You keep your breathing even as you bring an arrow from your leather quiver, holding it tight in your hand.
Focus.
You nock the arrow and check the feathers. It's in place perfectly, and you bring the bowstring back to rest slightly by your chest. Breathe. Breathe. You can see your breath fog up in the crisp air. It's snowing, flurrying you might say. Snowflakes flutter in clumps creating thick, heavy blankets of the fluff everywhere. Winterfell is covered completely, and the cold air bites at the exposed flesh of your cheeks.
Steady.
You feel rather than see the release of the arrow, the wind cracking as it flies from your hand. You blink rapidly, trying to keep the snow out of your eyes. You look to the target.
The sack of sand used as the target has another hole, just off center of where you want it. You look at the dilapidated woven mess, and see the small paint dot in the center untouched. The outer layer, about an inch circular around the center, is riddled with holes. Further rings are also filled with hit marks. Everywhere on the bag has been hit at least once, except the very center.
You release a loud groan that sounds more like a cry, your anger and frustration getting the better of you as you kick the snow, sending clumps flying into the air. Your breathing is now ragged, small puffs of air becoming visible as little clouds form around your mouth. Your eyelashes are frozen. The part of your braid that is out of your furs has small trails of ice hidden in it. Your cheeks are a rough red color, and your lips are chapped and bleeding. You look and feel a mess, but you will not leave until you hit the exact center. It doesn't seem like a lot, but an centimeter difference can mean life or death, and you will not be anything but accurate.
You are so focused on your tirade that you fail to notice the footsteps approaching behind you.
"Go inside, get warm. You won't get any better if your eyes are frozen shut."
You quickly turn to see Brienne, the tall woman, blonde hair slicked back and short. She is engulfed in furs, and looks like a man as she walks towards you, face full of uncertainty and seriousness.
"I won't get any better sitting in there on my ass doing nothing while there's a war I'll need to train for." You remark nonchalantly as you collect your arrows, yanking them out aggressively and watching small rivulets of sand cascade down the front of the bag.
You hear the crunching of footsteps and know that she is following you. You retake your position yards away and put the remainder of your arrows in your leather quiver. You bring your arm back to grab one and load it, and see from your peripheral vision that Brienne is watching you intently.
You let the arrow fly, and hear a sound of arrow hitting a clean spot. The familiar crunch means something untouched was hit. You smile and drop your bow to run over back to the back, sprinting with glee, Brienne only a few feet behind you. You approach the bag and your face drops. You've only hit a small portion of the center, probably less than a centimeter of new space.
At this, you scream. You've been out here for hours. You're practically frozen. All you want is a bullseye. You want the peace of mind that you'll be able to defend yourself effectively if no one else is with you. You can rely on no one but yourself. It's only you out there.
The animalistic scream echoes around the quarters of Winterfell, sending distant nightmares of a scream miles away.
"I'll help you." The familiar voice speaks again.
"I don't need help." You remark apathetically, yanking the arrow from the bag once more and heading back to your place.
"Why do you feel like you're alone?" The question takes you off guard.
"I... don't.." is all you can manage to mutter as you carefully pick up your bow.
"Yes, you do. Ever since I arrived here I've seen the way you've acted. You're kind, but you don't trust anyone. You'd prefer to eat alone, but Tormund has taken you under his wing. You refuse to interact or socialize after training, and avoid parties and drinking-"
"That's not exactly a vice." You comment, stringing up another arrow and furrowing your eyebrows in concentration.
"No, it's not. But it's not you. It wasn't who you were."
"You know nothing of who I was."
"I don't. Tormund does. He told me some things. That you were happy, social, loved to dream. You wanted to see the world and explore. You loved to play with your brothers and read with your mother. You loved to hunt with your father. You were a child, and your family was murdered by white walkers, so Tormund took you in. He did the best he could, but he can't give you back the life you had. Your family was your life, I understand..."
You hadn't noticed the tear slipping from your eye until it was frozen on your cheek. You refuse to turn to her to let her see it.
"I understand wholeheartedly. You don't trust anyone to protect you because no one protected you when you needed it. You won't let anyone in because you've been on your own for years now..."
More tears begin to cascade down your face, small pieces of your hair fluttering around your cheeks and getting stuck to the small icicles of tears on your face.
"You don't trust anyone but yourself. You can still change. I can help you. You need to know that there are people that can help you."
"How? How do I know you'll help me? How do I know you're not like everyone else?" You scream, turning to her with angry, heartbroken eyes, finally breaking. You drop the bow from you hands as you stand with arms crossed from cold and frustration. The tears flow now openly. She looks at you with a solemn expression as she strides to you. She grabs the bow off the ground and takes an arrow from your quiver. She presses your back to her body as she takes your hand in hers to load the arrow, drawing it back.
"Don't think about them when you shoot. It distracts you. As much as you want revenge, it will be your folly if you only think of them."
It's difficult at first to not think of them. Mother. Father. Your brothers. You'd been doing everything to avenge them.
You need to concentrate.
You focus only on that dot.
You feel the familiar small gust of wind as you watch the arrow fly.
Crunch.
You look to Brienne with a face of confusion and shock. She takes your hand and leads you to the bag, spilling with sand. The arrow sticks straight from the fresh spot, overflowing with grains of sand around the edges.
Bullseye.
You turn to her and engulf her in a hug, feeling her wrapping her arms around you brings you comfort. It reminds you of how your mother would hug you, a big bear hug that squeezed the air from your lungs in the best way, leaving you nearly breathless, spending the remainder of the contents of your lungs laughing and giggling. You release tears at the memory and the lovely sensation of a motherly love found once again. More importantly, you found trust again.
"Come now, lets go inside. I'll teach you more once you eat something and warm up." She states as she keeps her arm around you, guiding you into the dining area. It feels good to trust again.
