BLOODLINES ↠ JON SNOW

XXVII. PROCESSION

XXVII.  PROCESSION
[ 8x04 ]

THE COLD WINDS SLASHED AT AMODERA LIKE A KNIFE, a reminder that Winter was far from over. The cheers of merry men hung in the sky as the celebrations of their victory continued late into the night. The living are hungry -- those had been her words to Jon, and while she hadn't meant it literally, the feast that ensued told her that was all they could think about for now. Food, ale and sex paraded through the minds of the living, as if that were all that mattered now. How wrong they were.

The young Commander had never been one for parties. She was a solitary animal, refined to the company of her own mind. As she walked through the courtyards of Winterfell, allowing the night air to graze her skin, her gaze fell upon the people who had obviously spilled out from the main hall. Some were so desperate to feel alive they hadn't even waited for privacy to sink into their carnal pleasures.

Amodera turned away, heading for the quietest part of the castle's grounds to spend her the passing hours. As she stepped through a passageway, an arrow whistled past her ear -- landing in the wooden target beyond with a splitting crack. Instinctively pulling her sword from it's sheath, the young warrior turned, only for her gaze to fall upon Winterfell's newest hero. Amodera let a smile grace her lips as she placed her sword back in it's sheath nefore turning to look at the arrow, which had embedded itself in the face her target.

"You're quite the shot." Amodera stated, impressed at the young girl's vigour. "But shouldn't you be enjoying your party?"

"They're eating, drinking and fucking. I don't think I'm missing much."

A soft laugh escaped Amodera's lips as she walked over to the girl; a second arrow passing her in the space of a single breath. "Well, they have you to thank for that."

Arya glanced across at the Wildling for the first time since she'd arrived, her expression as guarded as ever. It was a trick all the Starks seemed to possess -- if you hid your true emotions, then no-one could use them against you. "And what about you?" Arya stated bluntly as she nocked a third arrow. "Shouldn't you be fucking my brother?"

Amodera clenched her jaw slightly, watching Arya's every move. She didn't blame her for the hostility -- they barely knew each other, after all. But she'd be damned if she came to be thought as nothing more than Jon's wife. Grabbing a spare bow from the ground, Amodera released an arrow, watching as it embedded itself in the centre of another -- splitting it in two. Turning back to Arya, the Commander smiled confidently, lowering her bow. "I try to be more productive with my time."

At the sight of her success, Arya's interest in the Wildling seemed to peak. The two knew very little of one another, but they were both warrior's; you could almost smell it on their skin. The fight was what they lived for, more than anything else. The fight was all they had. "Who taught you to fight like that?"

"I did." Amodera replied, a smile playing upon her lips. "Who taught you?"

"No one."

Amodera eyed her carefully before returning to her archery. The two were cut from the same cloth; filled with an instinct and a desire to survive. Amodera understood the young Stark girl better than most. She didn't want to be a hero, to be a story told to children -- she just needed to fight; to feel blood pumping through her veins. It was what reminded them they were still alive, and not buried with the ashes of their fallen allies.