In the Name of the Mother

III.

The moon tea sits cold in her hands. The mint breath of the pennyroyal is long gone, the sweat of the tansy's camphor has dissipated. Too long has Brienne labored over it, too long has she let her thoughts stun her hands from moving forward.

Will salt ruin it? Are her tears ruining the maester's mixture? It's like the first pinpricks of rain upon her palms, tiny rivers flow off and into the cup. The maester is long asleep. It is only the moon and her, the cold tea and leftover ashes of the dead on her balcony.

Her hand knocks the tea off the table. It falls to the floor and breaks into a thousand needles, the water a silvery shroud in the moonlight.

Brienne abhors herself. Her chest is leaden.

But in her hand, the dagger is almost weightless.

Brienne holds it like straw in front of her body. So simple, really. She's strong enough to pierce skin, she's done it her entire life. She imagines the blade as straw, the thrust into her bunching the metal against her like paper, the feeling of death short of nothing. How easy it'd be.

In the name of the Father I charge you to be just.

This is not just.

In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the innocent.

This is certainly not defending the innocent.

Her calloused hands press Widow's Wail flush to her chest. She can feel its cool metal sit against her like a scar. Too honorable. Slowly, Brienne removes her shirt. It's like getting ready for prayers at the Sept as a child, the solemnity and ritual of it all. Except now, naked, she takes the blade again and drags its point down the valley of her chest, riding down until the top of her navel.

Just a prick. Just a red thread. She's still alive. It's her body again.