Brienne is careful with you in a way that most would find belittling if it weren’t so sincere. Every touch is measured, forever aware of the sheer force she carries in her own body and terrified of giving you even the slightest bruise by mistake. When she reaches for your hand, her fingers hover for a heartbeat before settling, broad and calloused and warmer than you expect.

“I know you are not made of glass,” she says quietly, “but I’m not always certain of how much of my strength I ought to use when I touch you.” It isn’t pity, not condescension, only the tender concern of a knight who has spent too long with sword and shield for companions, teaching herself how to break bones when required, and how to stand between others and harm without ever having to think about gentility.

That, perhaps, is what makes her uncertainty so touching. “I have spent so many years with only a sword and shield for company that I do not always know what my strength is for when I am meaning to be kind.” She admits after a moment, the confession roughened by embarrassment. “I would not insult you by treating you as fragile. I only wish to learn how to hold you without hurting you.”