Warnings: References to past, off-screen character death and assault. Non-graphic descriptions of breast-feeding.
Luckily, it is not a far ride to the river, and before long their small party is in the White Harbor and aboard a ship that will take them to King's Landing. Sansa has brought Brienne, Wynn, and her son. Tyrion has brought Bronn and Podrick.
No one bothers them, though Sansa does learn that the sea doesn't agree with her.
"I feel like I'm pregnant all over again," she says, sipping weakly at her soup broth, the only thing she can keep down. It's all she can do to keep her son fed. Fortunately her husband is willing to tend him.
Tyrion has taken to hovering over her again, like that will make her appetite return or keep the rocking of the boat from making her sick.
He holds his hands up when both Brienne and Podrick give him a look. "I have not put another child in her belly. She's barely off the birthing bed. What kind of monster do you think I am?"
"Please tell me it's not a long journey," Sansa says.
"We're on a merchant ship," Tyrion says bracingly. "They're built for speed. Also evasion in case of pirates but -"
"Pirates?" Sansa interrupts. "Is that something we have to worry about?"
"It is a short journey," Brienne says. "And there is no need to worry about pirates."
"I wish," Bronn says. "Would make things more exciting. Ships are boring."
"I would think a man of your practicality would rather be bored than dead," Sansa says.
Bronn nods his head, acknowledging her point. "And there will be plenty of excitement in the capital."
Sansa sincerely hopes not. "The realm will have a new king," she says. "The only excitement will be the celebration." Perhaps it is time for a distraction. "Brienne, tell us a story. Something from your adventures with Ser Jaime."
"Did I tell you about the time we dueled on a bridge?" Brienne says.
"You dueled Ser Jaime?" Sansa asks. "One of the best swordsmen in the realm?"
"Yes," Brienne says. "Everyone is so busy talking about their swordsmen they forget about women. Now, we were deciding whether to take the river or the bridge…"
The capital smells. Sansa had gotten used to it, living there so long, but returning after being in the North, after being on the open sea, it's obvious that King's Landing is a city. She smells dirt and sewage and thousands of people crammed together.
Everyone in their party is wearing black today, a show of mourning, and the fabric soaks up the sun's rays. Sansa is sweating after only a few steps. She misses the biting wind of home.
Ser Jaime meets them at the docks to escort them to the Sept to pay their respects.
"Our sister is beside herself," Ser Jaime tells Tyrion. "Furious with father that she wasn't here to protect Joffrey, furious that the Queen wasn't in his chambers to be killed with him, just… furious. Watch your step; she's looking for anyone to lash out at."
"Not here to protect him?" Tyrion asks. "How did our nephew die?"
Ser Jaime looks around the crowded streets and shakes his head. "Not here. We'll go to the Sept and then the Queen has arranged guest suites for your party."
"Guest suites?" Tyrion echoes. "A high honor."
Ser Jaime looks over at Sansa. "Your wife is a close friend of hers."
"Ah." Tyrion smiles at his wife and son. "I know this is perhaps a bad time, but would you like to meet your nephew, Eddard?"
"Eddard?" Ser Jaime groans. "The poor boy."
"It's a perfectly respectable name," Sansa says. "I've already told Lord Tyrion he can name the next child."
"How gracious of you," Ser Jaime says.
"I thought so."
Both men turn to her and she shrugs, unapologetic. "Would you like to hold him?"
Ser Jaime looks alarmed at the prospect and declines the honor, which is just fine with Sansa.
"He was so well-behaved on our trip here, took pity on his poor seasick mother. I hope he'll be able to meet Prince Briar."
"Another stupid name," Ser Jaime says. "Joffrey threw a fit when he returned." He winces. "Well. Anyway. The only person left who doesn't like the name is Father. King's Landing loves the Queen and her boy. There are going be be Briars popping up all over the city now."
"Father kept you apprised of what was happening while you were in Casterly Rock?" Tyrion asks.
"I'm as surprised as you," Ser Jaime says. "I think he underestimated how bored he'd be without our lives to micromanage. Imagine how bored he'll be now with a girl Queen and babe King."
"I have a few puzzles to keep him busy with," Tyrion says.
"Oh?" Ser Jaime asks.
"Later," Tyrion says.
When they reach the Sept, Ser Jaime, Tyrion, and Sansa are let inside. The rest of the party goes to collect their baggage and settle into their rooms.
Sansa holds her son closer to her as they approach the raised casket. Cersei stands beside it, visibly with child, and obviously grief-stricken. She looks like she took no care with her appearance today, hair a mess, gown dirty, and Sansa has never seen her not put together. Even drunk during the siege she still commanded power, control.
Standing before Sansa is a broken woman.
But Sansa doesn't doubt for a second that Cersei could, and would, hurt her given the opportunity, and she keeps her distance.
"Come to celebrate?" Cersei sneers, spotting them. She glares at Ser Jaime. "Why did you bring them here?"
"Joffrey was Tyrion's nephew too," Ser Jaime says.
"Too?" Cersei scoffs. "Still afraid of the truth, brother?"
"We will not intrude on your vigil long," Tyrion says, interrupting an argument Sansa doesn't quite follow. "We simply wish to pay our respects."
"My vigil." Cersei shakes her head. "My firstborn is dead. I wasn't here when that bitch put a bolt through his heart. I wasn't here to tear her treacherous body apart. I wasn't here to protect him, because Father banished me! Banished me! I, who was Queen!"
Cersei is screaming by the end of her rant, and Eddard begins to wail, upset by the sound.
"Perhaps you could show us to our rooms, brother," Tyrion says softly.
Ser Jaime tears his eyes away from Cersei. "Of course."
Sansa touches her fingers to Joffrey's casket, but doesn't insist on seeing the body. She supposes Cersei's grief is proof enough that Joffrey is truly dead. Besides, swift though their journey was, she doesn't enjoy sickness so much that she wants to stare at a rotting corpse after her stomach has finally settled.
She can find no sadness for the event within her; just relief. For herself, for Margaery, for their sons, and for the whole realm.
She follows Ser Jaime and Tyrion to the chambers Queen Margaery gave them. They're nicer than where either Sansa or Tyrion stayed the last time they were here, but there is one problem.
There's only one room.
One bed.
Sansa glances at her husband, but he doesn't seem to realize it yet. Sansa hasn't shared a bed with him since she announced her pregnancy.
"A bolt through his heart?" Tyrion asks, as soon as they're in the room with the door closed. "The King was murdered? That didn't make it into any of the ravens."
There are trunks that suggest Wynn and Podrick have been through with their things. Sansa sits down next to her trunk but doesn't move to unpack. They seem to have forgotten she is here, and she doesn't want to draw attention to herself.
"Right," Ser Jaime says, "because we were going to broadcast that fact to all corners of the kingdoms."
"I suppose this is what Varys wanted to tell me in person." Tyrion sinks into one of the chairs at the meal table. "He was shot?"
"With his own crossbow," Ser Jaime says. He takes the other seat with a heavy sigh. "Done in by a whore. Who then drank poison before she could be punished for it. She was found with a flower crumpled in her hand, which of course made our sister blame the Tyrells, but the Tyrells wouldn't hire someone to kill Joffrey and leave her with a rose in her hand. They're just not that stupid."
"Agreed," Tyrion says. "And you're sure it was a whore who killed him?"
"One of Baelish's. Cersei blames him, too, but he's in the Eyrie and not even Baelish could order an assassination from there. Not to mention the stupidity factor; he wouldn't use one of his own girls."
"Killed by a whore with his own crossbow." Tyrion laughs. "I'm sure that's not what we're telling the people."
"No. Assassin snuck in and was killed by the Kingsguard, but too late for our unfortunate monarch. The new Lord Commander may lose his position over this." There's a vicious satisfaction in his voice for that last detail.
"Of course," Tyrion murmurs. "You're sure it was a rose?"
"Stop thinking," Ser Jaime says. "If Father couldn't figure it you certainly won't."
"What did this whore look like?" Tyrion asks.
Ser Jaime gives his brother a look. "Truly?"
"I gave Joffrey two whores for his name day," Tyrion says. "I thought whetting one appetite would appease another. Unfortunately, it didn't work out the way I hoped. He abused them viciously."
Ser Jaime shrugs. "They're only whores."
"You know his tastes," Tyrion says. "What he did was despicable. Later, one of them was found dead in his chambers; a crossbow bolt was what finally killed her, though she suffered plenty beforehand."
"Does this have a moral besides your apparent guilt over whores?"
"The dead one was named Ros," Tyrion says. "Not actually named for the flower, but she had a friend, Daisy, and it was a private joke between them. Daisy was the other girl tortured by Joffrey that day. I would bet a tidy sum that she is also your murderer."
"Seven hells," Ser Jaime mutters. "The King of Westeros, killed by one whore in revenge for another."
Tyrion shrugs. "Merely a theory. But probably not correct, because if Father couldn't figure out the puzzle, then how would I?"
"I admit I underestimated your knowledge of whores. Does this mean we could pin the whole business on Baelish? Father wants something more concrete than a mysterious assassin to tell the people."
"Baelish is slippery. I doubt you could put the blame on him for something he did do. What about the Targaryen girl? Surely she has mysterious assassins? And a good reason to sow chaos here."
"We should have dinner with Father," Ser Jaime says. "He'll want to hear what you have to say."
"I very much doubt that, though I see quite a few dinners with Father during my visit here."
Eddard chooses this moment to make his hunger known, and both men look over at her, startled. Clearly they had forgotten she was here. She meets their eyes squarely, unashamed to be caught eavesdropping.
"Apologies," Tyrion says. "You didn't need to hear that."
"I'm sure I would've learned some of it from the Queen," Sansa says.
"Does the Queen know?" Tyrion asks.
"Everything," Ser Jaime says. "She's not squeamish, and she was quite insistent. Wanted to make sure she and her son were safe. If you're right, there should be no more attacks. A small blessing."
"I assume Lady Olenna and Ser Loras came with our sister?"
"Not with her, but they are here as well. Cersei worked some sort of witchcraft to get herself here as fast as she did. She was here before I was, and I rode with minimal stops. The Tyrells have banded together in this. They're never without each other. Cersei hasn't left the Sept. Father might drag her out by her hair if she doesn't leave on her own soon; the body has to be put in the catacombs."
"Will she return to Highgarden when this is over? Will she leave Tommen?"
"I don't know," Ser Jaime admits, honest. "I do know that Father is looking for somewhere to send Tommen the way he's sent us away, and it's best if Cersei is far away when he does that."
"It's a wonder our Father has lived as long as he has playing the games he does," Tyrion says.
"Strength of the lion," Ser Jaime says. "I should let you unpack and settle in. Make room in your schedule to see me tomorrow."
"Have you missed me, brother?" Tyrion asks, somehow managing to be both teasing and sincere.
"You don't understand how boring Casterly Rock is."
Tyrion smiles and Ser Jaime takes his leave, letting Podrick in with the dinner tray. "Hungry?" he asks.
"Famished," Tyrion says.
Wynn comes in to take Eddard, who is finally done eating, and Sansa and Tyrion sit down to their first private meal in… months.
"One room," Tyrion says, proving that he isn't nearly as ignorant of the situation as Sansa had thought.
"Indeed."
"There is a recliner," Tyrion offers. "And I am blessed with the height to fit comfortably on it."
Sansa is tempted, but she doesn't quite fit with their recent spirit of cooperation. Tyrion has been a staunch ally in governing Winterfell, endlessly patient with Eddard, and considerate and attentive to her.
It is one thing for him to have his own, well-appointed chambers in Winterfell, and quite another for a wife to banish her doting husband to the couch over what is really only minimal discomfort.
"We are married," Sansa says. "And it is a big bed." She catches his eye. "But only to sleep."
"Of course," Tyrion says. "And if you ever change your mind, I will, of course, respect that."
It is strange to share a bed with another person again, and being in King's Landing brings up unpleasant memories, but it was a long journey, and Sansa manages to find sleep.
Sansa breaks fast with her husband and then they part ways for the day, Tyrion to spend time with Lord Varys and Ser Jaime, and Sansa to see Margaery.
The Queen is in her chambers with her son. He has his father's blond hair, but his mother's kind eyes. Hopefully he will also inherit her disposition.
Sansa coos over the babe and lets her son be cooed over in return. She spends a moment wishing this could be her future, raising her child side by side with a friend.
But the North needs her, and she will find friends there even if they are never as close as she and Margaery.
"Two husbands dead," Margaery says, settling into her chair, Briar on her lap. "Two kings dead. Am I cursed?"
"If you were cursed, the gods wouldn't have given you Briar," Sansa says. And saved you from Joffrey, she thinks privately. But some things cannot be said even to a very dear friend.
"Sometimes, I prayed for something like this to happen," Margaery says, with her usual regard for propriety. "You warned me of his cruelty, but I thought I could weather it, direct it maybe. When I realized I couldn't...I was so scared when my grandmother left. I thought she was abandoning me here. And when I heard the news that Joffrey was dead all I could think was 'thank the Seven, my prayers have been answered'."
"You and your son are safe," Sansa says, "You shouldn't feel any guilt. And I cannot speak to what happened to Renly, but Joffrey was killed by his own cruelty. If he didn't spread harm the way he did, others would not have sought to harm him in turn. Which is why you have nothing to worry about. You inspire love everywhere you go."
"Not everywhere," Margaery says, but her mood does seem lighter. "The former queen, my mother by law, seems quite convinced I had a hand in Joffrey's death. All because of a flower found in the killer's hand. I may have feared my husband, but I never would've killed him."
"I believe you," Sansa says. She wonders if she should share Tyrion's theory about the two whores, but decides it's best to hold onto that information for now. Her husband will be less likely to speak freely in her presence if he thinks she'll carry tales. "I'm glad I was out of the city or I'm sure the blame would've found its way to me."
"Oh, Cersei has some theories on how it was your and Tyrion's doing as well," Margaery says. "She has a lot of theories. Fortunately, no one assigns much weight to them or half the city would be in the prisons. But, as much as we had our disagreements, I can understand her grief. If anything happened to Briar…" Margaery's entire face hardens. "I would see justice done."
"And the killer's suicide kept that justice from her," Sansa says. She can understand Cersei's grief to some extent, but that doesn't mean she wants to be within striking distance of it. She wants to conclude their business here and return home.
Sansa tries not to be too envious of Margaery's entourage. Oh, she doesn't need a flock of handmaidens, or scheming courtiers, or interfering maesters-okay, the only thing she really wants is a wet nurse.
She loves her son, even if she feels guilty about it sometimes. It's alright for her husband to dote on their son; he's Southerner, and men lose their minds over their firstborn sons anyway. But Northern women know not to get attached until the child has survived their first winter.
With all that Eddard represents to her, freedom, a revival of her father's name, a secure Stark future in Winterfell, it's no wonder that she has trouble keeping perspective. Sometimes she wakes in the night and has to reassure herself that he is real, and alive.
So she loves her son dearly, but that doesn't mean she enjoys all the minutiae of caring for a newborn. Some of the older women who Theon couldn't be bothered to torment too badly have been very helpful, swaddling and changing and rocking little Eddard to sleep-when Tyrion can be convinced to give him up-but she just wishes she could hand off her feeding duties as easily. She'd been under the impression that it came naturally, but either that was one of life's polite lies to keep women from refusing to bear children, or she's doing something wrong.
"A wet nurse," she says.
Her husband gives her an odd look.
"Sorry, I was lost in my thoughts," she says. "What were you saying?"
"My father wants to see us," he says.
"Oh." She starts to hand the baby to Wynn, then pauses. She thinks about how Tyrion had worried during Eddard's birth, even though Sansa wasn't there to see it. She thinks about how he's fully embraced the opportunity to show off his own cleverness in support of Winterfell. She thinks about how he seems to genuinely care for his son. "Should I bring Eddard?"
"Sorry?"
"Would Lord Tywin be more or less inclined to be helpful if I bring his grandson to this meeting?"
Tyrion is startled, but soon gives her a lopsided smile. It might be the most sincere smile he's ever directed at her. "More. It would make his Northern legacy tangible."
"And there's no danger?"
He does her the courtesy of seriously considering her question. "Cersei almost certainly won't be there. Jaime tells me that she hasn't left the… the body… since she arrived. I can't promise my father won't say something cruel, but the baby won't understand it."
It's good enough.
Sansa leaves one of Eddard's blankets in their room-she hasn't broken the habit of dressing him for the North-and allows her husband to take her arm.
They make their way to the Office of the Hand, where Sansa first met Lord Tywin.
It could be meant as an insult to her, a reminder of when her father held this position, but she doesn't think so. Joffrey was cruel enough, though not subtle enough, for such a message. She suspects that Lord Tywin wants to hear the news from the North before the rest of the Small Council does, and that it never occurred to him to consider her feelings.
It doesn't matter. He has been an ally, of sorts, so long as she continues to do what he wants, and that alliance began in this room.
He is seated at his desk, which is covered in parchment, but sets his quill aside when they enter.
He is also alone.
"Father," Tyrion says.
He gives a sort of grudging nod.
Since this is what passes for civility between these two, Sansa is feeling tentatively optimistic about this meeting. She and Tyrion both have lists of things they need from King's Landing, and not a lot of money if they can't tap into the Lannister coffers.
"Jaime was supposed to be here, but he's fretting about Cersei's appalling behavior," he says. "He wasn't completely incompetent managing Casterly Rock, but I swear his brains leak out his ears every time they're in the same room."
Sansa blinks.
"Perhaps that's why he was so slow as a child."
"We have secured Winterfell," Tyrion says, obviously choosing to just ignore that. "I've prepared a more complete assessment to supplement the ravens I sent you."
"And I've brought you your grandson," Sansa adds.
Lord Tywin allows himself to be diverted, and a protesting Eddard is unwrapped and presented for his inspection.
And an inspection it is. Her poor little son is examined from his fuzzy head to his fat belly to his tiny toes. The man is probably counting them.
It's a reminder that, while Lord Tywin is an ally, he is not a friend. Sansa isn't sure she had really appreciated that distinction until she sees the clinical way he looks at her son. She went about his conception singlemindedly focused on her goal of personal safety and security for the North, but that isn't all her son is to her.
Nor is it all her husband is to her.
Tyrion is surprised when he catches her staring at him, but now is not the time to share her revelation.
"A fine boy," Lord Tywin pronounces, and she is careful to keep her relief on the inside.
"Thank you, my lord father," she says, reclaiming her son.
"How is he called?"
"Eddard, my lord,"
"Hmph." He weighs the name carefully in his mind. "Better than Briar, I suppose."
As he had refrained from making any disparaging remarks about her father, she heroically refrains from taking (obvious, verbal) offense at this thinly veiled insult. She smiles and curtsies, then steps to the side.
She leaves the chair directly across from Lord Tywin's for her husband, and discreetly settles herself to one side while she soothes the baby. She trusts Tyrion to represent Winterfell's interests.
And if he doesn't, out of sight doesn't mean out of hearing, and she can always give Eddard a (gentle!) poke to interrupt the proceedings.
She needn't have worried. Tyrion efficiently summarizes the state of Winterfell when they found it, what steps they've taken to improve it, and what they need. He has lists, and maps, and written testimony from the senior servants.
Sansa is reluctantly impressed. They had briefly and somewhat tersely discussed what they were going to tell Lord Tywin (which was everything, neither of them were so stupid as to think he didn't have spies), but Tyrion is obviously taking his responsibility as (co-)Warden of the North seriously.
He does fail to mention the wet nurse, though.
Eventually the report has wound down and all of the paperwork has been examined, and she can see him gearing up for negotiating for their needs. She is familiar with his bargaining face.
Lord Tywin raises a hand. "I've read your list of requests. You shall have everything."
Sansa blinks. That… was a lot less fight than she was expecting.
Tyrion is making a mostly unsuccessful attempt not to gape.
"How much do you know about what is going on in the North?" Lord Tywin asks.
"Very little," Sansa says. "The information network has almost completely broken down, and the families previously sworn to Winterfell are biding their time and have not yet visited us."
"Not surprising. They want to see if you can hold the Keep before they act."
Sansa's chin comes up. "We will hold it."
"You haven't asked for any military support beyond a new man-at-arms. However, the men I send to escort the supply wagons and livestock will be yours to keep. You will not have an easy time uniting the North."
Sansa stands so she can see the map he spreads out over his desk.
"The former Stark bannermen are still scattered. Several of them lost lords or heirs in the fighting, and there has been more wildling activity than in any living man's memory. They won't have had time yet to protest your claiming Winterfell, but they will."
Wildlings on this side of the Wall? If the wildlings are overwhelming the Night's Watch, how bad is the situation there? Sansa reminds herself that she really needs to write Jon once things settle a bit.
"The confusion has given rise to two major threats: the Boltons and the Greyjoys."
Sansa ruthlessly suppresses her reaction to the names, though Eddard huffs when she holds him a bit too tight. Of course those two are creating problems.
"The Greyjoys are gathering their ships for war. They are relatively contained, for the moment, by a schism in the leadership. Lord Greyjoy wants to claim coastal land while everyone else is distracted, and his daughter wants to lead a group to hunt down his missing heir. There's no way to know how long they'll keep each other busy, but she is apparently strong-willed and, in the fashion of their people, his heir now that the boy is missing."
"The more immediate issue is the Boltons. When you last left King's Landing, our intelligence had them amassing an army to claim Winterfell. It was why you brought such a large force initially. But I've recently learned that they decided to go after an easier target, and are marching on the Vale."
Sansa can't conceal her shock this time, but at least she can pass it off as concern for her family. The Boltons going after the Eyrie? That didn't happen last time!
And as much as she dislikes her aunt and cousin, she wouldn't wish Ramsay on anyone.
Well, maybe Lord Baelish.
"How can we help?" Tyrion asks, giving Sansa a moment to compose herself.
"Nothing," Lord Tywin says. "Go back to Winterfell as quickly as you can. Make it fast. Get the rest of the Northern families on your side before the Greyjoys decide to attack."
"And the Boltons?" Sansa asks.
"I will deal with the Boltons. The Vale is traditionally a close ally of the Crown, and right on one of the main ship routes. I have full authority to take… direct action."
Sansa doesn't have an army or the inclination to lead one, but she won't rest easy until she knows the Boltons have been contained.
She walks out of the meeting with everything she wanted, but an unsettled heart.
Briar's coronation is anticlimactic after the revelation-filled days preceding it. Sansa is still unsettled, and can only manage a small smile at the confused infant wailing as the heavy crown, almost as big as he is, is ceremonially placed around his head.
Cersei does not attend at all.
She hears from Lord Varys later that Cersei had to be held down while they finally took Joffrey's body to the crypts, and she later tied herself to a statue so she could stay by it.
A tight-lipped Lord Tywin declined to make even more of a scene on such an important day and resolved to deal with his wayward daughter later.
Sansa, for all she does not like her, does not envy Cersei.
Ser Jaime did attend, and the assembled politely pretended not to notice that he was frog-marched in by Brienne almost five minutes late.
The coronation feast is a low-key affair, especially compared to Joffrey's wedding. Margaery is full of plans for parades and processionals to let the people know their monarch, as if the whole city isn't in love with her already.
Sansa is seated too far away to talk to her friend. She appreciated it while Joffrey was king, but she wishes she had someone to talk to. Bronn is being even more crass and irritating than usual, and Tyrion is obviously preoccupied by something.
She has to settle for watching the lords and ladies interact and practicing her observational skills.
Lord Tywin is glaring at Ser Loras, who has shifted his chair in an effort to make it less obvious that he is occupying two seats. No mystery there. She does give Ser Loras a sympathetic smile which he, picking at his food, doesn't notice.
Queen Margaery is holding court with the members of the Small Council. She has decided to be a proactive Queen Regent, and wants to give the Council the recognition they deserve for their hard work. Right now she is smiling and laughing with the handsome young prince from Dorne-Sansa isn't sure of his name. She suspects Lord Tywin and Queen Margaery will have some very interesting discussions in the future.
Ser Jaime hasn't touched his food. He manages a half-smile when his niece speaks to him, but spends the rest of the meal staring broodily into space. Sansa almost hadn't recognized the Princess Myrcella, visiting from Dorne for the coronation. Her dining companion must be her intended, the heir to the throne of Dorne. He seems quite infatuated with her. It makes Sansa smile.
"I'm worried about Jaime," Tyrion says, out of nowhere.
"He does seem out of sorts," Sansa says neutrally. She still doesn't really like Ser Jaime, but he sort of grows on you, like an ugly tapestry that becomes so much a part of a room you can't be bothered to get rid of it.
"He's quite upset that Cersei is so upset."
Sansa likes Cersei even less. But she would hate if Tyrion started saying nasty things about her siblings-which she suddenly realizes that he hasn't, ever, not even about Robb-so she hmms and doesn't say anything.
"You don't really care about that, though."
She really doesn't, and she doesn't feel bad about it, either. But she does care about Tyrion, even if she hasn't quite decided how much. "I suppose I could have a word with Brienne."
He seems comforted by that, or at least drops the subject, and the rest of dinner is quiet.
She forgets about her promise until early evening, when Tyrion tells her that he is taking his brother out drinking and not to expect him back until morning.
There's an awkward moment where they both wait to see if she's going to tell him that she doesn't trust him to be gone all night, especially in King's Landing, but the moment passes and they part ways.
The mention of Ser Jaime reminds her of her intention to seek out Brienne, so she does.
Wynn and Brienne are sharing a small room close to Sansa and Tyrion's. Too small for two people, really, but it was share with Wynn or share with Bronn, and this way was less likely to lead to bloodshed. Brienne isn't there, but Wynn has a few suggestions.
Sansa finds her in the second place she tries, an artificially flat stretch of land right next to the ocean.
Brienne has managed to lose her finery somewhere and is back in her usual, practical clothes, training with her sword.
"My lady," she says when she sees Sansa.
"I didn't mean to interrupt."
"It's starting to get dark, anyway."
"Walk back with me?"
"Of course. One moment, my lady."
Brienne moves with a grace and fluidity that seems entirely at odds with her height and the broadness of her shoulders. Not that Sansa is going to tell her that, because she can't think of a way to phrase it that doesn't sound rude.
"I took Jaime here once," Brienne says, as they begin to walk.
Sansa's eyes widen.
"No! Not… like that." Brienne blushes over every inch of her visible skin.
She looks so incredibly uncomfortable that Sansa can't even laugh at her. Though it's tempting. Even if it's Ser Jaime. "I believe you."
"After we returned to King's Landing, he was quite distraught over the loss of his hand. He was sure he would never fight again." She rolls her eyes. "I told him he should have been a bard. Always spinning a tale of what a tragedy everything was, bemoaning his ill-treatment. I could tell him a tale or two!"
Sansa smiles. At first Brienne's bluntness had unnerved her, not to mention her determination to bring up Sansa's mother at the most awkward moments, but the woman has really grown on her. She is always sincere and puts her full effort into achieving her goals.
"So I dragged him out here to knock some sense into him. With a sword." Brienne smiles at the memory. She isn't pretty, and a smile can't change that, but it's still a lovely smile. "Been waiting the whole trip to do that. By the end of the lesson he'd learned not to drop his sword."
"And?" Sansa could listen to embarrassing stories about Ser Jaime all day.
"And he decided I was 'too mean' and he got Bronn to train him instead." Brienne huffs. "Lazy."
She sounds almost fond of him. Sansa can't understand it.
"I'm worried about him."
On the one hand, apparently everyone except Sansa is obsessed with Ser Jaime's well-being. Everyone except Cersei and Lord Tywin. And now Sansa does feel bad; not for Ser Jaime, but because she doesn't feel bad. At least she doesn't have to think of a way to broach the topic. "My husband said that he is not dealing well with… things."
"He's moody and combative."
"More so than usual?" Sansa asks, before she can censor herself.
Brienne just laughs. "There's no change in the frequency of his whining, it's just a… different quality. It's like… do you recall telling me that Lord Eddard has a different cry for hungry, tired, messy?"
Sansa does recall that, because she had needed to open her dress to feed Eddard and given him to Brienne to hold, just for a moment, and Brienne had panicked and almost dropped him. Once the baby was safely in her arms again, it was hilarious.
"It's basically the same thing."
It suits Sansa's worldview just fine to equate Ser Jaime to a squalling infant, and she cherishes the thought.
By this time they are nearly back to Sansa's rooms.
"You really care about him," Sansa says, because while she has technically spoken with Brienne, this isn't really in the helpful spirit her husband probably meant.
Brienne eyes her warily. "I have no desire to be his lady."
"I understand," Sansa says, keeping her amusement contained with effort.
Brienne relaxes when she doesn't push the romance angle. "He's annoying," she says. "And self-centered and overdramatic. But… he tries. Sometimes. There's something there. Deep, deep down."
It's interesting how Brienne seems to understand perfectly well who Ser Jaime is, but she likes him anyway. Sansa couldn't do it.
"He just needs a good kick in the-" Brienne stops, looks at Sansa "-pants."
They stop in front of Sansa's door.
"Now that he's Lord of Casterly Rock he doesn't have anyone to tell him he's being an idiot," Brienne finishes mournfully. She sounds like she genuinely regrets this.
Sansa pictures Brienne and Ser Jaime interacting. It's a good picture.
Here is a woman who could make him miserable for the rest of his days, and Sansa can tell herself that it's for his own good. It might even be the truth.
"I've had an idea," Sansa says.
