(Hopefully) Short Stories

[LintBerry]

Title: Otherside of the coin.

Genre: Light horror (+ slight body horror), Mythology

Blurb:
Ned had always watched Jon closely, painfully aware of the Targaryen blood running through his nephew's veins.
After all, the saying "When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin" was well earned
However, little did he know, he was looking for the wrong blood.

---

Jon never knew cold.

His lord father oft recall how he had nearly flogged Jon's first keeper after finding the toddler running through Winterfell wearing only a single layer of clothing. Thankfully, Jon hadn't caught a cold or shown any sign of illness, and they had breathed a sigh of relief, attributing it to youthful resilience. As Jon grew older, they simply continued to believe it was just a quirk of childhood.

But then one night, Robb dared Jon to jump into a frozen river naked, and by sheer chance, Jory Cassel happened to be passing by just as Jon leaped into the icy water. Without hesitation, Jory had dove in, dragged the boy to shore, and carried him straight to a maester. Though Jon insisted he was fine, the adults were terrified, fearing Jon's lack of reaction to the cold meant that frostbite had set in all over his body. They bundled him in blankets for nights afterward, poured hot drinks down his throat, and waited for the fever or the shivers. But the hypothermia never came. Jon remained as healthy and hearty as any child his age.

(Jon had enjoyed the feeling of being cared for in bed so much that he jumped into the lake again. This time, however, he was scolded instead of receiving the same gentle treatment.)

He had expected the same reaction, but as Jon grew older, the adults gradually became more accustomed to his peculiarities. His tolerance for cold was tested in more and more situations.

"Blood of the Starks," Jory Cassel had laughed after one particular instance where Jon was presumed missing, only for them to find he had buried himself in a great pile of snow, just to win another game of hide and seek.

Of course, Lady Stark had scolded Jory harshly after hearing that comment, and Jory never repeated it again. But Jon would never forget as those words had given him more pride than any other could.

Time passed, and Jon grew. The king came to Winterfell, his siblings left to join the royal court, and Jon, now a man grown, gave his own tearful goodbyes, exchanged tight hugs, and left for the Wall to find what little honor a bastard might claim.

However, the Wall wasn't what he had been told it would be. Instead of noble men serving a greater duty, the majority of the few meager men there were criminals and exiles, forced into service under threat of death. He should have been greatly disappointed, crushed by the realization that his remaining years would be spent among such troubled souls. And yet, Jon found the Wall freeing, refreshing, even. His resilience to the cold was stronger than ever, and simply being near the Wall, the greatest structure in the North, filled him with an unknown energy that couldn't be contained.

It didn't take him long to realize this was where he belonged.

This was where he was meant to be.

however his time at the wall didn't las so long

AFter saving the lord commander from two of the black brothers tha thad returned as wights mormont had ordered a great ranging . it would be a deathly campaing, deadly to recruits and even seasoned rangers yet mormont ahd deemed him essential to the ranging and named jon his steward and squire. Jon eagerly agreed.

Benjen had often said that beyond the Wall, it was so cold even Jon would shiver. The wind there was sharp enough to freeze blood, the snow thick enough to swallow cities. And yet, beyond the Wall, Jon only felt stronger.

He was nearly as spry as Ghost and just as energetic. Some joked Jon was half-wolf. He felt unstoppable. When the company reached Craster's Keep, Jon, disgusted by the vile man, spat at his feet and swore to sleep outside, rejecting his so-called generous hospitality. His friends tried to convince him to swallow his pride and ask for forgiveness, fearing that even with his aptitude for the cold, they might find Jon frozen stiff in the morning.

"He's an upjumped bastard, undeserving of any hospitality or attention. never mind mine," Craster had muttered when, the next morning, they found Jon only stiff in the neck. "But I'll give it to him, he's a tough son of a whore."

Jon had wondered then. Was his mother a wildling? Was that why his father had never told him her name? Why Benjen had spoken of the Night's Watch so often, so fondly? The pieces began to fit.

But then he met Ygritte.

He had volunteered to join Qhorin Halfhand, perhaps the most seasoned ranger in the Night's Watch, to scout out wildling camps. Under Qhorin's command, Jon and his brothers ambushed a wildling party, killing them to the last. But when Jon prepared to execute the last wilding he found himself to staring into a girl's face with hair like fire. He hesitated, just long enough for her to escape. Fool that he was, he gave chase and captured her again, only to realize too late that he was lost and his brothers were nowhere in sight.

Now with Ygritte as his prisoner, Jon had marched in the direction he hoped his brothers had set up camp. Despite his best efforts to keep things quiet, he found himself in conversation with her. He learned much from the wildlings and life beyond the Wall, and in turn, she learned about his life south of it. She seemed particularly fascinated by his resilience to the cold. As it turned out, not even the wildlings were as resistant to the cold as he was. Not even the giants, whom Ygritte claimed were real, could leap into frozen lakes and walk out as easily as he could. Jon was quietly disappointed again, but he continued to talk, continued to listen, and found himself beginning to like her and perhaps she was beginning to like him too.

But Jon proved a fool twice over, or perhaps he had rejected Ygritte's advances one too many times because his luck soured once more. Ygritte made a desperate escape, and Jon chased her again, straight into the sights of a wildling band.

Suddenly, prisoner and captor were reversed, and it was Ygritte who held Jon's life in her hands.

He didn't truly understand why she spared him. When the wildling known as the Lord of Bones argued to slit his throat, Ygritte countered that his Stark name might be valuable leverage in the South once the wildling army passed through. The Lord of Bones was far from pleased, but enough wildlings were convinced to let Jon live a while longer.

Bound and with little say in the matter, Jon was forced to follow the wildlings as they were led to their camp. However, the wildlings began to experience trouble in their march. Food was scarce, supplies were low, and the day seemed to grow colder by the minute. He felt a little schadenfreude as the so-proud wildlings, the people of the 'true' North, hunched in their furs and shivered, while he stood tall and unbothered. Ygritte elbowed him when she caught him smirking a little too widely, though she didn't seem too displeased either. He smiled back.

his schadenfreude turned to worry however as the howl of wolves were added to eht growing list of the widlngs growing troubled. the sun had beg set, the widllings pace slowed but the howld of wolves which the wildlings had dismissed as a wandering pack only crept closer and closer

Jon turned his headl, ear perking as Another howl echoed through the trees.

Jon secretly wondered if it could be Ghost. At some point, back when Ygritte had still been his prisoner instead of his captor, Ghost had vanished, perhaps off exploring, or hunting. He let himself imagine the direwolf returning to save him, and together they would defeat the wildlings and make their escape. But the fantasy stuttered when he imagined Ygritte being the last one standing, pinned beneath his blade.

Another howl—closer, louder, sharper.

For the first time in his life, Jon shivered. It must have been the long hours spent bound, he told himself, and he rolled his shoulders, trying to crack the stiffness from them and shake off the sudden itch crawling beneath his skin.

"Fucking wolves." The Lord of Bones was a surprisingly small man, but he made up for it with bluster and rage, with a skull for a helm and a voice that rattled like one. But Jon could tell the constant howling was getting to him. He could almost smell the fear wafting off the man. "Fucking starved. They're chasing warbands now."

"We can't keep going," a wildling with a scar said. "Night's settling, and if that happens while we're still out there, we might as well offer 'em our necks."

"We should throw the crow to them and make a run for it. Let 'em fight over him while we get away," another said.

"I said we need him alive," Ygritte argued. "He's Ned Stark's son. When Mance takes the Wall, he'll need him for leverage against the southerners."

Jon wondered, as he stared at her fire-red hair.

"light a fire" lord of bonres decided. " and creat ea cirle and make ready to set it alightnot even wolves will be mad enough to jump through fire for a meal."

and so The Wildlings made camp, building a bonfire and then piled wood in a a crude circle with logs and branches soaked in some whale oil ready to set alite.

Jon was tossed alongside the rest of their supplies and pinned in place under wary glares.

Ygritte took charge of his guard and sat beside him. "You afraid of wolves, Snow?"

"Why would you say that?" he asked.

"You look pale. And you're shivering."

Jon realized she was right. It was a strange sensation, he had never shivered before. He decided he didn't like it.

"I feel fine. Better than ever, even," Jon said. And it was true. Despite the sweat and shivering, the air felt sharp and clean in his lungs, his eyesight was keen, and his muscles were tense and coiled with a restless energy. The itch beneath his skin had grown worse, like an army of ants marching through his nerves.

She looked at him for a long time. "There's something off about you."

Jon opened his mouth to answer, but a sound cut through the night, a howl, deeper, louder, and closer than before.

Jon gasped as his heart lurched in his chest.



The entire camp stood, drawing blades, spears and arrows poised outward.

The full moon shone in the sky, burning Jon's skin, but the trees loomed over them, casting deep and dark shadows across the forest. And from that same darkness, a pair of glowing eyes and bared teeth emerged.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

"Light the fire!" the Lord of Bones cried, and a wildling threw a torch into the circle of wood. Flames leapt into the air as the fire spread from twig to twig until they were surrounded by a roaring wall of flame.

"Scare 'em off!"

A few arrows flew and found their mark, and their victims whimpered in pain before darting back into the shadows. But the ones that weren't hit didn't even flinch they stood their ground, glaring across the firelight, while more stepped forward to take the place of those that had retreated.

When it became clear the wolves wouldn't be scared off with a few arrows and that there were far more of them than there were arrows the wildlings slowly stopped shooting.

"Are they wights?" one stammered.

"No, their eyes aren't blue," another said.

Jon could practically smell the fear coming off them; it came in waves. Jon struggled greatly as his skin felt like it was being seared across gravel.

"Stop moving," Ygritte hissed.

"It's... I..." Jon couldn't find the words to explain.

And then a shadow larger than the others stepped into the light.

It was massive, taller than any other wolf, easily towering over the Lord of Bones and with white fur and glowing red eyes.

It was Ghost. But something was different about him; Jon could just tell. The direwolf's fur shimmered under the moonlight, and his mouth hung open, teeth bared and slick with blood.

Then, to Jon's shock, Ghost raised his snout and made the first sound Jon had ever heard from him.

Ghost howled.

The sound shook Jon to his core. It made his teeth rattle and his blood boil.

He fell to his knees. His vision blurred, and he groaned with pain.

Ghost howled again, and this time the other wolves joined him.

Their howls overlapped, echoing and screaming into his senses. His heart felt like it was going to burst. He wanted to rip off his own skin.

His body arched, spine twisting, bones cracking. He thrashed in his bounds as the howls pounded into him like a hammer on an anvil, straining and straining until—snap! His arms were free, free to tear at his clothes, which were already beginning to fall away with his shedding flesh. His teeth felt like they were going to fall out. The world became a hell of light and pain.

The wildlings shouted. Ygritte screamed at him, shaking him, but he couldn't hear her over his own howl of agony.

Everything was wrong. Everything was wrong. Everything was wrong. Everything was wrong.

His left arm was longer than his right, his right hand was bigger than his left. His breathing felt uneven—the burning air poured into his left lung like a river, but stuck in his right like a storm drain. His feet felt twisted, bending the wrong way, then snapping back, then wrong again. His skin had gone pale, his blood was black.

Everything was so wrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrong

Then suddenly Ygritte was there, red hair blown by the wind, an arrow pointed straight at his eye. Her eyes were wet. He saw her lips move.



And the world turned black.

---

Jon's body jerked once as the arrow entered his eye and then went still.

The howls immediately stilled. Some of the wolves relaxed from their stiff howling postures and began to look around curiously, sniffing the trees and snow, baring their teeth at the wildlings as if considering leaping over the fire. But one by one, they vanished back into the forest until only the large white one remained.

It sat on its haunches, its red eyes fixed on Jon Snow's still body, as the sound of logs cracking filled the air while the fire began to die around them.

"What the fuck was that?" Rattleshirt turned on Ygritte furiously. "What the fuck was that, Ygritte?!"

She swatted his hand away as he tried to shove her, then pushed him back. "I don't fucking know! Stay the fuck away!"

The sound of cracking echoed, reminding her of bones breaking and she wished she could break Rattleshirt's bones and make a shirt out of him.

"You brought him to us," a man snarled. "You brought that crow! That thing!"

"How was I supposed to know?" Ygritte snapped back, "How was I supposed to know! He'd do... that!"

"The wolves were following him!" a Freefolk spat at her. "We almost died because you wanted to keep your pet crow!"

The last of the circle's flames died down.

"He wasn't-" she snarled, "You ever seen anyone, anything do that before! How am I supposed to know that! Tell me!"

Nobody listened to her. They screamed, spat, and yelled as Ygritte screamed back just as loudly, her voice rising over the cracking sounds around them, and louder still.

A Freefolk stepped too close, tried to grab her and she drew her knife and drew a red line on his hand.

"Now listen here, you inbred goat-fuckers," she snarled, pointing the dagger at their eyes. They fell silent. "Snow was worth it. If we could have turned him, he would have told us all we need to know about the Wall, and then Winterfell, and then some. Even more, he would have made good Freefolk. So yes, I took the risk, but don't you dare fucking say that it's somehow my fault, that somehow I'm to blame for him changing into..."

She realized they were silent. Too silent.

They were no longer looking at her.

Slowly, Ygritte turned around.

It was twice as tall as a man, nearly the size of a giant, with a chest that rose and fell like a bellows. Its limbs were long and vaguely human in structure, but their proportions were unnatural, stretched too far or bent at strange angles. Its legs bent backward like a wolf's, ending in paws tipped with black claws that scored deep grooves into the snow. Its elongated arms hung low, and each of its fingers ended in curved claws sharp enough to gouge the earth. Muscles bulged and twitched beneath hide stretched too tight, merging unevenly with raw skin that transitioned into thick white fur, matted and clinging in tangled clumps along its massive frame.

And then there was the face. Its face was stretched into a long snout that twitched constantly, as if pulled by some invisible strain just under the skin. Blood-red eyes, wide, unblinking, and unnaturally dilated, stared from between two pointed ears that twitched with every breath, every shiver, every movement in the camp. And then there were the teeth, rows of jagged, uneven daggers, each as long as a finger, as pale as its fur and glistening with saliva.

Instincts older than the world rooted Ygritte to the spot. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She simply froze.

It rose to its full height, standing just beyond the edge where the circle of fire had burned. Now it was lit only by moonlight. It took a deep breath, and howled.

It was not the sound of an animal. It was something older, more primal, ancient and terrible. It started low and long, a rumble that crawled through the earth and up the spine, then rose into a keening wail that threatened to split her ears like a blade. It was the kind of sound that made fire crackle quieter, that turned marrow to ice, that silenced children in their crib. It was the kind of sound that reminded her of crashing glaciers, blizzards without end, and the blue gaze of wights.

Moments later, the white direwolf tilted his head back and howled, his voice laced with a higher, keener edge in answer.

Not long after, another howl rose in response. Then another. The forest answered, howls rising from every direction like a tide, overlapping and building into a chorus of ancient voices carried on the cold wind.

Slowly, Ygritte took one step back, then another, painfully aware of every crunch of snow beneath her feet. She heard the other Freefolk doing the same, each of them making slow, careful steps that sank-

Something clattered.

Rattleshirt froze.

Silence dropped like a blade. Red eyes turned.

...

...

...

Rattleshirt broke first, roaring as he drew his sword and charged. Two more fools followed him, shouting as they ran.

Ygritte wanted to scream, fools, but before she could, she felt a blow across her entire torso. The monster had swatted her aside like a doll. She flew through the air and crashed into the snow.

When the spots of darkness cleared and the groaning subsided, the roars had broken into screams and then into wet gurgles. She pushed herself upright and saw that the Freefolk had taken no chances. Spears and arrows dotted the monster's flesh, drawing blood, but it had no effect. The creature treated them as little more than pinpricks. It swatted the head off a man, knocking it clean from his shoulders. A swipe of its claws turned another man into three.

Rattleshirt bellowed as he stabbed his sword deep into the monster's back and began stabbing at it like a frenzied butcher. With a single shake the monster flung him off and was upon him before he could climb to his feet.

Rattleshirt screamed as the monster grabbed him by the jaw and dragged him like a rag doll. It swung him into another man, sending the unfortunate Freefolk flying into a tree trunk. Now free to do as it pleased, the monster turned its attention solely to Rattleshirt, thrusting its other hand into his mouth and then-

Squelch.

She looked away as the monster began to guzzle from the two halves of Rattleshirt. She dragged herself toward the treeline and saw that the smarter ones were already running.

"Help me!" she cried as they ran past her. "Stop! Help me!"

They ignored her pleas ran straight into the dark forest but then, screams of their own echoed from the shadows they had vanished into.

Only one spearwife stumbled out of the trees, her figure battered and broken, one arm mangled and hanging useless. She tripped over a root and fell face-first into the snow. Sobbing, she clawed at the ground, dragging herself forward in a desperate attempt to escape the treeline. Her eyes met Ygritte's and her mouth opened, but Ygritte would never know what she might have said, because in the next instant she was dragged back into the darkness, screaming. Her fingernails clawed helplessly at the snow, leaving shallow trenches behind.

And then there was silence.

No.

Not silence.

She heard heavy breathing behind her. She could feel its hot breath on the back of her neck.

She was dead. She knew she was dead. There would be no escape from this creature, this thing that seemed to eclipse even the Others in its terror. Whatever it was, it was not something that could be outrun, reasoned with, or fought. It was inevitable.

Slowly, she turned onto her back to face her death.

It was hunched over her.

Its muzzle dripped with blood, strands of flesh and clumps of fur still caught between its teeth and she dared not let her eyes wander to its claws. Its nose flared with every breath, loud and sharp in the quiet and its blood-red eyes locked with hers, and within them... intelligence?

No...

She scanned the carnage, where there were more pieces than bodies, but Jon Snow's corpse was nowhere to be seen. She dared a glance at the white direwolf, which had begun lapping blood from Rattleshirt's skull. Jon Snow's companion. It had been the one that stayed behind, the one that had answered the howl first.

Could it be...?

"Jon?" she whispered.

She reached out her trembling hand, flinching as its maw inched closer.

The monster, or what was once Jon, peered at it. To her great relief, it didn't bite or snarl. Instead, it sniffed her offered hand with something like curiosity.

It recognized her.

He recognized her.

"It's okay," she whispered, her hand brushing against the fur. "It's just me. It's just me. It's okay. You're safe. You're safe."

The monster huffed.

Then it bit into her hand.

---

Alternate title: Were, wolf.

Inspired by a conversation where someone misspelled warg as werewolf which got me thinking what if they were really were werewolves.

 

[LintBerry]

Title: Fools and Dreams
Crossover: Worm / Hollow Knight

One of the stories that have an actual plot ready to go but was put on pause to my lack of ability to get the prose right. I think I'm almost ready for it.
Mystery-esque story with Taylor's trademark unreliable narrator.

Genre: Fantasy, Mystery
Warning: Hugs needed

Blurb:
When Taylor was young, she once wrote a story.

A world given to bug and beast as they had never dreamed.
Built under palest watch, taught, changed, and base instincts redeemed,

Queen Administrator happened to like it.

---

From prologue:

​

Every story needs a beginning. A starting point. A big bang where everything that could be becomes.



hal·low [ /ˈhalō/ ]

verb: honor as holy
noun: a saint or holy person.



Taylor Hebert - Notebook 3 [2006.5.23]

In worlds wilds beyond they speak your name with reverence and regret, For none could tame our tainted savage souls yet you the problem challenge met, Under palest watch, you taught, we changed, base instincts were saved redeemed, A world you gave to insect bug (bug sounds better) and beast as they had never been dreamed. -The Elegy for Hollow City Hollownest Hallownest-​ Hallownest sounds great! Look forward to seeing what becomes of it! -mom​

​

---

From chapter 1 (to give you a better feel for what the story is about):

Mom used to read me bedtime stories every night.

I'd lie, tucked into bed, stars in my eyes as she took me through worlds of knights, dragons and castles. Of princesses and thieves, pirates and whales. Every night was a new world for me to explore, a new adventure for me to take.

As I grew older, history books taught me how our world came to be and older, classical literature showed me the art of words.

Maybe it was inevitable that I'd start writing my own stories.

A young girl lost on an island.

A boy discovering love.

A murder and a detective locked in a battle of wits.

A history of men and kingdoms with tales of how they came to be.

And among them.

The story of the Hollow Knight. (Title work in progress)



A kingdom of bugs, soul, dreams and void. Of wonderful gardens, bubbles, mazes and mud.

Mom had agreed when I told her I thought this story was by far my best. In fact she'd been so impressed that she'd thought of introducing it to a publisher. We'd burn the midnight oil brainstorming of the bugs history and its great kingdom. Slowly bring a new world to life. It was one of the last things I'd done with her.

We'd never got to finish it.



I hadn't touched it since.



Until now.



I stared at the notebooks, covered with dust. There was some fraying at the edges but apart from that they were in pretty good shape. I'd hidden deep in our attic after what had happened to the flute.

I run my fingers over the mixture of handwriting; clunky crooked letters (gods my handwriting was terrible back then) mixed with smooth, elegant cursive.

Even know years later I couldn't hope to compare it to mine.



I miss you mom.



Shit.

I fumble for my pocket and bring out the small glass bottle. Unscrewing the lid I pop a single pill into my mouth.

Tranquilizers or something. They'd given me a prescription after I'd spent the first days at the hospital in a hysterics. I used to calm down, so that I could think more clearly and stopped my limbs from shaking like a rusty engine - for the first few days anyway.

I still used it just like I did moments before, to stop my hands from shaking, but recently I'd been having them so I could enjoy the sense of numbness and ease it gave me.

Maybe this should be worrying but even without the pills it was hard to feel anything these days anyway. The psychiatrist had said something about Alexithymia? Flat affect? I hadn't bothered listening properly. The important thing was I was more numb to emotions, for now at least. They'd said I'd get better but honestly I hoped it didn't. Getting better would mean that I would have to face my problems.

 

[Daddycool101]

Then it bit into her hand.

Click to shrink...

So ygritte's dead?

 

[LintBerry]

So ygritte's dead?

Click to shrink...

I'm actually open to her going either way.
Either she dies to werewolf Jon or her being the first of Jon's 'pack' if the infection angle is in play.
I might write some more snippets in the future.