I do not own Game of Thrones.
Brienne of Tarth is a complete badass.
Ser Brienne
Ser Brienne of Tarth.
All her life, she had wanted to be a knight.
She had watched them practice, watched them joust, and fight, and yes, sometimes die.
And she, trussed into her corset and yards of pretty, constricting garments had envied them.
They rode off on their valiant steeds to be noble and brave and fearsome.
While she was expected to sit and sew and curtsy and have fainting spells at the mere mention of blood.
Blood, something women saw much more of than men, so why would they bother to faint at the mention of it?
And she had grown and grown and grown.
Without loveliness or grace or any redeeming feminine qualities whatsoever.
A big, bumbling bear.
The ugliest girl alive.
A great joke.
She knew. They had told her.
The men she was to court, to wed.
To bear the children . . .
Ugh.
. . . of.
And Septa Roelle, her own nursemaid, she had made sure Brianne had known how wrong and monstrous and absurd she was.
"Your father will find you husband to wed you for your land, child. But he will never love you. He cannot, not with the way you look, and you mustn't fault him for it."
Septa Roelle.
Dear gods.
And her father, so defeated at the death of all the offspring the gods had not allowed him to keep.
That offspring, their potential unrecognized, them taken too young to grow to match what Westerosi legend prepared for them to be.
Lords and ladies of nobility and grace and acceptability.
But only Brienne surviving to personhood.
Only her.
The Maid of Tarth.
Brienne the Beauty, Brienne the Blue.
Such a disappointment, such an embarrassment.
"Three betrothals, all to naught! Can you not summon an ounce of civility, of grace?!"
Ser Goodwin had been the only one who had allowed her to become who she . . .
"Come now, girl, if you can't kill pigs, you can't kill men!"
. . . wanted to become.
After much, much, much begging and cojoling and outright stubbornness.
The men, the 'real' knights, had laughed and mocked and called her all manner of names.
Most of which crass.
None of which true.
But she had kept to her vows of knighthood.
Chivalrous and honorable and loyal.
And King Renly Baratheon, her unrequited love, had died.
And Catelynn Stark had died.
And countless others had died.
But Sansa and Arya Stark had lived.
Thus far.
And through many misadventures and many journeys, they were here.
Winterfell.
As winter fell.
The calm before the storm.
Before a fire, a roaring fire to be sure.
Drinking, Pod, she was sure, more than he should.
On account of the Imp.
Tyrion Lannister.
Much less impish than tales be told, especially here at the end of the world.
And they had talked among themselves, those randomly gathered together before that fire.
Even the Giantsbane, with his flaming hair.
His toothy grin.
And his adoring . . .
Oh dear gods, what are you looking at-
. . . gaze.
And she had spoken, tossed aside the pain and resentment once again.
"Only men can be knights."
And he could have ignored it.
Cersei Lannister's twin brother, the man with the golden hand.
The one she had once hated, who had once hated her.
Not so now.
He seemed have been humbled, remade.
Severed sword hand strung around one's neck might have that effect, she had no doubt.
Now, a different man, in his words.
He could have nodded along with the rest of them.
Yes, yes, tradition, yes.
Sorry thing, that.
Or tossed out some easily-spoken consolation.
"If I were a king, I would knight you ten times."
Before or after suckling at the teat of a female giant, you hulking fool?
She had accepted long ago, she would, at the best of times, be called Lady.
That 'ser' was forever beyond her.
On sheer basis of sex, something beyond her control.
The way she had been born, made.
Thrown into the world without her consent.
She was who she was.
Regardless of title.
She was Brienne.
A knight at heart and mind and soul, no matter what they said.
She had the horse, the steward, the armor, the weaponry.
The mentality.
But never the title.
And she told herself she didn't care.
That it didn't matter.
It was just words.
But then . . .
"Arise, Brienne of Tarth, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms."
And the gathered had clapped.
And she had, for one of the few times in long memory, felt a grateful, proud swelling in her chest.
Glowing smile breaking upon her homely, she knew, countenance.
And tears of joy threatening her glistening eyes.
Tomorrow they might all die.
Be ripped apart by the White Walkers, by the wights.
Only to be risen up again as the very undead they had fought against.
Rotten, frozen, flesh and bone forever in the Long Night that would blanket Westeros, the world, in the wake of their defeat.
But tonight, here in the firelight, surrounded by a hodgepodge of men, and well, Tormund, she, now, was a knight.
Brienne of Tarth.
And the Young Lion, the Kingslayer, had done that.
No, not the Young Lion.
No, not the Kingslayer.
". . . -ie, my name's Jaime . . ."
Jaime.
Jaime Lannister.
*Internally screams*
Oh my gosh, did you love that scene?! It was soooo amazing, the whole thing, ahhhhh!
Ahem, I mean, uh, yeah, you know. ;)
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