Chapter Text
BRIENNE
The Dragonpit was a huge blackened ruin atop Rhaenys’s hill.
Back in the early days of the Targaryen dynasty, Brienne recalled as they entered through the enormous bronze doors, Maegor the Cruel had ordered it constructed to house the royal dragons. The building did so for centuries, acting as a gilded cage that stunted the creatures’ growth until they grew to only a fraction of the size of Aegon’s Balerion. Then the Targaryen civil war broke out. During the Dance of Dragons, thousands of starved, half-mad smallfolk stormed the pit, attempting to kill the beasts within. The dragons fought back, however, and set the structure ablaze. The roof eventually collapsed in on itself, forming a jagged oculus ringed by shards of the once-imposing dome.
Snowflakes drifted down through the nonexistent ceiling to melt in Brienne’s hair. She stopped just behind the King in the North, hand on Oathkeeper’s hilt. Ser Davos Seaworth was beside her, as well as Podrick Payne and the Hound. A score of northmen were outside, awaiting their signal.
They had been the first to arrive after the queen herself, it appeared. Cersei Lannister watched them from across the sand, dressed all in black, a thin silver crown on her head. Her golden hair was short as a boy’s. The style was a severe change from her previously flowing locks, framing her porcelain face like a lion’s mane. A sword belt hung about her hips, and a dozen guards surrounded her, including a man as tall as a mountain.
Jaime was not with her. He stood to the left of the royal party, accompanied by Ser Bronn. His golden hair had been cut as well, his beard shaved, reminding Brienne of the way he had looked at Riverrun. Clean and strong and regal. His clothes hung loose around his body, though, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Months in captivity had taken their toll.
Brienne managed to catch Jaime’s gaze a moment, their eyes locking across the pit. His expression was difficult to read from so far away, yet she could still feel the intensity of his stare, the heat it brought to her cheeks. Finally she nodded to him in silent acknowledgement. He had done as promised, convincing the queen to allow them safe passage through the capital.
When the rider had arrived at the Stark camp a fortnight ago, inviting Jon and his escort through the gates, Brienne had been overcome with relief. Jaime had kept his word. However, another part of her had been wary, and Jon had shared the sentiment. The last time all of Cersei’s enemies had been under one roof, they had been blown to bits by wildfire. What was to stop her from deceiving them the same way? But the notion had been a possibility since the day the meeting was conceived, and the King in the North decided it was a risk worth taking.
Now silence stretched on in the arena, the tension so thick a blade could not pierce it. Neither monarch would kneel before the other, Brienne knew, nor address them by the appropriate title. It was a staring contest between opposing sides.
Finally a deafening roar cut through the quiet. Everyone turned towards the entrance to find the doors screaming wide, allowing a man and his escort admission. The newcomer had not dismounted outside as the rest of the occupants had, and trotted in on a dappled grey stallion. Hoofprints marred the thin layer of snow. Euron Crow’s Eye, Brienne surmised as the kraken of House Greyjoy rippled against the mount’s body. Euron wore a circlet of twisting driftwood, proclaiming him King of the Iron Islands. He had killed his own brother for that crown, people said.
His lot was brought to a halt next to Queen Cersei’s. They were something of allies now, despite Euron claiming himself a king. He had attacked the dragon queen’s fleet by sea and captured his own neice in the process, bringing her to the capital for execution. Her head had most like been among those decorating the Dragon Gate as Jon Snow’s party made to pass through.
Last of the leaders to arrive was the fabled Targaryen princess from Essos. She was as beautiful as men said, hair silver-gold and shining, eyes a deep violet. Seeing her was surreal. Despite the many rumors floating about Westeros, Brienne had found it difficult to actually believe in her existence, to imagine that a Targaryen had survived and raised an army and landed on Dragonstone. But the girl was undoubtedly authentic.
Daenerys walked with her chin raised, draped in exotic furs from across the Narrow Sea to keep the winter chill at bay. Tyrion Lannister was hard at her heels. When Brienne spotted him, her gaze darted to Jaime. She knew he had held faith that his younger brother was innocent during the trial of Joffrey’s murder, yet the Imp had killed their father on his way out of the dungeons all the same. No doubt there was harbored resentment.
Jaime’s stare was indeed locked on Tyrion, as was their sister’s. Brienne scanned the arena, and saw that Euron Crow’s Eye was glaring daggers at the man sporting Greyjoy colors in Daenerys’ company, and the Hound was scowling at the mountain-like member of Cersei’s Queensguard. Steel hissed as men on all sides began to draw their swords. This meeting is like to end in a bloodbath before it even begins.
Jon seemed to sense the tautness of the air as well, and cleared his throat in an attempt to relieve it. All eyes turned to him. Despite Davos’ warning whispers, the King in the North moved forward, taking tentative steps until he was at the center of the pit. Brienne clasped Oathkeeper in anticipation.
“My ladies, lords,” began Jon. There was a note of anxiety in his voice that Brienne had never heard before. “I know most of us here are sworn enemies, and there is little love between us.” A few men scoffed at that, and one let out a bark of bitter laughter.
“But this is bigger than old grudges, no matter how grievous they may be.” Jon spun in a circle, looking at each leader in turn. “We are gathered here under a flag of truce because there is something that threatens us all.”
Jon nodded to Davos, and the knight ran to the doors. A while passed. Finally he returned with a group of northmen, carrying a torch with the shortened fingers of his left hand and helping them haul a cage covered by a black cloth with the other. Sounds emanated from behind the fabric, shrill and grating. The wagon was brought forth before Jon. After a beat, he removed the sheet.
The wight was bound in chains, wrapped from neck to feet, yet it still thrashed about, banging against the metal bars in earnest. Its skin was pale and bloodless, eyes glowing blue. Gasps rang out from the crowd.
Jon gestured to Brienne. She walked up and slid Oathkeeper through the slats. The restraints parted like silk. Then a northman opened the pen, and the corpse crawled onto the sand.
Steel hissed again, but this time all eyes were on the wight.
The creature slithered clumsily across the snow, head snapping in every direction, screeching and clawing and clambering. Brienne had never seen it free of its chains, and the sight made her blood chill. The thing had once been human, yes, but no human moved like that. It jerked and twitched as if pulled by invisible strings.
As the wight moved towards the audience, men of every sigil scrambled away, eyes wide. Even the burliest of them cowered in fear, swords held out at length. Jon backed the way he had come. Brienne edged close to him, fingers curled tight around Oathkeeper’s hilt. Her palms were clammy despite the cold.
The cadaver crept along the edge of the clearing, dragging its body though the snow. Euron’s stallion snorted and pawed the ground as it came near, tossing its head from side to side in agitation. The wight released a piercing, strangled scream, and suddenly the horse was rearing, standing up on its hind legs and kicking wildly with its hooves. Euron grappled with the reins, attempting to keep himself in the saddle, but the effort was futile. The King of the Iron Islands fell to the ground with a thump, and scrabbled backwards on his elbows and feet like a frightened child.
The wight continued on, pacing back and forth along the line of spectators. At one point it traveled too close for the mountainous man’s liking, and suddenly he was lunging at it, greatsword in hand. A swish of steel, and the wight’s arm sloughed away, dropping to the ground in a flurry of snow. But the thing seemed impervious to the pain. It persisted, lugging its body onward with one hand. The second arm was chopped off, and then both legs, yet still it wriggled on. Only when its head rolled onto the sand did the corpse lie unmoving.
In the stillness that followed, a collective breath was released from the onlookers. Brienne did not share their sigh of relief. She could still sense a rigidness in Jon, an apprehension of something yet to come, and watched nervously as he motioned Davos forward. When she turned her attention back to the dismembered corpse, Brienne saw the reason with a start. She blinked several times, trying to make sure her mind was playing tricks on her… No, the severed arm was moving, its fingers dancing along the ground, trying to find purchase…
Everyone watched in horror as the body parts began to move of their own accord. The limbless torso simply flailed in place, but the arms grabbed at the sand and snow and heaved, carrying themselves forward. Brienne shuddered. If total dismemberment did not end the spell that reanimated them, what did?
Suddenly she remembered the meeting with Beric and Thoros at Winterfell, and Jon’s words.
Fire.
Sure enough, Ser Davos was dashing across the pit, torch in hand. Fires bloomed where the flames touched, and the flesh sizzled and popped as it burned. Every gaze was trained on the spots of light, looking on as the body parts shriveled and blackened. Eventually just ashes remained.
“Only fire can kill a wight,” said Jon, shifting the attention back to him, “but they are the easiest to kill. The Others are much more formidable. Flames will not touch them. There are but two proven defenses against a White Walker: Valyrian steel and dragonglass.”
Jon let that sink in for a moment, glancing around the circle of rulers. “This is no fairytale. It is very real, and it threatens the life of every person in the Seven Kingdoms. I implore you to put aside your quarrels and fight for our home. For the living. We may not win, but together at least we stand a chance.”
No one spoke for a long time. Wind whispered through the walls, hollow and haunted, slanting the snowflakes that fell from the sky above. Euron’s horse whickered. A bell tolled somewhere along the coast, warning incoming ships through the snow.
Finally a voice ended the silence. “I will send troops north,” said Cersei. Brienne had not thought it possible for the queen to be intimidated, yet there was a thread of fear in her words, and she had an iron grip on the hilt of her sword, betraying a certain uneasiness. Brienne wondered if she knew how to properly wield it, or if wearing the blade was simply a symbol of power. She leaned toward the latter. “This dilemma can be neglected no longer.”
“You have my gratitude,” responded Jon. There was nothing to say after that, and the meeting came to an abrupt end. As the northern party filed out, Brienne cast a glance over her shoulder. Jaime’s eyes were already on her. There was a familiar sadness in the look that passed between them, a wonted pain that twisted her stomach at the thought of never seeing him again. How many moments had they shared like this, separated by distance and loyalties and oaths, thinking it would be the last? Somehow Brienne knew this would truly be it, and her heart ached.
When she finally tore her gaze away and turned back around, Brienne saw that Daenerys’ escort had begun to move with them, although the little queen was nowhere to be seen. Brienne followed Davos out the doors and into the biting wind, preparing herself for the long journey back to the horses. They had left their mounts at the base of the hill, and had three miles of steep stone stairs to endure before they reached the bottom.
Brienne was just about to begin the descent when there was a sound from behind, the soft but deliberate clearing of a throat, and she and Davos whipped around. Before them stood a young girl with warm brown skin and almond eyes. Brienne recognized her as one of Daenerys’ attendants.
“My apologies for startling you,” said the girl. “This one is Missandei of Naath, advisor and handmaiden to Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons. Her Grace wishes to speak with you.”
Missandei gestured to the palanquin behind her, elaborately carved and almost as large as Brienne’s bedchamber back at Winterfell. Over a dozen servants stood between the poles, waiting. Brienne glanced uncertainly at the Onion Knight, and could see her own confusion mirrored in his face. Then he shrugged.
“Always wanted to ride in one of those,” Davos said, and climbed in through the open door. Brienne knew she had no choice but to follow, and went in after him.
The space was all dark wood and opaque drapes, and despite its great size, the litter was quite cramped inside. Brienne took the seat next to Davos, shifting awkwardly amongst all the silks and cushions. She had always been more comfortable in armor, but being surrounded by such finery made her feel clunky and ungainly. The top of her head brushed the ceiling when she moved.
Missandei sat down opposite her, beside Daenerys, and soon the palanquin began to quake as they were carted down the hill.
“I have never liked taking these. It feels rather pretentious, doesn’t it?” asked Daenerys, breaking the quiet.
“Aye, but it sure beats walking down those steps, my lady,” said Davos, and Daenerys gave a small laugh. Her handmaiden did not.
“You are speaking to a queen. You will address her as such,” snapped Missandei. Daenerys laid a pale hand on her shoulder.
“It’s quite alright. There were two kings and queens in that pit alone. Their loyalties lie elsewhere.” The dragon queen smiled faintly. The woman was younger than Brienne had imagined, hardly more than a girl. There was kindness in her eyes, but Brienne sensed something darker underneath, simmering just below the surface.
“I did not know women could be knighted,” said the young queen. Brienne felt blood rush to her cheeks as she realized she was being addressed. “I must admit most Westerosi customs are foreign to me.”
“I am no knight, my lady,” Brienne confessed, “although Ser Davos is.”
“Aye, but she would have me on my arse in one fell swoop if I ever took up steel against her,” said Davos. “And it’s not just because I’m an old man. She could best half the knights in Westeros.”
“You are too kind, ser.”
Brienne had come to like Davos. In the beginning, when she had first arrived at Castle Black, she had been wary of him; after all, he had been loyal to Stannis Baratheon, and Stannis Baratheon had killed her sweet Renly with blood magic. But over the next few months the Onion Knight had proven himself a faithful supporter of the Starks, impressing her with his strong sense of justice.
“You both follow Jon Snow,” said Daenerys, pulling Brienne from her musings.
“He is an honorable man and an inspiring leader,” said Davos. “I am proud to call him my king.”
“He seems as much.” Daenerys’ fingers played with the white pelt around her shoulders. It had a thick mane, and the paws that draped over her chest were those of some sort of feline. A lion, Brienne realized. “I would meet with him as well. I am going to need allies if I plan on taking back my kingdom. And saving it.”
So they were brokering an alliance.
“He mentioned dragonglass as a weapon against the Others,” continued Daenerys. “There is dragonglass on Dragonstone.”
“Aye, and lots of it,” said Davos. He had lived on Dragonstone with Stannis for years, Brienne knew, after saving his men from starvation during Robert’s Rebellion. He had been knighted as a reward, but lost the first joint from each finger of his left hand as payment for his past crimes as a smuggler. Doubtless he knew the island fortress better than the princess who had only been born there, whisked off to exile in the Free Cities as a babe.
“We cannot speak for the King in the North, my lady,” said Brienne.
“No, but you are his advisors. I trust you want to help him garner as much aid as possible for the wars to come.” The dragon queen looked from Brienne to Davos and back again. The kindness had left her eyes. “Persuade him to travel back to Dragonstone with me. My ship waits in the bay outside the city walls, north of the Iron Gate.”
“Why come to us?” asked Brienne, too bluntly. “Why not speak directly to him?”
“Discretion. The absence of the King in the North would be noted all too quickly in these streets, or so I’ve been told.”
She had been told the truth of it. Brienne had felt eyes on them as soon as they entered the capital, watchers for the queen, brothel keepers and filthy children and blacksmiths. A secret meeting between two of Cersei’s greatest adversaries would not go unnoticed. Brienne and Davos, on the other hand, were hardly so memorable.
They rode the rest of the way in silence. Eventually the litter came to a halt, and Brienne could feel the poles being lowered to the ground. She turned to Daenerys.
“Many thanks for the ride, my lady,” she said. “I hope we did not inconvenience anyone.”
Daenerys waved a dismissive hand. “It was no trouble. My Hand wanted to speak to his sister after the conference, and assured me he would find his own way back.”
Tyrion? Brienne had known that the youngest Lannister sibling had gone over to the Targaryen cause, but the fact that he had been named Hand to Daenerys was news to her. Cersei could not be too happy with the prospect. Brienne hoped the Imp had kept guards with him during their conversation.
The door of the litter was opened suddenly, allowing a cold rush of winter air to stream through. Brienne steeled herself against the chill and exited the palanquin, Davos close behind. They had not made good time. Already Jon was ahorse and waiting, as was the rest of their escort. He watched the litter move away with narrowed eyes.
“The dragon queen desires a meeting, Your Grace,” said Davos in hushed tones as he came up beside Jon’s gelding. “On Dragonstone.”
The king was already shaking his head. “I have been too long away from Winterfell. How can I claim to rule the North if I am never in it?”
“That is true, Your Grace, but… We need dragonglass. Daenerys sits on the largest known store in all of Westeros.”
Brienne could see Jon’s mind working, turning the idea over and over in his head. Finally he said, “She will ask me to bend the knee.”
“No doubt. But you can refuse.”
“That is no great start to an alliance.” Jon looked off into the distance a moment, then sighed. “Where is she docked?”
“Just beyond the Iron Gate.”
“Very well.” The King in the North turned to his men, adopting a louder tone to address them. “Ser Davos and I will take the Rosby Road along the coast. The rest of you will return to Winterfell by the kingsroad.”
“Your Grace?” Brienne had thought she’d be accompanying them to the ship, at the very least.
“I will be safe enough without your services, Brienne. I need you to return to Sansa.” His voice dropped low. “I do not like her alone in Winterfell with Littefinger. She claims not to trust him, but he has the reputation of being a master manipulator.”
Brienne was well aware. Just being in the same room with the man made her anxious. Something about his shifty pale eyes, or the way his lips curled when he spoke. Everything that came out of his mouth sounded half a lie. Sansa was a smart, capable woman, but Petyr Baelish was dangerous nonetheless.
“I will leave at once, Your Grace,” Brienne said. Her mount was where she had left her, tied to a hitching post outside the tavern at the base of the steps. Brienne unfastened the reins and swung into the saddle, giving Davos and Jon a nod before putting her heels into the horse’s side. They headed off in opposite directions. The Iron Gate was south of here, around Rhaenys’s Hill and through Flea Bottom, while the Dragon Gate was a straight shot north.
Brienne’s mare clopped over the cobblestones at a steady pace, keeping well ahead of the rest of the escort. She was glad to have the palfrey beneath her once more, the palfrey Jaime had gifted her, spirited and footsure. Brienne had left her at Winterfell during the trek to Riverrun to heal; a ball of hard-packed ice had stuck in one of her rear hooves, leaving the animal limping with a sprain. But she had made a full recovery in her absence, and moved now with the easy gait Brienne had grown accustomed to.
The sky was darker by the time they reached the gate, thick with heavy black clouds that promised even more snow. As they continued along the kingsroad, passing through fields and towns blanketed in white, Brienne tried to focus on the stinging of her cheeks, her frozen hands, the burning cold that seeped into her bones. But eventually her entire body went numb, and all she could think about was Jaime.
She would never see him again.
Mayhaps it was better that way, she reasoned. He was once again in King’s Landing, with his sister and her flattering fools, but he was safe. Every time they met, there was the looming danger of a battle or execution. Now they were both returning to their rightful places.
The escort set up camp in the pale blue of dusk, pitching their tents a few miles south of Brindlewood. They were still in the Crownlands, and would be for a few days, but Queen Cersei had promised every member of the meeting safe travels home. No great comfort, to be sure, but a royal decree nonetheless.
Brienne fetched water from a nearby stream and warmed it above a fire outside. Once it was heated through, she brought it into her tent and stripped down, pouring it over her naked skin as she crouched in a small tin bucket. She had never been overly concerned with cleanliness, but the stink of King’s Landing clung to her like a fog, and she was glad for the lye soap she had brought from Winterfell as she scrubbed.
Afterwards, when she was as fresh as she was like to get, she dressed and ordered Podrick to bring her pen and parchment. It was only when she sat down to write that she noticed the tears blurring her vision, turning the paper before her into a watery smudge. Her throat tightened as she attempted to hold back a sob. She could feel Jaime’s hands on her waist, his lips gliding down her neck, his breath fanning her cheeks.
Brienne wiped the hot tears from her face, swallowed her despair, and began to write.