Chapter Text
BRIENNE
The wooden gates of Winterfell loomed before them, covered by a latticed iron grille and smelling of freshly cut pine. Brienne had heard that the original entryway was smashed to bits by the giant Wun Wun in his final moments, allowing Jon Snow to infiltrate the castle and take the Bolton bastard prisoner. Less clear was how Ramsay had died; some northerners claimed Jon fed him to his direwolf, Ghost, while others asserted that Sansa allowed Ramsay’s own hounds to feast on his body. It mattered little to Brienne how the man had been killed, however, only that he was dead, never again able to lay a hand on Lady Sansa.
Or any of the Stark children.
Brienne snuck a glance at Arya, whose gaze was locked firmly on the grey direwolf banners that flapped below the ramparts. Ever since they received news of the victory, Brienne had caught the girl smiling when she thought no one was looking, a spark of happiness lighting up her usually grim face. The thought of going home, of once again living in Winterfell with her sister and half-brother, must have soothed the ache of so many years on the move, with no one to turn to but herself.
A pair of Vale soldiers appeared above them, sporting the soaring falcon and crescent moon of House Arryn. Crossbows sat loaded in their hands. “Who goes there?” shouted the shorter of the two.
“I am Brienne of Tarth, sworn sword of Lady Sansa, and this is my squire, Podrick Payne. We are returning from an expedition to secure troops from Riverrun,” said Brienne. “We are accompanied by Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Sandor Clegane, and their companions, who wish to speak with King Jon regarding important matters of the Realm.”
“Don’t think that lot’ll be welcome here,” said the other man. “Last I heard they were out ransacking the Riverlands like a bunch of outlaws.”
“These men arrived with me, and they will enter with me,” said Brienne, although she did not fully trust them herself. Beric had explained their reasons for journeying north, and it seemed as though their intentions were pure enough, yet the fact that they had recruited the Hound made her wary. Still, they were the first people she had encountered in Westeros who believed in the existence of the Others, and she was confident Jon Snow would want to hear what they had to say.
“Who’s the girl?”
Before Brienne could respond, Arya spoke. “I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark.”
The soldiers glanced at one another, uncertain.
“Arya Stark’s dead. She hasn’t been seen since… since the Hand of the King was executed on the steps of the Great Sept,” said one of them.
“Open the gates, you bloody fools, and let her own kin decide if it’s her or not,” growled the Hound. “Unless you think the girl is like to take down the North with that skinny sword of hers.”
After a moment of consideration, one of the guardsmen yelled, “OPEN THE GATES!” The portcullis was lifted and the gates drawn forward, allowing the party to enter the castle grounds.
As they rode across the mud, people stopped their duties to look, the bustling yard becoming quiet as a tomb in a matter of seconds. When their gazes landed on Beric and the Hound, expressions ranged from fear to anger to astonishment, yet no one seemed to recognize Arya. In truth, the girl was rather plain, with brown hair and brown eyes that could have belonged to any northern girl; she lacked the distinctive Tully coloring that distinguished her older sister.
Davos Seaworth, the smuggler-turned-knight who had been loyal to the Starks since Stannis Baratheon’s death, stood on the balcony overlooking the yard, lost in thought. But when he spotted the group, he jumped up, running inside to herald their arrival. A moment later, Jon and Sansa appeared behind the balustrade, cloaked in wolf pelts and looking every bit a king and queen.
“Arya,” whispered Sansa, disbelief written on her features. Jon walked slowly down the steps, stare never leaving Arya, until finally he came to a stop beside her gelding. They regarded each other a second before embracing, Jon picking Arya up out of the saddle and wrapping her in a hug. The girl circled her arms around his neck and squeezed her eyes shut, body relaxing into his hold.
Sansa glanced at Brienne, nodding in silent thanks before descending the stairs as well. She and Arya locked eyes as Jon released her, and the world seemed to shrink until there was nothing but the space between them.
“You don’t look as clueless as the last time I saw you,” said Arya.
“You still dress like a boy,” returned Sansa, and the girls broke out in tearful laughter as they fell into each other’s arms.
After watching them for a time, Jon turned to Brienne. “I must needs thank you for returning my sisters to me,” he said, the gratitude apparent in his voice. “You are a brave and honorable knight.”
“I am no knight, Your Grace,” she responded, although a blush began to creep up her neck at the compliment. She cleared her throat. “I found Lady Arya a day’s ride from the Twins, surrounded by this lot. I convinced her to come with me, and was of a mind to send them on their way, but when they heard I serve Lady Sansa…” Her voice dropped low. “They have matters to discuss with you, Your Grace, concerning the Others.”
Despite Jon’s newfound status as King in the North, he did little to hide the shock that appeared on his face.
“She has the truth of it,” said Beric, coming to stand beside her. “We would appreciate a word with you before we continue our travels.”
Jon donned a mask of indifference and considered them, gaze eventually landing on Sandor Clegane. “Why is he with you?”
Brienne saw that Sansa and Arya were now looking as well, although there was something in their expressions that she could not place. Apprehension, perhaps, or concern. Did they fear Jon Snow would kill the Hound?
“Clegane is a new man,” said Thoros. “He has decided to join us in our quest to save the Realm.”
Jon weighed his words for a moment. Finally, he said, “We will speak more after a hot meal. Take your horses to the stables, and we will sort out suitable rooms for you.”
Supper was served in the Great Hall, consisting of pigeon stew and hard bread. Brienne had never tasted anything half so good. As she ate, she watched the siblings interact, Jon and Arya laughing every few minutes over some fond memory and Sansa smiling beside them. The sight tugged at the corners of her mouth as well, although part of her yearned for her late brother Galladon, for her father, for Tarth. Would anyone welcome her so if she returned home? The thought was a bittersweet one, and she pushed it down each time it surfaced. You found the girl, she reminded herself. You fulfilled your oath to Lady Catelyn. To Jaime.
Soon all the plates were empty and cleared away, and a meeting was held at the far end of the hall.
The leaders of the Brotherhood were called forward to plead their case, Beric and Thoros standing before the great table where the three Stark children sat. Brienne watched the proceedings from behind Lady Sansa, hand on Oathkeeper’s hilt. Although Beric had explained that he and his men meant no harm, and Jon had extended rooms in the Guest House to them readily enough, habit made her hesitant to put her guard down completely.
“Forgive me for delaying this conference,” began Jon Snow, voice bouncing off the rough stone walls. The northern lords - Robett Glover, Wyman Manderly, and Lord Cerwyn, as well as leaders of other vassal Houses - had declared him King in the North only a week before, yet there was already an atmosphere of authority about him, an edge to his tone that conveyed power. “You must understand that Lady Sansa and I had not expected to see our sister again, and the shock of having her back was great enough that I felt we needed time to process it.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Your Grace,” said Beric.
“I understand you are a red priest?” Jon asked, turning to Thoros.
“Yes, Your Grace. I am a servant to the Lord of Light.”
“That… practice is well known here. The priestess Melisandre of Asshai accompanied us from Castle Black.” The mention of the red witch sent a shot of hatred coursing through Brienne’s veins, and she saw that she was not alone. Jon’s eyes flitted briefly to Davos, whose face had gone slack at his words, and at the opposite end of the table Arya’s glare looked ready to bore holes in the floor. “Unfortunately, she oft misread signs from her god, and I was forced to give her a choice: ride south or lose her head.”
The threat lacing Jon’s statement did not go unnoticed, and the men visibly stiffened. “Your Grace-” began Thoros, but Jon cut him off before he could finish.
“However, the visions bestowed upon Lady Melisandre were not without merit. What is it your god has shown you?”
“Death,” said Thoros. “Death in the North and the South, spreading through Westeros like a plague. An army of corpses will cross the Wall, and lords and commoners alike will perish. Unless we all come together to stop it.”
“I have fought such corpses beyond the Wall, and the White Walkers that control them. I assure you they are not easily killed. Only dragonglass and Valyrian steel can slay the Others, and fire the wights. In any case, even the northerners don’t believe in them. How do you expect we get the entire continent to unite against something fabled along with grumpkins and snarks?”
Thoros gave a wry smile. “We bring one to them.”
Silence enveloped the room until all that could be heard was the screaming of the wind. Bring one to them? Brienne had never seen the creatures herself, but she had faith in Jon Snow’s judgement, and what he had encountered on his trips past the Wall had clearly frightened him.
“You’re proposing we capture a wight and bring it here? South of the Wall?”
“It is the only way,” said Beric, and as his words washed over the hall, it became evident that he was right. No one would take the threat in earnest unless they saw it with their own eyes.
“Even if you could accomplish such a feat,” said Sansa, “many of the Great Houses are enemies. Some of their feuds go back to the Andal invasion. Who is to say they would put aside such deeply-rooted quarrels for the good of the Realm?”
“It is not their sense of compassion we hope to reach, my lady, only their innate desire to survive.”
Jon had his thumb and forefinger pinched at the bridge of his nose, as if warding off a headache. Finally he raised his head, and there was something resigned in the way he looked at the men now. “None of you has journeyed beyond the Wall, nor come face to face with the army of the dead. I have.”
Sansa turned to her half-brother, voice warning. “ Jon. ”
“I would travel with you and your men,” said the King in the North, and Brienne could see Sansa’s body tense under the layers of wool and fur she wore.
“I will follow you, Jon Snow,” said Tormund from his seat at one of the trestle tables. The wildling was a great bearded man with flaming red hair, and one of Jon’s most trusted friends and advisors. “I know more about the lands beyond the Wall than any of you southron twats.”
Jon nodded, gaze sweeping over the lot of them. “Lady Sansa will have charge of Winterfell in my absence. We leave at first light.”
The discussion clearly over, everyone filed out of the hall, including Brienne. She made her way to her quarters, crossing the yard under a torrent of lashing snow. Sansa had insisted she sleep in the Great Keep, and although Brienne had protested, offering to stay in the Guest House instead, it was there she found herself now. Her room was spacious, with a bed wide enough for six and a great fireplace embedded in the wall. As she tried to coax a spark out of some of the wood from the pile, she wondered which Stark had spent their childhood here. Sansa? Or Bran?
Suddenly her stomach tightened, and she let the branches fall from her hands. Moving to the window at the opposite end of the room, she pushed the curtains aside to look out into the night. Sure enough, the broken tower stood at the corner of the courtyard, walls shimmering faintly in the torchlight. What had Bran seen that had spurred Jaime to push him from the tower? He had intended to kill the boy, that she did not doubt. The thought made her sick.
…threatened to send Edmure’s son to him in a trebuchet...
Wincing, she pushed away from the sill and went back to the task at hand. Eventually a flame bloomed amidst the rushes, and she had a decent fire to keep the frigid temperatures at bay. She pondered calling for a bath, as she had seen a wildling girl roaming the halls who she assumed was acting as a servant, but decided against it. The heat of the water was like to lull her to sleep, and she did not mean to drown in a bathtub.
Instead she removed her armor piece by piece, stripping down until the air nipped at her exposed skin, and curled up beneath the mountain of furs on the mattress. For all its width, the bed was too short for her long legs, and she had to keep her knees tucked up under her chin to fit comfortably. The warmth of the blankets began to thaw her frozen hands and feet, yet sleep eluded her. She lay awake for hours thinking of vows and direwolves and swords, and when the dark finally took her, catapults featured heavily in her dreams.
Dawn brought a blizzard to Winterfell, the world beyond the windows a curtain of white. Fire crackled loudly in the Great Hall’s hearth, yet the chill still lingered in the air, turning every breath into mist and cooling their food before it reached the table. They broke their fast on cold porridge and greasy sausages, with weak ale to wash it down. A decent meal, but Brienne hardly tasted it. Her mind swam with images of Bran Stark, falling to the ground, paralyzed, dead. And Edmure’s boy…
Jaime would not do that. She knew him. Had seen the honor he possessed. He had been lying to scare Edmure into surrendering the castle. That was all.
And yet… what the man at the Crossroads had said about wanting to return to Cersei would not leave her. Brienne, along with Lady Catelyn, had suspected long ago that Bran had caught Jaime engaging in some act with his sister, and had been pushed because of it. If the siege of Riverrun had been keeping the twins apart, would Jaime not go to the same lengths to ensure a quick resolution?
Brienne pushed her plate away. Perhaps she did not know him at all.
The hunting party gathered in the yard some time later, fresh mounts waiting at the stables and stacked high with supplies. The route to Castle Black was a straight shot from Winterfell, a fortnight’s travel on horseback, but like to be perilous in the storms. The snow was falling so heavily now that it was difficult to see within two feet of one’s face, and the flakes were chips of ice that dug into Brienne’s cheeks.
“Safe travels, Your Grace,” she said, and Jon nodded in response, giving her a faint smile. Then he turned to Arya.
“You will show me how well you use that sword when I return,” said Jon, and took the girl into his arms one last time. Before he could pull away, however, Ghost nuzzled his way between them, whining.
“You'll stay here, Ghost.” The white direwolf jumped up on his hind legs, nearly dwarfing Jon as he put his paws on the man’s shoulders and began to lick his face. Jon laughed, pushing at the animal’s chest, and seemed half a boy again.
However, when his eyes met Sansa’s, all playfulness left his features. “Down, Ghost.”
Based on the tension between them, Brienne deduced that the two had argued the night before, and by the looks of it, it had not turned out in Sansa’s favor. No doubt she had tried to persuade Jon to stay, reasoning that he had just been crowned King in the North and Arya had returned only yesterday. But on this matter, it was clear Jon would not budge.
“I know you will take good care of Winterfell,” said Jon by way of farewell, and despite her obvious resentment, Sansa was the one who pulled him to her.
“Be safe, Jon.”
The group left through the North Gate, their shadows slowly disappearing behind thick sheets of snow. Sansa, Arya, and Brienne watched until their shapes were swallowed entirely, the gates closed and barred behind them.
Three weeks passed before they received a raven - but it flew in from the South, not Castle Black. Sansa called Brienne into her solar late one morning, claiming she needed her counsel. When she arrived, she saw that Davos and Arya were also in attendance, seated in chairs at Sansa’s desk. Littlefinger stood in the corner, face unreadable.
“My lady,” said Brienne, uncertainty leaking into her voice. Despite the fact that Littlefinger had come to the Starks’ aid during the battle for Winterfell, she found it nigh impossible to assuage her suspicions about him, nor forgive him for his past ills. The man had sent Sansa to Ramsay Bolton, after all, and that was an act she could never pardon.
“A letter arrived from Howland Reed, one of my father’s old friends,” began Sansa. Only then did Brienne notice the creamy white parchment on the table. “Jaime Lannister was spotted moving through the Neck with a host of five thousand men, intending to lay siege to Winterfell.”
Brienne felt as though the floor had been ripped out from under her. Is this another nightmare? Her mouth went dry as a bone, and it was all she could do to stay upright.
“Doing so is an act of war,” said Davos, cutting through the silence. “Does he mean to attack the whole of the North with only five thousand men?”
“He may not yet know the North is united,” said Littlefinger, “only that Winterfell is taken. Cersei must have sent him to retrieve it for her.”
“He is like to find out soon enough. If he’s got any wits about him, he'll turn around before the crannogmen drown half his men in the swamps.”
“It appears they already have,” said Sansa, the ghost of a smile forming on her lips. “The Kingslayer has been taken prisoner.”
A stillness descended on the room at her words, but before anyone could react, a Vale soldier appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily. “I apologize for the interruption, my lady…”
“Yes?” said Sansa, nodding him on.
“A girl and a boy are at the gates. The young man claims to be Brandon Stark.”