bed. I could just barely make out her figure in the dark. She rushed towards me and enveloped me in her arms, then started pulling me towards the door.
"Where are we going? What is happening?" I cried.
"Nothing to trouble yourself over, sweetling," She replied as she fastened a roughspun cloak around my throat, "We just have to leave for a bit, nothing else. Now come child, your father is waiting behind the house."
I followed her to the door at the back we kept well hidden, my legs struggling to keep up with her longer ones. Motioning for me to stay silent, she pushed open the door. I caught a glimpse of a body on the ground with my father's face, but my gaze was ripped away by a sudden choking noise. I looked up, startled, to see the head of an arrow protruding from the back of my mother's throat. A strangled scream worked its way out of my throat, and I scrambled away from her body. My back slammed against a wall, but the pain was dulled, as if I was far from my body. My ears were filled with the sound of wind, howling its way through my brain. I heaved desperately, gasping as waves of nausea pummeled me relentlessly.
Somehow I found my energy, and sprinted through the open door, a film of tears refracting my vision. I tripped and landed hard, and when I looked back, I saw a river of red, red, red and dark glassy orbs reflecting the murky sky above. Panic whirled through my brain, and I found my feet and kept running, running until rough hands grabbed my shoulders and yanked me 'round. Fire flooded my vision, and I twisted and squirmed until the realization hit me that I wasn't burning, and that the fire was hair; wild, unruly hair and beard that covered a round, elongated face. Pain exploded on the side of my face and snapped me back to reality. I glared at him, affronted that he'd struck me, all thoughts of my parents and village gone for the moment.
"D'you want to live, girl?" The man growled at me in a gruff tone. I stared at him, uncomprehending.
"D'you want to live?"
"Why do you care?" My voice was raspy, ripped apart from my screams.
The man's eyes softened slightly.
"I have a girl… Munda, she's called. Bit older than you, and wild," he chuckled to himself, his features smoothing out to look almost tender. That was gone almost immediately. He cleared his throat, "Doubtful you want to, but you have a better chance of surviving with us than if you stay out here alone. Half the folk in these parts would rape you quicker than anything, and the rest would keep you afterwards."
A shiver ran through me at his words. I knew he was right, but… They had killed my parents. My parents, and my entire village, slaughtered like animals. How could I betray them like that, going back with the monsters that killed them all. I touched the pendant underneath my tunic, feeling the grooves of the silver and smooth jewels. This man had given no indication of harming me, and I did not doubt he spoke true about his daughter, and how I would be safe. It was foolish and stupid, and should probably get me killed, but I made the decision.
"I'll go," I swallowed thickly, "I'll go with you."
He looked faintly pleased at my decision, and I couldn't help but wonder what I'd gotten myself into.
"...He told me that my name was going to be Asra now, that I would be one of them. He brought me back with him as his captive, and took me to Mance to negotiate my living with them. Mance let me stay, and they raised me to be one of them. I was only just past my eighth name day."
I looked up at Jon. His expression had flickered through few emotions during the course of my story, the most recent one being shock. I sighed and continued.
"I lived with the man, Tormund, and his children. It took a while for the others to warm up to me, but eventually most of them came 'round," I smiled ruefully. "I never found out who killed my parents, though. I suppose it doesn't matter anymore, whoever did it is probably dead already. Most of the ones who invaded my village died in that king's assault on our camp, or climbing the Wall. I'm sure you remember what that was like." I gave him a pointed look. Jon had the decency to look slightly embarrassed with himself.
"How do you know about that?" He asked. Realizing that probably wasn't the most intelligent of questions, he tried again, "Did we ever meet? Back at the wildling camps?" I shook my head.
"No, but I heard a lot about you. The warg Brother that killed Qhorin Halfhand and took a wildling cloak, then went back to Castle Black full of arrows after refusing to kill an innocent old man."
"You don't miss much do you?" He asked quietly.
"Not when I'm hearing the same story and same complaints everyday," I laughed. "Things like that tend to bury themselves in your head."
"I didn't know that a crow-turned-wildling-turned-crow would attract that much attention." I smiled sadly at him.
"It does when your best friend is in love with said crow," He glanced at me, his eyes wide.
"Ygritte." His voice was hoarse. I nodded.
"She loved you something fierce," His gaze was focused on the tiny tongue of flame dancing around the lit candle. "Did you kill her? Or is she holed up somewhere in this place?" He started at that.
"No, she's not here. I found her on a pile of snow with an arrow through her chest," He paused. "I burned her body, north of the Wall." I felt tears burning my eyes as a lump rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down.
"It's what she would have wanted," I murmured. He sighed. Silence stretched out between us for several agonizingly long moments before I finally spoke again.
"Can I ask a favor of you, Jon Snow?" Apprehension crept over his features, but he gestured for me to continue.
"I want to go see what's left of my village."
