White Cloaks, Red Walls || Team King's Landing
Brienne’s time in the prisons of the Red Keep had treated her sourly. She had spoken her tale true to Ser Loras, who had tromped down to her dark, dank cell ready to kill her all over again. Brienne had stood immediately when she saw who was staring her down on the other side of the cold iron bars. She had said nothing until he was done voicing his loud demands, his angry suspicions that cut her through her sinews to the bone. She had loved their King. She had fought for him, and would have gone to battle in his name without hesitation. She had even wept for him twice. Bitter tears when he had wed Margaery Tyrell, and in shattering grief when he bled his life away in her arms... “A shadow,” Brienne had explained calmly, retelling the entire event however much it had pained her to revisit it.
On the decision of Ser Loras she was able to walk freely again. It had only been a couple of nights, spent confined like a lying bandit or a thief or…a Kingslayer, her thoughts finished indignantly for her. No, that was Stannis. Kingslayer and kinslayer both. Her hands balled to fists when she recalled him. He was nothing like her sweet Renly. He would not have made half as magnificent or beloved a king.
At least Loras had not forgotten him, as so many others had been quick to do.
Brienne stalked the halls and corridors of the Red Keep, trailing a hand idly along the cool, red stone that made up the castle. The stench of King’s Landing had followed her into the dungeon, and these walls had proven a little, but welcome respite. Or perhaps she had simply grown used to it. She was too hesitant to speak to any of the servants making their way about their duties, or any of the lords and ladies of the court. Too hesitant to speak to strangers. At least she had since shed the blue dress the Septa had insisted she wear in favor of a pair of breeches.
It was just before noon; there seemed to be people no matter which corridor she chose to turn down. She towered over most of them, the wisps of her straw-colored hair a beacon in the Keep. Still, she did not need company and conversation to explore.
Explore she did, until she had come to the one room she had been hoping to avoid. Kings have been unmade here, a whisper of a thought snaked in. To her surprise it was empty, save for a single figure on the steps leading up to the Iron Throne. It was a magnificent, horrifying thing; never had she imagined herself before it. She could not picture a man seated on the sharp, unforgiving thing, much less a boy.
And now an even younger boy shall claim it. She thought of Ser Jaime’s words about what King Joffrey had been to him. And she remembered the sword. The shining, magnificent sword he had given her.Her bright sapphire eyes had widened when he requested her to stay, to help him reclaim any semblance of skill in his left hand. His request had been a quiet one, barely a whisper in the whole of the White Sword Tower. Another place she had nary imagined herself. But perhaps she had, long ago, and under different circumstances. Her dreams used to involve a white cloak, and new oaths. But no longer.
Brienne stayed close to the door, all at once wanting to walk the length of the room, and not wanting to disturb the person who stood near the iron chair. At an impasse, her legs simply did not move. When the figure appeared to notice her, she mumbled a beg pardon and turned her haunched shoulders awkwardly to leave the room behind.
