BLOODLINES ↠ JON SNOW

III. FRIEND OR FOE

III. FRIEND OR FOE

A RAGING PAIN ENGULFED HER BODY AS THE MEDIC POURED ALCOHOL ACROSS HER SPINE. The laceration gifted to her by the White Walker stretched from the base of her spine up to her right shoulder in a haphazard line. Amodera balled her hands into fists, clenching so hard she thought she might break the skin beneath her nails.

"Sorry, Commander..." The Wildling medic mumbled nervously, not wanting to face the wrath of the woman in front of him.

"Just hurry." She growled, closing her eyes as he began stitching the skin together. It was a painful procedure, but, alas, a necessary one. Amodera knew the Long Night was coming, and she didn't want to be battling an infection when it did. The Wildlings had never had many resources, but they worked with what they had -- though she imagined that South of the Wall, they would have an unimaginable supply.

Amodera had never been past the Wall. It was a prospect that both excited and worried her: the unknown consequences of their arrival. Nevertheless, she couldn't help but imagine what it was like -- rolling emerald fields and sapphire seas and flowers that filled the world with colour. It was difficult to comprehend, especially when everything North was white with snow.

A few minutes passed before the medic stepped back, placing his tools onto the bench. "As long as you rest, you'll be fine."

Amodera nodded, eyes passing over to the door behind him. Jon stepped into the room hesitantly, two cups in his hands. "Leave us." She declared, waving the medic away.

The man swiftly bowed his head, walking past Jon and out the cabin. They had arrived on ships still stunned by the events at Hardhome -- her and Jon being given a small cabin each while the rest of the Wildlings slept in the hold. It was damp
and crowded, but it was better than being a slave in the Night King's army.

Jon walked over, sitting down on the bench next to her and sliding one of the cups across to her. "Drink. It'll help with the pain."

Amodera arched an eyebrow at him curiously. "You tell me what to do now, Jon Snow?" She questioned, a slight smile playing on her lips.

"Just drink."

The woman took the cup in her hands, taking a hesitant sniff before bringing it to her lips and swallowing the contents. Slamming the cup down on the table with furrowed eyebrows, she gave him an accusing look. "What's that piss?!"

Jon chuckled quietly, shrugging his shoulders. "Ale. A Northern drink."

"That's not a proper Northern drink. Back in Mance's camp we used to pass around the strongest moonshine you can imagine before a battle." Amodera replied, looking down with a sentimental smile.

"You admired him, didn't you. Mance, I mean." When the woman didn't reply, Jon grimaced slightly before continuing. "He was a good man. I could see that; even if he was supposed to be my enemy."

Amodera looked up at him, studying his eyes for the truth. It was only now she really looked at them: piercingly dark, but filled with a light. He had the weight of the world resting on his shoulders, but he also had hope; an exterior as hard as ice, but a heart as mellow as fire. "Who are you, Jon Snow? You're not like any Crow I've met -- not like any man I've met."

"Is that a good thing?" He retorted, leaning back so his back rested on the table. Part of him couldn't help but admire the woman in front of him: there was a inferno inside her and it burned so bright he thought she might set the world afire wherever she took a step. She was the epitome of strength and beauty; dark and light. Jon Snow could not deny his fascination with her.

Amodera maintained his gaze, her vivacious sage eyes locked on his dark ones. "I believe it is." Tearing her gaze from his, the Commander's eyes landed upon his sword. "May I?"

Jon pulled his sword from it's sheath, passing it to her. Glossy and razor-sharp: the sword was in perfect condition and clearly had sentimental value. Taking it from him, Amodera admired the metalwork before her fingers stroked the wolf-head pommel. "It represents my direwolf, Ghost."

"Your direwolf..." Amodera repeated, arching an eyebrow.

Jon gave a light laugh, eyes dancing with fond memories. "It's a long story."

The wildling woman gave a small smile, nodding her head. "Perhaps another time. I'm curious about how it managed to destroy a White Walker when our swords had no effect."

"It's Valyrian steel." Seeing that the words landed no recognition with her, he continued to explain. "It's a form of metal forged thousands of years ago. Rare. There aren't enough in Westeros to fight the White Walkers."

Amodera bit the inside of her lip, before handing the sword back to him. "Then I suppose we'll have to find another way."

<>

AUTHOR'S NOTE;
A short chapter, but I wanted to show the relationship between Jon and Amodera in less serious situations. I'm going to take their relationship slow so as not to rush things, but I'm trying to put in a little cuteness at the same time -- is it working? XD

Hope you liked it; please comment and tell me what you think about their dynamic so far!

I love this fan fiction so much, so expect another update soon. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it c:

Thank you for all the lovely comments and for voting! - CAT