BLOODLINES ↠ JON SNOW

IX. FEAR THE REAPER

IX. FEAR THE REAPER

THE MORNING CHILL WAS SENT AS A REMINDER TO THE PEOPLE OF WESTEROS THAT WINTER WAS COMING -- but Amodera had grown used to the cold long ago. It was almost a comfort; cloaking her in distant memories. The Wildling Commander sat atop her destrier, a force to be reckoned with.

In the last few days, Jon and Sansa had sent pleas to all the Northern Houses; a desperate attempt to build alliances. Needless to say it hadn't gone well. Terror plagued the hearts of men, and they were not willing to risk their lives for two orphans and an army of Wildlings. Their numbers were a mere 2,400 to the Boltons 6,000, and yet Amodera felt no fear. They had come so far; they could not die tomorrow.

The Wildling Commander glanced to her right to where Jon sat, flanked on the other side by his sister. Tormund, Ser Davos and one of their new allies, Lady Lyanna of House Mormont, brought up the rear. The group were awaiting Ramsay Bolton in the hopes of a parlay.

Amodera sighed, watching the icy breath hover in front of her before being blown away by the winter winds. A speck appeared on the horizon, growing ever closer with the muffled gallop of horse hooves. "They're here." She murmured, meeting Jon's gaze with wary eyes.

The man turned to his sister; a concoction of pity and anger etched across his features. "You don't have to be here, you know."

"Yes I do." Sansa stated, keeping her eyes locked onto the horizon. She had found a fight and fury inside herself that could no longer be quenched.

The specks began to form shapes as they grew closer; the banners of a flayed man flying tall and proud. Coming to a stop a metre or so away, a man Amodera assumed to be Ramsay Bolton smirked -- eyes boring into Sansa. "My beloved wife. I've missed you terribly," He began; his voice cruel and mocking. The man turned his attention to Jon, tiliting his head to the side slightly. "Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely. Dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army, and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch; I will pardon these treasonous Lords for betraying my House; I will even let your Wildling scum return safely North of the Wall."

Amodera's horse kicked the ground and snorted as she held the reins tighter in her fury. Ramsay's eyes drifted over to her, looking her up and down, slowly, with hungry eyes. She felt exposed under his gaze, as if she were his prey. His eyes seemed to search every corner of her body; see through the layers of weapons and armour to the woman beneath. As they worked their way back to meet her stony gaze, a devilish grin spread across his face.

"We've not yet had the pleasure. You must be the Commander." Ramsay breathed, as he bowed his head sarcastically. Amodera just stared, silent and unforgiving, at the man they called monster.

He let out a deep laugh, returning his gaze to Jon. "She's a fierce one, isn't she." Ramsay declared lightly, before his smile dissipated into the wind. "Come, bastard. You don't have the men, you don't have the horses and you don't have Winterfell. Why lead those poor souls into slaughter? There's no need for a battle. Get off your horse and kneel. I am a man of mercy."

Jon watched him with care, stalking every movement; every hint of emotion. He could not kneel to Ramsay Bolton -- not even to save the lives of their army. Not if it meant returning Sansa to him. There was one chance left to save those lives, but Ramsay would never agree. "You're right -- there's no need for a battle." Jon began, guarding his every emotion as if it may betray him. "Thousands of men don't need to die: only one of us. Let's and this the old way -- you against me."