The Best is Yet To Be

by littlelights

As Hand of the King in the North, Ser Davos wasn't sure what challenges he would face in a land recovering from the War Against the Long Night. He certainly wasn't expecting to have another chance of building a future with the Stewardess of Winterfell. Davos/OC, Jon/Sansa, Brienne/Tormund, Arya/Gendry pairings. Sequel to 'A Future We Would Make Ourselves'. Rating updated.

8. Chapter 8

The Best is Yet to Be

By littlelights

Happy New Year! Thanks for your patience while I was working on this update. I invested a lot in this chapter and was hoping to have it ready before Christmas. Sorry about the delay. Thanks for the PM and feedback. Yes, there will be more updates to this story. Looking forward to finishing more chapters in the upcoming months. It's going to be great.

Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.

XxX

Chapter 8

The North is being attacked by Ironborn raiders. Villages on Broken Branch burned and twenty women captured. Raiders on the Weeping Water and White Knife captured or killed. No reports of other abductions yet. Other parts of the kingdom should be alerted. Harbors north of the Wall likely used to hide ships. Bran cannot see who is commanding these attacks. Are there any accounts from the south? We need whatever information you can provide.

Lord Varys, councilor to the queen and spymaster of the Targaryen court tucked the rolled-up piece of parchment into one of the long sleeves of his robe. It was crucial to field messages from the North personally, as to decide how to best approach Queen Daenerys with any requests. The message was simple, a warning and request for information. No pleas for food, money, or men.

It was rather altruistic of a young king who had little to his name but snow, ice, and meager rations to sustain his people.

For the last year, communications between the queen and her nephew Jaehaerys Targaryen, King in the North had been consistent and rather ordinary. Small personal letters, not that the king was overly fond of writing messages of a personal nature. But they'd been sent dutifully every month or so. The Queen of Westeros looked forward to reading each letter when they arrived, pleased her family was growing with the impending birth of another niece of nephew. Impressed with how a country with few resources were managing to keep the lords in order while ensuring the small folk were fed and sheltered for the long winter. There were squabbles between some of the northern families and the wildlings, or free folk as they preferred to be called. Nothing the King in the North couldn't handle.

Queen Daenerys, on the other hand, was finding rule of the other six kingdoms to be a different sort of challenge than she expected. The crown was still in debt, and shipments of gold used to repay the Iron Bank had been pulled from the homes and estates of the nobles in the former slave cities of the east. A popular move with the common folks and newly freed slaves in Pentos and the Bay of Dragons. Not much for the wealthy and connected, it would seem.

Rich people could part with a great many things, but their money and power were the two things they couldn't bear to be separated from.

The Iron Bank was a year away from being paid in full, and with it, the crown had been able to reduce taxes on the small folk of Westeros, reduce port fees for merchants selling grain, meat, and other food stuffs, and work out deals in other cities across the Narrow Sea to provide food at a much lower price to be prepared and given away for free in the squares and market places in King's Landing.

Old Town with its rich history and beautiful port were growing a bit jealous of the attention paid to the people of King's Landing. The queen had spent much of her time and attention to rebuilding, housing, and assuring the people of the capitol, that it appeared she had given up on the idea of a traditional lavish coronation in the Starry Sept of Old Town. The city had gone so far as to confirm the role of High Septon on a firm but likeable middle-aged man named Roland the Reciter, as he was known the tour the countryside during the War of the Five Kings preaching the Seven Pointed Star entirely from memory.

It was true, the Targaryen kings and queens of old had negotiated the appointment of the High Septon since the days of Aegon's conquest. Negotiated was a polite term. The men of the Holy Sept knew better than to court the wrath of a dragon, and the dragon lords in kind made sure the weight of their words were taken into full consideration. The Seven Pointed Star couldn't protect men from dragon flame, so it was better to give the king and queen what they wanted while ensuring other candidates were appointed to other positions at court.

Queen Daenerys had arrived in Westeros too late to be consulted on the High Septon's appointment, and while she outwardly praised the initiative of the faith to house, feed, and care for the sick and wounded of the country during the winter, she'd been silent on the matter of a public coronation, had delayed the appointment of a septon into her household, and had yet to meet with the High Septon in Old Town.

While few in Westeros wishes to return to the fanatic fervor inspired by the High Sparrow, the faith, and the rest of the country for that matter, only had so much patience. Sympathy for the capitol and its people could only go so far, and by contrast, the people of King's Landing were still learning to accept the rule of another self-styled queen when the last one had destroyed much of the city in an explosion of green flame.

It was a wonder then that Varys had time to cultivate his little birds at all.

With the message safely hidden away, the spymaster began his journey through the short halls and tight rooms of what was left of the Red Keep. This was far from the beautiful apartments held by the previous kings and queens of Westeros. The royal apartments with its separate gate and entrances was little more than a pile of rubble, as was the throne room and many of the large formal spaces used for entertaining visitors and holding court. Indeed, most of the former royal palace had been blown to pieces by Cersei Lannister during the War for the Dawn. The self-styled lion queen had been utterly useless near end, allowing none of her advisors to leave her side, especially as the starving people of the city rose up in rebellion.

A lion does not concern itself with the affairs of the sheep.

Famous last words from a dysfunctional woman who managed to lose everything her father and former husband had cultivated over several decades of peace and relative prosperity. The country had crumbled under Cersei's claw-like grip. Few lords pledged their fealty, and those who did sent an expendable child to the Red Keep to ensure their father's promises were kept. More lords journeyed north to the Wall, and stayed to help defeat the army of the dead marching ever closer toward the living.

With granaries nearly spent and his army a quarter of its usual size, Lord Jamie Lannister called his men back to guard King's Landing in what most thought would be a siege war between the queen and what would be left of the forces fighting in the north.

It took subtle manipulation, but most of the southern lords had been persuaded to cut food supplies to the Red Keep entirely and limit produce and grain going in to the city. The Red Keep horded what it needed, and the queen refused to send aid to the smallfolk clamoring for bread.

Thus, Kings Landing became a hotbed for rebellion and uprising, which led the Lannister army to take the role of an occupying force in the city. The social deterioration hadn't slowed when stories from the Wall made their way into the taverns, inns, brothels, and septs scattered throughout the city. His little birds had been particularly good at sharing the identities of the people extraordinary events taking place in the furthest reaches of the realm. The tales resonated with a downtrodden people anxious for just rulers and heroes. And what person wouldn't want to hear tales like the ones they heard around the fires of their youth?

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the rightful ruler of the realm, Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, and the Breaker of Chains had not set sail to Westeros to conquer the land by force. She had answered a call from the gods to lead an army of brave souls in a war against the undead. Her quest had led her to broker an alliance with her lost nephew Jaehaerys Targaryen, of Houses Stark and Targaryen. The White Wolf, the King of Winter, Friend of the Free Folk, former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the Prince Who was Promised, and King in the North. Hidden under the badge of bastardy by the honorable Uncle Ned Stark to protect him from harm until such time that he would come of age and lead his people in the war against the long night.

Not in over two hundred years had House Targaryen used their dragons in the service of the people. Word of the Winter War could be heard in the back alleys, kitchen tables, and doorways of the city. Varys had been careful to cultivate individuals keen on spreading information in and around the Red Keep, as to keep the Lannister twins off balance. And it had worked.

The carefully crafted stories of 'Good Queen Daenerys, the people's savoir' and 'Good King Jaehaerys, bringer of the dawn' filled something vital in people who were starving and scared. Hope fed the masses. Anger fueled their actions. The Lannisters hadn't stood a chance.

Arguments between the twins grew more frequent. The two of them no longer shared chambers. Day by day their circle of retainers began to drift away, leaving Cersei and Jamie Lannister alone and isolated. Servants left the keep in the dead of night, aided by the guards who wanted nothing more than to return home. While the small folk found sustenance on meager rations doled out by members of the faith, what sustained them were the stories of dragons in the north. Dragons who would give them justice. A good queen who would deliver them from the old one.

And it had worked beautifully.

Whispers turned to words and words transformed those without power into a movement with momentum. The people's cause had become a country's consequence, and the Lannister queen of Westeros had broken faith with rich and poor alike in her bid to control power. When a wagon of goods earmarked for the Red Keep had been raided by the poor and half-starved people of the city, Queen Cersei sent troops into the street to beat and maim those they could find. What happened next had surprised everyone, including the spider himself.

A bread riot broke out in the streets and lanes beneath the Hill of Rhaenys, and the calls for food grew as men, women, children – young and old alike, flowed through the streets demanding an end to their hunger. With few guards and the army housed in clusters around the city, there was little to stop the tide of angry citizens from attacking Lannister guards, sacking army grain stores, and pushing through the portcullis of the Red Keep itself.

Out of confusion and desperation, the remaining guards closed the gates to the inner palace, and prayed for reinforcements to arrive. Upstairs from the royal balcony overlooking the city, the queen ranted openly, promising retribution against the peasants who were quickly overtaking the city. The troops had been overextended. Their allies reluctant to come to the aid of the crown. The queen's brother had threatened to leave her again, this time for good. When Grand Maester Qyburn suggested a larger yet controlled demonstration of the crown's strength should be engaged, Queen Cersei agreed with a single nod of her pretty blonde head.

But what Qyburn could have never known were how the poorest denizens of the city had begun searching for anything they could find to exchange for food, and the well-planned caches of wildfire hidden beneath the city had been severely compromised. The exquisitely engineered exhibition of strength soon became a fatal weakness, for as the fuse was lit, the countdown of the queen's destruction had begun.

The vaults under the council chambers exploded first, followed by the armory, half of Maegor's holdfast, and the main road through the city. The queen and her brother lover had argued, one indigent and the other wielding justification like a sword in a pitched battle. The episode turned violent, and just as Jamie Lannister began to choke the life out of his poisonous sister, what remained of the royal holdfast exploded and collapsed.

No one from that part of the Red Keep had survived to tell the tale. All Varys knew of the episode was rested solely on how Brandon Stark described it. The young man's unique ability to see the past and present had answered some of the lingering questions regarding exactly what happened that fateful day. The queen's childhood prophecy had come true, she would lose all three of her royal children, and another queen would arise to replace her. And when everything she loved had been taken from her – her crown, her power, and her beloved, the Valonqar wrapped his hands around her delicate white neck and strangled the life out of her.

Cersei had allowed her anger and resentment of her younger brother Tyrion to bring about the last part of her self-fulling prophecy. The Lannister queen had always believed it was Tyrion who would bring her downfall, when all along, it was her younger twin who sealed Cersei's fate. Jamie Lannister may have contributed to death life of the queen, but the explosion and fire which followed certainly ended it.

Fires burned throughout the city for days as hidden caches of wildfire continued to explode and burn around the three hills of King's Landing. The rain of death and destruction swallowed up rich and poor alike, and forced many inhabitants to flee into the countryside. There had been few places for them to go. The Reach had orders to keep any refugees at bay, while those who ventured into the Riverlands died of exposure and starvation. A hovel city developed in the ruins of the old, with many survivors living hand to mouth while searching through the ruins for missing loved ones or buried goods.

Queen Daenerys' landing in King's Landing had been met with little fanfare. Starving children roved what was left of the city in packs, stealing what food they could find while adults fished or whored themselves for daily bread.

When the first dragons were spotted on the horizon, the first reaction by some people was to run. Fire had rained down from the sky less than six months previously, and what if the Dragon Queen was keen on conquering the city amidst blood and flame like her ancestor of old?

Seven ships of food and supplies, distributed throughout the city had been a good step forward, as was a public worship of the faith led by the queen herself on the remains of the Sept of Baylor. Instead of making demands, the white-haired queen instead ensured the hungry were fed, judgements were heard, and her legion of unsullied warriors assisted in the rebuilding efforts taking place across the city. As more shipments of food and drink were supplied to the beleaguered people of King's Landing, their anger cooled, their faith became restored, and the message of Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name became clear: You are my people, what is mine is yours.

The builders hired from the East to rebuild the city into a neat, well designed environment hadn't hurt matters either. For all its logistical woes, the people of King's Landing loved their city, and were reluctant to leave it even during the harshest of times. And so, King Aegon's great city with the humblest of roots had endured. Most of the temporary structures scattered throughout King's Landing were little more than wood timber with thatched roofs, but it was reminiscent of the first settlement recalled in the Aegonfort.

King's Landing was for the moment, appeased, but that still left Old Town and the rest of Westeros to scheme the queen's downfall.

The long corridor leading to the chamber and solar of the Hand of the Queen had the distinct advantage of being filled with light. The downside was winter, as there was no amount of sun which could manage to heat the keep's walls. There were few servants about as well, given how the kitchens and maids were kept well away from this area of the castle. Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and the queen's indispensable advisor preferred limited contact with the outside world since his brother's death. There had been more than a few who voiced their concerns with another Lannister sibling entrenched so close to the throne of Westeros. The damage his older sister and brother had wrought on the kingdom was well known, and the youngest Lannister had been half-hated and stigmatized, even while he had been the one to lead the defense of King's Landing during Stannis Baratheon's assault during the War of the Five Kings.

All the sacrifice, allegiance, and loyalty to the family had been for naught. While it was true, Tyrion had transformed his situation remarkably while in the service of the Dragon Queen, there was some part of his friend's heart which continued to be haunted by the past. In some small way, it had been a relief to establish a new government without the trappings of the old. This point hadn't seemed to steady Tyrion at all. If anything, it had made him sadder, and more aware of all that had been lost in his sister's last ditch effort to maintain control over the city.

Sins of the fathers? No. Sins of the sister and brother was more like it.

Knocking on the solar door was quaint and polite. It gave one the allusion of privacy. Thankfully, Varys hadn't needed to keep any additional eyes on Hand of the Queen, as the half-man kept primarily to his rooms, had all his correspondence picked up by one of Varys' own servants, and entertained few guests apart from those already in the queen's service.

Had it been any other time, and any other reign, Varys would have been suspicious of such a reclusive person. Now, experience and friendship had weathered those conclusions. Tyrion Lannister was a good man – a man with foibles, faults, and a raging need for alcohol, but a man who was nevertheless loyal and devoted to his friends. While he may have hopelessly wished for an amicable reunion between himself and his brother Jamie, Tyrion bore the burden of what happened to the city every day since they landed in the city harbor. Queen Daenerys had refused her Hand's resignation for a second time, and insisted Tyrion remain by her side while the city began a long road to its reconstruction.

Now that man was spending his days bent over building plans and a ledger book, trying to fill the long hours until supper when he could drink his fill of wine and forget about the world until the marrow. Landing a polite knock on the door, the hand's response of "Enter" could be heard through the thick wood.

Varys kept a neutral look upon his face in an attempt to appear non-judgmental and interested in his present mission. While he would prefer to spend the next thirty minutes chiding the Hand of the Queen for his seclusion and solitary drinking habits, the message from King Jaehaerys was the pressing issue at hand.

"Apologies for interrupting your work, my friend," Varys greeted, his eyes taking in the remains of a small meal tray with a few scattered crumbs abandoned on a nearby table, while the Tyrion himself was seated in a conclave of three large tables stacked high with an array of documents. No doubt it would have taken the Queen's Hand a considerable stretch to reach some of the papers situated near the very edges of the tables, to the point he would have had to stand on the seat of his chair to reach them.

Too stubborn to hire an assistant, and most of the blame could be placed firmly on Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, as he had taken a post as the captain of the city watch and been elevated to the title of Lord of Rooks Rest in the Crownlands. Lord Bronn had been more than pleased by the elevation in his title and it had gone a bit to his head as of late. Too much to do for a new lord which did not include his former friend and Hand of the Queen.

"Still haven't hired any help?" Varys pressed gently, but in a manner which the two knew was one of care and concern.

"When a suitable assistant appears, I'll be sure to engage one." There was little warmth to Tyrion's manner now. Even now, the dwarf looked tired, worse than he'd been when Varys had smuggled him out of the city to Pentos. No doubt his friend may have been offended, but Tyrion resembled, in a small way, the bearing of Tywin Lannister at that moment. A comment which would have been quite hurtful, as the truth of his friend's Targaryen parentage was still a sore spot.

"You can send away for a young maester fresh from training at the citadel, or request a scribe from Old Town." Varys suggested, knowing what his friend's reaction would be.

"And be hated, feared, and hero worshiped simultaneously for the rest of my life, I think not." The Hand half-drawled while reviewing a ledger listing.

"They don't hate you-"

"Poor choice or words." The younger man shot back, looking up from his document and reaching for a nearby drink. He took a generous slug from the remaining wine in his goblet. Thank goodness the servants had begun to water most of the barrels in storage down, or by luncheon Tyrion would have been a passably functional drunk. "They despise me because my sister ruined their lives. They live half afraid and half in hope of our queen, and hate how the combination of winter, starvation, and my wildfyre ruined their lives."

"One sister destroyed, and the other is committed to repairing the ills of the realm." Varys reminded gently. "The duality of your family's legacy is quite awe inspiring." He raised an eyebrow, reminding his shorter friend of how the hand of the queen wasn't as alone as he liked to believe.

That snapped the younger man out of his anger. "Is there something you needed, my lord? News of a Dornish rebellion or a new bred riot? An urgent letter requesting the queen to wed the remaining son of an ill-favored inbred house? Or something worse, I suppose?"

Varys straightened with the bitterness of his friend's words. "The last, I'm afraid." He extended the roll of paper from the hidden pocket out across the expanse of the desk. "From your nephew, the King in the North."

That statement snapped the Hand out of his foul mood. For a man with few relations left in the world, the new sister and nephew Tyrion had acquired during the War against the Long Night had become one of the few good consequences to come from fighting the undead. "Jon and Sansa are well, I hope. Their son too?"

"King Jaehaerys makes no mention of his heath, or that of his family. He writes of raiders moving up certain rivers in the north, taking hostages and burning villages."

Tyrion took a moment to read the note, taking in the king's bold handwriting and the message which may lay beneath the surface of each word. "Nothing like this has reached my ears."

"You sequester yourself here every day, Lord Hand." Varys reminded his friend gently. "And you have no one at your side to bring fresh gossip when it is needed. Seclusion is not the best way to collect information."

Tyrion simply frowned before he replied, "What do you know?"

Varys thought carefully before speaking. It was a longer pause than he would normally deliver, but his own mind was circulating the possibilities which could be summarized from such news. "There was a call from the eastern city of Lorath for strong ships and men not afraid to sail in the winter. Not fishermen, but men called to take the coin of a wealthy benefactor. It's by no way decisive, but there were rumors of more than a few Ironborn ships gathering in the harbor there. They had been in the Jade Sea for so long, they hadn't known how much had changed here in Westeros."

"Interesting, but not conclusive," Tyrion agreed. "Though I wouldn't put it past rogue Ironborn from taking advantage of a bad situation."

"As in winter?" Varys lifted an eyebrow.

"Like I said, a bad situation. With the former slave cities denied a supply of fresh human cargo, and with Westeros weakened by winter and lacking strong men to protect their own-" Tyrion lifted his hands in an unspoken 'there you are'.

"A bad situation, but not the only conclusion." Varys agreed. "The queen will want to send a few ships and men north to patrol the coast, but I'm surprised Winterfell's all-seeing Three-Eyed Raven hasn't picked up on the identity of the men wreaking this kind of havoc."

"If Brandon Stark could see the threat at sea, he would have done so by now. Maybe there are limits to his sight. We don't know. No one knows for sure. And what few of the mumbling maesters who have paraded themselves in front of the Iron Throne have all asked the same questions, which means even they don't know. The most learned men in the realm, and none of them can wrap their minds around why a small crippled boy from the North would grow to become the one person in the known world to see past and present as if he was there himself."

"And manage to take others with him as well." Varys pressed.

Tyrion sighed. "That too." The sad mantel of what the Hand had seen on his one and only walk through the past still lay heavy on his shoulders.

Wishing he hadn't pointed that out, Varys pressed onward. "It still doesn't provide an answer for King Jaehaerys." The spider surmised. "The North is proud, and wouldn't be asking for information if it was readily available."

"And their king will not hesitate to take up a sword if needed, even in the dead of winter when anyone else would be huddled around their fire hoping for the best." Tyrion remarked, pushing his papers to the side to scribble his own note. "The queen will need to be informed and persuaded from taking three of her oldest children to Winterfell."

The queen and her six dragons had been the hope and symbol during the war against the undead. Daenerys never looked at her dragons as expendable tools. They were her children. That brought a small measure of relief to Varys' mind. It would take time for the Queen to leave the capitol and travel to Dragonstone, where all six of her dragons were spending the winter. It was safer to give the freedom of the island to each one of the winged creatures than spend much-needed funds rebuilding the ancient Dragon Pit outside King's Landing.

"The little birds in the east haven't sung their songs as much since the last winter storm arrived. The cold air or lack of food maybe the reason."

Tyrion blew on the parchment, rereading the words he'd just written. "Whatever the cause for their silence, this may be the time we need them to sing the loudest. In this type of winter, a small bird's song can carry across a wide expanse. We just need them to sing a bit louder than usual, and hope their songs reach us before the next attack happens."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Varys cautioned.

The Hand of the Queen harrumphed, and passed the note back to Varys. "Aegon the Conqueror fought to win his kingdom. He also fought to keep it. To think our queen would do the winning and not defend her kingdom just as her ancestor did is highly unlikely. Especially when the ones doing the raiding are targeting her nephew and his family."

"Not directly."

"An attack on the North is an attack on the king. Whoever is behind this is aware of what war on one part of Westeros will mean to the queen. Or they're just supremely stupid. Either way, it doesn't matter. If there's another war on the horizon, whether from living breathing men or enemies in the east, it doesn't matter. War is war, and we need to be ready."

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Brianne felt her husband's body leave her side, taking the warmth she'd come to rely upon with him. She'd rarely been a sound sleeper, even as a child, and her years traveling to nearly all the regions of the kingdom hadn't improved her sleeping situation the least bit. Five months with child, and her body had refused to settle into any comfortable position. It was odd, she thought, to rely on the warmth and love a man in her bed when she'd been content to sleep alone for nearly all her life.

When she went north with King Jon to protect the realm from White Walkers, the harsh life on the road seemed noticeably pale in comparison. Brianne had been in the north long enough to adapt to the heavy layers and extra protection needed to function in the cold. Even Podrick had taken to life in a frozen war zone with a capable adaptability which seemed a direct contradiction to his southern upbringing. The war against the undead had been one of her greatest trials. It wasn't the dark, or the cold, or even the constant fighting which had nearly broken her – it had been the news of Jamie Lannister's death in the fire of King's Landing.

A peasant riot turned rebellion in the capitol had nearly overwhelmed with Lannister troops were left in the city, and in a fit of pique, Cersei Lannister had given an order to light the wildfire caches under certain parts of the city. The fete had seemed to work at first, burnt the pyromasters had not counted on their carefully curated collection of jars to be moved and rearranged by the poorest residents of the city. The explosion had reached under the Red Keep itself, and the cruel queen who had destroyed the spiritual heart of the city managed to destroy the greater part of the capitol in one fell swoop. The gods had truly abandoned both the Lannisters and what was left of King Aegon's city.

She hadn't heard of the destruction of King's Landing until Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen, found her sharpening her blade outside her frigid tent. The dwarf arrived bringing some sort of wine and a sorrowful expression, the kind of which made Brianne's heart sink into her stomach. The desolation in the youngest Lannister's eyes revealed all. It was the look of a man who had lost what was left of his family, and there would be no way to replace what had been taken away.

"Ser Jamie?" Brianne had said, and Tyrion had simply nodded, and gestured to her tent. They sat inside her little shelter, him on the pile of her travel gear and Brianne on what few furs and blankets served as a bed.

"Jamie stayed with Cersei to the end. Brandon Stark told me," Tyrion's tone was blank, and the lines in his face had seemed to age him another decade older than his actual age. "He tried to talk sense into her. It worked more or less in the past, but since she crowned herself queen, Cersei moved beyond reason. She hated being perceived as weak, and when the small folk took over half the city, her remedy was to punish everyone, perpetrator and innocent alike. As she gave the order, Jamie tried to talk her out of it. He raved like a man possessed, which he was, I suppose. In the end, she gave the order and he killed her. Not with a sword, but with his hands. He tried to silence her by choking the life from her. He may have ended her reign, but he didn't stop the fire."

"What of King's Landing?" Brianne remembered asking through a sip of wine. The liquid was bitter and astringent on her tongue.

"It took over the city, street by street. It's still burning, I think. By the time it dies down, most of the people will be gone. Some dead or the others by foot. A sad end for everyone.

"I'm sorry, my lord." She tried to keep the wild turmoil of her own emotions locked up inside. "Your brother was at heart, a good man. He deserved better than to die in such a way."

Tyrion flashed a bitter smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You are one of the few people who knew him well. Like an idiot, I'd hoped he'd be standing beside me when this was all over. I wanted that. Would have given anything, in fact."

In her heart, Brianne had wanted that too. In the dark and cold, she'd allowed herself a few hours to think about a time after the war. After Cersei had been deposed. A time when she and Ser Jamie would have been free from their vows and obligations. Now he was gone, and those dreams would never come true. It was a dagger in her heart.

"Jamie loved Cersei," Tyrion confessed sadly. "No one else rivaled for her affection. My brother was flawed that way, doomed to love a woman as twisted as my sister. She had him wrapped so tightly around her, there was little chance of them ever breaking apart. You were one of the few people to come close, Lady Brianne. One of the precious few. But it wasn't enough. You and I, we weren't enough to make him break free of her. Now he's dead, and we're here – the last two people on earth who will truly morn him."

They shared a toast to Jamie Lannister, drained what was left of the wine, and parted ways. Tyrion to his duties to Queen Daenerys and Brianne to the maze of tents to the Wall. Waving off a concerned Podrick, she'd walked half stumbled and ran to the farthest reaches of the camp, keeping overwhelming emotions bay.

Brianne never cried. The last time she'd done so had been at the feast her father had hosted in honor of her sixteenth name day. Renly Baratheon had dried her tears when the cruel taunts of 'Brianne the Beauty' had been too much. King Robert's youngest brother had led her out to the center of the hall, and danced with her for all to see. Brianne had prided herself on leaving that display of petty weakness behind, but the loss of Jamie Lannister seemed one hundred times worse.

She bumped into a large, furry shape, a combination of moisture and snow obscuring her vision. A surprised grunt from the shape followed.

"What's wrong?" a gravel voice asked.

Brianne knew that voice, that annoying, leering voice which seemed to find her at the most inopportune moments both day and night.

Tormund Giantsbane. Leader of the free folk. Why in all the seven hells did he have to be around in a desperate moment of weakness? Then she'd embarrassed herself even further, by pushing past him and then stumbling into the snow. The fall had hurt, and it was cold. And the last threads of control had snapped with the pain and shock of everything. She'd broke then, not outwardly crying but giving herself one big heaving sob before laying down in the snow. Crooking her head to the side, she'd wanted to become part of the earth itself, wondering if it was possible to sink into the snow and never come out.

Brianne had stayed there, two tears piling up behind her eyes and freezing slightly as they flowed down her face. She didn't think she'd ever be warm again, and part of her didn't want to be. Ser Jamie had died in a burst of green flame which had destroyed part of King's Landing. Brianne or Tarth was going to die in the cold north, and her body buried in the snow or set aflame by torchlight, a thousand leagues from the man she'd wanted. Wanted, but who hadn't wanted her in return.

Even at her worst moment, like the one she'd found herself in after Ser Jamie's death, Brianne knew it had been a futile love. It was unrequited, unreciprocated, and it hadn't hurt any less. As a person with so little love beyond that of a child to a parent or a friend to another, Jamie Lannister's death should have extinguished whatever passion was left in her heart.

But a large, ginger-haired man who really didn't understand when he wasn't needed or wanted had scooped her up, made her walk to a darkened tent in the free folk encampment, and forced some sort of fermented liquid down her throat until she was drowsy enough to sleep. When morning dawned, Brianne surfaced from her slumber, warm and snug beneath a set of supple furs the like she hadn't felt before. The bed was warm, not just because of the furs, but because of the musky-smelling man snoring beside her.

Close beside her. Spooning, she thought it was called.

Brianne was wearing very little apart from her undershirt and linen leggings. The man behind her was as naked as his name day, if one didn't count the coat of hair he carried naturally about his person. Her head wasn't pounding from drinking whatever Tormund had poured down her throat. In fact, it wasn't pounding at all. For the first time since she'd arrived at the Wall, she was completely warm. Head to toe warm. Warm, underdressed, and sleeping beside a man who was not her husband.

Vanity was not a concept close to Brianne's heart, but even she knew when one went to sleep with tears and snot running down their face, the morning after those tears and mucus had dried, the results were anything but pretty. So as she rubbed her face, attempting to push away the dried salt from around her eyes and hoping to make some sort of discreet exit, the man beside her had wrapped a hairy arm around her waist and pulled her back under the covers.

"Let me go," Brianne pried at the strong limb pulling her back into the warmth of the furs.

"I brought you here, and we've spent the night together. That practically makes you my wife." Tormund had sleepily grinned at her, with a look of both accomplishment pride. "I stole you. Stay with me under the furs for a while and let me please you."

She'd blushed bright red. It was outrageous, unacceptable, completely humiliating, and so utterly like him to say such a thing. It was not a conversation Brianne had wanted to have with anyone, apart from Jamie Lannister. It was embarrassing to think that in a matter of a few minutes the day before, Tormund had managed to coax her into his tent, drink until she was full, undress her, and tuck her into what passed for a bed. And she'd hadn't even put up a fight.

"I must go, I have people who will look for me." She tried to keep the panic of the situation out of her voice. She'd gone from mourning one man to sleeping in the bed of another. Regardless if it had been chaste or not, which from the way her body felt at that moment had most definitely had been reasonably chaste, Brianne felt ashamed she'd tarnished her honor. A person didn't break down with grief and find comfort in the arms of another. It just wasn't done. Not by her, anyway.

"I want to make babies with you," Tormund said bluntly, his words were ones of lust and laziness wrapped together. The weight of his warm arm around her body had been a sharp contrast to the cold. "I wanted to make them with you since the day I saw you. Think of them. Great big monsters. They'll conquer the world."

But Brianne had not been in the baby-making mood. She swatted his arm. "I'm a sworn shield to House Stark. I don't know how to be a mother, and I wouldn't know the first thing about raising one."

"I'd hope you change your mind after you spent the night with me the first time." Tormund intoned sagely, loosening his arm for her to wiggle free and snatch up her clothing and armor leaning against the wall.

"We slept," Brianne had stated through gritted teeth. "If we'd done something else, I would know."

"You're right," Tormund nodded thoughtfully, and rolled out of bed and stood before her, naked and hairy, and with a look of utter confidence on his face. "Because if we had been together, you wouldn't want to leave. You would be too tired to."

A quiver inside her womb had been the first warning that whatever distance Brianne was hoping to put between herself and the man standing in front of her, was never going to be wide enough. His eyes, with their intensity and unapologetic glimmer was primal feeling she felt in her bones, and what he said next lingered with her every day after.

"You won't be able to walk straight for a week after we've been together. You'll be boneless, hungry, and achy, but I'll see to all that. I'll feed you from my own hand, and kiss every part of you until you're ready to have my cock inside you again. And each time it will be better than the last. And it won't matter after the first baby or the tenth, you'll sleep beside me knowing there's no one else in the world I want other than you. We'll grow old and grey and my cock will grow hard for you. Any amount of time, it won't matter. I'll choose you."

Tormund's confession had left Brianne feeling strangely blank, as if she'd adsorbed too much information in too short a time. She'd left him standing naked and unashamed in his tent, and managed to make her way back to her own encampment without anyone paying heed to where she'd been or where she was going.

The cold and dark had saved her reputation. No one bothered her or cared where she'd been or what she'd been doing. Taking her sword Oathkeeper in hand and trudging up to the Wall had been a blessed relief. The movements of war came easily to her, it had helped to build a wall around her heart for a time, and not to feel anything at all. But the grief for Jamie Lannister had lessened over time. She would place her love for him on a shelf in her heart, the memory of a friendship earned and love first kindled. Tormund's vow made the morning after Jamie's death would follow her like a sudden wind, a curious thought she couldn't quite put to rest. And in the quiet of an early morning back in the warm walls of Winterfell, Brianne would think of them and feel the intense rush of words and emotions chisel the walls she'd placed in her chest.

Jamie Lannister was dead, his sister lover with him. The red-headed wildling who had been on the periphery of her day-to-day activities was alive, and letting the whole world know it. Loud. Brash. Utterly unrepentant. She had to try harder to ignore him.

It had not been surprising to receive a royal summons after the army's return to Winterfell to discuss the possibility of marriage to Tormund Giantsbane, the newly minted lord of the Dreadfort. It wasn't capitulation or pressure from King Jon and Queen Sansa which spurned her decision, it has been newly arrived letter from her father which had changed her mind.

I was pleased to receive word from Queen Daenerys of your service to the realm. You have surpassed every obstacle in your way, and have saved so many lives. No father could be prouder. She also wrote of a new lord in the north who has asked for your hand in marriage. You have my blessing to accept him or not, as your conscience dictates. I cannot fathom the queen asking for my permission if the lord in question did not know of you in some small way. I have always wished for your happiness, and should your life change course from that of a solitary manner to one of marriage, it will not diminish who you are and all you have accomplished.

It had been strange to think of how much had changed since she'd left Tarth. Her father had been supportive of Brianne's choice to leave home to join Renly Baratheon's King's Guard. She'd been single-mindedly focused on her goal, to train and spend her life serving the man who had been a champion when she'd needed one the most. Her way of thinking had been straightforward, and it was possible she would have been content to serve the crown for the remainder of her life.

Then the War of the Five Kings broke out. Everyday life had changed, shifted, upended themselves, and rebalanced. Living through a strange series of events had uprooted not only Brianne, but the entire world, it seemed. She had traveled, fought, nearly died a few times. She had seen more of the country than most women ever would in their lifetime. She'd fought honorably in battle and had the scars to prove it. Surviving a war had been strange. Almost surreal. There was the repetition of going about the day, helping others, lending input when needed, and providing whatever service Queen Sansa assigned.

Life was different after the War against the Long Night. The Dragon Queen had left with her army and marched south to the capitol, making a grand parade as they traveled. The people of the North rebuilt what they could, took stock of their supplies and prayed to the Old Gods for a short winter. Displaced smallfolk wandered to Winterfell looking for help. The free folk began to plan their move to the Dreadfort to spend their first snow inside stone walls. More often than not, Brianne and Pod had been sent to the temporary free folk settlement to provide whatever aid they could.

Podrick had smiled broadly whenever he passed some of the younger women in the camp. It was none of Brianne's business, but her squire was spending more nights among the free folk than in his bed in Winterfell. Everyone in Westeros would judge her, but Podrick was allowed to roam freely and do as he pleased. It had grown quite tiresome to see how women were blatant in ogling him while the two of them were walking about, or how they would lure him with a look and make some sort of comment or invitation out of earshot.

Brianne had kept her comments to herself, but she had been exasperated one day when the one man she had placed so much care to avoid spotted her amongst the low rise of animal pelt structures of the encampment. Tormund Giantsbane had practically smacked his lips and made show of strutting toward her. Strutted. Like a rooster. Over to her. Brianne of Tarth. A woman who was so mannish in size and condition she had been taunted with the name 'Brianne the Beauty.' Yet there he was, putting on some sort of demonstration that Sandor Clegane would have called 'cocky bastard'.

Seven hells.

Brianne had gritted her teeth and made a point to not allow her annoyance to show. Podrick, bless him, seemed to have sized up the situation instantly.

"He likes you, m'lady," Pod said kindly.

"I'm trying to decide if he's more than a bit mad, or some sort of blind fool," Brianne shot back.

"He's persistent." Pod pointed out. "I haven't seen or heard him taking up with anyone since the war. And that's not common for the free folk."

"It's none of my concern who or what he takes up with, Podrick." She led him around a larger tent, hoping it would keep the ginger-haired man out of her way. "Just as it's none of my concern who you spend your spare time with."

The aggregation in her voice made her companion wince, yet he had the good sense to look contrite. "The free folk hold to a different set of values. It's not good or bad. Just different. They're honest, sometimes brutally so. That's why you like serving Lady Sans- I mean, Queen Sansa so much isn't it? Her honesty?"

Brianne had kept her own council about the queen's sense of honesty. Sansa's time in the south had turned her into a shrewd politician, but her honesty was contradicted at times. Brianne dodged the question. "I'm sworn to serve Queen Sansa and House Stark. It's not her honesty I'm concerned about."

"You're questioning his then?" Pod looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

Pod was proving to be impossible. "I'm not discussing the inner workings of my life with you, Pod." Brianne tried to make the words sound airy, as if it they didn't matter at all.

"I'm not saying you have to, just-," Pod paused and they slowed their pace to a standstill. He looked around in all directions before turning to meet her steely gaze. "You shouldn't be afraid of wanting more, m'lady."

"More?" Brianne had been dumbfounded. Who in the seven hells did her squire think he was? "Since when have I allowed you to lecture me, Podrick?"

"Not once, m'lady." Pod had looked steadily at her. "But you've valued my advice, when I've had a mind to voice it. No one here in the North doubts you are honorable and brave. And when people in the south are sitting by their fires this winter, and they hear about you fighting the dead at the Wall, they'll know all you've done too."

"Most of the men in the North fought at the Wall," Brianne pointed out.

"Yes, but the people saw you and the other ladies fighting there. You, and Lady Arya. And Lady Reed. They were defending Brandon Stark. Making a difference when it was needed most."

"We all chose to be there," Brianne replied stiffly. "And my sword was sworn to House Stark. Honor compelled me to fight."

Pod huffed, unsure of what to say next. "People fought at died at the Wall so the rest of the country could live," he said bluntly. "There's more than just fighting, and all of us have been tossed from one battle to the next for so long, it seems that's all we do. As if that's all we're meant to do. I'm proud to be by your side, doing what we done and all. But things are changing. Life is more than war, at least, I hope it is from here on out."

"So? What's your point?"

"I'm just saying, when one of the free folk take a liking to someone, it's in an honest way. They're not trying to fool you or play you false. They're up front about what they want, and they expect the same from you in return. So when I see Tormund, and the way he acts around you, compared to what I know about the rest of his people, he's sincere."

"Bloody cheek." Brianne rolled her eyes. "I'm not interested in whatever you are implying, and don't even begin to say otherwise."

"Then tell him so and tell him why." Pod's voice had been firm, his mouth was set in a line. "He deserves to know. Instead of avoiding him, just tell him. Is that so hard? You've fought an army of the undead, but you can't tell a man who seeks you out time and time again that you don't feel the same way?"

He had been right, of course. She'd been a coward. Not on purpose. Still, Pod's words had struck a little too close to the memory of her name day ball, and Jamie Lannister had been a fleeting, unattainable dream – a golden knight who had fought by her side but nothing more. Men didn't want a woman like her. Mannish, mulish, and able to beat them to a bloody pulp.

"Alright then," Brianne had squared her shoulders. "I'll tell him, and you-," she pointed her finger in Podrick's chest, "will not speak about this again."

The force of her demeanor moved Podrick to blurt, "He says you are the most beautiful woman he's ever seen."

That comment had really sparked Brianne's ire. She rolled her eyes and felt her face contort in a way she'd only felt in the heat of battle. "He was jesting, Pod."

"He said it in truth."

"Do I need to repeat myself? He's blind or mad. Or both." Brianne bit out. "The last time anyone called me beautiful it was because they thought it was a joke."

A deep gravelly voice broke over Brianne's harsh growl. "Then they were a stupid cunt who doesn't know anything."

She hadn't needed to look up from Podrick's solemn face to know who was there. Rough wildling furs. Long ginger hair and beard. A body so tall and big it would have blocked the sun.

Seven hells.

Brianne had closed her eyes for a long moment. She'd forgotten herself, where she and Pod were situated, and in her anger she must have spoken loud enough for Tormund Giantsbane to find them. It had taken all the strength she had in reserve to calm her emotions and look up past her squire and address the wildling standing patiently close by. His face had lost all of its usual joviality to one of intense scrutiny. "If any little shit ever says anything unkind about you around me, he'll have my fist in his gut to teach him otherwise."

Brianne chose to ignore his comment. "That's not necessary. I can take care of myself. It has come to my attention you wish to-," she paused. What was the term? Have a dalliance with? "I am not interested in being involved with you." That had sounded better. "Please direct your attentions to someone else."

"Like who? The boy here?" Tormund had gripped Podrick by the shoulders and shook him before shooting her squire a smile and thumping him good naturedly on the back. "He's pretty, but doesn't have what I want. Why would I want him or anyone else when there's you?"

Like she'd thought – blind and mad. Remembering Pod's words about honesty, Brianne crafted her next sentence frankly. "I'm not free to be part of what you're implying. I have my honor, and my sword is sworn to House Stark."

"That doesn't make me want you any less. You didn't make a crow's vow did you?"

"Crow's vow?" Brianne asked confused.

"I think he means the Night's Watch, m'lady. You didn't make a vow to refrain from being intimate-,"

"Yes, I understand now, Podrick." Brianne bit out through gritted teeth. She'd directed her attention to back to the ginger man before trying to explain patiently. "I'm a sworn shield, and my vows are different. It's not about vows at all, really. Where I'm from, there are different standards for women as there are for men."

"So I've heard," Tormund had nodded sagely.

"Yes," Brianne had pressed, "And where I'm from, a man and woman should be married before they are together. That way, a woman keeps her honor."

"So a woman's honor is about whether or not she's married."

"That's one way to think of it," Brianne had replied.

"And if I married you, we could fuck and you would still have your honor?"

Podrick was trying with all his might to keep a straight face. I'll deal with him later, she thought.

"We're not married, and I don't plan on being married." To you or anyone else, she thought. "I'm trying to explain that here south of the Wall, a woman's honor is valued above all other things."

"So, a woman here is less than other people if she fucks who she wants, does what she pleases, and that people judge her by that instead of anything else?"

Brianne had sighed with relief. It had been a rough description, but close enough. Pod had been astute in his earlier mention about the wildlings being brutally honest. "Yes, that sounds about right."

"Huh," Tormund seemed to consider everything she'd said for a moment, then just as quickly as he'd absorbed it, he tossed it aside. "That's fucking mad. How do women survive here? Do their fathers teach them this?"

"Not my father," Brianne had been quick to point out. "But it's not about survival. It's honor. Men earn honor in fighting, women earn honor in loyalty and service."

"But you fight," Tormund had countered. "You beat Clegane the dog and your share of the undead. You should be free to do as you wish and choose the man you want."

Brianne had tried to stick to her original explanation. "Not here, not now. When a woman lays with a man who is not her husband, it's wrong. It's just not done."

This comment seemed to temper Tormund even more. "I don't think the night we spent together at the Wall was wrong. I told you, I want marry you and make babies with you."

Brianne had felt the blood drain from her face. Her secret shame had been laid out for the whole of the wildling camp to hear, and worst of all, she'd have to face Podrick's questioning glances for however long he continued to spend as her squire.

If her companion had any inkling about what Tormund had spoken, he'd carefully concealed it behind a non-committal façade. "Podrick, will you excuse us?" Brianne's voice had been brittle and sounded more like a command rather than a request. The younger man scrambled away, not bothering to look back. The deep snow kicked up dust with each of his retreating steps.

Before Brianne could think, her right fist flew up and made contact with the side of Tormund's head. The left soon followed. The ginger giant had shook off the assault with a good natured shake of his head. "Keep that up, and I won't be able to hold myself back."

The fistfight which ensued had been primarily one sided, fifteen years of anger, doubt, half-remembered taunts, and old hurts had fueled her movements. To his credit, Tormund hadn't fought back, but managed to dodge each punch while keeping clear of the neighboring shelters. A small crowd had gathered nearby to watch them, but Brianne hadn't paid them any mind. She had been furious. When Tormund stumbled back landing in the soft snow, Brianne had tackled him, itching to work through the anger and humiliation he'd publically put her through.

It must have been the fifth punch, or the tenth, that her anger lessened. The blows simmered to the point where Brianne rested her arms on his chest, flexing her hands as a way to remain in control. She would have recovered, stood up, gave her apologies, and marched back into the keep to confess all to Queen Sansa. But Tormund didn't keep his mouth shut.

"You're beautiful when you're angry," He'd growled, lust making his voice deeper and a growing hardness in his groin becoming apparent.

Brianne had cuffed him again. "I'm not beautiful." She'd been surprised at how bitter and angry those words had sounded in her ears. "I'm not. Don't say that."

"You're beautiful to me," Tormund had replied. "A yellow haired spearwife, big and strong." She'd tried to cuff him again, but he'd maneuvered her enough so the most intimate of her areas was straddling his own. "The old gods made you to be brave and bold. With hips wide enough to hold me inside you. I dream about filling you up with my cock watching you cry out for more."

His words and movements had taken her so off guard, Brianne hadn't known how to react. Through the layers of clothes, a hard part of him found the sensitive part between her legs. He'd ground into her, not harsh, but enough for her to feel the large erection through his furs. It had been overwhelming and shockingly intimate.

And it had felt good. Curiously good.

"You're more like my people than you think." His eyes had gone grave and serious. "The free folk value a woman with strength. It takes a strong woman and a strong man bring babes into the world, especially in the north when winter can kill them off quick. The kneelers in the south made fun of you, because you didn't look a certain way. But they didn't see you fighting. I did, and my people did too. They can try to keep their women weak, but you don't have to be anything but what you are. Beautiful and fierce."

For a moment, Brianne had wanted to believe him. The sincerity in his voice had been so genuine, and the intensity of his face so compelling, it touched something in her chest. But the cold air on her back kept her from becoming lost in the feeling, and she found herself slipping into a sea of mortification. Her hands pushed at the grip of his fingers. "Let me go," she'd demanded.

"Spend the night with me." Tormund growled softly. "I promised the Crow King I wouldn't steal you. Let me show you how hard I am for you."

It was all too much for Brianne. "No, let me go."

He spent another series of heartbeats just looking at her with adoration, his body molding into all the places where they fit together. "If that word hurts you, I'll use something else." Tormund had spoken soothingly, as he he'd just spent time gentling a horse instead being bludgeoned by a woman. "But don't let anyone make you ashamed of what you are. They don't matter. My people have been called a lot of things through the years, but it didn't stop us from standing side by side next to the same fuckers who hunted us our whole lives. They don't know us. They've never spent lives like us. Just like they've never taken the time to know you."

She'd retreated then, keeping a distance between them as he rose and offered his hand. "I can change your mind if you let me." Brianne had swatted it away, and felt the heat rush to her face when she looked at the crowd gathered nearby.

When Brianne had confessed all later that day to the queen, she'd felt ashamed and quite flummoxed. Ensconced in the warm privacy of the royal solar, Sansa Stark had listened patiently, drawing out more with a single raised eyebrow than any torturers tools could ever produce.

"And he just left?" She'd asked Brianne, using the same genuine concern which had grown stronger over their years together.

"He walked away as if nothing had happened. I don't know why."

"Tormund is direct," Sansa had replied. "Honest and loyal to his people, and to Jon. He wouldn't force you, if that's what you're worried about."

"No. I'm not worried about that."

"Then you're worried that what he says is true." It was one of those comments Brianne hated to hear, but Sansa stated it in a way which made someone ashamed and compelled to respond honestly.

"I think he believes what he says is true." Brianne replied. "Doesn't make it sting any less."

"People are cruel, Brianne. Sometimes they're cruel to your face, or they wait to be cruel behind your back." Sansa had a way of laying facts out in a straight and logical progression. "The free folk are different. Tormund is different. If he says it, he thinks it. The world would be a better place if there were more people like him around. More forthright and fewer lies. And more importantly, placing a greater emphasis on people's actions instead of on arbitrary things that don't really matter at all. If my mother had raised me to be brave, capable, and to think for myself, I wouldn't have had made nearly as many mistakes as I have."

"You can't compare your past experiences to the present, your grace."

"Why not?" There was a bitter hint to Sansa's voice, which reminded Brianne of the bruised and frightened young woman she'd escorted to the Wall. For all their plans and good intentions, the former Lord and Lady Stark hadn't been able to save their children from nearly a decade of abuse and sadness.

"I was raised to be a lady." Sansa stated with a hint of anger. "To be gentle and accommodating. To be protected by a man of my father's choosing. And my father wanted me to marry someone gentle and kind. He would have, had he survived. But they never taught me to be brave or capable. Or to defend myself, for that matter. Those were lessons I learned the hard way, and I was so weak willed I didn't know how to defend others when they needed it most. People wonder why I choose Oona to watch over the children in the nursery. Why the Queen of the North and Lady of Winterfell would ask a wildling woman to care for Robb and my children not yet born."

"They trust your judgement, your grace," Brianne said softly. "You are a good judge of character."

"I didn't use to be," Sansa retorted. "I trusted the wrong people for the wrong reasons. Oona is different. Tormund is different. The free folk have an uncomplicated sense of honor, and are more loyal than some of our bannermen. I will not make the same mistakes as my mother, who raised me to be a proper, pretty, well-behaved wife without benefit of preparing me for how the world truly works. I'll not allow that to happen to any of my children. Not just for Robb, or for any sons I bear. I intend for my daughters to be just as capable as their brothers. Oona will make sure they never forget that, even if something happens to me."

Watching the queen's eyes become lost in a moment of sadness, had caused Brianne to rally a little. "Nothing will happen to you, I swear it."

"Childbed, disease, starvation. Your sword can't defend against all the ills of the world, Brianne. Besides, you may wish to leave here one day. Haven't you wanted to return to Tarth?"

"My father is still lord of the isle, and in good health. He can look forward to many more years."

"Well, if ever you're not happy here in Winterfell, all you have to do is ask, and I will release you from my service. I'm grateful for all you've done for me and for my family. If things change, I will do I can to see you move forward with your life."

It has been a tempting offer, to walk away from Winterfell and go home to Tarth. But there would be little to do on the island other than to act as her father's hostess, and the journey too dangerous by sea to risk putting Podrick in danger. A week later, there was a summons from a join council of the King and in the North and the Queen of Westeros, where a formal request for her hand in marriage was made. It had been embarrassing, to read the name written on the request 'Tormund Giantsbane – Lord of the Dreadfort'. Brianne had been pretty sure the wildling hadn't signed his name on the document, as there was a sprawling 'X' placed at the end of the title.

The negotiations had taken several weeks, involved two separate appearances in front of all three rulers, a raven from her father, and one awkward meeting with Giantsbane himself.

"You want to marry me," Brianne had stated flatly as the two of them walked atop the battlements of the keep. "I have a few guesses as to why."

"I promised the Crow King I wouldn't steal you," Tormund had smiled at the memory. "I should have told him I stole you already, but I remembered what you said about a woman's honor. Horse shit if you ask me. But I didn't want you to be mad again."

It was honest, and while the man at her side didn't seem completely repentant, he was at least demonstrating care for saying sensitive things about her in front of others.

"You want a wife to help you run Dreadfort, and to have children with," Brianne had stated flatly. "Those are two tasks I don't think I'm well equipped to handle."

"I fucking hate the Dreadfort," Tormund announced, as if the two of them were standing right in front of the gates of the wretched place. "Snow gave me the place to give the free folk shelter during the winter. After that, most of them may choose to go home. I don't blame if you if you hate that place as much as I do."

"I do," Brianne had tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "It's not the kind of place which I would prefer to call home."

"Just as you're afraid to have babies with me." It was a statement, and a fact. Tormund didn't judge her with her eyes, the way she was accustomed. He did have a habit of making eye contact and finding a way to stare deep into her soul. It made her uncomfortable to be seen so intimately by anyone.

"I'm not the mothering type," It was truth and deflection in the same sentence.

"You're good with the boy," Tormund countered.

"Who?" She was confused.

"The boy who fights with you."

"Podrick?" Brianne shook her head. "He's a man grown. I had nothing to do with his formative years. I wouldn't know the first thing about raising children."

"You're the fiercest woman I've ever met," Tormund turned to look her directly in the eye. "You mean to tell me you would stand aside and let someone take your children from you?"

"I'm not a mother, so it doesn't matter." The conversation was growing uncomfortable.

"If you had two small children in your care, and an army of undead between you, the little ones and safety. You mean to tell me you would save your own life than protect them?"

"That's different," Brianne argued. "All children should be protected, regardless of their parents."

"It's the same," Tormund growled out. "You'd fight to keep everyone safe. You'd drive a knife through the heart of anyone or anything that came near. If I pick a kneeler for a wife, I know she'd be shaking every minute, too frightened to do anything. And she wouldn't be strong, beautiful, and brave, like you."

"I'm what you would call a kneeler," Brianne pointed out hotly.

Tormund sauntered closer. "You are King Crow's spearwife, ready to carve the guts out of anyone who would hurt his pretty red-haired queen or their babe. No, you're not like the others. When I first saw you, I thought the gods had created you from the north itself. Proud, yellow-haired, with eyes as blue as the sea. I see you fight, and take care of others, and it makes me want to have you by my side to help the free folk survive the winter. They respect you. I want you to sleep beside me, make you my wife, and have babies with you."

When she didn't reply, the wildling pressed on. "Did someone hurt you when you were little and couldn't defend yourself?" The words were light, but the implication was clear.

"No, nothing like that," Brianne said quickly.

"You're scared of being with me."

"I'm not scared." Brianne had bit back.

Tormund continued, "You're afraid I'll hurt you when I take you to wife."

"No." It had taken the little bravery left protecting her heart to reply. Brianne was preparing herself to put up the mental walls she'd learned to build so long ago. If the free folk wanted straight forward honesty, she'd give it. She was almost shaking when she spoke, but the words had popped out of her mouth loud and clear. "I haven't lain with a man and I don't know if I will feel comfortable doing so."

Tormund looked at her with quiet understanding, something she'd never really seen him exhibit in their dealings before. The intensity of that understanding in his eyes, and the way it filled his whole body made the skin on her arms and back of her neck spark.

"You've never been with a man and you don't know if you would enjoy it." She could see by Tormund's reaction he wasn't confused as much as he was concerned for her. He didn't shame her. There were no words of judgement. In the past, there would have been jeers and laughter. Now there was only the gust of cold wind and the chilly air filling her senses.

Tormund didn't seem appeased. "So, it was those fuckers who laughed at you when they called you beautiful. And you couldn't fight back because of this southern honor I keep hearing about."

"It wasn't just them," The words surprised her, and they made her more uncomfortable voicing them out loud voluntarily. "But yes. People like them. No one wanted me. Not like that, anyway. I just got used to it, I suppose. It's what I'm used to now. Being on my own."

On any other day, to any other person, she would have said she liked being alone, or how she preferred to live her life unattached. But there was no pretense with Tormund. There wasn't a need for it. What she had told him was the sad truth. It hurt to say those words out loud, yet somehow saying them made her feel lighter than she'd felt for a long time. Brianne took in a long breath she didn't realize she'd needed.

Tormund looked away from her for a moment to take in the wide landscape. "North of the wall, some of the free folk chose to live away from the villages. Some because they lost a woman or a man they loved, and others just because they needed to hear the sound of the wind instead of the voices of people. You're not on your own because of sadness or because the Old Gods called you to be that way. The men who laugh at women deserve to be bashed in the face and kicked in the cock. Keeps 'em humble. You couldn't keep those shits in line when you were young, because the kneeler's ways wouldn't let you. They keep their women weak on purpose because they know when a woman is free she punches harder and makes better decisions than half the men around her."

When Brianne didn't comment, Tormund looked her straight in the eye and continued. "I want you to be as wild and free as you are. Not sad, quiet, and always thinking you don't belong anywhere. When I'm inside you, and if I hurt you, I want you to pull my hair and say something. When there's a stupid fucking idea floating around, I want to see you talk some sense into the bastard who said it. Snow said it would be your choice to make vows with me before the Old Gods or your gods from the south. The free folk don't take kneelers vows, but I'd take them for you. I'll provide for you, keep you safe, kill anyone who would harm you, and do the same for the babes we'll have. They'll learn the kneelers ways, but they'll know better than to follow them blindly."

His words hadn't meant to humble her, but they did anyway. It was quite possibly the most wonderful thing anyone had said to her, and coming from Tormund, she knew he meant it. Brianne looked away quickly, unsure of what to say or how to respond.

"Do you want someone else then?" Tormund asked. "Another spearwife? I don't want to share you, but if it would make you happy we could have a woman in our bed too." His eyebrows gave a suggestive wiggle. "A lot of fun to be had when there's three."

Brianne blushed bright red before composed mask on her face slipped away. "No, that's not necessary."

Tormund smiled broadly, eyes twinkling brightly against the dull whiteness around them. "Good. I want you all to myself," he said as he stepped closer. This time, she wasn't afraid of the way he leaned into her body, not quite touching but enough to make everything feel warmer. "I'd ask you share my furs tonight, but I know how you feel about that. I have to marry you first before I can show you how much I've wanted you to be mine. I want to hear you moan my name and feel you shake when I fill you up. I'd sup on every part of you every day and twice each night, my big woman."

She'd flushed, and felt her heart beat a little faster with those words. That last endearment stayed with her when they parted, him with a cocky grin and her feeling strangely at peace and somewhat awkwardly infatuated.

As Brianne considered the marriage for another week, fewer doubts came to mind. Tormund had sidestepped her arguments, pulled apart her thoughts, and made her rethink things in a way she'd never been able to do before. To him, marriage wasn't a cage or a prison. She would still be free. Free to be herself and give little to anyone else who thought otherwise. It was something different than what she could have imagined for herself.

It was something more.

They married two weeks later in the Godswood. It seemed to pass in a blink of an eye as she was released from her service to House Stark, and knighted by the king for her bravery. Queen Sansa had used the time to create a fine maiden cloak for the ceremony. While Brianne wished to dispense with any attention or recognition, it seemed the rest of Winterfell objected to the idea of a quiet ceremony. The revelry began well before they were wed, and while no formal feast was held there were songs and drink around fires aplenty.

There were nerves on her wedding night, a few awkward kisses on her behalf, then her new husband definitely lived up to his promises. Noises were made, which she was quite certain, could be heard from miles away. Brianne could barely make eye contact with the people of the keep the next day when she walked into the great hall with a grinning Tormund by her side. Everyone was kind, setting aside their comments for words of congratulations, and sharing details of the merriment taking place the night before.

All too soon, Brianne, Tormund, and the free folk made the journey to the Dreadfort. A cold yet rather trouble-free venture, to be sure. And everyone made a concerted effort to settle into the imposing keep and find the same rhythm of life they'd developed in Winterfell.

A year later, and everything had changed for the better.

Ultimately, it hadn't been Jamie Lannister, or a knighthood, or a release from service which had made her happy. It was sharing each day with a man who treated her as an equal, and showed love and respect for her in ways she'd never truly understood before. Marriage to the right person had been truly a marvel.

Which placed Brianne in her current predicament. She was cold, her back ached, and the threat of raiders had made a path to their doorstep. Tormund had walked away from their bed naked as he was wont to do, to open the shutters and look through the glass at the night sky outside. Her husband was full of life, always quick to laugh or throw string of profanity into the air. But there were nights when his face would carry a worried expression, and it was a sharp contrast to how she'd seen him before they had wed. For the large volume of free folk taking up residence in the Dreadfort, and for all the conveniences and protection the walls provided, the troubles of the world seemed to find her husband in the dead of night when there was no one else around. Brianne had ceased asking her husband what was wrong, but waited instead for him to work through what was keeping him awake.

"I can feel your eyes on me, my beauty." The words were tired, yet honest and warm.

"You're thinking about the pirates the hunting party found at the river," Brianne supplied.

"Aye," Tormund replied in a hushed tone. "They were greedy, not thinking. I thought the winter had gotten into their heads. The cold and dark makes people weak. Makes them do stupid things."

Her husband was looking out across the land for the scouting party he'd sent out two days before. Fifteen men and women, spears and bows in hand, hunting for game as they searched for any more unknown boats paddling up the river.

"No sign of them then," Brianne noted softly.

"None yet. I could give them another day, but no more. They're either on their way back or they've been picked up by another group of raiders."

It hadn't been too long ago that the free folk would have been the ones abducting women and stealing food from the people south of the wall. It was ironic how they were the ones keeping outsiders from the shores they'd hoped to conquer.

"I'll go out with you," Brianne offered, "We can take a look at it together. We can go by horseback as far as they'll take us."

Her husband grunted, not in disapproval, but in a way she recognized as weighing the options available. The Dreadfort was loose collection of free folk and a few remaining men and women who had survived the harsh treatment of the Boltons. Life wouldn't change much if the lord and lady left for a day or two, but any more than that and the fragile peace in the keep would have the opportunity to shatter.

Tormund wouldn't demand she stay in the keep, just as it was his custom not to make any demands of her at all. Rather, he voiced his mind, and they talked about their troubles until they had made a mutual decision together. One or the other capitulated at some point, but it was far from the heavy-handed control exercised by other men in the realm.

"It would be good to be out of these walls with you." Tormund exhaled quietly, turning away from the window padding back to the bed. It was late, and they were both tired, but in the thin darkness she could make out a little of the swagger he used when they first met. "The air smells like pig shit, and sometimes the rot from those Bolton fuckers. I've been wanting to take you away from here, and spend a night with you in a tent under the stars."

There was poetry in her husband's heart. Rough and mostly inappropriate poetry, but his words had a way of working their way deep inside. Brianne half smiled when he reached under the covers and took her right ankle into his hands, and gently elevated her leg, leaving the vulnerable part of her body exposed to the cold air of the room. He kissed and sucked the sensitive skin of her inner knee, the rough hair of his beard causing her to shiver a bit.

"Just one night?" Brianne asked with a quiver in her throat as her husband lifted her other leg until his head was working between both knees in tandem. "I think we may need more than that the way you like to carry on."

"Just one," her husband replied with a chuckle lowering himself onto the bed so he could rest his large chest between her legs. "Don't want to tire you out."

It had taken time for Brianne to become accustomed to the physical aspects of marriage, and through her tentative touches and mental insecurities, Tormund had been patient and enthusiastic in their lovemaking. The way he caressed her could make her completely boneless, and he didn't confine physical intimacies to spending himself inside her. He genuinely seemed to like taking his time, lavishing attention on whatever part of her body caught his fancy.

Whether he sensed her fatigue or was just tired himself, Tormund withdrew his attention to her knees and slid up her body to lay his head atop her growing belly. Brianne was still wearing a nightshift, a custom she'd grown up with and she hadn't stopped wearing one for the nights they spent nestled together in bed. Tormund hadn't liked it, and he consistently coaxed her out of it from time to time, but now that her condition made her sleepy and the cold winds of winter stayed in her bones longer, the night shift was in use again.

It took her husband a few moments to hike up the soft fabric, so he could press his ear against the warm skin holding their babe. The beard from his face and head tickled slightly. Brianne had become accustomed to it. Tormund had been proud of getting her with child so quickly after they were wed, but it wasn't a boastful or prideful. It was more of a good omen their union was blessed, and they were meant for each other.

Brianne combed through Tormund's thick red hair, marveling at how warm and wonderful it felt to have him wrapped around her. When his attention left their growing babe and their eyes met in the shallow darkness, his voice grew low. "I was a young boy when the ships came into Hardhome. The free folk thought they were traders, and most of them kept their spears by the side of the tents. They said they were going to stay a few days to fish before making the journey back. So the free folk kept their spears pointed up. Night fell, and the men on the ships rowed a way up the coast and pulled children and women from their beds and into their boats. They took over a hundred at first, and each time they returned, they took more away."

"Slavers?" Brianne asked.

Tormund grunted. "We had to keep watch for ships, and brought out spears every time we saw them. Traders stopped coming to Hard Home. All we saw were slavers. Men lost their wives and their children. Some drowned trying to swim out to the ships to get their little ones back. Spearwives returned from hunting to find their men killed and their babes gone."

He kissed his wife's belly again, hands reaching under Brianne's back to anchor themselves against her. "My father and mother took us away from the coast, only going back by themselves separately to trade or hunt with the others. There are people here who still remember the slavers and everyone they took. Whole families gone."

Tormund hugged her a little closer. "My people have known battle and hardship all their lives. There has been little time for peace when I was young. If it wasn't the undead, it was the Thenns. If it wasn't the Thenns, it was the Crows. If it wasn't the Crows, it was the slave traders who tried to fill their ships with our children and sell them in the cities in the east."

"That won't happen now," Brianne assured, thinking of how the collection of free folk sheltered in the keep were the last remnants of a larger collection of people. "Slavery is illegal in Westeros and across the sea in the other cities. If anyone is captured, we would have the means to find them and bring them home."

Her words may have been correct, but they brought a cold silence between Brianne and her husband. It troubled him, she thought, to be the one on the shore unable to save the people you loved so fiercely. Tormund didn't love in half measures. He'd lost all his children born in the lands of always winter. Some to sickness, some to white walkers. Their babe was a new beginning for them both, and he'd never ceased in telling her so.

A chill went down her spine pondering what she would do if her child, the one inside her at that moment, had been taken by raiders. The agony of waiting for a response or the logistics of mounting a rescue piling up, and all the while feeling utterly helpless. The word of the King in the North could make ships sail and dragons appear in the sky, but it didn't guarantee someone who had been kidnapped would return safely.

She'd been so lost in thought, Brianne didn't notice how Tormund was staring at her. The emotion behind those eyes had helped break down those barriers around her heart, and every time they spoke this way, those remnants of old hurts continued to crumble further into the past. "For years, my people dreamed there would be safety in the south. Now we are here, and the old dangers followed us. Slavers, starvation, sickness. We're still wading through shit just to survive."

It was a familiar tune she'd heard from him before. Tormund may have been Lord of the Dreadfort, but his heart beat with the rhythm of the frozen lands of the north. It irked him, chafed him at times, to be tied down in a keep he hated. But the castle was keeping his people alive, cold and cramped as it was. Sandor Clegane would have called it bitching like an old woman, but Brianne knew her husband was a man who needed open air and sky around him. It was just as much a part of him as his blue eyes and red bushy hair. He was absolutely unrepentant about it, and it was made her love him a little more each day.

"And there isn't anything you like about living south of the wall?" Brianne deadpanned quietly, knowing how to pull her husband from his dower thoughts. Her husband grinned madly, and the arms which had enfolded her retreated as he carefully extended his body to cover her own. Tormund's gaze turned hot and a little wicked. "There's more game to hunt here. Pretty little southern women to cuddle with in the dark."

"Oh really?" Brianne shivered as his warmth enveloped her. She was smiling now, familiar with how this game was playing out.

"I stole a yellow-haired beauty from a wedding feast." Tormund boasted. "Made her my wife."

"As I recall, I went with you willingly," Brianne rolled her eyes, but the smile was still firmly affixed on her face. "Anything to keep you from making a bigger scene than necessary."

"Those people in the Godswood, they didn't see anything, but they heard everything," Tormund chucked, his warm laughter lit up the dark room. He swooped down to kiss her hungrily, his lips melding with her own.

They spent the darkest part of the night and morning seeking release in each other's arms, all the while keeping their worries on the other side of the chamber door. As Brianne fell asleep closeted in the comfort of her husband's arms, it was with the understanding that their evening of respite would end upon the dawn. No raiders, pirates, or slavers would threaten the free folk, and if others were intent on causing the same chaos elsewhere in the north, the threat would need to be dealt with in the same manner it had appeared – swiftly and with violence. The people of the north would not survive any other way.

XxX

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