Breaker, Broken | Jorah Mormont

Chapter 20

The Great War had started.

Saera and her men had put Viserion in his armor faster than ever before, having practiced it so many times that they and the dragon were used to it. Lyanna had been waiting on the side impatiently, watching the fighters ready themselves and barking orders.

The men marched out rapidly, weapons in hand. All swordsmen had both their sword and some knives in case they lost their weapons. Archers on the castle walls were given barrels full of dragonglass-tipped arrows as well as regular wooden arrows to be dipped in pitch and lit by the torches that were steadily being distributed to light their way. Saera had new dragonglass knives to go with her catspaw dagger, she had her double-pointed spear, a sword, and a dragonglass arakh.

She hoped the battle would go well enough that she didn't have to use it. That she'd burn so many wights that their men would overtake them and the war would just be over.

No one knew how long they'd be out there. If the dead would actually retreat when morning came (if it did at all).

They thought they slept and trained enough but they hadn't. There was no way to be truly ready.

The gate of Winterfell was closed and the few who remained who didn't wish to or couldn't fight (like Sansa, Varys, Gilly, and a few elderly Northerners) were taken down to the crypt while the Ironborn and Sand Snakes escorted Bran to the godswood.

"It doesn't matter what gods you believe in," said Saera loudly over the wall as the men rushed past below her. "Pray to them, ask that they give us strength. It doesn't matter where you came from or who you once were. We are all on the same side and we all believe in one purpose tonight and however long this will last. We will live."

She wasn't sure if her words inspired them at all, if anyone was listening over the sound of their own blood pumping through their body.

"All of you," said Saera, speaking to her Essosi men and women, the ones who were fighting for a country that wasn't there, for a throne that mattered nothing to them. They just believed in her, and would fight for what was important to her. "Thank you. For being here, for trusting me. Let's defeat death."

They cheered, breaking off to get to their positions. She caught Jorah before he could follow them, the two of them staring at each other for a moment, making a silent promise to make it through the Long Night, however many days it lasted.

"Are you going to marry him?" asked Lyanna once they'd gone.

"Marry who, Lady Lyanna?" asked Saera curiously.

The girl put her hands on her hips, raising a brow as if she thought Saera to be stupid. "My cousin."

She smiled weakly. "That obvious?"

"Painfully so."

"When we survive this battle, we will speak of this, I promise you."

"Good. I will be expecting it."

Saera wished she'd been more like Lyanna when she was a child. If she were, she'd already be on the Iron Throne. She'd have united the entire Realm for this fight.

"Rider approaching!" yelled one of the Northerners.

Saera turned, barely able to make out a figure on horseback, steadily approaching Jorah's group. She couldn't make out why the figure approached some of her Essosi soldiers until suddenly, arakhs, spears, and swords were lit up in flames, illuminating the path in front of them and giving them more than just dragonglass to fight with. It was only with the intense light that Saera could make out a red cloak– Melisandre had returned.