Breaker, Broken | Jorah Mormont

Chapter 18

Winterfell was filled to the brim.

There was absolutely no way to house all their warriors there. Tents had been set up between Winterfell and Castle Cerwyn, some stretching east all the way to the White Knife to accommodate everyone.

The Northerners had already grown accustomed to Saera and Viserion, but were taken aback by all the new faces. She wondered when was the last time the Dornish had ever stepped foot in the North. She wondered what her Essosi soldiers would think of the brittle cold.

They barely fit on her one-hundred-and-fifty ships. They'd loaded up more dragonglass on the way, carrying all the men they could with another large pile of material for their weapons. Most of the troops had to march, but a good number fit on their ships to arrive marching behind Saera and Jon, who were in the lead, followed by a carriage with Ellaria, the Sand Snakes, Black Fist, Kavarro, Jhiqui, Jorah, and Varys. Lady Olenna had opted to stay behind, and Saera didn't blame her.

Bran told them that they'd arrived just in time. The Night King's army had reached the wall, and Sansa had ordered all the men there to march south to join them, alongside all the men from House Umber and House Karstark. There was no way the few at the Wall would be able to hold them off; better to save their men. Let the dead struggle with crossing while they prepared for an open battle. It would be easier for Saera to burn them all that way.

"I know you don't like it," said Saera, stressed, as they tried to fit Viserion with a breastplate attached to metal rods shielding his neck that extended over his head like a helmet. "But it's to protect you."

He roared angrily, trying to swat away the Unsullied who helped her. She sighed, leaning against him and patting his belly. "You are vulnerable. I cannot risk you. I won't stand for anyone hurting you. The spear almost killed you. The more protected you are, the better. Look, we added leather and dragonglass to the armor. It may be a bit heavier, but the dragonglass is expected to shatter the spears on contact because they are fueled with magic and ice. You will be safe."

Viserion huffed, turning away like an angry child. She pleaded, "Jaelan naejot mīsagon ao, zaldrītsos. Kostilus, gaomagon ziry syt nyke." (T: I want to protect you, little dragon. Please, do it for me.)

He flattened himself out as best as he could, resigned to accept this form of torture if it would make her happy. "It's only for battles," promised Saera. "Only when you are most at risk."

He seemed to roll his eyes, but ceased to complain, letting her and the Unsullied practice fastening the armor as quickly as they could.

They practiced flying around a few times, to make sure the armor didn't bother Viserion as he flew. It seemed fine, but Saera noticed he couldn't fly as high with it on. Or maybe he was just being stubborn and didn't want to; she wasn't sure. At any rate, it seemed it fit well and would guard the most vulnerable parts of his body well. They had to at least try it.

"Gendry," said Saera, arriving to check on the blacksmiths who were working like mad to forge their weapons. "I trust Arya and I will have our spears soon? We'll need to practice using blades on both sides."

"Yes, Your Grace," said Gendry immediately, showing two spears propped up against the wall. "They're ready."

Saera took one in hand, twirling it around. "Perfect balance. You are very good at what you do. Have you ever considered what else you might be skilled in? Being a ruler, perhaps?"

He blinked. "No, Your Grace, I haven't... thought of that."

"I'm told you are Robert Baratheon's last living child. And since hearing of you, I've found only good things being said. I wish for you to consider what you might want your life to be like if we survive this. Think about what it would mean to you to be Lord of Storm's End. If you are interested, if you will be a just ruler... come to me with an answer after the Great War."