BLOODLINES ↠ JON SNOW

XXIV. FEAR IS FOR THE WINTER

XXIV.   FEAR IS FOR THE WINTER
[ 8x03 ]

FEAR IS FOR THE WINTER, when the Northern winds bring pillars of ice and shroud cities in snow. When the dead walk through the streets and azure eyes light up the night. When the last glimmer of hope is snuffed from the world. The dead had come knocking at Winterfell and they would storm it like a rain that would never end. Fear was for the winter, and winter was here.

Amodera closed her eyes as Jon's nimble fingers fluttered past her neck, clasping her cloak in place. She relished in the pressure of his fingertips upon her skin, holding the memory as if it were her last. Slowly, she turned to face him, meeting his gaze with sombre eyes.

Jon stared down at her; moments passing as nothing but their breath filled the silence. He studied every inch of her face, committing it to his deepest memories. And yet every time he looked at his wife, his fear grew deeper. "If I don't make it..." Jon began, his eyes filled with regret at the minutes he had not spent with her. "...I want you to know that I-"

His words fell short as Amodera tipped onto the balls of her feet; her lips meeting his with a chaotic passion. She allowed reality to slip away as she melted into his kiss, until the horns sounded to call the soldiers to their places -- snapping her back to her fate.

As she regretfully peeled her lips from his, Amodera placed her hand upon his face - thumb softly stroking his cheek. "You'll live Jon. As will I. Whatever you want to say, you can tell me after."

With that, Amodera slipped past him, grabbing her swords as she left their room. She refused herself a final glance at him -- wanting to remember him through the memory on her lips, not the fear in his eyes. The only way she could survive was if she had him to live for.

The Wildling Commander wiped a tear from her cheek as she took her leave, finding her way to the chaotic courtyard of Winterfell. Defences and soldiers filled the square, while men and women marched side by side to meet the Army of the Dead. The night was dark and full of terrors, and yet they committed themselves to the horror that awaited them outside the walls. Amodera couldn't help but smile at that, at least. People from every corner of Westeros had found their way here to fight for the living; that was all that mattered now. They had found a common enemy, and it gave them strength.

"I don't think just standing here's going to kill the fuckers." Tormund stated as he stepped up beside her, a grin upon his face. Amodera rolled her eyes, starting her march through the gates of Winterfell and out to the battlefield -- Tormund following close by her side. "I bet you enjoyed your last hours on earth. The crow keep you warm?"

"The big woman keep you warm?" Amodera retorted, glancing across at his now sullen face with a grin. She appreciated Tormund's dedication, but couldn't help teasing him about his undying fantasy with Ser Brienne.

As the Free Folk neared the frontline, Amodera spotted Brienne and the Lannister man across the sea of bodies -- heading across to join them at the head of the ground troops. The Dothraki sat ahead of them atop fierce steeds, seemingly unphased by the undead army that lingered on the horizon. Within a second, their weapons had been ignited -- as if the Gods themselves had parted the gift of light upon the desperate forces.
A glimmer of red crossed Amodera's vision, before her gaze fell upon Melisandre, who walked past the army and towards the gates of Winterfell. The Red Woman offered her a nod of respect as she passed, acknowledging the prophecies that had carried them to this point.