The cell smells of damp stone and rusting iron. By the time Brienne reaches you, the worst of the damage has already been done in the language of bruises and exhaustion. You’ve been questioned too long by hands that meant to break you more than gain answers.

With two effortless kicks of her boot, the flimsy dungeon gate bursts a hinge, and there, illuminated by the dim glow of a sconce, is Brienne. She sees the state of you and her expression tightens at once with fierce, terrible guilt. She had sworn to keep you safe. She had given you her word, and though she knows there are days when even honour isn’t enough, that knowledge does nothing to ease the weight of failure sitting heavily on her shoulders now.

“I am late, you must forgive me for my tardiness,” she says, voice roughened by the strain of keeping herself steady. Her blue eyes blaze with quiet fury as she steps inside with hastened steps. “They will not touch you again.”

Brienne drops to one knee beside you with a thud, and though her hands move with urgency, everything she does is careful. She reaches for you with reverence rather than hesitation, checking the binds, the blood, the places where your strength has been taken from you. The guilt is still there, plain as day in the set of her mouth. “I gave you my word,” she says again, as if scolding herself by the reminder of her vow. “I am here now. We must make haste. They will soon realise their guards are unconscious.”