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Characters: Brienne of Tarth, original male character, Sansa Stark, mentions of Podrick, Ser Davos and other GoT characters
Summary: You are the sole heir of House Malloren, betrothed to a cruel lord for your family's convenience, and come to Sansa Stark to pledge troops for the upcoming war in your father's name. When a first attempt is made on your life for a reason yet unknown, Brienne is appointed as your sworn shield. Tensions rise, the assassination attempts grow more frequent, and you can't help but get closer to Brienne until your feelings for her become as much of a threat as the arrows directed at your head.
Characters: Brienne of Tarth, original male character, Sansa Stark, mentions of Podrick, Ser Davos and other GoT characters
Summary: You are the sole heir of House Malloren, betrothed to a cruel lord for your family's convenience, and come to Sansa Stark to pledge troops for the upcoming war in your father's name. When a first attempt is made on your life for a reason yet unknown, Brienne is appointed as your sworn shield. Tensions rise, the assassination attempts grow more frequent, and you can't help but get closer to Brienne until your feelings for her become as much of a threat as the arrows directed at your head.
Trigger warnings: mention of hunting, dead animals (let me know if I should add some)
A/N: The fourth chapter is finally here! Better late than never, right? Thank you for your patience. As a reward, I made this chapter twice as long as the previous ones. And hey, if you celebrate it, it's still Christmas in half the world! So take this as a small present.
A/N 2: As I often do, allow me to share the playlist I listen to while writing my fic. Click here!
Close to three weeks passed following that last attempt on your life with no further incident. You healed fast under Maester Wolkan’s care. Brienne helped in her own way, too, if only by spending the nights inside your chambers instead of in front of your door.
“It’s purely so that I can watch both the door and the windows,” she told you once.
You couldn’t help but snort at that. Never had you heard a more pitiful lie. But if Brienne needed it to convince herself —and others— that she was not doing anything wrong, then you would allow it. Anything to keep her by your side, even though each day that passed without any issue disproved the need for that newly found proximity a little more. You refused to mention, to even think about it, lest Brienne take it as a sign to leave without further ado.
As the days shortened and the first hard frosts crept into the stone, life at Winterfell tried to resume its proper pace. But the absence of danger did not bring relief so much as it stirred unease. People began to wonder whether the threat had truly gone, or if it would strike again, or perhaps even move on to another victim. You tried to reassure them that it wouldn’t in every conversation that you had, and urged Brienne to support your claims.
She never did. The castle was settling back into a routine that mimicked normalcy, but she knew better than to trust it. Most of all, she had decided that if danger returned, it would not find you unguarded again. And if it wore a familiar face —namely, Coldmere’s—, then all the more reason for her to watch it closely.
She watched him with scrutiny or, rather, obsession. She memorised his habits, his absences, the way his temper flared when denied something he wanted… Her fixation worried you sometimes. It irritated Osric, and not only did you fear for Brienne, but duty compelled you to remember that Lord Coldmere was still your betrothed. Your father needed his men and the resources his house had to offer —Brienne’s relentless attitude could put the alliance at risk should she go too far.
But you could not find it in your heart to tell her off because that, too, could be taken as a lack of appreciation of her efforts and make her leave your side. You would not allow it, and so you naturally had opted to turn a blind eye to her unyielding persistence.
At least for a while.
For your resolve indeed ended up crumbling when you found Brienne ordering Podrick to assist her and start spying on Lord Coldmere.
“Any suspicious activity, you must report to me,” she was whispering to him as you approached. “I want to know what he does, where he goes, in which direction he breathes. Find as much information as you can. Talk to everyone. Sleep with the maids and laundresses if you must, but—”
“My Lady,” Podrick cut in, seeing you getting too close to their private meeting.
“Go,” Brienne commanded him with a slight kick of her elbow.
You watched as Podrick scurried away, your eyes wide in surprise before they skewered Brienne.
“What is it that I hear?” you asked.
“Nothing of importance.”
“Do not lie to me, Brienne.”
“Well, if you must know,” she said as she straightened her back for composure, “I’ve asked Podrick to assist me in my… investigation. I’m certain Lord Coldmere is hiding something from you. From all of us.”
You rolled your eyes, so Brienne insisted.
“Give me the benefit of the doubt, will you?”
“So you’re prostituting your squire.”
“What?”
“I know what I heard.”
“Well, I— It won’t come to that. He’s good with people. He listens, and they trust him. He’s discreet, too. Everything that I’m not. If Lord Coldmere is careless, someone near him will know, and Pod is the best person I can think of to retrieve the information that I need.”
“It’s too dangerous for him.”
“I’ve been training him to defend himself should he—”
“It’s not enough, Brienne!”
“Yes, it is. Do not question it, I’m doing this for you!”
There was a pause as you both realised losing your temper would not bring any good. You sat on a nearby chair with a sigh.
“I did not mean to doubt your benevolence.”
“Are you truly that worried about Pod?” Brienne asked at the same time.
You answered first.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, and Podrick is indeed a sweet man. It would hurt me greatly if anything happened to him.”
“Again, you underestimate him. Us.”
“I’m sorry.”
“If you no longer wish for my protection, my Lady—”
“No!” you practically shouted as you stood up.
Behind Brienne, someone crossed the room. You waited for them to be gone, even though they were quite a few paces away, then closed in on Brienne, your voice much quieter.
“Far be it from me to release you from your vows as my sworn shield, Brienne. I, too, fear that the menace is still lurking. And Osric…”
Your eyes closed for a moment as you swallowed thickly. You could not finish that sentence.
“I need your protection. I need you. And the gods know that I am not ready to return to a life without you constantly by my side. But I beg you… Do not risk your life for me.”
“You needn’t worry. I am a strong woman.”
You let out a small, bittersweet laugh through your nose.
“That you are. My beautiful, strong knight…”
Your eyes were now somewhat wet. And, as you spoke, your hand naturally went up to hover by Brienne’s cheek. You saw her jaw tense and her nostrils flare then, and lowered your arm abruptly.
“Forgive me,” you whispered sadly. “Well, then… Let us not dawdle. There is much to do.”
Though the question of who might wish you dead was far from settled, Winterfell was preparing for something far larger, and there was much to do, indeed.
With the harshest days of winter coming up and the number of men involved in the battles to follow, resources were of the essence. They were counted, inspected, counted once more. Grain, smoked meat, medicinal herbs —nothing was to be taken for granted.
Ravens arrived daily, at all hours, piercing through the sky from every direction. It seemed you could almost tell now from the way they flew whether they brought encouragement or gloom.
Maps were spread everywhere you went. They covered every table, sideboard, and bench. They sometimes covered the walls, too, pinned with daggers or arrows and bits of wax. Surrounded by her closest advisors and strongest men, Lady Sansa stood before the parchments like a general —with her father’s determination and her mother’s calm. You were certain their spirits watched with pride as their daughter defended her home.
Troops trained twice as hard, too, and rehearsed every strategy, archers trained with fingers numbed by the cold. Meanwhile, inside the castle, lords were summoned, dismissed, and summoned again. Councils were never-ending. The silver sun sometimes set and rose again before debates concluded.
You were beginning to tire, but felt the weight of duty on your shoulders and carried it with your head held high. Your father trusted you, and you would never tarnish his reputation, however small it might be. Besides, Sansa made sure you felt important in your own way, so you would rather not betray her, either.
Then, at last, something shifted in the northern lands, and an omen of victory came.
A house that had long retreated and only seemed to watch the current events unfold from a careful distance sent its representative to Winterfell. He entered the fort without commotion, and with no excuses, nor conditions, but with men. They were not particularly spectacular in number, but quickly proved to be in strength and cunning. They swore openly, publicly, and Lady Sansa welcomed them.
A couple days later, as if to answer that small mercy, hunters returned with an even greater sign of hope.
When the gates opened and the men walked in, their boots covered in mud, you saw them bring in not only hares, birds and boars, but also a majestic stag with wide antlers and proud eyes despite the blood darkening its features. Behind it came a doe, clean, unbroken, as though her death had been merciful.
The warden of the wood, with his heavy crown, and the delicate protector of the herd. Together, you knew they were considered sacred in these parts of Westeros, like a promise of survival and endurance to the people they would feed.
Whispers rose in the yard while Sansa watched in silence. Then she smiled —a rare thing these days— and gave the order.
The next day, at dusk, Winterfell would feast.
This was not denial of the war, far from it. This was defiance of it. A warm meal, ale and wine, music and dance, to honour those who would fight and those who would fall.
Your eyes shifted to Brienne. Tomorrow could not come fast enough.
In your chambers, as the sun began to set in the pale sky, a young maid had just finished lacing the bodice of your woollen gown and was now putting up your hair in a low, elegant bun when someone knocked on the door.
“Come in, Brienne,” you called out, recognising the weight and rhythm of her hand against the wood.
The door opened, and Brienne took a few steps before she froze.
“Oh. I could… come back another time.”
“Nonsense, Brienne. We all know you have seen far more than that.”
And this was true. But to Brienne, these preparations felt somewhat different. The maid glanced at her with kind brown eyes, then lowered her head, as if to let her know that whatever this strange closeness between the two of you meant, she would keep it a secret.
Brienne came closer, and you understood from the impact of her feet and the metallic clatters that she was still wearing her armour.
“Do you truly intend on wearing that?” you asked, your back still turned to her.
“What if I do?”
You sighed with half-hearted annoyance.
“Tonight is special, and sometimes I fear we might not get many more chances at celebrations.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Well, I did. Either way, I do think you ought to change into something less…”
“Me?”
“Something more festive, Brienne. I’m not asking you to wear a gown.”
“I wouldn’t.”
A smile tugged at your lips.
“I didn’t think you would. But surely, you must own a colourful tunic of some kind.”
Brienne let out a long exhale, and your smile grew wider. You could be as stubborn as a mule and even close to aggravating when you put your mind to it. But she couldn’t refuse you.
Your bun was now done, and the young servant brought a polished metal plate for you to take a look at it. Satisfied, you gave her a grateful nod before glancing at Brienne’s blurred reflection. She evidently needed to get something off her chest.
“Is there something you wished to tell me?” you asked her.
Brienne’s jaw was so tense and her teeth clenched so hard that her tongue clicked when she finally built up the courage to open her mouth.
“Yes, there was, indeed. But… you said it yourself, tonight is special. I should not ruin this for you.”
You finally spun on your chair, and your eyes narrowed on her.
“Nymera, leave us, would you?”
“Of course, Lady Malloren.”
The maid left, and you kept staring at Brienne until she was gone.
“Speak.”
“I don’t think—”
“If there is one thing that I truly despise, it is being put on hold once I’ve been told something is the matter. If you wanted to wait, then you should have kept quiet. Now you must tell me.”
Brienne looked right back at you, considering her options, then gave in.
“Alright.”
She took a footstool nearby and set it in front of you. Slowly, she lowered herself onto it, and for once, found herself needing to look up to meet your gaze.
“Podrick came to me this afternoon. His investigation has been most fruitful.”
A worried crease formed between your brows. Brienne reassured you.
“He is fine, and no one of importance knows of the task I gave him. And his trousers remained attached to his waist. I believe. But my Lady… I fear the information he gathered is most unpleasant.”
“Do tell.”
Brienne hesitated. You could tell by the way the shade of her eyes seemed to turn greyer that her heart was heavy and that she didn’t want to cause you pain.
“Well, it’s… about Lord Malloren. He is severely ill.”
“I know that. That is the entire reason I’m here.”
“No,” Brienne promptly countered. “I meant… Gods… I meant that your father is probably on his deathbed as we speak.”
You blinked, unable to process the information.
“N-No, that’s impossible,” you stammered after a while. “Our maester assured me he would get better.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Yes!” you practically roared, hurt by the insinuation.
Brienne lifted her hands, not to apologise, but to silently beg you to calm down.
“Your father elected a competent maester, I don’t doubt it. But you would be surprised by how easy it can be to persuade even the most ethical men to turn their coat. Especially if gold is involved.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“According to Podrick’s informants, a raven from Greycliff came on the night of your arrival at Winterfell. The message it brought spoke of your father’s health in grave terms and explained how his condition had worsened shortly after your departure.”
You gulped audibly, so Brienne allowed you a second to take her words in before she continued.
“The next day, after what we feared was a first attempt on your life, the same raven went back to your homelands, sent by Lord Coldmere.”
“And what about it? I see nothing suspicious in a message sent by my betrothed to warn my father of the dangers I have been exposed to. I may be an adult, I’m still his only child.”
Brienne’s head tilted to the side and slightly forward as her gaze grew less compassionate and more purposeful. She knew very well you did not believe in your own words.
“My Lady. Your father is dying. He knows it, and a week ago, he had another raven sent.”
“What did the message say?”
“It replied to Lord Coldmere’s demand to secure the alliance between your two houses. In the affirmative. And with the message came your betrothal contract with an additional… safeguard, so to speak.”
Your breath hitched as Brienne began reporting the contents of said contract.
“It states that should… something happen to you before your houses are joined, Ser Osric Coldmere is to be custodian and protector of all lands, properties, and vassals of House Malloren.”
Feeling as if Brienne had just punched you in the guts, you stood up and strode away from her.
“No. No, no… That’s not— No.”
“Do you see now exactly how dangerous that man is?” Brienne asked as she got to her feet as well. “And not just because of his temper. But because he has a motive.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Was it signed?”
“And it had your father’s seal, yes.”
Brienne felt regret creep up, watching you pace back and forth with growing agitation. You were right, she should have kept quiet.
“It has to be forged,” you continued. “My father’s counsellors wouldn’t allow it. It makes no sense.”
“The truth rarely does, I’m afraid.”
“No! Osric needs this alliance, t-the wedding, an heir—”
“Not anymore.”
Brienne finally closed the distance and grabbed you by the upper arms.
“Listen to me. Lord Coldmere is worse than we ever imagined. You thought he needed you as much as your family needs him. He doesn’t, you must accept it. He could have kept you around for a while had you been willing to give him an heir, but you’ve made it all too clear that you never will. You are a nuisance to him now, and I know he is trying to get rid of that nuisance.”
The words were harsh, but you knew they were true, and they pulled you right out of your hysteria.
“Besides,” Brienne continued, her hands still clasped firmly around your arms, “he sees you thriving here at Winterfell, and I don’t think he appreciates the liberties you have been taking recently.”
“I know it’s unusual, seeing a woman like me do the things I have to do in my father’s stead, but these are my duties, and—”
“I’m not talking about this!” Brienne blurted out, giving your body a slight shake. “People have already started talking. About you. About…” She waved her hand between the two of you. “This. I know you don’t want to be a woman of convention, but you’re provoking him, and it has to stop. Do you understand?”
Body tensed, lips pinched, you nodded.
“Good.”
Brienne exhaled, letting out the breath she had been holding, and eventually let go of your arms as well.
“I will protect you. I will always protect you. But we need to be more careful now. I am here to serve you, and you are not to consider me your friend, or to make me spend the night in your chambers any longer.”
“We are not doing anything wrong.”
“We know that. Lord Coldmere doesn’t. I’m truly sorry, my Lady. About this, and about your father. I know how hard it—”
“Don’t.”
“Alright. Forgive me.”
There was a moment of silence before you simply nodded again to accept her apology and signal you had fully got a hold of yourself. You would deal with your grief later.
Outside, the sun had fully set, so you knew you were late to join the feast. You walked to the table where a few pieces of jewellery sat. You handed them to Brienne.
“Help me with these.”
Brienne took your hairpin first and slid it through your bun with precision. Next, she took your necklace and delicately laid it against your collarbones and around your neck. Her fingers grazed your skin as she did so, cold but ever so gentle. You shivered.
“A fair look,” she concluded.
Before you could answer, she rushed out of the room.
That evening, the great hall felt warm despite the heavy snowfall outside. Fires were lit. Long tables ran the length of the room, freshly scrubbed and adorned with sprigs of pine and holly. Candles burnt in iron holders. Somewhere in a corner, a fiddle played a low but joyful tune, joined by stomping boots.
Platters of meat pies, cooked with the stag and doe brought in the day before, began to pass from hand to hand while massive pots of stew and broth sat at the centre of each table. Voices and laughter rose without a care in the world.
Not yours.
You were sitting next to Osric, of course, but given the devastating news Brienne had just given you, you could barely contain the pain and hatred this man evoked in you. He spoke loudly and already stank of wine. You found yourself wanting him dead.
Speaking of Brienne, you looked around, trying to catch sight of her for reassurance. But her seat remained empty, and she was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly, Sansa rose to her feet and waited for her guests’ attention. The hall settled, waiting for her speech.
“My Ladies. My Lords. Friends.”
Her eyes swept the room to look at the people who mattered to her, and, unexpectedly, they met yours. Moved by this demonstration of trust, you bowed your head with a grateful smile.
“Winter is already here,” Sansa resumed. “And it is now war that is coming. But we must not let fear rule us.”
She gestured toward the food and the gathered people.
“Tonight, we drink to keep it at bay. We eat to gather our strength. We dance to remember that life is worth fighting for. A house has sworn to us. Our hunters returned with the bounty. The gods have not turned their faces from the North. They have shown kindness or, at least, tamed their cruelty.”
She straightened, shoulders squared.
“Tomorrow, we prepare to bleed if we must. But for now, we stand together.”
She raised her cup.
“For the North.”
“For the North!” everyone echoed.
As chatter and glee came back, Brienne finally joined the feast. Her armour was gone, traded for a blue tunic with her family crest sewn close to her heart. She had evidently thoroughly washed her hair and brushed it back, and even in the faint orange glow of the candles, you could swear she had dabbed some crushed berries on her cheekbones for colour.
She looked ethereal, and nobody even cared.
Your shoulders relaxed now that she was in the room, and when she acknowledged you with a small smile, you gave her one twice as big.
“She won’t always be there,” Osric deflated you, leaning so close you could feel his breath against your ear.
“Is that a threat?” you asked, your head high and gaze fixed straight ahead.
“More like a warning.”
You wanted to say something to rebut —anything. But Brienne’s words lingered in your mind. You opted for docile silence instead.
As the fiddle grew livelier, now joined by other instruments, and people began to cheer and dance, your gaze sought Brienne. You found her in a corner of the hall, stiff as a pike even without her armour. She looked uneasy, and your heart twitched at the sight.
You crossed the room without hesitation, shouldering your way through the crowd.
“Dance with me,” you said simply when you reached her.
Brienne blinked.
“You cannot be serious.”
“No, I’m not,” you sighed. “But I still wish you had said yes.”
“I do not dance.”
“Oh, I am quite sure you do.”
Brienne’s eyes left yours to look above your shoulder, and you immediately understood what it meant. Sure enough, you felt a strong hand clutch your arm, and Osric’s voice rose above the music.
“Would you mind if I danced with my intended?” he asked Brienne, tone dripping with sarcasm.
“She is all yours, my Lord,” Brienne replied, taking a step back.
Osric dragged you to the middle of the hall, and you shot a dark glance at Brienne, disappointed by her lack of support.
The dance was simple, not specifically meant for couples. But Osric pulled you closer than necessary, his palm too firm at your waist, his fingers splayed and digging into your flesh like claws. He made your skin crawl.
“Is it too much to ask you to pretend to enjoy yourself?” he soon growled in your ear. “People will notice.”
The music was so loud that nobody heard. To anyone looking —and that meant, not a single soul, as all were too engrossed in their own dance—, it could have very well been just another man whispering soft words meant only for his lover.
You tried to behave as etiquette demanded so as not to offend Osric. But then his hand slid much lower than socially acceptable, and you couldn’t pretend any longer.
Your eyes searched the room a couple times.
Once, you found Brienne, still in the same spot, her expression unreadable.
Twice, and she was gone.
So you endured Coldmere’s grip until the gods answered your prayers and another song began.
“Excuse me,” you said then, pulling back. “I feel faint and would like to go sit.”
Osric’s eyes narrowed on you for a brief instant before he released you, though not without reluctance.
You went to find a quieter corner near one of the pillars, where shadows were thick, and the music did not quite resonate the same. A servant passed with a jug. You snatched it without ceremony and filled the closest cup you could find to the brim.
You drank. Refilled the cup. Drank again. Repeated the whole process a few times until the wine burnt your throat and forced you to slow down.
Lady Sansa found your hiding spot, eventually. She watched as you finished gulping your drink and did not scold you. She never would.
“May I?” she said, pointing at an empty wooden chair to your left.
“You may. But don’t you have guests to attend to?”
“They can wait for a little while. Besides, it is good to step back and speak ill of those you dislike. It’s my favourite part of any feast.”
You let out a tired chuckle.
“And I happen to enjoy your company, my Lady,” Sansa added. “So… let us watch and judge.”
And you did. Sansa managed to make you genuinely laugh a few times. But she was still Lady of Winterfell, and soon enough, people demanded her attention once again.
Before she left, she took your hand and squeezed it gently.
“Brienne told me about her recent findings. I am truly sorry about that and… about your father. He will be remembered.”
“Thank you, Lady Stark.”
“Do not drink too much,” she said as she stood up. “Or if you do, save yourself the shame of not being able to walk back to your chambers unassisted.”
“I will. Do you know where she is, by the way?”
“Hmm?”
“Brienne.”
Sansa gave you the slightest knowing smile.
“Just outside, I believe. She isn’t made for such crowds.”
With that, she left. As your eyes followed her, you found Osric in the distance with another woman. So you filled your cup with more wine and drank once more.
“There you are,” you chuckled sluggishly.
Brienne turned to you and straightened immediately, her brows furrowing as she acknowledged your drunken state.
“My Lady.”
“I’m done,” you pouted. “I’m done watching them. Watching him, dancing and touching every woman he hasn’t frightened yet. Take me to my chambers.”
You began walking —or rather, tottering— forward, and, noticing how dangerously you swayed, Brienne caught you by the waist. Her hand felt good there. Osric was wrong. Brienne was right.
“I can walk,” you assured her.
“You’ve had too much to drink.”
“Perhaps.”
Brienne helped you straighten up, and the two of you walked away from the great hall and the loud festivities at a comfortable pace.
It took a while, but you reached your chambers at last. The trip through the castle’s cold corridors had done you good, and though the wine still clouded your senses, you stood slightly better on your feet.
As usual, Brienne entered the room first and cautiously inspected it. You watched her meticulousness as you leaned against the door frame. You wanted to tell her so many things —starting with how weak at the knees the crease between her eyebrows made you, and how beautiful her skin looked under the moonlight, under every light. The words did not leave your mouth.
“You may come in,” Brienne eventually said as she brought a few logs to the hearth opposite your bed and undertook to light up a fire to keep you warm for the night.
The fire caught quickly and began chasing the worst of the cold that clung to the stone. From the great hall far below, the music kept playing, muted, but still rousing. You pushed yourself off the stone, closing the door behind you. Brienne turned at the sound, and her eyes followed you as you walked into the open space of your chambers.
The world spun slightly, rather pleasantly, in fact. The alcohol kept your sadness and darkest thoughts at bay. Slowly, far from Osric and the rest of Winterfell, you let yourself move.
“My Lady, you should sit,” Brienne commanded.
“Can you hear it?” you ignored her. “The music, the sound… of freedom.”
Your hips followed the rhythm, albeit a bit late, while your hand came up to your bun and seductively slid your hairpin from it, letting your hair spill loose. Your eyes were closed now, but you could feel Brienne staring.
Soon, you let your steps guide you closer to her until you bumped into her chest.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, almost alarmed.
“Dancing.”
She opened her mouth to object and remind you of caution, of everything she had told you earlier, but you did not give her the chance.
Indeed, you reached for her hands, which felt slightly awkward in yours, and you coaxed her body into the smallest, most reluctant moves.
“Come on…”
“You are positively drunk.”
“I am merely trying to enjoy this night like everyone else downstairs. I believe I deserve it, do I not?”
“I’m sure you do, but this isn’t— Gods…”
As you swayed a bit too fast and misjudged the shift of your weight, Brienne caught you before you could hurt yourself. You used the moment to slide your arms around her shoulders.
And then pulled her down to kiss her.
She squeaked against your lips and instinctively tried to pull back. Your fingers found their way through her hair, pressing at the back of her skull, and you threw yourself forward, attacking her mouth with yours to ensure she wouldn’t move.
Her hands grabbed your sides, just under your breasts, trying to push you away. The force of the movement separated your bodies briefly, but you came back for more, trying to kiss her with slightly more softness this time.
She made another noise. Different. For a moment, you felt her hands pull your torso towards hers instead of outwards. You moaned. She pushed you back once more. You whimpered.
You could tell she had no idea what to do, how to react. You sensed the battle between her head and her heart. You offered another moan, less decent, trying to convince her. And, for a fleeting instant, you swore she began to move her lips against yours.
You tried to caress her upper lip with your tongue then. But that was it.
Brienne shoved you so hard that you stumbled back and fell onto your bed. Panting, you gawked at her.
“This is why you will never be happy,” you spat after a while.
You immediately regretted those words.
But Brienne gave you no time to apologise and, without a single comment or glance, ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
That night, when sleep refused to come and you got out of bed to go open that door and talk to her, you only found an apologetic Poderick standing guard.
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Characters: Brienne of Tarth, original male character, Sansa Stark, mentions of Podrick, Ser Davos and other GoT characters
Summary: You are the sole heir of House Malloren, betrothed to a cruel lord for your family's convenience, and come to Sansa Stark to pledge troops for the upcoming war in your father's name. When a first attempt is made on your life for a reason yet unknown, Brienne is appointed as your sworn shield. Tensions rise, the assassination attempts grow more frequent, and you can't help but get closer to Brienne until your feelings for her become as much of a threat as the arrows directed at your head.
The next morning, the atmosphere in Winterfell had already changed. Word of a second attempt on your life had spread faster than wildfire. Suspicion rose, and more or less serious accusations were now whispered around every corner. Most lords and ladies around the castle pretended to go about their business as usual, though their attitudes betrayed their unease.
You felt it, too —the feeling of being watched, threatened. And you couldn’t help but wonder: who among those people wanted you hurt… or dead?
Sansa tightened security around the Great Hall and ordered all kitchen staff to be interrogated. Davos spoke with the men of the watch to ensure no strangers had entered Winterfell, while Podrick kept an eye on your quarters whenever Brienne needed to rest —which she began to do less and less every day. Despite these precautions, you could no longer feel an ounce of safety if she wasn’t there.
One day, a week later, you witnessed her practice in the courtyard. Her eyes were sharp, her strikes purposeful, and you wondered if she had always been like this in combat or if this verve had recently come from her strong will to defend you. Either way, you marvelled at her athletic form and your lips curled in the faintest hint of a smile at her perpetual frown.
Catching sight of you, Podrick —who had been resting from his own training with Brienne— approached and sat to your right.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” he said with a grin, sharing your awe.
“She’s formidable.”
“Aye. Strongest person I know. She even defeated the Hound, you know.”
You hummed, then turned to him.
“How long have you known her?” you asked, trying to sound casual.
“A good while now. Before I met her, I was a squire to Tyrion Lannister.”
You almost scrunched your nose at the mention of that name, but refrained, remembering Brienne’s words. Besides, you couldn’t help but feel a bit of compassion towards a man with Lord Tyrion’s condition. Perhaps he didn’t deserve so much hate.
“He was not unkind, but I mostly served him wine,” Podrick continued. “When I met Lady Brienne, I had two left hands. Didn’t know how to cook or fight or ride a horse. She’s been teaching me a lot. Most wouldn’t have bothered.”
“So you owe her.”
“A great deal.” He glanced at Brienne with admiration. “She’s the most honourable person I’ve ever known. Doesn’t care what people think of her. Just… does what’s right.”
“In my experience, those who truly don’t care about other people’s judgment are rare. Most are just pretending. And they do, either because they have once known incomprehension and loneliness and are desensitised, or because they are still suffering from it and have no idea how to cope.”
Podrick shrugged a little.
“You may not be entirely wrong. I suppose that could apply to her as well.”
“Does she not have any friends or…”
Poderick opened his mouth, ready to reply with pride that he almost considered himself Brienne’s friend. But as he turned to you and noticed how intently you were looking at him, he understood the unspoken part of your question mattered more to you than Brienne’s potential friendships.
“Oh. You mean—”
“Yes.”
“Erm… Not many people manage to see past her… well, appearance. Many men and women alike have mocked her, and she’s too noble for the sort that could have any interest in her.”
“Who?”
“Wildlings.”
“Ah. And she never… sought anybody’s company?”
Podrick tensed a little, and your instincts told you he was preparing a lie. He cared too much about Brienne and her honour, and would never reveal any secret she might have shared with him.
“Not that I know of. She doesn’t think anyone could look at her that way.”
You turned back to Brienne, who had just finished defeating a seasoned guard. She handed him his weapon back with a respectful nod, then wiped the sweat from her brow. From that moment, it became quite difficult to tear your eyes away from her. You wanted to look at her. That way.
Needing a moment for yourself after yet another tense meeting and more cruel remarks from Lord Coldmere, you had asked Sansa if she would be kind enough to have a few of her servants prepare a bath for you —to which she agreed with pleasure.
So there you were, reaching your chambers. As was her habit now, Brienne moved ahead to inspect the room before you entered, her eyes sweeping over every object and corner, her hand never far from Oathkeeper.
Standing in the door frame, your eyes first followed hers —double-checking never hurt. But before you knew it, you were taking advantage of her distraction to stare at her. Again.
The torches cast a warm glow over her features and softened the hard lines of her face. You had never quite noticed just how perfectly her pale skin reflected the amber hues of fire, or how her hair caught the light and shone like spun gold.
You had been quite good at not getting noticed for those stolen glances so far —or so you thought. But when you didn’t manage to look away in time before she turned back to face you, Brienne planted her hands on her hips disapprovingly.
“Is something wrong? You’ve been staring at me all day.”
Caught off guard, you could only shake your head, seeking to make time to collect your thoughts.
“No, no. Nothing’s… I just realised earlier today that… I had never… truly looked at you.”
Brienne’s brows furrowed even deeper, trying to make sense of whatever that meant. She eventually settled for a simple but honest answer.
“I try not to get noticed.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” you retorted before you could filter the thought.
Visibly confused, Brienne tensed. Then she looked away and cleared her throat.
“I’ll be by the door.”
You had no idea what had come over you, why you had looked at her like that. The only certainty was that the thought of Brienne being seen or seeing herself as unattractive now seemed… utterly absurd.
Once the door closed behind Brienne and you were finally alone, you stripped out of your clothes and slipped into the warm tub, sighing as the hot water eased the ache in your shoulders and neck.
You let your head fall back, eyes closing, and tried to force your thoughts to settle. But they wouldn’t and always came back to the same things: the council meetings, the attempts on your life, Brienne, Osric’s sharp tongue and sneering face, Brienne again, then back to the meetings, and, eventually, only back to Brienne.
There were more pressing matters to think about, but your mind did not seem to care. You thought about the complex mix of colours in her eyes like those precious stones that came from faraway lands, the constant crease between her eyebrows, the way her lips pressed against each other when she tried not to laugh at the stupidity of men. What would it feel like to make her properly smile, you wondered…
Before long, the water’s warmth made you feel languid, and an ache that refused to be ignored stirred in your lower abdomen. On their own accord, your fingers dipped under the water and traced a path down your body. And before you could prevent it, it was Brienne’s hand —roughened from her swordsmanship but still so ladylike— that you imagined touching you.
There was no fighting it now, and you were too tired to even try, anyway. So, letting a long exhale out through your nose, you bit your lower lip and allowed the fantasy to take over. Your attraction for the fairer sex, though unpracticed, was nothing new to you. And Brienne seemed to be the best of both worlds. You decided there could hardly be a more pleasurable thought to touch yourself to.
Parting your folds to reach your lovebud, you imagined Brienne’s lips on your neck and her voice, low and controlled, asking you if this was what you truly wanted. Naturally, your response came.
“Yes…”
You wondered if Brienne would be patient and gentle with you or eager and rough. Your best guess went to the former, of course —something told you that Brienne could be very romantic if she let herself be. Your body needed the latter, however, and so you quickly settled on an increasingly intense rhythm. Soon, your thighs tensed and quivered, and you had to firmly press your free hand against your mouth to muffle your moans. You were already close. So close.
But then, for some reason, your eyes shifted to the door and you remembered who was standing behind it and, most importantly, why. Your core suddenly contracted with the pathetic spasm of a ruined climax, and you immediately pulled your hand away from your core, shaking and panting.
Guilt crashed over you and made your cheeks burn. What in the seven hells had you been thinking? Your own sworn shield, the woman who would risk her life to save yours, was standing just outside that door, and here you were, losing yourself in some filthy fantasies about her.
Still shaken, you reached for the washcloth on the edge of the tub and lathered it generously with soap. You were feeling the need to wipe all that sinful indulgence away and thus decided to scrub between your legs first.
You did almost harshly, and felt a burning sensation invade your flesh within seconds. First thinking that your lack of care was the cause of your pain, you slowed down. But you then noticed your hands were burning, too, and that the abrasion was only worsening.
Evidently, the soap had been covered in poison.
With a wail, you dropped the cloth and rose from the tub to grab the nearest towel.
“Brienne!”
You dreaded letting her see you like this, but it was almost a reflex to call out for her whenever in trouble now.
In an instant, the door opened and Brienne barged into the room, her hand already on the hilt of her sword and her eyes wide at the sight of you dripping wet and in visible pain.
“My Lady?”
Brienne approached and winced as she understood why you were staring at your hand with so much horror. Your palm, red and swollen, was starting to blister, and you could only imagine the state of your core, now throbbing for all the wrong reasons.
“Are you hurt anywhere else, my Lady?” Brienne asked with noticeable worry in her voice.
“I…”
Brienne finished closing the distance and insisted.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
The tears in your eyes and the way you hunched your shoulders and clutched your towel with whatever was left of your modesty gave Brienne all the answers she needed. Despite the blush that rose to her cheeks, she remained ever so distinguished and swiftly lifted you off your feet.
She knew those burns needed to be rinsed and treated right away, but not in the contaminated water of your tub. Thankfully, Winterfell was built on hot springs, and you guessed from the way she crossed the corridors and hurtled down the stairs that it was where she intended to take you.
You had rarely felt so ashamed in your entire life —this was never how you had dreamt of ending up in Brienne’s arms, after all. The curious or straight-up mocking glances of the few people you crossed paths with did not help either. But Brienne was quick to shout for them to go fetch Maester Wolkan and warn Lady Sansa of what had just happened.
She carried you as if you weighed nothing and she wasn’t wearing her armour. And when you finally reached the hot springs, she kneeled with minimal effort and lowered you down with so much care that the pounding in your chest almost made you forget the pain between your legs.
You first hissed when your body entered the water, feeling your skin prickling, but the tension soon melted away. The sting was not entirely gone, of course, but it was much more tolerable now.
Thus, able to pull yourself together, you noticed Brienne still had her arms around your waist and under the crook of your knees, as if she were scared you would drown.
“Thank you, Brienne. You can let go now.”
But Brienne did not seem to react. Her jaw was clenched, and her gaze was still fixed on your naked body, though somewhat unfocused, so you doubted she was truly looking at you —or was she?
You called her name again, and this time her head snapped up and her cheeks and neck flushed as if she had been caught sinning.
“Do I look that dreadful?” you teased, trying to lighten the mood, though your voice came out weaker than intended.
“N-No. I…”
Brienne’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard and fought for composure. She opened her mouth again, but no words came out for a while. You arched an eyebrow, then reached for the soaked towel that had dropped in the water with you to cover your body and joked again —although with a tinge of hurt this time.
“My, I hadn’t realised the sight of my body was that shocking. I apologise.”
“No!” Brienne finally managed. “I mean… Forgive me, my Lady, I just… wanted to make sure you were alright.”
You hummed lowly, and Brienne sighed heavily, letting herself fall on her behind. She looked utterly defeated.
“I’m the one who ought to apologise,” she muttered. “I should have been more careful. I don’t know what happened, I was… distracted, I suppose.”
“Because I had been staring at you?”
Brienne side-eyed you, then looked away —she had been yet again scared for your life and was in no mood to mess about. The look on her face immediately brought you back to reality. Another attempt. Your hands and crotch were still stinging. She was right. Now was no time for jesting.
“Brienne, look at me,” you said calmly.
Brienne refused to meet your eyes, so you reached out for her chin, mindful not to touch her with any part of you that had been in contact with the poison. Her head spun then, and her eyes landed on you, bulging and fearful, like a doe with an arrow to its head.
“You couldn’t have known,” you whispered, your fingers brushing her skin before falling back in the water. “I don’t blame you.”
“But I should have checked—”
“Who thinks about checking the soap, Brienne? You couldn’t have known that I would request a bath, or what soap I would use, or that said soap would be altered. It’s not your fault, and I refuse to let you believe it is.”
“You’re right,” Brienne said eventually. “Only someone close would know of your bathing habits.”
You knew whom she meant to accuse, of course, but lowered your head, too tired to argue about your betrothed’s attitude. Despite Brienne’s reactivity, the poison had had enough time to penetrate your skin, and you were feeling increasingly weak.
Silence fell between you two, safe and comfortable, but soon interrupted by Osric’s shouting in the distance.
“Where is she?”
As if invoked by Brienne’s words, your betrothed ran to you, followed by a panicked Maester Wolkan. Brienne instantly rose to her feet and rushed to meet Osric halfway, firmly pushing him back.
“Let me through!” he barked.
He pressed forward again, but Brienne took a brief glance at you and the irritation in your eyes, and that was all she needed to understand. She pushed even harder, making Osric stumble.
“She doesn’t want to see you. And it isn’t your place to be here.”
“She’s my wife!”
“Not yet, and I’d say the same even if she were.”
Brienne kept her hand on Osric’s chest, her eyes dark, and her stance protective. You would have found it arousing had you not been busy with the maester and his first aid.
“Have you no shame,” Brienne continued, “to walk in on a lady, unannounced and unwanted, when she is in her most vulnerable state?”
“This woman is promised to me,” Osric growled, teeth almost gnawing at Brienne’s face. “I have every right to inquire about her health and to ascertain that she remains capable of performing her marital duties. What’s your excuse?”
Brienne did not care much for those who solely saw your kind as receptacles for their seed, and the thought of a man like Lord Coldmere keeping his lineage alive made her stomach turn. You saw her hand curl into a fist then. You had to intervene.
“Osric, that’s enough!” The effort made you pant. “Your presence is not required. I have Maester Wolkan and Brienne to take care of me.”
“Well, Lady Brienne is not very good at it, is she? She’s negligent. Compromising your dignity. Our dignity.”
“And where were you when I got hurt, then? Quit this nonsense and leave at once. I beg you.”
“You heard her,” Brienne insisted. “Leave.”
In the following hours, what little poison had entered your body had begun to make its presence increasingly known. Maester Wolkan had helped clean your wounds at the hot springs, of course, and had given you oils to apply to your wounds. But that could obviously not suffice.
Back in your chambers, he had given you several kinds of teas to drink and had also forced you to ingest an ungodly amount of so-called natural antidote, a thick mixture of walnuts, dried figs, rue leaves and sea salt —so many valuable ingredients imported from the South that you felt guilty to consume, especially when you could not help but bring them back up after barely five minutes. Indeed, the teas made you sweat, and the paste made you vomit —a good thing, according to the man.
“Your body needs to expel the toxins,” he had said.
But as good as it was for your body to cleanse itself, it also felt very taxing and painful. Eventually, Maester Wolkan had opted for a couple drops of milk of the poppy. So you were now fast asleep and would not wake again for hours on end.
When you finally did, you found Brienne sitting by the foot of your bed, ramrod straight on a wooden chair, lit only by the faint glow of candles that had evidently not stopped burning since sunset. She looked like she had not blinked all night.
“Now who’s staring?” you tried to joke, though you sounded rather pathetic.
Brienne ignored that.
“How are you feeling?”
“Weak. And I hate it.”
“You’re not weak, you’re ill.”
“Amounts to much the same thing, doesn’t it?”
“Are you hungry, or thirsty?” Brienne asked, her voice kind despite the deaf ear she was giving to your attempts at lightheartedness.
“More mashed figs?”
Brienne nodded.
“And more tea?”
She nodded again.
“That’s all you are to eat and drink until your symptoms fade.”
“Then no. I don’t think I could recover if I were to disgorge in front of you.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
You chuckled in spite of the pressure it put on your aching stomach.
“I’m sure you have. But it frustrates me enough already, having you see me like this. Pale, covered in sweat, my hair undone. I must look worse than a scarecrow.”
“Nonsense.”
“Is it?”
Brienne finally blinked.
“You needn’t worry, my Lady. Your face is as pleasant as it ever was.”
“You think my face is pleasant?”
“Well, I…”
“Do you like my face?”
“I—”
“I want you to like my face,” you blurted out, the fatigue preventing you from holding the words back. “I like yours.”
Brienne’s breath hitched ever so slightly, and she rose to her feet.
“I should get Maester Wolkan. You’re delirious.”
“Don’t leave!” you practically shouted. “Please. Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said that. But I’m not mad.”
Brienne’s eyes narrowed on you, the lines between her eyebrows deepening. Oh, that frown…
“I assure you, Brienne. My mind is sane. I meant what I just said, but if it made you uncomfortable, then I regret it.”
“It’s improper.”
“I know it seems like I try very hard to be one, but I’m not a woman of convention. And neither are you.”
Brienne rolled her eyes. You continued.
“I apologise. I sincerely do. But I beg you, do not leave me alone.”
“I would be right outside your door.”
“No, I need you here.”
Brienne hesitated a moment but ultimately complied and walked back to the wooden chair.
“Fine. As long as you keep quiet and go back to sleep,” she urged as she sat back on it.
“You don’t have to sit over there all night long, you know. The bed is big enough for two,” you offered, frankly led by delusion.
“Certainly not.”
“Shame…”
There were long minutes of silence. Neither of you knew where to look any more.
“Brienne?” you tried after a while.
“What?”
“Please, promise me you don’t think any less of me after today.”
Brienne took a deep breath, and for a second, you worried she might berate you. But then her sigh sounded more defeated than angry.
“I could never think any less of you, my Lady. If anything, I think you are incredibly courageous, all things considered. I admire your resilience, though I can’t understand how easy it seems to be for you to jest during times like this. I genuinely fear for your life at this point, and I would never forgive myself if I let my guard down and let any harm come to you.”
“Brienne—”
“So I’m sorry if I constantly rebuff your attempts at friendship or… whatever you want from me. But I must focus. I hope you can understand.”
“I do. I do understand it, Brienne. And words cannot express how fortunate I feel to have you by my side to protect me.”
Brienne nodded gently in appreciation of your gratitude. There was a pause then, heavy but not awkward, before she spoke again.
“But if you must know… I do think your face is pleasant. And the gods have been most generous with your silhouette. Now, will you please stop talking and rest?”
Larissa Weems really loves her chair and we love her so bad for it… this pov has had me on a chokehold since i saw it… and im think im not the only one 🫦, anyways i dare to say that this is my best drawing at the time, god i really hate backgrounds, i hope u enjoy this 💚
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Hey guys have I mentioned that one of my favorite small details in the new episodes of Wednesday is that when Larissa is sitting in her office and talking about how happy she is to have it back, she starts spinning in her chair all happy, and when Wednesday turns from her to talk to someone else, the chair keeps spinning for about 30 seconds in the background???? She was SO happy to be back in her rightful place she was spinning around like a giddy CHILD I am in TEARS
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