Brienne

Brienne stifled a growl of frustration as she stood at attention just outside of Winterfell's mess hall, biting the inside wall of her cheek.

Lord Tyrion and Sansa had attempted escape through the crypts, as did the broken limping man who was more accursed wretch than a man.

Reek the Freak, they called him, though Lady Sansa insisted on calling him by his trueborn name, Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, who had if the rumors circulating about the following morning were true, recently pledged his allegiance to the Stark forces, what was left of them, that was.

Brienne did not know what had become of Lord Tyrion or Lady Sansa, merely that a team of Bolton soldiers had found them in the godswoods and had escorted them back, though under pain of punishment or death if they did not willingly return of their own volition she did not know. And now, here she was, forced to endure standing watch over him.

She did not particularly like the way Lord Bolton was eyeing her, and she could tell that from the scrutinizing way his lips pursed into a thin, rigid line, so thin in fact, that they almost disappeared, that he remembered.

Brienne breathed an audible sigh of relief as the Warden of the North scowled even deeper and flung his spoon down on the table and vacated the premises, mumbling half-heartedly under his breath of needing a tonic to quell the murmurs in his heart. Brienne felt her ears perk up at that.

A complaint of the heart? Is it true, then? He sleeps so little at night.

Rumors swirled these days about the castle of Lord Roose Bolton's ailing health, though Brienne wouldn't put it past the Warden's bastard son to attempt to slit the man's throat in his sleep while he slept soundly.

An entire family with no code of honor. No respect. Snakes in the night. This thought permeated and drenched her memory of this place, and the last time she had come here had been a less than pleasant experience. The Bolton soldiers threw me in the bear pit and pitted me against a bear. The Bear and the Maiden Fair, they sang. They mocked me once. They will never do it again, will they?

These were the nights that displeased her the most when sleep would not come, and Brienne heard herself sigh and stiffened hard against her perch at the wall, glancing down at her outfit in dismay. The Bolton soldiers had stripped her of her armor. Again.

She crinkled her nose in disgust and glanced down at her new attire. The attire of an archer on the wall, not one of a knight. No armor.

A pair of simple brown leather breeches, a light green tunic, a belt around her waist, brown knee-high leather boots, a short dark brown cape, brown leather gauntlets, and brown fingerless leather gloves, a pitiful attempt at keeping her pink-tipped fingers warm.

But the worst part of it, aside from having her sword forcefully stolen from her, as they had given her a simple hunting knife in its place that would barely hold up against a fox, and a bow and arrow. No archer was she! Not a bowman! She was a sellsword, of sorts. The damned soldiers' pitiful attempt at a joke, they'd given her a meager hunting knife, its blade dull. Oathkeeper was gone, stolen by none other than Locke, a man-at-arms who was rumored to be Lord Bolton's best hunter.

The very same man who mutilated Ser Jaimie and cut off his sword hand. And for that, she owed both him and the young Bolton's bastard son for the horrific way he had tried twice to rape Lady Sansa Stark, once she was able to retrieve the sword Ser Jaimie had bestowed upon her as a gift.

Brienne scowled from her perch against the wall, twisting the dagger in the dim light of the mess hall as if it could slice up the rays of the sun itself, her expression aggravated by the dark shadows around her eyelids. Though rust had set in on the handle and blade, it was still strong, jagged.

More than enough to take down Locke at her earliest opportunity.

She felt…fed up. Tired. So tired. Done. Beyond done. Brienne felt as though she had had enough of it. The expectations, the pressures of life. The only thing she felt a sworn sense of duty towards left in this world was the promise that she had made to Lady Catelyn. To protect her daughters. Well. Given the other, the younger, Arya, was presumed dead, or at the very least missing, that fell towards her protecting Sansa, no matter the cost. Even if it meant giving up her own life for her.

Which she would do if it came to that, but then there was the very big problem that was Ramsay Bolton, the Bastard, the Skinflayer. Beast.

As long as he remained alive, he was, like it or not, a threat to Sansa's ambition, now that she was a Lannister and a player of the game of thrones.

Moreover, than that, the accursed whelp was a threat to Sansa's life.

And that…Brienne could not allow him to continue to draw in breath as long as he remained interested in Lady Stark, but how to make the boy's death an accident? The little Lord had come to her the other night, and had begged of Brienne in secret too, as he put it 'dispose of Ramsay Bolton.'

Though the question was how? These things must be done delicately… She sighed, resting her hand in her right cheek, and scowled.

How in all of the seven hells and kingdoms had her life come to this? From wanting to serve as a knight, someone of valor and honor, to now under the command of Lord Tyrion Lannister and Lady Sansa, who were adamant (at least the Imp was!) on the murdering of bastard Ramsay Snow.

If killing was done for means of survival, no one thought any less of you. There were those that took a life, the reluctant ones, and then when it was over and done with, they crumpled under the weight of the guilt.

There were others who killed only when absolutely necessary and never lost a wink of sleep over it. That was pretty much where Brienne rested her beliefs. She liked to consider herself one of those, though if there were a choice, she would not prefer to not kill at all. It's a messy business, slaying someone on behalf of someone else. War.

A storm's coming, Lord Tyrion had told Brienne earlier in confidence prior to the assembly of the others in the mess hall, informing them of the fact that Winterfell would be snowed in unless the men cleared the doors.

"And we'd best be ready when it does," Brienne murmured, finishing the Imp's words for him, though Lord Tyrion was not around to comment on it.

At the time, Brienne had been inclined to think the dwarf spoke of the impending blizzard, though now she was beginning to believe that Tyrion Lannister had not been referring to the wretched snowstorm, then. Her frown deepened, creating lines upon her forehead and a deep groove near the edges of her mouth that turned her lips down in a sneer.

The air inside this frigid hall was bloody freezing when she exhaled, she could see cold vapors, puffs of air visible in front of her mouth, and if Brienne were being completely honest with herself, hearing the haphazard swaying of the limbs of the trees outside in the bitter winter cold and her nostrils flared as she swore, she swore, that she could practically smell the snow outside.

Brienne of Tarth furrowed her light blonde brows into a frown and shifted against the wall, keeping her arms tightly folded across her chest.

What she wanted, she supposed, more than anything else, was rest. Though, Fate and the gods, it would seem, were not about to be kind.

Fate, this cruel bastard or bitch, depending on how you looked at it, possessed a name, and its name tonight was none other than Ser Bronn, for he had not gone outside with the rest of the Bolton men to clear the damned doors of the snow. He too had promised the Imp he'd watch Sansa.

A figure nudged beside her, and Brienne felt a light blush speckle along her fair-skinned cheeks. Ser Bronn. Brienne felt her body stiffen instinctively out of a reactionary response whenever she was around men.

She couldn't help it. Save for whenever in Ser Jaimie's company, Brienne had been given every reason to hate men, for all they did was ridicule and mock her at every given opportunity, so why should she be kind?

Ser Bronn gave her a rather wan look before offering a slight dip of his head, a minuscule amount of respect towards 'Brienne the Beauty.'

But it was more than enough for her, she supposed. Lord Tyrion knew that she was sworn allegiance and bended knee under oath to serve the Stark family, and out of respect for his wife and her friendship with Sansa, he treated her with a modicum of respect. And, she supposed, to a lesser extent, Ser Bronn did as well, given the Imp was a friend to the sellsword.

Despite their immense differences and clashes in personality, Brienne returned the nod. But still…anger with Ramsay Bolton, at what the young raven-haired bastard had attempted twice to force himself inside Lady Sansa, boiled deep in Brienne's bloodstream, igniting hot as Wildfire.

"You gonna kill the vicious little cunt, then? Follow your lady's husband's orders? How will you do it? With that?" Ser Bronn's first words to her as the man with the reddened, weather-beaten skin glanced downward, where his gaze settled on the knife, which Brienne had taken up the habit of twirling idly between her white-boned knuckles. Boredom.

"I…I'm still working on it. I'm…sorting it out," Brienne heard herself respond in a clipped and hardened tone by way of response, rather curtly.

Ser Bronn snorted and rolled his eyes, biting the wall of his mouth. "Obviously. Your face, Tarth, does not look like the face of someone who is at ease. It's quite plain to the little lord and the lady that you've not 'sorted it out.' The boy frightens you, is that it? Lord Bolton's bastard?"

When Brienne failed to produce an adequate response to the sellsword's question, Ser Bronn took the opportunity of the momentary hesitation in the blonde's movements, in the uncomfortable silence, her wide range of facial expressions. He could practically see the bitch's emotions darting in those sky-blue cerulean orbs of hers, a range of emotions flickering through them and on her face as she contemplated.

Self-loathing at what she was. Who she was, her place in this world, Bronn saw. Disgust. And yes, even the briefest flickers of fear for Bolton.

The look on Brienne of Tarth's face was evident enough for Bronn without the woman even having to draw breath to answer his question.

He snorted and scoffed. "I thought as much. Well. There's no cure for being a cunt, much less the bastard of a man who came from the cunt of another woman. Don't know what it is about those types, but they tend to lack compassion. I'd consider you a fool if you weren't bloody scared of him, wench. There's a reason they call that bastard the Skinflayer, girl. Doesn't matter how bloody taller you are than Ramsay Snow, fucking seven hells," he growled. "The boy would gouge out your own eyeball and then eat it and not even blink a fuckin' eyelid at doing it."

Brienne flinched at the vulgar words of anger and uncertainty dripping from Bronn's tone, though she offered no comment right away. She knew that or at least had an inkling that Bronn's harsh words to describe Ramsay Bolton (however accurate they might be) stemmed from a place of fear.

It didn't escape Bronn's attention how his choice of words sent a tremor down the female knight's spine, though the bitch repressed it.

The wench had spirit. Bronn would give her that much, at least. He could see why Sansa (and now he supposed, Lord Tyrion) liked this one.

Brienne heard herself emanate a tense exhale as she sheathed the knife, making a mental point to sharpen it at her earliest opportunity. "It is…difficult for me to… find an opportune moment to carry out milord's wishes, but if it is what will keep Lady Stark safe, then her wishes will be done."

She had to choose her words carefully, for Sansa had warned her in private upon her arrival in Winterfell that even within the battlement's stone walls, many of Lord Varys' 'little birds' carried word back to the man.

You could not tell in these times who was friend and who was foe, for the shadows housed them both, and could never be too careful.

Brienne blinked as she quickly came to the realization Ser Bronn of the Blackwater had said something to her and she had missed it entirely.

"Pardon me, Ser," Brienne began hesitantly, actively looking away. "I am afraid that I allowed my mind to wander. Would you repeat that?"

Bronn rolled his eyes as if he had expected nothing less from her. "I was merely saying that our little lord received a raven from King's Landing, from Queen Regent Cersei herself. It seems big brother is on his way to visit and ah, what did Tyrion call it? 'Check-up' on him and Lady Stark?"

Brienne startled, biting down hard enough on her tongue that she tasted iron on her palate as crimson, garish blood welled, settling on it.

She stood there, frozen and rooted to the spot as she watched in awe at Bronn of the Blackwater's expression as he silently watched her, no doubt waiting for some kind of reactionary response that Jaime would be soon visiting his brother. She saw nothing short of amusement on his face.

Embarrassment. That damned emotion felt like a weapon of the gods, vicious cunts that they were, capricious as they are. It was a torment for the meek, the ones not bold enough to be immune, and she was not one.

Brienne felt her throat hollow and constrict, and she licked her lips to moisten them, all the while actively averting Ser Bronn's piercing gaze.

"Ser Jaimie's business in his own," she answered in a clipped voice, the edges of her tone hardened. "What does it matter to me why he comes to Winterfell, Ser Bronn?" She could swear she saw Ser Bronn snicker.

Ah, but gods! She had…she had thought she'd been careful!

Ser Bronn sneered, despite his best efforts not to, and there was such a smug look of triumph on his face that she could almost hardly bear it.

Her fingers curled into claws and raked down the thigh of her pants.

"I do believe that is a hint of affection in your voice that I hear for your kingslayer, Brienne the Beauty. You do know that he's wanted to fuck you since the day you brought him back to King's Landing?" he jeered meanly, the edges of his lips curling upwards. He sighed and promptly looked away from Brienne, who was regarding the sellsword as though Ser Bronn had accidentally sprouted horns atop his head. "I can't say I blame him," he chuckled, giving Brienne's figure an appreciative once-over. "Though, ah, what's-his-name? The ginger giant cunt won't be pleased to hear this, will he?" he snorted, and if it was possible, Brienne's blush deepened.

Ser Bronn fell silent. He'd never seen this wench blush before like this. The blonde-haired bitch was always so stoic, in charge, and strangely cold, and to be quite frank, annoyingly self-assured, and overly confident.

So, when the sellsword of Lord Tyrion's saw that pinkness creeping at a snail's pace on Lord Selwyn Tarth's only daughter's cheeks, he knew something more serious at work was afoot than just a 'fond friendship.'

Friendship, my ass, Bronn thought, amused. He wants to fuck this bitch; he just doesn't want to admit it to himself. I'd fuck her, though.

Poor Brienne's blush seared through her face and for a solid minute, she thought her face was on fire. She suddenly felt awkward, demure, and coy.

Even going as far as attempting to hide her rosy features by turning her head sharply to the right to the avoid looking Ser Bronn dead in the eye. Ser Bronn waited somewhat impatiently, huffing, for Brienne 'the Beauty' to speak, to say something to break the silence. He had half-expected the female knight to grow fangs and bury her razor-sharp incisors into the skin of his neck, but when it did not come, Ser Bronn groaned and pinched the front of his temples with his thumb and his forefingers.

"If you do not wish for an end to your…friendship with Ser Jaimie," he brought up quietly at the bequest of Lady Sansa (unbeknownst to Brienne), lowering his voice an octave, "then you will need to learn how to reconcile past these differences, no matter what transpired between the two of you these last few months, wench. To work with him. It is essential if you are seeking reconciliation, though why you would want to is beyond me," he growled, rooting his jaw as he felt a strange itching in his chest.

Ser Bronn's scoffed as Brienne's cheeks immediately flushed pink in embarrassment and shame as the blonde-haired, fair-skinned wench promptly looked away and avoided his gaze. "Passion is a mistake, Tarth," Bronn growled angrily, sensing the woman's thoughts. "Look at our little lord. He spends his whole life tryin' to get people to love him, and he'll end up the most popular dead man in all of the Seven fuckin' kingdoms."

Brienne furrowed her blonde brows into a frown and quirked her brows towards Lord Tyrion Lannister's sellsword, saying nothing.

It was not only what the man had just said to her, but the things that he would not say. The tinge of melancholia in his eyes. She could sense that Bronn had a reason for speaking to her of such a topic and given that they had arrived at a point in their conversation where neither could abandon it without there being questions raised that demanded answers, the best she could hope for were that Bronn arrived at his conclusion.

For that, Brienne supposed he could not blame the sellsword, who was admittedly looking bored, as though he'd rather be anywhere but here having this conversation with her, though someone, Brienne suspected, perhaps Lady Sansa or Lord Tyrion, had put him up to it earlier. Bronn was still actively looking away from him, picking at his nails with his knife.

"We are both still considered young, wench, believe it or not. You might feel like giving in to it. Passion. You think it the nature of your…physical attributes, that you'd offer that cunt between your legs to the first man who showed your kindness, but every human suffers it at one point or another. Don't give in. This is my one and only piece of fuckin' sage advice to you." Ser Bronn continued the absentminded preening of his nails.

Brienne gave a curt nod to signal that she was actively listening, for she was, her sharp ears like a wolf's had practically perked up the moment Ser Bronn opened his mouth to say more than two words to the female knight ever since their begrudging partnership this morning following that awkward encounter earlier with the Boltons in the mess hall breaking their fast. "Why tell me this?" Brienne asked, furrowing her brows in a frown.

Ser Bronn paused, running his tongue along the wall of his teeth, studying the bitch's tired features. dark circles underneath his eyes growing darker, more pronounced as the hours laying in wake dragged on at a snail's petty pace.

"Because the undeniable tension between the two of you is proving to be a problem, Tarth. Jaimie fuckin' Lannister is a complication for you the longer this little 'problem' remains unsolved, and like it or not that golden-haired son of a bitch might be the one thing that tames the madness within you and give you the strength to do what has to be done to get rid of the Skinflayer for Lady Sansa, that's your answer to your 'why'," Bronn replied coldly, and Brienne could detect no hint of malice or deceit in his tone, which she found strange. "Women know more about feelings, emotions. Love," he spat, sounding disgusted and scrunched his nose in revulsion, as though just the thought of the very concept sent a chill of repulsion down his tensed spine. "Men, however, we do not, and we are admittedly much slower to grasp these concepts. Your partner is a…difficult man to please, but he tends to ah…favor the blondes."

There was a beat. A pause. And Ser Bronn fixed her with a pointed look.

"Favor you. He does. I've seen it myself." He snorted. There was no mistaking the flicker of re-ignited hope that now lingered in the woman's light blue eyes, though her face was neutral. Bronn groaned and thumped his forehead with the palm of his hand and dragged his hand down along his cheek in exasperation.

"I never thought I would ever be having a conversation of this caliber in my life, let alone with a female fuckin' knight," he growled irritably through gritted teeth. "But the little lord believes that I could have provided some assistance, so that is your answer as to you 'why.'" He heaved a tired sigh and glanced at Brienne out of the corner of his eye. "There it is. You're getting to be quite good at this, you know. That look."

Brienne frowned. Look. What look? The confusion must have been evident on her face, for she swiveled her head almost lazily to regard Bronn. Bronn snorted and smirked, the corners of his mouth turning up.

"Don't give me that look, Tarth. What I'm about to suggest to you is quite simple. It would solve your little 'love' dilemma, and I suggest you fuckin' follow my advice and take it to heart, Brienne of fucking Tarth."

"My… 'problem?'" Brienne asked, feigning ignorance. Was he…was he talking about what she thought he was referring to? Of him?

"Yes, because you see," Ser Bronn began, a sudden wicked glint in his eyes as he leaned forward slightly off the wall to better look Brienne in the eye. "It was bothering me why I couldn't put my finger on it. The reason why you requested relocation to follow Lady Stark here to Winterfell, is because you're holding out on our golden Kingslayer. Someone who, if you were to pursue this, the entire world would laugh at you for, never approve of, given your ah…status," he finished lamely, wildly gesticulating with his hands towards Brienne's physical attributes.

Lord Tyrion's sellsword offered Brienne a dry, sardonic smirk and fell silent. Brienne blanched and felt all the blood drain from her already pale features. How?! Bronn of the Blackwater knew, somehow, he knew.

Brienne had an inkling upon her first meeting of the sellsword and Lord Tyrion's friend, that Bronn, in his own way, was an intelligent man of sorts, but how he could have known was beyond her ability to understand and comprehend, for Brienne had been under the impression that she'd been careful in regards to the concealing of her feelings for him.

But Ser Bronn of the fucking Blackwater did not give Brienne a chance to continue. He clasped his hands together and picked at a loose thread on his jerkin. "I know. It's all too fuckin' obvious, wench. You allowed your sense of duty to Lady Sansa to become tainted. You're plagued by thoughts of Jaimie fuckin' Lannister. I understand, but I'd see you do something about it and take care of this fuckin' Bolton boy before Stark and the little lord suffers because of your lack of action, Tarth…"

Brienne tried to focus on her breathing, but the anxiety bubbled inside her ribcage, and she suddenly felt sick to her stomach.

The goddamned sellsword knew. The look of amused satisfaction on the man's face, half shrouded in shadow, was more than enough. Brienne's chest felt hollow and constricted. The panic continued to well deep within the confines of her chest, and she felt the beads of sweat break above her brow and she balled her gloved hands into fists, feeling the sweat trapped beneath her palms as she practically folded them behind her back to quell the shaking. By the gods, she needed an out.

But Ser Bronn of the Blackwater was not about to let the matter drop, for the man leaned forward, resting his cheek in his right hand, eyes glistening with intrigue. "I knew it," he breathed, sounding victorious. "You love him. You've fallen in love with Jaimie fuckin' Lannister, haven't you, wench?" He leaned forward from his spot on the ledge and pinned Brienne of Tarth with his piercing dark stare, rendering Brienne drawn to the man's gaze and unable to tear his gaze away.

To that, Brienne found that she had no apt response to give. Bronn's comment was so out of character from what she knew of the sellsword, which was admittedly very little, and her brain formulated no thoughts other than to register that she was completely shocked.

"I…" she stammered, not sure what else to say in her line of defense. How she was even able to formulate a coherent thought in it of itself was admittedly a miracle right now.

Ser Bronn shifted at the waist slightly to regard her in silence before pinning her down to her spot with his deep, inquisitive gaze and he spoke.

"You're in love with Jaimie Lannister."