Work Text:
A fortnight after Prince Eddard was born, the last of the Starks was restored to Winterfell. Bran Stark, carried by his direwolf and the green-eyed Meera Reed, ambled into the courtyard and cheekily requested an audience with the King and Queen of Winter. A happy day Brienne thought, as she listened to the Starks converse in the queen’s solar, their spouses and direwolves right beside them. A day that had brought many just like this one. After hearing petitions that morning, the royal family had ridden out to a village on the outskirts of the Wolfswood. As always, they distributed food, advised in local disputes, brought tonics to heal ailments, and even helped with the chores. The babes were obviously too young to go, and had stayed beyond with Prince Bran. So it was Princess Meera’s first ride out. Brienne thought her an extraordinary girl, especially considering all she had done to keep Bran Stark alive during the war. There was a strong vein of Catelyn Stark in her, if the late Lady of Winterfell had ever decided to spearfish and run rampant with wolves. Brienne noted sourly that Meera had been raised in a fine house with fine things, she ought to act like it. But Sansa and Princess Arya approved of her, so Brienne had decided to accept her without comment.
Here, in the privacy of the queen’s solar, Meera Stark played with two year old Lyanna while Gendry rocked little Ned, practicing for when his own babe would be born. Which would be quite soon if you listened to Princess Arya moan and complain. Prince Rickon was the most active of the Starks, teasing the younger direwolves with a rope Arya had fashioned as a toy. King Jon was giving the queen a foot rub, since they seemed to ache more after having Ned instead of improving. Prince Bran, as usual, was reading, with Summer curled around his withered legs. The other direwolves were scattered about, lounging or grooming themselves. Only Ghost remained alert, eyes locked on the door. They were all quite at their leisure, and Brienne was beginning to feel slightly overwhelmed by it all. She was charged with protecting this loving and ever-expanding family of decent, good hearted people. This is what came of keeping your promises, she was sure. She was sure she was being rewarded. She was sure he was being rewarded. King Jon’s laugh reverberated against her ear.
I have made kings and unmade them.
She shook her head sharply. No, she would not think on him. Not today. But the gods mocked her, laughed in her face, for she caught a flash of sapphires amidst the queen’s burning red hair. One of the more foolhardy of her decisions was to beg her father to gift the newly crowned Queen in the North with a sack full of raw sapphires. She knew it to be a strange request, but her father was not like to deny her anything when she had served his house so nobly and so honorably. When they arrived, Sansa had expressed her delight, but also her confusion.
“I thought there were no sapphires on Tarth…” She had looked to Brienne for answers, wanting an explanation of the strange gift. The knight had shuffled anxiously, breaking eye contact.
“My father writes that he met your mother once and heard rumor that you were her spitting image. He says that if your eyes were as blue as hers, then the sapphires would suit you well.” A blatant lie, one of the few Brienne had ever told in her life. But even then, she could not face Sansa Stark and speak of her love for Jaime Lannister. She could not confess to the beautiful young woman how she had succumbed to his goodness, his bravery, his strong desire to regain his honor and redeem himself. Just for Brienne. Sansa, of all, would understand the need to have reminders of him, to symbolize all he had done for them in some small way. Brienne had seen her finished tapestry, had nearly wept at the sight of it. Sansa’s gifting it to her had been unexpected and bewildering and exceptionally humbling. It was only then, all those years later, that the knight finally understood that she had to explain nothing. Her young mistress could see all Brienne had tried to so desperately to hide.
“Brienne?” came Sansa’s soft bid for her attention. “Are you all right?” Brienne turned her head, looking down on the queen with a tight knot in her chest. She was still so slight and small in Brienne’s eyes, the vulnerable girl who stared out the window into the vast forests of the Eyrie, unconvinced that she would ever see home again and yet longing for it. She was still the girl who sobbed into Brienne’s shoulder, mortified and distraught at angering the only brother remaining to her, a man who was no longer truly her brother. A marriage, two babes, and a lifetime later, Sansa Stark was every inch the queen Jaime would have been honored to serve and protect. Truly, she was his redemption and integrity restored.
“Perfectly, your grace,” Brienne answered with a small smile and tight throat. Sansa smiled sunnily at her, bemused by her strangeness.
“Where were you just now?” she asked teasingly, referring to Brienne’s absentminded wandering. There was no good way to answer her, not without setting a melancholic tone. And she certainly didn’t want to draw the king’s attention. He was preoccupied with teasing Prince Gendry for his fearful panic when the little prince began to cry. Though, Brienne remembered the king’s near constant alarm for every bump and scrape Princess Lyanna earned for trying to walk.
“Harrenhall, your grace. I was thinking of Harrenhall.” Of her Goldenhand. My beautiful Goldenhand, she thought with a pang to her heart. Not for the first time, Brienne longed for her lady’s exceptional gift for embroidery, or even Prince Gendry’s skill with metals. She would have stitched a golden hand on every bolt of cloth she owned and welded a golden hand onto her armor and weapons and shield. She would have had them call her the Knight of the Goldenhand instead of the Maid of Tarth, which held little value anymore, or the Wolf’s Knight. He would have hated it, but Brienne longed to be marked.
“Harrenhall,” Sansa repeated sadly. “I see.” And she did. Over the course of their friendship, both Brienne and the young queen had exchanged confidences about their various life experiences. Jaime Lannister was a shared experience of sorts, and was as good a place to start as any. Brienne had once asked Sansa when she knew that she could trust him, and in return, Sansa had asked her the very same. The answer was easy: Harrenhall. Everything had changed at Harrenhall. There were long, cold nights when she wished she could have gone back there, shook her foolish self and convinced her to run away with Jaime, to leave the world to rot and save themselves. Her happiness in her current position was both her reward and her curse. Reward because life among the Starks had brought her such joy and satisfaction. Punishment because it meant being without Jaime.
“I apologize, your grace, I would not bring it up except…except that today is his Name Day.”
Sansa gasped, “I didn’t know.” Brienne gave a rueful shake of her head. Usually, she would have taken the day off. She always had in the past. There were plenty of knights and guards to accommodate her infrequent absences. But with the whole family gathered, she had not been able to bring herself to do it. Not with Jaime’s words ringing in her ears.
“I would imagine not, your grace,” she answered smoothly. Brienne herself only knew because he’d gotten pissed at a tavern on their way to the Vale and drunkenly confessed the date of his Name day. They’d spent a good deal of that night talking of their respective childhoods, how vastly different they were. Jaime told her about falling in love with Cersei. Brienne told him of her devotion to Renly. They’d shared a bed that night, shared their warmth. Innocently, much to Jaime’s amazement, since he could not remember sharing a bed with a woman without taking her. In true, Brienne may not have minded as much as anyone else might think. Jaime’s kindnesses were more than pity, more than awe of her size. It was true respect. True affection. Had he lived…well…had he lived.
“You may retire if you wish, Brienne. I would not keep you here with such thoughts. We can find a replacement, it really is no trouble.”
Such a sweet girl, a kind woman. How many men had mocked Brienne of Tarth for showing emotion? How many women had ridiculed her for showing any sort of womanly feeling? The queen had never once thought it strange that Brienne felt so deeply for Jaime. Sansa was all kindness and softness and understanding. She was also good enough to share with Brienne all that had transpired with Jaime in the Vale, confessed that he had spoken long and often of Brienne. That she had questioned him about their relationship from the first.
“He intended to wed you,” Sansa had confessed in the cruelest of her kindnesses, her own pain so explicit on her perfect porcelain face. “I would have given him the Dreadfort…” It cut Brienne deep, this forsaken future. This pretty picture the queen could paint for her. They could have had children. Children with golden hair and glass-colored eyes. Children who were hopefully as beautiful as their father rather than their mother. A life with a man who loved her; an impossible dream. Only Sansa Stark understood the depth of her grief, the breadth of her loss, and so she had refused her inheritance and sworn to House Stark until the end of her days. She wouldn’t wed. She wouldn’t have children. She would serve the Starks, protect them until her last breath, and hope beyond all hopes that there were seven heavens, and that Jaime would be waiting for her.
“If it pleases, your grace, I would like to stay. I…would like not to be alone at the moment.” Their gazes locked on each other for a fraught moment. Sansa tensed so much that it did, in fact, draw King Jon’s attention, but he couldn’t get his wife to respond to his concerned questions. Sansa’s gaze bored into Brienne, piercing every layer of her, exposing her in ways that she had never been so exposed before. Maybe not even with Jaime. This is what it’s like to have a true friend, she thought quietly. This is what it’s like when someone loves you. She ached for it, even allowed a tear to slip.
It broke the spell. Sansa was up immediately and moving toward Gendry and her son. She quietly praised Gendry’s efforts with the boy, kissed his cheek, and swept Ned up. Confused, Brienne was forced into a chair, wrangled to sit and accept the crown prince into her arms. The knight blinked down at the babe, who stared up at her wide eyed and cooing. He was such a sweet child, trusting of whoever held him, smiling and cooing as if you were his favorite thing in the world. As Brienne looked down at him, Sansa was crouched before her, hands on her elbows, and smiling sadly at the sight of them.
“You never have to be alone, Brienne,” she whispered gently, eyes shining with tears. “There is always a place for you here.”
“I loved him so much,” Brienne answered, still staring down at Ned, cuddling him closer, her grip tight on his little body. Ned wriggled and snuggled against her, happy to be warm. One night together just hadn’t been enough. It would never be enough.
“He loved you, too. Truly he did. He wanted so badly to get back to you,” the queen admitted miserably. Brienne sniffed and lifted the prince to press a kiss to his brow, rocked him. She must have sensed that her knight needed some space because she stood and withdrew, going back to curl against her husband who looked every inch concerned for their exchange. Brienne did not notice her going, only drew a heavy hand along Ned’s downy black hair, thinking that Jaime Lannister would have been a wonderful father if ever given the chance.
Across the room, while Arya complained to her good sister about the plights of pregnancy, their husbands watched the Commander of the Queensguard with tightness in their chests. Bran was thinking about the despair of losing his legs, of never becoming a knight, of never being able to properly court a girl. Gendry was thinking about Arya leaving him behind, about the rumors of her marriage and death. Both were thinking about how incredibly unfair and dark life could be.
“Isn’t right,” Gendry grumbled to Bran, “After all she’s done.”
“No, it isn’t,” he agreed softly. All the songs and tales said that knights who kept their oaths, who did great things and good works should be rewarded. Brienne had been good and faithful and honorable, and yet she suffered for it. The gods punished her instead of rewarding that goodness. It made little sense to him, especially since he had seen her past, seen her pain. Why was it that the gods picked some to the bone and fattened others?
“Gendry, I have an idea, but I will need your help.”
“For Brienne? Anything.”
“I will need to send a raven to Tyrion Lannister.” He turned to his good brother arching a brow, “How good are you with gold?” A slow smile spread over Gendry’s face as he nodded.
“Very good.”
*
When Brienne was presented with a new suit of armor several turns later, she wept at the sight of it. After some convincing, Tyrion Lannister had agreed to gift his brother’s hand to the Commander of Sansa’s Queensguard. It had remained untouched in their family vault for some time, and while the Royal Hand was loath to give it up, he was helpless against Bran’s strong reasoning. However, giving Brienne her dead lover’s hand would have been morbid. Instead, Gendry had melted it down, welded it to a suit of armor in the shape of a heart, and etched on it the very image of Jaime’s golden hand. Bran had seen her heart’s desire, and sought to give it to her, though not quite as she expected.
Because years later, a minstrel would share a flagon of wine with Lucan and Derron Durwell. Curious, he would question the twins on the enormous woman who protected the Queen in the North who wore her heart on her chest, and they would tell him her tale in full. These men had pieced together her history from conversations with Brienne, confessions from the king, worries from the queen. They knew her as they knew themselves, and loved her like a sister. They claimed she was the truest of all the knights in Westeros, the purest, the best of them. The Durwells waxed poetic of her ferocity, not just of her physical strength, but the strength of her heart and her goodness, her dedication to her word and honor. And this minstrel would write a song of her, a song of a woman warrior more man than woman, who loved a knight so dearly that she never loved again. Of a woman knight devoted to her queen, devoted to all she had sworn to protect, that her devotion was equally and freely returned.
The minstrel called her the Knight of the Goldenheart.