BLOODLINES ↠ JON SNOW

XVIII. BEATING HEART

XVIII. BEATING HEART

AMODERA CLIMBED DOWN THE SLENDER, ONYX WING OF THE DRAGON, as pillars of snow collapsed back to the floor. There was a sickness in her stomach; an unquenchable rage at the events that had just unfolded. She couldn't swallow the thought that she'd lost him -- not now, not so close to the end, so close to peace. She had to go back. Without a body, Amodera would never truly be able to rest. She needed to know what had happened to him: one way or another.

As she headed towards the courtyard of Eastwatch, to ride her ebony destrier into the white wilderness in search of him, a thickly gloved hand gripped her arm -- launching her back to reality. Amodera turned, her eyes landing upon the men who had gone North with them. Each one had been broken out there, in some way, but she didn't care about them. She couldn't. Jon was all she could think of, as she glanced into Tormund's weary eyes. "We have to go back for him." Amodera stated sharply, clenching her jaw. She could show no sign of weakness; no matter how much she wanted to fall to the ground and scream.

Tormund's breath hovered in front of him in an icy cloud, as if it may protect him from her inevitable wrath. "We can't. He was my friend too, but our people need their Commander, now more than ever."

A sharp pain shot through the palms of her hands as she unconsciously clenched her fists. The skin across her knuckles had grown so white and tense she thought it might split. "I could've helped him!" She cried out, her raised voice gaining the attention of the other soldiers nearby. "Why did you stop me?"

"Because it was suicide!" Tormund's voice was gruff, unkempt. He was hurting too; she could see it. "The Free Folk need you. You have to put their needs before your own."

Amodera's eyes flashed in white hot rage. Unable to quench her anger, she swung her sword, the tip of the glistening metal stopping centimetres from Tormund's neck. "How dare you speak to me like that!" She roared, her grip upon the sword never faltering, not even for a second. "We may be friends, Tormund, but I am still your commander. My people have been and always will be my priority, but Jon is my people now too. Or have you forgotten that?"

"He's my friend. I haven't forgotten."

His voice had fallen, and he dared not meet her eye. Her best warrior -- best friend, even -- stood cowering in front of her, simply for stating a reasonable truth that she did not want to hear. What had love made her?

Glancing past him, Amodera turned her attention to the group that had gone north of the Wall, and the scattered Wildling soldiers that had heard her cries. "If any of you dare question my loyalty to the Free Folk again, I will not hesitate to throw you off the Wall and let you face what you have abandoned Jon to." Amodera removed her sword, sliding it back safely into it's sheath before turning her attention back to Tormund. "Being my friend doesn't exclude you from that."

Tormund fell to his knees in the dirt before her, bowing his head in respect.

Amodera nodded before turning and beginning to walk away. "Take the wight to the boat. We leave in the morning."

A singular voice was brave enough to speak up as she left, though it was barely a whisper. The Hound's gruff voice carried across the courtyard, with a simple, sarcastic, "Warm welcome."

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