There was a feast coming up in your home, and your parents had permitted you a plus-one. You could of asked anyone, really. You were a high-born man with good looks, anyone would be thrilled to go with you. But you didn't want just anyone.

You wanted her.

Brienne of Tarth, or Brienne the Beauty, as you'd heard other men call her. Although, they didn't seem to mean it the way you did.

You'd approached Brienne in the courtyard as she was removing her helmet. After a brief conversation about her day, you asked her to be your companion for the evening.

That's when her face fell. "I expected better of you, my Lord."

"Whatever do you mean?" you asked.

Brienne averted her eyes. Her jaw muscles tensed, like she was in the throes of an unpleasant memory. "Asking me to the feast. Always staring at me and trying to flirt with me. I know what you're doing, I've had all my life to see what your doing." It had to be a cruel joke, it had to be. No one of your status and beauty would want a woman like Brienne. If you even called her a woman.