Once a Century

Inspired by the song "Beneath Your Beautiful" by Labrynth, because if Tormund had a theme song, this would be it. 

***

It had been a bloody misery, this ride from Castle Black to Riverrun, the entire length of it spent strategizing and planning. They rode hard, stopping only for the most urgent needs to piss. They fell exhausted into their bedrolls at night, long after it was safe to keep traveling, just to be awake at the arse-crack of dawn the next morning.

Tormund had done his level best to maneuver himself next to Brienne, with a cheering amount of success, except he didn't seem to be making any progress with her.

Aye, she was at least looking him in the face when they had cause to speak to each other— and Tormund was working hard to make that happen often— but there was nothing in her glorious eyes but interest in the subject matter to hand. He could have been Edd, or that a squire of hers, or one of the damned horses, for all the notice she took of him.

She'd taken more notice in the horses, in truth.

Tormund knew he wasn't a dashing sort, nor pretty like Snow. And he wasn't a pretty fighter like Brienne with her lightness and grace. But he was strong, and bloody effective, if he did say so himself. And he was an honest man, a hardworking man. He had honor. She could do worse.

He shot a gimlet eye over their companions. Could do much worse, he thought, raking a scathing glance over the rest of the group.

How had any of these soft-pricked fools let Brienne go so long? How had they treated her either as one of the fellows— hah, with those legs?— or, even more bafflingly, with puzzlement or disdain, would remain a mystery for the ages.

Tormund just thanked every god he could name that none had pursued her, because she was free for him to claim. That meant something to him, made him think of things the Southerners liked to put merit in, like fate and destiny and providence. Since he was a man of chaos— he allowed it to steer him, and created a fair bit of it as well— this was a shift of epic proportions for him.

But massive changes had become commonplace the day Brienne had ridden into the castle yard, which Tormund would forever use as the defining moment of his life. There was the time before Brienne, and then there was the time after her.

Had he thought, before, that he'd had purpose? That he'd understood admiration? Reverence? Lust? Impossible. He had learned the meaning of those words in that thunderstruck moment he'd clapped eyes upon her.

Tormund heaved a sigh— probably the hundredth such that day— because, well, his arse was sore from being a-saddle for so many hours in a row, but also because the weak light had turned Brienne's pale hair to silver-gilt. This late in the day, the neat combing she'd given it that morning was a shambles, and it now tumbled around that strong, elegant face and her neat little ears. He wondered, if he asked very nicely, if she would ever consider growing it longer, because he knew there'd be no prettier sight than Brienne laying back, hair spilling around her, as he moved to cover her.

He gave his head a shake to get his unruly thoughts under control. Brienne flicked her eyes to the left, to him, and he held his breath as he always did whenever her attention was focused on him. He gave a little cough, a hint (or perhaps a warning) that he intended to speak to her. She turned her head more fully toward him, and now he could see the blue of her eyes, the way the sun sparked off them, gold and bright.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say something to her, anything, but all the words of adoration jumbled together in his thick head and then fell out in a way as to make her think him simple or crazed.