Chapter Text
Gathering your skirts, you climbed down your carriage, the snow softly crunching beneath your feet. Your soon-to-be husband did not help you —so much for courtesy. Standing tall and cloaked in black, he let his glare sweep the courtyard of Winterfell like a hawk. Your eyes followed his and noticed three figures standing a little further.
Sansa Stark was among them —you recognised her, though she had quite grown and matured since the last time you had had a chance to be in her presence. You saw her stare at you and guessed she did not remember who you were —perhaps she did not even remember your family. Then the person to her left caught her attention, and she looked away. You could not make out what they were talking about.
“Do you not recognise the family crest?” Brienne asked Sansa, seeing her confusion.
“I do. Vaguely,” Sansa mumbled, turning to Brienne. “Forgive me, I’m… rather confused. I—”
“Silver sparrow over a pine forest. It’s House Malloren, my Lady,” Podrick whispered gently. “They have come to pledge troops.”
“Oh, yes. Of course, I remember now. A minor house, but Mother always spoke so highly of them. They shall be welcome as honoured guests.”
“I don’t recognise the man at her side,” Poderick continued, “but he doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.”
“Rightly so, I might say.”
The small group turned to Ser Davos as he emerged behind them.
“This is Lord Osric Coldmere of Stonefall,” he said. “And the poor girl is betrothed to him. Her father needs his military aid and gold, which flows quite freely. His mercy, however, does not.”
Sansa raised an eyebrow at his choice of words.
“Should I be worried about him?”
Podrick cleared his throat, signalling that there was no time to answer as you were now approaching.
“Lady Stark,” you greeted politely.
“Lady Malloren. Welcome to Winterfell.”
You both held your smiles for a moment, but then Sansa’s slightly faltered.
“Is your father not with you?” she asked, searching above your shoulder.
“Father is gravely ill, I’m afraid. He could not make it to Winterfell and sent me in his stead.”
“Oh.”
You were unsure whether that “Oh” meant that Lady Stark felt sorry for your father, or if she doubted your ability to attend the councils in his place, but she continued with equal politeness all the same.
“Well then. May I introduce you to Lady Brienne of House Tarth? This is Podrick Payne, her squire. And I’m sure you are acquainted with Ser Davos Seaworth.”
Each one bowed their head at you, but you barely acknowledged their reverence as your eyes landed on Brienne and refused to tear away. You could have sworn she was a man from afar —tall, muscular, dressed in dark armour… You briefly wondered if she wanted to pretend to be of the dominant sex, but her eyes were too soft, and you knew deep inside that her heart was undoubtedly female. You found the contrast fascinating.
Your stare seemed to make Brienne feel uneasy, and you saw her gulp as her eyes shifted away. It made the corners of your mouth pull up.
“Yes, we did meet once, a very long time ago,” Ser Davos eventually said, attempting to stop the awkwardness from growing. “Although I remember Lady Malloren looking much more innocent.”
“And I remember your beard looking much darker, Ser Davos. Time is not kind to any of us.”
Your light banter made him chuckle, but you were already throwing long glances at Brienne again. There were many questions you wanted to ask her, but Brienne still refused to meet your eyes, so you decided to keep them for another time. You could sense your betrothed waiting for you anyway, and it was best not to make him wait too long.
“Forgive me, Lady Stark, but the journey has been quite… wearisome. Lord Coldmere and I would very much like to have the opportunity to rest.”
“Of course. I’ll have someone show you to your quarters. Come this way.”
The corridors of Winterfell were dim and cold, only lit by flickering torches along the wall. The echo of your steps resonated against the stone, and you were lost in thought. But rounding the corner near a stairwell, you found yourself facing Brienne of Tarth, who was coming the other way, and halted.
“My Lady,” you greeted with a brief incline of your head. “Or is it Ser?”
“I’m not a knight.”
“No. Of course not. But you dress like one.”
“I’m a skilled fighter.”
“I don’t doubt it. But if you are not a knight and refuse to behave like a lady, what am I to call you then?”
Brienne tensed slightly and shifted her weight onto her other leg.
“Just Brienne is fine.”
“Brienne…”
You looked her over for a long moment —her height, her strength, the sword hanging at her hip. She had taken her armour off for the evening, but did not look more feminine one bit.
“I envy you, you know,” you added, your voice softer. “To be able to walk alone like this. To wear steel instead of silk. To speak and not fear the echo.”
You paused, thoughtful.
“I’ve always dreamt of more practical clothes. But here I am, confined to pretty colours and brocade, and certainly nothing sharper than a hairpin.”
Brienne’s jaw clenched briefly, and her eyes filled with compassion. You looked away, fingers twisting the embroidery at the edge of your sleeve.
“Were you headed to dinner?” You eventually asked to break the silence.
“Yes.”
“As was I. I imagine Lord Coldmere will be growing quite impatient if I’m late.”
The slight bite in your voice was intentional, of course, though you quickly dismissed any harsh attitude by brushing invisible wrinkles on your gown.
“You seem scared,” Brienne said cautiously.
You froze briefly, then forced a small laugh, determined not to yield to self-pity.
“Of tripping in front of Sansa Stark during supper? Terrified.”
Brienne did not laugh.
“I meant, Lord Coldmere doesn’t strike me as a man inclined toward kindness.”
“No,” you replied after a sigh. “But kindness is not often the currency of power.” You forced a smile. “Nor of marriage, it seems.”
Brienne opened her mouth as if to say something more, but then a servant passed by, muttering an apology for the interruption. The moment hindered any further discussion on the matter.
The supper began pleasantly enough. Platters passed around, wine poured, murmurs exchanged. You tried to relax into the rhythm of Northern hospitality.
But the illusion shattered quickly.
“You call this wine?” Osric’s voice rang harshly across the table as he spat a mouthful back into his goblet. “Tastes like piss strained through mouldy fruit.”
The servant attending him —a girl obviously no older than sixteen— flinched and turned pale.
“But it is Dornish, my Lord,” she whispered. “It was requested.”
“Not by me,” Osric snapped before shoving the goblet toward the girl, splashing some of the wine onto your sleeve in the process. “Get this out of my sight and bring me something drinkable, or I’ll have your hands shaking in another way.”
The young servant retreated in a hurry, and the room fell quiet.
Dabbing the stain off your sleeve with a napkin, you took a quick look around the assembly. Sansa, ever so diplomatic, held her tongue. Ser Davos shifted uncomfortably in his seat, while Podrick, like many others, kept his head down.
Brienne’s eyes flickered from Osric to you, then back to him. She, too, was silent, but she did not need to open her mouth to express her opinion —the look on her face and the tension in her jaw spoke for her.
“You might want to consider lowering your voice, my Lord,” you eventually whispered to Osric. “You’re drawing stares.”
“Let them stare,” he retorted, forcefully planting his fork into his meat. “And do not question me again. A woman is to defend her husband. You’d do well to remember who your future depends on.”
You said nothing —what was there to say anyway?— and clutched your napkin.
Across the table, Brienne’s fingers stilled on her knife.
The next morning, the sunset had found you already awake, sitting stiffly before the fire burning in the hearth of your guest chambers. You had not slept well, of course, and felt apprehensive about the day to come and the responsibilities it entailed.
Thankfully, you had soon received word that Lady Sansa wished to invite you for a walk in the Godswood. You had accepted without hesitation, grateful for the distraction and fresh air. Brienne would accompany you both, of course.
Soft snow had fallen during the night, which now enveloped your boots and crunched beneath them as you walked. Sansa led the way, speaking of Northern customs, of faiths older than kings. You responded where politeness demanded it, but your mind wandered.
Meanwhile, Brienne walked behind you without a word. You turned around and caught her eye once, and she gave a small nod that felt almost friendly. You were beginning to find her presence oddly reassuring.
Mostly, you wondered how she and Sansa had come to meet and why Sansa seemed to trust her more than her own guards. Something in the way the winter sun reflected in Brienne’s eyes left you wanting to learn more about her.
And then, without warning, a whistling sound split the air.
You barely had time to register it before Brienne’s hand yanked your arm and shoved you aside, making you stumble into the snow bank beside the path. You let out a startled yelp as an arrow slammed into a nearby tree, aligned with where your head had just been. The wood splintered loudly, and you stared at it in paralysing shock, while a few crows rose above the canopy.
Sansa gasped loudly, eyes wide and then rushed to your side to help you up.
“No, stay down!” Brienne barked, her sword already unsheathed and her eyes sweeping the forest in search of any further sign of danger.
But no other arrow followed. Only silence.
Eventually, Brienne lowered her blade.
“I don’t think we should stay here.”
“Yes,” Sansa agreed. “Perhaps this walk was not such a great idea after all.”
Back to the castle, Sansa led you inside while Brienne broke away, stomping towards a group of men standing by the armoury.
“Whose arrow is this?” she shouted before she even reached them, holding up the weapon in her hand.
Some exchanged awkward looks.
“Well?”
“Could be one of ours,” came a low voice before any of the men could reply.
They scattered, revealing Lord Coldmere sitting behind them, sharpening a long knife. Brienne strode closer, her face hard as stone.
“‘Could be’?”
Coldmere glanced at the arrow, then at Brienne, and gave a shrug that seemed more mockery than dismissal.
“Depends on what it was aimed at.”
“Your future wife.”
“Mmh. Then it’s probably not one of ours, is it?”
“I suggest you make up your mind, my Lord,” Brienne said with a somewhat threatening tone. “It would be a shame to accuse the wrong person.”
Osric kept his gaze fixed on Brienne for a moment, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Even if it were one of our arrows, we have no proof it was shot by one of my men. Either way, I doubt my beloved was its target. Maybe a bird or a hare, I heard some boys —mine and others— say they would go hunting.”
“Hunting?” Brienne huffed through gritted teeth. “In the Godswood? These woods are sacred, don’t take me for an idiot.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, my Lady. But not everyone here shares the same faith, and, quite frankly, considering the current situation in the kingdoms… Well, don’t tell me you still believe in fairy tales.”
Brienne did not answer. Coldmere gave her no time to anyway. He stood up instead, closed the distance, and snatched the arrow from her hands.
“I’ll ask my men and reprimand them for careless aim, if need be. But mistakes happen. People wander where they shouldn’t. Arrows misfire. It’s a dangerous world, isn’t it? Best stay on your guard.”
And with that, he left.
“I do not need protection.”
“That was not a suggestion, my Lady.”
When Brienne found her way back to you and Sansa, she quickly understood what the argument was about. She closed the door quietly, while you kept stubbornly turning down Sansa’s offer.
“I can perfectly deal with a bit of danger and defend myself if need be.”
“With what?” Brienne intervened. “Pretty colours and nothing sharper than a hairpin?”
You gasped in disbelief at her words and looked away for a second before turning back to Sansa.
“I’m sure it was a stray arrow. It happens.”
“The arrow was directed at your head. Not near your head. At it.”
“Well, even if it wasn’t a missed shot, who says I was the target? It’s windy outside, and we were walking close, you and I. You could have been the target for all we know.”
“If that’s the case, I suppose we’ll know soon enough. But I have plenty of men around the castle to protect me. You don’t. And I would hate myself if I let any harm come to the last heir of your house.”
“I agree with Lady Sansa,” Brienne said in a calm but firm voice. “This didn’t look like an accident to me, and anybody coming to Winterfell for political matters could be a target to someone else these days. And the arrow is not the only thing worrying me.”
Brienne paused, clearly hesitant to continue, and you raised a brow at her.
“What?”
“Well…” Brienne shook her head and sighed. “Forgive my honesty, my Lady, but I don’t trust Lord Coldmere.”
You chuckled sourly.
“He can be harsh, yes. But try to kill me? No. Our families both need this alliance.”
“I know what it is like to be promised to a cruel man, but to know your family relies on the union,” Sansa confessed calmly.
You opened your mouth, but she cut off your attempt to speak.
“You needn’t say anything. Whether Lord Coldmere is behind the incident or not, whether this arrow was meant for you or not, you need protection. My decision is final. You shan’t remain alone, and I will find someone to stay by your side at all times until we can make sure you are safe. Perhaps… Brienne could do it.”
Your eyebrows shot up, and even Brienne looked momentarily taken aback, her head spinning toward Sansa.
“My Lady?”
“You said you agreed with me. She needs someone trustworthy to protect her, not someone like Lord Coldmere,” Sansa replied, her eyes kind upon Brienne. “There is no one I trust more than you.”
Brienne was visibly torn.
“But I swore an oath to your mother. To protect you.”
“She’s gone, Brienne,” Sansa said softly, her tone melancholic. “She’s gone, and you have more than fulfilled this vow. You are allowed to move on.”
“Death does not release me from an oath.”
“Yes, you’ve insisted on that many times.”
“I also swore an oath to you.”
“I am well aware.”
There was a pause, then Sansa continued.
“I’m not asking you to forget your loyalty to my family. But I don’t believe to be in immediate danger, and our guest needs help for a while. Besides, my mother would want her to be safe. Please, Brienne. Don’t make me order you.”
Brienne did not answer right away, keeping her head bowed down as she pondered what decision to make. Then she turned to you and slowly raised her head.
“If you’ll have me, my Lady,” she said ever so respectfully, “I’ll see that no harm comes to you.”
You were not sure how to feel about this guardianship of sorts yet, disliking the implication that you were helpless on your own. Still, the way Brienne’s eyes bore into yours without any judgment made you smile.
That evening, Brienne accompanied you to your quarters. You said nothing at first, until she settled by your door, stiff as a pike, and you realised she would not leave.
“Are you really going to stay here all night?”
"It’s my duty.”
You rolled your eyes, still not taking the whole ordeal quite seriously, so Brienne felt the need to insist.
“I do believe what happened this morning was an attempt on your life, my Lady. So I will stay here and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Do you always take oaths so seriously?” you asked, unable to prevent a small chuckle from escaping your mouth.
“Yes.”
“Well then. I suppose I should feel flattered.”