Author's Note: Just a few more hours to go until we see the end of GoT (*sob)!
(I don't own these characters, obviously, but I wish I did).
Happy, for a Little While
Sansa stood in the cold light of her chamber window and watched the scene below unfold: the Kingslayer galloping away, Brienne caving in upon herself and crumpling to the snowy ground.
Sansa passed her hand over her eyes and blinked fast. A sound that began as a sigh but ended as a groan choked her throat, and the Lady of Winterfell pulled her wrap more closely around herself and descended to the yard.
Though her footsteps crunched loud in the snow, Brienne didn't hear her coming. The knight was still sobbing—huge, wrenching, painful, strangling sobs, open-mouthed cries of shock and horror and confusion—the sound and the sight of which made Sansa's heart instantly heavy. Pain reverberated over the yard and resonated in Sansa's own body. She had an urge to turn away from it, but it pulled on her. Brienne's grief began pulling Sansa down; it wanted her down in the snow too, it wanted her to be cold and damp and ripped open and abandoned. The closer she got to Brienne, the more Sansa's legs and feet felt like granite; she struggled to take steps, as if her lower half sought to bury her under the snow pack, and, just for a moment, Sansa wondered if that end would be so terrible for either of them, after all—perhaps it would be easiest if they both right now sank beneath the drifts, where the frozen whiteness would fill their mouths and ears and gently weigh down their limbs and softly seep into their brains and muffle the world and eventually stop their hearts from beating, from feeling. Would it hurt to drown in snow? Stop it, Sansa thought. You're being ridiculous. There's too much to do. You can't die yet. She shook herself and continued to walk forward until she finally reached the lady knight.
Sansa slid her hands over Brienne's hunched and quaking form, enveloping her sworn sword as much as she could. She laid her cheek on Brienne's back, her arms barely encircling the knight's upper body, gradually tightening the embrace. Brienne jerked a bit. Sansa slowly let go and slid to her knees, facing Brienne. She gently raised Brienne's head with her fingers, revealing a face locked in a rictus of agony. Brienne did not look up. Sansa gazed at her in empathy. Brienne's skin was blue with the cold. Ice crystals were forming in her hair and eyelashes and were beginning to crystallize her tears. In the near distance, a horse shook its mane and snorted; a stable boy yawned loudly.
"Come on," Sansa urged, her breath hot and visible. "Come with me."
Brienne allowed Sansa to raise her to her feet, and Sansa stumbled with her friend into the castle.
Brienne allowed Sansa to guide her to Sansa's room, once the bedchamber of Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard. It was large and warm and shadowy-dark; the air comfortably smelled of animal fur and fresh straw and linen and wool and a hint of last night's mulled wine. Sansa gently pushed Brienne to her own bed, upon which the knight collapsed and curled into a fetal position. Brienne's knees poked through the folds of her robe as she did so; Sansa saw smudges of red on Brienne's kneecaps and lower legs. Ice crystals had made a thousand tiny cuts all over her skin. All at once Sansa realized that her friend was naked underneath her robe and, in her haste, Brienne had not stopped to put on shoes. Her feet were also blue and dotted with blood. Sansa softly swept strands of icy hair from Brienne's forehead. Her eyes remained tightly closed, and she shook slightly from quieter sobs as much as from being chilled and damp. Sansa took a deep, sorrowful breath and crossed to the hearth where a small fire still crackled. She poured hot water into a basin from a small pot suspended over the fire, found a scrap of toweling, and crossed back to the bed. She put her things down and carefully extricated Brienne from her scant clothing. Brienne's eyelids fluttered and fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. Sansa wet the toweling in the hot water, wrung it out, and began to ease the cloth over Brienne's body, warming her and sponging away the blood at the same time. The hot toweling burned cold at first, but it left refreshed skin in its wake. Once Brienne's body pinked, Sansa put down the cloth and covered Brienne with several soft furs. The lady knight shuddered a little and her tears slowed, but her eyes remained closed.
Sansa straightened and went back to the hearth. She took a poker out of the fire and used it to warm herself some wine. She sat by the fire for a little while, alternatively cupping the wine and sipping it, brooding; no full-fledged thoughts entered her brain. Finally, she rose when the flush of dawn peeked through the window. Sansa pulled closed the window curtains and bolted the door. She knew Brienne needed more time to sleep undisturbed, and the truth was, so did she. For a bit more, anyway. She did not want to talk to anyone, yet. She was certain Brienne could not talk to anyone, yet.
Sansa shed her outer clothing until she was left in her shift, and then she finger-combed her red hair from its ties, rubbing her scalp to ease the slight ache from the simple northern style. She slipped under the furs on the opposite side of the huge bed and began to burrow into her pillow, but Brienne suddenly cried out, "Jaime!", so Sansa moved to Brienne's side of the bed, tucked in the furs close around the lady of Tarth, and pulled herself to Brienne.
"Hush! it's all right," Sansa whispered, pressing her cheek against Brienne's back again. Brienne whimpered once, and then she must have fallen asleep, and Sansa must have as well, because when she opened her eyes again, the chamber was much brighter and she could hear the familiar daytime noises of the humans and animals moving about Winterfell, her home.
Sansa lay in bed quietly, listening to the lady knight breathe next to her. It was a blessing to share a sleeping space with someone and not feel fear—in fact, she felt comfortable. Had she ever felt comfortable sharing a bed with someone? No, she had not. Not even when she was very young and had occasionally shared a cot with Arya—Arya, who always smelled like horses and didn't always wash before retiring. Sansa smiled ruefully to remember it. What a stupid little bird I was! I actually thought that Arya was the very worst bedfellow anyone could ever have.
Muted footsteps passed by the door but did not stop, and for that she was grateful. Brienne slept on, but it was not a restful sleep: she mumbled unintelligible words and grimaced, and her body would not settle. With a gasp, Brienne suddenly awoke, startled, and sat up. Sansa also pulled herself into a sitting position.
"Oh no!—my lady—? What—? Forgive me—"
"Shh, Brienne. Calm yourself. It is all right. I brought you here myself. Remember?"
"But I—"
"I found you last night, in the snow. After the Kingslayer…" Sansa trailed off.
Brienne looked mortified. She buried her face in her hands and groaned apologies.
"There is nothing to forgive, Brienne. You love him. He left. You do not know if he will be back. You are sad. For what is there for you to be sorry or feel embarrassed?"
"My lady, I—you should not have had to see me like that, to take care of me—I am your sworn sword, I—"
"Stop it, Brienne. You are more than my sworn sword, you are my friend! How many times have you saved me, taken care of me? I am more than happy to tend to you, for once—though I am sorry for the circumstance."
Brienne was abashed; her cheeks reddened. She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it directly. The truth was, she needed care in that moment, embarrassed or not.
Sansa pulled back the fur covers and stood up, helping herself into her wrap. "Are you hungry? I'm sure you are. I am. I'll fetch something."
Brienne began to protest, but Sansa quickly shot her such a dark look that she decided to remain silent.
"Your wrap is hanging near the fire. It should be dry and warm by now."
When Sansa returned, she found Brienne cloaked in her robe, face washed and hair combed, sitting by the hearth. Sansa smiled her approval.
"I brought some spiced tea, fresh buns, sausages, cheese, and lemon cakes. I thought we should relax for a while. We don't have to worry about anything just now—we don't," she emphasized, as Brienne looked to contradict, but again thought better of it.
Brienne was not at all hungry; there was such a weight on her chest and in her stomach that she felt nauseated and over-full as if she would never eat again, but as she did not want to appear ungrateful after all the trouble to which Sansa had gone, she made an effort to swallow some tea and a few bites of a bun. The bread fell into her stomach and sat there like rocks; nevertheless, Sansa seemed pleased.
For a while, the two young women took refreshment and gazed into the fire, the only sounds the pleasant crackle and pop of the flames licking around the logs, the occasional sizzle as a snowflake or two found its way into the chimney and died.
Brienne's throat developed a deep ache. It wasn't long ago that Jaime had made love to her near the fire in her own room. It wasn't long ago that he had asked Sansa if he could stay at Winterfell, a request unbidden by Brienne, but one that had made her overjoyed and full of hope, that had told her that he was choosing her, he was truly choosing her and embracing the good man that she knew had always dwelt inside of him, choosing the man he had been born to be. It wasn't long ago that they had brandished the remnants of Ice and fought dead things literally side-by-side, saving each other over and over again, saving their comrades old and new, saving Winterfell, saving what seemed like the last remaining bastion of decency in the world. And now he was gone. And she did not know why, exactly. At least she hoped she did not. And she did not know whether or not she would ever see him again, and if she did, after all, after everything, if he would return the same man who had chosen her not so long ago.
The ache seeped into her jaw and pricked at her eyes and she slumped into her chair. Sansa looked over to her.
"Brienne?"
She took a deep, shuddery breath. "I'm fine, my lady." It hurt to speak.
"You are not. But you will be."
"I fear that I won't. I—" Brienne broke off. It was physically painful. Why couldn't she have remained alone? Not knowing love like this? Not really missing that of which she had no knowledge. She used to dream about love, about what it would be like to have someone love her, truly, to fight with her and live with her and laugh with her, and she had been saddened by that dream, she had known that she would never experience it, that she would have to satisfy herself with loving her king, her duty. And she had accepted that. Mostly. And then there was Jaime. And now—
"Would you truly trade what you had with him for a life ignorant of the happiness he gave you?"
Brienne looked at Sansa, startled.
"You had his love. I saw it in his eyes; I saw it reflected back in yours. My father and mother looked at each other that way. As terrible as you are feeling this moment, would you rather have lived your life without this kind of love?"
"But—but he left me, Sansa. He didn't really love me after all."
"You don't believe that."
"What else am I to believe? He loved Cersei more. He went back to her."
"He did, but I don't think it was that he loved her more. I think he left because he loved you more."
"That doesn't make sense."
"But it does! What did he call himself? Hateful? Yes, I heard it—he called himself hateful and then he left. He didn't look at you because he couldn't. He was ashamed of himself, Brienne. He knew he didn't deserve you. He knew he didn't deserve your forgiveness. He has not forgiven himself, so he cannot accept your forgiveness and reward himself with you."
Brienne just looked at Sansa, helplessly, eyes glistening.
"You know that the Kingslayer—Jaime—isn't my favorite Lannister. He tried to kill Bran and my father. I don't know if I can ever forgive him. But, I see how he is with you, I see how he is with Tyrion, I saw him fight for my home and for Jon and the North, and he left his sister to do it. In my short life I've learned that for the most part people aren't all good or all bad. I hate to admit that there is more that is good about him than bad, now. Most importantly, I know that you couldn't love a monster.
"I think he needs to finish business with Cersei. I'm not sure how he plans to do it, but I truly think he plans to stop her somehow, or at least try, and I think he has to do this before he can consider himself worthy of you."
Brienne was quiet for a time. "What if he doesn't come back?"
"Then you will still have the knowledge that he loved you the best way he knew how, and you loved him, and that was good, and you were happy, at least for a little while."
Brienne reddened suddenly, and sank to her knees in front of Sansa. "Forgive me, my lady," she said, clasping Sansa's hands and touching her forehead to them. "I do not mean to be insensitive to what you have suffered. I am ashamed."
Sansa placed a hand on Brienne's yellow hair. "Please get up, Brienne, and retake your chair. It is true that I have not known love the way you have, far from it. But that is not your fault." Joffrey, Littlefinger, Ramsey. Sansa coughed and blinked them away. She took a sip of her tea. Tyrion. The Hound. She smiled slightly.
The women looked back at the fire and were quiet again for a time, each lost in their own thoughts.
"You are right, Lady Sansa. I would rather have experienced fleeting joy with Jaime than none at all."
Sansa nodded, but continued to stare into the fire.
"I think we both have to continue to be brave. I think the gods aren't done with us yet."
Sansa sighed. "True. We still have to battle on, I fear." She stood, and so did Brienne.
"We'll battle on together, then, my lady."
A timid knock at the door put an end to their reverie. "Lady Stark? Forgive me—we've had a raven, from the south."
Dark wings, dark words, thought Sansa, and she took Brienne's hand.