Brienne walked done the empty corridor carrying a lumpy candle, its weak wisp of flame barely enough to see by from one torch to the next. Only every third sconce held a torch now, to save on pitch and tallow for the darkness to come.
When she reached the now-familiar door, Brienne used the rusty key she kept in her boot to go inside. She used the candle she'd carried in to light a much larger candle before blowing it out. Brienne would need its light later, when she took her nightly walk around the Great Keep and along the walls.
She set both candles on the traveling trunk at the foot of the bed and sat down to remove her boots. Her bed chamber was further than she liked from the center of the keep, where the Stark family's rooms were concentrated. At least she felt more confident in the men standing guard there, them since Arya's arrival.
The young woman had assigned herself the task of improving castle security after her barely-challenged arrival at Winterfell. Though her methods and timing varied, it was swiftly demonstrated that a guardsman who finds himself quite suddenly on his back with the tip of dagger hovering between his eyes wasn't likely to be caught unawares again.
By the end of a week, the men guarding the towers and walls of Winterfell had been wound tighter than the rope on a trebuchet. Arya had pinned only five guards in total, but that was all it had taken for the lot of them to shape up. Nothing less clever than Arya would be able to get past them, so vigilant they became for fear of being stalked by a slip of a girl not yet into her eighteenth year.
Brienne was glad of the guards' renewed vigilance, because just now she was in need of a rest after another tiring day. Mornings now were dedicated to sparring with Pod, while the hours after the midday meal were spent in training a handful of the more skillful young men and women of the northern houses. These were the sons and daughters who would fight against monsters out of legend, monstrous beings that their fathers, many of them perished during the war of five kings, had never imagined could exist.
The scant, final hours of daylight and into the early dusk were spent with Arya, sparring in the cavernous crypts beneath Winterfell. Meeting there had become necessary once they began to attract onlookers in the main yard.
At first Brienne had grumbled about the poor lighting, despite there being enough candles burning there to light several dim passages in the keep. Arya, with an unsettling, secretive smile, only remarked that there were advantages to knowing how to fight in the dark.
Other than the Starks and their closest advisors or servants, few people were allowed to visit the crypts, for which Brienne was grateful. The sparring sessions had benefitted both women, whose individual styles had undergone subtle changes since that first challenge in the yard nearly three weeks past.
Arya's swordplay was becoming less dependent on tricky footwork as she gained strength and muscle, while Brienne's became more light-footed and agile. The differences in the way each woman fought would have been obvious to anyone knowledgeable about swordplay.
Sansa, who came mostly to get away from Little Finger, was not. Podrick, however, noticed the changes within the first week, soon after Arya set aside Needle for a short sword and Brienne introduced a blunted dagger to her arsenal.
Brandon Stark, who sometimes came to sit near them in his wheeled chair, had no interest in their sparring. His inward stare made Brienne uneasy. It was as though he was already ahead of them, staring into a future where she and Arya had long been dust. Catelyn Stark's second son was not as he had been, before Jaime pushed him from that tower window.
It made Brienne uneasy, to be so near to the place that Jaime had committed his most heinous act. She often wondered which tower he and his sister and Bran had been in, that she might avoid going near it. Perhaps it had burned or fallen when the Ironborn ransacked Winterfell.
Whatever the fate of the tower, Brandon was now the Three Eyed Raven, and no longer seemed wholly human. Brienne had never been one to believe in the magical arts. Even as a child, when tales of dragons and sorcerers had filled her head, she'd been too pragmatic to believe in them.
Then Brienne had seen a shadow assassin kill Renly Baratheon. It was no true blade of steel or iron she'd seen rip through his heart that night. He'd gasped his last breath, blood bubbling up though the great rent in his chest, and she'd held him for the first and last time.
To hear Davos Seaworth tell it, Stannis lost his soul, if not his life, when the Red Woman birthed his shadow-twin into the world to kill his own brother.
That Brienne and Ser Davos came to speak together of those events had been something of a surprise. Over a month had passed since her imperious announcement to Stannis' Hand and the priestess of the Red God that she, Brienne of Tarth, had executed the most important person in either of their lives.
In that moment of righteous triumph, it had never occurred to Brienne that she'd be in close quarters with Ser Davos and Melisandre almost daily, and possibly for years, as winter wore on. Melisandre, as much to blame for Renly's murder as Stannis, had thereafter elaborately ignored Brienne, until abruptly disappearing from Winterfell in a swirl of foul rumors.
It was more difficult with Ser Davos, for they could not avoid often being often in the same company as meetings for the defense of Winterfell involved them both. The onion knight had scrupulously avoided looking at Brienne altogether, which suited her fine.
That state seemed likely to continue indefinitely, until one night found the two of them alone in the dining hall. Brienne had claimed a bench by the great hearth, legs stretched out to the fire, hoping to ease some of the constant chill of working in the yard. Davos, slouched down in a chair with a horn of ale in one fist, had been at the far end of the room.
Ser Davos had spent much time staring blearily into the mug before seeming to abandon his attempts to ignore Brienne. On that dark night, winds howling outside the Keep, the graybeard looked up from his cup and right at her, holding her gaze until she'd looked away.
Dreading an ale-fueled confrontation, Brienne plotted an inoffensive escape, yawning and setting her own mug on the floor beside her, making clear her intention of leaving the hall. Before she could rise, however, Davos, on unsteady legs, began making his way through the tables and benches to the hearth.
There had been no option but to stay and wait for him. Brienne would not be seen to run from confrontation, no matter how much she wished to. When the man stopped a few feet from her, she stood to acknowledge him, suddenly feeling like a small child about to be rebuked for some misdeed by a kindly and slightly drunk grandfather.
"Ser Davos," she'd nodded, somewhat grateful that she towered over the man.
"Lady Brienne," Ser Davos had said, his voice betraying no edge of mockery. "Might I sit alongside you by the fire? The chill takes a toll on an old southerner like myself."
"You are welcome, Ser," Brienne sat down further along the bench so he might be closer to the fire.
Davos had settled beside her, staring into the flames for a long moment, a series of emotions passing over his face before he'd finally opened his mouth to speak. The dreaded accusations and blame never came. Instead, he'd begun to speak of how he'd come to serve the elder Baratheon, a gruff recounting of Stannis' honor and fairness.
Brienne listened respectfully, but remained silent. Of Stannis' slaying of Renly, Davos explained to her how the shadowbinder Melisandre had brought the king's malevolent fetch into the world, and his own part in allowing it to happen. When the knight turned to meet Brienne's eyes at last, she was surprised by the anguish in his own.
Stannis had become a slave of the red god on that night, driven to claim victory over his rivals through blood magic. It could never be known for certain, Davos insisted, whether the other rivals for the Iron Throne, Robb Stark, Joffrey Baratheon, and Balon Greyjoy, had died at the hands of others, or been magically doomed the night Stannis burned three blood-engorged leeches in the brazier.
Davos described the smell of them, the sizzle and pop as the worms burst. Brienne was riveted, horror-struck by the depth of Stannis and his red woman's depravity. When the knight began speaking of Stannis' young daughter Shireen, his voice became strained, only a few small, hard words able to escape in his anger and grief: innocent, sacrificed, burned, red bitch.
It was clear to Brienne that Davos blamed Melisandre more than the man that he'd vowed to serve for all of his days. Brienne had stifled the urge to remind him of why Stannis deserved to die. She couldn't help but to admire someone whose own obsessive sense of loyalty and honor rivaled her own.
Did Ser Davos, too, lie awake nights, wondering at where his vows had brought him? He would have been within his rights to leave the north at first word of Stannis' death, and even more so when he'd discovered the truth about the sacrifice of Shireen.
Former smuggler and Hand to an executed pretender king, Ser Davos could have gotten well away from the coming night and found a ship bound east, to warmer ports. Yet he'd stayed to serve another king, just as Brienne had vowed to serve Catelyn Stark soon after Renly was killed.
Brienne and Ser Davos, sitting at the Stark hearth and talking into the night, had become allies of a sort afterwards, and now that he'd gone on to Dragonstone with Jon Snow, Brienne found herself missing his self-deprecating humor and stubborn honor.
Though she was an honored member of the Stark household, there were still very few people here other than Podrick that she would call friend. Brienne sat down tiredly on the lumpy mattress in her small chamber. Her room was comfortable enough, and Sansa had taken the time to decorate it herself. Lots of Stark grey, a bit of sage green, the space was feminine without being a commentary on the fact that Brienne was a Lady rather than a knight.
The walls, mottled and smudged from the smoke of fires set by the Greyjoy traitor, reminded Brienne of the dingy snow she saw kicked up along the edges of pathways and roads here. Winterfell was in need of repairs that would need to wait until Spring, if anyone survived to make them.
Sansa never publicly spoke against the man who'd torched her home and murdered her family's servants. Theon had helped her escape from Ramsay, and for that, Sansa was indebted to him.
Privately, however, the younger woman had confided in Brienne about Theon's betrayals and complicity during her captivity. There was no question that she despised Theon with all her heart.
Brienne could never forgive Theon; he'd never have helped Sansa had his own life not been in danger. She was not loathe, however, to share the credit for Sansa's rescue with him, for without his actions that night, Brienne might have missed her chance to avenge Renly.
When she'd found Stannis sat up against that tree in the snowy wood, he'd been already close to death, blood flowing from more than one wound to brighten the snow around him. Finally confronting Stannis with his crimes and sentencing him to death had felt strangely hollow in the absence of the man's fear. He was grateful, the rotten bastard. He'd known that if Ramsey had been the one to find him, his death would have been far from quick or clean.
Brienne had found no satisfaction later, in announcing her deed to Ser Davos and Lady Melisandre. Renly had been avenged, just as she'd promised, but his elder brother's empty acknowledgement of the crime would never bring her king back.
Though she tried, Brienne was no longer to recall her lord's face or the sound of his voice. The man she'd sworn to serve all her days was no more than a distant memory now, while the white-lipped face of Stannis, his dark, empty eyes calmly fixed upon the horizon, could never be forgotten.
Catelyn's face was far easier to remember, for as intensely as Brienne had once watched and admired Renly Baratheon, it had not equaled the way she'd come to know Lady Stark. The woman's courage, her goodness, had imbued her with something of the Mother's light for Brienne. She'd followed Renly out of youthful infatuation, but Catelyn Stark she had served as she might have served her own father, had he allowed it. Or her mother, had she lived to require it.
Brienne stood to unlace her jerkin to hang it from a double hook on the door, hearing Cersei's words in her head again: You serve any lord or lady you fancy. Could she deny it, with Renly and Lady Stark? Renly because she'd believed herself in love with him, and Catelyn because she showed Brienne something akin to a mother's love, for the first time she could remember.
But what had Brienne known of the Starks, really? Their soldiers were crude and violent, practically indistinguishable from the Lannisters and Baratheons. She'd never even met King Robb, though she knew that the breaking of his word had led to many more deaths than his own. Jaime's confession about the night he'd slain Aerys Targaryen had not shown Ned Stark in a positive light, either.
Yet here she was, far from her father and Tarth, serving in Winterfell. From Renly to Catelyn to Sansa, though she'd spent more time with Jaime Lannister than any of the others, and knew him better. Brienne sighed, recalling her response to Cersei's accusation: I don't serve your brother, your grace. The man had honor, not that anyone else recognized it. No, she had not served Jaime Lannister, and never would.
But you love him.
Brienne shook her head in fervent denial, though no one was there to see.
What did Cersei know of love? That Ser Jaime loved his sister was known by all, though she'd seen little enough evidence that his feelings were met with equal devotion.
Even Jaime accepted that he and his sister's relationship was not ideal. We don't get to choose who we love, he'd told her back when he was her captive and she about thirty seconds from ripping his hair out by the roots. He'd been right, of course. Brienne certainly never chose to fall in love with him. Thank the gods he'd never know.
She'd declared that Jaime Lannister wasn't her friend when Brynden Tully had implied otherwise in the Riverlands. Brienne had been almost grateful to address the speculation, the pointed looks and whispers that always ran ahead of her once Oathkeeper was noticed. She'd thought to enter the keep with a lesser sword, having returned the Valyrian steel to its owner, but against all expectation, Jaime had refused to take it back.
So Brienne still wore a sword with a golden lion on the pommel, along with the Lannister-red belts she'd refused to set aside in favor of the Stark-grey set Sansa had given her.
I don't serve the Starks, she'd insisted more than once, I serve Lady Catelyn. Though now that she'd sworn to that lady's daughter, she was less sure where her vows ended. Apparently, Brienne now served both Stark sisters, though she'd never made such an oath.
Brienne had felt uneasy about allowing Arya to presume on such a service to demand Brienne train her. Not that she regretted working with Sansa's younger sister, though she wasn't bound to do so. Thankfully, Arya didn't seem the sort to demand a formal oath.
Arya was a bit like Jaime in that; he'd never asked for her word about anything, though she'd required his more than once. It might have been easier on Brienne if he had.
Brienne sat back down to remove her boots. If only Jaime had asked her for vows similar to those Catelyn had demanded of him. He might have asked Brienne to swear never to raise arms against the Lannisters before allowing her to cross the siege lines and enter Riverrun. Come to that, he could have made it a condition before giving her a sword and a quest to find a girl considered a traitor to his family.
When they'd parted in King's Landing, it hadn't seemed possible that they'd ever meet again. It had taken all of the reserve Brienne had to warn him that honor demanded she fight him, if he attacked the Tullys.
Let's hope that doesn't happen. His last words to her, softly spoken. And he'd kept that long-ago vow to never raise arms against the Starks or Tullys, though how he'd managed it, no one really knew. Her last glimpse of him, waving to her from the parapets of Riverrun had likely been her last.
But you love him.
Brienne shut her eyes, weary of the words. Words were wind, so it was said, but Cersei's were well-aimed darts, striking so deeply that Brienne would never be able to pluck them out. The sting had lessened some with time and distance, when the only tangible connection remaining between her and Jaime was Oathkeeper, a covenant of the vow they'd both sworn that night in Riverrun.
Returning to the very place she'd met Jaime, in order to secure the Blackfish's aid in the Battle of the Bastards, Brienne had discovered how little she'd been able to put her feelings for the maimed knight behind her. Watching him from a hill overlooking the Lannister camp, riding among the orderly red tents on his white horse, he'd reminded her of a hero in a tale. Even his gold hand, catching the morning light like some sort of beacon, was beautiful.
When Brienne had left the Wall at Sansa's command, it hadn't yet been known that the Lannister army had been deployed to end the siege of Riverrun. It had long been in her mind that Oathkeeper should be restored to Jaime, though she treasured the sword above all else she owned. The unexpected opportunity to do so had occurred to her atop that hill.
She'd decided then that she would tell Jaime that their vow was kept, and return to him that which still bound them. He still had her heart, and she his sword; a fair exchange could be made. The spell would be broken at last.
When the guards had finally escorted Brienne to the commander's tent, the task she'd come so far to attempt had not been foremost in her mind. Mentally preparing herself to see Jaime again had consumed the agonizing seconds before she was announced.
For Ser Jaime's part, he'd betrayed no hint of pleasure in seeing Brienne again, as she'd stood rigidly before him. He'd merely greeted her with some surprise, blithe and cool as though she were a casual acquaintance, happening by on her way to someplace else.
He'd even made light of the quest she'd risked her life to fulfill, implying that he'd never believed she'd succeed. Brienne was abruptly thrown back to their time together in King's Landing; Lord Jaime Lannister was no longer the gravely damaged knight she'd brought home at so great a cost.
No look passed between them to imply they'd ever been more than captive and warden. There seemed no softness in his regard for the woman he'd twice risked his life to save, the woman he'd sent on a quest to fulfill an oath both of them had sworn to.
He'd only scolded her for coming to him in the first place, reminding her that his sister still wanted Lady Sansa dead. Any foolish hopes Brienne that might have entertained over their long months apart, that he felt even a twinge of affection for her, were quickly set down in those first few moments.
Yet, as they spoke, she found that her words still held some weight with Jaime. Though he had an army at his command, he'd listened to her counsel, asked the right questions, and agreed to her plan.
When the time had come to leave his presence, Brienne had only to return Oathkeeper to end their association forever. But when she'd tried, calling upon the words she'd rehearsed so many times since finding Sansa, Jaime had looked at her with the old, affectionate scorn. "It's yours. It will always be yours," he'd said, removing the last shred of hope that she'd ever be free of loving him.
Brienne, who'd not shed a tear during the long, frustrating quest for Catelyn's daughters, knew that if she didn't get away from him right then, the tears that threatened to spill would show her to be the weak and foolish woman she was. She'd rather face a hoard of wights than allow that.
Jaime had followed her to the tent flap, teasingly calling her Lady Brienne when she'd paused and tried to address him formally, to tell him she would be honor bound to fight him, should he attack the castle.
It was then that Brienne looked into his eyes and saw her Jaime. There had been fully as much frustrated emotion in his face as must be obvious in hers. He might not love her as she did him, but he cared about her all the same. He'd not forgotten all they'd been through after all.
It was more than she'd expected, and more than she could endure in that moment. She'd fled the tent and, in the end, failed to convince Brynden Tully to aid his niece in taking back Winterfell.
Brienne lay back against the single hard cushion on her bed, tired and unaccountably sad. Oathkeeper was hers, but Jaime never would be. It was for the best. Her duty was here, and she found a measure of satisfaction in that. War was coming again, and she felt certain that the threat to the north was of more urgency than threats from Queen Cersei, no matter how Lady Sansa worried.
Jon had gone to convince the dragon queen to help, and a raven had come recently with news that the Targaryen woman had granted permission to mine the much-needed dragon glass beneath her ancestral stronghold. Everyone had breathed a sigh of relief, knowing their King in the North was not in danger and would soon be home with the makings for weapons to defeat the Others.
Brienne closed her eyes and swung her feet onto the bed. She had duties to fulfill, a purpose to dedicate her life to. Whatever might come, she'd be ready for it. She closed her eyes and drifted into a light slumber.
Someone pounding urgently on her door and the sound of men running down the corridors, shouting jubilantly and rousing the castle, woke her. A raven had come, men called to each other, there was to be an announcement in the Great Hall in ten minutes' time.
Was Jon Snow on his way home? Had they found a new way to defend against the sorcery of the Night King? Brienne put her jerkin, boots and sword belt back on and relit the taper. At the last instant she decided to leave the candle burning beside the bed; she'd not need to patrol the perimeter of the keep until well after the commotion had died down, and she was still sleepy.
She traipsed down the hall among a throng of exited men and women, hearing the words dragon and army and Daenerys echoing among them. Was the Targaryen heiress and her dragons coming to help them with her army? Brienne felt a surge of hope.
The great hall was full when she got there, Sansa already in her accustomed place at the head table, standing tall with a narrow scroll clutched in her hand. Silence was called for, and the crowd settled into an expectant hush. Sansa unrolled the message as though to read it, though she obviously knew its contents without looking at it again.
"I've just received this from Jon at Dragonstone," she began, "Several days ago, the Dothraki army engaged the Lannisters near the Blackwater rush as they were returning from sacking Highgarden." Cheers erupted from the floor, and the Lady of Winterfell smiled, "Daenerys Targaryen rode her dragon into battle and was victorious. The Lannister army was soundly defeated."
The crowd roared with approval, and Brienne leaned against the wall for support as the blood drained from her face. He wouldn't, couldn't have been –
"Jaime Lannister," Sansa said with relish, "was burned to death trying to attack the dragon. The Kingslayer is dead."