an: hello! i know that i haven't written in ages but i have returned. for those who remember my old account, one of my very first posts was about how i wanted to tuck flowers into the gaps of brienne's armour. this is an ode to that same thought i still find myself having everyday.
in your eyes she only ever deserved gentleness.
The meeting has gone long.
You sit straight-backed in a gilded chair, hands folded in your lap, doing your best impression of royal serenity. Silver platters of untouched summer fruit displayed across the long table gleam under the chandelier’s indifferent light. The council drones on. They speak of land disputes and naval routes, of negotiations you are meant to find fascinating. You do not. You haven’t for some time, or maybe you never really did.
Instead, your gaze drifts again toward the tall window to your left, just slightly cracked open. The summer air flows in, warm and rich with the scent of rain-soaked earth after a passing storm and sun-baked stone. You watch as the treetops sway in the breeze, golden light spilling over their canopies like melted honey. That is where you want to be. Not here, wrapped in silk and expectation. Instead, you nod at the appropriate moments and smile when your father glances your way. When you are finally dismissed, your mother nods at you with subtle approval. She thinks your silence today was regal restraint. If only she knew.
You stand. Your movements are poised and unhurried, motions curated with well-practiced grace. Though as soon as you exit the room and round the corner, out of sight of your father’s advisors and the ever-watchful eyes of court, you slip off your shoes. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet, and it sends a thrill straight up your spine. You lift your skirts just enough to move, and take a breath before you break into a run. Down the corridor. Past the ornate vases and heavy drapes. Past startled servants who barely register your blur of laughter and silk. Your heart beats fast but your feet move faster, carrying you closer and closer to where you have longed to be all morning. The grin that pulls across your face as wind rushes past your ears is wild and real and entirely yours.
You round a corner, the long hallway stretching out ahead like a secret passageway carved just for you. Light streams in through the tall arched windows, painting the floor in golden stripes. Then you see her, or rather, you don’t. Not until you are already halfway past her.
Brienne.
It has been just over a year since she pledged herself to your house, her voice steady as she knelt before the throne. But her true vow, the one she never said aloud, not in front of your father, not in front of the court, was to you. She has guarded your steps ever since, a quiet, constant presence. A wall of steel between you and the world.
Now here she stands, tall as a tower, solid as stone. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built. Her frame is wrapped in her armour that catches the sunlight in sharp gleams, each piece fitted with care and worn with purpose. The soft golden hair you wish to feel beneath your fingertips glows in the summer sun, a few loose strands clinging to her brow. Her face, noble and striking, is all sharp angles and quiet strength, a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and clear blue eyes that miss nothing. With one hand resting instinctively on the hilt of her sword, her blue cloak shifts slightly with the breeze that trails behind your motion.
“Your Highness?” Brienne’s voice cuts the air, alarmed with half-command, half-concern.
You skid to a stop, skirts swaying, and glance back with a laugh.
She is still standing there, frozen mid-step, one hand on her sword like she half expects to need it, the other hovering in the air in helpless confusion. Her eyes are wide as she looks at you, trying to calculate how much trouble she is about to be in, and failing miserably. Her lips part to say something else, something sensible, but you lift your hand before she can speak.
“Come on, Ser Brienne,” you say, breathless and bright. “I am not running away, I promise.”
You hesitate, your smile widening further and voice softening. “Well. Not from you, anyway.”
Her ears flush pink immediately. You see the way her jaw tightens, the way she wants to argue and scold and protect. She exhales slowly through her nose, eyes narrowing with a look that is equal parts worry and resignation. But instead, with a sigh that is more fond than frustrated, she follows.
You are already moving again, this time with the quiet thunder of Brienne’s footsteps behind your own. Past the kitchens, through the narrow stone gate beside the stables, and out into the castle courtyard. Guards bow. Servants pause. You do not slow. Not when the place you have been itching to get to all morning is just within your grasp.
Grass replaces stone and you step into the forest like returning home. The canopy overhead is dappled with late-afternoon light, golden beams slipping through the leaves like whispered blessings. Birds trill somewhere high above, their songs distant and light. The ground is soft beneath your bare feet, warm moss and dewy grass, a welcome relief after hours spent confined by stone. Each step here feels like a shedding. Of duty. Of title. Of the weight that clings to you within castle walls. You breathe deeply, and it fills your chest in a way no grand hall ever could.
The path you take is not one marked on any map, but Brienne knows it just the same. She follows in silence behind you, eyes scanning the forest out of habit, hand still near her sword. Her armour gives the occasional low groan of metal and leather with each step, though she is careful not to step too loudly, as if not to disturb whatever sacred quiet lives here.
After a while, her voice finds you, low and steady, yet somehow gentler in the woods.
“How did the meeting go?”
You pluck a small flower from the grass and twirl it by the stem, glancing at her over your shoulder.
“Oh, splendidly,” you say airily, eyes glittering with mischief. “Utterly thrilling. I nearly wept with excitement.”
Brienne exhales sharply through her nose. A huff. Almost a laugh, if she were not so stubbornly composed. But you catch it, the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth, the flicker of amusement in those steady blue eyes. She turns her gaze quickly away, as if pretending she had not let it show.
You giggle, delighted by the small betrayal of her stoicism.
There is something in her eyes, a flicker of relief, maybe. Or perhaps just quiet understanding. You are not sure, but it lingers. Her jaw shifts slightly, like she might speak again. But she does not. Instead, her gaze drops to the flower in your hand, then follows as you begin to pick another, and another. Unbeknownst to you, she allows her gaze to soften as she watches your movements.
You move a few steps deeper into the glade, the grass warm and thick beneath your feet, your skirts brushing the tops of blooming clover. Your arms begin to fill, soft petals and thin green stems cradled against your chest, each new flower chosen with care. Lavender, chamomile, bloodroot. The colours blur together in your grasp, too many now to count.
Brienne watches in silence, a respectful distance behind. She says nothing, but the sight before her is almost absurd, your arms overflowing with wildflowers, each one more delicate than the last. It is comical in its own way, but also tender. And for a moment, she forgets herself.
“They suit you,” she says quietly.
You pause mid-motion, a stem still caught between your fingers. You turn toward her. Her expression is unreadable, or trying to be. She is already looking somewhere else, like the words had slipped out without permission.
You offer a small smile, warm and slow. “Maybe they’d suit you too.”
Her gaze snaps back to yours.
“Me?” she asks, and though she tries to keep her tone flat, there is a note of disbelief there. As if no one has ever said such a thing before. As if the idea is laughable.
You take a careful step forward, arms still full. “You might be surprised.”
She does not move as you approach. Her eyes track your movements with the same focus she uses on the training grounds, but there is no tension in her shoulders now. Only stillness. Anticipation.
You pluck a blossom from the edge of your bundle, a pale violet one, small and fragile, and hold it between your fingers. For a moment, you just look at her. Waiting.
When she does not flinch, does not step away, you reach forward. Gently, you tuck the flower into the strap of leather near her shoulder, just beneath the curve of her armour. It sits there quietly, trembling with the breeze. So does she.
You look up to find Brienne is watching you like she is bracing for impact. Like your touch has left her stunned. Her lips part slightly, as if she means to say something, but nothing comes.
And then, slowly, you reach for another. This one is blue, small and sturdy. You tuck it into the seam near her gauntlet. Then another, woven gently behind the buckle at her hip. A sprig of clover rests against her shoulder strap. A soft cluster of white petals peeks from beneath her chest plate.
Brienne does not speak. She does not stop you. She only watches, eyes steady and unreadable, though something in them has changed. There is no fear there, no tension. Only quiet awe. Something soft. Something that sits just beneath the surface, too shy to name itself aloud.
The cold steel of her armour is slowly overtaken. Petal by petal, you bring something delicate to its edges. Something kind. Something beautiful.
When your hands are finally empty, you take a small step back and tilt your head, inspecting her like one might admire the final brushstrokes on a painting. Your eyes trace over her quietly, and Brienne feels it. She feels the way you see her. The way you are not mocking. Only looking. And your gaze is so gentle, so utterly unguarded, that for a breath she forgets how to breathe at all.
And then you smile. A small sound bubbles from your throat before you can stop it, and then you are laughing, soft and musical, a sound that fits too well in the stillness of the glade.
Brienne blinks and glances down at herself. Her shoulders shift with the realization. There are flowers blooming from every gap in her armour. She exhales a quiet breath, then a sound that is almost a laugh. Almost. Her mouth curves, not into a smirk, not into a grimace, but something real. Something that reaches her eyes.
“I look like a hedge,” she says, finally.
“A very noble hedge,” you reply, your cheeks heating up in amusement as you look up at her, your gaze swimming with mirth and admiration.
She chuckles, low in her throat. It is a sound she rarely makes, but it suits her. It suits this moment.
“You have ruined my reputation entirely,” she says, shaking her head faintly.
“I did,” you say, stepping forward again. Your voice is softer now. “And I would do it again.”
Brienne does not answer. She only looks at you, as if unsure whether to laugh once more or fall entirely silent in the face of you. And so you both stand there. You, barefoot and sun-warmed, and she, a knight in full bloom.
As you look up at Brienne and meet her gaze, something unspoken passes between you.
It is time to go.
You turn together, beginning the slow walk back toward the castle. Though this time, Brienne walks beside you now, not behind. You notice how she adjusts her pace, just slightly, letting her long strides fall in rhythm with your shorter ones. She says nothing of it. You do not mention it either. But the silence between you is different now. It feels soft. It feels tender.
Just before the trees begin to thin and the stone towers of the castle come into view, you feel it. A light touch. Barely there. Brienne’s fingers brush against yours. Once. Lingering.
She does not look at you when she does it. Her gaze remains ahead, brow furrowed in that familiar way, as if watching for danger. But her hand remains close. Not quite touching. Not pulling away.
You smile, and say nothing.
By the time you step through the courtyard gate, the sky is stained soft orange with the beginnings of a setting sun. The clatter of guards and the murmur of servants fill the air once more. Eyes follow you both as you pass, curious, confused, a few barely hiding their amusement.
Brienne says nothing. She does not reach up to adjust her armour, nor pluck the flowers from the seams and straps. She walks with her head high, her expression proud and honoured. Let them stare.
She wears every blossom like it belongs there.
And beside her, you do not try to hide your smile.
lottie (yellowjackets) having a vision as a teenager of the staircase she would die in 25 years later is the same energy as nell (haunting of hill house) being haunted since she was a child by the vision of her own eventual suicide
