Crimson's Vault of Madness(Snippet Thread)

[CrimsonKing100k]

"Aye, gather round now, pups, an' I'll tell ye a tale from long afore your father was a man. further yet, a tale none o' your grands ever heard." Her voice steady as the fire crackles, the cold wind beyond the shutters hollers long and low.

Old Nan leans back in her favourite chair as the littlins at last settle. Old as she is, she ain't blind; as she watches the eldest part from the others and edge over to the hearth. closer'n most would dare as if it were a thing he belonged to. The flames lean and breathe, and Old Nan narrows her eyes, there's an otherness to 'em, like they remember thin no living mouth speaks…….

"Aye.." her eyes moves back to the youngins. "....this be a tale for the Old Gods themselves," she croaks, "something my own mother shared with me when I were your size."

"The age o' heroes. Garth Greenhand workin' in the Reach, the Storm-god's daughter wed to Durrandon, Lan trickin' the Casterlys out o' the Rock, dragons that would fly free from their future shepherd lords. I could spin ye many a tale o' those names, but tonight this storm wakes older memories. One such tale that my mother told me, on a night like this, a warm hearth an' roar o' sky, o' the war that scarred the world an' shaped it into what we know."

"Before the heroes, before the dragons, before the wars o' men an' giants an' the beasts forgotten. here was an eternal dark, a sea o' shadow risin' an' fallin' like tide, and hollow sky void of moon an' stars. From that churnin' grey and black the first land took shape, cold an' lifeless, torn by winds till at last it rose."

She pauses, seeing her tale making even the far folk near the great hall's entrance lean in. She continues steadily.

"From that grey earth a seed o' life broke free, smaller than a babe's thumb but shining like a fresh new dawn defyin' the screamin' winds an' the furious dark…"

"This seed grew. rooting deep in the harsh soil, becomin' bigger'n any tree ye can imagine. Its branches twisted an' stretched through the dark, empty sky, limbs the size o' mountains that threw shade like new ranges o' earth; its trunk swelled broad enough to hold back the empty oceans, ringed with scars like braided sigils o' old kings. Its bark was like caught white clouds, smooth where the wind had licked it, furrowed where storms had left their teeth and veins o' red ran beneath, slow as old blood."

"Hundreds and thousands more crimson leaves trembled in its crown, glimmerin' like embers when the wind caught 'em; stars seemed to dwell among those leaves, Little springs bubbled from hollows at its feet, and the air beneath its shade felt older, cooler, like breath drawn waking from the world's first sleep. The first weirwood, young an' strong, a world‑tree, as my Holdor once named it…"

"But the dark liked not challengers. It raised a storm to lash the newborn life, rippin' an' tearin' at it."

"From that storm came lightning!" #BOOM!# the thunder answers loud on cue as rain pelts the great hall's roof.

"The hot bolt struck its roots to shatter it. From that strike the first wrathful fire was born…"

Old Nan smiles at the Stark pups' stunned faces. Their father stands quiet near the high table; the eldest's crimson eyes are distant, a gleam lost in an old memory?

"Fear not, my pups, for the tree had a mind o' will its own. It needed a protector, a guardian to stand strong and unbending, a shield against the dark death that would snuff out the life yet to grow."

"With the raging flames it took them into its roots, condensing them, and shaped them into the first wolf - Into a God…..." The patter of rain fell silent as the hall held its breath.

"A gargant beast, horned and clawed, hide of dark molten stone and razor spike with an eternal inferno for a beating heart and blazing red eyes. born out o' the clash o' dark an' life. Its first act was to burn the dark away. From its claws an' its howl the fire took form, growin' an' swellin' till it filled the once dark and brightening sky."

"It flung that blaze skyward. farther'n any mortal can reckon. Its flame ignited the sky and became the sun we see today."

"Thus The first of eight, the God of Fire and Sun - the Wolf Father - Igris Eldríkr was born."

---

---

#Clang#Clang#Clang#

The hammering of metal is both soothing and mesmerising. Star-like sparks burst with each strike, bright and gone in an instant. The rhythm simplifies everything; his worries fade as something new takes shape. In that peace his mind drifts back to memories and the people he's met in this shitty world.

Memories have always been fickle for Jon. Waking in this world after the fever that nearly killed him three years ago was neither pleasant nor welcome.

He'd lain there unable to move while Maester Luwin tended him and a very worried "brother" cried his blue eyes out. The memories crowded his mind as his crimson eyes tracked the rafters, his utterly fucked situation finally sinking in.

Through the haze of headache and a body that felt like hot needles in every limb, other memories surfaced: another life with cars and planes, people glued to glowing screens doom‑scrolling, a world where wars used bullets instead of blades.

The life of a man: a kid who gamed too much and read way too many fanfics, a teen who learned to cook under his mother's warm smile, a son steadying himself under his father's quiet lessons, a brother to black sheep of a sibling that burned every bridge.

He wasn't perfect, a sarcastic ass with an anger problem and a chip on his shoulder that got him into trouble. He later became a decent soldier teamed up with a company that truly became a found family: late‑night jokes in freezing foxholes, shared rations and secrets, watching each other's backs on patrols. They bled and laughed together; their initials carved into a mess‑hall table were a promise, leave no one behind.

Then the ambush. Explosions swallowed the road; when the smoke cleared he was the only one left. Grief and fury hollowed him out. He stopped answering orders and followed vengeance, tracking the enemy, planting charges, and in a single savage assault erasing them. The flames of that night consumed the compound, and him as well. Victory came as ash.

"Errr," he grunted as the memory passed. He shoved warped metal back into the forge. Focus wavered; his hammer missed and the piece nearly shattered. A dead life was better left buried, these borrowed memories had nearly pushed him to madness.

Even as a soldier he'd never stopped being a nerd. Home from deployment he'd chased fantasy to scratch an itch, books, shows, that whole escape. Hearing his 'father' call his name when he entered the small room brought it all back.

"A Song of Ice and Fire," he thought, the unfinished books, the TV show he'd hated after the ending. Jon Snow's life was a handy template for misery.

He'd considered the quick exit more than once, stepping off a broken tower into oblivion. until he remembered how he'd gotten here. Death hurts - who knew. Feeling his skin turn to ash while burning alive had been an eternity of pain; afterwards came an endless black void and something massive with blazing eyes peering through it…

…...those eyes still haunt his dreams.….

The afterlife had felt like eldritch nonsense that reminded him of how truly fucked over this world is, Insane shadow spawning witches, immortal drunken priests, and endless tides of ice zombie, things that made him doubt reality.

Memories of the books and show's finer details other than the BIG problems were hazy. He'd seen flashes: a pointy metal chair, grown men acting like toddlers slaughtering each other.

He sketched out his future here with what meta‑knowledge he had: a shit childhood, Ned's Red-bitch of a wife making everything worse, a maybe‑father who fails to keep a promise on a maybe‑mother's deathbed.

By 14, though, his body had rewritten the script. Wide‑shouldered and muscled, almost six feet tall - an inch shy by guess work - he was what most ladies dreamed of and most men cried wishing they had. Low doorways were his curse. The forge's high ceilings were a mercy.

It was still lightly undertoned by new puberty, but the real kicker was strength that could crush iron like wet tissue.

He'd learned pretty quick that he couldn't go full‑tilt on Robb or on his ass‑friend Theon without risking crippling them, or drawing The Red-bitch's attention in a way that'd threaten Robb's place. Still, the curiosity ate at him.

Testing himself became its own pastime after yard training with Jory and lessons with Luwin - Luwin is a good friend, actually - and smithing with Mikken in the late afternoon. He'd slip off to the godswood to lift like any good gym bro: trees five times Holdor's size hoisted until exhaustion finally hit around the thousandth set. He kept at it when he could, pushing numbers up as limits strained.

…..Arya was getting suspicious, she'd noticed him wandering off enough times to be close to finding his secret gym.

Speaking of, his siblings are fine for the most part. He smiled at play memories with Robb and Sansa - kings, knights, princesses - then the smile soured. In a few years they'd be changed by trauma or end up dead; innocence didn't last long in this mad world……..

…He'd never admit it aloud, but they'd kept him from letting depression push him off the edge.

Childhood aside. Compared to Jon Snows canon life, its been 'better' since he has a fuckin back bone. Of course, even he has limits to the amount of bullshit the Red-Bitch has made him suffer through over the years. What good will she showed him when he was recovering from the fever, keeled over and died a while ago…

……..he got tired of this shitty world the first minute he stepped out of his quarantine and saw Winterfell in all its stoic, granite glory.

God He missed the internet, toilets, showers, soap, fried chicken, pizza, ice cream, beer, cake, biscuits and gravy……. small comforts that felt enormous in memory. A sudden, specific pang of hunger hit him like nostalgia with a side of regret.

It was also thanks to his freakish puberty that he really noticed those around him…

Everyone here seemed "more": taller, harder, quicker. Rodrik, the man‑at‑arms, was a mountain of muscle. Smallfolk moved as if carved for war. Even the women were dialed up a notch, Theon never stopped talking about it after his brothel runs. Sansa bloomed early and drew every idle eye; the household called her blessed.

He felt the world had turned a knob on bodies and beauty, especially for the nobles which he still can't really wrap his head around. Sadly, nature didn't leave him out. Puberty had brought heat and strength and, with it, his temper that followed him from his old life.

Bastardy taught him his place at the back of the table. He loved his siblings and respected his father, but the rules and looks wore on him.

Then the septa's insult, about his -maybe mother- Aunt Lyanna, something snapped in him. Rage braided with shame and he threatened the old woman; looming over her with his size and pierce crimson eyes, she went pale and nearly crapped herself.

Word spread, because it always does… and the Red-bitch learned it from the old bitch and bitched to her lord husband, but Ned listened and punished him in a way that fit the North: three weeks cleaning pig‑pens. cold muck, ruined boots, and a dose of humiliation. Though The Quiet Wolf clearly didn't like what the septa had done either ... .and warned the senile old woman that perhaps it's best for her to return home in the south…

The old hag left days later, leaving to see family apparently….

What gratification Jon gained was short lived, He still learned to swallow the heat and bite his tongue, but the fire lived under his ribs. Once, in the pens, he'd lashed out at a sow; it smashed through a barn wall like a barrel. The farmer was out of old drunk or he'd have been hanged. The rather broken pig ended up at the butcher; Jon lost a dragon and kept his neck. As for the hole….he saw and heard nothing…

Now, as he lifts the hammer again and shapes the glowing bar on the anvil, the work becomes a private litany. Mikken taught him to read a billet's grain like a man reads a face, know when it will split, when it will sing.

Blows have rhythm: softer to stretch, harder to close the grain. He remembers punching a hot bevel with the peen to draw a tang, the curl of scale when the edge takes shape, how a properly set fuller breathes light into a bar and lightens weight without losing spine.

Smithing taught him more than technique; it taught him to temper himself. Controlling monstrous strength turned out to be its own craft; gentler draws, measured finishes, and finding the exact angle to bend without shattering it to ruin. That control raised the quality of his work: quicker cleaner grain lines, truer edges, fittings that sat like a glove.

His strength, though, was a bitch to hide. blunt training swords warped in his grip, some outright snapping under the swing, so he learned to let the anvil take the worst of it, channeling force into craft instead of chaos.

He talks to the metal as he works. "Heat, then hunt," he murmurs; heat to loosen stubbornness, hunt the right angle. His swings change: a gentler draw, snapping finishing blows to close the grain. He uses the hardy to cut grooves, the drifting chisel to fit a slot, folding welded plates with palms that know pressure, hammer straight, peen across, bury the seam. The old rhythm steadies his breath and holds the ghosts at bay.

Those sparks remind him of machine shops and trains from his other life; different tools, same logic. Tempering is a gamble: quench in Ox oil and watch colors run, searching for that pale straw band. Too blue and the blade will snap; too soft and it'll fold.

Timing is everything, precise, cruel, necessary. A lesson, huffing, that he struggles with everywhere else…

Forging gives him control he never found on patrols with Rodrik. Each hammerfall is a choice that can't be undone; each quench draws a line. The forge answers honestly; it keeps no secrets. While his life threw unfamiliar sorrows at him, the metal demanded only heat, strike, and shape. Those three demands give him a scaffold for the wreckage inside.

He thinks of pattern welding. layering iron and steel, hammering and folding until the lines tell a story only the blade understands. The idea of binding many into one, making something stronger than its parts, sits with him like a small prayer. He imagines folding his two lives the same way - beat, fold, weld, temper - until the seams don't sting.

When the piece cools enough he files the edge; the rasp sings like a distant radio. The file strips scale and leaves a clean smile of metal. He pins the tang, sets rivets, and peens until the hilt is promise. Each rasp, each peen, each quench is a line in a ledger against the chaos of his life.

He shapes bolsters until they fit his palm, grinds fullers so blades carry less weight and more strike, checks balance by eye and feel; wrist that sings, point that won't crumble, shoulder that won't wobble. He can't fix everything, but he can fold a mess into usefulness, and that counts.

The hammer falls steady. Each strike shapes more than steel, it forges a life rebuilt from fragments and fire, the rhythm wiping distraction away until Jon disappears into the work.

---

The wind hits the forge hard, whistling through the open windows and chimney. Jon pauses, squinting into the bright noon sun—the buzz of Winterfell in full swing.

Huh, he's been at it longer than he thought.

He shoulders back to the anvil; the longsword is nearly finished, all that remains is final polishing and fitting the hilt and handle.

He sets the blade aside, brushes soot from his hands, and steps out of the forge to the barrel of fresh water by the smithy door. He's alone today, as Mikken took the other apprentices to help build a stable in Wintertown. so Jon has a clear view of the castle's bustle: attendants and a small army of hands keeping the ancient fortress running, the smithy sitting by the southern gate beside the castle stables.

He lifts the ladle from the barrel and gulps the cold water, savoring the brief quiet as he passively watches the crowd, as the chill pulls him back into his thoughts. Besides his superhuman strength, there was another BIG thing he'd noticed about this world.

Before he woke from his fevered power nap, the world cracked like an egg. An earthquake for the ages rocked the known human world. from the North beyond the Wall to rumors out past Yi Ti, an epic continental shift that rewrote coasts and lives.

From what he'd heard, told, and pieced together, the death toll was staggering. In a feudal place where most buildings lacked proper foundations, anything not built by the very old and stubborned stone failed when the earth gave way. Inland settlements were leveled by tremors; mountain folk were buried by avalanches.

But the worst were the coasts: towns and villages were simply written off when tsunamis swept in. The larger keeps and cities fared better, their walls and mass surviving where flimsy and poorly built cottages and exposed people did not.

The world broke, and humanity promptly crapped its collective panties, scrambling to salvage what they could or simply stay alive.

In the world changing quake, Westeros had lucked out. Apparently the continent sat higher on the shelf than Essos. Slaver's Bay was mostly under water now, cities like Meereen and Yunkai suffering worse, their taller buildings jutting like wreckage from the waves. Jon didn't want to know how many slaves drowned; the slavers, by all accounts, fled inland.

On the Seven Kingdoms side, from what he'd gathered from Luwin and his father, the quake had cleaved the land below the Neck, an endless scar that splintered and ran the riverlands to pieces, leaving gaps where roads, bridges, and farms once were. Whole keeps lost access to their water; entire villages sat on fractured ground or slid into new gullies. Trade routes died overnight and what little lordly authority remained frayed into local scavenging.

The red‑bitch's family apparently suffered badly; lost outposts, drowned holdings, fleeing retainers—but Jon stopped listening as soon as she began to speak.

The North was scarred by the quake but avoided the worst. The mountain clans took avalanches, the Manderlys suffered flooding, and the Dreadfort woke to a sinkhole that nearly swallowed half the keep. Closer to home, the Wolfswood, stretching northwest from Winterfell toward the mountains, now drops into a fresh, deep valley: a scar that came within a league of the castle before shallowing into a trench that runs to the castle's moat at the northwest tip. No one lives out there, but from the surrounding heights the tear in the earth is plain to see.

The valley is deep; toppled trees and unstable ground block any clear view of the bottom. Ned hasn't ordered anyone down. best as anyone can tell, it's a bad idea.

As for the rest of the South, the news was a steady drip of damage reports and half‑baked repairs: patching roads and bridges, hauling grain, and doing whatever they could to keep refugees from rioting or minor lords from pulling the rebel stick out of their asses.

Bobby B's reign was already on shaky legs; the quake shoved the timeline around, that much was clear. How far back it set things, Jon didn't know. massive dead and missing, granaries destroyed, ruined housing, and waves of refugees pressed on nobles who pretended to care were all signs the realm was cracking. The peace held… for now.

Jon didn't even try to think about the ice zombies beyond the Wall. From Rodrik and his father there'd been no increase in wildling attempts to cross The Wall, and no deserter from the Watch was crying wolf about pale, glacial‑eyed corpses crawling back to life, at least not yet.

The whole prophecy thing….is that still in effect? He couldn't help but think so, so far, no three eyed bird has visited him in his dreams.

He shook his head to clear the looming apocalypse and stepped back inside. He paused at the unfinished sword; the carpenter would make the wooden handle later. For now there was sharpening and polishing to do.

Hefting the blade, he brings it to the grindstone and settles in for the long work of drawing an even edge. The sword's a commission from some minor lord who serves Lord Manderly, the name not worth remembering; Jon took it after his work started getting noticed.

His heart roared with pride knowing that his work is known for its quality. Blades that hold their edge longer, patterns so faint in the steel that many thought they were works of art instead…

But each sale, he funnels the gold dragons back into Wintertown. Winterfell itself turned out alright; only the oldest sections, the First Keep and the Broken Tower, collapsed, and they'd been half‑abandoned for years. Wintertown, though, took the hit: whole streets simply dropped into rubble, some houses with people still inside.

In the 4 years since the quake. Things have improved, but the tide of people doesn't seem to end regardless of even if House Stark had a scarcity of resources to do so.

When he wasn't training with Rodrik or working with Mikken. He would help the town in any way he could. Forging new plows and tools for the farmers, nails and other materials needed to build new homes…

Being a 'bastard' for all its infamy down south, has its advantages. Especially when it comes to doing what you wish since there's no attached 'noble' stigma. The freedom to do as he wished within reason obviously.

The town came to respect him for his efforts. A shit‑eating smirk creeps across his face, minding not to catch any flying shavings in his mouth, he wasn't gonna lie, he loved the look on the Red‑Bitch's face when she learned he was better liked than she was.

"Jon?.....JON!!!" The yell beside him makes him jump as he nearly slices Robb in the head with a partially sharpened sword..

"FUCK!!!" shouting and panting as his brother took a wary step back but held that irritating smirk on his face.

"Don't do that!!" he exasperated, putting the sword down, Jon quick to stand as removes his leather gloves as he turns to Robb fully.

"Do you have any idea how close you were to getting your face cut off?" Jon snaps, moving closer.

Robb's blue eyes linger on the blade for a beat, smile unchanged. "Hah. Well, I knew you wouldn't hit me." He studies Jon, then raises an eyebrow. "You forgot, didn't you?"

"What? What do yo - shit." Jon curses as his promise to Bran clicks into place. Yesterday's promise buried under his inner monologue

He hurries to fully extinguish the forge and secure the sword. Robb watches him bustle about like a chicken with his head cut off and files it away under "Jon's an idiot" moments to use against him later..

"You really need to get a handle on time, Jon. You're lucky I came to remind you. Hells, I want to see The Crooked Moon Carnival too. Didn't fancy going with Theon as he's drunk, so I figured I'd remind you and come all." Robb added smugly.

Jon eyes him warily for a beat, then moves past to the courtyard to head to his quarters to fetch clean clothes; Robb follows, smirk never dropping.

The carnival is something new. From what he remembers of the books and the show there were festivals and parties, but never carnivals…

…..the name itself shouldn't exist here….

Yet one has set up in Wintertown after getting permission from Ned: a sea of tents and huts on the far hill offering music, food, games, and theatre that have drawn the whole castle and town.

Jon stops at the open southern gate and turns to look. Through the street of Wintertown, on the far hill, hundreds of black tents cluster around a massive marquee embroidered with silver moons and gold stars that glint in the high sun. Kites and banners snap in the wind; at the entrance a night‑black banner stands tall: THE CROOKED MOON. The words tug at him, a strange pull he can't explain.

Robb falls into step beside him and watches Jon's still face – the smirk falling slightly as concern flashes in his eyes. Jon throws an arm around his shoulder and smiles. "Well, Stark, this will be a night to remember."