Brienne could never get used to the Northern conditions.
She lay on her rough pallet bed, wrapped in her provided furs. The torches around her flickering in the dark; in Tarth, they never had such weather, and when it was cold it was a crisp, autumnal cold. This was ruthless, harsh, and unforgiving.
Her mind was in too many places this tempestuous night. Sansa and Arya were in Winterfell without her, and though she knew that the Hound, with whom she had found a truce based on their mutual affection for the girls, was with them, she could not shake her concern. Arya can hold her own, she reminded herself, and they have many other seasoned warriors with them. But honour always demanded otherwise for Brienne of Tarth.
The thought of Podrick was a blade in her heart. After hearing that there were breaches in the Wall north of Winterfell made her insides squirm. She cared more for that boy than she had ever thought she would, and to imagine him perishing in such an awful way sent chills through her. Warrior, protect him, she prayed, mother, let him live.
Then her mind wandered, inevitably, to him.
When he had shown up at Winterfell, she could hardly believe her eyes, seeing his cocksure smile and his golden hair having grown out, almost as long as when they had met and had despised one another with every ounce of their beings. She was unfathomably relieved that he had abandoned his sister. Seeing him sitting loyally at Cersei's side in the Dragonpit, months and months after their reunion at Riverrun, had brought back all these sentiments and thoughts of words left unsaid that she could not quash. When she had told him to fuck loyalty, she prayed her words would convince him to think, just for once. And they had, and gods, she was glad they had.
Jaime's behaviour towards Tormund was another thing altogether that she did not understand. Brienne had experienced similar japes before; only Renly had shown her a sliver of light and an ounce of unfeigned interest in an ugly woman's world. Until now. Tormund's lust for her was no secret, and Brienne was unsure how to handle his advances; he was not un-comely. He was crass, sometimes vulgar, but she could tell that under those Wildling words that he had a good heart. She knew he was not japing, as he had so often told her.
In planning for the Great War, Brienne had concluded that any sexual or amorous liaisons would be a distraction. As much as she tried to deny it and conceal it, she had a gentle woman's heart, which was as shrouded in armour as she was. But did she come face-to-face with death, she would die as she had lived. Unloved, unwanted, and unworthy. I failed you, Renly, she thought, and you, Lady Catelyn. But she had not failed Ser Jaime.
She had not believed that Jaime cared for her to such an extent, even when he had told her that he thought she was the only thing worth fighting for. She had not even thought to hope such a ludicrous idea; not until their embrace, and those soft words that he made sound as sharp as lion's claws. She conjured up the sensation of his arms around her and her heart swelled. The feeling dissolved as she recalled him pulling away from her in Jon Snow's tent, avoiding her eyes. He is as changeable as the winds of winter, she concluded, he is kind and then he is cruel and then he is kind again. Her hand moved to her scabbard that lay by her side, beneath the furs, and she ran her gloved fingers over the smooth Valyrian steel inside.
Her shivering musing came to an abrupt halt when the opening of her tent was shoved aside, and a huge, looming silhouette entered. Brienne shot up and drew Oathkeeper. "Who enters?" she said, before Tormund Giantsbane's face was illuminated by the torches fire, his wiry red hair glowing.
"Tormund?" Brienne rose to her feet, shuddering as the bracing breeze entered through the crack in the tent. Her stomach was in her throat. If he tries anything, she thought, no one would hear my protests over the wind. Jaime would not promise him sapphires. But she knew Tormund, or she hoped she knew him; he would not try anything. Or would he? She was distrustful. "What are you doing in here?" she snapped.
Tormund's bravado seemed to slip for a moment, until he gave a hearty grin. "I thought you may be too cold," he said in a voice that Brienne could only assume was an attempt at being seductive. It gave Brienne a sense of discomfort. "My tent is awful' empty."
Brienne wrapped her furred cloak tighter around her shoulders. "I will be alright, thank you, Tormund."
Tormund took a brave step towards her. Stupidly brave, she thought. "If I die before getting t' taste your sweet southern lips, Brienne of the Island of Tarth, I'll be dyin' a lonely man," he growled, his voice animalistic. Brienne's stomach turned, and her hands began to perspire despite the cold. He was awfully close, and his warm breath smelt of dried meat.
"I…" she stammered, lifting her hands, "I am not… I do not think this journey, or the time…" she flushed, looking at the ice below their feet. She took an unsteady breath. "…I am sure there are other women, from your Wildling clan, who would be glad to…"
"I don't want none of my kind," he interrupted, stepping even closer. His voice lowered, and his face softened. He looked directly into her eyes, and she could see a glint of… almost… was it fear?... in his eyes. "I want you. Just once."
Brienne froze. This is when you are meant to say yes, her mind urged. Do you want to die a maid? How many times had she dreamt of, as a young, foolish, fanciful adolescent, to hear those words from a decent man's lips? To be desired for what she was, a shambling, overgrown warrior? She fought to find words. He was so close… if he even leaned in slightly, he could kiss her.
She had never been kissed. Never, let alone anything else. She could easily have him have her, and that would be it. But…
I do not want this, she thought, her mind suddenly clear and unfazed. She did not want him to. No, she did not want him to.
Brienne almost cried with relief when she heard a horn sound bleakly from the other side of the camp. They jumped back from one another, startled. Then realisation dawned on them as a second one sounded… and a third blow.
They stared at one another, drew their weapons, and rushed out of the tent.
The camp was in chaos. The dragonfire in the centre of the camp was almost horizontal with the wind, and Brienne looked immediately towards Jaime's tent as she and Tormund exited. She could see his hardened knight's silhouette exit his tent, and as if he knew, he looked directly towards her own tent. As trivial as it was, she felt her heart sink as she realised Jaime would be seeing her exit her tent with Tormund at her side.
But that did not matter now.
Tormund put his huge hand on her shoulder, then dashed towards the direction of Jon Snow's tent. Brienne hurried in the direction of Jorah and Davos' tent, and felt a short hand clutch her arm. "My lady, we are under attack," she heard Davos' flea bottom accent yell over the wind, and her stomach dropped.
As quick and as sudden as the wind, the rush of men and women around her, Dothraki and Unsullied and Northmen and Knights, encircled her and Ser Davos and carried them in a chaotic stream to the east side of the camp, behind the King in the North's tent. There was screaming and yelling and bedlam. She could hardly breathe through the sleet and wind and snow, hardly see for the dark and the ice in her eyes, hardly think and hardly feel. Dothraki men kept screaming "Ifak! Ifak!" and Brienne could only assume the worst.
She could not see him, oh god, she could not tell him… tell him… she had wanted…
A helmeted Unsullied soldier appeared beside her as she pushed forwards toward the front of the squirming pack of furred, armoured people she did not recognise in the dim light of the moon. Her mind was overrun by fear. "Dead!" yelled the Unsullied soldier over the pandemonium. She recognised his voice to be Grey Worm's. "TOGETHER! STAY!"
Before Brienne could take a breath to steady her mind for the battle, an eerie grey mist enveloped the pack, and a feeling of utter doom and hopelessness and cold overwhelmed her. She shuddered, her teeth chattering, and fought her way to the side of the group.
The vanguard dispersed outwardly, and Brienne was filled with terror as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She saw a vague silhouette of something, something human but not, rapidly approach a man only ten feet in front of her.
"TO YOUR LEFT!" she screamed, moments too late. She watched the wight knock the man to the ice below. She lurched forwards, grunting, and delivered her first blow to the creature before she could even comprehend what she was doing, but her glove had frozen to the hilt and she stumbled forwards. Brienne never stumbled.
The man on the ground below screamed, screamed, then stopped. Brienne could not pause as she vaguely made out nearby fighters battling ominous, shrieking dark figures through the mist, and within seconds she was face to face with a dead man.
She delivered a hard blow through its ribs, but missed as it lunged backwards, her vision impaired by the mist and the snow crusted on her eyelashes. It disappeared from her scope of vision, but appeared again startlingly close, with bloodcurdling shrieks emanating from its sunken mouth. Brienne felt herself scream as she staggered forwards, and with every ounce of strength she had, shoved Oathkeeper into the creature's ribcage.
Its scream pierced, and its skeletal form shattered into the roar of the wind.
The vanguard had dispersed so widely and the mist was so thick that she could only make out half a dozen others in her peripheral vision, when another rattling, gaunt and rotting wight charged towards her. She could hear nothing but the wind, and saw nothing but this thing, snapping at her wildly. She pushed Oathkeeper into its skull and watched it perish into the mist, when she heard a yell over the wind.
"BEHIND!" they screamed.
Brienne turned rapidly as another one jumped at her, but it was too quick- she felt a tearing, burning pain rip at her face as it bit her cheek. She screamed in anger and agony as she lifted a heavily clad leg and pushed the creature backwards, and plunged Oathkeeper into the wight's core.
The mist had lessened, but the sleet and wind and falling snow obscured everything. Vague outlines of her fellow warriors danced and darted through the blizzard. Blood froze on her ravaged cheek, the wound congealing within milliseconds. She started in fright when she felt a presence at her back.
"BACK TO BACK NOW!" Jaime's voice yelled, and Brienne's relief came in a surge of energy and a sudden revival, despite the cold and her tiring muscles. Dead men were coming in steady waves, and Brienne could hear Widow's Wail crack through and splinter the wights, echoing Oathkeeper. They circled, Brienne making sure she could feel his weight on her back every now and again to make sure he was still there. The only sounds were the metal of their swords meeting bone, the wind, and the soul-piercing shrieking of the wights.
It could have been minutes, it could have been hours that they slew in unison. Brienne looked over her shoulder briefly, and was shaken to the core when she saw two luminous blue eyes, too blue, sauntering in their direction. She felt Jaime's weight lift from her as he attacked the creature. She heard the White Walker shatter, and the wind suddenly dropped, and all the dead men surrounding them dropped in synchronisation. Jaime and Brienne rotated rapidly, and they could make out perhaps half a hundred others wielding their weapons in confusion. She was almost sure she could see Jon Snow's wolf, Ghost, on its haunches.
Around a mile to the left, Brienne could see the shapes of the two dragons circling in the night sky, laying waste to the army of the dead below with their flames. But it seemed that their side of the vanguard had…
Brienne turned to Jaime, and seeing his ice-encrusted hair and bearded face, his left hand holding Widow's Wail, and his golden hand at his side sent her relief that she had never felt before.
Jaime was looking around blindly, then looked at Widow's Wail. He looked up at Brienne, and pulled her towards him into an embrace that was different to the one earlier that night. They were both shaking, shivering, and silent against one another.
The pulled apart, and without speaking, they ran towards the dragonfire. This war had only just begun.