Chapter Text
BRIENNE
Pod rowed for days and never once complained. The tiny boat cut through the river at a slow pace, stirring the muddy, reddish water as they wound around islands and sandbars. To their left the bank was all dense forest, thick with grass and ferns and the trunks of redwoods. Kingfishers dove from stray branches, searching for schools of fish below the surface, and occasionally a deer or two could be spotted amidst the foliage. The other side of the channel was much more sparse, with foggy woodland stretching for miles beyond the strand.
Brienne offered to take over Podrick’s task several times throughout their journey along the Red Fork, but he refused so vehemently she finally gave up the effort. She supposed the young man simply wanted to do his duty as a squire, transporting them upstream while she scouted the shore for possible foes, but part of her suspected he knew she was in no mood to row.
Brienne had promised Sansa Stark that she would secure the Tully troops in time to help Jon Snow’s army take Winterfell back from the Boltons, yet she had been unable to convince Ser Brynden Tully to surrender Riverrun, and had just managed to escape before the Freys and Lannisters took the castle in the wee hours of the morning. Now, she was returning to the Stark camp with no more men, her mission failed, and for all she knew Sansa’s uncle was dead as well.
Not fulfilling the quest had devastated her, in more ways than one. When the Blackfish had handed her back Sansa’s written plea for help, the letter nothing more than wind slipping through her fingers, her heart had sunk. It had taken everything in her to tell Pod to send a raven, to force the words past her numb lips as her thoughts began to spin with what was to come. Thousands of men would storm the castle, slaughtering Tully soldiers and taking prisoners, replacing trout banners with lions and twin towers. And Jaime…
Jaime Lannister would be at the head of the siege, wearing his father’s red and gold armor, glistening like a god in the firelight. He had given her until nightfall to persuade Ser Brynden to yield his childhood home, and she was certain he would keep his promise and wait for darkness to arrive before ordering his men across the moat.
A small comfort lay in the fact that she had gotten through to Jaime, at least. She had stood in his crimson tent and told him of her plan to move the Tully troops North, if only he would agree to take the castle without bloodshed. It had spurred a round of bickering, but finally Jaime gave her his word, seemingly moved to prevent a greater loss of life in favor of more diplomatic tactics.
However, a tiny, seven-times-damned part of Brienne questioned his true motives. As she had reminded him that they were on opposing sides of the siege lines and would be required to fight each other in the event of a forceful takeover, she saw something like dread pass over his green eyes. Had he been as terrified of the notion as she? Just the thought of it had caused her stomach to twist in despair, and Jaime’s expression had ostensibly mirrored her feelings, all traces of sarcasm wiped from his features in an instant.
Did he hold some sort of affection for her? The same kind that had caused her eyes to mist and her throat to burn as she fled from his tent?
“My lady?” came Podrick’s voice, pulling her from her musings. Brienne felt her cheeks flush at the possibility that Pod had caught her indulging in such girlish fantasies, yet one look at his face replaced her embarrassment with cold dread.
“What is it, Podrick?”
The young man’s eyes were as big as eggs, and he used an oar to gesture to a spot half a mile down the eastern bank. There, under an overhanging elm branch, three bodies swayed lazily in the breeze.
For a moment, Brienne was baffled by Podrick’s fear. Their treks throughout the Riverlands had shown them far worse than swinging corpses, and she was certain he had grown used to such sights. And yet… they had been mounted the entire trip to Riverrun, allowing for a quick escape and better odds in the event of a fight. Now, they were without horses, and if the perpetrators of the hangings had decided to stick around, they could easily be ambushed. Even Brienne’s fast rowing would prove useless to men with crossbows and good aim.
They were sitting ducks.
“Bring us to shore,” Brienne ordered Pod. “We'd do well to scout the area.”
They dragged the boat far enough into the mud that it wouldn't float downriver, then made their way to the remains. Their arrival scattered a murder of crows picking at the rotting flesh, but otherwise, the space seemed deserted.
The men had been killed recently, a week ago at the most, their bodies just beginning to bloat. Blue veins marbled their swollen faces and their eyes bulged out of their sockets, yet Brienne could still tell that they had been fairly young, their hair not yet sprinkled with grey. They were dressed plainly in rags, bereft of any sigils, placing them as commoners or low-ranking soldiers. Strangely, the bearded one in the middle wore no boots. His pale feet dangled cold and wet above the mud.
“Freys?” asked Podrick. Brienne wasn't sure if he meant the corpses or those who had hanged them, but it made no matter. Allegiances in the Riverlands changed as quickly as the wind shifted directions, and whoever had done the killing was most like an enemy of theirs, Frey or not.
“We shouldn't linger long, whatever the case,” said Brienne. Although the only remnant of the previous occupants’ camp was an old, blackened firepit beside the river's edge, she still felt uneasy. Oathkeeper was a lethal weapon, but one unfit for combat against ten adversaries with longbows hiding in the bushes.
Evening was beginning to fall, painting the sky in golden hues beneath a grey sheet of clouds. Waxwing calls accompanied the pair as they set off on foot along the river road, and the wind grew so fierce it bent the reeds back, their tips just kissing the rippling water. They traveled until the moon hung heavy above them and the Red Fork joined the Blue and Green to form the Trident. After crossing over the bridge to the northern bank, the dim lights of a settlement glowed before them, and Brienne decided they could afford to rest. They had not had a proper meal since the morning they arrived at Riverrun, and the thought of a warm featherbed was making her eyes grow heavy.
The Crossroads Inn was three stories tall, with turrets and chimneys made of white stone. The building was surrounded by a low wall of broken white stones as well, and on its north side stood a stable and a bell tower. The southern wing was built over a bed of rocks and mangled, dead weeds, where the Trident once flowed beneath the inn’s back door and half its rooms. However, the river had moved nigh eighty years ago, changing the inn’s name from the River Inn to the Crossroads.
“O’ course, the inn’s ‘ad many names o’er th’ years, m’lady, from th’ Two Crowns to th’ Bellringer to th’ Clanking Dragon,” continued Jeyne Heddle, the innkeep from whom Brienne had been gathering information about the area. They sat across from one another at a table in the common room, with Pod to her left, his face buried in his bowl of stew. Brienne had paid a few coppers for a room overnight, and a few more for a hot meal. “I think th’ Crossroads’ll outlast ‘em all, seeing as how you can’t much change where it's located.”
Unless you burn it down. The inn was positioned at the intersection of the kingsroad, the river road, and the high road, making it a popular stop for weary travelers and warring nobles alike. She had heard tales throughout the Riverlands of the inn being ransacked by this lord or that in an attempt to wrestle control over the region, and was surprised it was still standing.
“And how is it that you came to be the innkeep?” asked Brienne. Jeyne seemed young to hold such a title, being a waifish girl who couldn’t have seen more than fourteen or fifteen name days.
“My aunt Masha used to run th’ place, ‘fore them Lannisters got it in their minds to hang ‘er on a gibbet out front. Guess they were mad ‘cause Lady Stark come in ‘ere one day and ‘rrested th’ Imp.”
Lady Stark. The mention of Catelyn sent a stab of guilt through Brienne’s belly. She had sworn to protect her, to give her life for hers if need be, yet had been traveling to King’s Landing with Jaime when the Freys cut open her throat. Brienne hadn’t known of her death until they reached the Red Keep, and by then Lady Catelyn was already reduced to bones at the bottom of the Green Fork.
“Way I hear it, Masha begged Lady Stark to take ‘er quarrel elsewhere so as not to involve ‘erself, but she wasn't paid no mind,” continued Jeyne. “Don't see how my aunt was th’ one who deserved to get ‘erself killed.”
No, Brienne wanted to say, but Lady Catelyn paid that price as well.
“Then my cousin Rory took o’er, and he was killed by some lord too. So me and Willow, we inherited it after ‘im.” Jeyne turned around and gestured to a small girl cleaning the counter. Willow was a head shorter than Jeyne and seemed to lack her gentle disposition, but the similarities between their features were obvious; she sported the same chestnut locks and hazel eyes as her sibling.
“You and your sister… you're orphans?” asked Brienne.
“Ain’t everyone an orphan these days?” Jeyne replied, before a man slammed his drinking horn on the bar and bellowed for more ale. She sighed, picking up her flagon again. “T’was nice talkin’, m’lady. Not often we get customers much interested in conversin’ with us.”
It's not often you get customers at all, Brienne thought. The dining hall was nearly empty, with only three other patrons in their company. Two were seated in the booth in front of them, and as Brienne returned her attention to her stew, now lukewarm and congealed, she couldn't help but overhear their exchange.
“...threatened to send Edmure’s son to him in a trebuchet if he didn’t yield the castle,” the bald man was saying between bites. “Guess the rumours are true. The Kingslayer’s got shit for honor.”
“Shouldn't surprise no one. The monster pushed Ned Stark’s son out a window.” The second man took a drink, then belched loudly. “He was probably just eager to get back to King’s Landing so he could fuck his sister.”
As the pair laughed, Brienne found that her appetite had abandoned her, and let her spoon clatter to the table. The sound startled Podrick, who looked up at her with concern.
“My lady?”
“We should get some sleep. I'd like to head out early on the morrow.”
That night she dreamt of Renly, her sweet king, wearing his crown of golden antlers and sitting atop the Iron Throne. She kneeled before him, head bowed as he proclaimed her a knight of the Kingsguard. But it was a crimson cloak that was draped across her shoulders, and when she raised her eyes to meet his, she found emerald irises looking back, not blue. Jaime Lannister stood before her, beautiful and radiant, a smile playing on his lips. The sight took her breath away.
“S-ser Jaime? What are you doing here?”
He did not respond, instead gesturing to the crowd gathered behind them. When she turned back around, she found that they now stood at an altar in the Sept of Baelor, bathed in light streaming through the seven-pointed star. Only then did she notice that their hands - her right and his left - were tied together with ribbon, bound by a silver knot.
A wedding?
She searched his face, trying to determine if this was all some colossal jape, but found no hint of mockery. Would he be so cruel?
“Let it be known that Jaime of House Lannister and Brienne of House Tarth are one heart, one flesh, one soul,” the septon was saying. “Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”
The ribbon was unraveled, slowly, slowly, taking an eternity to fall to the floor. Brienne closed her eyes and tried to calm her rapid heartbeat, with little success. Everything seemed to be spinning around her, and she feared she would faint. Why not be more humiliated? she thought miserably. Just let yourself slip away.
Then she felt a hand on her arm, steadying her, and when she opened her eyes once more she saw that Jaime was keeping her upright. His expression was so sincere, so kind, that she couldn’t help but blush.
“Jaime-”
Suddenly his features twisted in pain, and the light faded to darkness as clouds smothered the sun. The world began to shake and shudder under her feet. What's happening? What’s happening? Then she saw it: the tip of a sword protruding from Jaime’s chest, its blade rippling red and black. Oathkeeper. A shadow moved behind him, smoky and human-shaped. To her horror, it was her own face she saw in the haze, her own hand holding the hilt.
Brienne dropped to her knees as Jaime fell, cradling his head against her chest as she had in the bath at Harrenhal, so many years ago. Blood spread out from his wound and ran through her fingers, pooling on the marble floor beneath them. She wanted to scream for help, wanted to do something, anything, but knew it was useless. The life was already seeping from his body, his breath growing more shallow and ragged with every passing second. Water began to cascade from her eyes, blurring her vision until nothing but blackness remained.
When Brienne awoke the next morning, her cheeks were stiff with the salt of tears. The nightmare had left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she decided that the only way to ignore it was to keep moving. She and Pod visited the stables at dawn, trading silver stags for a lively piebald mare and a limping, rheumatic gelding. The day was crisp and windy, with light snow falling every so often. Frost crunched under their mounts’ hooves, and ice could be seen forming along the river’s edge the further north they rode. By mid-afternoon her lips were cracked and her face was blazing, but they continued on nonetheless.
The next two days passed by in much the same manner, only the air grew colder with each sunset. By the third day a dense fog had moved in, limiting visibility to a few feet in front of her horse’s head. She advised Pod to keep alert. Although they had forgone taking the kingsroad, there was no telling how many other travelers had done the same, or how many of them were friendly.
Eventually they decided to rest, sitting under a pine heavy with snow. They ate salt beef and stale bread, gifts from Jeyne Heddle on their departure, and drank water from the river until their tongues went numb. Pod was shivering through his leather jerkin, although he pretended not to feel the chill. Brienne was beginning to sorely miss the warmth of the inn.
“We’re only two weeks from the Stark camp,” she assured him, although at the pace they were going, it was like to be three. When they stood to leave, Brienne had to stretch out her legs to get the blood flowing again, and her muscles complained after so many hours in the saddle.
The world soon became a sea of white as they trudged on, the trees and mud blanketed by snow and shrouded in mist. Brienne wished she had had the foresight to bring a helm, to protect her skin from the biting wind and sharp sting of snowflakes, but no amount of yearning made a difference. The days began to blur in an endless wash of cold, and the nights were alive with the howling of wolves.
It was early one morning when they happened upon a group of men along the riverbank, a lot no more than ten strong. At first, she figured them a band of outlaws, and curled her frozen fingers around Oathkeeper’s hilt.
Then she saw a ghost.
“Brienne of fucking Tarth,” said the Hound, his words pulling her back to the last time they met by chance in the Riverlands. She had been searching for the Stark girls for months when she finally found Arya, accompanied by Sandor Clegane. She had fought him tooth and nail, leaving them both a bloody mess, and had abandoned him to die at the bottom of a cliff. But when she returned for Arya, the girl had vanished.
“I killed you,” she said, incredulous. Yet the man was most definitely alive, his ravaged face just as she remembered it.
“You're the woman who beat him within an inch of his life?” asked the older man in ragged robes beside him.
“Who are you?”
“Thoros of Myr,” he replied, and all at once images came flooding into her mind.
“You were the warrior who carried a flaming sword. A red priest.”
“Aye, a priest,” he said, “and a drunk and a sinner.”
“And you work for the Lannisters,” came a familiar voice from behind them, causing Brienne’s heart to skip a beat. It cannot be.
“Arya,” she said, and watched as the girl pushed the men aside to stand before her, sword raised. “But you… there has been no word of you for years...”
“That must please your friends,” Arya replied.
“You do not understand." Brienne swung out of the saddle, and Podrick hesitantly followed. "I swore an oath to your mother, Catelyn Stark, that I would protect you and your sister-”
“And the Lannisters just gave you a shiny new sword as a gift for plotting against them?” scoffed the Hound.
“You served the Lannisters your entire life, yet the last time we spoke you claimed to be watching over her as well,” countered Brienne.
“Aye, I served the fuckers, and hated them every day of it. Don't remember ever receiving Valyrian steel in return.”
“Jaime Lannister gave me this sword to defend Lady Catelyn’s daughters.”
At the mention of Jaime’s name, Arya’s face darkened. “Jaime Lannister was at the Twins a few days ago,” she said, voice chillingly hollow. “I saw him toasting the sack of Riverrun in the same hall my family was slaughtered.”
Brienne’s stomach lurched, and remorse came bubbling up her throat, threatening to choke her. What could she possibly say in Jaime’s defense? In her own?
She watched as Arya’s features went slack, and she only had seconds to think before the girl rushed at her. “Podrick, your sword,” Brienne called, twisting to avoid the slashes. She refused to use Oathkeeper against one of Lady Stark’s daughters, against a young girl with a skinny blade.
Pod drew his sword from its scabbard, tossing it in Brienne’s direction. She caught the hilt just in time to block a cut to her side. They danced across the glittering forest floor, steel singing, scraping, sparking. Brienne parried every blow, but stayed on the defensive, moving away as Arya moved in. The thought of injuring a girl she had vowed to keep safe sickened her more than anything.
The girl pressed the attack in earnest, swinging in high arcs, overhand, upswing, sideslash, always moving. What she lacked in brute force she made up for in sheer determination.
Brienne could not say how long they fought, kicking up mud and snow until they were both drenched. Arya seemed never to tire, her strikes coming just as quickly as before, raining down against the armor Jaime had gifted her. A few of her stabs made it into Brienne’s legs, blood blossoming on her thighs and calves. How will this end? Brienne thought through the pain. Either she yielded and Arya killed her, or she killed Arya.
Suddenly Brienne knew what she had to do.
Pod’s sword skittered across the ground as she lowered to her knees, and Arya’s blade swished above her head in an attempt to hit her middle. She could see the surprise in Arya’s brown eyes, but the girl soon masked it with anger, bringing her sword to Brienne’s throat.
“Kill me if you must,” said Brienne, voice calm despite her fear, “but your sister waits outside the walls of Winterfell with Jon Snow’s army, preparing to take back your home. Go to them.”
Arya stared at her, the shock evident in her furrowed brow and parted lips. “I don't believe you,” she decided finally. “Jon is at the Wall, and Sansa…”
“It's true,” said the man wearing an eyepatch, looking down at a piece of paper. Sansa’s letter. Brienne had kept it with her after Ser Brynden Tully refused them at Riverrun, and Podrick must have remembered. “This says the Lady Brienne is of Sansa Stark’s business to bring Tully troops North, to aid them in their battle against the Boltons.”
The parchment was passed to Arya. After a moment, her face softened, and tears glittered in her eyes. “It’s her handwriting,” she muttered under her breath, barely a whisper, and then she smiled. A true, genuine smile that made her look half a child again.
“I have served Lady Sansa for months,” said Brienne. “If it please you, I would escort you to their camp so that you may reunite with your family.”
Seconds passed, turning into minutes, and Brienne feared that Arya had not been convinced.
Then the girl gave an almost imperceptible nod.