Somewhere along the way, Brienne Tarth had gotten lost. That wouldn't ordinarily be a problem, except for a few undesirable factors: she hadn't realized her error until she was at the top of the wrong mountain, nearly out of gas after driving for hours and hours, and in the midst of the worst snowstorm she'd ever experienced.
Not only was visibility nearly zero because of the thick-falling snow, but the wind was so strong she half-expected a gust to blow her right off the cliffside that she at that moment was inching along. Whose idea was it to build a road on the very edge of a plummet to infinity?
The better question, perhaps, was 'whose idea was it to drive to the top of a huge mountain a week before Sevenmas when a storm threatened?' The answer to that was far less satisfying, at least as far as her irritation was concerned, because it was her. She was to blame for that bit of foolishness. Sevenmas had never been her favorite time; their small family kept shrinking every year until it was just Brienne and her father, and with his death a few months earlier, now it was just her alone.
Increasingly desperate for something to distract her from her loneliness and grief, she had rejected all offers from various friends to join them for the holidays. A sub-tropical celebration of ornament-decked palm trees with the Tyrells was not to be borne, nor was any well-intentioned quality time with the masses of Starks and Stark-adjacent persons to be found in Winterfell. It would all just remind her too much of what she'd had and lost, and throw into relief that, while she was loved and welcomed by her dear friends, she wasn't truly one of them, always the outsider awkwardly shoehorning herself into their midst instead of belonging by right of birth and blood.
She was the last Tarth, and truly alone.
Now more than ever, because it felt like no other creature was to be found on the whole of the mountain— she hadn't seen a sign of life in an hour, though to be fair, she hadn't seen anything but swirling cascades of snow and the interior of her rental car for that hour, either. The directions had been so simple, she hadn't felt the need to write them down— 'turn onto Eyrie Road and follow it to the very top'— but what she hadn't counted on was that there'd be two Eyrie Roads, and that she'd mistake one for the other, as she had discovered the last time her cell phone had had reception and she'd been able to check GPS.
And now the needle of her gas gauge was hovering over 'E', cell reception had died an hour earlier, and she was nowhere near anywhere and things really weren't looking good.
Well, she thought wryly, she'd been looking for a distraction from her misery. This certainly was distracting.
Over the following, increasingly tense hour, she was very glad when the road left the very edge of the mountainside to head inward, away from certain death by falling toward slightly-less-certain death by simply freezing. The road narrowed to a path, and then a mere track, trees clustering so closely that their branches scraped along the sides of the car as she passed between them.
If I survive this, there goes my deposit, she thought with annoyance. The damage to the car's paint would be extensive.
Finally, she reached a point where even the tiny sub-compact she'd crammed herself into was not small enough to wend between the narrow gaps in the trees, and drew to a halt.
Then, while she pondered her options (which consisted of whether or not she dared to keep the car running for the meager amount of heat wavering from the vents or conserve gas for some future moment when, presumably, she'd be able to drive elsewhere) the choice was taken from her when the engine sputtered, hiccuped, and died.
The gas gauge needle was officially past— long past— 'E'.
Brienne slumped in her seat. No, she had one more choice: stay in the car, in whatever heat it would be able to retain, and hope for the best. She was dressed warmly, had a few bottles of water and snacks. The storm couldn't last forever, could it? She was strong. She'd likely be able to weather— hah— it out.
It was nearly impossible to believe, but it was barely past noon. She'd left Bloody Gate (and what an awful name that was, had no one considered changing the medieval name to something less gory?) at daybreak. She was supposed to have arrived at her rented cabin by mid-morning, taken an hour to acclimate herself to her surroundings, unpack, then have a nice lunch before perhaps taking a hike or building a snowman.
Instead… yeah.
Not even one in the afternoon, and nearly as dark as full night. No one around for miles and miles, no one expecting her, no one to know she was in a pickle.
This could be it, she thought, and didn't feel as dismayed by the idea as one might expect. On a certain level, she knew that in itself was alarming: she was confronted with death and the most she could muster in response was 'so, this is happening'. But the numbness that had been creeping up on her since her father's passing spread a layer of apathy over most of her reactions, and this one was no different.
Brienne gave a mental shrug. What would be, would be. Her lone memory of her mother was of her singing those words. The future's not ours to see, her mother had sung. Que sera, sera. She wasn't going to get worked up over something she couldn't change.
What she could change was what she did next. If she decided not to remain in the car, to find some shelter, how to go about it? Pack her pockets with the supplies she'd brought, bundle up as carefully as possible… did she dare to blow out the car battery by leaving the headlamps on, to illuminate the way as far as the light would throw?
No, she thought, best to conserve while she could. Already the vents were beginning to blow out air more cool than warm, so she shut off the ignition and huddled deeper into her coat. The stressful drive, and sudden end to the need to stay alert, left her abruptly exhausted and she had to fight to keep her eyes open.
But hadn't she heard that it was bad to sleep when hypothermic? She was still plenty warm, at the moment, so perhaps she should indulge her desire to sleep while it was still safe to do so.
She burrowed down into her coat, sliding sideways so she could bring her knees up and curl tighter. After making sure her hands were tucked up into her sleeves, she closed her eyes and let herself relax.
She had barely closed her eyes when there was a clattering, scratching sound outside the car and Brienne jerked upright in alarm. The interior of the vehicle had fogged up a bit and she had to scrub her forearm against the window to see outside.
There was a lion on the other side of the glass.
Brienne sucked in a shocked breath. No, not a lion, she saw when her brain decided a lion was a ridiculous thing to find on a godsforsaken snow-covered mountain in the Vale and she had to come up with a better alternative. A dog. But a very lion-like dog, huge, golden-brown, with a big fur ruff around its neck. Beautiful, in a dangerous sort of way, but she still wanted to give him a scritch.
After a fraught moment of prolonged eye contact, the lion-dog sat back on its haunches— becoming, somehow, even taller— and gave her a big doggy smile, panting and revealing long ivory fangs. Brienne couldn't help but smile back. She had never been particularly good with people, but dogs had always treated her kindly. She was about 87% certain he was friendly and wouldn't try to hurt her.
The lion-dog stood and romped through the snow until he was about ten feet from the car, then stopped and turned to look back at her. Giving a yip, he ran another ten or so feet away before turning back once more, yipping again. When she just sat there, watching, he almost seemed to sigh before jogging back to the car. He rose to hind feet, placing immense paws on the door and his big furry face right up against the window and woofed deeply, then let his claws rake down the side of the vehicle as he got back to all four paws.
Definitely not getting my deposit back on this, Brienne thought ruefully.
The dog began his odd dance once more, trotting away and barking, looking back at her, and finally she realized he wanted her to follow him.
Did she dare? The car was already becoming uncomfortably cold and he seemed too well-cared-for to be a stray, so somewhere in the winter wonderland out there was his owner and, presumably, a warm place to wait out the storm.
Might as well. What did she have to lose? She'd just prolong the inevitable, remaining in the car. At least she'd get to pet a dog— or a lion, or whatever the creature was— before she croaked.
With trepidation, but also a sense of inevitability, Brienne gathered up her scant hoard of supplies— maybe she could return at a later time for her luggage?—, sucked in a breath, and opened the door.
The dog bounded up to her the moment she emerged from the car, upon hind legs once more to plant his paws on her shoulders and swipe his tongue up her cheek.
"Eugh," Brienne laughed, pushing him away. "It's nice to meet you, too. I hope you don't mind if I don't greet you back the same way."
Fortunately, the dog didn't seem to mind. With a bark, he ran off, stopping and looking back to make sure she was following.
"Yes, yes, I'm coming," Brienne told him as she began her slog through the knee-high drifts, feeling very relieved she'd worn tights under her jeans and tall, sheepskin-lined boots in addition to her warm parka. She hurried to wrap her scarf around her head, leaving only her eyes uncovered, then yanked on her gloves.
She followed the dog for… a while. Her gloved hands were too clumsy to dig out her phone and check the time, which passed differently when all she could see around her were swirling flakes and the snow-caked trunks of the surrounding trees. Plus, she was positive the dog's path was in no way linear, instead snaking around like a long word written in cursive.
It went counterintuitive to everything she knew made sense, but… she had to place her trust in the dog, to get her somewhere safe, or else some unfortunate hiker would find her in the spring, half-decomposed. The thought, perversely, made her laugh as she pictured herself, sprawled out, tongue lolling out of her mouth, with Xs in place of her closed eyes like in cartoons.
The dog, attracted to her laughter it seemed, bounded back and launched himself at her with a joyful bark. It knocked her back into a waist-high drift.
Unfortunately, her booted feet remained where they were, embedded in snow, with the result that her ankle wrenched as she was knocked off balance by 150 pounds of lion-dog. It startled her into a shout of pain. The dog licked her other cheek— in apology?— before bounding off again.
Brienne lay there, breathless, while the dog leapt away, snapping at falling snowflakes. Lost on a mountain, car out of gas and snowed in besides, in the middle of a fierce storm, and now her ankle was done for. Things were looking, somehow, even worse than they had been earlier. She began to laugh again, helplessly, heedless of the cold seeping through her clothes, at the ridiculous turn her life had taken.
"You're pretty lighthearted for someone about to freeze to death," commented a male voice.