A/N: Well, here it is: a one-shot series about the Winter Court, just like I promised. I am mildly nervous.

Anyway, here it is. Knock yourselves out.

Disclaimer: I don't own RotG. Also, I got the cover image from a site called pexels. I downloaded it under a CC0 (Creative Commons Zero) license, which states that I am allowed to use the image for both personal and commercial use, and that I am not required to attribute it to the original creator of the image.

To be Branded was a winter spirit's worst nightmare, a fate equivalent to that of dying in soul but not in body, to being a walking, breathing carcass. It condemned the victim to an eternity of living without existing, talking without being heard, subsisting without being seen, bleeding in the streets without anyone who would offer aid or comfort. It was the worst punishment, the most ghastly torture known to the spirit world, usually only inflicted on the worst criminals, the murderers and rapists and traitors who scorned the sacred laws of the Winter Court. To be Branded was to lose anything and everything, and most could only bear to speak of it in hushed whispers and terrified murmurs.

The branding itself was a relatively straightforward procedure, a simplistic mark much like that of an "x" etched on the back of a person's hand with the aid of a bitingly cold branding iron. Hardly a particularly remarkable sight, and yet it belied the true horrors of the brand, which lay not in the physical appearance of the mark as much as in the ancient, cruel magic bonded to the scar, the vicious spell that should long have been outlawed, the wicked enchantment that was almost mocking in its diabolical simplicity.

The branding spell was nothing more than a mere avoidance spell, designed to make all passerby either avoid or fail to notice the one who was cursed, and yet that alone was enough to doom the bearer to years upon years of agony. To be unheard, unnoticed, to always have the blank gazes of others slide over you like oil slipping down a windowpane...it was nerve-wracking, agonizing, monstrous, and it was no wonder that many times, the victim either lost their sanity or killed themselves out of sheer despair and anguish.

As such, due to the horrible, sometimes deadly consequences of the punition, the Winter Court was always extremely careful to make absolutely sure that there was no miscarriage of justice. Only a very serious crime warranted such a dreadful sentence, and even then only if there was absolute, unquestionable proof of the criminal's guilt. In addition, the Court had to be unanimous in their decision to condemn the malefactor. However, despite all of these precautions, and despite the relative rarity of the usage of the punishment, no system of justice was utterly perfect, and thus a fatal error was bound to be made eventually.

And, inevitably, such an error was made.

He walked slowly through the pale blue corridors, bare feet making almost no sound against the ice-encrusted floor, blue cloak fluttering weakly in the almost nonexistent breeze. His face was closed off, expressionless, like a fallen king heading towards the guillotine, noble until the very end. Although deep in his heart he dreaded what was coming next, he allowed no hint of his inner turmoil to show on his face, his strong sense of pride and dignity preventing him from abasing himself in such a manner.

On either side he was flanked by a guard, a fact which rankled slightly under his skin. Did his own people, his own subjects expect him to run away from living death like a coward would? Did they not trust him to face his punishment like a man, unjust though the ruling may be? Did they see him as a cur, a milquetoast weakling who did not fully understand the codes of honor that the Winter Court lived and breathed by? Did they truly doubt and despise him so much that they didn't trust their own Suzerain not to defame the Court?

Of course they don't, his mind whispered at him bitterly. They never trusted you. You were always an outsider, a fool, a spineless poltroon with a soft spot for the humans who never, ever saw you. You were a merciful buffoon with the body of a vicious winter spirit and the mind of a naive child. Of course they do not trust you to confront your own end without flinching away in fear.

Unconsciously, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, even as his face remained impassive. He was acutely aware of the guards' nervous glances in his direction, and the thought made him smirk inwardly. Even unarmed and with his magic mostly drained from him, he was still a formidable opponent, quick of mind and body, and they knew it. Jokul, his mentor, had taught him well with regards to the art of defense.

If only I had the chance to pass on these skills to my successor, but that is not to be. Jokul will be required to teach them instead.

The thought made him strangely melancholy. It was traditional for the former Suzerain to instruct their replacement, to educate their successor in the art of combat and in the nuances of Court etiquette, among other things. He had hoped that he would be able to pass on the tradition, to do unto the Winter Court as the Court had done to him, to repay centuries of teaching by coaching his heir, whoever they may be. Fate, however had decreed otherwise.

Ah, well. He'd had a good run, at any rate. It wasn't often that a Suzerain survived as long as he did. A couple of decades at the most was the average lifespan.

He was torn from his somewhat depressing musings when the guards stopped, their grips on his wrists forcing him to stop as well. A few feet in front of him lay a door, pale blue trimmed with silver, with the Court coat of arms painted on it in white. It appeared almost exactly the same as any other door in the palace, and yet the sight of it sent a shiver down his spine which none of the other doors had the power to cause.

After all, only this door lead to the Branding Room, the room that had become a sort of legend in the Court, the only room that he had never been in up to now.

The guards released his arms, and with a small, nearly invisible sigh, he reached for the door's silver-plated handle, his only barrier between himself and his fall from grace. Without glancing at his escorts, he turned the handle and pushed open the door, slipping smoothly inside the room like water seeping through cracks in a wineglass.

The room was empty, except for a Yuki-Onba, a chair, a small closet, and a roaring fireplace with silver-gray flames that didn't yield a single degree of heat to the glacial-cold room. The Yuki-Onba looked up as the door clicked shut behind him, a grim smile adorning her stern-looking face as her unfocused gray eyes stared in his direction unblinkingly.

Blind, he realized, as she began walking towards him, her movements like an old woman's as she crept, tapping her walking stick against the ground as a form of guidance through the ever-present darkness that surely oppressed her vision. As she neared him, further details became apparent to him, such as the gray streaks in her otherwise raven-colored hair, the wrinkles of her face and hands, the cataracts that gave her eyes their clouded, hazy appearance.

She reached out a wizened, shaking hand as she approached him, and he reflexively shrank away before belatedly realizing that she was trying to determine his location. Helpfully, he offered a hand, holding it within her grasp, and she clutched at his arm, grip surprisingly strong and slightly painful as she grounded herself.

It was a few moments before she spoke, her voice like a creaking glacier. "Are you here for the Branding, child?"

He raised a mildly offended eyebrow at the moniker (not that she could see it), but let it go. He had heard stories of Shimoyake, of how she was one of the oldest winter spirits alive, as well as the first female Winter Suzerain to survive longer than a couple of years at most. She was a ruthless fighter even without her eyesight, relying on her excellent hearing and on the guidance of the snow and frost itself to direct her in battle. She had presided over the Court for over five centuries before she was replaced by Jokul, and now her duties lay in the rare performing of the Branding. If anyone had the right to call him a child, she certainly did.

He nodded, speaking when he remembered that she couldn't see him. "I am, Shimoyake-gozen."

She hummed in acknowledgement before grabbing him by the elbow and slowly leading him towards the chair, her steps remarkably certain as she tap-tap-tapped her way to her goal. Carefully, he walked towards the chair and sat down in it gingerly, placing his right arm on the armrest.

She drew three thin chains from the inside of her kimono sleeve, one after the other, before gently binding his arm to the chair with them, wrapping the first around his wrist, the second around his elbow, and the third around his hand, across the knuckles. Delicately, she tested his bonds, noting to her satisfaction that they didn't give an inch.

Then, she hesitated.

He gave her a curious glance as she faltered, clearly unsure. She seemed to be reluctant to proceed with the Branding, her gray eyes flitting nervously for a little while.

When she spoke, her words floored him. "You are not guilty."

"...I beg your pardon?"

She frowned, then, evidently irritated. "What I said, child. You are not guilty of these crimes. I can feel it, you walk and speak differently from a true criminal."

"Good for you," he remarked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Her frown deepened, before she spoke again.

"Something puzzles me, though. If you are not guilty, than why do you stay? Why not run?"

He bristled. "Do you consider me ignorant of the rules of the Winter Court? Do you doubt my devotion to our cause? Even if I am disgraced, I believe that I can still be trusted to uphold the honor of the Court."

There was a silence, during which she mulled over his words. "Perhaps you are right. But in that case I must ask, what could possibly happen to a Suzerain to bring him down to this level?"

He stared in surprise. "How did you know I was a Suzerain?"

Her blank eyes held a glimmer of mischief. "Why wouldn't I know?"

"Because you are Shimoyake, the Blind One. You never know whom you Brand, it's tradition."

"True, but although I lack my eyesight, I am still sound of mind, child, and only a Suzarain would still be so loyal to the Court after being treated so unjustly."

"...Why do you even care?"

The question was spoken with not a little bitterness, as he remembered centuries upon centuries of being scorned, hated, disliked. Not even his own people wanted to be around him, why would this person, this executioner give a solitary damn?

Shimoyake either ignored or didn't hear the question, instead shuffling over to the closet and opening it. She brought out a tattered brown cloak and an equally worn pair of brown gloves, draping them over her left arm before reaching inside the closet once more. This time, she drew out a cruel-looking branding iron, the sight of which made him stiffen involuntarily.

She hobbled then to the fireplace, muttering something under her breath before swiftly plunging the head of the iron straight into the heart of the fire. A violent crackling made itself heard, like the sound of bones snapping and breaking, and the fire roared up, such that she had to take a step back to avoid coming into contact with the silvery tongues of flame. She only held the iron there for a few seconds before pulling it back out, but by then it was already steaming, the air around it fogging from the sheer cold.

He couldn't help but flinch as she limped towards him and held the iron close to his skin. Normally, he was immune against the cold, but he could feel with harsh clarity the crisp chill emanating from the metal. There was no doubt that his skin would scar from the branding, much like a regular human's would if touched with liquid nitrogen.

He closed his eyes as it beared down on him, preparing himself for the pain.

The pain did not come.

Slowly, he opened first one eye, than the other, blue gaze filled with surprise as he took in the sight in front of him. Shimoyake had paused in the middle of her task and seemed to be having an internal conflict with herself, her unseeing eyes twitching in all directions as if she was lost in thought.

At last, she spoke, fingers twisting around the handle of the iron nervously. "I must tell you something, child. Something which I have not told others who have received the Brand."

"Yes?"

A deep breath. "Despite what the rumors may say, it is not impossible to communicate with others after the Branding."

He gaped, dumbfounded. "I'm...sorry?"

"The branding spell focuses mainly on sight, on preventing others from seeing, and thus noticing, you. However, on those without eyesight, the spell has no effect. Provided that the other spirit is blind or otherwise unable use their eyesight, they will still be able to acknowledge your presence."

"...Why are you telling me this?"

She gave a bone-rattling sigh. "Because it is both sad and wrong that an innocent, brave person like you should be cursed so. You are a good person, Suzerain, you do not deserve to end up either a madman or a corpse in the streets."

He swallowed past the lump of emotion in his throat. "Thank you, Shimoyake-gozen."

"You are welcome, child."

Then, she pressed the iron against his skin, and the world turned white from pain.

Somewhere, far away from everyone and everything, three beings sat on top of a grass-covered hill.

One of them was a blind young man, with short brown hair that lay close to his head and blank, unseeing brown eyes. In one hand he held a small, bloodstained stick made of mistletoe, an object which he seemed reluctant to ever let go of.

The second looked like a cross between a raven and a man, with feathers scattered through his hair and black massive wings protruding from his back. His eyes were covered with a dark gray blindfold, and he was clutching onto the arm of the third person for stability and to ground himself amidst his newfound blindness.

The third person was hidden almost entirely by a heavy, threadbare brown cloak, his hands concealed with the aid of a frayed pair of brown gloves, the only visible part of him being a couple of deathly-pale feet. Someone well-versed in the various traditions of the spirit world would have recognized the outfit as the one typically used by those who have been Branded. Assuming, of course, that they were able to notice the third person in the first place.

The three were engrossed in animated conversation, the very picture of contentment and friendship as they talked about everything and nothing.

And all the while, if you had been able to see underneath the third person's shabby brown hood, you would have noticed that a smile of mingled pain, relief, sadness, and joy was playing around his mouth.

It certainly didn't look like he was planning on either going insane or committing suicide, at least not anytime soon.

It didn't seem like he'd entirely abandoned the idea, either.

A/N: Yeah, just me playing around with the Winter Court universe. It's just...Winter-Suzerain!Jack is a headcanon I can't get rid of.

Anyway, have some information.

-"Yuki-Onba" is a variant of the Yuki-Onna. The name means "snow granny".

-Shimoyake is Japanese for "frostbite".

-"-gozen" is a Japanese honorific which refers to women of noble status. In ancient times, it served as a title for female samurais that were very skilled in combat.

-Freeze branding is a thing, people. It's where you use an extremely cold branding iron instead of a very hot one (typically by using liquid nitrogen to cool it down). Yes, touching liquid nitrogen leaves a mark. Yes, it's generally a very bad idea to touch liquid nitrogen with your bare skin.

-In the last scene of the story, the blind boy and the raven-man are Hodur (from Norse mythology) and Raven, respectively.

Anyway, a note about the end: yes, I am aware that Jack still has friends despite being Branded. But that doesn't make everything sunshine-and-rainbows yet, you need to remember that he was once an important part of the Winter Court, which he was/is extremely loyal to. He'll never be a part of the Court again, never meet the friends he'd made there again, never have a chance to show his successor the ropes, never fight alongside his comrades again...He hasn't lost quite everything yet, but he's still lost a great deal.

(Questions? PM me)

(Techie out)