Fandomweekly Challenge 50 - Now is the time

[m_findlow]

Title: Now is the time
Fandom: Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire)
Author: m_findlow
Rating: M (language). Spoilers for Season eight.
Length: 1,000 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for Challenge 50 - Blaze of glory at fandomweekly
Summary: Lyanna may be young but she has a duty to uphold.

The hush that fell over the inner courtyard of Winterfell's great castle could be seen etched in the faces of the men who waited there. Lyanna cast her gaze around, spotting the grimaces and gritted teeth of so many, caught in sharp relief by the fires that flickered in the large braziers dotted around the fortress. More dots of light graced the uppermost ramparts where men stared out over the battlements, silent and still as stone warriors.

Not a few moments ago, the sound of the Dothraki armies outside the castle walls could be heard, rallying their cries as they charged, the first vanguard to face their foe. Their cries were primitive and guttural, but fearsome, which was nothing compared to how they must have appeared - tens of thousands of bare chested men impervious to the bracing cold and snow, with painted faces and bodies, huge curved blades in one hand, torches in their other, as they clung to their steeds with only the strength of their thighs to keep them horsed.

The charge was cacophonous as they rode out to engage, growing slowly more distant as they pushed forward. They waited for the sound of battle to erupt as sword clashed with sword, foes wailing as they were struck down, but the sound simply faded into absolute silence, like their army had been engulfed by the old gods themselves.

A rustle of armor plates and chain mail rattled around the courtyard. Nervousness and fear had gripped some of the men and would consume them altogether if they believed the vanguard had been vanquished in a heartbeat.

Lyanna bit down on her own apprehension, gripping firm her sword which now felt no heavier than a feather and no more deadly than one. She would not show fear however. She had command of their forces inside the courtyard, both her own men and those of so many other northern houses. Tonight the bear that was the sigil of her house would stand tall and fearless as it had done so for centuries.

She paused a moment to remember her forbears who had held the Mormont name in high regard - her uncle Jeor, who had risen to Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, protecting the realm from Wildlings and other foul things that lurked beyond the Wall. She thought of her mother Maege and her siblings, who had bravely fallen in the Riverlands, having joined the cause of the first King in the North, Robb Stark, riding southwards with their northern allies to bring justice and to overthrow the child king who claimed to hold power over all of the Seven Kingdoms, honoring and defending the memory of the Hand of the King, their fellow countryman, who had been foully murdered.

At just ten years old she'd been raised to the head of her house, her family gone except for her. She was the youngest ever to rule and carry the Mormont name. Even now at thirteen, she was diminutive despite the heavy armour she wore. She was never going to be the beauty that her namesake Lyanna Stark had been, but she was every bit as fierce and proud as any Mormont. Her thoughts drifted also to her cousin Jorah, who had once brought shame to their family name and escaped Westeros, living in exile rather than staying to honorably face punishment for his crimes. He too though had rejoined the path, bringing them the last true heir to rule over the Seven Kingdoms, even if Lyanna herself was still reticent about following any king or queen other than that which ruled in the north. A concern for a time when such things mattered. That time was not this night. This night was a battle for the living against the army of the dead.

She looked at her Master of Arms standing at her side, twice her height but lean and battle hardened. He had fought against Targaryens in the past and now fought alongside them. 'You shall not put my safety ahead of destroying the enemy,' she instructed him. 'I mean to kill our enemies or fall doing so.'

He nodded, regardless of whether he agreed with her in principle. 'I shall take no action that would bring dishonor to your house, my Lady.'

'You have trained me well in the art of fighting, Ser,' she said.

He grimaced kindly at her. 'Skill can be taught, my Lady. Courage cannot.'

'Bear Island has fought and won many battles. Tonight shall be no different.'

A cry went up outside the Castle walls and the men above on the ramparts began nocking their arrows, letting them whistle out over the battlefield. A familiar whinny of horse and clash of swords rang out, signaling the true beginning of battle. It raged for what felt like an eternity. Lyanna breathed a sigh of relief that the lines appeared to be holding. The entire castle had been ringed in fire. Wights could be destroyed by fire. They could not pass. Those inside would remain safe so long as the fires burned.

A sudden crash hit the main gates. Overhead a man tumbled from the battlements, a black arrow skewering his skull like an apple. Another crash as the tip of a heavy bladed axe began to work its way through the thick castle gates. More thumps and thuds began beating down the gates until the huge pointed end of a battering ram forced a hole. The first thing through it was the hideous rotting face of a white walker, its fleshless arm waving a sword and cutting down two men right at the head of the gate. Another squeezed past it through the gap and Lyanna's men lurched forward to engage, drawing swords and cudgels.

Lyanna pulled out her own sword as the gate bulged and buckled. The wood splintered and bent before it relented, spilling forth the walking dead. Lyanna raised her sword and bellowed loudly, rallying the men around her. 'For Bear Island and the North!'