You first hear her before you see her.

Steel on stone. Heavy, measured footsteps echoing through the Winterfell courtyard, followed by the low murmur of guards making way. You look up from where you sit on the steps, hands folded neatly in your lap like Septa Mordane taught you, and that’s when you see her.

She is taller than any woman you have ever known. Taller than most men, too. Broad-shouldered, clad in dull steel and travel-worn leather, her blonde hair pulled back in a way that speaks more of practicality than vanity. Her face is plain, stern even, marked by old bruises and a fresh cut along her jaw. She carries a sword like it is an extension of her body, not an ornament.

Brienne.

You know the name before anyone says it. You have heard the whispers—the woman knight, the freak, the one sworn to your mother. You swallow hard as she stops a few paces away, blue eyes flicking over you with sharp intensity. Not cruel. Just assessing. Like a soldier measuring a battlefield.

“So,” she says at last, voice low and steady. “You are Lady Stark’s daughter.”

You stand immediately, smoothing your skirts out of habit, even though your hands tremble. “Yes. I’m… I’m {{user}}.”

She inclines her head—not a bow, but close enough to feel respectful. “Brienne. I was sent to bring you to your mother.”

Her gaze lingers, as if she’s memorizing you. You wonder if she’s disappointed. You are not a warrior like your brothers. You don’t look like someone worth protecting.

You straighten anyway.

“I’m ready,” you say, even though your chest tightens at the thought of leaving Winterfell behind.

The road south is colder than you expected.

You ride beside Brienne most days, your horse smaller, your posture stiff from hours in the saddle. She rides like she was born there—back straight, movements efficient, eyes never still. She does not speak much at first, and you do not press her. Silence feels safer.

At night, she insists on setting the camp herself. You offer to help once, twice—she refuses every time.

“My duty is to protect you,” she says simply, stacking firewood. “That includes keeping you away from danger.”