THE DEAD, THE DRUNK, THE DAYNE AND THE DOG

Brienne III

Brienne of Tarth was neither a knight nor a Lady. She was neither soldier nor commander, nor (according to the whispers which had followed her all her life) was she daughter or son. Suffice to say, then, that a day spent in her great, lumbering body was not what most would consider normal. Still, the events of the day so far were further removed from typical than even she was accustomed to, and she had the sense that it could get stranger still.

The day had begun even before the sun had fought its way through the perpetual winter clouds, signalled by a knock at the door of the chamber she and Podrick shared. Her squire, still half asleep and stumbling, had snapped into wakefulness the moment he opened the door and came face to face with none other than the King in the North. Brienne, though still mussed with sleep herself, had dressed hurriedly at His Grace's insistence and followed him past an obviously confused Podrick and into the hall. The King was already fully dressed, with the cloak she'd watched Sansa make for him back at Castle Black draped around his shoulders and his Valyrian steel sword at his hip, and he had seemed more energized than she could recall seeing him despite the early hour. He had given no indication of where they were going, but as he led her out into the courtyard and then past the gates into the snows beyond, Brienne had found herself gladdened that she'd thought to grab her own cloak and blade on the way out.

Now that cloak was soaked through with snow and ice and hung heavy on her shoulders as she trudged back through the courtyard on frozen feet under the last rays of evening sun. Her muscles ached where they still had warmth and tingled painfully everywhere else in response to the cold, and her sweat-soaked hair had long since frozen to her scalp. All in all, she was very much looking forward to the warmth of the castle, a dry set of clothes and the opportunity to look back over the events of her day with the King.

Her Grace had led them through the collection of snowhomes, nodding to the various residents just beginning to rise for the day as they went, until the settlement petered out and they had found themselves amongst the giant trees that made up the Wolfswood. It was only then, as the trees had closed in behind her and the sound of human life faded away, that Brienne had brought herself to question her King.

"Your Grace," she had addressed him and she hastened to keep pace, "Might I ask where we're going? Surely, a larger guard would have been wise if you planned to venture this far from the castle?"

The King had chuckled uncharacteristically at that. "This is what I know, Brienne," he'd told her, "Believe me, I'm safer here than in the clutches of politics. I've been thinking about your question back in the Godswood, about snow, and what I saw in your practice with Podrick, and it has occurred to me that you are perfectly suited to help me."

"Help you, Your Grace?"

"Aye. Winter is here. The snows fall heavier each day, and soon we will be at war in it. The men, and frankly the women, need training if we hope to survive. If I teach you what I know of winter warfare, I had hoped you might accept the task of training our fighters."

Brienne remembered the feeling of pride that had rushed through her before being drowned by the wave of shame that inevitably followed. "You honour me, Your Grace, but I'm afraid I'm no knight nor qualified in the slightest — "

"You're an exceptional fighter," His Grace had interrupted easily, as though he had expected her rebuttal, "And from all accounts a quick study and dutiful teacher. I can think of no one better. And, in truth, knighthood means very little in the North. It is a custom of the South and the Seven."

With no further argument to offer, and frankly flushed by the compliment, Brienne had left her remaining insecurities unvoiced and continued to follow her King until they had reached a large clearing. To her surprise, the clearing had been home to several tents and outdoor fire pits with a few free folk milling about them.

"Cá magnar Zr'kk?" [1] the King had asked the group at large.

The men had gestured toward a tent nestled a ways behind the others where an old man had been emerging to investigate their arrival. While he and His Grace had greeted each other and spoke briefly, Brienne had taken the opportunity to study the wildling.

Life had not been kind to him, that much had been obvious. From the scars lining his face (some intentionally linier and painted a sickly blue, while others were jagged chunks gouged from his cheek and forehead) to the still bandaged stump where his left forearm should have been, he wore the tale of his life on his skin for all to see. Age had stooped him, yet he remained light on his feet, with a patchy grey beard grown between the scars and equally thin white hair draped lifelessly over his shoulders. He had been dressed in weather-worn furs from creatures Brienne had not been able to identify and had seemed to be missing at least part of most of the fingers on his remaining hand.

"Brienne, may I introduce Zr'kk, an elder of the cave dwellers," His Grace had interrupted her observations to introduce them, "Zr'kk, seo magni Brienne." [2]

The old man had leered at her, the expression revealing stained teeth filed to sharp points, as he had given her with a little wave with his mangled hand. Brienne, who had been entirely unsure about the situation, had returned the gesture stiffly. Unless she had been very much mistaken, the King had stifled a chuckle at her expense.

The wildling hadn't shown the same courtesy and had wheezed a chuffing sort of laugh. "Tar liom ansin." [3]

"Follow him," His Grace had translated, as the old man had stumped off into the trees, "He, and the remaining free folk who weren't fit to march when the others headed out, will leave with the soldiers marching north tomorrow to supplement the forces at the Wall, but Zr'kk has agreed to share his knowledge of snow reading with us both beforehand."

"Does he understand the Common Tongue?"

"A few words, perhaps," the King had shrugged, "I would never claim fluency in Old Tongue, least of all in the dialect of cave dwellers, but we manage."

And that was how Brienne of Tarth, the woman who wouldn't be, had found herself sparing with a King while a vicious looking old man shouted enthusiastic instructions she couldn't understand at them both. She had learned much fighting in the freshly piled snow. She learned about the many unique ways snow could form, from the snowflakes everyone recognized to to hoarfrost and graupel. She learned how it piled, how it melted and froze, how it could be formed by the wind and, most importantly, which of those formations were safe for bearing weight. She learned to read the surface, to predict when a seemingly flat patch of snow was hiding drastically uneven terrain underneath. And, more than that, she learned to fight through the inevitable slips that came with life on ice. When she'd left His Grace in the company of Zr'kk and the other free folk to finish preparations for their march the following day, she'd been more sore than she had been in a long while.

Thinking back on it now reignited the surge of adrenaline only a good fight could offer, even through the cold and fatigue.

King Jon was a formidable opponent. He was quick, deceptively powerful, and fought with a control that spoke of a technique tempered in the heat of battle. He showed no hesitation in staying tight to her, negating her superior reach by invading her space and pushing to the pace of their strikes. It was exhilarating. The armoury talk of his skills were not exaggerated in the slightest, and she carried the bumps and bruises to prove it. Of course, she smiled slightly to herself as she allowed herself a rare moment of pride, so did he. Were it not wholly inappropriate, she would ask him to be a regular sparring partner. As it was, she now understood the energy and eagerness he had displayed back before the sun rose.

There were more people about now, even into the evening hour, than there had been when they had headed out this morning. They crowded under sheltered overhangs around the edges of the courtyard to avoid the night snows which were beginning to fall. Good traction in the morning, Brienne noted, but likely deep drifts as well, which could be dangerous over unknown terrain. She imagined that the King's strategy of staying in his opponent's space would be particularly effective in deep snows, as it would push them to move and create a clear path which he could then use to advance without additional effort…

Perhaps it was thoughts of challenging opponents clouding her senses but, as she made her way toward the castle entrance which would lead to her chambers, a figure in her periphery caught her eye. It was a hulking figure — who happened to bear a striking resemblance to someone she knew to be long dead — who was being spoken to by Lord Baelish of all people. Stopping in her tracks and ignoring the way the lack of movement allowed the cold to gnaw into her flesh, Brienne turned.

It couldn't be him.

It shouldn't be him.

But it was.

Sandor Clegane looked very much like she remembered him, a massive man with a burned face and perpetual scowl who lived up to his moniker in the snarls he sent passersby who dared step too close or stare too long. He was armed, of course he was, but without the well-worn armour he'd used during their fight. Of more interest was the fact that, as he advanced on the Lord Protector of the Vale menacingly, Brienne noted he seemed to move more carefully than he had before.

She was marching toward them before she realized her feet had moved.

"Go ask your whores or your birds or your nags or whoever it is you pay for that shit. I have nothing to say, you slimy cunt."

Lord Baelish seemed unfazed by the dangerous undertone in Clegane's voice, but he caught sight of Brienne before he could respond and inclined his head respectfully in her direction instead. "My Lady."

"My Lord," Brienne replied automatically, "Is there a problem here?"

"Of fucking course," Clegane snarled as he noticed her, "Go on then, get it over with."

Brienne frowned in confusion. "I'm not sure I understand your meaning, Ser."

"I told you, you dumb bitch, I'm not a knight. Now get your gloating over with and fuck off."

Lord Baelish had stepped a few paces back from the pair, hovering curiously just within earshot, but Brienne ignored him. "I failed in my objective that day," she told Clegane instead, "I've no reason to gloat."

The scarred warrior scoffed, a look of disgust on his face as he stormed off.

Brienne spared Lord Baelish the briefest of glances before hurrying after her former opponent. "Wait!" she called out, ignoring the jolt of surprise as did just that, "I did not mean to imply that my objective was to kill you."

"And what was it then," Clegane challenged as he turned back to face her, both now stood in the falling snow.

Up close, Brienne could now make out the way he favoured his right leg, even while stationary. "I was charged with protecting Lady Arya. I failed."

Clegane snorted and shook his head in a very doglike manner as he turned away once more. "You and me both."

She'd finally convinced Clegane to meet with Lady Sansa and announce his presence. He, in turn, had dragged a group of rough-looking men along with them while grumbling about not subjecting himself to this horseshit alone. Lady Sansa had taken the unexpected visit in stride and seen to it that the men were fed and warmed by the fire, a gesture that seemed to placate Clegane, while they waited for the King's return. Brienne was then ordered to find some dry clothes while Podrick was tasked with watching over their guests. His Grace had returned not long after and joined them despite still being damp from his travels and a day spent in the snow. Lady Sansa stopped short of ordering her brother to get changed, although her disapproval was clear in the glare she shot him behind their guests' backs.

The group, headed by a man who introduced himself as Lord Beric Dondarrion, called themselves the Brotherhood Without Banners and proclaimed themselves to be a group of outlaws looking to protect the common folks' interests from rulers who would take advantage of them. It was an honourable cause, to be sure, but Brienne remained suspicious of the motley group.

So too, it seemed, did the King. "And you've come to Winterfell for what reason, Lord Beric?" he asked, polite yet with an undercurrent of something more threatening.

"There's not a soul to be found elsewhere in the North, Your Grace," Lord Beric replied, his tone mild and his smile calm as he addressed the King, "We can't very well protect those we aren't with, can we?"

Lord Beric was a curious creature. Brienne wasn't one for disparaging names, but creature did seem a more apt description than man. His voice was that of someone still in the early years of their manhood, and yet he had the body and face of someone twice that. An eyepatch covered the entirety of his right eye, but it did nothing to disguise the vicious scars which extended outwards to wrap both around the side of his forehead and over his nose onto the opposite cheek. There was, likewise, no hiding the thick knot of scarring running clean across his throat or the sickly grey pallor of his skin. It was that pallor which aged him most of all, that and the emptiness in his one remaining eye.

"You are fighting the only war that matters, Your Grace," the man seated next to Lord Beric added. He smelled of a mixture of sweat and alcohol and had appeared to be well in his cups even before Lady Sansa had provided wine with their meal. "The dead. The war between light and dark. The war for dawn."

"What do you know of the dead?" His Grace asked sharply.

"They're coming. Marching on the Wall. They'll cross it too, spreading night all across the world."

"Where did you hear this, My Lord?"

The drunk shook his head. "Not a Lord, Yer Grace, just a priest," he sighed and tapped at his forehead, "An' I saw it. We all did."

"Thoros is a priest of the Red God," Lord Beric cut in, apparently unconcerned that his favoured priest was spouting drunken nonsense, "The Red priests and priestesses of Asshai have seen visions of the Long Night and its heroes for generations now."

"Fucking fire gods," Clegane mocked from where he slouched in his own seat, "They see snow in the North and figure the end is here. Gods don't do shit. They don't tell ya shit, neither."

"You're a miserable cunt, you know that Clegane?" another member of the group quipped from in front of the hearth where he was tending to his bow in the firelight.

"You'd know all about cunts, wouldn't you, Anguy?" Clegane snarled, "You've got your arrows shoved up yours all — "

"That's enough," Lord Beric interrupted as the archer, Anguy, and Clegane eyed each other with murderous intent, Thoros laughed openly and the fourth member of the group, a pale-haired youth who had stayed out of the conversation thus far, stifled a chuckle.

"You claim to serve two masters," Lady Sansa addressed Lord Beric alone, pointedly ignoring all other members of the Brotherhood, "The wellbeing of the common folk and this Red God. Which is it?"

"Why can't it be both, My Lady?" the priest queered, before Lord Beric could answer, "The Lord of Light's purpose is the welfare of his people."

"That hasn't been my experience," the Lady of Winterfell's voice was as cold as the North itself.

"Nor mine," Brienne added, memories of Stannis' Red Woman adding a similar edge to her own voice.

"Tell me about this Red God." Despite his quiet tone, the order immediately put an end to the back and forth. The King had an odd, closed off expression on his face as his eyes tracked the injuries on Lord Beric's face.

This time, the memories invading Brienne's mind took place at Castle Black. The Red Woman serving and advising Lord Snow. The rumours of his death and the magic which had brought him back… She'd assumed it was free folk magic, if there was any truth to the rumours at all, as they seemed the type to meddle in such unnatural things. The Red Woman's magic had never occurred to her. Her's was a force of evil and death, surely such darkness could never bring life…

"The Lord of Light is life and light and warm," Thoros explained, unaware of Brienne's inner musing, "He grants us visions in his flames and guides us in our eternal struggle against the Great Other, a demon of ice and death whose name shall never be spoken. He brought us here, to you, for your fight is his as well. It has always been his."

King Jon stood abruptly and began pacing the length of the table. Brienne noted that he rubbed absentmindedly at his chest as he did so, though she could not recall landing a blow there during their sparring. "The Great Other," he repeated after a moment, "You mean the White Walkers? Or the Night King, perhaps?"

"What else?" Lord Beric shrugged, "R'hllor and the Great Other are said to be locked in eternal conflict and condemned to remain so until Azor Ahai comes again to drive the darkness from the realms."

"In ancient books of Asshai," the drunk priest recited lazily, "It is written that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour the warrior Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone. And draw they shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and the darkness shall flee before him."

Silence followed his words and Brienne wondered if everyone present had felt the strange pull toward contemplation those words had brought about in her. They must have, if their faces were anything to go by. She was raised in the faith of the Seven, as was common on Tarth and most places in the South, but religion had never played a large role in her life. Faith, as she knew it, favoured gentle maidens and gallant men. There was no place for someone like her in their songs and prayers. Still, she remembered the red comet that preceded King Robert's death and the wars that followed… And then there was the Targaryen girl…

"The Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, she's said to have hatched her dragons from eggs once turned to stone," she said at last.

"Yes," Lord Beric agreed, "And many believe her to be the hero of legend."

"But not you?" Lady Sansa questioned.

"Perhaps, My Lady," Dondarrion sighed, "Perhaps. But prophecy is rarely so simple."

"Many a priest and priestess have been led to ruin interpreting beyond their power and following their own beliefs rather than our lord's commands," Thoros added, "They forget, you see, that we are but men. It is not our place to meddle in the affairs of Gods."

"Tell them about Thoros's kiss, My Lord." It was the youngest member of the Brotherhood who broke the lull in conversation which had followed the priest's words as he stepped forward, face alight with youthful eagerness.

"And you are?" Lady Sansa asked, eyeing the youth.

"Edric, My Lady, Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall. Milkbrother to His Grace."

King Jon stopped pacing abruptly. "Say again?"

Lord Dayne glanced between the King and the Lady of Winterfell as his face reddened and took on the look of a man who realized he may have overstepped his bounds. "Your mother," he clarified cautiously, "Wylla fed me at her breast when my mother could not…"

The young Lord's statement seemed to freeze their King in place as he stared at the pale-haired lad. Brienne would never presume to understand what feelings swirled behind the empty gaze, but she found herself relieved on His Grace's behalf when Lady Sansa took control of the conversation.

"Dorne has sworn allegiance to the Targaryen Queen," she stated coldly, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table, "With that in mind I would be well within my right to have you taken into custody until she could ransom your release. Tell me why I should not, Lord Dayne."

The Dornish Lord looked to his companions helplessly but answered all the same, the cheer with which he had introduced himself long since gone from his voice. "The Sand Snakes have sworn allegiance to Daenerys Targaryen," he corrected haltingly, "But they do not speak for all of Dorne. I have been away from my home for some years now, serving Lord Beric as squire even before the Brotherhood was formed, but my aunt has kept me abreast of happenings in the desert. Prince Doran and his son were loved by their people for many years, but after Prince Oberyn's death that sentiment began to change. Allyria — that is, my aunt — warned me to stay away, for she believed something dangerous was moving in the shadows. Ellaria Sand grew up nearer to the mountains than to Sunspear and was acquainted with my family through her father. I did not know her myself, but she was said to be gentle and kind enough to tame the Red Viper. After she orchestrated the slaughter of our Prince and his son, it became clear that Allyria's fears were true. I cannot say who in Dorne has knelt out of survival rather than loyalty, but I know there is dissent, at least in the hearts of men."

Lady Sansa leaned back with a satisfied smile. "Thank you, My Lord. That was most illuminating."

Lord Edric shuffled uncertainly under her gaze. "You're not going to arrest me, are you?"

"I am not," Lady Sansa assured him, "The Brotherhood Without Banners is welcome in Winterfell under the same conditions imposed on all our residents. Details of the rationing and housing arrangements we have in place will be provided to you — "

"Wait." His Grace had come back to himself, it seemed, but he had eyes only for Lord Beric now, "What is this kiss Lord Edric mentioned?"

The Brotherhood's leader sighed, studying the King as intently as he himself was being studied, and seemed to weigh his responses.

The King, however, was not willing to wait for the correct words. "You've died, haven't you?" It was a statement phrased as a question.

"Yes," Lord Beric accepted the accusation easily, "Many times now. Too many. But, so have you."

His Grace's fingers twitched, but he held Lord Beric's gaze. "And the kiss?"

"Funeral rites performed by followers of the Lord of Light. Fire is breathed down the dead's throat to light their way. It seems my way is yet on this earth."

"Why?"

"I don't know," the undead Lord watched their King with sadness in his visible eye, "And you?"

"A Red Priestess. She didn't kiss me."

Lord Beric hummed thoughtfully. "How did you go?"

His Grace frowned, and Brienne saw his hand move to rub at his chest once more. "A knife to the heart."

"Someone you trusted, then."

"Aye, someone I trusted."

Lord Beric heaved a heavy sigh and exchanged a look with the priest at his side. "I'm truly sorry, lad," he said at last, hauling himself to his feet with all the grace of an old man before lowering himself to one knee in front of the King, "The Brotherhood Without Banners is yours, Your Grace."

"Fucking Hells," Clegane grumbled.

1. Where is clan chief Zr'kk?

2. Zr'kk, this is clan mother Brienne

3. Come with me, then