Breaker, Broken | Jorah Mormont

Chapter 19

They were doing all they could to prepare.

Weapons were being mass-produced. Every single fighting man, woman, and child was training outside of Winterfell in groups, honing their skills. Jorah was practicing with Black Fist and Kavarro while Saera sparred with Arya.

"You cannot rely only on being quick," said Saera, knocking her to the ground. "Always assume your opponent is just as fast, at least until you see their pattern of movement." She pulled her back to her feet. "Men in steel armor, you'll usually have an advantage against. But our Dornish armor was made to restrict our movement much less. Oberyn was one of the fastest fighters I've ever seen. He was also strong."

She blocked a hit, and pushed forward while simultaneously kicking Arya's legs out from under her. "You need to buff up a bit more, little wolf. Strengthen your arms and legs. You are nimble but brittle."

Arya shot back up, trying to catch Saera off-guard. But she merely twirled and blocked every hit, until at last her spear was against Arya's neck.

"You're already very good for your age," Saera promised. "Loads better than I was."

"Is it enough to go against the Army of the Dead?"

Saera shrugged. "I doubt the Night King is training them like this. I doubt they know anything about fighting at all. Most likely... we'll all be in a good position if we don't get tired easily. Now come on, let's switch to swords. I need to practice and you're going to teach me."

Jamie had been watching them for a good while. He remembered Oberyn's fight, he saw his techniques alive in Saera.

He remembered Oberyn had said that his children lost a great deal because of what The Mountain did. Now Jamie knew that he hadn't only been referring to his eight bastard daughters.

The Dragon Raised by Snakes.

(And her new heir was The Dragon Raised by Wolves.)

When he thought Saera had been killed– being young himself despite having just become a Kingslayer– he felt an emptiness. He couldn't claim to have cared for Saera much, but he recalled a sweet, innocent girl who did no wrong to anyone. He was made to believe her body had been burned, made unrecognizable, and it sickened him.

Sweet Saera, he thought, had met a fate she didn't deserve.

Now he knew that she'd lived to hear Elia's screams, lived to hear the horrific stories that were told about the siege. Hid in Dorne like a commoner when she was on a Princess. Had to hide her silver hair, had to become someone knew because if she didn't, she wouldn't survive.

She lived haunted by the ghosts of every Targaryen who fell during the war. She lost her entire family in such a short span of time, a girl of five-and-ten who shrieked at the sight of mice.

Had her fate been better or worse for it? She didn't seem to be happy. Maybe in death she'd have gotten some peace. In life, well, everyone knew why she was here without her sister. Everyone knew that if Saera took the Iron Throne, Daenerys would come for her with two dragons to use against the one.

The sight of Viserion still left him dumbfounded. Sensitive Saera now rode a dragon.

He still remembered the day his father told him he might wed Saera. He thought she was silly. He felt himself already a man when he wasn't, and Saera was nothing more than a fragile little girl who followed his sister around like a puppy and played with Tyrion because she was afraid of the gardens.

Oberyn raised her and he turned her into a killer so she'd never be weak again. The little girl he knew had stopped being a child far too early. She had no choice in the matter.