#brienne.

‘     i know what he is.    ’      there’s a lot of meaning within her words,    she is aware.    to stand there,    among crowds of   —   sevens,   knows how much    —    and defend a lannister ?     she knows how she must’ve looked,    knows how much she must’ve appeared to be.    like a lovesick fool,    some might say,   like a wench being blinded by the glory of a lion.    brienne would like to believe she is neither,    but what good is she attempting to convince when words never seem to be in her favour ?     no.    she trusts ser jaime.   he will fight,   and they will know that he is an honourable man,    his crime heavy on his back in spite.     ‘     if you expect an apology,   i have none to spare.    ’     /   from brienne for @dracharenae​ !

‘    your grace,    your body is taken with fever.     please,    have me assist you.    ’     /    from brienne for @hiddensteel​ !

        ‘     ser jaime.    ’      his name is a breath     (     though lately,    if she must argue,    that’s all it’s ever been    )     upon her tongue,     blue eyes lingering on his face as though she’s searching for a wound      -      however silly that must have sounded,    considering there is no reason    (     isn’t there ?    )     for him to have gotten hurt.     it must’ve been king’s landing,    she thinks.     there is something so equally beautiful yet tragic about the place.     so cheerful but chaotic.    she remembers turning her back on ser jaime with pod clumsily on his horse the first time,     how her chest weighed like she’s swallowed rocks instead of the decent meals she’s been fed with,     thinking of how the big,   yellow-bricked walls were going to swallow ser jaime whole and looking back could only hurt should she witness it.    thankfully,    she speak not of her thoughts aloud,    her gaze fleets instead to his back:    to any large arrival she’s expected that comes with the queen’s promise.     there is none.    perhaps ser jaime has ridden ahead.

         ‘      lady sansa didn’t tell me you’ll be arriving this soon.     ’     though she supposes there is no obligation there.    with the mother of dragons arriving,    along with hordes of unsullied and dothrakis,    and king of north being embraced back in winterfell,     there wasn’t time.    besides from podrick,    brienne had been challenged to test her patience on the small number of ladies that were expected to learn any tricks against the wights,    against any enemies.    they were clumsy and feeble,   scared of sharp things when brienne was flabbergasted that they were so quick to handle fire and knives in the kitchen and sharp sewing kit to make their clothes.    at least lady arya by her side had calmed her some.    it’s remarkable,    how quick and sharp she is.    brienne wonders endlessly where she’d been,   who had taught her so well that she’s grown so elegantly,     but lady arya is tight-lipped with her past as much as lady sansa was firm about the talk   —    or lack thereof   —   of her past marriages.    they were the rightful ladies of winterfell,    none shall question them,    and winter is fastly coming.     ‘      how many men shall we be expecting riding north?    i shall inform the handmaids of the appropriate shirts and thick wear to clothe your men’s back.      ’      /      from brienne for @deltiitnu !

      ‘     i couldn’t convince your brother.     ’       social courtesies were never her best suit.    she speaks them well,    knows people by title only because septa roelle and however many teachers father would call insist in teaching her;    but none that has been taught had ever made her more graceful with words.    she understands naught of poetry,   much less so songs.     and then there were chatters,   little pleasantries the court would held     -     she would be completely awful at them,    but not ser jaime,   she thinks.    she can imagine him young and charming,   pulling smiles from any maiden looking his way.   and then there was tyrion,   the hand of the queen,   after only being a wanted fugitive nearly a year ago.    it seems both brothers may have inherited the same talent in speeches.    it’s a nice comfort;   finding this similarity.     ‘     but you managed to convince your sister.    i do understand now,   why podrick speaks so well of you.     ’       /      from brienne for @murios !

        ‘      you are a healer.     ’         there is an obvious distrust in her voice,     even if it is unwise considering the condition she was in.     still,     brienne couldn’t help it;     her experience with men have never gone anywhere but disastrous and humiliating,     with very few being exceptions of the rule,    and she’s no doubt,    with how she looks now:    ragged and torn and bleeding at her side from where the opponent have managed a strike in spite of the armour,    she might as well be hideously fitted in a dress like she had always been forced to,    all the years growing up.       perhaps it’s the pain,    or the lack of consciousness she’s fighting against with how much red her body is intent on pouring out,    but      ...       

            as much as brienne wishes she’s had time to shrivel away in embarrassment like she would have any other time     (     or perhaps she won’t    -    considering she’s all grown now,    and she knew better,    and she hadn’t shied away from a man’s peer when she’d learned to lock her gaze and steel her shoulders so they would not yield,    ever     )      ,    she only grips one blade she’s stowed in her armour with her other hand.     it’s a defence,    a rebellious act,    one she wants him to see,    because no,    she does not trust him,     and,    yes,    he will know of this.     ‘      if your intention is not noble,    ser,    i must ask you to step away.     ’       /    from brienne for @mortalspark !

        ‘     now that we have secured the south,     ’        she begins,    her chin held high,    and eyes not quite settling on the other.   brienne is always conscious at the idea that she might trip,   you see    -    her father’s voice,   that’s why you ought to keep your eyes forward,   little one,    and nowhere else,    haunts her even now still     -    but there is another reason too:    she is embarrassed.    not quite enough that she wishes she’s taken her words back,    because she is right and she is true,      yet it’s there nevertheless.    she had yelled at ser jaime,   a trusted kingsguard by the queen’s side,    and risked her place as lady sansa’s representative.    always the large graceless oaf,    brienne remembers berating herself,   knowing immediately as ser tyrion offered for a private talk in her grace’s private chambers that politics were never something she would ever master.       ‘     is there a chance ?    against   ...    against those things ?     ’     /    from brienne for @soughtlove !

brienne of tarth

gendry waters baratheon

osha (the one who saved bran and rickon)