The wind off Evenfall Bay carried the scent of salt and pine, and Brienne of Tarth stood in the great hall of her father's keep, fists clenched at her sides, jaw set like stone. Her armor simple, unadorned, and well-worn caught the firelight in dull glints. She had not come to ask. She had come to tell.
"I'm entering the melee," she said.
Lord Selwyn Tarth, Lord of Evenfall Hall, known to some as the Evenstar, looked up from the parchment he had been reading. His face, weathered by years of salt air and quiet disappointment, betrayed no surprise. Only weariness.
"No, Brienne," he said softly. "You are not."
She didn't flinch. "Why not?"
"You know why."
"Say it."
He sighed, setting the parchment aside. "Because you are my daughter. Because you are the heir to Tarth. Because you are a lady."
Brienne barked a laugh, bitter and sharp. "A lady? Is that what I am, Father?"
"You are of noble blood. You are of age. You are"
"I am alone," she snapped. "I am twenty years old and unwed. No lord wants me. No knight will court me. They call me Brienne the Beautiful, but only when they want to laugh."
Selwyn winced. He hated that name. Brienne the Beautiful a cruel jest whispered behind fans and goblets, a mockery of her broad shoulders, her square jaw, her height that towered over most men. She had her mother's eyes, but none of her softness. She had his strength, but none of his diplomacy. She was a warrior in a world that wanted her to be a bride.
In his heart, he had always known this day would come.
"You are not unloved," he said, rising slowly. "You are my daughter. My only child. My heir."
"And what kind of heir am I, Father?" she asked, stepping forward. "One who sits in silks and waits for suitors who never come? One who smiles while men snicker behind her back? I don't want to be a lady. I never have."
"You think I don't know that?" he said, voice rising. "You think I haven't seen you in the yard, bruising boys twice your age? You think I haven't heard the whispers? I've defended you more times than I can count."
"I don't need defending," she said. "I need a sword. I need a chance."
He looked at her then really looked. She stood tall, taller than most squires, with arms like a smith and eyes that burned with something fierce and unyielding. She was not beautiful. But she was something else. Something rarer.
"You'll be mocked," he said.
"I already am."
"You could be hurt."
"I've been hurt before."
He turned away, walking to the window that overlooked the bay. The sun was setting, casting the water in hues of gold and blood. He remembered holding her as a babe, so small and quiet. He remembered the first time she asked for a sword instead of a doll. He remembered the day she beat three squires in the yard and came home with a split lip and a smile.
She had never belonged in silks.
"I wanted more for you," he said. "A husband. Children. Peace."
"I want a purpose," she replied. "Let me fight. Let me prove I'm more than a joke in a dress."
He was silent for a long time. Then, finally, he turned.
"You'll need a squire," he said.
Brienne blinked. "What?"
"If you're to enter the melee, you'll need a squire. And armor that fits. And a name."
She stepped forward, hope blooming in her chest. "You mean it?"
"I mean," he said, "that I cannot keep you caged. Not if it breaks you."
She crossed the room and embraced him, awkwardly, fiercely. He stiffened at first, then softened, resting a hand on her back.
"You'll fight tomorrow," he said. "But gods help the man who hurts you."
Brienne smiled. "They'll need more than the gods."
Outside, the drums of the tourney beat on. Inside, a father let go, and a daughter stepped into the storm.