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Thank you for reading and giving any attention at all to this silly fanfic of mine.

Merry Christmas everyone

xxxx

Chapter 11

Back to Back

Where nothing too terrible happens

Brienne

"Is this yours?" a deep voice rumbled at Brienne waking her up and she didn't even remember going to sleep.

The man may have been standing in front of her for a while and she could barely open her eyes swollen from crying. The daylight was dim and a fast passing gale of freshly perfumed wind sent unhappy chills down her spine. The insistent rumours of the camp being lifted and packed up for departure chased the phantoms of the night, and she found she could almost breathe.

Brienne blinked and saw her own rounded shield being held in front of her by one of the tallest men she had ever seen, wearing a cloak of a brother of the Faith. He defended Lady Sansa in the pit, she recalled. And then they argued over the body of the Elder Brother.

"Yes, it's mine, thank you," she said, stretching her left arm to take it over. The shield did not move.

"It has been recently repainted," the man said, examining it, not giving it away.

"The sigil it had before was en evil one. This one was more suited for my quest."

"Have you ever seen it before? The new sigil, I mean?"

"Why so many questions?" Brienne reacted, short tempered. There was one thing she learned from training with men: showing patience never got you anywhere.

"You're from Tarth? I'd say that's pretty far from the westerlands…" the voice was curious but also very disdainful so Brienne dived forward to get her shield. The man moved way faster than he had any right to do and she fell with her face to the ground. She got up, seething, wiped her nose, and spontaneously reached for her sword, only to remember that she didn't have one any more.

"Ugly and angry, are we?" the man was clearly rejoicing at her misery.

"Who are you?" asked Brienne, with righteous fury on the rise, making her voice way stronger than she felt on the inside in the last couple of days.

"The Gravedigger," he said and avoided her with ease when she tried to take her shield one more time by force. They ended up in a training stance for a fist fight. The man never removed his cowl and her legs were still bare, clad only in smallclothes tailored for men, the blanket someone gave her to warm up for the night forgotten on the cold ground.

She almost hit his face but he blocked it, and she swiftly moved aside to avoid a well aimed blow to her stomach. They exchanged some more insignificant attacks and passes until Brienne turned ferocious, remembering the cold look of betrayal in Ser Jaime Lannister's eyes when Lady Stoneheart led them to the pit. Jaime... Ser Jaime looked through her, not at her, as if she had been a stone, or a tree, not worthy of being noticed. It was worse than when they first met and he was calling her wench and meant it. Brienne pretended she was going for the manly parts of her new enemy with her knee, but at the last possible moment she made a leap upwards and clashed with her head into his, leaving him disorientated for a short while. He regained his senses much sooner than she would expect, grabbed her by her shoulders and tossed her on the ground, not gently, but not too hard either.

"Why, what a lady! Not afraid for your fair face, fighting like that?"

"They call me the Beauty for a reason," Brienne squeezed through her teeth, feeling the soreness of the healing bite wound on her cheek from the blow she gave. "Not much fairness to lose to start with."

To her surprise, he offered her a hand to get up.

"You should have aimed at my shoulder," he said, pointing at the bandage he wore under his tunic, provoking her to contrary his counsel.

"But that would be dishonourable!" she uttered.

"In a real fight with an opponent like myself it might keep you alive," he said, handing her the shield and a bundle of brown fabric, smelling clean. "You might want these. I'm afraid we're a bit short on ladies' clothing around here."

He turned around to leave but then said, as an afterthought, in an indifferent voice which sounded strangely like an apology. "About the shield, I asked because before I came to the service of the Seven, very, very long time ago, I have seen such shield depicted in my childhood home. I've never seen it since. I just wanted to know."

Brienne decided to honour his almost apology by sharing a sincere thought of her own. "Yesterday evening, with Lady Sansa, you acted as if she had given you a rose."

That caught his interest. "A rose? Are you insane, woman?"

"You spoke to her with resentment. About what, I don't know. I didn't listen because it would not be proper, but I took note of your bearings being there by chance. I was like that when a knight gave me a rose and told me that was all I was going to have of him. Then, I was older and I joined an army. My fellow soldiers acted as if they wanted to win my heart, but it was only a bet among men about who would bed me first," Brienne surprised herself for being able to reveal that part of her life to a total stranger. It felt almost pleasant to allow the words to roll of her tongue. It's because none of that matters now: I turned my back on Jaime, and he on me, in return.

"What do the rats of your potential suitors have to do with me? I hope you had a good sense to beat them bloody!"

"I did! But, please, let me finish! What I'm trying to say is that Lady Sansa is different."

"And why is that?" the huge man frowned incredulously.

"She opposed her mother to protect an enemy and a stranger. And she meant it. Every word of it."

"You've never heard that her father was such an honourable bugger that it got him killed? Must be his blood, not her intentions," the man commented, indifferent again.

"It's all the same. No matter where it comes from, I know that if Lady Sansa ever offered a rose, or bestowed her favour, she would do it because for her it would have a meaning."

"Or she wouldn't do it at all," the man of the Faith shook his head almost as if he wished to believe her. "And how would you know of all that's in a woman's mind?"

"Because if you look at me more closely, I am also a woman."

Her words provoked an odd broken laugh, resembling a bark, or the loud cheerful gurgling of the Lady Stoneheart.

"If you want to have some practice fighting on the way to the capital, I could show you a thing or two," he said and she realized it was his way of thanking her. "We could also spar with blades if you can get a weapon from one of the toads pretending to be tigers as we go."

"Thank you, it would please me greatly," she said, pulling open a bundle with clothing. It was brown and rough-spun and the size looked too big but it was going to be much better than standing barefoot in the half-frozen brown-green mud, or wearing a pink dress she was given by Lord Bolton once. Brienne didn't want to draw any unwanted attention to herself by being the last member of the company ready to depart. She wished to melt in and to avoid any encounter with Jaime for as long as possible, until she would grow strong enough to meet the rejection in his eyes with an even face.

Mance

"The king has to be fierce and have no mercy in this show," Mance said to Blackwood and Corbray, purposefully omitting the full name and the title of the king, despite that most men have already guessed behind the scenes that his play was about a great and tragic love between Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Words dashed faster than swords, and bets were made if the legendary rape of Lyanna by Rhaegar was going to be shown on the stage. Mance was grateful that his main characters have been too busy since they left Raventree to hear any of those talks, because he suspected that their Rhaegar would respond by increasing a number of corpses to be burned, had he heard some deeply malicious, or worse, salacious proposals regarding Sansa.

Mance continued with instructions to players. "The king speaks to his son and scorns him for being too kind to his wife. Then they meet a lord and his daughter, and that is when the Jonquil in our story discovers that the unknown man she met several times when they were alone is married, and if that wasn't enough, a prince, and an heir to the Iron Throne. He discovers that the unknown woman he met is not a wildling, but truly a lord's daughter, a descendant of the most ancient noble house of Westeros, known for keeping their honour intact above all things. This discovery changes them forever. Let's do this properly, shall we? You all read the words, now speak them as if they were coming from your mouth, and the Lord Protector will help when they don't."

A stage was made of sleeping pallets turned upside down in front of the wagon where the wounded were recovering. Or, better said, Gendry was, and the Elder Brother lay in a deep slumber, drifting on and off between unconscious and merely asleep, the colour of his face completely gone, the cheeks sunken in. The popular belief in the camp was that he would rise as a wight, and that a gift of mercy was in order before building a pyre, so Mance would not lose a wagon from his sight. In the short time of their acquaintance, he grew a soft spot for the unyielding bald monk, although he was a kneeler and an unbeliever in the old gods.

Baelish was huddled under the wagon, close to the ground, so that the upper part of his body was protruding forward, in front of the wheels, his nose almost on the stage. The players could hear him well, but the viewers of the show, if there were any but Mance, would not be able to get a good look at him. That was then in order. The company was almost ready to ride out, and at least for the moment no one showed interest in the play.

"You let your wife enjoy too much freedom, my son. She sews and dines with her ladies, the Kingsguard is always with her, and she's rarely following your steps. Stop that, I command you! Or the common folk will say that you are not her son's father and that your son is not your true heir, Aegon, Sixth of His Name, and the future King of the Seven Kingdoms," Blackwood spoke in an even voice the part of the Mad King.

"She nearly died in childbed, father. I am only letting her regain her health, treating her as I ought to, for she will be my queen," said Rhaegar, clad in black under his monk's cloak. That, also, was fitting, as Rhaegar should wear black with a semblance of red rubies on his chest when they would perform the show for real. Mance, whom the old gods have made observant about the small differences, and many a times it helped him in the thick of things, wondered at the reason for the change. In place of rough-spun brown clothing, Rhaegar wore a simple but somewhat finer black long sleeved tunic, thick black breeches, and a pair of boots which was probably looted from one of the dead Lannister soldiers in Pennytree. There was a tiny yellow border with black details Mance could not distinguish from afar, sewn in dark fabric on both tunic and breeches, above his huge hands and newly acquired shoes, its pattern simple and unbent.

"That may be," Corbray took over the role of the king, with the help of Baelish who obediently did his prompting job from under the wagon, and Mance was pleased that the Lord Paragon was at least for the time being going with the flow. "But a man has to show his hand and rule, and the hand has to be firm. Or the flames of treason will ravage the crownlands and after all of the realm."

His Rhaegar did well, keeping a respectful tone but still making it obvious that he did not agree with his father: "The Grand Maester said once that the king is bound by duty to follow the laws of the land."

"The laws are for the people, not for the king," said Corbray. "A true king is beyond them as they are beneath him. Watch me closely and learn how to treat the high lords as they deserve. They are at your mercy and it is by your will alone that they will live, or die."

"Halt!" said Mance, unable to decide who should play Aerys.

"Make them say only one sentence, Mance, make them say it as if they're angry and you'll see which player is better," suggested the arrogant prisoner they saved from the death by fire. His eyes twinkled green while he clumsily packed his meager belongings under a nearby tree with his left hand. "They have to do this, watch me." Jaime Lannister ran to the makeshift stage in a gust of inspiration, letting his new monk's cloak billow behind to give grandeur to his gesture. He shouted from the bottom of his lungs, so that the entire camp could hear him, "Burn them all!"

Mance looked at the Kingslayer for the very first time without any prejudice. "Would you play the King?" he asked.

"I have not a faintest idea who you are, Mance, With No Name, but we both know very well whom I should play in this show of yours," the Kingslayer said coldly. "I don't know what you wish to achieve in the capital but I warn you that your tale may not turn so popular. People in King's Landing still firmly believe that Rhaegar was a villain after all, and that my father was right to have their city sacked and their women raped.

"BURN THEM ALL!" bellowed Corbray imitating Lannister's scream and waving his longsword to appear bloodthirsty, while Blackwood just watched.

"Quite on the contrary," Mance said to Jaime, "I could find a role for you, but not the one which you see for yourself. But I do value your counsel on the Mad King."

To the players he said, "Very well, Lord Blackwood, you will be the lady's father then, since Lord Corbray here is so eager to play the king. Lady Stark please, on to the scene where you are presented to the king in the Darry castle, on the way to Harrenhall. Your father had to go there on an urgent errand so you joined him after leaving Raventree, just when the king came there with his son and a small retinue of knights. Lord Protector, be careful with your whispering duties, a man of your wits can do even better. The king and his son, please repeat the last lines as they are the key to the appearance of the Lord and the Lady Stark."

"Daven," Brother Gravedigger suddenly said like a warning, pointing to the woods he faced and then disappeared behind the wagon where the Lady Stark waited patiently to make her entrance already for a while. Baelish pushed his head more forward from under the wheels, toward the legs of Corbray and Blackwood still standing on the stage, to better see this "Daven". Mance forgot to scorn Rhaegar for running away, when he noticed a strong company, almost an army of men riding out of the woods, their banners held high, in crimson and gold, led by a good looking man with golden curls who immediately approached Ser Jaime Lannister.

"We thought you dead, like Ser Ilyn," said the man called Daven, and even Mance could guess, without seeing his family genealogy in a book about the great houses of Westeros, that the newcomer's last name was Lannister, a younger and less battered copy of the Kingslayer. Unlike his cousin, he didn't look dangerous or marked by the atrocities of life, plain to see behind the heartless expression on Ser Jaime's handsome face, and all over his badly healed right hand stump. At least if the person looking was once King-beyond-the-Wall and passed through ice and fire, facing the wrath of the white walkers and of R'hlllor alike, and lived to tell the tale, unscathed.

"Not dead yet, Daven, just enjoying the mummers' show. Do come and take a look! It gives me sweet memories of the Bloody Mummers who so kindly took my hand, as a prop in their kind of play," Jaime Lannister said cheerfully.

Sansa

Sansa did not understand why the Hound suddenly rushed to hide behind the wagon. Mance told them to repeat the last lines, she thought.

He dropped his cloak on the ground between them and whispered, urgently, "Turn your back on me." And Sansa understood even less but she would do as she was told, reading a silent plea in his eyes. He was not Petyr and it felt safe to do as he said.

He stood too close to her. The space behind the wagon where they were fully hidden from prying eyes was very limited in size and the Hound seemed determined not to be seen.

Sansa turned her back on the Hound and he must have done the same. She heard a soft sound of strong arms struggling with something. A warm elbow accidentally prodded her back and she became painfully aware that her shoulders were covered only by a somewhat thinner travelling gown than the one she wore the day before, and that she hadn't donned her own cloak yet. Another elbow touched her at the waist level (or was it his bare back?) and she fought to stand still when she noticed a large black tunic forming a puddle on the floor, touching both his and her feet in a cramped space. Breeches were unlaced and when he lifted one leg from the ground to remove them, their backs collided, leaning into each other for a shortest moment.

The pile of fabric on the floor grew in size and Sansa noticed a decorative yellow border clearly visible on parts of the black garments. A black line was sewn through the yellow stretch, ending in a three headed dog. The colours of his house, she thought, absent-minded, when he leaned into her back again, in an effort to collect his discarded garments without touching her, which only resulted in a longer moment of their backs being joined. The small patch of bare skin above the neckline of Sansa's dress tingled, and she caught herself wishing that her gown was even thinner, or that her back was bare as his must have been.

He was standing behind her only in his smallclothes, Sansa realized, groping for his tunic, which lay on the ground with the largest part sprawled before Sansa's feet, not making it easy for the Hound to catch it without being seen from the outside or toppling her over.

"Here," she said, moving the tunic towards him daintily with her left foot, not daring to bend over to pick it up, and feel his body again, regretting her choice at the same time. He gave a grunt and pulled at it but it would not budge. She realized that the reason for it was that she was standing on it with her other foot and when she moved, she met another wave of warmth passing from his back all along hers, gown notwithstanding.

Sansa imagined that her mother tied her and Sandor Clegane together, back to back, as she did with Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne and that they stood like that for hours, waiting to be rescued by some unknown people from distant lands. It was a silly thought and she hated herself for it, but it still lingered bright and clear in her mind, with no intention to leave.

She overheard Ser Jaime greeting Ser Daven Lannister and finally understood. The Hound didn't want to be recognised by the colours of his house by anyone, with the exception of Ser Jaime, whom he trusted for some reason. They spoke so freely the day before as her brothers Robb and Jon would have done long time ago when she still didn't dream about leaving Winterfell.

After their row the night before, Sansa spied on the Hound in the morning when she woke and she saw how he gave a clean set of his own monk's clothing to Lady Brienne. It made Sansa strangely happy to guess that the clothing he wore now must have been his own, maybe even the very same attire he had on under steel stained with blood and boiled leather, when he came to her room the night of the Blackwater battle: to save her, kiss her, or kill her, she had never been certain.

"Turn it inside out," he said matter-of-factly, waking her from her reverie by giving her back his tunic. She dared to glance back and realised that he was obeying his own command turning the breeches inside out. Sansa tried her best. Her hands were stiff and he leaned into her again when he bowed slightly and than straightened himself to put the breeches back on. She staggered towards more closeness when she finally managed to hand him back the tunic as he wanted it. And then she stood straight, alone... But all she could think about was how wonderful, wonderful it was...

His rasp came from the stage, obediently discussing the need for a king to uphold the laws with his father.

In a haze, she saw Blackwood approaching her and giving her his arm to enter the stage. She checked that her mask was on, though all knew now who she was. But she didn't want them to see her face, fearing that it may have looked vastly improper for a daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark. The mask felt friendly, and almost warm. She made a step forward on Lord Blackwood's arm, and another, and then another.

One more step was all that it took.

"Your Grace," Blackwood said and made a courtesy proper when addressing the king. Sansa followed suit, remembering the many times she sank to her knees in front of Joffrey to either avoid or better suffer his rage. "I thank you for the honour of allowing us in your presence, and for the opportunity to present you my only daughter, Lyanna."

"Lord Stark," Corbray spoke as if Blackwood was from Flea Bottom and not a great lord. "What brings you to Darry?"

Blackwood spoke evenly, occasionally repeating after Petyr, who was taking his prompter role seriously to Sansa's surprise.

Lord Rickard pretended not to notice a slight in Aerys' voice, when he managed a reply. "An invitation, Your Grace, for Lord Darry, to grace us with his presence in Riverrun. Before the great tourney in Harrenhall, my path leads me there to celebrate the betrothal of Brandon, my eldest son and heir, to Lady Catelyn Tully, and that of my dear daughter Lyanna to Lord Robert Baratheon.

"Father, so this is the wild rose of Winterfell!" a deep voice said, trying not to rasp, to avoid being recognised by that alone. "I heard of her when I travelled north, but we haven't had an honour of being properly presented, " the voice went on, familiar, not needing any help from Petyr to find his words. Sansa could tell from his tone that the corner of his mouth must have been twitching under his mask.

He always talked a lot to me, Sansa remembered, even in the Red Keep. The yellow borders were no longer visible on the clothing he now wore inside out, blacker than writing ink. The black opposed the whiteness of the mask, making his appearance polished and calm, the weirwood disguise firmly attached to its place, fastened with the same precision the Hound would use to strike his opponents down.

He talked to me a lot only because he was in his cups, she reminded herself of the whole truth, and was sad.

Blackwood pressed her arm and she realized Petyr was whispering what she was supposed to say next.

"Your Grace," Sansa made the required courtesy. "My prince," she repeated it and it was Corbray, no, the king, who motioned her to stand up. That was good because the Hound's presence behind the wagon had made her every bit as nervous as Aunt Lyanna must have been when she discovered who was the man that she had been foolish enough to meet on her own.

As many times before, Sansa took shelter in words others told her to recite, "I am honoured to bow before the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, before I travel to my future home in the south and adorn its halls with ice."

"There is no ice in Stormlands, my Lady," said the king. "A less benign sovereign could hear your words as treason! Do you northerners plan to conquer the south? Bring the ice on our homes? Is that what you're plotting?" the king's eyes glittered ominously as an afterthought.

"Forgive the candour of my daughter, Your Grace," said Lord Rickard, her father, flatly. "It is told of my Lyanna that her heart is made of ice like our lands in the North. She is merely toying with the common jape of the people. She is the Lady of Ice but she will be the most priceless possession of her future husband and grace his halls with her kindness."

"You imply your daughter has no understanding of her words," said the king, sounding suspicious.

"Women rarely do," retorted Lord Rickard.

"Is your heart truly made of ice, my lady?" asked the prince. No, not the prince, Sansa thought. He is not like Joffrey, he has never been.

"Fire can melt the ice, Your Grace," she said, carefully, and met a pair of grey eyes behind the red slits. They didn't seem angry any more, but what was in them, she could not tell.

"I hope then, for your sake, that your betrothed possesses that kind of fire," the prince commented lightly and the king laughed bawdily.

"I haven't met a man destined to become my betrothed yet," Lyanna responded as a proper lady. "My heart is still my own."

The prince almost tripped over his cloak, and Sansa wondered if that was what real Rhaegar did when her aunt defied him so.

"Beware, my lady," the king commented surreptitiously, "that your heart doesn't get stolen then, at the great tourney in Harrenhall, to the misfortune beyond measure of young Robert Baratheon."

"I fear not such a thing," Lyanna must have looked at Rhaegar then, silent and menacing in black, "for I buried it too deeply in my chest to be found."

The cries of approval filled the air, flying with the wind. People finished packing and came to watch as the scene unfolded. Ser Jaime Lannister spoke in loud voice, "By the Seven, Mance, how did you imagine all this, from so little history we know about them all?"

"Where I come from, the old gods speak to the bard in dreams," Mance said, and Sansa thought he was counting the host of Ser Daven as he spoke. "They guide our lute and our quill."

A man tied to a horse in the middle of Ser Daven's knights started jerking madly until some too kind soul among the soldiers removed a piece of wood stuck in his mouth and let him speak.

"That was marvellous!" he said to Mance with genuine approval. "Do you mind if I make my own song out of it for these lands?"

The newcomer's voice caused a very pale Gendry to push his head very slowly out of the wagon opening, where he was supposed to rest with the grievously hurt Elder Brother. "Tom!" he said.

"You know him?" Mance asked.

"He's Tom Sevenstrings, a singer, like you. He serves the Lady Stoneheart," said Gendry and several swords and knives in arms of men under Mance's command were aimed at Tom's chest.

"I swear I have no idea where her ladyship is! I was returning to the caves when the good sers here took me!"

Mance asked, and Sansa winced from the unexpected sharpness in his voice, wondering who he exactly was when he and Jon met: "Gendry, do you believe him?"

"No," Gendry said stubbornly, observing with satisfaction how the blades narrowed down at the second singer's throat. "But he can help you if you force him to."

"Speak plainly, boy," said the Hound, impatient.

"He knows the way from here to the High Heart. It's another place where the old gods used to have their wood. There lives a very old lady who might be able to help the Elder Brother, if anyone can help him at all."