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Winterfell was not what it used to be, at least not the way men like Sandor Clegane and Jaime Lannister remembered. It was no longer a strong castle that stood untouched by the weather and the years. It was now a half rebuilt building, with missing roofs and ash marked columns, but to men like them, to men like Gendry Waters and Davos Seaworth and young girls like Lyanna Mormont, it was home.
The battle against the dead was won, the battle for the Iron Throne was fought and history, the Targaryen girl sat on the damned chair and seemed to be happy with it. Jon Snow was in King’s Landing with Bran Stark, both men trying to serve a queen who had a tendency towards lunacy. But Snow had not left the North forgotten; he had left Sansa Stark in charge, the Lady of Winterfell, the lady who had managed to regain the North with words and promises, the strongest player in the game of thrones. And along Sansa, there was Arya Stark, deadly and fierce, and Brienne of Tarth, loyal and honorable, an honorary Stark of sorts, and with them, Podrick Payne.
The sight of the foursome walking up and down Winterfell or Winter Town together was not uncommon. The Lady Stark was always busy, her sister was everywhere and nowhere at once, and Brienne Tarth was a presence that engulfed both girls like a shadow. The Stark ladies were loved and respected, they were also a little bit feared, and that was good too. But in Winterfell, three men were not afraid of either the Starks or Tarth, three men who had nothing left to lose and so, they had nothing to fear. Two of them were in the courtyard that morning, enjoying the rays of sun that they hadn’t seen in probably weeks, their southern blood craving for light even if it wasn’t as warm as it was back in King’s Landing.
Sandor Clegane and Gendry Waters were sitting against a rail, watching the men train or pretend to work, they sat in silence, alert of their surroundings, watchful eyes ready to fight. That was until they saw Sansa and Arya Stark walking on the battlements, Brienne Tarth and Podrick Payne a few steps behind them.
“I hate that kid,” Gendry muttered under his breath.
“You hate that kid?”, Sandor asked and snarled a little, “I hate that kid,” he added.
Both men had their eyes glued to the form of the squire; he looked warm and cozy in a cloak that was clearly a gift from the Starks, a cloak that matched Brienne’s.
“What are you two sour men scowling at?”, Jaime Lannister asked joining them and then following their eyes, “Oh, gods, I hate that kid,” he said not a minute later.
Sandor Clegane
When he first arrived at Winterfell, half frozen and half dead after surviving not only the trip beyond the wall, but then to fucking King’s Landing, then back north, the fall of the Wall and the battle against the dead, it had only taken one look from her big blue eyes to bring him back to life. He had thought he was over her, that his had been the infatuation of a lust thirsty soldier, that he had wanted her because he could not have her, but he was wrong. He had known he was wrong when he thought of her as he died on the side of a road. He had known he was wrong when he woke up calling out her name in the Quiet Isle. He had known he was wrong when he would try to get some rest in the freezing cold nights when the fought against the dead and only the thought of her face, her hair and eyes would warm him up. And he had been proved thoroughly and utterly wrong when he laid eyes on her.
There she was, standing tall as Lady of Winterfell. He had heard about her journey, her long and painful journey back home, and he had hated his guts because he hadn’t been there to protect her. But she had made it back home, as she had dreamed of, Sansa had taken her home with blood and effort, and it was plain to see that she would not give it away, not while she still had one last fighting breath. Sansa Stark had welcomed all the surviving warriors, the men who, like him, had set aside whatever differences they had and fought for those who bled when cut. She had thanked them all for their service, for their bravery, she had called them noble and loyal and fierce warriors; she had chirped her courtesies and praised the men, her bastard brother, and the dragon queen. She was no longer a little bird trapped in a cage, she was a wolf, and she was home.
Jon Snow, the unlikely king in the north, had given him accommodations on the main building, a way of saying thank you for saving his sorry ass, and Sandor had doubted before accepting the chamber. He would have rather stayed with the men in the barracks, even sleep in a tent on the hard floor, anything to be away from her, to avoid her eyes and shape and voice. But in the end, he had lost that battle, because as much as his brain screamed for him to get away, his heart cried louder, fought more fiercely at the sole idea of being able to see her once more, to maybe even talk to her. So he had accepted the chambers, learned that they were located near Brienne of Tarth’s rooms, and therefore, not too far away from the one occupied by the Lady of Winterfell.
For one week he had managed to avoid her though he didn’t know if he had succeeded because of his efforts or because she was always busy. But for seven days he roamed the castle careful not to cross paths with her, he ate his food looking down at the table and tried not to look for her whenever a woman walked past him. And then, on the beginning of the second week, she had found him. She was waiting for him in the training yard, where a couple of dozen men were already trying to show off their skills in a desperate need to impress their Lady, as if a highborn woman like her would ever look twice at scum like them. She had smiled and asked him to walk with her, and dressed in boiled leathers, with his big sword in hand and smelling like death because he had skipped his bath because of the cold, he had agreed.
“If we are done avoiding one another, I think it is due time for us to talk,” she had said, and he had done nothing but agree.
So they had talked about everything after the night the skies burned green, and Sandor asked for forgiveness and justice, told her to ask anything of him, and he would do it, because he needed more than words to feel at peace, to let things go. He required actions, he needed to earn her favor, or at least, to do something to make it feel like he was not a complete fraud. And Sansa had laughed at him, not merely smiled but laugh, it was the same sound that used to ring in his head when he heard it the first few weeks or months after they first met and it had rung in his head in the half rebuilt castle that Winterfell was.
She had asked him to spend time with her, one hour per day, and to answer her questions, every question she might have. Sandor had agreed but asked for one thing, that she respected if he could elaborate on certain topics, he would do his best to be honest, but he knew there were things he would not be able to share, not yet at least. She had agreed, and so his daily torture had begun. Sandor would sit or stand or walk with her for an hour and let her pick his brain and heart with whatever questions she had, some days she talked for the whole hour, some others she insisted in sharing their time quietly.
He hated those quiet times, hated that he had nothing to distract himself with and that all he was left to do was look at her. Unwillingly, he started memorizing how her face had changed, how any trace of baby fat was gone and instead she had edges and cheekbones that could cut his fingertips if he ever dared try to touch her. He memorized the tone of her blue eyes, blue unlike any he had seen before, deeper even than those of Tarth, and those eyes were the lady knight's one redeeming feature. He memorized the curve of her long neck, the hourglass shape of her body, the sweet scent of her hair and clothes. He memorized the freckles on her face and her pearly white smile and how soft her fingers had felt against his hand the one time he had helped her up from a fallen tree in the Godswood.
And then he had noticed how they were never truly alone, not even when they were in a crowded room, not when she had looked for him in the courtyard, not when she summoned him to the Godswood. Podrick fucking Payne was always there, always. He had been there, in the background the day Sansa greeted the men who returned from battle, he had been there every day Sandor had voided her, walking by her side as if he could protect her, Podrick had been there in the background the day she had come for him in the courtyard. Podrick was there, standing or sitting nearby for every meal she took in the main hall, and he was not there when she didn’t eat in public. He was there all the fucking time, always around but never standing out. And Sandor hated the boy.
The hated how unscarred the boy was, how he probably only had a few bruises from being beaten into the dust by Brienne. He hated that even when it was the end of the day, the boy and his clothes looked clean, probably smelled nice too. He hated that chubby little face with faint facial hair and that soft voice that would lean in and whisper into his Lady’s ear something that would make her smile. He hated how unskilled with the sword the lad was, hated that if Brienne was not around and Sansa, not Sansa, Lady Sansa, was attacked, she would probably get hurt. But most of all, he hated how he, a lad who had not bled for her, fought for her, lived for her, was able to spend almost every minute of his waking days around such beauty and grace.
Sandor stood up straighter against the rails of the courtyard, to his left, Gendry leaned and placed his elbows on his knees, behind him, Jaime Lannister probably smiled sarcastically. The foursome had come down from the battlements, they had crossed the yard and now were almost standing before them.
“Lord Clegane,” Sansa said, always so proper.
Sometimes she didn’t use his title when they were alone, sometimes she called him Sandor, and he liked those times better. But he was Lord Clegane now, his father gone and his brother twice dead.
“Walk with me.”
He obeyed because it was what he was used to doing, because it was her who asked, and because Arya and Brienne had disappeared and it was just Podrick guarding Lady Stark, and the boy looked too green to be deserving of such honor. They left the courtyard and walked towards the glass gardens, Sandor knew Sansa liked that place better, he liked it too, if only because it was slightly warmer than the rest of the castle. He walked close to her, one step closer than Podrick, and saw how Sansa’s auburn hair was escaping from the ribbon that held her braid together, his fingers itched to touch a strand of hair, he could die happy if he touched a strand of her hair. Suddenly she stopped, so he did too, and so did Podrick, only the lad didn’t stop soon enough, and the soft boy collided with the hardness that was Sandor’s body.
Sandor turned to look at him but it was the Hound who the boy’s eyes met. Podrick’s eyes went from Clegane to Sansa and back to Clegane, and in that minute Sandor knew he wasn’t the only one distracted by lose, silky, auburn hair.
“What is it, boy? Do you also braid her hair?”, he asked and Pod paled down, Sandor wanted to feel bad for the boy, he really did, but it wasn’t in him to fool himself, he was no liar.
“Pay no attention to Lord Clegane, Pod,” Sansa said softly and even touched the young lad’s upper arm, “Go on now, I think Sandor is more than capable to keep me safe for an hour.”
The look in the boy’s eyes hardened, he looked like a young dog trying to look fierce, and Sandor did his best not to laugh, it would not gain him any favors to laugh at Lady Stark’s favorite pet. Pod looked at Sandor for a minute, a somewhat menacing look on his face, a promise to die fighting if something happened to Sansa Stark, but he left the second Sandor was about to open his mouth.
He hated the boy, yes, he hated the boy but only because he was jealous. He was jealous of the closeness, of the honor it was to protect her, of the fact that he could look at her all day long and not have to worry if he was caught staring. Sandor Clegane was jealous of Podrick fucking Payne, the oldest squire in the seven fucking kingdoms and if that wasn’t a new low, then he didn’t know what it was.
Gendry Waters
That kid had to go, as simple as that. Lady Sansa had said that every man was in Winterfell for a reason, that each of them stayed because they had a purpose, a part to play. He was a smith, he supplied the men with arms and worked dragonglass; he was a fighter too, he had gone beyond the wall and come back alive, he had done his part in capturing the wight. He had fought for the living, he had bled and bonded with the other men, and if that wasn’t enough, he had some sort of friendship with Jon Snow. What did that kid do? Nothing, that was what the kid did, absolutely nothing.
Podrick Payne, ‘Pod,’ they called him, Pod, she called him Pod. Arya had never called him anything but ‘bull,’ ‘stupid’, ‘idiot,’ the likes of that. Sometimes even his name sounded like an insult coming from her lips, yet, she seemed to like calling the chubby lad by a friendly nickname. What the fuck was a Pod anyway.
A Pod was a lad who didn’t do shit; he didn’t fight for the living, he didn’t work with his hands. He probably had soft, lady hands, probably only had a few callouses from holding poorly his mid rage sword. Gendry had made swords better than the one Pod had when he was ten and two years old, what a fucking joke the boy was. Podrick Payne was supposed to shadow the Lady Stark, Sansa, the one who acted like such. But instead, whenever Gendry turned around, he could see Pod talking, smiling, trying to spar, with the other Lady Stark, with his Lady, the one who would never act like such, with Arya.
There was one positive thing from the boy not knowing his place, though, and that was that when Arya and Pod trained away from the busy courtyard, where the real warriors sparred, he had a splendid view of how Arya kicked the lad into the dust again and again. Gendry would smile at the sight; he would sometimes stop working and take a break just to see little Arya disarming the boy with that ridiculously thin blade of hers. He had only sparred with Arya once or twice, after seeing little Arry get on a standstill with Brienne of Tarth, Gendry had accepted that he would never be as skillful as the once thin and raggy looking lady. And he was okay with that, but Podrick Payne must have been hit in the head one too many times, or have a sadistic pleasure on being knocked over an again by Arya.
Little Arry, Weasel, Arya, how she had changed through the years. He had never thought he’d see her again, not after he made the terrible decision to stay with the Brotherhood and let her walk away, what a stupid choice that had been. When they first met she was so young, and because of her height and build she looked even younger, she really did look like a boy back then, and he had only protected her because he hated bullies. Then it had turned out that Arry was a girl and not any girl, but Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter to Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully, even a baseborn bastard like him knew how high up that placed the girl, how beyond his station she was. He had not cared for that until coming back to Winterfell, though, until setting eyes on her again.
He had always been a slow boy, not with his hands or with his hammer, but his mind was not very sharp. Maybe it was because of the fumes he inhaled at the smithy when he worked with hot metal or when polished armor, maybe it was just the way he was, but Gendry was not a smart man. He hadn’t realized that the feelings he harbored towards Arya were love, he had confused it with friendship, with the desire to protect a friend, but he had been wrong, it was love and the possessiveness that only men felt when they found someone sniffing around what was his.
She had smiled at him, and he was gone. Arya Stark had one of those smiles that were easy to tell if they were fake. When her smiles were empty, there was a murderous glint in her eyes, when here smiles were real, the sun couldn’t hold a candle to the way her face lit up. She had smiled at him once, her eyes had shone, and her face had softened, and he had fallen fast and hard. Then she went and put the final nail in his coffin by touching his face; she said his hair looked stupid but that she liked the beard. He had trimmed and worked on that damned beard every day since walking into Winterfell; he had also prayed for his hair to grow faster.
They had talked like the old friends they were; they had japed and laughed and then spoke in hushed tones when the darkest parts of their journeys came. He shared everything, bared his soul to her, but she had kept things from him, she had kept things for herself, and he didn’t care because they were back together and he had missed her more than he had known. And then Pod had started lurking around. Podrick Fucking Payne with soft edges and an ever-present stubble in his face, Pod who was not sharp edges but soft curves in the face, Pod who said ‘my lady’ correctly and knew how to talk elegantly and all those things lads from Flea Bottom weren’t taught.
Podrick Payne also had an advantage over him, the squire was friends or at least friendly with Sansa Stark. He would always be around the Lady of Winterfell, always help her up her seat or down the steps, always got death glares from Clegane too, and that might have been one of the reasons why Gendry liked the older man. Still, despite the daggers that they both threw with their eyes, Podrick had some sort of relationship with Sansa Stark, and that was something he, as a simple smith, did not have. Arya had told him how important it was for her to be with family, how much she wanted to see Winterfell as it had once been, full of laughter and children and love. And Podrick Payne was just what she would need to achieve that, a lad who was soft and smiled and got along with her older sister, a lad who praised her form when being beat down to the ground, who was not too proud to ask for a few pointers. Podrick Fucking Payne and his humble attitude.
He had talked to Sansa Stark a few times, Gendry considered that they got along as well as the Lady did with any other worker in the castle. But their latest interaction had been rather odd, and he feared that he had ruined everything with Sansa, meaning that he had ruined any chance of whatever it was he hoped to have with Arya. Lady Stark had walked into the smithy unannounced and unaccompanied, two things that were highly uncommon with her. She had smiled at him and asked how he was doing, if the weather agreed with him, if he needed anything for his job or person. She had also asked how he knew Arya, what he thought of her ability as a warrior, what he wanted to do about his parentage. That had thrown him completely off, he couldn’t care less about his parentage, so what if he was Robert Baratheon’s bastard son? He didn’t have a single copper to his name or lands to work. Sansa Stark had told him that should he ever decide to become a Baratheon; he should talk to her and then left. It was confusing.
What was not confusing was that Podrick Payne had a special smile he used on Arry. It was not confusing the way the squire was prompt to share another cup of wine or ale with a girl who was too young to be drinking, no matter how many men she had slaughtered. He had seen Arya drunk once, on the feast upon their return from the North; she had been chatty and happy and free, she had touched his chest, she had hugged Podrick. Gods, he hated that boy.
Jaime Lannister
When he sent him off with Brienne of Tarth, Jaime had never thought he’d see the lad again. Yet, their paths had crossed not once or twice but three times now, and the last seemed to be for a more permanent change.
Podrick Payne was nothing more than a squire when he sent him off with Brienne, the most loyal squire to ever live, according to Tyrion, it only made sense that he would work for the most honorable knight Jaime had ever met. The unlikely duo had gone through the seven hells together and managed to remain alive, they had survived that day when the Blackfish surrendered, they had survived that sour clash of powers in the Dragonpit, and they had survived the battle against the dead. Brienne had fought marvelously, she had saved his life again, and he had saved hers too. She had saved many lives day in and day out, and never once did she say to anyone that they owed her anything. Yet, when they returned to Winterfell, Brienne’s first instinct hadn’t been to find a man to warm her bed, as many soldiers had done with the available ladies, but instead she had gone and found Sansa Stark, made sure she was alive and well, and then she had gone and hugged Podrick Payne.
Jaime Lannister, the youngest knight to join a Kingsguard, the Young Lion, heir to Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, the man who had betrayed his sister and queen, who had stopped feeling anything the second he left King’s Landing… had then felt a hint of jealousy at the sight of an enormous woman hugging a relieved little boy. He didn’t want to hate Podrick; the boy had been nothing but a friend to him. Pod was the first man not to care sharing his table in dining in the halls of Winterfell, back when he was called the Lannister turncloak, the maimed man, the Kingslayer. Pod was the first to spar with him, poorly too, in the courtyard when training for battle. Pod was a good lad, he really was, but Jaime couldn’t help but hate him a little.
If only he wasn’t glued to Brienne all the time. If only the lad spent more time with Sansa Stark or Arya Stark, then Jaime would be able to like him a little more. Then Jaime would be able to ignore the fact that the lad was probably the first person who Brienne saw every morning and the last person she was before going to sleep. Jaime would be able to stop the painful feeling he got when thinking about the possibility of his wench and her squire sleeping close together on cold winter nights. He would be able to forget about the fact that he had sent the Maid of Tarth with the boy who had done gods knew what to a group of whores and had left them so sated that they had refused the coin. The Maid of Tarth, in his mind she was still a maid, and though he tried not to care or think about it, he wondered if she still was.
After the battle against the dead, he and Tormund Giantsbane had reached a pact; they would both back off and let Brienne take her time and pick one of them. Jaime hoped that Tormund would lose interest before Brienne made up her mind, he was a man used to waiting, waiting for a father to be abroad, waiting for a husband to go hunting, waiting in the shadows, waiting, waiting, waiting. He could wait some more, he could wait for her, and in the meantime, he could figure out his own feelings. Jaime and even established a sort of friendship with the wilding, once Brienne was out of the equation, they had found out they had quite a few things in common, unlucky for them their taste in women was one of them, but still, they had worked out a way to be friends. But Podrick had not been told of the pact, he had no part in it either, because judging by the way he followed Brienne around, like a happy puppy but not a lovesick one, he had no interest in the blonde woman.
Podrick Payne, the squire that would never stop being a squire because he didn’t serve a knight. Podrick Payne, who had somehow found himself surrounded by strong, beautiful woman.
Jaime knew that Clegane hated Pod because the lad spent a lot of time with Sansa Stark, the Hound had always had a thing for the eldest Stark, even a blind man could see it. He also knew that the smith, the bastard son of his deceased good brother, hated Pod. Jaime found that hate ridiculous and unfunded, the lad was imagining things, Pod had no romantic interest in Arya Stark. Jaime couldn't’ judge the smith though, he knew what it was to be young and in love and scared of having some another man take the woman you feel is the only one who could mend your broken pieces. And he, he hated Pod because Pod was too loyal; because after all those years he was still with Brienne and had made himself a part of her, one that she’d never shake off.
Podrick fucking Payne, there had never lived a more loyal squire, damned him to the seven hells and back.
Podrick Payne
He didn't exactly know how he ended up being one of the most envied men in the entire North but Pod would not stop thanking the gods, old and new, for the position in which he found himself. Things like that were not supposed to happen to him, a squire who should have hanged for stealing a ham while drunk was not supposed to have the honors he did, and yet, there he was, spending his days with Sansa Stark, sparring with Arya Stark and serving Brienne of Tarth. He was a lucky man, he knew that much, and one day his luck would end, but until that day came, he would enjoy the ride.
Pod was aware that men like Sandor Clegane did not like him, and he was okay with it. Clegane had never liked him, he had never looked twice at him back in King's Landing, and he had no reason to. But lately, the Hound had taken a particular dislike to him, it was obvious that day in the glass gardens, the way the jape about braiding Lady Stark's hair had come out. Lady Stark was beautiful, she was elegant and warm, despite what other men thought; she was delicate and caring, and she was his Lady, and he would die protecting her. Pod wanted to say that to Clegane; he wanted to let him know that any and all feelings he harbored for Sansa Stark were of respect and loyalty, not lust, not love. But the Hound was a scary man, and Pod was not particularly brave if not under dire circumstances so he had walked away.
That evening, in the dining hall, he tried to seat with Clegane and talk to him, but the man had snarled at him, asked what he was staring at and told him to fuck off. If only Clegane knew that he wanted to tell him that Sansa Stark talked about how brave the Hound was in the small council meetings. How she fiercely defended him and said she trusted no man more than she trusted Sandor Clegane, how her eyes shone when she caught sight of the scared warrior walking around the castle.
"Do I need to say it twice?", Clegane asked and stood up, that man was tall, very very tall.
"No, ser", Pod said nervously and walked away.
"Not a fucking ser," he heard the Hound mumble.
Not a fucking ser indeed, he thought.
Pod also knew that the smith, the Waters boy, did not have any warm feelings towards him, so when Arya asked if he could run to the smithy and ask Gendry how the dagger that she had requested was coming along, Pod swallowed hard in an attempt to ease his nerves. He didn't say a thing about how the second Lady Stark called the smith by his name or how she also asked him to see if any kitchen wenches were coming or going from the smithy; he was a loyal servant of the Starks, and loyal servants kept their mouths shut.
Pod found funny how Gendry genuinely thought he was doing a good job at hiding his feelings towards the youngest Stark girl. It was hard not to laugh when he caught the smith staring at them when they trained; it was hard to keep a straight face when Arya turned and caught him looking and Gendry fumbled with his tools and metals and pretended to be busy. Maybe once or twice he hadn't been able to hold back his laughter, maybe Gendry had noticed that as Arya had. Pod wondered if Gendry hit as hard as Arya did, she had hit him when he said that Gendry was in love with her, and gods, the lean lady could throw a punch.
When Pod stepped into the smithy the first thing he noticed was that the hammering had intensified, a male trying to prove he was the alfa, that was not new to Pod, he was used to being undermined, used to be underrated. He didn't care for the display of manliness; he knew he was man enough, especially where it mattered, in soft beds and behind closed doors. He smiled at the thought of provoking the smith into a fight; one sly comment would be all it took to make a man like Gendry forget himself, maybe he could trick Gendry into punching him in front of Arya, she would hate that. But getting hit for laughs was suddenly not as attractive when he saw the naked chest of the smith, the defined muscles of his arms and chest. No, getting hit in the face by Gendry Waters just to mess with his head was not worth it.
"Are you just going to stand there or are you here for something?", Gendry Waters asked in a harsh tone and Pod had to fight off the smile again.
"Arya wants to know how much longer on the dagger she commissioned", Pod said and exaggerated the shakiness in his voice.
"Lady Stark"
"Excuse me?"
"It's lady Stark, not Arya," Gendry said, and suddenly he was standing very close, towering over him, "Get it, squire?"
"How much longer on the dagger, smith?", Pod replied, two could play the game of being reminded of their stations.
"A couple more days, now fuck off."
The moment he stepped out of the smithy, a smile formed on Pod's face. With men like Sandor Clegane, he couldn't mess because more likely than not he would end up with at least a broken nose. Men like Gendry Waters, however, it was fun to irk, easy too, and Pod had been irking men for as long as he could remember, only that recently he did it on purpose.
Pod was on his way back to the main hall when he crossed paths with Jaime Lannister; he liked Jaime Lannister, probably owed his life to Jaime Lannister, definitely owed a huge debt to him. Jaime Lannister was unlike any man he had ever met, first in an entirely negative way and later in a pleasantly surprising way. He liked Jaime Lannister, he honestly did.
"Ser Jaime," Pod greeted with a shy smile and nodded at the older knight.
“Young Pod,” Jaime nodded and continued on his way.
Pod stopped on his tracks and watched the knight go; he could clearly remember the day Jaime Lannister showed up alone and half frozen to death at the doors of Winterfell, oh the commotion that had ensued, the hordes of men ready to hang him, behead him, cut off limb by limb. The Starks had been somewhat nervous too, all three of them, because Pod counted King Snow as a Stark. They had intermediately turned to look at Brandon, but Bran had nodded and demanded an audience with ser Jaime. After a few hours behind closed doors, the man had walked out of the room and been led to a small room inside the castle.
He would never forget the look on his lady Brienne’s face when she heard ser Jaime had entered the walls of Winterfell; he would never forget how she had stood frozen in place, paler that he had ever seen her, her lips pressed as a thin line. His lady Brienne wasn’t much of a talker, she was not warm and cuddly as a mother, she was firm and disciplined and emotionless, but at that moment, she had lost all words, placed a hand on his shoulder for support and the smallest of cries had left her lips. Pod would never tell anyone of the sorry sound that had left his lady’s lips. He had received quite the beating while sparring that day, he had not been able to land a single blow on her, but she had landed every swing she took of her sword while Jaime Lannister stood trial. Later that night, before he retired for the night, he had gone to check on his lady but had stopped before her door, the sound of muffled cries caught in his ears, he had walked away.
Yes, there were many things that he would never tell, lots of secrets he would keep for the lords he had served, but overall he would always protect those of his lady knight. Pod would die before confessing that lady Brienne was tender and sweet; that she cried when she had to give the gift of mercy to innocent men and women, that she smiled prettily and her eyes shone when they filled with pride. That she cried for a man such as Jaime Lannister; that she blushed at the advances of Tormund Giantsbane. He would never say that he knew that a part of her was interested, intrigued maybe, by the wilding; and he would never said that he was rooting for ser Jaime to sweep his lady knight off her feet.
Pod liked Jaime Lannister, he had heard of the honor the knight still had in him, he had heard how he had lost his hand in an attempt to protect his lady knight’s virtue. But overall, he had introduced him to lady Brienne’s life, and that in itself was a debt he would never be able to repay; good thing he was not a Lannister.