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.
Amodera clenched her jaw, unable to stem the fear that invaded her bones as the Dothraki set off towards their enemy. War cries filled the air, before the night began to drift into silence once again, and the fire that had given them such hope swiftly died out. Amodera stared into the darkness, grip tightening on the halter of her swords. Any losses on their side would only feed the Night King's army; they couldn't afford to lose so much already. And yet, only stray soldiers found their way back from the pits of hell; a fear and loathing upon their faces that sent shivers down Amodera's spine. Even the honourable Ser Jorah seemed lost as he rode back to the safety of their lines -- living to fight again. In the end, Amodera knew that was all that mattered. They weren't there to survive; just to hold them off for as long as it took to kill the Night King. That was her fate, she feared, and yet she knew she must accept it with open arms.
The familiar screech of Winter's bane filled the air -- at first quiet, but growing closer with every passing second. The Great War was here, on the blood-soaked soil of the Seven Kingdoms.
Amodera raised her swords, readying herself for the oncoming storm, as those familiar blue eyes that haunted her dreams came into view. The warrior swung her dragonglass weapons -- splitting the bodies of the dead as if they were inanimate. They took the form of her friends, her allies, her people; took the form of the Free Folk, the Night's Watch, the Northmen. The dead were an army of the past, and she could not let herself be defeated by it. She had changed for the better; for Jon but also for herself. That was not something she could bear to lose; not today.
The force hit their army like a tsunami; breaking formations and crashing over soldiers as if they were nothing but children playing with swords. The initial blow knocked them, but Amodera stood her ground alongside Brienne and Tormund -- using every fibre in her body to stem the never-ending storm. She embraced the ensuing battle; after all, war was what she had been bred for. It was all she knew.
Wights poured through their flanks in a constant stream of personal hell -- clawing and stabbing the the dark. Only their eyes lit up the night. Amodera felt as if she were being drowned, as she spun her sword in every direction in an attempt to stem the unyielding force. The sharp nip of a blade caught her leg as she spun round, before a Wight pounced on her -- screaming as it brought a knife to her face with such haste, it seemed to be it's only reason for living. Amodera blocked it with her arms; the knife's edge splitting the skin of her forearms. The Wildling woman let out a cry as hot blood seaped down her arms, before an axe knocked the head from the Wight and it's body fell limp. Tormund stepped out from the darkness, pulling her back to her feet.
"Retreat!" Ser Brienne yelled from across the field, leading the army back from the onslaught and towards the defences of Winterfell.
"We can't retreat!" Amodera exclaimed, glancing across at Tormund. "We need to keep them as far from Bran as possible!"
Tormund shook his head, blocking the blow of another Wight before Amodera stabbed it. "You stay here, you'll die!"
"Then I'll die protecting those I love." Amodera looked around the battlefield; at the carnage they had made. Soldiers laid bloodied on the floor, while those that had survived fled for the safety of Winterfell, while it remained. But Amodera could not run, not yet. Spinning in her heel, Amodera faced the oncoming storm with her sword raised and her heart heavy. "I fight for Jon Snow, I fight for the Free Folk, and I fight for the living!"
When the second wave of the dead were just metres away, flames engulfed them -- returning them to the ground. Amodera looked to the sky in awe as she saw emerald scales glistening in the darkness. The dragon turned as quickly as it had passed, heading past her once again as she caught sight of Jon upon its back.
"Go now!" He yelled, praying to the Gods that she could hear him, before he disappeared into the clouds of the night.
Amodera clenched her jaw, hesitation in her heart as she glanced at the burning bodies of the wights around her. It was not in her nature to run, but if they were to survive the night, they had to make sacrifices. So she turned, following the soldiers she had fought side by side with as they returned to Winterfell's walls. For so many years, she had worked to kill the person she was in order to survive; they all had. Now, that person was the one who woukd keep her alive -- the person who loved enough to want to live.
《》
Amodera stood atop the walls that guarded Winterfell, staring into the eerily silent night. They'd lost so much, and yet the battle had just begun. The wights had, at first, been stemmed by the fire that surrounded Winterfell, but their willpower did not last so long. They had succumbed to the Night King's rule, and fallen to the flames -- killing themselves to allow others to cross.
"Get ready." Amodera stated, glancing round at the people stationed at her wall. "We need to defend these walls for as long as possible. If they get inside, they'll be able to attack from all sides." The Commander paused, casting her eyes back across the horizon as she pulled her swords from their sheaths. "Many of us will die tonight, but we'll die with honour. We'll die as heroes."
Amodera clenched her jaw, staring down at the wights who grew closer with every passing second. She couldn't help but remember how far she'd come since Hardhome -- how much she'd lost. And yet, she was putting everything on the line, once again, to have a future with her husband. She supposed that was all love was really -- sacrifice and memories. Whatever form it took, she would cherish it till her dying day.
The young woman swung her sword, splitting wights and sending them to the ground with as much strength as she could muster from her ripped arms and tired muscles. She watched with pride as she killed them -- casting them down to the depths of hell. Every bone in her body was forged with steel; every heartbeat as powerful as a hurricane. The Night King could bring the storm, but she was the storm -- the one he could never tame. The one who served her people; who liberated the North; who laid down her life so that others may live. That was the way of a warrior, and it was the only way she knew.
The force was never-ending; attacking from every side with the power of a thousand dead creatures at it's back. Their efforts, no matter how forceful, could not stem the tide. Wights poured over the walls of Winterfell, disappearing into the night as if each had a separate target; separate goal. And yet, they all fought for winter, for death, for hate. It oozed from them like poison; infecting the army of the living as much as it had the army of the dead. But still the soldiers bore on, ships against the tide, because every one of them owed something to another. They all had debts to pay.
Amodera saw Tormund knocked down as a gang of wights descended upon him -- weapons flickering beneath the light of the moon. The Commander launched upon them -- slicing two in half before kicking the final one from his body before stabbing it through the skull. Standing, she offered her hand to him -- pulling him up as he took it.
"Now we're even." She remarked, a smile tugging at her lips despite the chaos around them. As she looked past the walls and into the battlefield once again, her gaze fell upon Jon -- alone and afraid as the Night King turned toward him, raising his arms. Amodera felt a cold rush of horror wash over her as she realised what was coming. Only one thought echoed in her mind at that moment: save Jon.
《》
AUTHOR'S NOTE;
This is only half of episode 3 and it's so long! I had to split it into two parts so you wouldn't get bored of reading (and I wouldnt get bored of writing)! XD
Sorry it's taken me a while to get this up. I've got my college exams coming up, so my heads a little chaotic -- even without having Endgame and the Battle of Winterfell in the SAME WEEK!
I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Let me know what you thought! - CAT c: